The Deepcombers

Chapter Six

The white-haired lad stumbled at half speed and then quarter speed as he climbed through uncut branches toward the boulders. His head spun and he felt dizzy; every step he took sapped more of his strength until, finally, he had to crawl. 

When Lon reached the stones he positioned himself lengthwise inside the windswept cavity. He lay horizontal in the cubbyhole about three feet off the forest floor. He set his saber on his belly and was grateful to have found such hospice. It wasn't comfortable, but it was safe. He knew he could rest here until whatever he felt had passed. Nothing could sneak up on him and if he died in this crevice it would be an ideal burial crypt for his bones he thought grimly as he arranged his shoulders for the viewing.

Clyde stepped close and lowered his torch to peer into the nook. His face carried a wry smile and he looked smug and self assured.

"What's wrong with me?"

"It's the altar," Clyde said. He looked him up and down and nodded. "You were on the grill for six hours. You probably ate its food is how I've had it explained to me."

"Just so," Lon said.

"Are you not hungry now?" Clyde wondered.

Lon considered the notion and realized he'd gone beyond the need for nourishment. Earlier in the day he'd felt the circle feed him while it repaired his body. He recalled the joy he'd tasted when the captives ate their stew; he'd supped on their happiness in place of real food. That was a pleasant memory. He remembered how happy they'd they'd all been right after the lookout had spotted land. They'd been filled with mirth as the stew was portioned into their bowls. He saw again the bliss on the swampkin's face, and Jarl's fanged smile. He didn't need that chicken stew then, but he sure did now. He starved with hunger.

"You need a medicine we call Smals," Clyde concluded . "But you're not beyond a natural cure. One night's sleep would help." He cast a glance up at the night sky and the moon overhead. "A meal and fresh water."

Lon felt he was beyond hunger and thirst; he was in critical condition. He looked at the polished skin on his wrists where the rope ties had flared and where the altar had repaired the burns. It'd turned parts of him into stone. The grill was the right name for it. This noble scholar knows more than he shares.

"It doesn't feed me now, or grill me", Lon said.

"You've an ordeal ahead," Clyde replied in a way that suggested he'd seen all this before and had some experience with the disease.

"How do you know?" Lon asked, "your previous victims?" He studied his companion by torchlight.

Clyde didn't say anything. He adjusted his coat and pushed around some rocks to make himself more comfortable on the stones opposite Lon's boulder-inlay bunk.

"What is that ring anyway?" the lad's head ached, "and don't say I'm the expert. I know your kin sold the medicine of which you speak. Along with the cloudstone that evil bastard uses..."

"Smals are not sold. We bought it. You cannot buy Cloudstone as you call it."

"What do you call it?

"Templestone. Minister Horne carries the stone from the Temple of Talhastansu. We call it Templestone. It's certainly not for sale."

"Why not?"

"It's worth more than gold. It's worth all of the Prince's many ships and all his relics too."

"Why?"

"It turns prayer into light. He uses that."

"For mind control?"

"Uhuh... Yes." Clyde said, "and he feeds the Ghost. "