Page 84 of The Ascended
There’s another way out of this.
"What if we don't need the ink?” Ideas clicked together in my mind. "What if we make a different preparation?”
"Like what?" Marx asked.
"Wards." I hefted the hammer. "The tools are iron. I saw moss and sap that could serve as protective elements."
Thatcher's eyes widened. "The building. Smoke rose from its chimney."
"A forge,” I said. Excitement built despite our circumstances. "We need to get back there."
"But wards need salt," Marx pointed out.
"I spotted white mineral deposits earlier," Kyren offered. "Could be salt, at least partially. We could grind some down."
Hope flared again. "You could find it?"
"It wasn't far off the path. Near the river."
"The ingredients won't be pure," Marx warned.
"They'll be enough." They had to be.
Hope flickered in Kyren's eyes. "You know how to forge wards?"
"I know the theory. And theory's all we've got."
We gathered ourselves, checking weapons and supplies. My antlers caught another root as I stood, sending fresh agony through my skull. I gritted my teeth and pushed through.
"We head for the forge," I decided. "Gather ingredients along the way."
We emerged carefully, scanning for hunting creatures. The forest felt different now. It was beyond quiet. Malevolent.
"This way," Thatcher pointed.
We moved single file, Kyren's illusions blurring our outlines and muffling footsteps. Not perfect—I still saw him when I looked directly—but maybe enough to hide from aerial searches.
The forest shifted around us, paths appearing and vanishing like mirages. More than once we found ourselves back where we'd started, forced to try new routes.
"The trial fights us," Marx said grimly. "The woods want us dead."
My hands worked automatically, collecting hylock moss and ernbrisk sap as we passed. Kyren's illusions concealed our foraging, but every snapping twig froze us in place.
We'd covered a few miles from where we'd hidden when Kyren suddenly stopped, nostrils flaring.
"Smoke."
I caught it too—acrid coal and heated metal. We followed the scent until the building appeared between two giant trees.
But what rose in the distance stole my breath.
A pillar of golden light shot skyward from beyond the treeline, bright as a beacon against darkening heavens. It rose from the east, far past where the river must have run—at least half an hour's hard run through the forest, maybe more. The complete opposite direction from where we stood.
"That's where we go," I breathed. "That has to be it."
"How do you know?" Marx asked.
"What else could it be?" Hope crept into Thatcher's voice, though it seemed presumptuous. The light rose impossibly far away. On the opposite side of the wood.
