(73) Worms
Tara crouched under a particularly low portion of the tunnel, possibly partially collapsed, and nearly tripped. She steadied herself on the dirt stairs carved into the tunnel. A fall here could send her all the way back to the ground, requiring a fresh ascent with broken bones.
She stepped forward, away from the collapse, and immediately walked through a web stretched across the entire passage.
“Ptuh, yuck!” she spat, flailing her arms around before wiping her face and dusting herself off.
She glanced back, shifting earth drawing her attention, to find Nephthys walking without hunching, the tunnel’s walls and ceiling running like water, forming a neat arch around her and stabilizing the passage.
She stared at Nephthys, sending curses and death with her glare.
“You wanted to lead. This is your show,” Nephthys shrugged. “I’ll catch you if you fall.”
Biting off the myriad witty responses that crowded her mind, Tara trudged on. She vaguely recalled using these passages many years ago, and they were always rough. Now, after training with Myra—training which would resume as soon as they were settled in the city—she walked confidently and with even breath.
The embarrassment from almost slipping aside, she was proud of how far she had come. It still took conscious thought, but her balance was much improved. Myra assured her that constant balancing would eventually become second nature, and she was finally beginning to see it as a legitimate possibility rather than as an empty promise meant to keep her engaged in his training.
A small pressure on her shin drew her attention, and she had just enough time to watch a thin thread snap before the ground began to rumble, the ceiling dropping down around her. Tara jumped back instinctively, but Nephthys’ hand on her back held her firmly in place.
The earth around her, poised to collapse and bury her alive, flowed in reverse, plastering itself against the ceiling. Everything happened in a split second, and in another, the situation was resolved.
Tara glanced over to find two wooden beams ejected from the dirt walls, snapped in the middle. The string she had tripped had pulled the pre-snapped beams on either side of her down, causing the ceiling to collapse.
“I thought the residents of the Ricket created these tunnels for use,” Nephthys remarked, idly nudging the beams to either side of the passage with her foot.
“The Ricket is a city in and of itself. There are many factions involved with these tunnels. This one seems to be under the control of a faction that’s worried for its safety,” Tara theorized.
“I see. I will lead, then,” Nephthys declared.
Tara knew from her tone that the matter was not up for discussion, so she fell in line behind. Nephthys, rather unfairly, floated up the stairs, her arms crossed before her, looking this way and that, as if she could see through the thick walls of dirt.
Tara followed wordlessly for a few minutes, her body itching more and more the farther she walked. Eventually, she was scratching her head and rubbing her clothing at the same time, practically dancing a jig as she ascended the steps.
A blast of wind, strong enough that she had to lean forward to keep from falling, sent a cloud of dust and dirt swirling behind her. Nephthys did not even turn around to look, continuing onward.
Tara sighed and followed. It was hard to be annoyed with Nephthys’ demeanor when her annoying antics blew Tara’s itches away. She was surprisingly attentive, even when she did not seem to be watching.
Tara sniffed pointedly as she followed along, noting the change in smells. The musty, dry air was beginning to carry with it the familiar stench of civilization.
The climb gradually leveled, informing her that they were probably on top of the shell, and she was glad for it. It was a long walk, even if her new physique was not particularly stressed.
Nephthys was using earth magic on the walls and ceiling of the tunnel the entire way, burying various traps and shoring up partial collapses, without even waving a hand. Tara was unsure who claimed this tunnel, but they would undoubtedly know that someone had used it. They would likely have to take an alternate route if they decided to leave the city again on foot.
Nephthys suddenly stopped, wrinkling her nose in obvious displeasure. This was a rare sight. Her impassive, neutral visage rarely emoted so clearly.
“What the hell is this…veil?” she asked, gesturing generally in front of her. “It pokes and prods and seeks to find purchase. It is quite violating.”
Tara struggled to understand what she was referring to, but she eventually remembered a fact that all in Promise City were aware of, though she had never felt it the way Nephthys appeared to.
“That’s probably the curtain. It’s a magic field sent out from the tower in the center of the city. Apparently, it detects high concentrations of magic and reveals them to whoever operates the thing. Those are just rumors, though. I don’t know how true they are,” Tara explained.
“Well, it can fuck off. Disgusting,” Nephthys declared, continuing forward, a wave of her hand all the acknowledgment she gave toward subverting a city-scale defense.
Tara sighed and shook her head, hurrying to catch up.
——————————————
Lyron sat amidst the scattered cargo, the pile in a constant state of being loaded and unloaded. This makeshift encampment before the Promise City gate was where the gate guards stopped everyone to check identities and cargo. They seemed to be taking a thorough inventory of everyone and everything entering and leaving the city.
He was surprised to see such tight security, the like of which would not be out of place for those entering the royal palace, yet he supposed that with the dangers abounding in Ashreach, the caution was warranted.
He had also heard whispered rumors of a Wraith, some undead that might have killed someone highly placed, though he only caught snippets, and he was uninterested in tracking the full story down. Rumors of ghosts and demons doing the impossible did not interest him.
Whatever the cause, the tightened security did not make it easy.
He had been watching the gate since the morning, and each entrant, without fail, was subjected to an identifying orb. Not only would such a test expose his level, but it might even force him to reveal his position. Under normal circumstances, even the circumstances from mere days ago, that would be no issue for him.
Now, however, he could not risk the ruckus that his arrival would undoubtedly cause. Nobility and ambassadors from Sardvend were owed a certain amount of respect and hospitality. No matter how he asked the guards and nobles to keep his presence quiet, word would quickly get around, merely from the spectacle it would cause.
He could not have that, not if he was to catch this rebel unawares.
“Pardon me, good sir, but do you need any help?” a well-meaning man asked.
This was one of the people unloading cargo from his wagon, likely preparing for an inspection. Lyron saw the man’s eyes dart between his face and the crutch he had fashioned on his way to the city and figured the man thought him handicapped…which was not wholly inaccurate, at the moment.
“I appreciate the offer, my good man, but I merely require a moment’s rest. I am on the mend, but the walk was long,” Lyron replied, giving his best smile.
“I see, good on ya. Feel free to holler if you need anything,” the man said, waving as he turned back to his work.
Lyron was on the mend; that was true. However, his outward optimism belied his anxiety. The walk from Gloamview to Promise City had taken days, and his leg and arm were only marginally improved. He was not in constant pain now, but slight jolts would still send white-hot lances of agony shooting up his spine and into his brain.
Jolts and jostles were also difficult to avoid during travel.
His makeshift crutch had helped tremendously, but only with the pain. He still did not feel much more healed than before its creation, when he was limping.
“You look like you need a healer,” a woman observed.
Lyron’s focus prevented him from jumping in his seat, but the sudden instinctive tension that overtook his body still caused pain to shoot through his limbs. A woman sat beside him, somehow both approaching and sitting without his notice.
He must be even more injured than he realized.
She had silver hair that twisted in a braid down her back, bumping against her worn but clean steel armor. Her face was long and sharp, and though it held concern for him, her cold blue eyes seemed to look through him rather than at him, undermining the kindness crinkling the rest of her face.
“Pardon?” he asked, uncharacteristically flustered.
“That arm and leg, how long have they been broken?” she asked, her arms crossed before her, shifting her gaze to the limbs in question.
Lyron was relieved when her gaze left his.
“Close to a week, now,” he said, trying to figure out a polite way to wave this healer off. There was no sense in bothering with the whole song and dance. Neither healing magic nor potions could help him.
“And how much of that week did you spend walking?” she asked pointedly.
“...probably half of it,” Lyron admitted with a shrug.
“Boy, you can’t expect breaks to heal while being used. Even your high-level physique can’t overcome that reality,” she lectured, taking his arm in her hands.
Lyron’s mouth froze agape, his reply halted before it left his mouth.
She knows he is high-level? How?
“You trying to get into the city without being identified?” she asked, lifting his broken arm up and moving it this way and that before bending down to do the same to his leg.
“I-ma’am, I assure you, I have no idea—” he started.
“They check the wagons first, then the cargo. If you can get under a wagon while they’re checking the cargo without being noticed, you can just hold onto it from underneath as it’s pulled through the gate.
“Finding a good time to slip out is a little trickier, but as long as you cover your head, you can probably just jump out and run off before the merchant or his guards know what’s going on. Long as they don’t catch any identifying features to pick you out of a crowd, you’re golden,” she explained, examining his limbs the whole time, never looking at him.
Lyron was, once again, frozen, torn between replying to her, finding a good reason to send her away, wondering how she knew he was high-level, and examining the logic of what she had just described. Surely, such strict security would not be foiled so easily?
“Well, most would be picked up by the magic scans as they go through the gate still, but that won’t be a problem for you, huh? Magic doesn’t seem to want much to do with you,” she said, releasing his limbs and placing a hand on his shoulder.
Before he could reply, he felt a curious sensation. It was…uncomfortable, as if worms were crawling down his body from her hand faster than he could even think, making his muscles tense against his will as they passed. Before he could even react, it was over. His bones had stitched themselves back together, and his pain had fled as if it never was.
Lyron stared at his hand, opening and closing it in bewilderment. He turned to ask the woman what she had done, but she was gone. Vanished just as suddenly as she had appeared. That was not the most distressing thing, however.
She had successfully used magic on him, on the Titan.
That was impossible.