The Heir of Kayolin dh-2
Page 20
But Brandon didn’t wait to see the creature die. He was already sprinting down the tunnel, chasing along the path where Gretchan had been taken, hoping desperately that, by some miracle, he could catch up to her while she was still alive.
He had gone a dozen steps when he skidded to a stop, remembering the staff that she had dropped when the red horax had tangled her in its web. Running back into the ruined village, he snatched up the shaft of wood and returned past the bleeding bodies of the slain horax. As he headed deep into the cavern, he noticed that the anvil at the head of the cleric’s shaft was glowing slightly, adding just enough light to allow him to run as fast as he could.
SIXTEEN
PANICKED PURSUIT
The miniature silver anvil on the head of Gretchan’s staff, which was Brandon’s only light source, bobbed and weaved crazily as he sprinted down the uneven bed of the cavern. He descended rapidly, following the slope as he pursued the retreating horax. All thoughts of reaching Garnet Thax, of escaping from that underground nightmare, were forgotten in the desperation and fear he felt for his captive companion.
“Gretchan!” he called again and again, only to hear the echoes of his terrified cry fading into the darkness before him. Was she still alive? He had no solid reason for believing that she was except for his own desire for that possibility. But he refused to surrender hope, so he kept running, heedless of ambush or treacherous footing.
He tripped over a protruding rock and flew headlong onto a pile of boulders. The staff flew from his hand as he tried to protect his face and his axe, absorbing the blow with his body. Ignoring his new bruises, he stumbled to his feet, realizing that the light on the staff had been extinguished when he dropped it. After a panicky minute spent feeling around in the lightless cave, he again wrapped his hands around the smooth wooden shaft, and was rewarded by a godly glow emanating from the anvil icon of the dwarves’ patron god.
“Reorx, please let me find her, save her,” he prayed, his words a rasping whisper in the darkness. “I’ll offer you anything-my own life! My axe! Just let me reach her!”
Though there was no answer, not even any change in the anvil’s glowing illumination, Brandon forced himself to believe that the Master of the Forge had heard his prayer and would take pity on him.
He proceeded as quickly as he could, slowing down from his headlong sprint only when the dry rasping of his lungs forced him to collect his breath. He knew that he would need his strength if-when! — he found Gretchan, so he slowed to a steady jog, marshalling his energy and staring intently into the subterranean darkness before him. Belatedly he realized that the horax, having already displayed surprising battlefield cunning and tactical sense, might be waiting for him in ambush. Remembering the way the creatures could climb the walls and even walk on the ceiling of an enclosed tunnel, he made a point of studying the passageway in all its parts and corners as he moved forward.
But still he trotted with reckless speed. The staff in his left hand, with its glowing tip, led his quest through the darkness. His axe he carried at his right, elbow cocked, blade poised for a quick chop forward or a parry to the side and back. For long minutes he ran thus, his alertness at fever pitch, his imagination conjuring wicked mandibles and bulging eyes in each shifting shadow, every imminent bend in the winding cave.
Every so often he came to a brown stain on the floor, and even a cursory glance confirmed that the stains were dried blood. Each spot of blood made his stomach lurch with fear, and his only consolation was the knowledge that Gretchan had been carried through there not long before. If she were wounded, her blood would still be bright, wet crimson. He guessed that the blood spots he’d found were grisly reminders of the fate that had met the gully dwarves who had once dwelled in the dead village.
He came to a place where the descending floor dropped away, as if the stream that had once carved the channel had spilled over a subterranean waterfall. Extending the light, he saw that the drop was barely six or eight feet, so he wasted no time in scrambling over the edge, dropping toward a rock at the base. His left foot slipped from the curving rock as he landed, and he tumbled, bruising his knee and wrenching a shoulder. Despite the pain, he bit back any exclamation and worried more about the clatter of his fall.
Only then did he notice that the drop had placed him in the middle of a new type of passage, one that was not a natural cave, but instead seemed to be a relic, a roadway or hall, from some ancient civilization. He blinked in surprise, holding the light up.
The winding cave had dumped him through the side wall of a precise, straight passage that had obviously been excavated under the ground there some unknown but long time earlier. The ceiling was twice his height, and the hall was at least six or seven paces wide. Columns, round as pillars and unadorned, lined the walls at twenty-foot intervals, and the space extended to the right and left as far as Brandon could see.
The horax-which way had they gone?
Once again the stains of Aghar blood gave him proof; he spotted a brown smear a dozen feet to his right. Immediately he started that way, jogging again, warily examining the walls, ceiling, and floor in his path. He came to more bloodstains and reminded himself that Gretchan had been caught in a web-the monsters wouldn’t have had to clamp her in their jaws to carry her. He thought of Gus Fishbiter, an annoying fellow but a friend of Gretchan’s, and felt a stab of pity for the miserable Aghar that had been carried away by the horax. Even gully dwarves didn’t deserve such a fate.
At the same time, he was relieved to see that there were no signs of fresh blood. He quickened his pace as the wide, smooth floor seemed to offer an open route ahead.
Abruptly he emerged from a tunnel mouth into a much larger space. Still standing on a smooth, carved floor, he raised the staff to see that he was in an expansive chamber, one where the ceiling dome rose so far overhead, it was out of the reach of his magical light.
He stepped forward slowly, staring around with frustration. At any other time, in any other delving, such an experience would have filled him with awe: in one corner of his brain, he realized he was exploring a relic of some civilization more than a thousand years old, perhaps predating even the dwarven colony of Kayolin. He saw suggestions of wide columns ornamented with hieroglyphics. Beyond the last column was even a stone chair in the commanding position of a large throne. The rest of the chamber was hidden in the darkness, but clearly very huge, very solidly constructed.
Brandon looked around in vain for some sign of Gretchan. He saw scratches and scuffs in the dust, marks that looked as if they could have been made by horax claws, but they seemed to go in every direction in the great hall; none stood out as a particular path.
He started to search along the near wall, going around the large columns, holding up the glowing staff head so he could see the throne. That, too, was covered with dust, though apparently undisturbed by the bug monsters’ footsteps. He was about to move on when something drew his attention back to the throne: a spark or a blink of sudden light.
Going over to the throne, he discerned a circular shape, a ring more than a foot in diameter, outlined underneath the dust. When he picked it up and blew it off, he was nearly blinded by the reflections of sapphire and silver. The blue stones, a dozen in number, were arranged in a perfect circle around the ring of metal. Then the anvil on the head of Gretchan’s staff blazed with an invigorated light, a brilliance that suddenly cast the whole subterranean throne room into an illumination nearly equal to daylight.
That circlet was hinged at one side and secured by a clasp opposite the ring. It could be opened to be placed around something like a column …
Or a dwarf’s neck.
“The Torc of the Forge!” Brandon gasped out loud.
As if acknowledging his statement, the glow of Gretchan’s staff settled back to its more normal dimness. Oddly, Brandon’s dark-vision hadn’t been destroyed by the brilliant glare; it was as if his pupils absorbed the brightness of Reorx’s blessing and adjusted.
Gretchan! At once his thoughts returned to the priestess, his lost companion. He thrust the torc into one of the pouches at his belt and hoisted his axe and the cleric’s staff again as he continued to search the large room.
Two minutes later he found a crack in the wall, opening into a tunnel marked with many horax tracks. Just a few steps inside the opening, he saw another telltale bloodstain, proof that the captured Aghar had been carried that way once, reasonable enough evidence to support his hope that Gretchan had been taken the same way.
He checked the ceiling and walls-clear-and started into the new tunnel. He wanted to shout Gretchan’s name again, to offer her some hope if she could hear him. But caution forced him to bite his tongue.
And fear made him hurry.
“Ouch!” Gus declared as a shard of pottery bounced off of his head. He kept running with Berta, her bare feet slapping on the cobblestones of the road, trotting behind him. Another piece of crockery flew over the heads of the two Aghar to shatter in the street, leading Gus to veer sideways into a narrow alley. With his lady friend beside him, he collapsed against a wall and sagged down to sit on the ground.
“Ow!” he repeated, rubbing his skull where a lump was already forming. “Why those bluphsplunging Hylar got to be so rude?” he groused.
“Prolly cuz we was stealing they bread,” Berta said sagely. She proudly held up a heel of crusty rye, from which a large bite had been torn off. “Look! Berta steal bread while highbulp Gus make Hylar mad.”
“Give me!” declared Gus, greedily snatching the piece out of her hand. He had to admit, she had some skills, Berta did. “Hey! Who bite this?” he demanded, looking at the generously sized, tooth-marked crescent that had been removed from the corner of the slice.
“Me!” Berta declared, unabashed. “Otherwise, highbulp eat whole thing. Berta go hungry!”
Gus glared ominously at her but couldn’t decide upon an appropriate response. So he took a bite of the bread himself, chewed, swallowed, and took another bite. The food felt good in his belly, which had been rumbling and empty for the past several days. In short order he polished off the rest of the piece, smacking his lips.
“You say lotsa food in Thorbardin,” Berta declared irritably, watching him finish off the last bite. “So far we not find lotsa food. Only little food. But lotsa big, mean dwarves.”
“Yep,” Gus agreed. So far Thorbardin certainly wasn’t as exciting, or bountiful, as he remembered it to be. “Maybe this only bad part of Thorbardin. We go look for big lake. There be cave carp-and Agharhome!”
“Like Agharhome Pax Tharkas?” Berta said, intrigued. At least in a town of gully dwarves they weren’t always getting smacked around by the big dwarves.
“Yep, only bigger. Two times big,” Gus said, remembering the tangled web of sewer tunnels, ruined caves, and steeply sloping lakeshore where he had been born and raised. His family probably still lived there, but he decided that wasn’t reason enough for him to stay away.
“Come!” he said, standing up, feeling the full authority of his highbulp status running through his diminutive stature. “We go find Agharhome!”
Berta was willing enough, so the two gully dwarves made their way carefully down the street, toward the big plaza that seemed to lie in the center of the big city, which they had heard called Norbardin. Fortunately, the street and the plaza were virtually empty, except for a bunch of dead bodies lying around. The Aghar ignored those and made their way to one of the large gates leading out of the city and down toward the Urkhan Sea-the body of water Gus remembered as the Big Lake.
There were some guards at the gatehouse, but they were gambling and talking, not paying much attention to the wide plaza. The gates themselves had been smashed, with no attempt having been made to repair them, so Gus and Berta simply skulked along the edge of the wall, staying low, darting from the cover of one chunk of rock to another. Soon they had passed under the city’s portal and were striding boldly down the long, subterranean road.
After two hours, or two miles, of walking, Gus estimated, they came around a gradual bend, and the whole of the Urkhan Sea spread out before them. Though they were underground, the vast cavern was illuminated, very faintly, by lanterns and fires dotting around the long, winding shoreline: the camps and dwellings of feral Klar, Theiwar hunters, and those few hardy survivors who still lived in the ruined cities that had been ravaged by the forces of Chaos.
Berta gasped audibly at the wondrous sight, and even Gus felt an unfamiliar tug of emotion. It was a majestic vision and, since no one was trying to kill them at the moment, they stopped and gawked for two full minutes. Finally they started walking again, striding along with real bounce in their steps. They heard a party of Daergar warriors coming, tromping boots and clanking armor, and quickly hid in a ditch beside the road. When the soldiers had passed, the two little dwarves resumed their trot toward the shore.
Several stone piers extended into the lake, and a couple of boats were moored there. Crewmen-more Daergar, though not heavily armored like the soldiers-lounged around.
“We not go there!” Berta hissed, grabbing Gus’s arm.
“No, this way,” he said, in complete agreement with her.
The place where the road met the lake was a wide cave mouth, some one hundred feet across and more than thirty feet high. To the right and left, the edge of the tunnel merged into a steep stone slope where the side of the great cavern plunged into the water. The wall of the vast cavern was not a sheer cliff, however. Instead, the lower side of the Urkhan cavern was a sloping grade, a series of ridges separated by equally steep ravines. The footing was precarious but not too treacherous, and Gus confidently led Berta out of the tunnel and onto the steep lakeshore. The ground dropped away to their right and climbed steeply to their left, but they traversed the first ridge, scrambled through the ravine beyond it, and made their way up the next elevated crest.
“Agharhome up here,” Gus realized, rather surprised to see that they had come to the lakeshore very near the place where he had lived most of his life.
They were coming down the next ridge when they discovered several fellow Aghar hunkered in the ravine some distance above the water. There were three of them, and they all stood up and watched curiously as Gus and Berta approached. Two of the strangers were males, but the other was a female, and she looked strangely familiar.
“Gus?” she asked. “Gus Fishbiter? Who died in the water?”
“Slooshy!” he cried, immediately recognizing her. “No! You died! In the water!” he said, rushing forward to embrace his old friend, remembering that the two of them had been trapped in a drainpipe and carried by a rush of water deep into the bowels of Thorbardin. Gus had escaped-only to be captured by the black wizard-but he had taken it for granted that Slooshy had drowned.
“Me not die! You not die!” Slooshy squealed, giving Gus a sloppy kiss.
Suddenly he was kicked, hard, from behind. He turned to look at Berta, who had delivered the blow.
“Who Slooshy?” Berta demanded with her arms folded across her skinny chest. She was glaring at the other female.
And, for some reason, she did not look pleased.
Brandon ran and ran through the darkened passages until it seemed as though his lungs and heart were ready to explode in his chest. Blindly keeping up the pursuit, almost sobbing with grief and fear, he could think of nothing except the sight of Gretchan being carried away in the terrible web of her buglike captors. Had they killed his dwarf maid already? Were they feeding on her warm flesh? By Reorx, he would kill them all! He would wipe them from Krynn, banish their spawn to the depths of the Abyss, where they could suffer forever in the fundamental flames of existence.
Angrily he shook his head, just before he suddenly tripped over an irregularity on the floor and went sprawling, clu
tching his axe but once again losing his grip on Gretchan’s staff. The wooden shaft went clattering into the darkness, the glowing anvil fading immediately. Pure instinct pushed the weary Brandon back to his feet, but he was breathing so hard, his heart pounding so violently, that he realized that he could barely stand.
“What good am I to her if I can’t even draw a breath?” he asked himself, panting out the whispered words. He knew that he had to rest. Carefully, he felt around in the darkness, relieved when he found the staff after only a minute of searching. He took a seat upon a boulder, holding the shaft across his lap, grateful for the mild glimmer of illumination that again started to shine from the anvil head of Gretchan’s talisman.
Gradually his breathing returned to normal. As soon as he could do so without panting, he rose to his feet and continued on, at first merely walking. Taking stock of his resources, he realized he was pretty much limited to his axe and the cleric’s staff. No, he was also carrying his small dagger, as well as a piece of flint that might be useful for striking a spark.
He was trying to think if he had any other useful resources when he entered a circular chamber, like a large room in the tunnel of the cave. He started across then came up short when he realized that at least three different passages led out the other side of the cave. His heart sank. How was he to choose which way Gretchan had been taken?
Wondering if he might find a trace of blood or some other sign, he raised the staff, extending the faint light into the first passage. Seeing nothing other than bare stone, he inspected the second tunnel with much the same result. When he turned to the third passageway, however, the anvil-Reorx’s symbol-at the tip of the staff flickered with brighter light. He didn’t hesitate, immediately starting down the third cave.