The Price of Freedom

2: SATYR CAVE

Aefion sat cross-legged on the green, grassy plain on the outskirts of Vigilance, his brow furrowed in concentration. It was dawn on the day following the tournament. He would normally have liked to sleep in a bit more, but sleeping in one of the Galladorians' beds, supplemented with his own black fur and scarlet cloak to make it slightly less common, had caused him to rise early. He had dodged the attention of the female servant population and set out to study the satyr note in solitude. As he finished off a small loaf of honey bread and washed it down with a swig from his waterskin, he let his eyes wander across the form of the note. It was a poem. He read it aloud to himself, his finger tracing the words.

'Over hill and under sky, that is where my lair does lie. 

Maybe wood and maybe stone, where satyr chief he sits on throne. 

Little princess, oh so brave, locked 'tween earth and serpent cave. 

Who will rescue her and when? Can you count from one to ten?' 

He pondered while he contemplated. Shifting slightly amidst the grass, he glanced up towards the hills that formed a natural barrier between Vigilance and Darkroth. He scanned the various hills. Most of them formed simple, rounded lumps, as if something was pushing up from beneath a green carpet. They were bare except for a few rocks and the odd stunted tree. Aefion grinned to himself. The satyrs' lair was inside a tree.  

Standing, he brushed off his breeches, shouldered his backpack and set off towards the hills.  

The first tree trunk was exactly that: an average, old tree trunk. A grey-furred squirrel scampered down one of its claw-like branches and disappeared into a small hole. Sauntering off to the next tree, Aefion flicked his forelocks out of his eyes, keeping a careful watch on the edge of Darkroth. The sun was not yet high in the sky, and Darkroth was rumoured to be a place of gloom and shadow, filled with grottos the sunlight rarely entered. Creatures of such a realm were known to venture forth from the dark treeline when the sun was low, and right now was such a time.  

The second trunk was relatively the same as the first, as he had thought it would be. Aefion considered the remaining trees. One of them in particular stood out from the rest. Even from here he could see that its trunk was wider and riddled with cracks. Narrowing his eyes, he approached with caution. 

Giving the tree a wide berth, he crouched down and checked the Fyr'Akharyn strapped to his forearms. Ancient Rad'El weapons he'd discovered in a ruined temple, they used crystal ammunition. He flipped open the left weapon's gem-studded cover, checking the power cystal on its underside. The power crystal would be provided with energy from the bloodfire, the burning energy coursing through his veins. The ammunition crystal, a bloodstone, was intact as well, and ready for firing. He snapped the cover shut, formed his left hand into a fist and aimed at the ground. 

Activating the weapon through its neural interface, he grinned in satisfaction as the power crystal on the inside of the weapon, glowing with energy provided by the bloodfire, caused a burst of sparks. Suddenly a small, blood red shard of the ammunition crystal was shaved off and hurled from the Fyr'Akharyn's sharpened tube at tremendous velocity. The shard plunged into the ground mere metres from the tree trunk. As soon as it did so sharpened metal stakes erupted from beneath the earth's surface, spraying dust and soil.  

A slight smile spread across Aefion's face. It was a nasty trap for the unwary.  

Picking his way between the protruding iron spikes, he ran a slender hand across the gnarled trunk. Detecting a groove, he tugged open a small doorway. It had been camouflaged well, blending in by way of natural cracks.  

Inside the tree the walls were strangely smooth. The air was musty and stale, and stank of unwashed fur. Small beams of light penetrated through tiny holes and shone down onto a crossed spears image on the floor. A rusty iron ring revealed it to be a trapdoor.  

Aefion rolled back his shoulders and took a deep breath. Pulling open the trapdoor, he glanced down at the well-crafted, wooden ladder that descended into darkness. This is it, he thought, and leapt down with enthusiasm.  

The tunnel was like a well. It was circular and smooth, with no footholds at all on its sides. A bit of a tough task getting down here without the ladder, Aefion thought as he descended. Perhaps it could be done with a Levitation spell, like those of the Magellans. But only a few amongst the Beltharin were skilled in feycraft. His own mother Caeris was one of them, he reflected; perhaps one day he would summon up the courage to ask her to teach him.  

Finally reaching the bottom, Aefion stared down a long passage that stretched off into inky blackness. It was lit periodically by wall-mounted braziers, the flames dancing and casting eerie shadows. 

It was a well known fact amongst Beltharin and Galladorians alike that labyrinthine cave systems existed beneath the surface on the island continent of Belanyr. It was thought they had been formed long ago before the arrival of the Ancestors and had since been used by bandits, demons and wild beasts.  

The caves were dark and yet fascinating places lit by the soft glow of luminescent crystals and surrounded by an aura of both natural beauty and shadowy enigma. The Beltharin themselves retreated to giant, subterranean caverns when the surface world was gripped in the icy claws of Isryn. Having no weather, the caves were warm and dry.  

The wind whispered creepily as he edged along. There were no alcoves, or no corners behind which he could hide so he kept his Fyr'Akharyn aimed down the tunnel. His face set in a grimace, his ears straining for the slightest sound, he heard a strange, grunting resonance, somewhere in the earth below him. He didn't know how deep he was, but the pathway sloped downwards slightly. The flagstones beneath his boots were smooth and the air was warm and filled with the scent of alcohol. Occasionally a pair of crossed spears and a deer skull complete with antlers adorned the tunnel wall. The Black Satyrs may have been transformed, he realized, but they had not turned their back on their loves of hunting and feasting. 

Eventually, he heard a faint snarling and bickering. Black Satyrs, he thought, fighting each other. The satyr voices grew louder and louder as he rushed along, until the passage opened up into a great cavern. Looking down a flight of stone steps, he saw the Black Satyr warband. 

As he had thought, there were two satyrs locked in a vicious, one on one duel. They seemed to be involved in a typical challenge for leadership of the tribe. Like their cousin satyrs, their bodies were a mix of man and goat, with the small horns and pointed ears. But where the majority of satyrs had reddish-brown fur, these ones had hair of blackest night. All around the combatants, sitting at tables and lounging against the walls, were many other satyrs, eating, drinking and yelling their encouragement. Some were armed with a variety of bronze-tipped spears but none paid any attention as Aefion's head emerged from the tunnel entrance.  

In the centre of the encampment was the smouldering glow of a campfire, its smoke drifting upwards to vanish through a shaft in the ceiling. Around the cave were arranged several wooden tables upon which lay various plates and goblets. The light sparkled from the many facets of giant, translucent crystals jutting from the walls. Their natural beauty was complemented by oversized, bioluminescent fungi sprouting in violent clusters. On the ground near the base of one, he saw what he supposed the satyrs were fighting over: a large, gold bust of a familiar royal personage. Now where would they have obtained that, he wondered. He also noted several other tunnel mouths, one of which was crowned with a stone serpent. Automatically he knew that was where he had to go. But first, he had to deal with the satyrs. 

'Time to have some fun,' he mused.