Alden Greenleaf's Arc

Chapter 4 of 5

The tunnel narrowed ahead. Alden raised a hand and the others stopped. A thin gleam crossed the passage at ankle height. She crouched and traced it with her eyes. A cord ran from a notch in the wall to a wedge of stone braced above the path. One wrong step would drop the ceiling. Her mother's captors had left this behind. "A snare," Alden said. "Trip it and the roof comes down." Arglad leaned on his staff and studied the cord. "I can burn it clean," he said. "Watch." He whispered an old word and pointed. A weak flame licked the air, then died three feet short. "Or perhaps not." Elara crouched beside the cord. She lifted a small object from her belt with her one hand. It caught the dim light and hissed. It was a molten snake no longer than her forearm, its black scales split by veins of glowing lava. "I keep it for cold nights," she said. "It burns anything it touches." "It'll drop the stone the moment the cord parts," Alden said. "Not if he holds the wedge." Elara looked at Arglad. "You can't cut. Can you push?" Arglad set his jaw. "I can push." They moved together. Alden braced her shoulder under the loose stone. Arglad raised his staff and spoke, and this time his magic held, a steady weight pressing the wedge tight. Elara pressed the ember creature to the cord. It ate through the fiber in a breath. The snare went slack. "Now, elf," Elara said. Alden slid clear as Arglad let the spell fall. The stone dropped into the notch with a dull crack. Dust rolled over their boots. The passage stood open. No one was hurt. Beyond the cleared snare, the tunnel widened into a low chamber. A figure sat slumped against the far wall. Iron battlegear lay heaped nearby, dwarf-forged, heavy with fur trim and carved trim of stone-gray steel. Someone had stripped it and left it. Alden crossed to the figure and knelt. It was a dead man, days gone. Not her mother. She let out a slow breath. "That's my master," Elara said behind her. Her voice did not shake. She stood over the body and looked down at the marks on his throat. "So. Three days for this." Alden lifted a blade from beside the corpse. Its edge held fresh notches. She rose and pulled the dwarven battlegear over her tunic, buckling the straps tight. The steel was cold and too broad, but it would turn a sword. Her mother was still ahead, and the men who took her killed without pause. A sound came from the dark beyond the chamber. Boots on stone, unhurried. A large shape stepped into the edge of the light. He carried a shield on one arm and a sword in the other. Tattoos crowded his skin, and his beard hung long. He looked at the dead master, then at the three of them, and stopped. "You came far," he said.