legs extended to catch the boy.
Calistrope came third, rummaging in his bag to find a small bottle. “Drink this,” he advised. Roli, severely shaken and ashen faced, took a swallow and coughed as the strong spirit hit the back of his throat. When the coughing subsided, Roli was red in the face and whooping for breath. Ponderos massaged the boy’s numb fingers. Eventually he regained his composure and they continued the descent.
Beneath the cap of mist, the valley with the still and silent pool against the rock-fall dam, was a somber and silent world, the air was dank and laced heavily with methane from the stagnant waters. Guided by the ants as they descended, they veered to the south where the valley side was less steep and the black water easier to pass. Finally, they reached the floor where a stream brawled down the center of the narrow valley—little more than a crack driving into the landmass which reared up from the old sea bottom trench occupied by Lake Mal-a-Merrion.
Crossing and re-crossing the stream whenever it swung against one vertiginous side or the other, the band followed the valley. As they left the edge behind, the rock walls towered higher and higher so they walked on into deeper and deeper gloom. Ponderos brought out Voss’ radiant globe to light their steps. Even when the mist no longer shrouded them, the sunlight was confined to a narrow bar of orange reflecting from the upper reaches of the northern walls. Where the light penetrated the obscurity, it tinged the white water to the color of old gold and where it was refracted through the churning surface, the stream waters boiled with underwater life scurrying for the comforting shadows of crannies and rocky shelves.
They rested every so often, sometimes stopping as long as seven or eight hours when Roli felt the pressures of sleep. At such times the ants also relaxed into a watchful somnolence which was their nearest equivalent of sleep. Calistrope and Ponderos conversed in low tones or went hunting in the stream for soft shelled crustaceans or juicy insect larvae which they lured from crevices and cracks.
“Did you hear that?” asked Calistrope as they paused, waiting for a creature to crawl out of its hidey-hole.
Ponderos put his head to one side, cupped an ear. Finally, he shook his head. “Snow or ice falling from the heights? Was that it?”
Calistrope shook his head. “Something following us. Two or three somethings. Listen,” he stopped and followed his own council. “Back there, I’m certain of it. Waiting for an opportunity.”
“An opportunity to do what? Hmm? There aren’t that many insects big enough to hunt us.” But in the silence which followed, Ponderos too heard the click of a hard claw on the rocky surface, the scrape of chitin against an outcrop. “Yes. You’re right. Let’s go back.”
Faramiss and Charylla were already standing, stiff with concentration, staring past them into the gloom.
“If only there was magic in these parts,” Calistrope complained and then bent towards Roli. “Roli,” he said, tapping the boy’s shoulder. “Up and get your sword out.”
Roli shook his head to clear the drowsiness and made ready, standing between the two Mages. Ponderos lifted the globe of light high and rested it atop an angular jut of rock. Three pairs of eyes reflected the light back at them, white from each leftward eye and the red of the fire from each right hand side.
“What are they?” asked Roli, his voice low, tense.
“I don’t know. They have the look of pack insects, hunters. Probably not sure how to deal with us—mixed species like this.”
Hunters and hunted stared at one another for several minutes, the pack of three moving in an intricate pattern which would have made it difficult to fire a bow or use a sling. The stand-off continued and just when the humans thought the insects were going to slope off, they darted in.
The lead creature swerved around Faramiss and underneath Charylla while
Calistrope came third, rummaging in his bag to find a small bottle. “Drink this,” he advised. Roli, severely shaken and ashen faced, took a swallow and coughed as the strong spirit hit the back of his throat. When the coughing subsided, Roli was red in the face and whooping for breath. Ponderos massaged the boy’s numb fingers. Eventually he regained his composure and they continued the descent.
Beneath the cap of mist, the valley with the still and silent pool against the rock-fall dam, was a somber and silent world, the air was dank and laced heavily with methane from the stagnant waters. Guided by the ants as they descended, they veered to the south where the valley side was less steep and the black water easier to pass. Finally, they reached the floor where a stream brawled down the center of the narrow valley—little more than a crack driving into the landmass which reared up from the old sea bottom trench occupied by Lake Mal-a-Merrion.
Crossing and re-crossing the stream whenever it swung against one vertiginous side or the other, the band followed the valley. As they left the edge behind, the rock walls towered higher and higher so they walked on into deeper and deeper gloom. Ponderos brought out Voss’ radiant globe to light their steps. Even when the mist no longer shrouded them, the sunlight was confined to a narrow bar of orange reflecting from the upper reaches of the northern walls. Where the light penetrated the obscurity, it tinged the white water to the color of old gold and where it was refracted through the churning surface, the stream waters boiled with underwater life scurrying for the comforting shadows of crannies and rocky shelves.
They rested every so often, sometimes stopping as long as seven or eight hours when Roli felt the pressures of sleep. At such times the ants also relaxed into a watchful somnolence which was their nearest equivalent of sleep. Calistrope and Ponderos conversed in low tones or went hunting in the stream for soft shelled crustaceans or juicy insect larvae which they lured from crevices and cracks.
“Did you hear that?” asked Calistrope as they paused, waiting for a creature to crawl out of its hidey-hole.
Ponderos put his head to one side, cupped an ear. Finally, he shook his head. “Snow or ice falling from the heights? Was that it?”
Calistrope shook his head. “Something following us. Two or three somethings. Listen,” he stopped and followed his own council. “Back there, I’m certain of it. Waiting for an opportunity.”
“An opportunity to do what? Hmm? There aren’t that many insects big enough to hunt us.” But in the silence which followed, Ponderos too heard the click of a hard claw on the rocky surface, the scrape of chitin against an outcrop. “Yes. You’re right. Let’s go back.”
Faramiss and Charylla were already standing, stiff with concentration, staring past them into the gloom.
“If only there was magic in these parts,” Calistrope complained and then bent towards Roli. “Roli,” he said, tapping the boy’s shoulder. “Up and get your sword out.”
Roli shook his head to clear the drowsiness and made ready, standing between the two Mages. Ponderos lifted the globe of light high and rested it atop an angular jut of rock. Three pairs of eyes reflected the light back at them, white from each leftward eye and the red of the fire from each right hand side.
“What are they?” asked Roli, his voice low, tense.
“I don’t know. They have the look of pack insects, hunters. Probably not sure how to deal with us—mixed species like this.”
Hunters and hunted stared at one another for several minutes, the pack of three moving in an intricate pattern which would have made it difficult to fire a bow or use a sling. The stand-off continued and just when the humans thought the insects were going to slope off, they darted in.
The lead creature swerved around Faramiss and underneath Charylla while
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