The Fading Dream_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [37]
Wonderful, Thorn thought. He is mad. If we’re lucky, that means he’s wrong about the rain too.
Drix continued to spread the black cloth across the soil. It was a broad circle, about three feet across. He looked up and smiled. “Do you want to go first, Thorn?”
“Go wh—?” The question died in her throat. Drix’s hand was resting on the black circle—no, in the black circle. As if it were resting on the rim of a giant hole.
It’s an extradimensional pocket, Steel said. Like your gloves and your pouch, but with a far larger opening. It’s an amazing design; I’ve never seen one that could be folded that way.
“It was a gift,” Drix said. “But you’d better get in quickly. We’re running out of time.”
Thorn slid beneath the makeshift tarp and pushed her foot into the portable hole. There was nothing there, just open space. She could feel a change in the temperature; it was pleasantly warm in the hole. Gingerly she dropped down along the edge. The space inside was wider than the mouth. She stood in a small, spherical chamber, perhaps six feet across.
A moment later, Essyn Cadrel dropped down after her. “Remarkable,” he said.
Drix followed. Reaching up, he grasped the edges of the hole, and to Thorn’s surprise, he pulled them together.
He’s folding the cloth, she realized. I wonder what happens if someone else picks it up?
“I can’t close it,” he said. “There’s not enough air for all of us. We’ll have to leave it open. Just try to stay away from the water.”
The thunder came again, and they heard the rain, rattling down against Drix’s cloak. It sounded more like hail than rain, heavy drops pounding against the cloak like staccato drumbeats. Cadrel murmured a word, and a globe of cold fire appeared in his hand, filling the tiny chamber with light. Thorn could see more details. They were standing on a red blanket of soft wool with an image of a warforged warrior stitched into the surface. The walls were covered with sketches, sheets of paper pasted against the dark surface; most of them appeared to be designs for small crossbows. It seemed that Drix had been working on the crossbow problem for some time. Tools were scattered underfoot, along with winches, stocks, and other pieces of half-built weaponry.
The first drop of water soaked through the cloak and fell to the floor. It looked harmless enough, but the memory of those empty streets and the abandoned caravan was enough to keep Thorn from putting Drix’s warning to the test.
“How long will this go on?” Cadrel said. A drop of water landed on his sleeve, and he hissed in pain.
“I don’t know,” Drix said. “It’s rain. It might only last for a minute; it might last for hours. Or days. I never had to leave the hole open before. It never really mattered.”
“The opening’s too big,” Thorn said. The water dripped in more steadily, a pool beginning to form on the ground. “If air is the problem, we need to make the hole narrower, to make a tube.” She picked up a few long crossbow bolts. Drix saw what she was doing; rooting around, he produced a sheet of leather and some twine.
“Let me do it.” He quickly wrapped the quarrels in the leather and lashed them together. He worked two additional bolts through the bunch horizontally, creating a base to hold it up. There was only one problem.
“There’s too much water coming down,” Thorn said. The cloak was soaked, and it was flowing more freely. “There’s no way for you to close the opening without getting wet.”
Drix said nothing, just took a step forward. Thorn caught his shoulder.
“You’re the reason we’re here. You’re the only one who knows where we’re going. And if not for you, we’d all be dead right now. We need you.”
He smiled at her gently and brushed her hand away. “Don’t worry about me.”
He took a step forward and pushed the makeshift tube up through the opening. Water flowed down his arm, and he cried out in pain. But he kept moving. He reached up, pulling at the edge of the hole, drawing it more tightly around the quarrels.