Of Truth and Beasts

“Who is this?” Ore-Locks demanded, taken aback that Chane and the intruder knew each other. “What is this ... thing you all want?”

Chane kept his gaze locked on il’Sänke. His first instinct was to kill the man where he stood. But il’Sänke was more than a sage, perhaps more than a highly skilled metaologer.

For an instant, Chane almost considered giving up the orb. Even if he reached Wynn and found her still alive, after all she had suffered and all she had risked, how could he face her if he did so?

“Do not defy me,” il’Sänke said, his voice deadly cold. “There is more at stake than you understand.”

Chane tensed, ready to charge and strike.

Il’Sänke’s gaze turned on Ore-Locks. As his bloody right hand shot out toward the dwarf, he began to whisper unintelligibly.

Chane knew what was happening, had seen it before. He quickly sidestepped between the two, breaking il’Sänke’s line of sight to Ore-Locks.

Il’Sänke’s eyes widened. He shook slightly as anger washed over his dark-tan face.

Chane suddenly remembered something that il’Sänke might not know. They all had abilities, powers, not just the domin. They could do things most people could not.

“Ore-Locks, go!” Chane said. “Take it into stone!”

It was a desperate move, but he saw no other choice.

“Neither one of you leaves with that!” Ghassan shouted, losing his composure.

He pushed off the wall, limping forward and shifting left around the cave wall.

Chane shifted too, keeping himself between the domin and the dwarf. He was losing precious moments, and desperation broke his control. The beast inside him surged, struggling against the violet concoction he had taken upon heading under the mountains.

Chane whirled with a wild slash at il’Sänke and shoved Ore-Locks toward the cave’s rear wall.

“Go!” he rasped.

Ore-Locks started in surprise at the sight of him. Chane knew his eyes had lost all color, his features likely twisted into something feral. He did not care as long as Ore-Locks listened.

With one last glance, Ore-Locks backed into—through—the wall, and Chane turned on il’Sänke.

* * *

Ghassan’s breath choked off as the dwarf simply sank into the cave’s back wall and vanished.

Then Chane turned on him.

He couldn’t help stumbling back at the sight of Chane’s altered face ... colorless eyes, elongated teeth, and twisted features. Chane rasped like a snake or a voiceless, rabid dog as he thrust his sword.

Ghassan flashed a hand in front of himself, focusing on the steel.

The blade swerved slightly at his gesture, striking into the wall at his side. He tried spinning away before the blade slashed across at him, but sharp pain in his right knee made his leg buckle. Ghassan tumbled down along the cave wall.

Bloodied and weak, he could feel his strength ebbing. He raised a shielding arm and tried to scramble back before Chane struck him down.

The blade never fell, and he heard only the sound of running feet.

Ghassan peered over his arm at an empty cave. When he flopped over to look up the tunnel, all he saw was a form fleeing by the fading light of a cold lamp crystal.

Ghassan rolled back, his heart pounding, as he looked at the cave’s rear wall. None of this made sense. There was not even a hint of the dwarf’s passing ... and the orb was gone.

He had read Wynn’s journal accounts of what she and three others named Magiere, Leesil, and Chap had found in a castle among the highest icy peaks of the eastern continent. The description of their find matched what had been under the dwarf’s arm.

And where was Wynn, if Chane still ... lived?

Pieces of the poem tumbled through Ghassan’s head.

The Children in twenty and six steps seek to hide in five corners
The anchors amid Existence, which had once lived amid the Void.
One to wither the Tree from its roots to its leaves
Laid down where a cursed sun cracks the soil.
That which snuffs a Flame into cold and dark
Sits alone upon the water that never flows.
The middling one, taking the Wind like a last breath,
Sank to sulk in the shallows that still can drown.
And swallowing Wave in perpetual thirst, the fourth
Took seclusion in exalted and weeping stone.
But the last, that consumes its own, wandered astray
In the depths of the Mountain beneath the seat of a lord’s song.

The anchors of the creation were the orbs. The poem was a puzzle, giving clues to their locations. Wynn had figured this out before he had.