A wall of wagons and guardsmen was strategically placed along the ledge beside the massive ravine in the huge cavern they were planning to circumvent. The defensive wagons were also placed by the larger tunnels that Carmack couldn’t properly wall up, with guards posted by them.

  Once the path was relatively secure, civilians were escorted into the passages. But moving so many people through such narrow passages would be slow and arduous. There was no easy way to move so many people. Many brought tools and possessions. Some were families with babies and small children, not to mention the many wounded who had escaped Lydrus.

  The preparations slowed their migration significantly, but carelessness couldn’t be afforded at this moment. A monster attack at an unguarded flank against civilians would prove disastrous.

  In the Chamber of Bridges—as Carmack had named it—guardsmen were stationed across several crisscrossing bridges with shields and spears. If large enemy numbers rushed them, they would provide little help, but Carmack and Tark would assist if needed. Their job was simply to hold their line for as long as possible, giving them time to move reinforcements where needed.

  For now, Carmack placed Tark in the Chamber of Bridges and continued to work on their new home, hollowing out chambers. It was important that they had somewhere safe to go, and with Tark’s earth communication, Carmack could hastily move to assist if needed. The entire journey was estimated to take over a day, and that wasn’t time he would willingly waste sitting around on guard duty.

  Lydrus’ people came through two abreast. First were the priestesses, roughly two hundred, followed by a hundred warlocks behind them, and then came the spell scribes—perhaps the fallen city’s greatest assets. Besides the High Priest himself, these were the remnants of the city’s magical knowledge and an asset it couldn’t afford to lose. Because of that, guards walked on both sides, escorting them where the tunnels were wide enough to fit.

  The city’s remaining scouts had already reached the chamber with the giant spire they would call home and began scouting the connecting passages. However, they were advised to use the utmost caution and retreat at even the slightest sign of danger.

  Leading Lydrus’s magical cohort through the Chamber of Bridges, High Priest Managra’s wiry brow perked, and his ears twitched as an incredibly faint chorus of steps sounded in the distance. The footfalls were altogether inaudible to normal ears; only the High Priest heard them as he stepped onto the bridge.

  Despite his age, his senses had transcended those of normal people, and he gently closed his eyes as he listened. The steps were coming from deep below them, but they were moving fast, and with a twitch of his ears, he confirmed they were heading up and toward them.

  “Something wrong, Lord Priest?” The guard lieutenant guarding the Chamber of Bridges said as he spotted the High Priest’s expression winking. Stepping aside, Managra closed his eyes and listened. But he did not stop the procession of magically gifted, waving them on to their destination.

  Managra didn’t want to alarm anybody. A panic now would only cause issues for the migration, and the wheels were already set into motion.

  “I must speak with the living rock,” Managra said calmly and opened his eyes.

  “Right,” the guard lieutenant nodded and directed him down to a bridge beneath them where Tark stood vigil.

  The bridge connected to a small platform on which the earth elemental and four guardsmen had set up a small outpost and defensive formation.

  “Ah, there you are,” the High Priest croaked, but no matter how strained his elderly voice sounded, it always carried a power. “I have a message for your master.”

  The elemental looked back unflinching, and a low, grinding sound of rock emanated from it.

  “Below us marches an army, climbing up through the cavern toward us. They are far away but will reach us well before my people can cross this place. I pray your master can assist us.”

  Ever so slightly and barely perceptibly, the elemental nodded.

  Managra was pleased with the response. He barely knew this hero, whom he had brought to them through magic, but he trusted the spell. It wouldn't have chosen him if he were not able or willing to help.

  Walking back up, he continued past the bridge his priestesses were currently marching across and stopped on another bridge above them. He would wait here, taking vantage over his people’s movements and listening to the army scurrying below. The hero was the master down here, and he would heed his advice on how to deal with this threat. But for now, he would watch.

  The message was received only seconds after it was broadcast. Thankfully, it was not just the High Priest’s words that Carmack had to go on. After receiving the message, Tark focused its mana and sensed the many pattering steps against the stone below.

  At the speed and distance they had to travel, it would be some time before the army reached them. But Carmack had been draining his mana to dig tunnels and chambers into the rock they would call home.

  I must take a break and recover.

  Wiping sweat from his brow, he exited the tunnel and connected rooms he had been magically digging and walked back across the adjoining ledge. The scouts had placed torches along the bridge's edges and the ledge leading to the spire. Some stood guard or patrolled as they waited.

  There was a risk that the light would attract an attack, but if something so minor would harm them in their proposed home, then perhaps it was better to learn now rather than later. Even though he didn’t need the light himself, Carmark did not want refugees falling to their deaths because they missed an edge that dropped into a shadowy ravine.

  Nodding approvingly to the scouts, he sat on a rock, closed his eyes, and entered a meditative state.

  Managra was pleased to see his priestesses cross unmolested, and once the warlocks and spell scribes had passed, he called his warlock elites back. He ordered them to assist with the defense within the chamber. They were far more than just tools with which to channel mana, and if the hero couldn’t outright stop the army heading their way, their magic would be direly needed to help fight them off.

  He also called guardsmen from the rear to come and reinforce their position. Of course, they couldn’t thin their numbers too greatly for fear that something or someone could attack elsewhere. Still, as more and more of their people passed through the early chambers, fewer guardsmen were required elsewhere.

  Hours passed, and fatigue gnawed. Guards took turns resting on bedrolls, and many civilians rested where they stood, stuck in the traffic of thousands attempting to pass through the narrow passages.

  The echoing pitter-patter of footsteps had grown considerably louder, and now the people, who were mostly civilians, could hear them for themselves. The only thing that kept fear from boiling over and kept them marching orderly forward was the comforting gaze of their High Priest looking over them.

  Before his eyes even spotted him, Managra felt the domineering presence approach and turned to the tunnel opening.

  The man was broad and carried himself like a granite statue. Hard lines carved his dark and shadowy brow, and his gaze was thin and commanding. His wide jaw and sculpted chin gave his rough appearance a dash of roguish good looks, and the long, straight dark hair tied back behind his head spoke of seniority and wisdom. His robes appeared to be woven of metal as fine as silk. However, despite being made of metal, his robes appeared light, blowing at times against the subterranean draft; Managra mused that they were likely harder than they looked and no doubt crafted using methods and maybe even metals not known to this world.

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  The man, however, didn’t even catch the High Priest’s gaze as he entered the chamber, placing his palms against the rock and closing his eyes.

  And then nothing.

  The High Priest’s brow twitched as he watched in locked concentration. Was the other-worlder meditating? No, that seemed unlikely. Managra could sense his mana overflowing. There was no need to meditate.

  Was it that he was simply listening? No, they were too close now, and the hero had proved his abilities over great distances. He had no need to close his eyes and focus on such a thing.

  Then he spotted them. A literal sea of black fur raced up the spiraling bridges from below. If not for the pink tails whipping about, he would have struggled to identify them in their mass.

  Rodakin!

  Managra had read about the giant and intelligent rats that lived deep beneath his world’s surface. They were cunning and formidable, master assassins, infiltrators, and wielders of foul technology and magic.

  From what he understood, the only thing keeping them from becoming one of the major races was their inability to work together on a grand scale. Each hive was fiercely independent and as likely to wage war upon one another as they were other races. However, that did not mean they lacked numbers. A single hive could easily number tens of thousands, far more than Lydrus’ displaced survivors could handle.

  The ground shook, disrupting Managra from his musings. He watched on in awe as a bridge below collapsed, plummeting along with dozens, maybe hundreds, of the humanoid rats.

  His gaze shifted back to Carmack. He was calm and unbothered, waiting for the rats to react.

  Ahh, so this is the power of a hero chosen by the spell. The old man’s eyes widened, and he calmed as he watched. Carmack was a visage of concentration and determination, lacking any sign of worry.

  His gaze fell back down to the rats below, who turned directions and scurried back down the bridge they had been charging across, knocking many of their compatriots to their doom in the chaos of their flight.

  As expected, there was more than one way up, and soon, the rats found another route and were flooding toward them once more.

  Patiently waiting until the bridge was swarming, the hero once more channeled mana and used his magic to collapse the bridge.

  It’s not just the power he possesses but battle tactics and composure.

  It was obvious to Managra that the hero did not damage the bridges more than he needed to and wasted not an ounce of mana more than absolutely necessary. At this controlled pace, he could keep this going for a while.

  But the rats were persistent, and they found another bridge. Again, the hero made it collapse under their swarming masses. Driven by stubbornness, the rats continued.

  But after the fourth collapse, what appeared to be leaders among the rats seemed to realize what was happening and commanded their horde to halt. Angry, red gazes glared up from passageways below. The rats realized that they had been outplayed; it was clearly written on their snarling rodent faces.

  He did it. The hero pushed back an entire army alone. Amazing.

  Gradually, the rats receded back into their holes, returning to whence they came. But Carmack remained, vigilantly watching over as the people of Lydrus continued to cross.

  Managra saw Carmack’s hard features soften. He watches over people he barely knows like a shepherd does his flock. This man… he has compassion.

  The old priest knew then that the spell had truly found them a hero. Not just a warrior. At first, he thought that perhaps they had not been strong enough to summon a hero capable of retaking the city, but seeing Carmack in action made him doubt that thought.

  Ever since the great empire to the west had fallen, Lydrus had been under grave threat. The demons had made a base and were expanding their presence. Even if they had a hero who could reclaim their prized city, what future would that ensure them?

  Over time, even the greatest wilt. And once left alone, their city would once more stand against impossible odds.

  But here in the Undercavern? Perhaps that wasn't a certainty. Perhaps with this hero, they could build an impenetrable fortress capable of seeding countless future generations.

  For the first time in decades, wrinkles so stubbornly creased into Managra's face faded a little. He felt a peace and calmness wash over him.

  For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt that his people would be able to carry on without his guiding presence, a fear that had lingered for far too long.

  Feeling at ease, he stood and watched untiringly for hours until the last of his people passed through and then strolled toward their hero, who had remained in the chamber.

  “It seems the last of them have finally passed,” the broad, grizzled man said, finally rising back to his feet. “This day could have gone better.”

  “Nothing in life is ever perfect,” Managra smiled back. “A great deed has been done, and my people have a chance at survival. I would call that a pretty good day.”

  “Hmph,” Carmack grunted. “Those beasts were clearly intelligent and now know of our location. It would no doubt have happened sooner or later. Still, had we taken the other route, we might have prevented this encounter until some defenses could be erected.”

  That's good; he is not so easily satisfied, either. An appropriate response for a leader overburdened with responsibility.

  “You did what you believed was right. Perhaps we would have been attacked via the other route, and now my people might be mourning more losses than they already have. Sleep well knowing that you likely saved lives, great hero.”

  “No one is saved yet,” Carmack said and turned into the tunnel toward their new home. But a second later, he stopped and waited for the elderly priest to catch up. “The deeds we have achieved here today mean little if we cannot find ourselves a new home.”

  “Ourselves?” Managra’s wiry brow perked. “You count yourself one of us already, hero?”

  “Should I not?” Came Carmack’s blunt response.

  Already, he sees his future with us and shares responsibility for his achievements. This is not a man consumed by pride and self-indulgent vanity.

  “It’s just that it comes as a surprise after we forced you here. But it warms my heart to know you tie your future to ours,” Managra said.

  Carmack’s face scrunched up questioningly.

  “I don't believe that is all that is on your mind, High Priest.”

  “Ah, let an old man humor you with his words.”

  “Tell me, High Priest, is it your wish that I rule your people?”

  “Straight to the point. But I cannot answer so simply. A loving father cannot let go of his precious children so easily. I’m impressed by you, Great Hero. But wisdom has taught me to be cautious. Prove to me that you are worthy of such an honor, and you'll have my blessing.”

  “Hmph, a reasonable response.”

  And most importantly, he is patient. If my instincts are correct and he is the man I believe him to be, then I have a feeling our people will soar to great heights under his leadership! I cannot wait to see what comes of this next chapter in our lives!

  ***

  Pushing small rats aside, a snarling gray direrat hissed. Deep scars covered the rat's face, and his snout was so disfigured it looked like a swamp fiend's twisted maw.

  “Bossman!”

  “Bossman!”

  “Out of my way!” The direrat roared, flinging several of his smaller kin aside with a single swipe of his arm. “Move, you festering fools! Back to the hive.”

  Passing through rodakin-filled chambers, the feral rats rose up from their dirty bunks to watch. Their roughly patched homes filled the cavernous chambers, forming narrow alleys covered in sooty smoke and poor ventilation.

  Ahead, rodakin guards blocked a path, but they stepped aside for the giant rat. Once he was through, they stepped back to block the path from the swarming crowd that followed.

  Unlike the dirty, crowded streets, the chamber above was decadent. It had polished tiles, luxurious cushioned seats, and tables overflowing with food. At the room’s center was an ancient, white-furred rat covered in tubes pumping some foul substance into its veins.

  “Swarm lord,” the huge direrat said, falling to a knee.

  “Rise, Darataks,” the Swarmlord said, deep and raspy, with a lazy flick of his wrist. “What is it?”

  “There are intruders. Surface dwellers entering our claimed territory.”

  “Surface dwellers? Bahaha! You fancy yourself a comedian, do you? Leave it to the professionals. Your delivery leaves much to be desired.”

  “No, Great Swarmlord, that is not it. There are thousands of them. Tiny spawn and brood mothers amongst them. I believe their intention may be to reside within the Undercavern.”

  “Bahaha, what ludicrous claims will you present next? Perhaps an elven wrench wants my plague-ridden seed?”

  “I’m serious, Swarmlord. I saw them with my own eyes. Amongst them was a man who seemed to control the very earth itself!”

  “Bahaha!” The Swarmlord began to choke, unable to get a breath. “All that muscle has squeezed out what little brain you had left. That was good,” he continued, wiping tears from his eyes.

  “Swaml—”

  The Swarmlord raised a silencing hand. “You opened my windpipes, Darataks; you will be rewarded for that. See my slave assistants. You have my word. You can have whatever you came here to ask for.”

  Fighting back a growl, Darataks bowed, “My thanks, Swarmlord.”

  He had seen how easily that surface dweller had fought back his warriors. This was not a threat to ignore or take lightly, but there was only so much he could do without the Swarmlord’s involvement.

  I must prove to him the threat we face. I must convince our mighty lord to raise a real army and deal with this nuisance before it can establish a foundation within our territory.