Heights of the Depths Read Free

stop the jumpcar dead, hop out and land deftly on her cloven feet, and sniff the air with endless patience. She would turn in a slow circle, as if she were listening to what the gentle winds of the Damned World had to tell her. Her nostrils would flare a bit, and then she would turn to her fellows and inform them in what direction a battle had just occurred and where dead bodies were lying, ripe for the picking. She had never been wrong, even though in some instances the site had been miles away.
    Karsen came to the conclusion, however, that it wasn’t that his olfactory prowess was so much less than his mother’s. Instead it was simply the fact that he had never needed to employ his own abilities. Mother had always been there to take charge. Since Karsen had struck out on his own, leaving his fellow Bottom Feeders behind, he was in the unusual position of having to rely on himself for everything. On the one hand it was daunting. On the other hand it was exhilarating, even liberating.
    He was on his own. Really, truly, at last, on his own.
    It had not been an easy endeavor initially. When he had departed the jumpcar, his fur-covered legs had been quivering. He wasn’t certain if his mother or any of the others noticed. He certainly hoped they did not. At a moment in his life where he was trying to appear as strong as possible, he was appalled by the idea of seeming weak even in the slightest. He steadied his jangling nerves, however, gripping tightly the strap of the supplies-filled sack he had slung over his shoulder. A second strap, crisscrossing his bare chest, kept the war hammer that he had taken from a dead Mandraque fixed solidly on his back.
    He remembered the look on his mother’s face when he had made it clear that he was really going to depart their oddball tribe. That was what the group of them had become, even though—aside from he and his mother—no two of them were of the same race. An aged Mandraque named Rafe Kestor who, even on his best days, scarcely seemed capable of stringing thoughts together; Gant, a perpetually depressed shapeshifting pile of ooze who purported to have once been a member of that eldritch race called the Phey; and Mingo Minkopolis, member of a race called the Minosaur, whose formidable intellect seemed at odds with his massively powerful build. They had been as close to a family as Karsen and his mother, Zerena, had ever known.
    And he had left them. For a Mort. He could almost hear Zerena’s voice dripping with contempt. A godsdamned Mort.
    Karsen stopped.
    He’d been walking through grass, but it had been thinning over the last few miles and now it was gone completely. Instead a field of mostly rock stretched out before him. It was going to be harder on his hooves, certainly, which were already showing signs of wear and tear. But that was secondary to the fact that his quarry was going to be that much harder to track. Draquons left a distinct trail when they were moving through grassy plains and such. Everything from the bend of the blades to the faint smell of sulfur that accompanied them all acted as easy indicators. Everything became far more problematic on a rocky surface.
    But Karsen didn’t see any other choice.
    He got down on his hands and knees. His legs were protected by the thick, matted fur that thoroughly covered him. His hands were scraped up in places where the rocks were a bit jagged, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t live with.
    Karsen lowered his face to the rocks and started sniffing around. As long minutes passed, he fought to keep down his fear. He wasn’t picking up anything.
    The image of Jepp’s terrified face was etched in his mind. The Travelers had shown up out of nowhere, their long black cloaks flapping and their faces eternally hidden beneath their hoods. Astride their draquons, they had plucked the frightened young woman from within their midst. Karsen had been barely conscious when the attack had occurred, having been flattened by a punch