Noisy blackbirds screamed loud reproach at an invader, warning him away from approaching too close to the nest. Chipmunks and squirrels twittered back and forth, chirping as they collided territories. Squawking seagulls finally drove Tarn awake. He woke to find Torrocka eating salted herring liberated from his belt pouch while he slept without him being the wiser. Bestowing the ancient Sword Chamber priest with a bemused grin, he stood and stretched, untangling sleepy and stiff muscles. The long trek from Torrocka's cave, and the meagre trail rations, had burned the last vestiges of adolescent fat from his body. Cords of supple muscle rippled beneath a thin layer of bronzed skin, lending him the aura of catlike agility and grace.
When Tarn finished his meal, he motioned to Torrocka, saying, "Come. Let us away. I've supplies cached below. Can ye climb?"
"Ye don't expect me—to climb down that?"
"No. I thought not. But ye shall."
Before he complained, Tarn covered the two steps between them and hoisted the short Atlantean to his back like a sack of potatoes.
"Wrap thy arms around my neck and try not to cover my eyes," he instructed, obvious glee telling in his voice.
"Ye can't mmmean?"
"Och, ye hardly weigh anything at all, priest. I rode my Da's back up this same path before I reached my sixth winter."
In mid-sentence Tarn lowered himself over the edge and began to descend the cliff with an air of nonchalance that dwarfed the degree of difficulty if represented. When his initial fright had passed, and for the remainder of their descent, Torrocka proclaimed his indignation for being treated like a small child. When they reached the bottom, Tarn set Torrocka upon the ground, where he smoothed his robes. An action that saved him from immediately greeting Tarn's laughing eyes.
Once the aged priest regained his composure and his heart stopped pounding in the back of his throat, he accused, "I think ye enjoyed that."
"Aye, it limbers the muscles after a night's sleep," Tarn said walking off in the direction of the ocean.
With no one left to talk to, Torrocka had little choice but to follow the grinning youth's broad back.
At the spot where Tarn buried the torches, he said, "Get thy bearings ancient one. Atlantis once sat upon the horizon," and pointed to a location offshore, "straight out from us."
"I know very well where my city once sat. I knew where Atlantis sat when ye were but a thought in thy father's thick barbarian head!" replied Torrocka, his voice a robust blend of indignation and reprimand.
A single stride closer let Tarn tower over Torrocka. "Don't flatter thyself, high-one. It was long before that!"
Turning in the opposite direction, Torrocka stalked off down the coastline, away from the village where Tarn had acquired their supplies the night before. Tarn dogged his stiff-legged companion, laughing openly. As the sun began its full assault upon the day, Torrocka stopped and looked up at the bluffs to acquire his bearings.
"The entrance lies yonder," he said, pointing offshore. He glanced at Tarn and then at the oil jar. "How did ye fathom to bring that? Judging by thy bathing habits, swimming must be a rare occurrence."
"Worry not about me, wise and wrinkled one. Show me the way."
"Wait here while look to ensure the cavern's entrance remains open."
While Torrocka waded into the surf, Tarn opened the jar and filled it with stones until the oil sat a few inches below the rim. He lined the outside edge of the lid with long and thick frond leaves and pressed it firmly in place, sealing the lip, he hoped. The water-tight seal would not last long, but if Torrocka's information was correct, he only required a short period. With the rocks removing the buoyancy of the oil, and the lid temporarily secure, he waded out until the water reached his knees. Three times the Sword Chamber priest surfaced for more air, each time further away from Tarn, only to disappear again beneath the waves. The last time he waved at Tarn from more than fifty yards distance, beckoning Tarn to him.
"Here. Found it," he said when Tarn reached him. "Deeper than I recall."
Glancing over his shoulder to ensure Tarn followed, Torrocka took a deep breath and disappeared underwater. Tarn followed Torrocka's lead, stroking down toward an underwater shelf. Hampered by the bulky jar, he awkwardly propelled himself through the water. In contrast to his choppy strokes, Torrocka eeled through the sunlit depths. Good to his word, Torrocka had located the entrance. Misjudging the approach to the shelf, Tarn used his free hand to pull himself after Torrocka, whose legs disappeared from sight, as if the darkness had magically swallowed him. Kicking after the Sword Chamber priest, Tarn burst up through the dark hole Torrocka's legs had entered and drew a gasping breath of stale cavern air.