The Deepcombers

Chapter Fourteen

The upright logs became a monument about which the goat riders rallied. Their wolf-faced leader waved his feathered staff and trilled his voice. Those insurgents which carried bows dismounted and fired arrows, and the fugitives backed away from the gorge. The attackers' vitriol added to the adversity of the area and their tenacity made any trek along the river trench impossible. Lon turned and led the travelers away. They tried another trail west that took them farther uphill and away from the water and into the shrubs on higher ground.

There was no doubt they headed into danger. The wildkin kept the bridge raised.

Lon only glanced back once, and then he took the lead, same as before. He knew Jarl didn't like his self-imposed burden and so he removed himself from scorn by facing forward. None of his fellows wanted him behind them when they were bouldering least he fall on them. Should they start climbing higher-up in the mountains, he'd bring up the rear for the same reasons. He was determined to carry the heavy tablet no matter what happened, but he'd end his own life before his decision doomed the others, as Jarl had predicted it would. He didn't know why he carried the block. It certainly wasn't getting any easier to manage, but the decision still felt right; it felt like something a deepcomber would do to keep the world safe. 

It was mid-afternoon when they came across a shallow pool on the shrub lined slope. A small tributary made a trough which drained into the mainline trench below. Coniferous shrubs lined the water hole and all four feigor refreshed themselves on shore. There was no sign of the wildkin or any other life forms. Clyde refilled his water-skin and they all watched again as he applied his hot hands to Jarl's injured back. Tharus scouted the stream for fish but came up empty.

The ground ahead looked more promising with regards to provisions. There was a hint of emerald green forest beyond a dominant stone arch. The queer monument was made by two steeples and one spire had tumbled into the other to make a triangular threshold. The gap was no more than six feet wide at the base. A narrow footpath wormed its way toward the gate and that slender causeway resembled a high-altitude pass because there was a deep drop on the righthand side.

The sea drover went first down the path.  He found he could cling to the cliff but should he lose his balance he'd fall sixty feet onto jagged shale. He was six steps ahead of the others and he'd just stepped onto the slenderest section when it happened.

Lon was ambushed. 

Two formidable elites dropped from hidden crevices in the cliff above. Confident of an easy victory, they were both unarmed. The first positioned himself to block the lad going forward and the second plopped down behind. The frontfeigor made snatch the lad with open hands. 

"Clackedy clak minuchin," the bounty hunter crooned as he came to apprehend the escapee. The arrogant ranger had ignored the red tablet that hung around the renegade's neck. He certainly didn't perceive it as a threat. But instead of grasping flesh and bone, the brute touched the Death Stone. 

His arm twitched and his heart froze. He died the moment his fingers touched the hideous fossil. A look of terror froze on his face. His arm was still weirdly extended when his body lost balance and slipped off the path. Lon watched him bounce red off the rocks below. Then he turned around and ran straight at his other would-be assailant. He killed the second Crol when he pushed the tablet into the fighter's hand. In each case the lad had felt the stone take the life; it felt like it'd pulled sturdy weeds from the ground until the taproot broke.

The white-haired lad took a step back to let that opponent fall at his feet.  The others watched the dead elite roll off the ledge into oblivion. The whole ordeal was over in a few seconds. It was the quickest dispatch of two well-trained Crols that anyone had ever seen.