Berthold watched her, mouth open, daggers ready to throw. Yevele made his help unnecessary, however, as she swept her sword in a wide arc, slicing deep into its abdomen and killing it. “One at a time, they’re manageable.” She looked around for something to clean the blood off her sword. Finally she settled on wiping the blade on the fallen beast’s hide, then sheathing it, grabbing up the discarded torches and bringing them to Berthold. She shook her sword hand, trying to get some of the blood off it, then she glanced at the ceiling, which was too far away to see. But she saw some of the bats dip low. “We shouldn’t just leave those bodies there, should we?”
“Probably not. I'm worried about Ingrge. What if a troll or a giant starts looking around upstairs, too? Finds Ingrge? Maybe we should go back up.” She studied the thief’s face, expecting him to say something. “But maybe we should keep going. Find your wizard, and help Ingrge that way. If he’s still alive." Yevele let a breath hiss out between her teeth and set the torches down outside the alcove. “It’s pretty dark over there. You get the feet.”
It took more than a few minutes to drag the big bodies to the far part of the chamber. There were no alcoves there, and the guano and other decaying matter was deep. Berthold saw hundreds of small, broken bones that had been picked shiny-clean. The bats were settling down again.
“Don’t think anything comes over here,” Yevele said. "Not anymore anyway. Though it looks like plenty of bats congregate just above here. I think the trolls’ll be able to rot in peace.”
"Rot?” Berthold pulled out his longest dagger and started stabbing the first troll Yevele had killed. It was so dark here, he couldn’t tell if the thing had started breathing again.
“What are you doing, thief? ”
“Making sure it stays dead. And I thought you’d stopped calling me thief.”
“Sorry. Berthold.”
He started stabbing the other one. “In the game, they regenerated, remember? That’s what makes trolls so tough. And you had to burn them. Otherwise they could regrow arms and legs, grow a whole new troll from just a toenail. You ’d turn your back, thinking you’d killed them, and they ’d come up right behind you and try to eat your face. ” He looked back to their alcove and the torches laying on the floor.
“Don’t do it, Bert.”
“One of those torches burned Ingrge’s arm, should do just fine on — ”
“They’re not healing, Bert. They’re dead. Dead, I say. And this isn’t the game. This is real. Things don’t work like they do in the game. These things aren’t going to get back up.”
“Yeah, well, these things might not be trolls anyway."
“They’re trolls. I don’t know how I know that. ...”
“Yeah, but you just know. Fine."
Berthold wanted to leave the chamber anyway, the stench of the guano and the trolls so strong he tasted bile in his mouth. His stomach was roiling, and he was glad he hadn’t eaten in some time. His head was aching, too, from the smells and lack of food, pounding over his right eye like a migraine in the making.
In the alcove once more, he laid one of the torches on the ground, kept one for himself, and handed one to Yevele. He kicked at the discarded torch, burning his foot and cursing to discover he was unable to put the flame out.
“We’ll leave it,” she said. Then she gestured him forward and let him get a few yards ahead before “chinking” along behind him. “It a monster finds it, well . . . I’m not afraid of a good fight. ”
“That makes one of us,” Berthold whispered.
Shadows and Other Dark, Moving Things
The tunnel continued to slope down until it turned at a sharp angle, doubling back on itself twice before going deeper. Here and there were interruptions, insets in the walls, like something that might be found in an old church or mausoleum. Some of the niches were outlined in fanciful stones and contained clay bowls filled with ashes and bone chips, engraved brass labels identifying whose remains were inside, while other niches sheltered elaborately painted ceramic jars that looked quite valuable.
Berthold stopped at one of these to hold the torch close, his curiosity finally getting the best of him. Horses and centaurs raced around the outside of a jar as big as a pickle barrel . . . literally raced . . . the images in constant motion. When he held his ear to the jar, he could hear men shouting in a tongue he didn’t understand—a dozen or more different voices — and horses whinnying and stomping, the wind blowing. He could smell the dirt being churned up by their hooves. Yevele was just tall enough, standing on her tiptoes, to see inside.
“Well?”
“Welt what?”
“What’s in there?"
“Eyeballs,” she said, continuing to look. “Different sizes, different colors. All of them so fresh and shiny, like they’ve just been plucked. A few have the muscles still attached. And a large bloodshot one is rolling around and looking at me.” She seemed oddly unaffected by the contents.
“Lovely.”
“Want a boost so you can see?”
He shook his head. “Let’s not peek in any more of those things.” However, they did just that at the very next one. It was a low, wide jar, and whatever decorations that had been painted on it were long worn away. The niche it sat in had flowstone along one side, and Berthold was quick to explain to Yevele how it formed. She seemed uninterested in that, but the contents of the jar were another matter.
“We shouldn’t,” she interrupted him. But she stood directly in front of it and kept staring, making it difficult for him to squeeze in for a close look. The light from her torch made the jewels inside sparkle. “Emeralds. One as big as a date.”
“And rubies as big as grapes,” Berthold said. “You’re right, we shouldn’t.” But he didn’t move away either, instead managing to wedge himself in until he was so close the colors reflected against his face. “Just why shouldn’t we?”
“Because we’re on an urgent mission, to find this wizard of yours and to get Ingrge out of here. To see what we can do to get home. To get back to Milo and Naile.” She put her hand in the jar and stirred the gems. “Pearls, too. Sapphires, some beautiful dark purple stone. Oh, that’s just gorgeous. In a dozen years I’d not earn enough at the museum to buy that one.” She was looking at a plum-sized rosy-colored stone cut in the shape of a heart.
Berthold leaned all the way over the jar. “We might not be able to get home, Yevele. You realize that, don’t you?”
“I’m the realist, remember?”
“And so these gems could come in handy.”
“Wonder why they’d leave all these gems in a jar, open like this, where anyone could get to them? You’d think they’d be locked away and guarded.”
Berthold shook his head. “Not just anyone can get to them. First you have to sneak by the gargoyles outside, find the trapdoor under the carpet, get past the trolls and the giant, and then — ”
“Enough.” She thrust her fingers in deeper and pulled out a handful. “Just in case we don't get out of this crazy world. This could buy me better armor, maybe an enchanted sword, a magnificent war horse.” Yevele put the gems in a small pouch at her side, and seeing there was room for more, started picking through what she thought were the better ones, making sure she took the heart-shaped rose stone.
"I’m not sure quite how I know this,” Berthold pointed. “But those dark purple ones are worth the most.” He picked out the best ones and thrust them in a pocket, careful to leave some for Yevele. He had four pockets between his tunic and leggings, and he filled all of them to capacity. Then he searched through the bottom of the jar and found pearl necklaces and rings.
They hastened now to divide the pieces of jewelry, wearing as much as they could. In the end, she had several necklaces draped around her neck and a ring on each grimy finger. He’d taken a few necklaces also and three rings that fit him. There were still gems in the jar, and Yevele clearly didn’t want to leave them there. She tugged the waterskin off her belt, upended it and drank it all.
“Was thirsty anyway,” she said. Then she started squeezing the smallest gems through the opening in the skin. She looked to Berthold’s waist, but he’d given his waterskin to Ingrge.
“Just like in the game,” he said. “Looting the'castle.”
“But this isn’t a game,” she stared at him as if he had suddenly taken on the guise of a man she’d never seen before. She finally blinked and shook off the image. “Now, let’s find this wizard, shall we?”
They traveled in silence for more than an hour, occasionally pausing, looking into jars in niches, studying a piece of statuary, or poking at a carving of a creature they’d not seen before. They passed through several empty chambers, empty save for the bats that clung to the ceilings. And in these places they took their time as they carefully prodded stone walls, wondering if there were swiveling walls or hidden passages, and wondering if there was an end to this place.
“So what do you do in Canberra? At the museum?” Berthold was tired of the quiet.
“I’m a curator.” She swallowed hard. There wasn’t much she remembered about her treasured museum, and now she forced herself to picture some of the displays, the intricately painted soldiers representing a moment captured in time from some important battle. Holding onto the image was giving her a headache.
“Yeah, I got that. But what’s that mean? Curator?”
“I oversee particular exhibits. Anzac and the battle of Gallipoli are my specialties. I studied it all in college, took a summer tour of World War I battlefields, corresponded with some scholars. The museum is known for its miniature exhibits.” She frowned, trying hard to picture her college, the trip to Germany and France on the tour. Couldn’t picture it. “Incredible miniatures,” she said, shaking her head.
“Like the miniatures in the game?”
“I suppose. They’re a little bigger, some ol the soldiers as tall as my hand. They’re painted better than most gamers paint their figures. We paid professional artists to do it. And the scenery is incredibly detailed. Most tourists go to Sydney or Brisbane, but our museum gets them to take a side-trip to Canberra. Folks from all over the world take tours." She clenched her fist, feeling her fingers grow numb. Remember! she scolded herself. Remember as if your Life depended on it! “Most of the displays are behind big glass windows, the museum board doesn’t want to risk anyone stealing anything. They’re amazing, Berthold. If we get out of this, you’ll have to come see them. Miniature pieces of war.”
“You like war, don’t you? Battles and fighting?" He sucked in his lower lip, instantly regretting he’d asked such a thing. He hadn’t meant the question quite as it had come out.
She shook her head. “No. I think it’s a hellish thing, actually. But I believe it should be studied, maybe so we don’t repeat the same mistakes." Remember. Remember. Remember. “And then there’s all the arguments over which country turned the tide in a particular war, which commander was the smartest. Political things to fill up history books. They' re still arguing over whether an Aussie or a Canadian killed the Red Baron.”
“Really?” Berthold had started the conversation, so he pretended to be interested.
“And there should be no argument there at all. An Aussie gunner did shoot him down.”
"Oh.” He scratched his head, scowling to feel something sticky there. Guano. He tried to pick it out. "So it’s your interest in war that got you into role-playing games?”
She let out a soft laugh, musical and pleasing. She was smiling, and Berthold thought for a moment that she actually looked very pretty when she smiled. She clenched her fist tighter, felt her throat go dry. Her head was pounding harder as she searched her memory. "No. Reading did that, drew me to the game. Jack Vance, Tolkien. And my Uncle Wes. He played the game a lot, and finally talked me into giving it a whirl. Great fun. I got hooked and started playing in three different games a month. Went to the Cons at the Uni once in a while.” She paused and brushed her hair off her shoulders, let out a deep breath and relaxed her hand. "I bet they miss me. I play the only cleric in two of the campaigns. I was their healing battery.”
"Then how’dyou end up like you are here? A woman-warrior?” Another smile, this one reaching her eyes. She breathed deep, proud that she was recalling more pieces of home. Her head continued to throb. “In the third campaign, I’m the main fighter. So when the special miniatures came in the mail that day, Wes handed me the battlemaid. The figure was amazing, as well sculpted, if not better, than the World War I soldiers in the museum.” She shook her head. “Very amazing. It brought me here.”
Berthold held a finger to his lips and peered down the tunnel. It opened into another chamber, but the torchlight didn’t reach far enough for him too see all of it. “Thought I heard something down that way.”
They were quiet for a few minutes, hearing each other’s breathing, hearing the drip of water from a spot on the tunnel ceiling almost directly above, hearing the whisper of air moving around them.
“Nothing,” Berthold pronounced, leaning against the tunnel wall. “So . . . you like it here, don’t you? I don’t mean anything by it, just curious. Lord, but I was never so curious back in Kentucky."
She forced herself to relax and worked a kink out of her neck. Her headache had started to recede. “I could live here,” she admitted after a moment. “I miss cold water out of the tap, hot bubble baths, watching soccer matches on Saturday afternoons. I miss restaurants. Really good restaurants, raspberry tea, and bowling. And I miss some of my friends, and Uncle Wes. He’s not really my uncle, everyone just calls him that. Most, I think, I miss soft beds and softer pillows. But, yes, I could live here."
He tipped his chin, inviting her to continue.
She let the memories of Canberra slip away, the pounding in her head becoming muted. “I feel really alive here. I know it’s dangerous, trolls and dragons and all sorts of beasts. I know the food isn't the best. I’m so hungry right now I could choke down a pig. But this is all so exciting, Berthold. I’m strong, stronger than I ever could be back home. I killed skeletons, trolls. And I’m not afraid. Maybe, just maybe, I could have taken on one of those little dragons.” She let more of the memories slip, felt the pressure in her temples abate.
“So you’d choose to stay here. If we can find a way home, you’d stay here, wouldn ’t you? "
She shook her head. Her eyes were wide and intense, but the turn of her mouth made her expression rueful. “I don’t belong here. I should be working on the exhibits in the museum in Canberra. But, then, we might never find our way home, and it might never be an issue.” She seemed to brighten just a bit at that thought. “And you?”
Berthold made a sputtering sound. “I don’t belong here, either. And I’d kill to find a Mickey D’s right now or a White Castle. Best of it, I’ve got a shiny black Corvette waiting for me in Bowling Green.” He jiggled a tunic pocket. “And I’m going to pay cash. Buy me a house with a garage, too. I’ll need someplace nice to keep my car. Some caving gear, so next time I go I won’t have to rent the stuff. Trouble is, it’s getting hard for me to remember what my place looked like, what options I picked out on the car. ’’ He sighed and shook his head. “What’re you gonna do with your loot if we get home? Go on some nice vacation and — ”
This time Yevele put her finger to her lips and nodded toward the chamber ahead. Berthold moved away from the wall and crept down the tunnel, holding the torch well in front of him. “Definitely heard something that time. Funny noise, like a kid squeezing a squeaky toy. Lots of squeaky toys. ”
The chamber ahead was the size of a basketball court, impossible to tell from here if it was made of the same stones as the rest of the complex. Berthold could see that on the walls where his light reached, there was a carpet of thick, black moss. It quivered more than the greenish moss elsewhere. The floor was covered with the same, and held no trace of guano.
“Ugh, but I don’t want to walk on that stuff.”
Yevele nudged him. “No choice. Not if we want to keep look
ing for your wizard.”
“Yeah, I know.’’ He stepped into the chamber and felt something squish beneath his foot. He nearly lost his balance. “Yevele . . .”
“What?” She nudged him again.
The squeaking grew instantly louder, like an obscenely off-key chorus. Sparks of yellow appeared in the black writhing mass. Eyes.
“Yevele, this stuff isn’t moss.’’
Then the squirming black carpet flowed toward them.
TWENTY-FOUR
Rats and Other Vermin
“Rats!” Berthold shouted, though he knew the word and the warning unnecessary. "Lots of rats!”
There were hundreds, perhaps a thousand, a moving, breathing, hissing black mass that poured down the walls and streamed across the floor like a wave crashing against them. More came from behind them, racing down the tunnel and clawing their way up Yevele’s legs.
Berthold was being swarmed, too. Rats nipped and scratched at him, climbing his legs and chest, chittering around his neck. He dropped his torch when one bit at the back of his hand, and when it hit the floor, the magical flame burned the rats around it. He started stomping on them, the sickening crunch of their bodies beneath his feet making him nauseous. He stabbed at the ones on his leg, his other hand plucking them off his tunic and squeezing them, throwing the dead and dying ones onto the torch.
The smell of the burning rats, and the rats themselves, was too much. Berthold couldn’t breathe. He was gagging, his chest tight. Growing light-headed, he started swaying. The rats climbed up on his shoulders, started nipping on his face. One was on top of his head, scratching at him.
“Gonna die," he managed. “No one will know.”
“No! I won’t die here! ” Yevele redoubled her efforts. She ignored the rats clinging to her and concentrated on the approaching wave, using the torch to burn the ones coming close. At the same time, she used her sword to skewer the ones around her feet. Her motions were frantic, but effective, and within moments dozens lay dead around her. She started using the edge of her sword to scrape the rats off her, then she rammed her back against the wall, crushing the ones that had been hanging there.
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