Shadowkeep

by Alan Dean Foster

  The roo was shaking his head. “Whatever you say, thaladar. I guess you’d like to add it to your collection?”

  Praetor was determined to be reasonable. “We have to cross the room anyway. There’s no harm in taking it with us. If nothing else, it’ll make a good walking stick.” He braced himself on the side of the opening in which they stood and gingerly tested the water. As the tallest of the four it was incumbent on him to see how deep it was.

  His right leg went down, finally contacted something but continued to descend through the mud. He let loose of the wall and jumped in with the other foot. Looking down he saw that the murky liquid did not quite come up to his waist.

  “How is it?” Maryld asked him.

  He moved around carefully but the water grew no deeper. “The bottom feels like it’s level, but there’s so much mud it’s hard to tell. There’re probably deep holes and shallow spots. We’ll just have to watch our step. It’s lukewarm and full of gunk, but no worse than the marsh outside.” He reached up to give her a hand down. Hargrod jumped in next to them while Sranul followed more slowly.

  “I don’t like water,” the roo grumbled.

  Keeping close together, they sloshed through the muck toward the center of the room. Praetor found a couple of deep spots where the bottom fell away sharply, but they were always able to detour around these.

  Hargrod nodded toward the wooden pole. “Maybe it’ss jusst a marker of ssome kind, to indicate the center of the room.”

  “No, it’s more than that,” Maryld insisted. “I know it is.”

  Hargrod froze, stood motionless, listening.

  Sranul let out a sigh. “What is it this time?”

  “Quiet,” the Zhis’ta admonished him.

  “Don’t tell me to be quiet, you hardheaded snake. I’m getting tired of relying on your ears to tell me when to stop and when to jump. I’m getting tired of silver that’s unattainable and sword cases full of poison gas. I’m getting tired of—”

  “Sshut up,” the Zhis’ta said warningly. Sranul glowered at him but kept silent.

  “There. There it iss again.”

  “I don’t hear anything.” Praetor was turning a slow circle, scanning the room carefully.

  At last Hargrod straightened. “Perhapss the roo iss right. Perhapss my ssenssess are too highly tuned for thiss place. Water can play trickss on you.” He resumed his pace.

  When they finally reached the center of the room, Praetor reached out to grab the staff. He pulled hard, but it refused to come loose.

  “Stuck in the bottom mud,” he said. He braced himself and used both hands. The staff seemed to bend slightly but remained fastened to the bottom.

  “Here, let me.” Hargrod waved him aside, grabbed hold of the staff with both hands, and gave a heave. It came loose easily. Praetor was not embarrassed. Hargrod was Zhis’ta.

  Together they examined the wood. “There are some kind of markings,” Praetor murmured as he ran his fingers over their sodden acquisition.

  Sranul wasn’t impressed. “When it was being bounced around in the water it hit a bunch of rocks. So what?”

  Maryld screamed. Only the Zhis’ta’s incredible reflexes saved him from being disemboweled as a clawed hand the size of his head ripped upward from below, reaching for the staff. They retreated toward the alcove they’d emerged from as the owner of the clawed hand began to rise from the deepest part of the pool.

  A sudden, hollow roaring made them halt. Maryld stared a moment at the tunnel, then began thrashing through the water, trying to circle around the creature that had suddenly appeared in their midst as she tried to make her way toward the hole high up in the far wall.

  Something was gathering itself behind them. It seemed to have neither ears nor neck; only a watery, bloated face. It rose higher above the surface of the pool, displaying several lanternlike eyes and a vast cavern of a mouth.

  “By the seven precious metals,” Praetor shouted above the still-intensifying roar that came from their alcove, “what kind of creature is that?”

  “A Brollachian,” Maryld told him. “Hug the wall and hurry!” Hargrod was holding his ax in both hands while Praetor struggled to draw his sword.

  The Brollachian spotted them and began to move, throwing its ponderous body toward them in an attempt to cut them off before they could reach the far wall. At the same time the source of the roaring that had convinced Maryld to change course reached the room.

  A wall of water exploded from the mouth of the alcove and poured into the chamber. Praetor just had time to replace his sword in its sheath and brace himself. Maryld was knocked off her feet. He dove, fumbled through the swirling flood, and dragged her back to the surface, spitting and coughing.

  The sudden deluge had also knocked the Brollachian sideways, but that massive mountain of flesh was quickly righting itself.

  Hargrod kicked through the water, ax held high. “Hurry to the tunnel! I will delay it.”

  Praetor watched as the Zhis’ta swung the huge ax. It cut deeply into rubbery flesh, but there was no blood. The creature responded with a faintly threatening moan and leaned toward its attacker. Again a clawed hand struck at Hargrod and again he dodged the blow.

  How the Zhis’ta managed to wield the heavy ax with one hand while hanging on to the much-maligned staff which apparently had caused all the trouble, Praetor didn’t know and didn’t have the time to figure out. He was too busy trying to save Maryld and himself, half carrying, half wrestling her toward the far wall.

  When they finally stood beneath the hoped-for tunnel, they found themselves confronted by another problem.

  “How can we stand on Hargrod’s shoulders to reach it while he’s fighting that thing?” Sranul shouted.

  “It wouldn’t matter if he were here,” Praetor replied, staring at the opening which gaped invitingly above them. “It’s too high. We’d have to go three-up, and I’m no acrobat.”

  “Wait, wait!” Maryld spat out moss and algae. “The rising water will lift us up.”

  “If it keeps coming in,” Praetor agreed, “and if Hargrod can keep the Brollachian occupied in the meantime.”

  As the pool rose higher than their heads, they clung to one another and to the wall, trying to stay close while treading water. Praetor saw Hargrod vanish beneath the swirling surface only to reappear moments later in another part of the pool while the furious Brollachian tried to pin him to one spot.

  “The Zhis’ta are excellent swimmers,” Maryld told them. “I just hope Hargrod has enough room to maneuver.”

  Praetor looked toward their alcove, from which water continued to pour in an unceasing torrent. If anything, the flow had increased. He turned his eyes upward. At the rate the room was filling, they’d soon rise within reach of the dark opening.

  Once Hargrod disappeared for an unnervingly long stretch and they were certain he’d vanished down the Brollacrian’s throat, but he reappeared at last, waved to reassure them, and dove again.

  Praetor reached high and this time his fingers went over the edge of the opening. He pulled himself up, found he was on hands and knees in a narrow tunnel. The bottom was full of damp mud. That wasn’t very encouraging. Suppose they crawled halfway down this stone tube only to have water rush in on them from the far end?

  They would have to take the chance. There was nowhere else to go.

  He turned, reached down, and pulled Maryld up next to him, trying to ignore the way her wet dress clung to her diminutive form. Sranul was next. The roo collapsed inside the tunnel, coughing and spitting, obviously relieved to be out of the water.

  “With those feet and that tail I’d have thought you’d be a good swimmer,” Maryld said.

  “Afraid not. They work better up and down, not back and forth.”

  Praetor wasn’t listening. He was staring out into the circular chamber, now full of water. “I don’t see Hargrod.”

  Maryld moved up next to him. There was so much spray and mist that it was hard to see anything.
<
br />   “How long can a Zhis’ta hold his breath?” Praetor asked her.

  “I don’t know.” Her tone was subdued. Together they searched for evidence that their friend might still be alive.

  “What was that thing doing in here, anyway?” he muttered.

  “The Brollachian?” She shrugged. “One of the demon king’s guards, one of Gorwyther’s experiments, a pet—who knows?”

  “But there’s nothing here to guard.”

  “What about the black gate we came through? It might have been designed to deliver any intruders to this room. A clever trap. Or the staff Hargrod removed, remember that?”

  “That old stick. It wasn’t worth losing…” Something shot from the water and grabbed his shirt, pulling him forward and almost yanking him into the pool. His arms windmilled as he fought for balance. Maryld’s hands went around his waist, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough to save him.

  It didn’t matter. His forward momentum slowed as a familiar face emerged from the water.

  “Sstop gaping at me out of fissh eyess, man.” Hargrod glanced anxiously at the waves rolling behind him. His ax was slung neatly across his back, and in his other hand he held the staff. “I have run it a merry chasse around the bottom of thiss pool, but it will find me ssoon enough.”

  Sranul joined Praetor, and together they pulled the exhausted Zhis’ta into the tunnel. Their combined strength was needed. The reptilian warrior was solid as iron.

  Once safely inside, Hargrod rolled over onto his back and lay still as he sucked air. After a few minutes he sat up and slowly unslung the battle-ax, let it drop to the floor. It was covered with bits of brown meat and green slime. The wooden staff he extended to Maryld, together with a choice understatement.

  “Little thaladar, thiss sstick had better be worth ssomething.” She accepted it without comment, and he leaned back against the curving wall of the tunnel. “I can’t remember how many timess I cut the monsster,” he told them. “I might ass well have been hitting it with pebbles. I think it would look on a decapitation as a minor inconvenience.”

  “The Brollachian’s body regenerates itself,” Maryld informed them. When Hargrod’s expression twisted she explained, “It means that you cannot kill such a creature unless you strike it through the brain.”

  Hargrod got on his knees. “It issn’t alive for lack of my trying. Filthy thing.”

  Praetor crawled past him. “We’d better get moving. If the water in the pool rises any higher, it’s going to start filling this tunnel. We want to find the other end before that happens.”

  “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that.” Maryld leaned out of the tunnel’s mouth for a better look at then-distant alcove. “The water’s stopped coming in.”

  She went right over the edge, a pseudopod of brown flesh wrapped around her waist.

  Praetor dove after her without hesitating, without thinking. His sword was out by the time he hit the water.

  It was dark in the pool. The water was full of suspended organic solids. But he could make out the slim form of Maryld being dragged downward. He swam toward her and swung the sword, pulling it back toward him in a sawing motion. The Brollachian flesh parted with surprising ease.

  As the pseudopod parted and fell away, he grabbed Maryld under her arms and kicked for the surface. Sranul was there to pull her clear. The water heaved beneath Praetor. He reached up, felt Hargrod’s powerful fingers wrap around his forearm. He all but flew into the tunnel.

  The pool erupted behind him and he turned to find himself staring into the face of the Brollachian. Half crawling, half sliding, they backed away from the tunnel mouth. A long, greenish tongue flicked out of a cavernous mouth, but reached only far enough into the tunnel to lash the bottom of Praetor’s boot. Another couple of feet and they were safely beyond the monster’s reach.

  Still it refused to give up. It slammed its bulk against the tunnel opening. The walls quivered and a few pebbles fell from the ceiling, but it held under repeated assaults. When it tried to reach them with another pseudopod and Hargrod chopped it in half, it finally gave up and sank back out of sight below the surface of its pool. Its moans and roars of frustration followed them for a long time as they turned and made their way down the tunnel.

  “I hope this doesn’t run on forever,” Sranul grumbled.

  “Just be glad it isn’t filled with water.” Praetor felt a hand on his arm, turned to see Maryld staring up at him in the near blackness.

  “You saved my life back there.”

  He was glad the darkness was there to hide his face. “Just like you said: we’re all dependent on each other’s abilities. Your directions and advice have saved all of us several times already.”

  “Giving advice is not the same thing as jumping thoughtlessly into a Brollachian’s face. It was an act of utter selflessness, done without concern or regard for your own safety.”

  “I didn’t stop to think, if that’s what you mean. I would have done the same for Hargrod or Sranul.”

  “Yes.” She considered thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose that you would. It’s the sort of man you are. But that doesn’t lessen your gift in my eyes: it enhances it.”

  He wished he could see more of her expression. Sranul and Hargrod were fumbling along somewhere ahead of them. “Come on,” he whispered, “or we’ll lose the others.”

  “Are you so anxious to see what lies at the other end of this tunnel?”

  Was she teasing him now? He didn’t know. “It’s bound to be better than what’s behind us.” He started crawling again.

  Chapter X

  The tunnel seemed to go on forever. That neither surprised nor upset any of them. It is in the nature of dark tunnels that they seem to go on forever. So they continued crawling patiently, resting only when it was absolutely necessary, and were quietly relieved when light began to appear directly ahead of them.

  “Quietly now,” Maryld warned her companions. “We’ve no way of knowing what this opens onto. It might be a drain for the main troll barracks or Dal’brad’s sanctuary itself. If we are lucky, it will empty into some abandoned storeroom or hallway.”

  The circular basin they found themselves staring out into was plastered with a thin coat of mud. On the far side was a small round door. Illumination came from unseen sources overhead.

  Maryld put her legs over the side of the tunnel’s lip and sighed. “I think we can relax here for a while. This is not a room at all. See…” She indicated several smaller holes that formed a neat line just above floor level. “This is the reservoir. Or one of them. Water is pumped from here to fill the Brollachian’s pool.” She pushed off and found herself standing on a solid stone floor covered by less than an inch of mud. “Our passage through the black gate set things in motion, and we triggered the filling mechanism somehow when we set out across the pool.” She held up the staff Hargrod had saved.

  “I imagine this had something to do with it.”

  “You mean we broke something?” Praetor was trying to scrape the mud off his boots.

  “I am not sure. It may be, since only Hargrod was able to move it. Or it may be more complex than that.”

  Sranul was leaning gratefully against the wall. “Well I, for one, am ready for a rest.” He tried to find the sources of light in the ceiling, failed. “I’ve completely lost track of time, and I feel like we’ve been running and fighting in this mausoleum for weeks. We don’t even know if it’s day or night outside.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Maryld told him.

  “Who, me?” He grinned at her. “Please, thaladar, I don’t think I can take another shock.”

  She smiled back at him. “Really, now that we have the chance, we should rest and eat.”

  Praetor was studying the empty reservoir warily. “Are you sure this place is safe? Every room we enter seems to be some kind of trap.”

  “It’s hard to make a bowl into a trap, and that’s what this place is, Praetor: an oversized water bowl. No, I think we
can rest easy here. For a little while, at least.”

  He nodded, found a piece of stonework that projected from the wall. It was wide enough to accommodate all four of them. “Here. A good place to sit. It’s damp, but not too dirty.” He put both hands on the stone and pushed, setting himself on the edge.

  His companions joined him and began to unpack food from their stores. Sranul munched tiredly on several sticks of cane that had been coated with some dried, honeylike substance. His crunching was loud in the empty chamber.

  “You know,” he told them, “I’m getting to the point where I don’t care if we find the treasure, or this Gorwyther, or stop Dal’brad, or anything else. If we could find our way back to the entrance, I’d be tempted to leave. Let someone else save the world.”

  “Sorry,” Praetor said. “The only way out seems to be back the way we’ve come. That means swimming past the Brollachian, then trying to make the black gateway work in reverse, then…”

  “All right, all right. I was just talking, that’s all.” The roo gestured toward the small door on the far side of the reservoir. “I guess if we can get through that I’ll have to take my chances with whatever waits for us on the other side.”

  He went silent. No one else chose to make conversation, which was fine with Praetor. He was talked out. It was indescribably relaxing simply to be able to sit quietly and eat.

  When talk did resume, it was with a question. “Tell me something, Sranul—” he asked the roo, “what if we did find a great treasure here? Roos are constantly moving about, always living somewhere else from one month to the next. You’ve no need of a grand castle to live in and the countryside provides amply for your people. I know that roos are fond of good entertainment and gourmet dining, but how much of that can you stand? Of what use to a roo is a great fortune?”

  “Well, perhaps I’ve no need of a great fortune.” Sranul finished the last of his cane and spoke while licking his fingers. “But even a roo could find employment for a small one. And there’s more to it than that.”