For a moment none of them saw anything amid the shattered stone; then Dezra pointed. "There," she said. "Under that big slab."
Then they saw it: a sliver of darkness, mostly blocked by a massive chunk of slate that had smashed down and cracked into pieces. The huge, flat rock nearly plugged the hole shut.
"Great," Borlos muttered. "That isn't big enough to fit a greased kender, let alone any of us."
They climbed down to it, but the gap didn't get any bigger up close. Testing, heedless of what might lurk in the darkness, Dezra stuck her foot into the hole. She slipped her leg in up to the knee before getting stuck, then pulled herself out again.
"No luck," she muttered. "Now what do we do?"
Trephas ran his fingers over the slab, probing the cracks where it had split. "How much rope do we have?" he asked after a moment.
Caramon, who had the rope looped over his shoulder, unslung it and let it slide down onto the rubble. "Guithern said three hundred feet."
"And pitons?" the centaur pressed.
"About a dozen. What's your plan, Trephas?"
"Bring them to me," he said, resting a hand on the slab. "I'll show thee."
An hour later, after much hammering and arguing over which rope should be secured where, they'd rigged together a complicated harness. One end was attached, with pitons, to the slab; the other to a crude yoke made by lashing together Caramon's spear and Trephas's lance. They stepped back, regarding it thoughtfully. It was just the four of them now. The sprites had gone, too frightened of the shaft to stay near for long.
"Will it work?" Caramon asked. "That rock looks heavier than anything I ever lifted."
"Maybe, but thou art human," Trephas replied confidently. "I've a warhorse's strength behind me. I won't be able to hold it long, though. We should decide which among thee will climb down."
"I'll go," Dezra said at once.
"Are you sure?" Caramon asked, his brow knitting.
"What about the Guardian?" Borlos pressed. "It'll kill you if it finds you."
"I don't think any of us could survive a fight with a golem," she returned, grinning crookedly, "not even you, Father. But I might be able to outrun it, if it gets ornery. Now get the rope ready. The day's wearing on, and I'd rather not still be down there when the sun sets."
Relenting, Borlos and Caramon drove a piton into the shaft's lip. The bard tied one end of their remaining rope to it, then leaned back, hauling with all his strength. Satisfied it would hold, he tossed the rope into the hole. It slithered down, more than two hundred feet of it.
Dezra pulled out a torch and lit it. "All right," she said.
"Let's get this over with."
Trephas took up the yoke and laid it across his broad shoulders. He dug his hooves into the loose rubble, then closed his eyes and pulled.
At first, nothing happened. Trephas's face turned crimson, and muscles stood out all over his body, from his neck to his fetlocks. Sweat coursed down his face and lathered his coat. He groaned, a harsh sound that grew into a roar. With a grinding scrape, the slate shifted. It moved an inch, then another, as Trephas strained and bellowed. Finally, when it had lifted nearly three feet from the shaft, he stopped pulling, and dug in to hold it.
"Go!" he hissed.
Dezra didn't need to be told twice. Gripping her torch in her teeth, she grabbed the rope and swung down into the opening. She slid down several feet, then set her feet against the shaft's wall, held on to the rope with one hand, and grabbed the torch with the other. She looked up at Borlos and her father, who stood over the hole.
"Be careful," Caramon added.
She smiled crookedly. "Why, Father," she told him, "when have you ever known me to do otherwise?"
Taking the torch in her teeth again, she started climbing down. Above, the stone slab came back down with a loud, ground-trembling thud.
The darkness grew deeper as she descended. Below was nothing but emptiness.
She rappelled a while to pick up speed, but returned to more careful climbing a hundred feet down. Her feet knocked chips of crumbling flagstone from the wall. Down and down she went, until she began to fear she'd run out of rope before she reached solid ground.
That was just what happened, but it wasn't as bad as she'd feared. She was down to her last thirty feet when the torchlight finally lit the shaft's bottom, and while it didn't quite reach, the rope's end was still within jumping reach of the floor. It would do.
Hanging from the rope with her right hand, she took her torch with her left and shone it about. She held her breath, expecting to illuminate the carven form of the Guardian, but suspicious shadows proved to be nothing when the light fell upon them. Satisfied she was alone, she turned her attention to the floor.
Over the centuries, a great deal of rubble had fallen into the pit. It covered the ground, a jagged, treacherous carpet of rock. There were a couple of archways on the walls, but they had collapsed, choking the passages beyond. There was nothing else to see from where she was.
She let go of the rope, fought a moment for her balance on the sliding rocks, then crept forward, torch held high. She kicked aside loose stones as she went, scanning the floor for some sign of the axe.
"Come on, you bastard," she muttered, her voice loud in the stillness. "Where are you?"
Nothing. She circled the chamber, looking this way and that. She had a despairing thought: What if Soulsplitter wasn't here? What if the Guardian had moved it, somewhere beyond the crumbled archways, where she couldn't get to it? What if it was beneath a stone that was too big for her to move? What if—
She stopped suddenly, squinting. She'd reached the far side of the shaft, and finally something caught her eye. She bent low, shining her torch. For a moment there was nothing but stone on stone. Then she saw it again: the glint of steel, beneath the rocks.
Stifling a whoop of joy, she wedged her torch between two large stones, then started digging in the rubble.
The rocks were heavy and hard to move. Wishing she had Trephas's strength, or her father's, she lifted them laboriously, one by one, and shoved them aside. Sweat soon coursed down her face, plastering her hair to her forehead and turning black as it trickled down her dust-caked face. Her lungs burned with every laboring breath. Her shoulders and back ached in places she'd never felt them hurt before. A new pain greeted her with every stone she prized free of the rubble. Her knuckles bled, scraped raw by the rough stones, and she swore a vile oath as her fingernails bent, tearing down to the quick. When her eyes were open, black spots swam before them; when she squeezed them shut to heave a stone, white lights exploded in the darkness. The minutes grew leaden as she dug, and she seemed to get no closer, no matter how deep she went. She refused to relent, though, pausing only long enough to gather her wind and mutter a curse before bending to lift the next stone, and the next, and the next… .
Then, suddenly, it was there. She lifted a chunk of marble, rolled it aside, and caught her breath. "There you are," she told it.
The axe disappointed her at first. From the legend Olinia had told, she'd expected it to be a thing of beauty: gilded, engraved, set with gemstones. Instead, it was simplicity itself: a black iron haft, four feet long, wrapped in dry, cracked leather and capped with a massive, double-bladed head that shone golden in the firelight. There was power in its plainness, though: it had lain here for centuries, yet bore not a single scratch, dent, or fleck of rust. She stared at it, marveling at how its head reflected her image, wondering how sharp its edges might be. Slowly, fingers trembling, she reached for it.
She'd expected it to be freezing, but it was warm, as though it had lain in the sun instead of entombed in the frigid mountains. It wasn't as heavy as she'd expected, either, and came up out of the stones with ease. She hefted it, holding it up to the light. Then, yielding to a sudden urge, she struck a large piece of granite beside her.
The crash was deafening. The stone shattered, showering sparks as Soulsplitter's head cleaved through it. When she raised it again,
the axe was unmarked.
"Wow," she murmured.
"What was that noise?" called a voice from above: Caramon. "Dez, are you all right?"
She closed her eyes, sighing, then cupped her free hand to her mouth. "I'm fine! I found the axe. I'll be on my way back up in a—"
At that moment, she heard a sound that robbed her of her voice. It was low and muffled, but unmistakable: the dry scratch of stone against stone. She cast about, trying to find its source, then stiffened.
Before her, ten paces away, the rocks moved. They shifted slightly at first, then tumbled aside as something stirred beneath. Then, with a clatter, something thrust up out of the rubble: a massive, granite hand.
"Oh, shit," she gasped.
More than anything, she longed to move, to get away from the thing digging out from beneath the rocks. Her body, however, wouldn't respond. She couldn't even close her eyes as the thick gray fingers clenched into a fist, then relaxed again and started shoving rubble aside.
With a noise like a small earthquake, the Guardian sat up. It was crudely carved, in the shape of a bald, muscular man. It looked back, its malachite eyes gleaming with green light. Still paralyzed by horror, she watched it rise to stand on legs as thick as pillars. It was ten feet tall, from head to toe. It moved haltingly, like a man groggy from a long sleep, but as its joints scraped together the stiffness that afflicted them began to abate.
Run! her mind shrieked.
But where? The Guardian stood between her and the rope. It was moving now, taking a jerky step, wading knee-deep through the stones. She forced herself to move, started circling to her left, but the golem matched her movements, still blocking her way. Her torch, which she'd left behind, began to flicker and gutter.
The golem was five paces away, now four, now three. Its arms stretched out, stony fingers clutching, seeking to crush her… .
With a horrified yell, Dezra lashed out. She swung Soulsplitter wildly, striking the golem's elbow. There was another deafening smash, and the Guardian's arm came free, spinning away to crash, unmoving, on the rocky floor. The golem reeled with the force of the blow—which had come more from Soulsplitter than Dezra—and she swung again, aiming high.
The axe sheared off the left half of the Guardian's head; the glow vanished from the malachite eye as the piece fell atop the rubble. The golem swayed like a drunk, then fell back among the stones. It made one struggling attempt to stand up again, then was still.
She stood still for a long moment, her breath coming in hard, ragged gasps. The golem didn't move again.
She pulled a second torch from her pack and lit it from the first. She made a wide circuit around the golem, then paused to secure the axe to her belt. Clasping her torch in her teeth again, she reached for the rope.
Behind her, stone scraped against stone.
Fear struck her like a fist. Unable to breathe, she looked back. The Guardian was moving again.
Crunching and grinding, it tried to push itself up, but collapsed again as the stump of its arm slid out from beneath it. It lay still a moment, then tried again. It succeeded this time, shoving to its feet and turning toward her. Its remaining eye shone like a green sun.
She jumped. It was a wild leap, and she would have fallen badly if she missed, but her right hand caught the rope, then she grabbed it with her left as well. Her feet kicked beneath her, finding purchase on the wall. Below, the golem took a clattering step toward her, then another, and another.
Furiously, she hauled herself up. She heard a low whistle, felt a rush of air just beneath her. The golem was under her now, swinging its remaining arm. Its fist swiped empty air; unable to reach her. She hauled herself onward, grinning, shuddering with relief. She'd escaped! She had the axe, and had eluded the Guardian. Fifty feet up, she paused to catch her breath.
Then, beneath her, she heard the sound of stone bursting. She glanced down, and her heart clenched.
The golem was starting to climb.
It had driven its remaining fingers into the wall of the shaft, punching through the flagstone. Now it did the same with one of its feet, kicking a hole in the wall, making its own toehold. Its half-head looked up at her, the carven face maddeningly calm.
She screamed. The torch tumbled from her mouth, clattered on the stones, and went out. She didn't care.
She climbed, faster than she'd ever climbed before.
Caramon and Borlos crouched over the narrow opening, staring down at the darkness. Trephas tensed where he stood, the yoke still on his shoulders, waiting for the sign to start pulling again.
Cupping both hands around his mouth, Caramon yelled into the pit. "Dezra? Where are you?"
The reply was closer than he'd expected, though still a ways down: seventy feet, or about. She was climbing quickly, her voice frantic:
"Move the thrice-damned slab! It's after me!"
Caramon looked at Borlos, the color draining from his face. "Oh, gods," he murmured. He turned to Trephas. "Hurry! Lift the stone!—"
Trephas was already moving. He lunged forward, hauling on the ropes. He strained, groaning. It didn't budge.
"Move it!" Dezra yelled.
She was forty feet down now. Through the gap, Caramon saw her, faintly, against the darkness. There was something else, too: a mote of green light, beneath her, flaring in the gloom.
"Trephas!" Borlos yelled. "It's right behind her! Lift the bloody stone!"
Tears spilled down the centaur's cheeks. It wasn't working, it wouldn't move. His whole body burned; his muscles bunched hard as iron. "Come on," he growled through teeth clenched so hard, he thought they'd splinter.
She was twenty feet down and still coming, the terror plain on her face. The green eye—from the shadows, it was part of something very large—glinted even closer.
"Come on… ."
With a loud crack, the slate jerked upward, rising a foot in an instant. Trephas stumbled, fought to keep his footing, keep raising the stone.
Caramon thrust his arms down into the shadows, grasping for his daughter's hands. For what seemed like forever, she stayed just beyond reach. Sobbing, she pulled herself up, and Caramon caught her wrists. With a mighty heave, he yanked her up, out of the hole. "Trephas!" he roared. "Put—"
Before he could say more, a massive stone hand emerged from the gap and grabbed for Dezra's leg. It missed, saving her from a crushed ankle or worse, but its fingers caught her trouser-leg. Down beneath the slate, the malachite eye glowed as the Guardian dragged Dezra back into the gap.
"Don't drop the stone!" Borlos yelled. "She's under it again!" The bard glanced at Trephas, swallowing. The centaur's strength was clearly flagging. Above Dezra, the slab trembled.
Meanwhile, Caramon too was straining, against the might of the golem. He was losing: the Guardian was too strong, dragging his daughter back into the shaft with it.
"The axe! Use the axe!" Dezra bawled.
Borlos saw the bright gleam of steel at her belt, caught his breath, then dove for the shaft, slipping on loose slate and nearly sliding right past Dezra into the pit. He fumbled for Soulsplitter, fighting to undo the knots she'd tied to bind it to her belt. After a moment he gave up, drew his knife, and cut the cords. He grabbed the weapon as it fell away from her, then pushed back and knelt above Dezra and the Guardian. He raised the axe.
"Do it!" shouted Dezra, Caramon and Trephas, almost all at once.
Soulsplitter came down, chopping off the Guardian's remaining arm. Stone splintered, sparks flew. The golem jerked back, hung in space for an eyeblink, then plummeted soundlessly out of sight. Caramon fell back, hauling Dezra out of the shaft.
"Drop the stone!" he bellowed.
With a groan of relief, Trephas relaxed his pull. The slate slab came down with a final boom that made the earth tremble. A second crash echoed it, far below, as the Guardian struck the floor of the shaft.
Dezra laughed wearily, leaning against her father. "See… how easy… that was?" she gasped.
Then her eyes c
losed and she slumped, unconscious, in Caramon's grasp.
29
"You don't understand," Caramon protested. "We don't have time to waste, waiting here with your people. The centaurs need Soulsplitter now!"
Laird Guithern shook his head. "I know. But there's naught I can do to get ye back to Darken Wood faster. I sent a messenger to the dryads after ye left for the tower, but 'twill take time afore Pallidice returns to guide ye back. Ye may have been nearly a day outside the vale, but here ye were gone less than an hour."
"How long must we wait?" Trephas asked anxiously. Soulsplitter, secured to his war harness, gleamed in the sunlight.
Guithern thought a moment. "About a day, I reckon."
"But that's another whole month, outside this place!" Dezra exclaimed. "At that rate, there might be nothing to get back to!"
"I'm sorry," Guithern repeated. Though his words were contrite, there was an unmistakable crispness to his voice. "I can't change how quick or slow the river of time flows. It's best ye forget yer cares for now. I'll summon food, and mead and music—"
Caramon shook his head. "No. Bring us one of those flying blankets, so we can leave. We can go as far as those caves in the mountains. No offense, Highness, but I'd feel better waiting there."
The Laird bowed, acquiescing, and took his leave. The other sprites swarmed with him up to the palace at the top of the fir tree, leaving the companions alone.
Caramon cleared his throat. "I'll check on Borlos."
The bard sat at the edge of the spire-stone, staring out across the tarn. In the distance, the sprites' wings made the air over Gwethyryn sparkle. He held his lyre across his lap, plucking a quiet, sad melody. He didn't turn at Caramon's approach.
"Well?" Caramon asked. "Are you coming with us, or is this good-bye?"
The bard sighed slowly. "I want to stay," he murmured. "I can't bear to leave."
"It's witchery, Bor," Caramon said, gesturing at the lake. "This place has worked some kind of magic over you. I look at it and I see beauty, but I'd never dream of not going back."
Dezra's Quest Page 21
