by neetha Napew
a flashlight or two. Caution decided him against the attempt. The torch would
serve well enough, and his accuracy where conjuration was involved thus far left
something to be desired.
The ground was damp from the mist-caress of late evening, and Mudge's tracks
stood out clearly. Occasionally the boot marks would cross each other several
times in one place, indicating where the otter had rested behind a large boulder
or fallen log.
Once the gap between the prints abruptly lengthened and became intermixed with
tiny polelike marks, evidence that Mudge had given chase to something. The pole
prints soon vanished and the otter marks shortened in stride. Whether the otter
had made a successful kill or not Jon-Tom couldn't tell.
Oblivious to the fact that he was moving steadily deeper into the woods, he
continued to follow the tracks. Unexpectedly the brush gave way to an open space
of hard-packed earth that had been raised several inches above the level of the
surrounding surface. The footprints led up to the platform and disappeared. It
took Jon-Tom long minutes before he could locate traces of them, mostly scuffs
from the otter's boot heels. They indicated he'd turned off to his right along
the artificial construct.
"Come on back, Mudge!" There was no reply, and the forest swallowed any echo.
"Caz brought in something already, and everyone's getting worried, and my feet
are starting to hurt!" He started jogging down the platform.
"Come on out, damn you! Where the hell have--?"
The "you" was never uttered. It was replaced by a yelp of surprise as his feet
went out from under him....
XVII
He found himself sliding down a gentle incline. It was slight enough and rough
enough so that he was able to bring himself to a halt after having tumbled only
a few yards. The torch bumped to a stop nearby. It had nearly gone out. Flames
still flickered feebly at one corner, however. Leaning over, he picked it up and
blew on it until it was once more aflame. Try as he would, though, he couldn't
induce it to provide more than half the illumination it had supplied before.
The reduced light was barely sufficient to show that he'd stumbled into an
obviously artificial tunnel. The floor was flat and cobbled with some dully
reflective stone. Straight walls rose five feet before curving to a slightly
higher ceiling.
Having established that the roof was not about to fall in on him, he took stock
of himself. There were only bruises. The duar was scratched but unbroken. Ahead
lay a blackness far more thorough and intimidating than friendly night. He
wished he hadn't left his staff back in camp. There was nothing but the knife
strapped to his belt.
He stood, and promptly measured the height of the ceiling. Carefully turning
around, he walked awkwardly back toward the circle of moonlight he'd fallen
through. Nothing materialized from the depths of the tunnel to restrain him,
though his neck hairs bristled. It is always easier to turn one's back on a
known enemy than on an unknown one.
He crawled up the slight incline and was soon staring out at the familiar
forest. The lip of the gap was lined with neatly worked stone engraved with
intricate designs and scrollwork. Many twisted in upon themselves and were set
with the same dimly reflective rock used to pave the tunnel.
He started to leave... and hesitated. Mudge's last boot prints had been moving
in this direction. A close search of the rim of the hole showed no such prints,
but the earth there was packed hard as concrete. A steel rod would not have made
much of an impression upon it, much less the boot of an ambling otter.
The paving of the slope and tunnel was of still tougher material, but when he
waved the torch across it the light fell on something even more revealing than a
boot print. It was an arrow of the kind Mudge carried in his hunting quiver.
Crawling back inside, he started down the tunnel. Soon he came across another of
the orphaned shafts. The first had probably fallen from the otter's quiver, but
this one was cleanly broken. He picked it up, brought the torch close. There was
no blood on the tip. It might have been fired at something and missed, to
shatter on the wall or floor.
It was possible, even likely, that Mudge was pursuing some kind of
burrow-dwelling prey that had made its home in the tunnel. In that case
Jon-Tom's worries might prove groundless. The otter might be just ahead, busily
gutting a large carcass so that he'd have to carry only the meat back to camp.
The thought of traveling down into the earth and leaving the friendly exit still
further behind appalled him, but he could hardly go back and say truthfully he'd
been able to track Mudge but had been too afraid to follow the otter the last
few yards.
There was also the possibility that his first assumption might prove correct,
that the creature Mudge had been pursuing had turned on him and injured him. In
that case the otter might he just a little ways down the tunnel, alive but
helpless and bleeding.
In his own somewhat ambivalent fashion Mudge had looked out for him. Jon-Tom
owed him at least some help, with either bulky prey or any injuries he might
have suffered.
With considerable trepidation he started moving down the tunnel. The slope
continued to descend to the same slight degree. From time to time torchlight
revealed inscriptions on the walls. There also were isolated stone tablets
neatly set into recesses. Directions perhaps... or warnings? He wondered what he
would do if he reached a place where the tunnel split into two or more branches.
He was too intent on the blackness to study the revealing frescoes overhead.
He had no desire to become lost in an underground maze, far from surface and
friends. No one knew where he was, and when the night rain began it would
obliterate both Mudge's tracks and his own.
Holding the torch ahead and to one side, he continued downward.
Mmmmmm-m-m-m-m-m...
He stopped instantly. The eerie moaning came clearly to him, distorted by the
acoustics of the tunnel. He knelt, breathing hard, and listened.
Mmmm-lllll-l-l-l-l...
The moan sounded again, slightly louder. What unimaginable monster might even
now be treading a path toward him? His torch still showed only blackness ahead.
Had the creature already devoured the poor otter?
He drew the knife, wishing again for the staff and its foot-long spear point. It
would have been a particularly effective weapon in the narrow tunnel.
There was no point in needlessly sacrificing himself, he thought. He'd about
decided to retreat when the moan unexpectedly dissolved into a flurry of curses
that were as familiar as they were distinct.
"Mmmm-l-l-l-let me go or I'll slice you into stew meat! I'll fillet you neat and
make wheels out o' your 'eads! I'll pop wot little eyeballs you've got out o'
their sockets, you bloody blind-faced buggerin' ghouls!"
A loud thump sounded, was followed by a bellow of pain and renewed cursing from
an unfamiliar source. The source of the first audible imprecations was no longer
in doubt, and
if Mudge was cursing so exuberantly it was most likely for the
benefit of an assailant capable of reason and understanding and not blind animal
hatred.
Jon-Tom hurried down the corridor, running as fast as possible with his
hunched-over gait. There were still no lights showing ahead of him, so he had
burst around a bend and was on top of the busy party before he realized it.
Letting out an involuntary yell at the sight, he threw up his arms and fell back
against a wall, waving knife and torch to keep his balance. The effect produced
among Mudge's attackers was unexpected, but highly satisfactory.
"Lo, a monster!... Daemon from the outer world!... Save yourselves!... Every
mole for hisself... !"
Amid much screaming and shrieking he heard the sounds of tiny shoes slapping
stone racing not toward but away from him. This was mixed with the noise of
objects (weapons, perhaps) being thrown away in great haste by their panicky
owners.
It occurred to him that the sight of a gigantic human clad entirely in black and
indigo, flashing a reflective green lizardskin cape and brandishing a flaming
torch and knife, might be something which could truly upset a tunnel dweller.
When the echoes of their flight had finally faded away, he regained control of
his own insides and lowered the torch toward the remaining shape on the floor.
" 'Ad enough, then, you bloomin' arse'oles?" The voice was as blustery as
before, if softer from lack of wind. "Be that you, mate?" A pause while otter
eyes reflected the torchlight. "So 'tis, so 'tis! Untie me then mate, or give me
the knife so's I can cut--"
"If you make a move, outworlder," said a new voice, "I will slit what I presume
to be your friend's throat. I can get to it before you can reach me."
Jon-Tom raised the torch higher. Two figures lay on the floor of the tunnel. One
was Mudge. His feet were bound at the ankles and knees and his arms done up
similarly at wrists and elbows. A carrying pole had been slipped neatly between
the bindings.
Leaning over the otter was a furry creature about four feet tall. His attire was
surprisingly bright. He wore a yellow vest studded with blue cabochons and held
together across the chest with blue laces. Additional lacings held the vest
bottom securely to what looked like lederhosen.
A ringlet much like a thin tiara sat askew on the brown head. It was fastened
under the chin by yellow straps. Broad sandals were laced across its feet. The
sandals were pointed at toe and heel, possibly a matter of design, perhaps to
aid in digging, giving freedom to the long thick claws on each hind foot.
One hand was fitted with a yellow metallic glove. This covered the creature's
face as he squinted sideways through barely spread fingers, though he was trying
hard to look directly at Jon-Tom and his torch.
The other hand held the sickle-shaped weapon that was resting on the otter's
throat. Mudge's own weapons lay scattered on the floor nearby, even to his
secret heel-boot knife. His arrows, sword, and bow shared space with the spears
and wicked-looking halberds abandoned by those who had fled at Jon-Tom's
appearance.
"I say to you again," repeated the determined gopher, his grip tightening on the
sickle-knife, "if you move I'll open this thief's neek and let out his life
among the stones."
"Thief?" Jon-Tom frowned as he looked back down at the tightly trussed otter.
"Ah, you fart-faced worm eater, that's the biggest lie since Esaticus the eagle
claimed to 'ave done it flyin' underwater!"
Jon-Tom settled back against the cool wall and deliberately lowered his knife,
though he didn't go so far as to replace it in its sheath. The gopher watched
him uncertainly.
"What has been going on here, Mudge?" he asked the otter quietly.
"I'm tellin' you, mate! I was out huntin' for our supper when I tripped while
chasin' a fine fat broyht. I fell down into this pit o' 'orrors, where I was
promptly set upon by this 'orde o' rabid cannibals. They're blood-drinkers, lad.
You'd best take care o' this one with your magical powers afore--"
"That's enough, Mudge." He looked up at the gopher. "You can put up your sickle,
or knife, or whatever you call it, sir. That position can't be too comfortable."
He set the torch down on the floor. "I'm sorry if my light hurts your eyes."
The gopher was still wary. "Are you not this one's friend?"
"I'm his associate in travel. I'm also a believer in the truth. I promise not to
attack you while we talk, or make a hostile move of any kind."
"Lad, you don't know wot you're sayin'! The minute you put up your knife 'e's
likely to--"
"Mudge... shut up. And be glad I'm here instead of Clothahump. He'd probably
just leave you." The otter went quiet, muttering under his breath.
"You have my word," Jon-Tom informed the gopher, "as a traveler in your country
and as a," he thought rapidly, "as a wizard who means you no harm. I swear not
to harm you on my, uh, sacred oath as a spellsinger."
The gopher noted the duar. "Wizard it may be, though it was more of a daemonic
effect you had upon my men." Reluctantly the scythe blade moved away from
Mudge's throat.
"I'm Jon-Tom."
"And I am called Abelmar." The gopher moved his hand away from his eyes and
squinted painfully at the man. "It was your light as well as your appearance
which startled my troop. Most of them are moles and the light is far more
hurtful to them than to me, for my kind occasionally make daytime forays when
the city so requires it. Some daytime activity is necesary for the maintenance
of normal commerce, much as we of Pfeiffunmunter prefer to keep to ourselves."
He looked meaningfully down at Mudge.
"Except when we are intruded upon by cutthroats and thieves."
" 'Tis all a bloody lie!" Mudge protested. "When I get out o' these blinkin'
ropes I'll do some intrudin' you'll never forget. Come on now, mate," he said to
Jon-Tom, "untie me."
Jon-Tom ignored the twisting, writhing otter. "I meant no intrusion, Abelmar. My
friend says that you attacked him. You've called him a thief."
"I am in charge of the east-end morning patrol," explained the gopher. He looked
worriedly back down the tunnel. "Citizens will soon be appearing on nightly
business, awakening from the day's sleep. It would be embarrassing for them to
see me this way. Yet I must carry out my duty." He stiffened.
"Your associate is guilty of attempted theft, a sadly common crime we must
continually face when we deal with outlanders. Yet it is not the theft that
troubles us so much as the vandalism."
"Vandalism?" Jon-Tom looked accusingly at Mudge.
"Yes. It is not serious, but if left unchecked could become a serious threat to
our neatly built community. Do you have any idea, Jon-Tom, how taxes go up when
the public thoroughfares are torn to pieces by strangers?"
" 'E's lying through those oversized teeth o' 'is again, mate," Mudge protested,
though with less conviction this time. "Why would I want t' go around rippin' up
'is blinkin' street?"
Abelmar sighed. "I suppose it is our own fault, but we are aesthetes by nature.
>
We enjoy a bit of brightness in our city, for all that it gives us problems with
ignorant travelers such as this," and he kicked Mudge in the back. "But I see
you still do not understand." He'd grown accustomed enough to Jon-Tom's torch to
look without blinking now.
"Look," and he bent toward Mudge.
"Careful!" Jon-Tom took a step forward and raised his knife.
"Easy move, Jon-Tom stranger," said the gopher. "If you are suspicious of my
movements, then look instead at your own feet. Or can it be in truth you have
not looked closely at our fine streets?"
Jon-Tom knelt cautiously, still keeping an eye on the gopher. Moving the torch,
he stared intently at the closely laid bricks. They gleamed as dully as those
he'd encountered near the tunnel entrance, only with the torch resting directly
on them the glow intensified. They threw back a half-familiar, reddish-yellow
light.
"Common enough below Pfeiffunmunter," said the gopher with a trace of
bitterness, "but not to those who come along and try ripping it out of our
beautiful pathways and boulevards. It makes for pretty paving, don't you think?"
"Surely now that you understand you can excuse me the temptation, mate," said
Mudge defensively. "You wouldn't think these grave diggers would be so greedy
they'd resent a poor visitor a few cobblestones."
"Excuse me." Jon-Tom rose and almost cracked his head again on the low ceiling.
"I apologize to you for any damage, Abelmar."
"It's not too bad. You have to understand," the gopher told him, "that if we let
this sort of thing persist and word of it spread 'round the outworld, before too
long we'd have mobs of sunlifers down here destroying all our public
thoroughfares, our roads, and our very homes. It would be the end of
civilization as we know it."
He paused. Noise was growing behind him, moving up from the depths of the
tunnel. "Travelers out for an evening walk," the gopher surmised, "or else my
men, the cowardly bastards, coming back to see if anything's left of me." He
sighed. "I have my duty, but I can face reality as well. We have something of a
standoff here, friend spellsinger. I must confess I am now more interested in
punishing my men than in your pitiful petty thief of a friend.
"If you will get him out of here and promise not to let him return, and will do
