They were unclad and weaponless, though they made up for the latter with rows of sharp teeth and knife-sharp claws on fingers and toes. After that first blood-curdling scream, their advance was a silent rush. The only sound they made was the soft padding of their feet on the cavern floor, the click of claws against stone.
Clive braced himself for their attack, then swung his pry-bar as the nearest creature leapt at him. His weapon caught it across the side of its head, splitting the skull with an unpleasant, wet cracking sound. The creature dropped, but there was no opportunity for Clive to regard his handiwork, for a pair of the creatures immediately took the place of the one he'd just slain, in moments, all four of them were lighting for their lives against the swarming horde.
Because of their position in the entryway to the next gallery. the creatures could only attack them from the front and sides, so the party ranged itself, with Finnbogg and Smythe on either flank. Clive and Guafe in the center. They presented a solid face to their enemy, weapons rising and falling as they met the wave of horrid creatures. It took no time at all before each member of the party bore numerous claw cuts on their arms, while the sleeves of their jackets and shirts were torn into shredded strips that flapped when they swung their weapons.
It was steady, unpleasant work. The creatures died quickly—there was soon a mound of bodies underfoot—but their numbers were such that for long, wearying minutes, Clive and his party had no moment to even catch their breath, they were kept so busy. Then, finally, as some twenty or so of the small bodies lay strewn about them, the remaining attackers withdrew. Their wounded attempted to retreat as well, but Guafe immediately stepped forward and killed them as they tried to crawl away.
The creatures were vocal now. They hissed and spat at the party as they gathered themselves for another charge, jabbering to each other in high-pitched voices that grated on the ear. One or another would charge forward, almost within range of the party's weapons, then dart back as quickly.
"This isn't a battle." Clive said. "It's simple butchery."
"Better them than us." Smythe said.
Clive nodded. "But it's distasteful all the same."
He wiped his palms on his trousers. The blood of the creatures had sprayed all over the party, and they had the look of messy butchers about them.
"At least now we know what the pretender was speaking of." Clive added.
"They'll have to do a better job than this to stop us." Smythe said. "They have the numbers, but even with the numbers, they don't have the strength to stop us."
True, Clive thought, but the creatures could wear them out.
At the other end of the line they made, Finnbogg brandished his bloodied sledgehammer at the creatures.
"Come on!" he shouted at them. "Spineless worms!"
Clive toed one of the nearby corpses with his boot, starting when the creature stirred and made a feeble grab for his foot. Smythe brought down his pry-bar, splitting the creature's skull. Clive started to nod his thanks, but the horde chose that moment to renew their frantic attack.
They swarmed forward in a living wave of pale flesh, hissing and jabbering, claws flashing, jaws snapping. Clive killed two, three, then one slipped through and fastened its jaws on his shoulder. Mostly it got just a mouthful of jacket, but the teeth nipped into Clive's flesh, and the force of the creature's lunge, and its impact on his shoulder, was enough to turn Clive around.
He tore the creature off and heaved it to the ground. The thing scrambled toward his legs. As he brought up his pry-bar to kill it, he lost his footing on the blood-slick stones, and his feet went out from under him. He managed to bring down his weapon with enough force to stun the creature, but as soon as he fell, there were suddenly two more of them leaping for him, claws ripping at his chest, catching in the fabric of his jacket, jaws snapping inches from his face.
He kept them from his throat by holding the pry-bar in a two-handed grip and pushing it up against their torsos. Spittle sprayed his face as the creatures fought to get at him, but then Guafe was there. Two quick blows killed them. The cyborg took a stance that covered Clive long enough for him to regain his feet.
He glanced in Finnbogg's direction and saw the dwarf go down under four or five of the creatures. He started forward to help, but Finnbogg shrugged them off. his sledgehammer rising, killing a pair for each blow. The fifth he kicked in its stomach, then brought his weapon down on the top of its skull. Brain matter and blood sprayed from the force of the blow.
Clive turned to renew his own attack against the creatures then. fighting beside the dwarf now, as Guafe had taken his own position beside Smythe. His arms were wearying under the work, but still the creatures kept coming, snarling and spitting, dying quickly enough, but for each that fell, there was another there immediately to take its place.
The air reeked of blood. Sweat dripped from Clive's brow, stinging his eyes. He found it more and more difficult to swing the pry-bar. Once a comfortable weight, it grew more leaden with each passing moment. Glancing at Smythe, Clive saw that he, too, was wearying. His blows had less force to them, and his responses to each attack were slowing.
But Finnbogg maintained his strength, weapon rising and falling in an untiring rhythm, while Guafe was a killing machine. The heap of corpses rose waist-high around the party, and still the creatures came. They scrambled over the wall of their dead comrades, launching themselves over the top with a ferocity that Clive had never encountered before. On and on they came, until he was sure he could lift his arms no more.
And then, suddenly, they withdrew a second time, this time vanishing into the shadows beyond the light of the party's lanterns.
"Quickly, now." Smythe said wearily. "Through to the next cave."
Guafe kept watch while the others stumbled through. There was still no sign of renewed activity in the darkness where their foes had fled.
"There!" Smythe called.
He pointed to a heap of rubble. Setting down his pry-bar and lantern, he went over and began to manhandle a rock toward the entryway through which they'd just come. Clive immediately came to help him roll the huge stone across the cavern floor.
Once they saw what he was about, Finnbogg and Guafe quickly lent their strength to the task. Faking turns watching for the creatures, they built up a wall of stone to block the narrow entryway. In the end it was only Guafe who had the strength to lift the stones up to close the final few feet of the gap. The others brought the rocks over. When the entryway was finally sealed, the party collapsed where they stood.
"God," Clive said, "I've never seen such creatures."
Smythe nodded. "If the attack had lasted much longer, they would have had us."
"Perhaps." Guafe said.
Clive felt a momentary irritation at the cyborg's calm control. Although he looked as bloody and disheveled as the rest of them, he wasn't even breathing hard. He stood, gazing off to where the rails led on across this new gallery, the battle apparently already forgotten.
But then Clive remembered who it was that had saved his life not twenty minutes ago, whose strength—along with Finn's—had been the telling point of their surviving the battle.
"Thank you," he told the cyborg.
Guafe merely shrugged. "I wish to be quit of these caverns and see what the next level holds," he said. "And I would rather travel in your company."
Why? Clive wanted to ask, but he realized that this wasn't the time to get into an argument with Guafe.
Though he held no great affection for the cyborg, he was pragmatic enough to know that they would more than likely need Guafe's strength again before they were free of this place.
"Hear water dripping," Finnbogg said.
In a weary group, the party made their way across the gallery to the pool that was the source of the sound. The roof of the cavern over the pool rose in a high, dark shaft, and it was from it that the water was dripping.
They drank deeply, then stripped and cleaned the gore from their bodies and clothes.
Smythe was the first to be done. Shivering in his wet clothes, he used his pry-bar to work free a couple of the wooden ties on which the rails lay. With the sledgehammer and bar, he broke one up enough to get kindling, with which he started a fire. Slowly, be fed wood to it. By the time the rest were finished cleaning themselves, he had a good blaze burning, around which they all gathered.
"We should have brought in a few of the dead creatures to roast," Guafe remarked.
Clive blanched. "We couldn't eat them—they were almost human."
The cyborg shrugged. "We have to eat."
"I think I'd prefer simply to tighten my belt for now," Smythe said.
"Suit yourselves." Guafe said. "But if we run into more of the creatures. I, at least, plan to see how they taste."
They rested by the fire long after their clothes were dry. Tearing the shredded strips from their sleeves, they bandaged the cuts on their forearms. Clive's shoulder was beginning to stiffen up where the creature had bitten him, and both Smythe and Finnbogg had wounds on their legs that were sore, but not deep.
Their greatest worry, Clive thought, was the danger of infection, but there was little they could do about it, except what they already had done—clean the wounds and bandage them.
When the fire died down, they returned to the rails and went on.
Time passed, but they had no way of telling day from night, or how long they had been traveling. They rested when they were weary, walked on when they had rested. Twice, they came upon pools in which fat, white, eyeless fish swam. The creatures were easy to catch, but they had little taste and, though they were nourishing, all were aware of a constant sense of gnawing hunger that could not be appeased. Their wounds continued to itch, but seemed to be healing. Their supply of candles was dwindling—so much, and with no end to their journey in sight, that they were using only one lantern.
They kept a firm lookout for more of the murderous creatures who had attacked them, but they suffered no further attacks after that first one. Either the cleft they had blocked had been enough to stop them, or the creatures simply didn't fare this deeply into the cavern. None of the party really wanted to dwell on why that might be, but it was something that couldn't easily be put aside. Was there something still worse waiting for them?
The rails continued on. Sometimes the track split, leading them into more than one blind alley, but mostly it took them deeper and deeper underground.
"What can we look to find on the next level?" Smythe asked Finnbogg at one point.
"A big city," the dwarf replied.
"Another ruin?"
"No. Many people there, just like us—" Which could mean just about any sort of being, Clive thought. "—ruled by the Lords of Thunder."
"And who are they?" Guafe asked.
The dwarf shrugged. "Finnbogg doesn't know."
"And what is their level of technology?"
"Finnbogg doesn't know."
Smythe gave Clive a quick glance. "Best leave off, sah."
Clive nodded. There was no sense in getting Finnbogg into one of his states.
"I remember hearing of these Lords of Thunder," Guafe said slowly. "From a being I traveled with on one of the upper levels. They are elected to their position, but the elections are held every seven days, so the actual lords change from week to week. Then again, the same being told me at another time that the city holds a lottery every seven days, and that the winners—or maybe I should say losers—are fed to the Lords of Thunder."
"Wonderful," Clive said.
"Sounds as though your source was about as reliable as ours can be." Smythe said.
"It's not Finnbogg's fault Finnbogg doesn't know everything." the dwarf said.
"This is true." Guafe said. "With so many levels, and everything in such a confusion, a human would find it impossible to keep it all straight."
Finnbogg still looked glum—almost on the verge of tears.
"There, there, Finn." Smythe said soothingly. "We know you're doing your best."
That was the day—as they referred to their waking periods—that the rails simply stopped.
They gave out on the far side of another enormous cavern, at a cleft that dropped at a steep angle into yet another gallery. Standing at the opening of the new gallery, they discovered that this one was blocked with a wall. The light from their lantern was strong enough to show them that the wall was twelve to fifteen feet high. Beyond its height, the gallery's roof was lost in the darkness. On the left side of the clef t was a corridor that took an immediate sharp turn some ten feet down its length.
Having come this far. there was no turning back. They set off down the corridor, taking its turn, to find themselves presented with a choice of three corridors.
"Now what?" Smythe muttered.
But Clive had a sinking feeling that was soon proved all too prophetic. "It's a maze," he said.
Smythe field the lantern into each opening. From its light they could all see that each corridor opened on to others.
"Bloody hell." he said.
"There is usually some logical method of making one's way through such a thing." Guafe said.
"In this Dungeon?" Smythe asked.
The cyborg nodded. "There is that."
"Which way to go?" Finnbogg asked.
"We'll be in here forever." Smythe said.
But Clive wasn't listening to any of them. Instead, he was remembering a Midsummer's Eve when he was ten years old, and the maze that he and his brother had walked through that day. Neville, as always in such situations, had had absolutely no trouble working his way to the end, but Clive had been trapped in there for hours, eventually driven to tears of frustration by his failure to win free.
Until the voice had spoken to him.
That mysterious voice.
You may fate the moon, or you can have it at your left shoulder, it had said.
Following the voice's advice, he had made his way safely through.
But something nagged at Clive as he remembered.
That voice....
In a hazy fashion, he could recall another instance when it had spoken to him, in another garden. Or at least he could recall the fact that it had—not the details. Tied up that recollection was a mixture of other dreamlike memories ... of Annabella, of London. and of pain.
He rubbed at his upper left arm.
He'd been swallowed by darkness, and there had been voices bidding him to forget....
He shook his head. Now wasn't the time for reverie. All it was giving him was a headache. Instead, he put his mind to the task at hand.
You may face the moon, or you can hair it at your left shoulder....
Clive took the lantern from Smythe's hand and lifted it above his shoulder. High above, somewhere on the roof of the cavern, he saw a glint of reflected light. It wasn't a moon, but....
That voice had helped him more than once. But, he wondered, that first time... could that early hedge maze have been merely a preparation for the Dungeon? How could that be possible?
He was loath to put their fates on such a flimsy hope, but when be looked at his companions, and saw that none of them had anything better to offer, he squared his shoulders. Following that old advice was as likely a solution as their other options would be, which amounted to either guesswork or blind luck. So, what did they have to lose?
Realizing that it was up to him. as leader of the party, to take command of the situation—even if the source of information on which he made his decision was somewhat suspect—he faced the "moon" and started off down the left-hand corridor.
"This way," he said.
Twenty-two
Annabelle swung back and forth on the rope, like a weight at the end of a pendulum. She kept her eyes shut. Her face was bleached with fear. After her first startled cry. she kept quiet, trying to hold in the contents of her stomach as the rope spun her in a dizzying arc, back and forth across the trail.
The alarm bell in the trees above had stopped tolling, but its echo continued
on in their minds. The Quanians, or whoever it was who had set the trap, would not be long in getting here—not with an alarm system rigged up.
The rogha came scrambling up through the branches of the trees around Annabelle. Yssi climbed to where the rope holding her was tied to the tree, and swung it until Tarit and Chobba could catch Annabelle. They quickly cut her free. Chobba put her on his back.
"Hold hard, yuh?" he told her.
Annabelle put her arms around his neck, but she didn't think she had the strength to hold on, until the first time Chobba launched himself through the air from one branch to another. Heart in her throat, Annabelle gripped his neck so tightly she had to be choking him, but Chobba didn't even seem to notice.
Warning cries came from the rest of the party still on the ground. Chobba swung onto a perch in the crook of two branches. Through her unreasoning panic, Annabelle managed to crack open her eyes and look over Chobba's shoulder, to see what the cries were about.
A small, round, metal ball the size of a softball hovered in the air near the sprung trap. There were various small, tubelike protrusions sticking out from its surface, none of them longer than an inch. A faint whine came from the ball as it slowly spun around, it was taking stock. Annabelle realized. A new fear cut through the haze of her panic.
"That's a mobile scouting unit." she told Chobba. "It'll have visual and audio input—probably heat sensors, as well. We've gotta get out of here. Pronto."
Chobba turned to her, his face inches from her own, the confusion in his features plain.
He didn't understand a word of what I said, Annabelle realized.
"Plenty bad." she said. "Go quick. Hide."
He nodded, but the scouting unit chose that moment to make the very real danger it presented to them apparent in a less nebulous fashion. A thin red beam issued from one of its tubelike projections. It moved in the direction where Nog was perched.
The Valley of Thunder Page 17
