Silent Desperation, An Unbroken Story - Part 4: A Light at the End
Read part one here. Part two here. Part three here.
Not far from the still warm corpse of the hobgoblin Maxyn, almost literally, bumps into two gibbering goblin whelps. Startled, Maxyn brings the halberd blade up to strike but the goblins shriek and cower, begging for their lives. By themselves the whelps are hardly a threat, but they have seen Maxyn, and he can’t have them running their mouths to every murderous denizen that dwells down here in the Dark. Lowering the halberd’s blade slightly, Maxyn tells the goblins that he would give them a shiny coin each if they kept their silence. They nod eagerly in agreement as Maxyn fishes out the two least filthy of the coins he took off the dying Wererat. The goblin whelps are ecstatic and insist on repaying Maxyn for both the gold coins and their lives. They say that Maxyn is like Ergabod the Old, wisest of the ancient goblin kings. Before Maxyn can interject the goblins launch into a spirited retelling of Ergabod’s exploits and soon enough he is enraptured as he listens to these goblin poets tell of how the old goblin king conquered the Scarred Lands by force and by guile. The tale is heavily mythologised, Ergabod performing feats that no goblin realistically could, but still Maxyn is stirred by the story. Inspired perhaps, if a lowly goblin can become a great king, then escaping these caverns should be no great difficulty for Maxyn. He thanks the whelps for the story and continues on down the passage.
Unfortunately, Maxyn doesn’t get too far when the passage drops away in a steep slope into a deeper cavern. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t be able to see too far but there is a river running through the cavern that gives off a faint glow. No doubt some form of bioluminescence Maxyn wonders. The glow is sufficient that it will make the steep descent a little easier, and as he kneels to start his climb down Maxyn is hit by the stench of overripe meat. Squinting in the gloom he’s not quite able to discern the original source of the new rotten meat. Praying that it wasn’t anything humanoid, Maxyn uses the halberd blade to cut away the rotten parts until he is left with some thin strips that an unscrupulous butcher might charitably refer to as “dry aged” but anyone with principles would sooner feed to the pigs. He stuffs the strips in his pack and begins the slow climb down and towards the glowing river.
At the base of the slope Maxyn finds the long dead remnants of a campfire as well as the usual detritus of passing adventurers. As the climb down took more effort than he had anticipated, Maxyn uses the opportunity to rest a moment. He’s able to find a few nuggets of charcoal in the remains of the campfire and with some wood shavings from his pack he’s able to get a small fire going. With so little fuel the fire burns hot and fast, dying after what seems like only a few minutes but Maxyn is still able to use its heat to cook the strips of meat he got from the top of the slope. Whilst his culinary skills leave much to be desired, and the strips are hardly a meal; the hot food does much to bolster Maxyn’s spirit.
Taking a moment to let his stomach settle, Maxyn looks around the remains of the camp. There isn’t much to look at really, not even a discarded tent to rummage through. What he does find however is a few animal bones with runes carved into them. The carvings are extremely crude but definitely non-human in nature. Maxyn turns the fetishes over in his hands, they meant a shaman had passed through here. When exactly that might have been was far beyond his skills as a tracker however. It was bad news all the same, the magicks they wielded made shamans some of the most dangerous things one could run into down here. Maxyn hoped he would be lucky and not run into them at all.
Continuing through the vast catacombs Maxyn comes across a small waystation next to a crossing over the glowing river. Such stations aren’t uncommon but it does mean that he is on the right track. The traders that man them aren’t going to risk their profits by venturing too far into the Dark. Better to stay near the surface to sell their overpriced goods.
The camp itself consists of two small shacks made of rough-hewn brick, in front of one a stall has been set up. Manning the stall is the oldest kolbold that Maxyn has ever seen and their enormous hobgoblin guard. The latter of which takes a tighter hold of their weapon as Maxyn comes shuffling out of the darkness.
Having nothing of value besides the scraps of literal rubbish he’s collected along the way, Maxyn doesn’t plan to stop until the kobold calls out to him in a cheery greeting. He cautiously approaches the stall while the old kobold looks him up and down. The weary adventurer explains that he has nothing to trade but the kobold, who introduces themselves as Nilte, simply chuckles and says that everyone has something to trade. Before Maxyn can protest Nilte launches into a mumbling tale of how he used to be an adventurer but after an unfortunate incident with a crossbow he turned to the life of a trader. He talks about expeditions into the Dark using secret passages gleaned from maps now lost and forgotten. Some of it, Maxyn realises, might be useful in his journey to the surface. Nilte however shows no signs of slowing down as he breathlessly launches into a detailed account of the recovery process of his knee injury. Hoping to stem the verbal tidal wave, Maxyn rummages in his pack for anything that might be of value. In desperation he pulls out the iron spikes that he served him well as both tool and weapon. As soon as he does, Nilte snatches them from Maxyn’s hand, remarking that good steel is hard to find down here in the Dark, even if that steel is covered in dried blood. The trader nods to his bodyguard who promptly disappears into one of the shacks, returning shortly with a small plate of food. The food in question was some dry bread and some cheese that was somehow even drier. It was, however, the best food that Maxyn had eaten in his life. Somewhat sated, Maxyn makes to leave the small outpost but the old kobold bids him to sit for a moment.
Flopping down noisily against one of the shacks, Maxyn intends to sit for long enough that his meagre meal isn’t going to give him a stitch when he sets off again. As soon as Maxyn sits down he feels a weight lift from him, the trader’s outpost isn’t exactly safe but with the kobold and hobgoblin watching over him it’s the safest he’s felt since coming into the Dark. Unfortunately, with the weight off his feet the exhaustion catches up with him once again and despite his best efforts, in no time his eyes droop closed.
Maxyn’s slumber is far from peaceful. Terrible images flash in his mind, the corpses of his former party, the wererat, the goblin and the hobgoblin. Faster and faster the images come, tumbling over and melding from one to the other. Eventually they all blur into one, the unmistakable yet impossible image of an old blind crone. Her empty eye sockets bore into Maxyn as she screams silently in his dreams. She begs him to run, to get out, to escape.
He jolts awake, reaching for the halberd blade out of panicked instinct. The kobold trader and his hobgoblin bodyguard regard Maxyn with quizzical looks. Despite both the short length and the fitful nature of his slumber, Maxyn feels stronger than before. Certainly not back to full strength but better than he has felt in a while. He stands and stretches, hoping to wake his tired muscles a little more. Waving to Nilte, Maxyn says his thanks and goodbyes as he starts away from the camp following the path along the glowing river.
Just as the trader’s camp disappears into the gloom of the cavern the river slows and widens, not quite enough to become a true lake, but slow enough that Maxyn can see the occasional fish. Most are tiny, barely longer than a finger as they dart about in the glowing water. Not large enough to be worth the effort to catch. Maxyn continues along the bank of the river-cum-lake keeping half an eye out for anything that is worth the effort. Eventually his diligence pays off and in a small inlet a catfish is lazily scouring the riverbed for anything to eat. Moving carefully and holding the halberd blade in both hands, Maxyn tries desperately to recall what little he knows about spearfishing in his youth. The water distorts the actual position of the fish, that much he remembers. But by how much and in which direction he cannot for the life of him remember. Losing patience Maxyn decides to trust in muscle memory, he strikes out with the halberd blade thrusting into the water with a great splash.
The strike is…good? Maxyn withdraws the halberd blade from the freezing water and is genuinely shocked to find the catfish hanging limp on the end of the weapon. Although the broad flat blade of the halberd has nearly bisected the poor fish. Maxyn can’t believe his luck, nearly shouting out in jubilation. Nearly giddy with excitement he slips the fish off the halberd blade and into his pack, then shaking what water he can out of his boots Maxyn continues on once more.
Not far past where Maxyn caught his fish there is another camp, similar to the one in which he met Nilte although this one has been abandoned for some time. Judging by the skeletal remains of the small boat and the drying frames, Maxyn guesses this was some kind of base camp for fishermen. He’s about to start searching through the rubble but something catches his attention. It’s a mostly ruined statue to some deity or other. Whatever it was, it was installed and demolished long after the fishing camp was abandoned. By the looks of the bone fetishes and animal skulls near its base, it almost certainly was not crafted by human hands either. The demolished statue gives Maxyn pause, one of the members of his party used to talk extensively about goblinoid culture. Maxyn hadn’t listened at the time of course, but the old sage had spent much of their journey into the Dark waving their tattooed arms about pointing out this, that, and the other. They’d know what the demolished idol used to be. And how to get out of here. Caught in his reverie Maxyn doesn’t notice a squat crab emerge from its hiding place and begin to forage amongst the fallen detritus around the broken statue. The old sage would always say to look to the horizon, it never failed to get a few chuckles as the party trudged through dark caverns and tunnels. The memory brings a wry smile to Maxyn’s face, and by way of honouring his fallen comrade he lifts his head and casts about the horizon. He chuckles to himself as he sees only the gloom of the cavern, the glow of the river and-
Wait.
Maxyn tracks the glow of the river, expecting it to fade softly into the darkness of the vast cavern. Instead, the glow turns from an ethereal blue to a pale white. Almost like moonlight. Could it be? Maxyn tries to keep a rational mind, the glow could be anything, but still his heart jumps in elation at the possibility of finally finding a way out. Fighting the urge to literally run towards the light, Maxyn tries to maintain a steady pace along the bank of the river.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t get too far from the fishing camp when there is an inhuman screech, and a figure jumps out of the darkness. Maxyn attempts to jump out of the way but he’s too slow and something hard connects with the side of his ribcage. He steadies himself, halberd blade raised in a guard, taking a moment to assess his foe.
The figure before him is approximately as tall as him with a wiry musculature. The small tusks jutting from the corner of their mouth mark them as part of the orc race and judging by the bones and skull hanging from their person it was more than likely a shaman. Probably even the same shaman whose carved bones Maxyn had found shortly after running into the goblin storytellers.
Maxyn screams a curse, partly in frustration and partly as a battle cry, and launches himself at the shaman. Looking to end the fight as soon as possible puts as much strength as he can muster into a single strike. The shaman’s leather armour is no match for the halberd blade and it bites deep into the orc’s midsection. Howling in rage as blood pours from their side the shaman takes a reflexive swipe at Maxyn’s head, again only just missing. Grunting in frustration the shaman jumps back, uttering words without syllables that set the end of their glowing with eldritch energies. They touch the end of their staff to the wound in their side, as they do so the leather stretches and reknits like skin, stemming some of the blood flow.
Undeterred Maxyn wades back in, jabbing the halberd blade like a spear. The shaman manages to block some of the thrusts with their staff but Maxyn’s fury cannot be denied. By brute force he breaks the shaman’s guard and manages to slash the orc deeply across the thigh. Blood oozes from the wound as his adversary cries out in pain and anger.
The shaman spins their staff in a defensive whirl as they speak more spell words. These ones are different from before, despite them being spoken barely above a whisper they reverberate around the cavern and leave Maxyn’s ears ringing. Eldritch energies flare into existence once more, this time flowing from the staff and up the shaman’s arms. Their eyes flare unnatural energy and their thin muscles bulge with power.
Despite the obvious increase in combat prowess, Maxyn can see the proverbial cracks in the foundations. The leather jerkin may have reknit but not the wound underneath it, bright red blood still oozes from the seams. Likewise blood still flows freely from the slash on the thigh. Maxyn feels no better off, pain is radiating from his side and he’s sure he can feel liquid warmth trickle downwards. He hasn’t time to check, the shaman looks poised to attack.
Both parties come to the same grim realisation, this fight is going to come down to a single strike. Neither side can put anything into defense, it’s all or nothing. They both take a heartbeat to ready themselves, tensing muscles like coiled springs.
At some unseen signal, they both launch themselves at the other. Maxyn roars in anger and the orc shaman curses a string of expletives in their native language. As the two combatants rapidly close the distance on each other, time seems to stretch and slow. The shaman brings the staff up across their body in a two-handed attack that will crush Maxyn’s skull should it connect. Crucially the strike also won’t give Maxyn an opening for his own attack. He has only fractions of a second to act. Instinct wants him to evade and regroup but he’s committed everything to his own attack. Just like he’s committed everything to escaping the Dark. From the moment he woke up after the attack he’s given everything to escape. He’s held nothing back. And he doesn’t intend to change that now.
Maxyn digs deeper than he ever has before and leaps into the attack with a sudden burst of acceleration. The change in speed throws off the shaman’s swing, not by much but just enough to throw the shaman off balance. They attempt to readjust their grip but there simply isn’t time, Maxyn’s halberd blade hits the staff like a hammer blow. Off balance and with a poor grip the blade smashes the staff aside like it isn’t even there. Momentum carries the halberd blade through the leather armour once more, through the sternum and into the shaman’s heart. Maxyn himself isn’t far behind, crashing into the shaman and going down in an inelegant tangle of limbs.
Extracting himself from the shaman’s corpse, Maxyn finds himself slightly winded and once again covered in someone else’s blood. Rubbing his side where the shaman first struck him, Maxyn is horrified to find not all the fresh blood on him comes from his latest enemy. The wound on his side has reopened.
A panic overtakes Maxyn, to have come so far, he will not die in this cavern. The halberd blade slips from his blood slicked hands, clattering to the floor. He starts toward the light at the end of the glowing river, his steps becoming more and more hurried as he goes. Before long he’s scabbling over rocks in a frenzy, his breath coming in short ragged gasps. His vision starts fuzzing at the edges, just as he thinks he’s about to slip from consciousness, Maxyn steps down on empty air. He has the brief sensation of falling before the surface of the water slaps the life back into him.
Breaking the surface of the water, Maxyn hauls himself ashore. He takes deep breaths, filling his lungs with frigid air. He rolls onto his back, staring upwards as he tries to make sense of his new surroundings. The ceiling is an inky blackness dotted by pinpricks of light. It takes Maxyn long moments to realise he’s staring at the night sky. The sight would make him call out or weep in joy, but he simply lacks the energy to do either. Instead he can only weakly chuckle, after everything he’s been through the very idea that he’s actually made it out seems oddly absurd. Hilarious even. The very idea that someone like Maxyn could navigate and then fight their way out of the Dark seems ridiculous.
Once the fits of giggles have passed Maxyn hauls himself completely out of the water to sit on the edge of the bank. He shivers in the breeze and he takes greater stock of his situation. His side is still bleeding although it seems to have slowed somewhat. The river, which was glowing inside the cavern, seems to have lost its bioluminescence as it comes tumbling out in a small waterfall before starting its journey across the Scarred Lands. Whilst he still has his pack, it’s soaked through and presently he has no way of making a fire. On the other side of the river, sitting on the bank just like he is, is a fox. Its eyes strangely glowing in the moonlight as it seems to regard Maxyn from across the river.
Maxyn takes a deep breath, he’s so tired. The fight with the orc shaman really took everything out of him. He just needs to rest. Just for a moment. Just until his wound stops bleeding again. Just until he has the strength to move again. A warmth overcomes Maxyn as consciousness begins to slip away. Darkness envelopes him as he flops over in the grass.
The fox spirit watches Maxyn’s supine form from across the river for a moment, licks its paw and sets off back towards the cavern’s entrance.