9

Mice and Men

Candle ran through the thickening fog. She sped down the gentle slope of the hill with no thought to direction, terror clouding her thoughts. She slowed and tried to think. What was she going to do? She was already tired, she couldn't outrun them. She would have to face them eventually. She just needed a plan. The wights were terrifying, but while they were primally vicious they were slow to react. She might be able to send them back to the Night Nation if she could separate them... Her hand strayed to her left arm which was swollen and purple and painful to the touch. She was lucky to have survived one encounter and there were at least three shambling after her. She tripped and fell, landing in ankle deep water - probably the stream she had crossed earlier. The wights shouldn't be able to cross water! She sloshed eagerly into the dark water which was thigh deep in the middle. She strode forward, then stopped, abruptly.

On the opposite bank, a wight waited, hungry-eyed and flanked by several, smaller, ill-defined spirits. They crowded towards her, reaching out spindly fingers of shadow. She twisted back to find the three wights occupying the opposite bank. She splashed water at them and they growled, moving backwards. But while they didn't like the water they didn't seem to suffer any lasting damage.

Night had fallen, true night, dark and deep as Candle stood in the rushing stream weighing her options. The fog was lifting as the wind picked up but the light of the stars was weak. Everything seemed dense and dark. Trees and bushes clustered greedily by the banks, making it hard to distinguish shade from shadow. The stream itself was relatively broad and swollen with winter rain. Downstream there were rocks and a fallen trunk lying across the width. Too dangerous.

She started to walk upstream slowly, slogging through the water. The wights kept pace with her and then fell behind as she pushed a little faster. It was hard to move quickly against the water, which was cold and made her clothing heavy with its weight. She swore eloquently as she went, for there was no one to tell her to speak like a lady and an ache was spreading in her limbs.

She paused to drink and the wights appeared a minute later. The white of their hair shone with faint luminosity under the weak starlight. She splashed them remorselessly and they retreated, blue eyes baleful, watching her. She kept wading upstream until it started to narrow as the slope steepened. Afraid of trying to climb the slippery rocks in the dark she sat crouched in the middle, swirling water protecting her on all sides and rested as best she could, waiting for the dawn. The wights stood waiting also, horrible sentinels of her impending death. They had only to outwait her, for they were already dead.

The dawn broke and a cold, miserable Candle tried to rub the life back into her limbs. By the harsh light of day she could fully appreciate the desperation of her situation. She climbed wearily over the slippery rocks, where the stream gushed in a series of little waterfalls. She was walking into a gorge, high sandstone walls rising steeply on either side. She slogged on hoping for an island, or a dry rock or something that she could rest on and dry out, hoping for some kind of salvation. She climbed up a steep set of rocks, water splashing in her face. Ahead lay a pool of tannin brown water surrounded by ferns and early morning rainbows. The stream poured out of the mountain high above, tumbling down the steep rock face in a silvery ribbon.

Candle waded into the pool, which was deep and stood there for a while, breathing deeply. Then she picked up a loose rock and hurled it at the leading wight with all her might. It made a dull thud and left a dent in its skull. The creature didn't seem to notice. She ground her teeth in frustration, lobbing a couple of pebbles at the wights.

She looked up at the cliff - it was slick with spray and covered in moss. It was damp enough that it should keep the wights away. It also looked easy enough to climb for someone light and nimble, if they were careful not to slip. Making up her mind, she placed her hands carefully and started to climb.

She went up slowly, stopping after a few feet to look back down. The wights stood clustered around the pool staring up at her. Candle wobbled dangerously, regained her balance and concentrated on looking up only. A few more feet up she spotted a ledge, protruding from the cliff behind the waterfall itself. She crawled onto it gratefully. It was dry and just large enough for her to lie on without falling off. She lay, quietly for a long while, resting her tense body. She ate the remains of her soggy rations and felt a bit better, although she was tired and cold. She leaned out as far as she could without getting wet. The cliff above was very steep, sheer even. It was unlikely she would survive an attempt to climb it. She looked down at the patient undead below. What in the Night Nation was she going to do?

She would have to try and kill them. And she would have to do it soon - before she lacked the strength. She lifted the iron pipe with one shaking hand and then put it back down. Her only other option was to wait, here on this tiny ledge until she died of starvation, alone and unloved. And no one would ever know or care. They would never find her body. No one would come looking for her in this random gorge. Tears pricked her eyelids but she was too tired to cry.

She leaned back against the rock, completely deflated. She had made a terrible error of judgement. She should never have left the sanctity of Hanternos. Now she was lost and alone and she would never find a better life, she would never make friends. She would die here and that would be it.

She leaned back against the crooked rock, giving in to her depression, wriggling to make herself comfortable in the confined space.

With a terrible crack, the rock gave way with a rumble, tipping her backwards into the bowels of the mountain.