The Valley of Thunder

by Charles de Lint

  "Okay," Annabelle said. "But, why don't you humor me? Tell me what's waiting for us."

  "In Quan, certain death at the hands of an illusion. In the gateway, certain death caused by your greatest fear made real. In the next level, certain death brought on by madness."

  "Wait a sec," Annabelle said. "You keep saying 'certain death.' How can I find certain death in the gateway when I've already died in Quan?"

  There was a long pause, then finally, the hollow voice admitted. "Should you go on, it is possible, though extremely unlikely, for you to survive one, or another, but not all of the dooms that lie in your way."

  "But we could go on and have a chance?"

  "The possibility is so slight that it is not worth considering."

  "Still, you wouldn't try to stop us—I mean, physically?"

  "Each individual is free to make his or her own choices in this world. That can never be taken away."

  "Okay, so you won't stop us. Can you help us some more? Give us some more info? I mean, come on. What's it gonna hurt you?"

  There was no reply.

  "Spirit?" Annabelle asked.

  Still silence.

  Annabelle reached forward and touched Reena on the shoulder. The fetish chief started, then spoke to her in the language of the rogha. The voice, while it had a hollowness to its tone, was nothing like the one with which she'd been speaking moments before.

  "What's she saying now?" Annabelle asked.

  "'What do you wish of me?'" Lukey translated.

  "We were talking..." Annabelle began. Her voice trailed off as Lukey shook his head.

  "Nope. You were talkin' to the darkworld spirit that gives Reena her powers—not to Reena herself. I've seen it before. Bin through the same thing myself when I first got here."

  "What the hell's going on?" Annabelle demanded.

  Sidi touched her arm. "I have heard of this before— among the rootmen of the Africans. The spirits fill the rootman's body like water filling a vessel. When the spirit departs, the rootman remembers nothing."

  "But that's not real," Annabelle protested. "Spirits... ghosts. It's just not real."

  "There are too many mysteries in the world." Sidi said, "for me to be able to decide which of them are illusions and which are real. In this Dungeon we have already seen what we thought to be impossible become real. When the bizarre is commonplace, who can honestly say what is or is not possible?"

  Annabelle nodded. "Okay. You got me on that one. But I'm still going on."

  "I would not think to argue with you, otherwise," Sidi said.

  Annabelle turned to Chobba. "And I'd like to get down to the ground now, if I could."

  "Sorry yoo go." Chobba said. "Chobba take yoo down. Chobba and yoo walk on legs to Quan, yuh? Hokay?"

  "Wish I could think of a way ta get you ta stay." Lukey said, "but damned if I can think o' one—not when you got your mind set on goin'."

  Annabelle started to rise, but the fetish chief suddenly thrust out a strong hand and gripp'd Annabelle's arm. She spoke quickly in rogha. masked face close, dark eyes glittering in their slits, inches from Annabelle's own.

  "What's she saying?"

  Lukey translated. "That even though you ain't got nothin' ta ask her. she's goin' ta tell you somethin' all the same. She secs in your white face a..." The old man paused, looking for a word. "Not a destiny. More like a mess a' hard times coinin', an' if you want ta make out okay, you got ta be willin' to depend on other people's strength, 'stead a' just tryin' ta pull the weight on your own. An' don't go lookin' too hard for what you think you want, 'cause you just might get it."

  Tomàs, who had remained silent through all the various exchanges, spoke up now. "So, will you listen to me now? I say we go back to find others, sim? They are not so estúpido as you."

  "Go back," Annabelle said. "Right. You ready to take on the chasucks, pal?"

  "We will go carefully."

  Annabelle shook her head. "You go. and anybody else who wants to go with you. Me. I'm going on. I'm getting outta this place, and the only way I see to pull that off is to keep on going."

  Shriek moved to Annabelle's side, her multifaceted gaze fixed unpleasantly on the Portuguese. And she will not go alone, the arachnid said.

  Annabelle smiled, and turned back to look at the fetish chief.

  "Thank you." she said. "You and your spirits." She waited for Lukey to translate. "Though we must go on. I will remember your advice."

  Reena nodded. She spoke softly.

  "'You are a strong woman with much pride.'" Lukey translated, "'an' that. too. will be a great help.' An' then she gave you her blessin'."

  The fetish chief walked away on her hands, then swung into the nearest branch and was gone.

  "That's really something." Annabelle said. "The way she moves."

  "Reena plenty strong," Chobba said, flexing his arm muscles. "Plenty smart. Big cheef. Like Chobba, yuh?"

  Annabelle grinned. "You got it." she said. "Can we get down to the ground now? It's either that, or I'll be falling off in another minute."

  With what passed for a smile on her alien features. Shriek swung over the side of the platform and started down. By the time Annabelle and the others of her party reached the ground, Shriek was there waiting for them. Chobba and a number of his warriors were planning to guide them to Quan. Surprisingly, Lukey joined the group as well.

  "Well. I'm not sayin' I'm goin' all the way." he said, "but I wouldn't mind catchin' just a peek a the place, an'—oh. hell, you never know. I might just find I'm ready to do some travelin' my own self. Bin livin' like a monkey for an awful lot a' years. Maybe it's time I learned ta live like a man again."

  "We're happy to have you," Annabelle said.

  "Oh. yes." Tomàs said. "Muito feliz. Very happy."

  Annabelle turned to the Portuguese, then frowned when she saw the guileless look on his face. The little bugger acted like he'd had a change of heart and meant it. Well, who knows? she thought. Nobody says he's gotta stay a sullen little weasel.

  "Walk on legs now, yuh?" Chobba said when they were all gathered on the game trail.

  They each had a new pack to carry, filled with provisions and water sacks. Annabelle's also had the pouch of byrr leaves, which Chobba had insisted she keep.

  "You guys know any walking songs?" she asked.

  When Chobba shook his head, she taught him and his warriors the chorus for "Da Doo Ron Ron." Making up words to fit their present situation, with the rogha answering her back with a lusty if slightly off-key chorus. Annabelle walked beside Chobba and Sidi as they set off for Quan. Even with the warnings of danger that lay ahead, she still felt better than she had in a long time.

  It's the ground under your feet. Annie B., she told herself. Don't go getting too cocky now.

  Maybe, maybe not. All she knew was that it was good to be moving under her own steam, their party strengthened, and no pack of land sharks on their ass.

  Things could be better, she thought. But then again, they could be a helluva lot worse.

  Nineteen

  They were trapped in utter darkness. Clive ran his hands along the metal door that had sealed them in, but could find no handle or bolt on this side to let them back out again.

  "Damn the man!" he cried, and hammered a fist against the door.

  A dull, hollow boom rang through the darkness.

  "Need light," Finnbogg said.

  "I've got the spark for a torch." Smythe said, taking flint and steel from the pocket of his jacket, "let's see if we can find something to burn."

  "What did he mean by things?" Clive said.

  Smythe's shrug was lost in the blackness. "In this place, it could be anything," he said. "Wouldn't surprise me to trip over a band of kobolds."

  "Can't find even a scrap of wood," Finnbogg said.

  His voice came from farther out in the darkness, where he was carefully feeling his way about, looking for fuel to burn.

  "Don't wander too far." Smythe warned him.
"I caught a glimpse of the size of this place just before they shut us in, and it's big enough to get easily lost in."

  "Perhaps I can help," Guafe said.

  Clive and Smythe turned in the direction of the cyborg's metallic voice.

  "God save us." Smythe muttered.

  He'd forgotten one of the uses of having a cyborg as part of their company. Guafe's eyes began to glow red, then redder, casting a dim light wherever he turned his gaze.

  "Nice of you to help." Clive said dryly, "all things considered."

  But he was happy for the light, no matter how dim it was.

  "We are in this together." Guafe replied.

  "Funny how you forgot that a few minutes ago. when we were talking to the fat pretender."

  "He was most... convincing."

  "Do tell," Smythe said. "Pity for you that you weren't. You might have been spared our company."

  "What we think of each other has no relevance to our situation." the cyborg said. "I merely wish to observe as much of this curious world as I may before I make my escape. This particular place holds little of interest."

  Clive nodded to himself. He tended to forget that while the cyborg looked human enough, the workings of his mind would no doubt always remain unfathomable, in some ways, the cyborg was less human than either Finnbogg or Shriek, he reminded himself. It would serve them all well if he didn't forget that.

  "Here, what's this?" Smythe said.

  Guafe turned his gaze in the Englishman's direction, illuminating a heap of what appeared to be discarded mining gear. Smythe picked a lantern out of the debris. Checking inside, he found the stub of a candle. More searching found a number of other lanterns—most broken, but all with bits of candle in them that could be salvaged.

  "The equipment seems rather primitive." Guafe said.

  Considering the technological marvels of their captors. Clive had to agree.

  "Perhaps that's why it's here." he said. "It's of no more use to them."

  "Perhaps." the cyborg said.

  Or perhaps. Clive added to himself, the things that the pretender had spoken of had made the Dramaranians abandon this mine a very long time ago. Though he wasn't given to either claustrophobia or a fear of the dark, he found himself keeping one ear constantly alert for any sound that they didn't make themselves. Whatever the Dramaranians kept down here to prey on their captives had to be extremely unpleasant if the best description of them was things.

  "Look." Finnbogg exclaimed, holding up a box of unused candles.

  "Good work, Finn," Smythe said.

  With bits of shaved wood and some straw padding from the seal of an old mine cart, he now had enough of a fire going to light the first candle stub. Setting it back into place inside the lantern, he held the lantern up so that they could get a better look at their surroundings, but while it illuminated their immediate area, its light was simply not strong enough to penetrate the cavern's deeper shadows.

  "There are rails here." Guafe said.

  He was pointing to where narrow rails, set on wooden ties, led off into the cavern. disappearing into the darkness some ten feet from where they stood.

  "We can follow them," he added.

  Clive nodded, but first, he held up the lantern that he'd lit for himself, turning its light to the door. The face of the massive door was utterly blank, one solid sheet of metal fit so snugly into the stone walls of the cavern that it would be a very long job to try to attempt to chip their way out, even with the use of the tools that lay in the heap of discarded gear. And there was another good reason for not attempting such an escape, he realized. The sound of their work would surely draw the Dramaranians back to investigate. They might be able to overcome a small party, but then they would have the entire complex of the underground city to transverse.

  No. They had to go on.

  "Does Neville's journal say anything of this place?" Smythe asked.

  Clive shook his head. "It was not mentioned in the last message." There was no point in looking for that entry again. He had almost become used to the way in which entries appeared and disappeared unexpectedly, impossibly, in the slim journal. Somehow Neville—or the Ren or the Chaffri. the rulers of the Dungeon—had found a way to write in the book while it rested in Clive's possession. Perhaps something had been added. He patted his jacket pocket and frowned. "Damn. I left it in my room. The Dramaranians have it now."

  Smythe shrugged. "It caused us as much trouble as it helped us."

  Thinking of Annabelle and the rest of her party, lost—more likely dead—in the jungles, Clive could only agree. If they had kept together....

  "We should follow the rails." Guafe said. "They must lead somewhere."

  "They'll only take us to wherever they were mining," Smythe said.

  "Not necessarily. In the Dungeon—"

  "Any-bloody-thing's possible," Smythe finished. "Right. But these rails...."

  "Do you have a better idea?" the cyborg asked.

  "This place our tomb." Finnbogg said suddenly. "Judgment of dead was that we be entombed alive, or eaten by creatures that live down here."

  "Those were living, breathing men and women that put us in here," Clive said. "They were no more spirits of the dead than we are."

  But again he tried to pierce the deeper darkness beyond the glow of their lanterns, an uncomfortable sensation of being spied upon crawling up his spine. Things, the pretender had said. Damn him. What manner of things?

  "We have no water, no provisions," Smythe said, "and these candles won't last forever."

  The stub he'd first lit was already guttering in its lantern. He lit a fresh one, then paused.

  "Look at this." he said.

  The candle's flame was being drawn away from the door where they were standing, deeper into the cavern, in the same direction that the rails led.

  "An air draft," Guafe said. "Created by an opening to the outside farther in. So the rails do lead somewhere other than merely the last shall in which they were working."

  Smythe nodded. "Well, that's settled, at least. We follow the rails."

  They salvaged what they could from the discarded mining gear. Candles filled their pockets. Finnbogg, Clive, and Smythe each carried a lantern. The dwarf took a small sledgehammer for a weapon, the others pry-bars. Smythe added a discarded tin container to his gear, tying it to his bell with a length of twine that he'd also discovered. He meant to use it to hold water, if they came across any. Over his shoulder, tied at each end with more of the twine, he carried a strip of sturdy canvas that he'd found bunched up in a corner.

  "I'd feel better with a rope." he said.

  "I'd feel better to simply be quit of this place." Clive said.

  "There's that."

  They set off then, following the two metal rails, their boots sending up hollow echoes as they tramped along the wooden ties.

  With no way to measure time, it was difficult to tell how long they followed the rails across that immense cavern, but eventually, they came to its farther side. As the dark bulk of the walls rose before them, disappearing into a darkness that their lights could not penetrate, they saw that the rails entered a large cleft in the wall. Stepping through, they now found the rails leading them through a series of smaller galleries that began to slope gently downward.

  Here, dripstone covered the rails in places, spindly stalagmites rising from the ties, forcing them to make detours from the actual path the rails took. Some of the galleries were small enough that their light reached to the walls on either side and the ceilings above, hung heavily with stalactites.

  In one gallery they came upon the first branching of the rails. They went along the ones that led to the right, but these followed a sudden dip, leading the party into a gallery where the walls and floor were heavily covered with knobby calcite growths. Here the stalactites had grown all the way to the floor, forming a bewildering series of columns. The cave coral on the floor made the footing very unsteady.

  In places the rails vanished u
nder the dripstone growths, so thick had they become. The party retraced their path back to where the track had initially split, taking the left turn this time. Here, the downward incline continued at a gentler slope, though the farther they went, the damper the air grew about them.

  They stopped twice to rest, once simply on the rails, the second time following the sound of water to the far side of a larger gallery where they found a pool of water, fed by an overhead drip. They drank there and rested again. Smythe filled his tin container before they pressed on.

  Clive's sense of the party being under observation by hidden viewers neither increased nor decreased, but the farther they went, coming upon no sign of any living creature, the more ill at ease he fell. The darkness beyond their lantern lights, the soft echoing shuffle of their footsteps rebounding hollowly from the walls, all added to his discomfort, making him brood.

  He worried about Annabelle and her party, his guilt at letting them go off on their own made worse by what Keoti had told him of the jungles and Annabelle's chance of surviving their dangers. Time and again he berated himself for not being firmer with her and keeping the two parties as one.

  The fact that they had had to leave Dramaran in disgrace irked him as well, and not just because of how poorly Keoti had been made to see him. It was more the thought of that fat pretender sitting safely amid all those technological wonders, wearing Neville's name like a badge of honor, his lies being accepted as truth, while the truth was made a mockery....

  It made Clive grit his teeth. He wished that there had been an opportunity for him to cross swords with the pretender to his brother's name. He would have enjoyed seeing that smirking smile wiped from the man's fat-jowled features.

  But thinking of the pretender brought thoughts of his twin to mind, as well. Ever since he and Horace had entered this damned Dungeon, Neville had been playing them for a pair of fools. Everything that happened to them seemed to be a part of some elaborate game, only no one had been kind enough to allow Clive and his party in on its rules. Finding that journal, mysterious voices, all that had happened to them following the advice that Neville had written in it....

  Perhaps Horace was right—they were better off without the damned thing. For if it was to have been of any use, why couldn't it have been more clearly written? Instead of riddles and vagaries, a few hard facts would have been far more than useful. Such as what this cavern entailed for them. Where would it take them? And what inhabited it?