Subterranean

"So what does that have to do with us?"

"For countless generations, our people and the crak'an have struggled. After the Scattering of our people, they became stranded here with us. When we first sought shelter here in the underworld to escape them and the cold, they followed us down. Eventually a great cataclysm shut off the upper world, trapping all of us down here together."

"How did you survive?"

"We adapted. Where you designed machines and iron tools to help your life, we designed living tools-plants and animals to help us. Through study, we learned to select those aspects of both that would best suit our needs, then propagated them. We learned to grow food." He pointed to the walls. "Even to grow light to guide us. We adapted. But the crak'an did not. They have haunted our periphery, living off the dregs of our work. But don't get me wrong, they are cunning. Constantly probing our defenses, trying to find a breech through to us."

"With all your smarts, why didn't you just make a concerted effort to wipe them out? Be done with them."

Mo'amba shook his head. "We must not. Just as they need us to survive, we need them. Their spoor contains a substance that we need to grow our food. Without it, the plants would die. And then we would die. We actually herd our aging milk animals, those no longer producing well, into the crak'an's territory to feed them."

"You feed those monsters? No wonder there are so many of them."

"We must maintain their numbers to produce enough spoor. It is the main goal of our hunters to collect the spoor and bring it back here."

"Shit collectors," Ben said. "So much for the noble hunter image."

"They are noble. They risk much to venture into the realm of the crak'an. Especially now without the aid of a heri'huti's sight." The old one looked meaningfully at him.

"Let's not bring up that argument again," Ben said, fearful that Mo'amba would again demand that he stay and help this village, a village that right now wanted him dead. "So you still haven't told me why this bloody death sentence hangs over our heads."

"I was getting to that. You see, we have for generations honed our tools to keep the crak'an in check, away from the center of our lives. One of our main defenses is the tin'ai'fori. It-"

Ben waved a hand. "Hold on a sec. What's that?"

Mo'amba pressed his lips together thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing. "You don't have a word for it." He reached behind him and scraped a sample of the glowing fungus from the wall. "It is a special type of this. But it kills. We have surrounded this central cavern with a thick perimeter of tin'ai'fori. It protects our village."

"So how come these monsters-um, crak'an-are now able to get through and attack you all of a sudden?"

"The answer is a secret known only to the warrior sect and the leaders." Mo'amba cleared his throat, his voice lowered slightly as if someone might be eavesdropping. "The tin'ai'fori is dying. Slowly now the edges of our defenses have blackened and fallen away, thinning the barrier between the crak'an and us. Eventually this barrier will crumble."

Ben imagined flocks of the beasts sweeping into the sheltered valley. Even though he had been given a death sentence by these people, he still shivered at the thought of the carnage. "So what has all this to do with us?"

"The tin'ai'fori began dying soon after the arrival of your people."

"What! How?"

"I don't know. A few of the warriors and I believe it is a sign. A portent that it is time for us to move back to the upper world. But many others believe you are demons meant to destroy us."

"And I suppose your chief is one of these believers?"

Mo'amba nodded. "As are most others."

"So how're we going to persuade him otherwise? I don't expect the word of a demon will mean much to him."

"No, it won't. So tomorrow you must follow my lead. Your companion, Harry, will help. Unknown to him, I have been teaching him the rudiments of our language during his dreamtime. Helping him learn our tongue. Listen to him."

"But what are you planning?"

Mo'amba's figure faded away as contact was broken, raising a hand in farewell. "Tomorrow."

TWENTY-SEVEN

THE NEXT MORNING, ASHLEY PACED THE FLOOR OF THE room, still struggling with the information Ben had received from Mo'amba, their only ally among these people. How could they fight superstition? Like so many missionaries who had been killed by superstitious natives in hidden corners of the world, she found herself wondering how this could be happening.

Ben stepped close to her and hugged her from behind, nuzzling his chin next to hers. "You're gonna wear a track in the floor if you keep pacing like that," he said.

She sighed. He was right; there was nothing she could do now but wait. Her mind switched to another concern. "Listen, about last night."

"Hmmm?" He squeezed her closer to him.

"I was… well, I mean… just because we… I don't expect that you should… you know… it was just a moment."

"Listen, lady, don't try an' wiggle out of this. I'm no one-night stand. Do you think you can just use me up and toss me out?"

She smiled thinly and slipped out of his grip, suddenly uncomfortable with his intimacy. Was he as sincere as he sounded? How many other men had vowed perpetual commitment, only to vanish from her bed and disappear into the night? And what about her ex-husband? Scott had sworn devotion and love just as sincerely, and look what had become of that. She placed a hand on her belly, remembering the pain and her loss.

She stepped away from Ben, trying to ignore his wounded eyes. "We need to make a plan. Just in case we can't talk our way out. Michaelson still has his backpack of weapons. We should-"

A commotion at the entryway to the chamber interrupted her. Twisting around, she saw Harry push through the guards. Michaelson limped behind him, using one of the spears as a makeshift crutch. Ashley secretly sighed in relief at the interruption, glad to have others around to dilute the intimacy of the moment.

She cleared her throat. "Harry, have you heard anything?"

He nodded. "I've been up all night, prying information out of some of the local gossips. They've got this type of rotgut booze made from some type of mold-tastes like warm toothpaste. But hell, a buzz is a buzz."

"Get on with it," Ben prodded gruffly. "We don't have all bloody day."

Ashley glanced at him. It was unlike Ben to snap at people like that.

Harry blinked a few times, obviously tired, or maybe even a bit hungover. "Anyway, this little libation loosened a few tongues. It seems that everyone thinks you're killing their precious fungus."