The darkness in the tunnel was not merely an absence of light; it was a physical substance, thick and heavy, pressing in on him from all sides. The air was cold and stale, smelling of wet stone and ages of dust. The only sound was the frantic, too-loud rhythm of his own heart and the careful scuff of his hide-wrapped feet on the smooth, worn stone of the path. He held his spear before him like a blind man's cane, its flint tip tapping gently against the floor, the tiny noise echoing into a vast, unseen space.
The path is straight. Do not waver.
The Voice was a lifeline in the suffocating black. He focused on it, on the feel of the stone beneath his feet, and put one foot in front of the other. He dared not think about the bones at the entrance, about what might have left them there. The Goblins had been swarmed and killed. Something had taken the time to arrange them as a warning.
After what felt like an hour of blind progress, a faint, greenish light began to emanate from the walls themselves. It was a phosphorescent fungus, clinging to the stone in pulsating patches, illuminating the tunnel in a sickly, ghostly glow. It was better than the darkness, but the eerie light made the shadows dance and writhe, creating monstrous shapes at the edge of his vision.
The tunnel was immense, large enough for a Stone-Man to walk through without stooping. The ceiling was lost in gloom high above. Carvings, similar to those on the archway but far more intricate, covered the walls. They depicted scenes of a world being shaped—mountains being thrust up from plains, rivers being carved into stone, and the slow, patient forms of the Stone-Men moving through it all. They were the architects of this land, and he was an ant scurrying through their halls.
He passed side passages, dark openings that exhaled drafts of even colder air. From one, he heard the faint, skittering sound of claws on stone. He froze, his spear held ready, his breath caught in his throat. The skittering paused. Then, slowly, it retreated back into the depths. The Voice had been right. Staying on the main path was the only safety.
He walked on, his muscles screaming from the climb, the fall, and the relentless tension. The gash on his arm had stopped bleeding, but it throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. He was desperately thirsty, and his small skin of water was nearly empty. The hope that had driven him began to fray, replaced by a deep, weary despair. What if the tunnel had collapsed? What if it emerged leagues from his home? What if the Voice was wrong?
Just as doubt threatened to consume him, the tunnel began to slope upwards more steeply. The air changed, losing its stagnant quality, carrying a faint, familiar chill. Ahead, he saw a pinprick of light. Not the green glow of fungus, but the pure, grey light of day.
He hurried his pace, a new energy flooding his limbs. The light grew, resolving into another vast, carved archway, identical to the one he had entered. He emerged, blinking, into the weak light of late afternoon.
He was high up, on a rocky ledge on the opposite side of the mountain range from the valley. He knew this place. It was the highlands, a day's walk from his tribe's cave on a clear path. He had done it. He had crossed through the heart of the mountain.
A wave of triumph and relief so powerful it made him dizzy washed over him. He leaned on his spear, breathing in the clean, cold air, looking out at the familiar, snow-dusted peaks. He had found the way home.
His eyes scanned the landscape, tracing the route he would take back to the cave, back to his family. His gaze swept across the high plateau, over the familiar granite outcrops and frozen streams, and then further, to the distant, sheer cliff face where his people were trapped.
And his heart stopped.
There, clinging to the cliff face like obscene, giant insects, were three figures. They were not Stone-Men. They were lean and sinewy, with skin the color of dried blood and long, powerful limbs that ended in sharp, hooked claws that dug into the stone. They had no visible eyes, only smooth, bony plates where their faces should be. They were moving with a terrifying, spider-like grace, scaling the vertical rock directly towards the cave mouth high above.
They were still far below it, but they were climbing fast. Far faster than he ever could. They were still distant specks, but their intent was clear. They were hunters. And his tribe was the prey.
The triumph curdled into a horror more profound than anything he had felt in the dark tunnel or the war-torn valley. He had found the way out, but he was too late. He was here, and they were there, and a new, unspeakable terror was crawling up the wall to devour everything he loved.
He was alone on the wrong side of the mountain, with no way to warn them, no way to help. All he could do was watch.