Magnus Frostbeard's Arc

Chapter 11 of 15

The warm passage narrowed as they walked. Magnus watched the pale needle hold its line ahead. But Greta lagged behind him now, and Winterchase's steps had gone slow and heavy. He knew the reason. Their packs were near empty. The blue vegetation that had fed them was gone, left behind in the cold caves. No such food grew in this hot rock. He counted the last handful of leaves in his palm and knew it would not last one more day. "We can't chase the needle on empty bellies," Greta said. She leaned her axe against the wall and sat. The troll's broad shoulders sagged. "Find us food, Magnus, or find us a grave." Magnus said nothing. He tucked the compass in his coat and studied the passage. Warm air pulsed against his face. Then he heard it, a soft chorus of squeaks from a crack in the rock. He knelt and looked. In a shallow hollow, warmed by the stone, sat a heap of small round creatures. They were plump and orange, dappled with green spots, and they blinked up at him without fear. "Murmlets," Winterchase said. She crouched beside him. Her voice lifted for the first time in hours. "Ice elves know them. They breed in warm pockets. They're safe to eat." Magnus reached in slow. The nearest creature let him lift it. It fit both his hands and did not squirm. "There's dozens," he said. "Maybe more, deeper in the crack." Greta was already up. She pulled a wide net from her pack and spread it at the hollow's mouth. Winterchase reached into the warm gaps and coaxed the creatures out. They came in a soft, tumbling flood, squeaking, rolling over one another. Magnus caught them by the armful and passed them back. Greta filled the net, then a sack, then a second sack. They built a small fire from the fire creature's cast-off embers gathered in a tin. Magnus turned the murmlets over the coals. The smell filled the passage, rich and good. They ate until the ache left their bellies. Greta ate six and laughed for the first time in days. Magnus packed the rest, salted from his dwindling pouch, wrapped tight for the road. He counted the load. Four days of food, maybe five. He marked the hollow on his chart, then wrote beside it: MURMLETS, WARM POCKETS. He drew the compass out again. The pale needle swung and held, pointing deep into the hot dark ahead. His crew stood behind him, fed and standing straight. But the warm air still pulsed against his face in slow, steady beats, stronger now than before. Something large lay ahead, and it was breathing. Magnus tightened his pack straps. "We eat as we go," he said. "Now we find what's making that wind."