Delver Magic I: Sanctum's Breach, Jeff Inlo [buy e reader .txt] 📗

the fruit core against the ground. He followed this trail with his nose as well as his eyes. He sniffed the air to ensure sufficient amounts of juice spilled out of the core to leave a scent trail. As the core disintegrated, he dropped it to the ground and smashed the remains under his boot. He quickly outlined the shattered core with scratch marks. The results looked nothing more than unwanted remains cast out and trodden underfoot.

Further and further he moved, staying as low to the ground as possible. He continued laying the trail, digging into his pouch over and over until all the stones were cast upon the ground and all the fruit cores were left behind. With his pouch empty, he surveyed the long winding trail he had forged with satisfaction. He knew the markings were sufficient to lead even the best tracker away from the actual path of the algors.

His only fear was that he might have been spotted while laying the trail. Try as he might, he could not locate the actual position of the mountain shag, thus he could never be sure if it still followed. If the shag saw only him, it might have seen through the deception and returned to the last known position of the algors.

Ryson inspected the Sword of Decree which was sheathed and belted about his waist. His hand slid over the jeweled handle. With the sword in his possession, Holli and the algors were truly defenseless. He could picture the elf guard attempting to defeat the shag with the goblin short sword. Holli had stated that facing the shag with the Sword of Decree was risky. How much more dangerous was it to face the monster with a blade that was only slightly longer than his own dagger?

He exhaled deeply as he looked back upon the trail. He had to make certain the shag remained after him and had not doubled back.

He surveyed the land all about him. The steeper hills were closer now, within but a few moments of a brisk delver run. The summit of a nearby hill would provide an excellent view of the land stretching back toward the Lacobian desert. Two small trees stood lazily off to the side, their growth stunted by the rocky terrain and paltry amounts of water. The first tree grew but four paces from the end of the false trail.

Ryson stepped to its base and then gazed back to the first tall hill ahead. Gauging the distance, he took his spyscope and inspected the sides up to the ridge. It met his needs. With a snap of his wrist, his retracted the spyscope, and with the stones now gone, placed it back in his pouch.

With his knife, he cut a small piece of cloth from the sleeve of his shirt. One quick leap and he was already two branches up the tree and within reach of the highest branch. He pulled the branch down toward him and tied the cloth to the very tip. As he released it, he saw it bounce upward, bringing the cloth into clear sight. In but another moment, he was out of the tree.

Once back to the end of the trail, he took one long look over his shoulder. He saw nothing. With that, he took off towards the ridge.

The delver moved in a blur. As fast as he cut across the land, this also was not his top speed. Slowing his pace, he scraped the heels of his feet along the ground rather than bounce off the soles. Every now and again, he slowed to shuffle his feet wildly in all directions. He glanced down to make sure his movements left the desired effect. Anything with eyes could surely follow this trail.

Upon reaching the base of the hill, he chose a path which would lead him to the previously selected ridge. He now cared little about leaving a trail or not. Step by step, he scampered up the incline, his movements flowing with casual ease. Like a sudden warm breeze rising up to the sky, he reached the summit without breaking stride.

At the hill’s peak, he brought himself to an immediate halt and dropped to a squat. He had not yet turned to regain sight of the false trail, but instead, he faced the horizon of the northeast. Even as he crouched low, seeking obscurity among the abounding rocks, he could not restrain from lifting his head to peer into the distance. The view was stunning.

Ahead of him, taller and wider hills lined the country side. Unlike mountains with their steep slopes and jagged peaks each fighting for attention, the hills rested lazily, comfortably out into the horizon. They blended together as much as they stood apart. He could not help but think of the algors. If anything exemplified their willingness to come together yet seek separation, it was this setting of dignified, uncomplicated scenic beauty.

The hillsides grew greener as Ryson looked farther to the north and east. While countless rocks and boulders remained abundant, tall grass, small brush, even wild flowers adorned the gradual slopes. While a greater variety and a greater number of trees appeared along the landscape, they remained scattered in clumps. Their presence magnified the rolling beauty of the landscape.

At the base of each hill, the grass and wild plants grew with much more vigor. The green was thick and dark, forming passages of meadow which curved and branched off in endless directions, a testament to the rains which could not break into the Lacobian desert but could bring life to these hills. He could almost hear the welcome drops and the gushing streams which would run down the slopes and collect at each base.

With a delver’s eye, he examined some of the closer hills and noted the light crevices running down the hillsides, a sure sign that the hilltops held snow in the winter. During the thaw of planting season, the melting ice and snow would create temporary streams, bringing even more water to the thick growth at the bottom.

Hills such as these always drew Ryson’s interest. Some delvers lived to explore rivers, or the shore lines of the sea. Still others sought out thick forests at the bases of tall mountains, but nothing appealed to Ryson more than a natural setting of peaceful hills.

Other delvers might scoff at the idea, but Ryson marveled at the subtleties involved. Each hill looked so much like another, each rested complacently within its boundaries. They appeared as nothing more than a collection of sloped dirt and grass, even sometimes to a delver’s eye, but not to Ryson’s eyes. Each hill in itself was a mystery to unravel. Some would indeed turn out to be nothing more than solid empty mounds, while others held secrets of long ravines, secret meadows, or even unexplored caves.

The sight of the hills pulled upon Ryson. It called to him, almost forcing him to forget his true purpose for climbing to this ridge in the first place. This seemingly endless line of hills could occupy his curiosity for months, and part of his soul yearned to explore the flowing countryside with all due haste.

The attraction, however, was not strong enough to force the image of Holli and the algors from his mind. Their plight reminded him of the shag. The hills would wait; in fact they may even prove useful. For now, the matter of the shag remained of the utmost importance.

Still squatting, Ryson shuffled completely about. He removed his spyscope from his pouch. He moved only his arm, the rest of his body remained completely still. He brought the scope to his eye, slowly, purposefully. Then, no motion at all escaped his body. If he could be seen, he would have appeared lifeless, for even his chest remained unmoving, as if he was no longer breathing. With one eye closed, he peered back towards the direction in which he had come.

He immediately locked sight on the small scrap of sleeve he had knotted to the tree branch. With his marker located, he angled the scope slightly back to the ground where he pinpointed the false trail. Ryson followed the path as far back as possible. His elevated position allowed him a greater perspective than at ground level, but the rocky landscape prevented a clear view for any real distance.

The numerous boulders and ravines allowed for hundreds of hiding places, and the shag could have been in or behind any of them. However, at the point where the trail changed from the forged claw marks to Ryson’s shuffling boots, the path would certainly create confusion. If the shag in fact followed the false trail, it would be forced into the open to inspect the markings. Ryson waited patiently for this revelation.

As moments passed, as the sun moved slowly overhead, a shifting breeze brought a familiar scent to his nose. Ryson’s nostrils flared to catch as much of the scent as possible. He gauged the speed and direction of the breeze by noting the wave of crab grass at his feet. The scent disappeared as the breeze died away, and Ryson’s concern died with it.

Without moving his head, the delver adjusted his view to the far left. Only the spyscope and his eye shifted. His sight locked upon a cluster of rocks. There Ryson stared, stared and waited for the inevitable.

Long moments passed. The scope remained on its target and Ryson’s eye did not blink. Through the lens of the scope, it bore down upon the rocks incessantly. It would not stray for even the slightest moment.

As if rewarded for its persistence, Ryson’s sight was granted its wish. The mountain shag staggered reluctantly out from behind the cluster of rocks. As it paused, apparently to sniff the air, Ryson commanded a clear view of a creature which he would have considered part of a nightmare, another unthinkable monster like the crab-spider that attacked Holli.

No doubt, it was tall. How tall, however, was difficult to gauge. Thick and long matted fur, encrusted with dust and dirt, covered the creature from head to toe. It made it impossible to distinguish where certain parts began and where others ended. Unable to isolate the knees or the waist, Ryson could not determine whether the legs were bent or if the creature was hunched over. And he certainly could not judge the actual length of the arms for both remained close to its body, and they blended in with the brown fur of its chest and its shoulders. Only the hands and face broke free from the thick hair.

Its hands were thick, meaty and wide. The fingers long but round with the total absence of claws or even fingernails. Its face, encircled by the same filthy hair, held no beauty or charm. A short muzzle hooked downward, tipped with a gray nose and whiskers similar to a cat. Its mouth was uneven and never closed completely. It revealed several slanting, uneven rows of jagged teeth. Gaps in the first row were filled with rough fangs behind. Its eyes were set close together directly over the sloped muzzle. They appeared to glisten with a yellow tinge whenever the sun rays hit them just right.

“It can probably see in the dark,” Ryson spoke just above a whisper to himself but watched the creature closely after he spoke.

The shag made no reaction. Instead, it lumbered hesitantly toward the trail marked by the delver.

Ryson had tested the shag with his spoken words and he spoke again to himself of the results. “And it’s either a good actor or it doesn’t have extremely sensitive hearing. Let’s see how it reacts to the end of the trail.”

The shag slunk towards the open ground. Its head turned left and right as it approached. It stopped only once, for but