Chapter Twelve: Toll and Toil to the Surface

  The man’s words had unfortunately proven somewhat prophetic as he meandered through the labyrinthine caverns. Despite Selriph’s sense of direction giving him a consistent orientation of north in the underground environment, his southbound wandering had not borne fruit.

  Now, he stood above a shallow puddle, staring at the makeshift compass below him. A thin piece of wire, which had been sitting in his pack—magnetised using his Electromancy—floated on the water’s surface. The needle had simply confirmed what he had thought previously: that he was wandering in a southerly direction, albeit veering slightly more east than intended. And yet he remained buried in darkness.

  Mildly reassured that he was vaguely on the right track, he resigned himself to the only choice he had: pressing onwards. It was entirely possible that he’d just end up in an infinite series of dead ends and be forced to backtrack to the creepy, gaunt man. No doubt waiting in quiet anticipation.

  But at some point, the tunnels had to lead to the surface, he thought. He had already climbed several upward inclines and was certain he was making some modicum of progress toward the surface.

  Eventually, his path narrowed into another cramped, low passage, this time forcing him to drop to his knees and palms. Selriph crawled–the rough stone scraped against his hands and shins as the ground angled upward, widening slightly as it went.

  Then, he saw something—something other than just rocky walls.

  He placed his hand in front of him; the glow cutting through the darkness. There, he could see it; something veiled over the opening ahead, just barely wide enough for him to squeeze through. The obstruction was not opaque; he could barely make out the faintest features of the cavern beyond it. As he crawled closer, he could make out the features of a fabric-like texture.

  Cloth...? No, not cloth.

  As he approached it, it revealed itself to be a thick sheet of spiderweb. Selriph examined it and peered through beyond, attempting to find any signs of its creator. No sign of it, at least from what he could discern. He placed his arcane-lit hand near the obstacle. The blue light faded as a red glow of flame that ignited in front of his open palm replaced it. A tiny plume of fire came with a poof as it burnt away the web in an instant. Accompanying it was the pungent scent of charred organic matter, an acidic, smoky scent akin to burnt sulfur.

  His faint arcane light revealed what lay just beyond: a small cavern filled with bones and decaying organic matter. The air reeked of rot and mould, and a colony of glowing lichen cast an eerie blue-greyish hue over the scene before him.

  Selriph felt a wave of excitement and fear; His heart started racing as he processed the implications. The sight of relatively fresh bones meant two things: either a predator lurked nearby or would be returning; this being its den of spoils. The other? If the bones were of surface-dwelling creatures, there was certainly an exit nearby.

  He edged forward, his gaze landed on the bones. Intent on confirming the latter.

  Selriph’s thoughts, however, distracted him from what was about to happen. As he emerged from his crawl, he felt something brush below his leg. A split second later came a sharp pain from his left shin, a searing hot sensation travelled up his leg as a sharp pair of fangs broke through the cloth into his skin.

  Instinct kicked in as he yanked his leg back and fired a hastily conjured burst of flame towards the source of the bite. Flame struck the insectoid flesh and the rocky ground, loud and powerful. The impact echoed through the chamber; the intensity fueled by the adrenaline-induced casting.

  Dust fell around him. The cave trembled. This chamber was far less stable than those he had traversed earlier, and for a tense moment, it seemed like he had caused a cave-in—through a mere Firebolt.

  For a tense moment, he froze in panic, worried any movement would lead to a collapse. But the stone held—for now.

  The burnt stench wafted through the air. The creature lay charred near where he had fired, curled and smoking. From the remains, he could tell it had been a spider, although its specific subspecies would be impossible to tell in its current state.

  His focus shifted immediately. A sharp burn spread from his leg. The venom had entered his bloodstream. He rummaged quickly through his pack and hastily unlocked a small vial of anti-venom gel he had gathered from the infirmary as a precautionary measure.

  Selriph lifted the fabric on the leg opening of his lower garments and hastily applied gel to the wound. The salve created a soothing burn mixed with the stinging of the bite. The pain began to partially dull after thirty seconds, but the effects still bore through: he felt his heart palpitating, his head fogged, and his shin still burning from the venom.

  “Drats... must have been an Eldeitian Kivar Spider, or worse, a Wailbrood," he muttered as he glanced at the shrivelled, charred remains.

  The swift application of the anti-venom muted some of the effects of the bite, although the general anti-venom was not 100% effective. Nausea crept in while his senses dulled. The bite wasn’t lethal–he knew that much–but it would take more than a day before his system purged the toxin. His mind drifted towards how he missed a cleric’s touch, the only useful luxury he had while in service to the Templars.

  Selriph shook off the thought, knowing he had no access to such a service in his current predicament. He steadied and focused himself once again on the bone-littered cavern. The soft pulse of arcane light dimmed, flickering in his off-hand, as nausea and fatigue set in.

  As he paced cautiously forward, he could unmistakably identify that many of the skulls were from surface-dwelling creatures.

  This meant one thing: he was close. He simply had to get out before the owner of the ‘spoils’ before him came back.

  As if the cave endeavoured to answer his thoughts, a faint, sluggish scuttling echoed from up ahead. Selriph raised his glowing hand–a massive, grotesque rat slipped out of the shadows—easily the size of two grown dogs. Its fur was slick with grime and water. Its beady eyes gleamed with a predatory gaze, an unnatural and unnerving sight from a rodent.

  Venom fogged his senses. The cavern groaned under its instability, and the timing could hardly be worse. With every heavy step the creature took, loose pebbles rattled from above. The cavern’s unstable ceiling groaned with every tremor.

  He knew that he had to engage this creature in melee. Any potent spell-casting would almost certainly cause the chamber to collapse, taking him and the rat with it. Flame and spark would be a last resort.

  Selriph’s hand moved to the hilt of his estoc, the blade already half-drawn as he readied himself for a fight.

  The massive rat lunged forward with unnatural speed, its beady eyes locked on Selriph. He drew his estoc in a swift, practised motion as he thrust the blade towards the creature’s oncoming head, aimed at a quick and precise kill. However, the creature twisted with uncanny reflexes for its bulk, the estoc instead meeting its thoracic region. The youth’s blade grazed its side as it met the creature at an angle–it sliced through its hide, and crimson ichor sprayed. The rat screeched in fury.

  As the sword met his adversary’s mark, Selriph’s left hand crackled with magical energy as he channelled an extremely controlled lightning bolt; to shock, not to create any kinetic impact. The arc of blue light struck the rat just to the right of where his blade had, in the centre of its abdomen, which caused the beast to twitch, its fur bristled, its body convulsed, some of its muscles contracting from the shock.

  The blow was far from lethal and only seemed to make the beast more enraged.

  The rat’s eyes were full of fury as it charged at Selriph, its movement unnaturally fast. With a deafening screech, the rat leapt at Selriph. He attempted to dodge, but the combination of the Rat’s uncanny speed and Selriph’s dulled reflexes resulted in the bulky beast raking its claws across Selriph’s chest. The strike tore through his rags and the leather tunic he was wearing. Blood was drawn, and the pain was intense.

  “Argh!”

  Selriph cried out, staggering from the blow. He retaliated with a wild slash, the estoc biting deep into the rat’s flank and drawing another bout of blood. The rat shrieked again but didn’t falter. It instead thrashed and slammed the back of its body into Selriph’s chest, hurling him against the chamber wall. He hit hard, the breath knocked from his lungs as his vision dimmed for a moment, from the impact and the venom in his veins.

  “I.. am not going to be bested by a rat… after everything I…"

  Selriph gasped out the words as he forced himself upright. The tip of his estoc met the cold stone floor in his stance as he readied himself for the next attack from the rat.

  Whatever happens, he had to find his mark, a lethal hit. Any more than this, and he would join the bones strewn in the cavern.

  The rat, seemingly undeterred by the gashes along its flank, charged once more, its fangs barred as it made for Selriph’s legs. Selriph attempted to sidestep at the last moment, but the creature lunged upwards and raked its fangs vertically down his left shoulder, tearing through the leather and meeting flesh as its mass reached the ground.

  The pain was searing, and blood flowed freely down his left arm, drawing crimson streaks that traced to his palm. Selriph stumbled as blood trickled onto the floor. The creature bared its fangs in a ravenous appetite as Selriph felt the combined effects of fatigue, venom and blood loss.

  He was running out of time.

  Selriph knew he had to finish it. Now. He drew on his strength and refocused himself. His offhand stretched as he sent another bolt of lightning just as the rat charged once more, aiming it towards the rat’s right.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  It wasn’t to stop it; It was to make it jerk reflexively.

  That was the opening he needed.

  He thrust his estoc forward until it met the oncoming rat. As the blade met bone, it effortlessly drove through the rat’s skull with a sickening crunch, its forward momentum causing the blade to become embedded about two inches deep.

  As the blade pierced through, the creature twitched and convulsed, as if in one last gesture of defiance. Then, it went limp, its lifeless body slumped to the ground, the blade coming cleanly out of its skull as it did.

  Selriph staggered back, gasping. The rat’s corpse slumped at his feet, its blood pooling with his on the blood stained floor.

  Silence followed. The wounds throbbed, blood seeping through the fabric of his clothes.

  Selriph had little time to relax after his hard-won victory. As if endeavouring to impede any respite, the cave’s ceiling groaned as it started its inevitable collapse. The wounded runaway limped and lurched as he moved towards the opening ahead.

  In his stumbling pace, he could feel the impact of barely avoided debris raining behind him. The pounding that met his feet indicated the impact where he had been a split second ago.

  Up ahead, his surroundings opened up to a larger cavern as he spotted a glint of water–a stream. He skidded to a halt at the water’s edge as he glanced behind him.

  The tunnel had partially caved in, and moisture-laden rocks littered the ground in the rat den where he had stood a few moments ago.

  Selriph’s attention immediately shifted to his wounds. Blood soaked his tattered clothing, the thin leather tunic under his rags torn through. His chest and shoulder felt the cold sensation of free-flowing liquid–his blood. The adrenaline dulled most of the pain, but he knew he had to stem the bleeding as he felt the effects of the blood loss combined with the venom from the spider.

  The frantic sound of rummaging came as he withdrew bandages from his pack. He worked quickly as he lifted his ragged shirt and undid the leather vest before wrapping the bandages tightly around his chest.

  With the worst of the bleeding now managed, Selriph moved to bandage his grazed shoulder. Wrapping the bandages around the gash caused by the rat’s fangs. By the time he finished tending to his wounds, the bandages were already soaked through with blood. Another issue arose, he no doubt was at grave risk of infection from the unsanitary creature, but he hadn’t any antiseptic ointments on him, a gross oversight. He knew he would likely need to redress when he was in a safer place, but for now, he had one thing to focus on: reaching the surface.

  “There has to be a way out,” he muttered.

  The corpses scattered in the rat’s lair contained skulls of surface-dwelling creatures–they’d been brought, dragged. That meant the rat had access to the surface.

  Selriph’s eyes traced the running water, noting the subtle increase in elevation upstream, an indication that perhaps the water flowing into the cave came from the surface.

  Water trickled down the wall across from the collapsed tunnel, running in a narrow stream. The dark rocks were visible through the clear water.

  Selriph knelt beside it and splashed it across his face. The chill snapped some clarity back into his mind, easing the venom’s fog. He drank deeply—lips touched the stone-cold rock as he quenched the deep thirst wrought by hours of wandering and physical exertion.

  When his thirst had finally been sated, he regathered his supplies and followed the small stream upwards. It led to a narrow opening in the stone—a tight crawl space carved by years of running water. Selriph crouched to examine it, producing a flame in his hand. Fur was caught on the upper edges, which confirmed his suspicion: the rat had used this path. The opening was just barely large enough for the critter to crawl through. The problem was, it was too steep and the hole too small to safely manoeuvre through to the surface.

  Selriph pondered the possibility of attempting it regardless, but his mind defaulted to a more sensible approach.

  There had to be another way.

  Selriph scanned the cavern. The sound of the stream murmuring at his side. His eyes traced to what appeared to be daylight through the top of the cavern he stood in. There, a crack that looked like it widened further down, although he could not make it out as a ledge obstructed his view. No doubt another climb followed that. Below that ledge was a series of rocks that looked scalable, although the wall provided no leverage for a good two metres at its base as the wall angled inwards. His vision returned to eye level, where he noticed loose rocks scattered around the cavern.

  Selriph limped over and inspected the rocks and the wall–there was just enough loose debris to provide a stable footing if stacked carefully. This would provide the much-needed height required to initiate the climb, something which he believed he could do even in his current state. He extinguished the flame in his hand, and, a second after, a subtle blue hue emerged as he channelled his arcane might, lifting the loose pieces of rock scattered around and stacking them to provide leverage for his ascent. The task that would normally be easy for him took marked effort in his weakened state.

  “Alright,” he muttered, “let’s see if this is stable enough…” He tested the first step. The pile shifted but didn’t collapse—sufficient for his purposes.

  Here goes nothing.

  The debris crunched slightly as he set his full weight on it; However, it held as he lifted his leg onto the jagged ledge on the wall. He grabbed onto the stone with his right hand as he began his ascent.

  Close to the ledge above, Selriph found himself needing extra reach—about one hand’s length. Pure improvisatory instinct took over as he formed his arcane energy and projected a translucent blue hand-like extension. It reached up, grasping the edge of the ledge.

  With a final grunt, Selriph pulled himself slightly upwards. The spell dissipated as both of his physical hands reached the ledge. With a final exertion of effort, he vaulted himself up onto the ledge, his hands riddled with surface cuts from touching the jagged stone.

  He looked up.

  There, he could see it—the crack above him. An opening, the top half visible, and another four-metre climb stood between him and that opening, to freedom.

  He paused, looking down at his bleeding hands as well as his bandaged left shoulder. He could feel that the wound had reopened, the feeling of wet blood once again under the bandages. He could pause to redress them now, before he lost more blood. But it would be the toll on meagre medical supplies, along with the possibility he’d just bleed on the next ascent either way.

  Selriph knew perhaps there was another way, a way to heal the wound without using his medical supplies, through his magical gifts.

  Despite the promising prospect, he could feel the exertion, not just physically, but magically—the day had extracted a heavy toll. The high expenditure of his magical reserves, his encounter with Thorne, and the various arcane spells he had to perform had finally started catching up with him. The effects were mixed with the delirium of his blood loss and the toxins flowing through his veins.

  To add to that, he hadn’t properly learned the healing cantrip–it was to be part of his last lesson, one he never had due to Thorne’s untimely arrival. The book warned that improper casting could result in backlash to the caster and worsen the injuries, worsening his already deteriorated physical condition. If that happened to his larger wounds? There was great doubt if he’d remain conscious.

  Perhaps it would be better to push on…? No…. It is just a cantrip. I could try it on just the small gashes on my hands first. Even if I screw up. I could bandage them up normally and rest to regain my strength… There is no rush.

  Selriph closed his eyes. His mind’s eye was drawn to the burning from the fresh cuts and the sting of his physical wounds. His left shin was throbbing and swollen around the bite area.

  It can’t hurt to attempt it…

  Selriph’s hands were too bloody to properly withdraw the tome that sat in his pouch. Instead, his mind saw the pages, with the minor healing cantrip written on paper, or at least, what he could recall. While it could not heal the massive gash on his chest, it might be enough to close the recently opened wounds on his hand, as well as close up the graze on his shoulders. The use of arcane energy to augment and speed up the healing effects of the body, the most basic of applications.

  Selriph placed his right hand on his knee, palm facing up. He hovered his left hand as arcane energy pooled into it. A soft, pale blue-green light shimmered just below it as he imagined the restorative nature of healing magic: the weaving of energy to speed up the rebinding and rebuilding of tissue. The energy, however, flickered; The image in his head lacked definition, rendered worse by the brain fog.

  He concentrated harder, his casting hand trembling as he shaped the spell. The light steadied for a moment, then faded.

  “Come on,” he hissed, splaying his fingers out. “Work.”

  The cantrip crackled, and it let out a stray bolt of energy that struck his right hand; The existing wounds opened further, as if cut by invisible blades; A fresh wave of pain surged from two sources: the hand he was attempting to heal, and the distinctive feeling of magical backlash from the failed cast in his other.

  Selriph gritted his teeth from the pain and clenched both his hands, blood soaking his fingers in the process.

  He exhaled sharply, letting his hand fall. The wound still throbbed, the pain even sharper than before. His casting hand tingled with pain from the backlash.

  “It’s no use… not like this…”

  He leaned back against the cold wall beside him. He used a portion of his remaining bandages to wrap up the wounds on his hands and re-dress his wounded shoulder. His breathing was laboured. He needed a moment to rest, to catch his breath. Then… one more climb. That is all he needed.

  Selriph gave himself about thirty minutes to catch his breath, the worst of his exertion passing with the time to partially recuperate. The bandages had a tinge of darkness from the now-dried blood. The wounds had sufficiently closed, for now.

  “The surface is just up ahead,” he whispered. “I can feel the draft… Just one more push.”

  Selriph nodded to himself, weakly affirming his own words. He gave a weak nod, affirming his desperate hope for escape, an end to his underground nightmare. His voice, a thin echo in the space. It cracked on the last word as he forced himself upright.

  He could not stop now, not when he was so close.

  The opening loomed above, just three meters. Just one last push.

  His hands met the slick, cold stone, scrabbling to find a grip. His fingers found their way against jagged rock after jagged rock. He hauled himself with both hands. His wounded arm screamed, threatening to release his grip. He remained steady and continued scaling the wall. His feet found purchase as he ascended, but he could feel his left leg trembling and weak, threatening to buckle beneath him and send him tumbling back down.

  But he held, somehow he held through sheer willpower. Inch by agonising inch, centimetre by centimetre, he dragged his wounded body up. The bore into his palm, he felt the wet slick in his left shoulder once from the physical movement. Blood trailed the stone wall as his muscles burned from the exertion.

  He glanced upwards; he was but a mere step to the top. His fingers, however, had lost all sensation, numb and immobile from the pain, unable to grip the final ledge. For a brief moment, he felt the wooziness wash over him, his muscles feeling the sweet temptation to release entirely.

  No. Not now. He hadn’t crawled up this far to let go now. To stop now.

  He ripped a memory from the dark corners of his mind: Thorne’s face mixed with subtle glee under a mask of stoicism. The days in the confinement cell, without food, unable to sleep from the constant rotation of guards keeping themselves ‘entertained’ by his suffering. All that alone.

  This is nothing.

  “C’mon, move,” he growled, the words a strained rasp.

  One last burst of adrenaline surged, sending new life through his expended limbs, resuming his ascent.

  With a final, desperate roar, Selriph’s fingers, stained with crimson, lurched onto the final ledge, willing the stiffened muscles to grip. He pulled himself up, a full-body mobilisation of every muscle screaming in aching, fiery protest. He dragged himself up through sheer Herculean will.

  His chest could feel the chilly dampness of the ledge he found himself on. Splayed on the floor, he turned his head upwards to the crack he saw, a cool breeze filtering through it.

  He could see through the opening—large enough for him to get through—to the light of day and the foliage beyond. A draft wafted in, fresh air, cool. The smell of flora and pine. A welcome odour in his heaving lungs.

  It was the surface.

  He was out.

  “I... made it...” he croaked, voice hoarse. “I’m finally out of the city...”