A soundless scream tore at Karuk's throat. His knuckles were white where they gripped the spear shaft, his entire body locked in a paralysis of pure, undiluted horror. The three creatures moved with a nightmarish certainty, their hooked limbs finding purchase on the sheer rock face with an ease that defied nature. They were still small, dark scabs against the immense grey cliff, but their trajectory was unerring—straight up towards the distant, faint smudge that was the cave mouth. His mind, numb with exhaustion, recoiled from the image. What were they? Some new horror spawned from the war below? Servants of the Elves? Or something else, something ancient and hungry drawn by the scent of trapped, helpless prey?
They are called the Cliff-Ghasts. The Voice was cold, sharp, a shard of ice in his mind, shattering his stupor. They hunt by sensing the warmth of life and the vibration of fear. The tribe's fire and their terror have called them. They will reach the cave before the next sunrise.
The information was delivered with brutal clarity. There was no time for panic. No time for despair. The relief of finding the path evaporated, replaced by a frantic, desperate energy.
I have to get back! he thought, the words a silent roar in his head. I have to warn them!
The path you see is the long way. The way of the hunters. It will take a full day. You do not have a day.
Karuk's eyes swept the highlands before him. The safe path, winding around the shoulders of the mountains, was clear. It was the way the tribe would have to take once he led them down through the tunnel. It was a journey of sun-up to sun-down.
There is another path. The path of the prey. The path of the mountain goat. It is direct. It is deadly. You may fall. You will certainly be seen.
The Voice projected an image into his mind's eye: a razor-backed ridge of rock, a near-vertical spine connecting the highlands where he stood to the base of his tribe's mountain. It was a journey of hours, not a day, if he could traverse it. But it was exposed, a line of stone against the sky, with drops on either side that promised instant death. And it would put him in the open, a clear silhouette for any flying creature—or any Elf with a sharp eye and a longbow.
He didn't hesitate. The choice was an illusion. The long path was a guarantee of failure.
"Show me," he gritted out, his voice a dry rasp.
He turned his back on the safe route and began to run, his bruised body protesting with every step. He scrambled down from the ledge of the tunnel exit and pushed into the rugged, broken terrain that led to the base of the deadly ridge. The Voice guided him, its directions a constant, quiet stream. Left of the boulder field. Follow the dry stream bed. The ridge begins there.
He reached the base of the spine-like path. It was even more terrifying up close. In places, it was no wider than his foot, with sheer drops of hundreds of feet on either side. The wind, which had been a constant companion, was now a malevolent force, plucking at his furs, trying to pry him from his precarious perch.
He started up, his world shrinking to the next handhold, the next foothold. He did not look at the crawling things on the far cliff. He did not look down. He moved with a single-minded focus, his spear slung across his back, his fingers raw and bleeding as they scraped against the frozen stone. The Voice was silent now, save for the occasional warning. The rock is loose here. Test it. The wind is strong now. Wait for the gust to pass.
It was a dance with the mountain, a test of will against the indifferent brutality of the heights. He inched his way along the spine, his muscles screaming, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The sun began its descent, casting long, distorted shadows that made the depth of the drops even more dizzying.
Halfway across, a shadow fell over him. He looked up, his heart leaping into his mouth. The blue Dragon was circling high above, its great wings beating the air with a slow, powerful rhythm. It was far away, a majestic, terrifying speck, but it was there. He was exposed. He pressed himself against the rock, making himself as small as possible, praying to spirits he no longer believed in that it would not see him, this insignificant morsel on a stone thread.
The Dragon banked, its head turning. For a heart-stopping moment, Karuk was certain those ancient, intelligent eyes were looking directly at him. Then, with another beat of its vast wings, it turned and flew towards the distant peaks, losing interest. He let out a shuddering breath and pushed on.
By the time he reached the end of the ridge and dropped, exhausted, onto the solid ground at the base of his tribe's mountain, the sun was kissing the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and red. He had done it. He had crossed in hours. He was on the right side.
He allowed himself one single, frantic look up at the cliff face. The Cliff-Ghasts were closer. Much closer. They were now clearly visible as distinct, horrifying forms, their hooked limbs driving into the stone with mechanical rhythm. They were perhaps only a few hundred feet below the cave now. They would be there by deep night.
He was out of time.
He scrambled up the lower, more manageable slopes of the mountain, his lungs burning, his legs feeling like water. He had to get close enough to be heard. He had to warn them.
Finally, he stood at the chasm's edge, directly across from the cave mouth, separated from his people by the void the explosion had created. The distance was too far to throw a spear, too far for a normal voice to carry over the wind. He could see the faint, warm glow of the earth-fire from within the cave. He could see small, moving shadows—his people.
He cupped his hands around his mouth, drew in the deepest breath his aching ribs would allow, and screamed.
"FATHER!"
The word was torn from his throat, a raw, desperate sound that was swallowed by the vastness of the chasm. The figures in the cave did not react. They hadn't heard him.
He screamed again, until his throat was raw. "GRON! BOR! LOOK OUT!"
Nothing. The wind howled, mocking his efforts.
Inside the cave, Lana, sitting near the fire, paused in her work. She tilted her head. "I hear something," she said softly.
"It is just the wind, child," Kala said, pulling her closer.
But Gron stood up, his senses alert. He walked to the cave mouth, peering out into the deepening twilight. He saw nothing but the opposite wall of the chasm, a dark silhouette against the dying sun.
Karuk saw his father's shape appear in the cave mouth. Hope flared. He waved his arms wildly, jumping up and down. "HERE! FATHER, LOOK DOWN!"
It was no use. He was too far, the light was too poor.
Despair threatened to crush him. He had crossed a war-torn valley, descended a cliff, walked through a mountain of bones, and traversed a deadly ridge, only to fail here, at the final moment, silenced by a gap in the stone.
He fell to his knees, his energy spent. He had nothing left.
It was then that the Voice spoke again, its tone different. Not guiding, but… permitting.
They will not hear your voice. You must make them see. Use the gift.
The gift. The earth-root fire.
Understanding dawned. He scrambled backwards, away from the edge, into the scrubby brush that dotted the plateau. He gathered dry twigs, dead grass, anything that would catch quickly. His hands trembled as he worked, building a small, neat pile. From a pouch at his belt, he took the last, precious chunk of the black earth-root. He placed it in the center of the tinder.
Then, using the flint blade from his spear and a piece of iron pyrite he carried for the purpose, he struck a spark. Once. Twice. A third time. A tiny ember caught on a shred of dried moss. He blew on it gently, coaxing it to life. It glowed, then flared. The tinder caught, the flames licking hungrily at the dry kindling.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the earth-root chunk ignited.
With a soft whoosh, it erupted into a fierce, tall, brilliantly bright column of flame. It was a beacon in the gathering darkness, a torch of pure, white-hot fire that burned with an unnatural intensity, casting a stark, dancing light across the chasm and illuminating Karuk's frantic figure as he stood before it, waving his arms.
In the cave, Gron squinted. Something had changed. A new light, harsh and sudden, flickered from the far side of the chasm. He leaned out, his eyes widening.
"Gron?" Bor asked, coming to his side. "What is it?"
Gron pointed, his hand trembling. "There. A fire. A strange fire."
The whole tribe crowded the cave mouth now, staring at the impossible beacon across the void. And then, in the unwavering light of the earth-root fire, they saw him. A small, lone figure, waving desperately.
"It's Karuk!" Lana shrieked, her small voice piercing the silence.
Karuk saw them see him. He stopped waving. He had their attention. Now, he had to make them understand. He pointed. Not at himself. Not at the fire. But down. Down the cliff face below their cave.
He stabbed his finger downward, over and over again, a frantic, jabbing motion towards the crawling death that was even now closing in on them from beneath.
He saw the comprehension dawn on his father's face, saw the shock, the horror. Gron understood. The enemy was not across the chasm. The enemy was coming from below.
The warning had been delivered. But as Karuk's makeshift beacon began to sputter and die, leaving him in darkness once more, the true terror set in. He was here. They were there. The Cliff-Ghasts were almost upon them.
He had warned them. But he was powerless to help. The race was over. The siege was about to begin.