The world shrank to the feel of cold, gritty stone under his fingertips and the precarious pressure of his toes finding purchase on invisible ledges. The braided hide rope, still stiff with newness, groaned under his weight, sending a shower of tiny dust particles pattering down into the silent darkness below. Karuk did not look down. He focused only on the next handhold, the next tiny fissure in the moon-pale rock face, his breath pluming in short, controlled bursts in the frigid air.
The Voice was silent now, a withdrawn presence, leaving him alone with the physical reality of the climb. Every sense was heightened. The scrape of his hide-wrapped feet against stone was deafening. The wind, which had been a roar from the cave, was now a series of whispering, treacherous gusts that plucked at his furs, trying to pry him from the wall.
He descended slowly, methodically, the way the Voice had imprinted in his mind before the climb. Test every hold. Move your weight like flowing water, not a falling stone. He inched downward, the rope playing out above him. The cave mouth, with its flickering earth-fire glow and the pale, worried faces of his tribe, became a distant, shrinking rectangle of light, a memory of safety being steadily swallowed by the night.
After what felt like an age, the rope ran out.
His heart stuttered. He was only a third of the way down, maybe less. The rest of the descent was a sheer, unbroken darkness below him. He pressed himself against the cold rock, his fingers cramping where they clung to a narrow lip of stone. This was it. The point of no return.
The rope is gone. You must continue without it. The Voice was back, its calm tone a stark contrast to the panic clawing at his throat.
I can't, he thought, the fear a cold stone in his gut. It's too far. I'll fall.
You will not fall. The mountain is not smooth. It is broken. Look to your left. Down. Three body-lengths.
Karuk forced himself to turn his head, to peer into the vertiginous blackness. For a moment, he saw nothing. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he saw it—a darker shadow against the cliff face, a jagged, horizontal crack wide enough to shelter in. A ledge.
You can reach it. You must.
There was no other choice. Taking a deep breath, Karuk untied the rope from around his waist. He was truly alone now. He began to climb sideways, his body pressed flat against the stone, his fingers searching, blindly trusting the Voice's command. He found a hold, then another. His foot slipped, sending a heart-stopping cascade of pebbles into the void. He froze, his muscles screaming, until the sound of the falling stones faded into nothing.
Move. Breathe. Find a hold. Move again.
It was a slow, agonizing dance with death. The moon drifted behind a cloud, plunging him into utter blackness. He clung on, waiting, his world reduced to the feel of the rock and the thunder of his own pulse. When the light returned, the ledge was closer. He pushed on, his arms and legs burning with fatigue.
Finally, with a last, desperate lunge, he dragged himself onto the narrow shelf. He lay there, panting, his body trembling with spent adrenaline. He was safe, for a moment. He looked up. The cave was a tiny, unknowable star high above. He looked down. The bottom was still lost in shadow, but it felt closer.
He allowed himself a few minutes to rest, to chew on a strip of the tough, sweet tree-sleeper meat. As he sat, a sound drifted up from the valley floor, a sound that froze the blood in his veins. It was not the roar of a Dragon or the grind of a Stone-Man. It was a chorus of high, chittering barks and guttural snarls. And beneath it, the sharp, musical cries of the Elves. A battle was raging directly below him, hidden by the darkness and the trees.
He was climbing down into a war zone.
The Voice offered no comfort, only a new command. The ledge continues downward. Follow it. The sounds are your guide. Where they fight, you must not go.
Gathering his strength, Karuk began the traverse again. The ledge narrowed, sometimes forcing him to shuffle sideways, his back to the drop. The sounds from below grew louder, more distinct. He could hear the sickening thud of weapons striking flesh, the sizzle of Elven magic, and the pained shrieks of the smaller, unseen creatures—the Goblin hordes, he realized.
A sudden, searing blast of orange fire erupted from the trees less than a hundred feet to his right, illuminating the entire cliff face for a terrifying second. In that flash, he saw them: a squad of Elves, their silver hair flying, dancing back from a hulking, troll-like creature that was bathed in flames, bellowing in agony. He saw the creature swipe a massive claw, catching an Elf and sending him spinning into the darkness. The image was burned into his eyes—the brutal, intimate violence of the war.
He pressed on, faster now, desperation giving speed to his numb limbs. The ledge began to widen, sloping more gently downward. The trees were closer now, their highest branches almost within reach. The end was in sight.
And then the ledge ended.
It simply crumbled away into nothing, dropping straight down another twenty feet to a steep, scree-covered slope that led into the forest. It was too far to jump. He was trapped again, so close to the bottom.
There is another way, the Voice intoned. But you must be swift. The battle moves this way.
Karuk looked around, frantic. He saw nothing.
The tree. The one with the broken crown. Its roots clutch the stone.
He saw it then—a ancient, gnarled pine, growing from a crack in the cliff face a few yards to his left. One of its thick, snaking roots had broken through the rock, creating a natural, knotted ladder leading down to the slope below.
He didn't hesitate. He scrambled over to it, grabbing the rough, solid wood. It felt like safety. He began to climb down, hand over hand, his feet finding secure placements on the sturdy root.
He was almost at the bottom when the root, rotten on the inside, gave way with a sickening crack.
Karuk fell.
It was only a short drop, but it was uncontrolled. He landed hard on the steep scree slope, the impact driving the air from his lungs. He tumbled, a tangle of limbs and spear, rocks tearing at his furs, as he slid and bounced down the unstable slope. The world was a whirl of pain and disorientation until he crashed to a sudden, jarring halt against the solid trunk of a massive pine at the forest's edge.
He lay there, stunned, gasping for air. Every part of him ached. He could feel the warm seep of blood on his arm and leg where the rocks had gouged him. But he was alive. He was down.
He pushed himself up, leaning against the tree, and looked back up the terrifying cliff he had just descended. It was a monstrous, impossible wall of stone, silhouetted against the starry sky. He had done it.
But his relief was short-lived. The sounds of battle were no longer distant. They were here, in this part of the forest. The chittering barks and snarls were close, too close. He could smell smoke and something else, something coppery and foul.
He gripped his spear, his knuckles white. He was on the valley floor. He had survived the descent. But now, he was alone, wounded, and trapped in the dark with a war. The Voice had gotten him down. Now, it had to get him through.