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Niarok

Niarok walked down the dank, silent hallway. He coughed.

How is it moist and dusty at the same time?

Something felt off.

Like someone was watching him.

His neck prickled and he shifted Yila in his burning arms.

I can’t do this.

Then the floor shook, almost as if a wall was moving a level beneath him.

A loud, strangely metallic voice echoed, “No animosity? I was starting to enjoy the assassin and the princess’ squabbling. I suppose I’ll have to find another way to amuse myself.”

Niarok jumped, then growled and hoisted Yila over his shoulder so he could draw his sword. She whimpered.

“Just trying to keep you from dying.”

Niarok could have sworn Yila slapped him from her sack of potatoes position on his shoulder.

But he froze before he could chuckle.

Were those voices?

Yes. Definitely.

And they were coming from beneath him.

“She’s right” the weird strange voice boomed. “This is no time to be dramatic. In fact, there is no need.”

Who’s she?

Perverse laughter filled the air, coming from somewhere above him.

Niarok gripped Yila viciously as the entire room shook, and his knuckles turned white on the hilt of his bared sword.

What was I thinking? Coming into this castle was a terrible idea!

Niarok grunted, setting his feet.

He couldn’t afford to fall.

An explosive crack ripped the air, followed by a hair-raising amount of screaming from somewhere below him.

Niarok leaned his shoulder on the wall, trying to stay upright.

Another bang rent whatever was left of the tense silence, and the entire floor tore open inches from Niarok’s feet.

He threw himself backwards against the wall, careful to keep Yila’s prone form from slamming into the rock before him.

The laughing continued.

Niarok cursed. This was not what he had envisioned as the product of the word “shelter.”

He pursed his lips.

“Seconds of hesitation make the difference between life and death.”

Niarok pictured his father’s face as he wielded the sword.

“Fine then, dad.”

Niarok dumped Yila on the tiny ledge between the wall and the crevice and swung his pack off his shoulder, fishing around inside while scanning for the source of the laughter and continued shaking.

Then his hand made contact with the rope.

He somehow managed tie the rope around Yila’s prone form and lower her to the surface below the crumbling floor.

There was a crackling noise.

Niarok turned around and found the wall behind him somehow moving toward him. In seconds it would throw him off the edge.

Without hesitation he threw his end of the rope at the base of the wall.

Moments later the rope was jammed under the oncoming rock structure.

Please don’t let it slip out from underneath!

Niarok swung the pack over his shoulder, gripped his sword in his left hand, and grabbed the rope with the other. His only goal was to not land on top of Yila at the bottom.

The wall reached the edge. Niarok slid down the rope, grimacing at the burn in his hand.

Seconds later he set his feet on more shaking rock.

Intense heat burnt his face as he took in the scene around him. A huge jagged hole occupied the floor a few feet away from his and Yila’s landing pad, and he could see an orange glow emanating from the depths of it.

A tall man a bit older than Niarok glared steadily into the heat with the look of a ferral mountain lion about to kill something, and a strange man appeared out of nowhere hanging sideways along the wall, gripping a strange dog.

Niarok raised an eyebrow.

The strange man’s strange mask fell off, down into the orange glow, revealing a handsomely scarred face.

Niarok raised the other eyebrow.

Then the other angry man turned to glare at Niarok.

Crap.