Block did so, not as spryly as he would have a century before, but just enough. He threw himself sideways to the hard floor and rolled through a puddle that tasted dirty and bitter. Before the taste had even registered a stalactite sharp as a spear and almost as tall as Block crashed to the floor on the spot he had just vacated.
“Captain!” Tilda yelped, bounding down the last few stairs and running into the chamber with her hair loose and the long gun in her hands. The crash of the stalactite echoed off the walls and almost seemed to hum from the smooth ceiling. Still prone, Block stared at the stalactite lying on its side and with the point broken.
“That thing almost spitted you like a…”
Tilda slid to a halt in her socks and her eyes, which were already huge, widened further as two thick, fat tentacles with a texture like rotted fruit emerged from the fat end of the fallen stalactite. Tilda swore and raised her gun to a shoulder, but the tentacles moved slowly and did not extend very far. They touched the floor with a sucking sound then bunched up as they dragged the stalactite away, maybe an inch at each pull.
“Don’t bother with that one,” Block said. “Aim up.”
Tilda snapped her eyes and gun to the ceiling above, where another score or so of stalactites hung, motionless and silent. Block rose with a grunt and moved out from beneath them while keeping his eyes riveted on them, but seeing no sign they were anything but natural.
The one on the ground moved another inch, scraping loudly. Tilda swung the gun toward it, then back to the ceiling, then back to the one on the ground. Back to the ceiling. Her loose hair swung across her face and she shook it back.
“What in the Names of the Nine Gods is that?” she asked in a voice that only sounded slightly hysterical.
“Piercer,” Block said, backing away for the stairs while keeping his eyes high. “Sort of a cross between a slug and a hermit crab. They burrow into rocks on high ledges, or stalactites, as their spit dissolves stone. Reckon you can tell how they hunt. And probably figure out how they feed.”
Tilda fell into stride with Block, and both backed to the stairs through the puddles, leaving wet footprints and dampening their socks though that bothered neither of them at the present moment. The piercer on the ground went on making its laborious way back toward the wall. At the base of the stairs beneath an empty ceiling, Block turned to Tilda.
“You followed me?”
Tilda still kept the gun on her shoulder pointing back into the room, and only glanced for a moment down at her Captain. He saw a not wholly unfamiliar flash in her dark eyes.
“Follow you? No, of course not. I wandered off alone into the dark, beasty-filled, godless ruins. Off the path where I was specifically warned not to go, because I am addled. Because I am soft in the brain. Captain.”
Dugan’s voice calling both their names boomed from the room above them, echoing down the stairs. Tilda jerked and nearly cracked off a shot. The crash had plainly woken everyone above and Block cupped his hands to his mouth to shout back.
“Stay where you are! We are returning!”
“Piercers,” Tilda muttered over her gun. “Stirges. I hate this stupid continent.”
“Matilda,” Block said quietly and put a hand on her elbow. His scant avoidance of impalement had almost been enough to make him crack a smile, but his customary frown and scowl returned as Tilda met his eyes uncertainly. He spoke rapidly, close to a whisper.
“This situation with Dugan is intolerable. He could have been gutted by the knight Procost rather than the other way around. Any one of us could die at any instant. If it were him to go, then you and I would be left with no idea of where to seek John Deskata.”
Tilda’s eyes kept flicking back to the crawling piercer, until Block finished.
“When we are out of this place and the three of us are next alone, you watch me for a signal.”
“A signal?”
“A signal.”
With that, Block turned and mounted the stairs. It was a moment before Tilda followed, then both hurried back to the safe room with their cold and wet feet slapping against the ancient stones.
Chapter Eleven
Fitzyear Coalmounderan was cross with the two Miilarkians for having wandered off, but it did no good to return the dwarf’s perpetual scowl and the girl Matilda was too pretty to stay mad at for very long. The gnome grumbled as everyone settled back into bedrolls but in the morning he said nothing more about it.
The second safe room was bathed in sunlight with the dawn and the spirits of Fitz’s men were high. It was not much farther to the Daulic side of the mountains where most of them were from. After a quick breakfast the group headed down the hallway toward the concealed door the dwarf had uncovered, which Fitz had closed after Block and Tilda‘s return. The gnome had of course noticed the door a long time ago but had never felt the urge to explore what might lie beyond. That was the reason why the Trellanes and the Dauls typically employed gnomes as guides on this subterranean connection. Dwarves, the Mountain Folk, lived their long lives almost completely underground, and had little sensible fear of the things in the world’s secret places. Gnomes, the Hill Folk, lived above ground as much as they did beneath it, and as a people they tended to have more appreciation for the sun and the sky. Gnomes went below ground so that they could come up again, and that was enough.
Fitz led the way past the hidden door and down the passageway to the right. For the next several hours the group traveled in their accustomed silence through what had once been heavily inhabited tunnels back when Yagnarok was a thriving city. The passages were all wide and evenly floored, connecting what had been large storage chambers and bunkrooms which now held only refuse as all potential valuables had long since been cleaned out, or else rotted away. Several shorter stairs connected descending levels so that by the time the group drew near the southern exit they were almost back to the same elevation as the wide thoroughfare they had taken for most of the second day, though not quite.
Their point of egress was not the actual aperture which had led into Yagnarok in its heyday. The ancient doors of the grand entranceway were presently buried under yards of dirt and yellow rock, the legacy of a long-ago landslide on the Yellow Mountain’s southern face. The present exit was located above the old one and had probably been part of the defenses as it would have given access to a walkway above the old gate. Fitz led the way through large storage rooms where siege engines once waited to be wheeled outside, but abruptly stopped and held up a hand. His men stopped instantly behind him, and after more than two days of similar such halts the travelers did as well. They remained silent save for the dwarf Block, who grumbled.
“Damn it, little man, we are nearly there. I can feel fresh air on my face.”
“That’s the problem,” Fitz whispered. “The door ahead is meant to be closed.”
He directed his men to hold their position which they did, setting down the lanterns and fingering their weapons. Fitz crept on alone into darkness and was gone for several minutes.
*
Tilda could now feel the motion of the air on her face as well, and faintly smell pines. There was no light from up ahead that she could see, and only the flickering lanterns with the wicks turned low played upon the nervous faces around her.
Tilda knelt with her gun on a knee and looked at the soldier standing next to her with his pick held ready. He was a young man Tilda thought spoke a bit of Codian, so she whispered a question.
“What is supposed to be up ahead?”
The man glanced at his fellows but answered her in a whisper.
“The Dauls do not hide this entrance as do the Trellanes. There is a little fort, maybe twenty men, high on the mountainside. There is a door that gives right into the yard and it is always kept closed and locked, as the men are close enough to hear knocking.”
“Why would it be open?”
Instead of an answer, Captain Block said Tilda’s name in a tone that meant shut up. She did. The gnome Fitz whistled low
ly from up ahead, just announcing his presence before stepping back into the lantern light so that no one chucked anything at his head.
He spoke quietly in Daulish to his men. Tilda saw their eyes widen and brows knit. The gnome then turned to Block and spoke in Codian.
“We have a problem. The fort is sacked. The only men I can see are dead.”
A soldier asked a question to which Fitz shrugged and answered in Daulish before repeating himself in Codian.
“There are three bodies in the last room, probably ran in here but got no further. The door is wide open. I didn’t see any men outside but there is equipment all over the place. Bows and shields, everything ransacked. The barracks is a smoldering wreck. My guess is most of the garrison was inside when it was fired. Anyone who got away, gods help them, are long gone.”
“What killed the three in the last room?” Block asked. Fitz sighed and pushed back his cap to mop his brow with a dirty hand that left smudges.
“They are bashed up rather stringently. Pulpy, almost.”
“ Ogru,” one of Fitz’s men said, but Dugan shook his head.
“There are no ogres in these mountains. Probably bugbears.”
All the men seemed to understand his last word, and nodded grimly. Tilda wanted to ask what in the hells was a bugbear, despite being certain that she was not going to like the answer. Block continued before she could ask.
“If they are gone, they are gone, and if the barracks have burned out it was a while ago. Lead on, Coalmounderan.”
Fitz closed one eye and raised the eyebrow of the other.
“Begging your pardon, Cap’n, but I’ve orders to head straight back should any trouble crop up on the Way.”
Block sneered. “We are what? A few hundred yards from the exit? Do you really think I am going to turn around and march back three days, only to be on the wrong side of the mountains again?”
Fitz sighed through his large nose. “No, I don’t. But I am saying that not one of my boys is setting another foot forward. Were you wise, neither would you.” The gnome pointed a stubby finger almost into the dwarf’s broad chest. “With the fort sacked you are still a day from anywhere. The Dauls would have given you escort, but with them run-off at best, and bugbears in the hills, how far do you three expect to get?”
Block glared, and when he spoke it was to Tilda.
“Gather our baggage. Separate just what we three can carry.”
Tilda stared, and such of Fitz’s men who lugged some of the Miilarkians’ possessions started setting down bags and packs next to her.
“Captain,” Tilda said. “We can’t carry more than a…”
Block silenced her with a look. Tilda snapped her mouth shut and settled to a seat on the floor, undoing the drawstrings on the nearest duffel. She knew the way ahead was going to be dangerous, but that was a given. But she also knew they were about to abandon quite a bit of money, not just Block’s but hers, and that made her want to tell the dwarf what she thought of him at the moment. Tilda breathed through her nose as she sorted the necessary from the wanted, and tried not to keep a running total in silver in her head.
Fitz and Block glared at each other all the while, the gnome shaking his head. The soldiers shifted nervously and kept glancing up the hall. Dugan emptied the bags that were going to be easiest to carry, those strapped as backpacks and pouches that could hang from belts and shoulders, and adroitly repacked the things Tilda separated to bring along. Flint and steel, canteens and wineskins, socks and undergarments. A small lantern and fuel. Weapons and ammunition. They had barely any food, and a full change of clothes was suddenly an impractical luxury. Tilda left at least two bags full of souvenirs she had gotten in Tull, the Beoshore, and Orstaf. Small things bought, bartered, or otherwise acquired. The riding boots were just too good to leave, and Tilda stuffed them full of small bundled items, tied the laces together, and slung them around her neck before standing and awkwardly wrestling on a backpack over her buksu club. She had to keep her hands free for the long gun as the emptied case was staying here.
She helped Dugan hang a backpack on either shoulder and tied them together in the middle to give him the appearance of a turtle. Captain Block cut a long strap from a spare pack and fastened it to his kit bag to sling it over a shoulder. He looked around at all that remained on the floor.
“Take what you want as a tip,” he said to Fitz. “For services rendered, such as they were.”
Fitz sighed. “There is a road, or at least a cut, running due south out of the fort. One day on that and you’ll overlook the Cross-Heftiga High Road. Left to Mont Royal, the right bends down into Chengdea via the Sibyl River.”
There did not look to be any more formal parting forthcoming, as Block strode away without another word. Tilda and Dugan moved to follow but as she passed the gnome he said one more thing.
“Miss Matilda.”
“What?” she snapped, sounding angry in her own ears.
“Don’t go out there.”
Tilda stopped and looked back. The little gnome‘s grin was nowhere to be seen and his amber eyes were solemn in the low lantern light.
“It isn’t up to me,” Tilda said, and she left.
The bodies in the last room were as bad as Fitz had said. They had been soldiers and lay in a heap surrounded by dented shields and broken helmets. Their chain mail coats had acted almost like strainers.
Block edged outside first through the open door into a short tunnel with a bend that kept sunlight from shining in directly, which was fine with Tilda as there was nothing she wanted to see better. She stood next to Dugan as the dwarf slipped around the corner, and whispered to him.
“What is a bugbear?”
“Biggest breed of a goblin.”
Tilda glanced at him. “I thought that was a hobgoblin.”
“No, bugbears are even bigger. Maybe eight feet, at the shoulder. Covered in hair, like a bear. But they climb like bugs.” Dugan glanced briefly at the bodies. “They favor big bardiche axes. Or mauls.”
Block whistled from up ahead and Tilda and Dugan stepped into the tunnel. The walls and low ceiling were of loose stone braced with timbers, not the smooth stone construction of the rest of the Underway nearby. This bit had been excavated long after the dwarves were gone.
Around the corner the tunnel opening was behind a large boulder, concealing it from view from the mountainside and hills in the area. Tilda emerged from behind the great stone to find herself in a dirt yard surrounded by a tall palisade wall of sharpened tree trunks, forming a square that met the mountain to either side at sharp, scooped-out cliff faces. This whole section of the Yellow Mountain seemed to have slumped some distance down the slope long ago. A smoking pile of wreckage was all that remained of one long wooden building within the palisade, while another that looked to have been a stable was simply collapsed in a heap against the mountainside. All around the yard lay refuse; broken weapons and furniture, blowing parchments, shredded blankets, a few gleams that might have been coins. There was a wagon turned on its side and a broken flagpole with a purple emblem trampled into the dirt. Straight across from the tunnel entrance was a gap in the palisade where the gate had been. Tilda did not see any doors, but she did not know if that meant they had been battered in, or wrenched off.
She and Dugan spread out a bit, both looking back up the mountain behind them. The way was steep. Tilda thought she could probably negotiate it but doubted something bigger than a hobgoblin could, no matter how bug-like were its climbing abilities. Block had crossed to the palisades and mounted a narrow walkway on the inside. He stared at the surrounding country all around in a number of directions for several minutes before coming back down, and approaching the others in the middle of the yard. The Captain met Tilda’s eye and pointed one finger at the ground. He crooked it and rolled his wrist in a circle. Take the weapon.
“I doubt it is worth looking for food,” Dugan said. “That’s probably what the bugbears were after.”
Block
hurled himself into Dugan’s lower legs, grabbing a sandal strap in either hand and twisting. The man twirled and pitched headlong, crying out as Block straightened and actually hoisted him airborne before darting away. Dugan landed on his tied backpacks with a grunt and lay there, more turtle-like than ever. Block pulled a pistol from his kitbag but held it at his side, left-handed. With his right he pointed a dagger at Dugan’s face.
Dugan blinked at the dwarf and sighed, then looked down at his own hip to where he had shifted his short sword to hang from a cord. The cord was cut, and Tilda was standing several paces away with the heavy imperial gladius in her hand. Dugan looked back at Block.
“Seriously. You want to do this right now?”
“Tell me where John Deskata has gone,” Block said softly. “Or Tilda repacks the luggage for two.”
Dugan lay back atop the packs, almost comfortably. He started to say something but abruptly stopped and shouted, “Cover!” He twisted sideways and started struggling loose from the packs.
“Don’t be an ass,” Block said, but then noticed at the same moment as Tilda that there was a shadow around Dugan, rapidly becoming bigger.
Tilda snapped her eyes up in time to see a boulder plunging down from high above, with more following. The first, half the size of a man, crushed a backpack Dugan had only just gotten loose from, missing him by inches and sending a sharp, echoing bang off the mountainside. The rocks behind it came like hail.
Tilda ran for the nearest shelter, the tunnel back into the Underway. Crashing rocks echoed behind her like cannon blasts, and a horn was blowing. She reached the bend in the short tunnel and turned to find the door closed. Fitz and his boys had shut it up behind them before leaving, but they could not have gone very far yet. Before she could start hammering on the door to bring them back, Dugan barreled into the tunnel behind Tilda and slammed her against the rock wall even harder than he had bashed her off the cottage before gutting Procost. She at least took this blow on her shoulder and hip rather than with her forehead, though she crumpled to the ground all the same. Dugan snatched his sword out of her numb hand as Tilda blinked up at him, and the blade. His eyes were as cold as they had been facing the knight.
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