"He's still alive," Will whispered.
"Only just," Horace replied. He placed his forefinger to the Celt's neck to gauge the pulse there. At the touch, the man's eyes slowly opened and he gazed up at the two of them, uncomprehending.
"Who:you?" he managed to croak. Will unslung the water bottle from his shoulder and moistened the man's lips with a little of the liquid. The tongue moved greedily across the wetness and the man croaked again, trying to rise on one elbow.
"More."
Gently, Will stopped him from moving, and gave him a little more water.
"Rest easy, friend," he said softly. "We're not going to harm you."
It was obvious that somebody had done him harm-and plenty of it. His face was matted with the dried blood that had welled from a dozen whip cuts. His leather jerkin was shredded and torn, and his bare torso underneath showed signs of more whipping-recent and from long ago.
"Who are you?" Will asked softly.
"Glendyss," the man sighed, seeming to wonder at the sound of his own name. Then he coughed, a racking, rattling cough that shook his chest. Will and Horace exchanged sad glances. Glendyss didn't have long, they both realized.
"When did you come here?" Will asked the man, gently allowing more water to trickle through the dried, cracked lips.
"Months:" Glendyss replied in a voice they could barely hear. "Months and months I've been here:working on the tunnel."
Again, the two boys looked at one another. Maybe the man's mind was wandering.
"Months?" Will pressed him. "But the Wargal attacks only started a month ago, surely?"
But Glendyss was shaking his head. He tried to speak, coughed and subsided, gathering his fading strength. Then he spoke, so softly that Will and Horace had to lean close to hear him.
"They took us almost a year ago:from all over. Secretly:a man here, two men there:fifty of us in all. Most of the others:dead:by now. Me soon." He stopped, gasping for breath again. The effort of speaking was almost too much for him. Will and Horace looked at each other, puzzling over this new information.
"How was it that nobody knew this was happening?" Horace asked his friend. "I mean, fifty people go missing and nobody says anything?"
But Will shook his head. "He said they took them from villages all over Celtica. So one or two men go missing-people might talk about it locally, but nobody could see the entire picture."
"Still," said Horace, "why do it? And why are they so open about it now?"
Will shrugged. "Maybe we'll get an idea on that if we take a look around," he said.
They hesitated uncertainly, not sure what they could do for the crumpled, battered form beside them. As they waited, the moon rose, soaring over the hills and flooding the bridge and the bank with soft, pale light. It touched on Glendyss's face and his eyes opened. Then he tried weakly to raise an arm to ward off the light. Gently, Will leaned forward to shield him.
"I'm dying," said the miner, with a sudden clarity and a sense of peace. Will hesitated, then answered simply.
"Yes." It would have been no kindness to lie to him, to try to cheer him along and protest that he would be all right. He was dying and they all knew it. Better to let him prepare, to let him face death with dignity and calm. The hand clutched feebly at Will's sleeve and he took it in his own, pressing it gently, letting the Celt feel the contact with another person.
"Don't let me die out here in the light."
Again, Horace and Will exchanged glances.
"I want the peace of the Out of Light," he continued softly, and Will suddenly understood.
"I guess Celts like the darkness. They spend most of their lives in tunnels and mines, after all. Maybe that's what he wants."
Horace leaned forward. "Glendyss?" he said. "Do you want us to carry you into the tunnel?"
The miner's head had swiveled to Horace as the boy spoke. Now he nodded, faintly. Just enough for them to make out the action.
"Please," he whispered. "Take me to the Out of Light."
Horace nodded to him, then slipped his arms under the Celt's shoulders and knees to lift him. Glendyss was small-boned and the weeks he had spent in captivity had obviously been a time of starvation for him. He was an easy burden for Horace to lift.
As the warrior apprentice stood straight with Glendyss cradled in his arms, Will motioned for him to wait. He sensed that once Glendyss was in the peace of the dark tunnel, he would let go of the faint thread that held him to life. And there was still one more question Will needed answered.
"Glendyss," he said softly. "How long do we have?"
The miner looked at him wearily, uncomprehending. Will tried again.
"How long before they finish the bridge?" he asked. This time, he could see a light of understanding in the Celt's eyes. Glendyss thought for a second or two.
"Five days," he replied. "Maybe four. More workers came today:so maybe four."
Then his eyes closed, as if the effort had been too much. For a second, they thought he had died. But then his chest heaved with a massive shudder and he continued to breathe.
"Let's get him into the tunnel," Will said.
They squeezed through the narrow opening. For the first ten meters, the walls of the tunnel were close enough to touch. Then they began to widen, as the results of the Celts' labor became evident. It was a dark, confined place, lit only by the dim flames of torches set in brackets every ten to twelve meters. Some of these were guttering now, and provided only a fitful, uncertain light. Horace looked around uneasily. He didn't like heights and he definitely didn't like confined spaces.
"Here's the answer," Will said. "Morgarath needed those first fifty miners to do this work. Now that the tunnel is nearly finished, he needs more men to get the bridge built as quickly as possible."
Horace nodded. "You're right," he agreed. "The tunneling would take months, but nobody would see it was going on. Once they started building the bridge, the risk of discovery would be much higher."
In the wider reaches of the tunnel, they found a small sandy patch, almost a grotto, off to one side. They laid Glendyss in it. Will realized that this must have been what the two Celts had been trying to do for their countryman when the stop-work horn had sounded.
He hesitated. "I wonder what the Wargals will think when they find him here tomorrow?"
Horace merely shrugged. "Maybe they'll think he crawled in here by himself," he suggested. Will thought about it doubtfully. But then he looked at the peaceful expression on the dying miner's face in the gloomy light and he couldn't bring himself to take the man back outside once more.
"Just put him a little farther in, as far out of sight as you can," he said.
There was a small elbow of rock and Horace gently placed the miner behind it. He was now visible only if you looked carefully and Will decided that was good enough. Horace stepped back into the main tunnel. Will noticed that he was still glancing uneasily around.
"What do we do now?" Horace asked. Will came to a decision.
"You can wait here for me," he said. "I'm going to see where this leads."
Horace didn't argue. The thought of going farther into that dark, winding tunnel didn't appeal to him at all. He found a place to sit, close to one of the brighter torches.
"Just make sure you come back," he said. "I don't want to have to come looking for you."
20
T HE TUNNEL, LEVEL AT FIRST, BEGAN TO ANGLE STEEPLY UPWARD as Will went on, leaving Horace behind him. The walls and floor showed evidence of the Celts' picks and drills as they had torn and gouged at the rock to widen the path.
Will guessed that the original narrow tunnel had been nothing more than a natural fault in the rock-a mere crevice. But as he went on, he saw how much it had been widened, until there was room for four or five men to walk abreast. And still it climbed up into the heart of the mountains.
A circle of light showed the end of the tunnel. He estimated that he'd traveled maybe three hundred meters in total and the end was anot
her forty away. The light that he could see seemed to be stronger than simple moonlight and, as he carefully emerged from the tunnel, he saw why.
Here, the hills separated, forming a large valley about two hundred meters across and half a kilometer long. To one side, the moonlight showed him massive wooden structures leading up to the higher reaches of the plateau. Staircases, he realized after a few moments' study. The floor of the valley was lit with campfires and there were hundreds of figures moving in the flickering orange light. Will guessed that this would be the assembly area for Morgarath's army. At the moment, it was where the Wargals kept their Celt prisoners at night.
He paused, trying to form a picture of the overall situation. The plateau that formed the greater part of Morgarath's domain was still at least fifty meters above this point. But the staircases and the less formidable slope of the surrounding hills would provide relatively easy access down to this valley. The valley itself must be some thirty meters above the level where the bridge stood. The sloping tunnel would take troops down to the bridge from here. Once again, Halt's words echoed in his ear: nowhere is really impassable.
He moved to the left of the tunnel mouth and found cover in a jumble of rocks and boulders while he took stock of the situation. There was a rough stockade in the center of the valley. Inside the wooden fencing, he could see a large number of small fires, each with a group of figures seated or sprawled around it. This was the prisoners' compound, he guessed.
Large fires outside the compound marked the places where the Wargals were camped. He could see the hulking, shambling forms clearly against the firelight as they moved around. Yet there was one fire close to him that seemed different. The figures seemed more upright, more humanoid in the way they stood and carried themselves.
Curiously, he worked his way closer to it, sliding through the night with barely a sound, moving quickly from one patch of cover to the next, until he was just at the outer ring of light thrown by the fire-a spot where he knew the darkness, by contrast, would seem more intense to those sitting around the fire.
There was a haunch of some kind of meat roasting slowly over the fire and the smell of it set his mouth watering. He'd been traveling for days on cold rations and the meat filled the air with a delicious fragrance. He felt his stomach begin to rumble and fear stabbed through him. It would be unthinkably bad luck to be betrayed by a rumbling stomach, he thought.
The fear did the trick, killing his appetite. His digestion more or less under control, he edged his face around a boulder, low to the ground, to get a better look at the figures eating by the fire.
As he did so, one of them leaned forward to slice off a chunk of the meat, juggling the hot, greasy food in his hand as he took it. The movement let the firelight shine clearly on him and Will could see that these were not Wargals. From their rough sheepskin vests, woolen leggings bound with tapes and heavy seal-fur boots, he recognized them as Skandians.
Further study showed him their horned helmets, round wooden shields and battleaxes piled to one side of the campsite. He wondered what they were doing here, so far from the ocean.
The man who had moved finished his meat and wiped his hands on his sheepskin vest. He belched, then settled himself in a more comfortable spot by the fire.
"Be damned glad when Olvak's men get here," he said in the thick, almost indecipherable accent of Skandia. Will knew that Skandians spoke the same tongue as the kingdom. Hearing it now for the first time, though, he barely recognized it.
The other sea wolves growled their agreement. There were four of them around the fire. Will edged forward a little to hear them more clearly, then froze, horrified, as he saw the unmistakable shambling form of a Wargal moving directly toward him from the other side of the fire.
The Skandians heard him coming and looked up warily. With an immense feeling of relief, Will realized that the creature was not coming toward him but was approaching the Skandians' fire.
"'Ullo," said one of the Skandians in a low voice. "'Ere comes one of Morgarath's beauties."
The Wargal had stopped on the far side of the fire. He grunted something unintelligible at the group of sea raiders. The one who had just spoken shrugged.
"Sorry, handsome. Didn't catch that," he said. There was an obvious note of hostility in his voice. The Wargal seemed to sense it. He repeated his statement, growing angry now. Again, the circle of Skandian warriors shrugged at him.
The Wargal grunted again, growing angrier by the minute. He gestured at the meat hanging over the fire, then at himself. He shouted at the Skandians now, making eating gestures.
"Ugly brute wants our venison," said one of the Skandians. There was a low growl of dissent from the group.
"Let him catch his own," said the first man. The Wargal stepped inside the circle now. He had stopped shouting. He simply pointed to the meat, then turned his red, glaring eyes on the speaker. Somehow, the silence was more menacing than his shouting had been.
"Careful, Erak," warned one of the Skandians, "we're outnumbered here at the moment."
Erak scowled at the Wargal for a second, then seemed to realize the wisdom of his friend's advice. He gestured angrily at the meat.
"Go on then. Take it," he said curtly. The Wargal stepped forward and snatched the wooden spit from the fire, taking a huge bite at the meat and tearing a large chunk loose. Even from where he was lying, scarcely daring to breathe, Will could see the ugly light of triumph in the red, animal eyes. Then the Wargal turned abruptly and bounded out of the circle, forcing several of the Skandians to move hurriedly aside to avoid being trampled on. They heard his guttural laugh as he faded into the darkness.
"Damn things give me the heebies," muttered Erak. "Don't know why we have to have anything to do with them."
"'Cause Horth don't trust Morgarath," one of the others told him. "If we're not along, these damn bear-men will keep all the plunder for themselves and all we'll get is the hard fighting at the Plains of Uthal."
"And hard marching too," put in another. "Wouldn't be any fun with Horth's men either, working their way around Thorntree Forest to take the enemy in the rear. That's rough going, all right."
Will frowned as he heard that. Obviously, Morgarath and Horth, who, Will assumed, was a Skandian war leader, were planning another treacherous surprise for the kingdom's forces. He tried to picture a map of the countryside around the Plains of Uthal, but his memory was sketchy. He wished he'd paid more attention to the geography lessons Halt had taught him.
"Why is geography so important?" he remembered asking his teacher.
"Because maps are important if you want to know where your enemy is and where he's going," had been the reply. Glumly, Will realized now how right he had been. Halt had shaken his head at him then, in that mock serious way he had. Suddenly, thinking of his wise and capable teacher, Will felt very lonely and more than a little out of his depth.
"Anyway," Erak was saying, "things'll be different when Olvak's men get here. Although they seem to be taking their damned time about it."
"Relax," said the other speaker. "It'll take a few days to get five hundred men up them South Cliffs. Think how long it took us."
"Yeah," said another. "But we were blazing a trail. All they 'ave to do is follow it."
"Well, they can't get 'ere too soon for me," said Erak, rising and stretching. "I'm for sleep, lads, just as soon as I've done the necessaries."
"Well, don't do 'em 'ere by the fire," said one of the others irritably. "Go up behind them rocks there."
Horrified, Will realized that the Skandian had gestured toward the rocks where he was hiding. And now Erak, laughing at the other man, was turning and heading his way. It was definitely time to go. He scuttled backward a few meters, then, crawling rapidly on his stomach, used all his training and natural skill to blend with the available cover.
He'd gone perhaps twenty meters when he heard a splashing sound from the spot where he'd been eavesdropping. Then he heard a contented sigh and, looking back,
saw the shaggy-haired form of Erak silhouetted against the glow of the hundred or so campfires in the valley.
Realizing that the Skandian was intent on what he was doing, Will slipped through the darkness and back into the tunnel. He went carefully for the first few meters, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light of the torches. Then he began to run, his soft hide boots making barely a noise on the sandy floor.
21
H E HAD FOUND H ORACE WAITING FOR HIM, HIS HAND READY on his sword hilt, where he had left him in the tunnel. "Did you find out anything?" the apprentice warrior whispered hoarsely. Will let go a pent-up breath, realizing that he'd been holding it for some time now.
"Plenty," he said. "All of it bad." He held up a hand to forestall Horace's further questions.
"Let's get back across the bridge," he said. "I'll tell you then." He glanced into the side tunnel where they had left the Celt miner.
"Have you heard anything more from Glendyss?" he asked. Horace shrugged sadly.
"He started moaning about an hour ago. Then he went quiet. I think he's dead. At least he died the way he wanted to," he said, then he followed Will back through the dimly lit tunnel to the bridge.
They made their way across the planking again, to where Evanlyn waited with the horses, well back from the bridge and out of sight. When they were close, Will called her name softly, so as to avoid startling her. Horace had left his dagger with Evanlyn and Will thought an armed Evanlyn would not be a person to approach unexpectedly.
As he described the scene at the other end of the tunnel, he hastily scratched a map in the sand for them.
"Somehow, we're going to have to find a way to delay Morgarath's forces," he said.
The other two looked at him curiously. Delay them? How could two apprentices and a girl delay five hundred Skandians and several thousand relentless Wargals?
"It hought you said we should get word to the King," Evanlyn said.
"We don't have time anymore," Will said simply. "Look."
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