We set out again, following the same pathway we’d been on before. The floor beneath us continued to slope downward. The ceiling of the tunnel dropped low in places but never so much that we needed to stoop. We weren’t certain where we were headed. Such was the nature of traversing the darkness of these tunnels. The exact destination could almost never be known, which was why it was almost always safer to travel with a trusted companion.
We talked along the way, as we so often did, our lanterns lighting the way ahead just enough. You told me of your upbringing, something you’d never shared with me before. I shared with you the pain I’d gone through, the pain I was even now still experiencing. Friends we already were, but through that time in the dark, we bonded closer still.
The passage ahead came to a ‘T,’ and we were forced to make a decision. You seemed uncertain which way to go, and so it fell to me to guide us. I’d kept a rough map of the tunnels in my mind as we walked, and so I turned us to the right.
You reached out your injured arm, placing your hand on my shoulder while I wrapped and bound it. You didn’t even wince as I pulled the bandages tight to help slow the blood flow. One of the Healers would need to tend to the wound once we returned to the Haven, but for now, this made an adequate field dressing.
You smiled as I worked, and we made small talk again, as if we hadn’t just fought for our lives. Such was the way for those of us who made a habit of traversing the darkness. We all learned after a while that dangers lurked everywhere and that there was nothing to be done but to roll with them, dealing with each one as it cropped up. You were already an old hand at this, well-versed in dealing with such risks. You had taught me much in the brief time we had known each other.
I could help returning your smile. You always had that effect on me. Your smile could light the darkness in a way our lanterns never could. The warmth of your smile dispelled the chill of the eternal night here, however briefly.
Our blades flashed in the dark, sparks of light from our lanterns flickering off our weapons. The things were all around us, attacking from the sides, the floor, even the ceiling. We stood back-to-back and warded them off — one, two, sometimes even three at a time.
Until there were none left. Corpses lay all about us as we struggled to catch our breath. We had fought. We had won. But we had not escaped entirely unscathed ourselves. Such are the dangers of traveling these dark corridors.
We moved off a bit, choosing a side passage almost at random. We needed to leave the stench of death behind us and attend to our own wounds. We both resheathed our blades into our walking sticks, then sat, our backs to the tunnel wall.
I could see a long scratch along your left forearm. It was already growing dark with the venom of the thing that had caused it. I dug into my pack for a bezoar, but a familiar crunch from between your teeth told me you’d already pulled one out of your own. Of course you didn’t need my help.
We traveled like that for some time. Talking. Sharing. Laughing. It was always a joy to travel with you, and it was no less so this time.
And as we walked, we noticed the ground beneath our feet begin to slant ever so slightly downward.
The thing about the dark is that the path rarely ever stays the same. The tunnels are always changing, ever shifting. Honestly, it was a small wonder I was able to find you at all. These are the kinds of things the Watchers are ever on the lookout for, giving warning when such events occur. But even They can’t see everything, and so this shift slid beneath their attentive gazes.
We reached a cross passage, barely having time to note it when things, creatures of the dark, lunged at us. Neither of us missed a beat. We whirled as the things, barely seen yet lethally dangerous, attacked. We pulled weapons — you a stiletto, me a sword — and danced death with them, never leaving the other’s side, never dropping our packs. One always fights while bearing one’s own burdens.
We found each other in the dark some time later. Or, rather, the semi-dark. A crack in part of the tunnel ceiling extended through the rock over our heads and let in just enough light that we didn’t require our lanterns. It did little to dispel the gloom to either side of us, of course, but it at least gave us a safe haven for our reunion.
You were already on your way back when I found you. You greeted me with a hug and a smile that was genuinely warm. I knew I’d been right not to worry, but your gear clearly told the tales of your travels. There had been hardships along the way. I could see those markings clearly, even in that dim light. But still you smiled, ever positive, ever optimistic. And this was part of why I chose to follow you into the dark. How could I not?
We walked together then, both our lanterns lit, the shared glow of those lights illuminating the path ahead of us more clearly than each had alone. We talked, voices low, exchanging stories and sharing experiences.
I didn’t want it to end.
The Watchers tell me you departed some time ago, that you walked into the tunnel by yourself armed with nothing but your pack, walking stick, and a lantern. An incredible risk, if you ask me, given what we both know lurks there in the dark. But I know you. I know your strength; I’ve seen it first-hand. So I’m not worried for you. But the things that live there, in the dark, ought to be worried, even though they don’t know it.
I’ve waited for you to return. I’ve hoped to see you again by now, but you haven’t come back yet. I can only assume the journey has been longer than expected, or that there has been some complication on the other end we didn’t anticipate. I’m certain the journey itself was safe enough. I’ve seen the way you take care of others, and I understand full well that you exercise the same level of care on yourself.
Just the same, though, I’ve explained my plan to the Watchers, and they have agreed. I have my own pack now. And walking stick. And lantern.
I’m going to follow you into the dark.
Dagron Max had been stranded only twice in his life. The first time, he returned carrying a gun. The second time, he returned carrying a saddle, as well. In both cases, a horse died, but in the second case that a man died, as well. And not without cause.
“You just don’t mess with a man’s horse,” Dagron said, retelling the story to anyone who would listen. At the moment his audience consisted only of the bartender — and a horsefly on a filthy shot glass a little way down the bar. “A horse is the measure of a man’s status in this world. You fuck with a man’s horse, you fuck with his reputation. That shit don’t fly.”
Dagron tossed back another shot of the firewater the bartender had served up, the flames burning his mouth and throat as they slid down his gullet. He barely noticed. Smoke puffed out his mouth with his next words.
“That’s why I shot the man. Square between the eyes. You don’t put another man’s horse down like that.” He slammed the shot glass down onto the bar.
“You don’t do that kind of shit.”
I laid on my back on the forest floor, the deadfall beneath me striving vainly to push me closer to the sky. Perched above me a black raven rested on a branch, peering intently down at me, just as it had for the last two hours. The creature never moved, never blinked, never stretched a wing. It might have been dead, for all I knew, except that the occasional gust of wind forced it to readjust its stance.
We remained like that for a long time, the raven and I, staring at one another in quiet communion. I didn’t know why it held such an interest in me — or I in it, for that matter. But there was a sense of calm between us I couldn’t explain.
An old poem I’d read as a child kept replaying through my mind as I laid there. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. I kept expecting the raven to utter the word, “Nevermore!” and fly on its way. But it never did.
So I said it, instead. “Nevermore!” I called. The raven cocked its head in response, curious at my outburst. “So you do move,” I breathed. “That’s good to know.”
Captain Adriana Milosovic felt the deck tremble beneath her feet. It was subtle, barely even there at all, and yet it was enough that her senses came to high alert. She glanced around the bridge at her crew, but they were all engaged in their own tasks. No one else seemed to have noticed the oddity.
“Status report!” she barked. Immediately, her crew jumped to high alert as each one checked individual readouts at their stations. Several voices replied simultaneously, but she was used to sorting out the confusion. The gist of the impromptu systems check was that all operations were nominal, operating well within expected parameters.
Adriana returned to her captain’s chair and thumbed the comm for engineering. “Mr. Stock, report please.” The response was immediate.
“We blew a fuse, captain,” he replied. “We’re replacing it right now.”
“Very good. Any idea as to the cause of the failure?”
“None, captain. Diagnostics is underway.”
“Excellent, Mr. Stock. Report to me once you have something.”
The Priest lifts the lid away from the box and sets it to the side. The smoke inside the box swirls before him like an angry storm but remains in place for the moment. He dips a finger into the smoke, drawing out a long tendril of grey vapor. Then, with his other hand, he twirls the tendril around his index fingers, allowing some of the smoke to climb up his hands and disappear up under the sleeves of his robe. The smoke reappears again above his collar, wrapping around his head and face. His pupils dilate until his eyes are totally black, then return to their normal color. He grins, a toothy, malignant smile, then releases the smoke back to the box.
The medallion, still glowing with an ominous, green, sickly pallor, suddenly draws all the smoke from the box. The smoke surrounds the medallion, hiding it from view. It once again resembles a small, angry storm cloud, lit within by an eerie green light. Static charges shoot off the medallion like tiny lightning bolts, further enhancing the illusion of a storm.