As the Crow Flies: An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Robin Lythgoe

  I rolled up onto my feet and pelted down the passage as fast as I could go. I had the distinct sensation of being half-carried, but I didn’t have time to examine anything closely. With the egg held tight, I fled, one hand on the wall to guide me. When I’d rounded enough corners and bumps to shield me, I slowed to take out the last of the witchlights. It shone brilliantly, and I had no need to encourage it to work, which surprised and unsettled me. There was far too much magic in my life these days. At least it didn’t make my fingers hurt or my skin glow.

  The bellowing of the dragon continued to echo behind me, the noise amplified by the shape of the cave. Not about to rely on Duzayan’s “gift,” I ran all the way to the end of the large passage, across the cavernous entry floor, and sped into the smaller way leading down through the mountain and back to the temple. I slipped and skidded down the incline and around the corner, where I collapsed into a heap, gasping and trembling and covered in perspiration brought upon me by both running and stark fear. My belly churned and cramped horrendously. Laying back on the cold, uneven stone, I waited for it to settle and for my breathing to return to normal. With a short prayer to the gods of water and cleverness, I took a long drink from my recently filled flask.

  Finally, I sat up to examine my prize. It was, as I said, distinctly ordinary-looking, dull-colored, strangely leathery, and not particularly heavy. My hands didn’t tingle when I touched it. I pushed at it with one finger, and then nearly dropped the thing when the insides pushed back. I pushed again on another side, and the innards pushed back again. “Oh, joy,” I said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. I suspected another complication.

  “Can you hear me in there?” A stupid question, likely, for if I was bound up in a leather sack (and I had been once), I could hear what was going on outside it just fine.

  The egg thing bulged, but it didn’t say anything in return, which suited me perfectly. Bad enough I heard the voices of Kem’s long dead Ancestors without having a talking egg to deal with as well. Unslinging my pack, I untied the top to put the egg inside, but then I found myself worrying that it would be uncomfortable. Or rather, I was concerned that my tools, namely the grapnel, might poke a hole in the casing. I scratched my head, and in the end I put the egg inside my coat, only then it kept working downward, and I didn’t want to drop and injure it, so I loosed my clothes and put it in between my shirt and my outer tunic, tying the bottom secure with my belt. Looking down at myself, I perceived that I looked distinctly pregnant.

  Duzayan would pay for that, too.

  Sick, exhausted, and afraid that I might actually become accustomed to caves, the trip back down the mountain was no easier than the ascent. I clung to my little witchlight. With no one for company, I was left with nothing but the steady clump and scrape of my heavy feet going down and down and down—

  Until the sound of voices drifted up toward me. Real voices. Several of them. As you may recall, occasional tunnels and alcoves and doors led off the stair. I had not looked into any of them previously, but now I had no choice but to dive into the space behind the nearest door. I dashed back up the steps to the closest and slipped inside, whisking the door shut behind me. Holding the witchlight up, I discovered I was in a three-sided wooden box large enough for perhaps two or three men to fit inside, with a pair of chains on one side descending through the ceiling and thence the floor. I had no sooner made this discovery than the box moved and the chains grated. I was going down. There were mechanical lifts? Is that what those little hourglass shapes on the map had been? Why hadn’t the mapmaker put a more descriptive symbol? Think of all the time and trouble I might have saved!

  Duzayan didn’t give very good directions.

  The box swayed and stuttered downward, and I looked frantically for a way to escape. No trap door marked the ceiling or the floor. I had no convenient tunnels to leap into. With a clang and a bump, my descent came to a halt. I managed to drop the light down my shirt before the door creaked opened.

  I exploded out of the lift, successfully pounding the unfortunate door-opener in the face and knocking him flat. Catching hold of the edge of the panel, I swung my feet at the next man, knocking him right in the chest. His torch flew and he went down like a sack of potatoes. I leaped after him. If the fall hadn’t incapacitated him, my knee in his stomach did. He grunted and turned a funny color, and I had plenty of time to remove a short truncheon from my pouch and smack him smartly over the head. Twice. I absolutely refused to take chances.

  Only two brothers occupied the hall, praise be, but my first target sat up, his legs flung out haphazardly and his robes rucked up to reveal far too much of his skinny legs. I leapt to my feet to defend myself. He merely lifted both hands to his face, which bled profusely, and let out a long, tortured groan.

  “What a mess,” I commiserated, and he peered at me through bleary eyes that widened in sudden alarm. Alarm frequently led to action, and we couldn’t have any of that, so I whacked him, too. Twice.

  I stood there for a moment or two, looking up and down the corridor and listening for any sound of further company, then thrust my truncheon back into my pouch.

  “Are you all right, Egg?” I queried, carefully kneading the protrusion beneath my shirt. It had been subjected to some awful bouncing and squashing, but to my vast relief some knobby part of the creature it contained slid beneath my inquisitive fingers. “Sorry about that. Couldn’t be avoided.”

  May the gods please help me. I talked to rats, I talked to ghosts, I talked to eggs…

  Shaking my head, I dragged first one and then the other unconscious priest into the lift and relieved them of the burden of their valuables. I hauled on the chain enough to bring the box up off floor level, then slid underneath. I paused briefly to wonder what sort of counterweight managed the box, dismissed it as wizard work, and hoisted my boxed brothers up even further. Set into the floor beneath the box I found a pulley wheel. I contemplated it for a moment or two, then inserted one of the brother’s knives into a hand-sized link. Straightening again, I grabbed the chain as high as I could and put my entire weight on it. There came a lovely grinding, cracking noise, and the mechanism jammed.

  Dusting my hands off, I stowed my witchlight properly in my pocket. It was the one thing—or three, as the case may be—for which I could truly thank Duzayan, though the counts against him far outweighed my sense of cumulative gratitude. I retrieved the discarded torch and collected another from a half-barrel near the lift. If I’d known about the presence of the torches perhaps I would have appropriated one to use as a club, but all had worked well in the end.

  “So where are we?” I asked, looking about.

  To my surprise, the Voices whispered at me. We do not know. Deep, we are deep in the mountain! We will look. Shall we look? What shall we see?

  “Rocks, probably, but a way out would be lovely.” I had absolutely no confidence in them. A fickle and nervous lot they were.

  Out! Out! Out! they exclaimed. A brief, cool breeze preceded silence.

  I could not decide which was worse, the absence of the Voices or the thought that I was only imagining them and in severe danger of losing my mind, if it wasn’t completely gone already. One thing was certain: I needed to go “down” and I knew this passage led right back to the Real Vault.

  Descending the interminable stairs, I contemplated the reception likely awaiting me. How could I get past it, and how many more wizards would be involved? My encounter with the other two did not engender in me any confidence about fighting or tricking my way out in spite of the happy conclusion. I wondered where the dastards had ended up, and if they would ever be found again. Chasms in the belly of a dark mountain make a really good place to dispose of bodies. I hoped.

  “Are they dead?” I asked, half hoping for a response and half dreading it.

  Who, Friend, who? Who? Who? They resembled a flock of imbecilic owls, but their prompt response proved they’d not left me, which I found bizarrely comforting.

  “The wizard
s from upstairs.” Responsibility I could not comprehend clung to the word “friend.” It worried me.

  We will see! We will find them!

  Another chilly little breeze marked them dashing off, and then quiet reigned again. I trudged onward for at least two minutes before another rush of air swept over my face, swift enough to ruffle my hair and make me blink. My lack of concern was probably a sign of my exhaustion.

  Out! Out!

  “You found a way?” I could not help doubting.

  Yes! Will you come? Come see!

  “Will I fit and can I reach it?” My eyes narrowed further.

  The Voices twittered and skirled around me, debating amongst themselves. How big? Big enough? In pieces… Long, it is long! But no wizards there, no! No dragons!

  I liked the last two parts, but not the one about “in pieces.”

  Narrow, it is! He is narrow. Very narrow. Short! Not that narrow. Big enough! Come with us! We will show you!

  They were enthusiastic, I’ll have to admit. “All right, where is it?” I could not see them, but I swear they looped around the passage in elation, up and down and back and forth, and then they went shooting off. Without me. The gods did have their sense of humor. My witchlight and I continued our trek down the stairs, and I’d descended several levels before my ghostly friends rejoined me.

  Where is he? Is he lost? No! He is here. He did not come! Why did he not come?

  “I can hear you, you know,” I advised them sourly.

  He can hear us! Jubilation. Come this way!

  “Which way? I can’t see you! Gods protect me, I’m talking to invisible voices.” I suffered an intense urge to cry, which was neither manly nor useful, so I suppressed it and stood patiently waiting for the Voices to direct me and tried not to imagine the look of disgust on Tanris’s face should he bear witness to this.

  This way… this way… careful of our Friend… so dear! …come this way! Turn left.

  I turned left at the first opening, which required stepping up and ducking at the same time. I did not like that. Too uncomfortably like the Ghost Walk. I glanced back over my shoulder, reassuring myself that I could always come back to the main passage, and then I pressed on. I had to walk bent over awkwardly. My back ached after a while, then the Voices had me go down on my knees to crawl into an off-shooting tunnel. Kneeling, I wondered again about my sanity.

  “Why should I trust you?” I asked.

  There followed a moment of stunned silence which I found interesting and even funny. You are the Friend! We need you. We like you! You are precious, yes, precious! Precious!

  That was kind of disturbing. “Why?”

  To speak… share… help… advise. Yes! It comforts us. We comfort you. Lost! You were lost so long!

  I frowned, remembering how Old Jelal had pointed out the same quality—or flaw—and announced that something had “touched” me, and I had the means to figure out the confusion. Magic had touched me in the Ghost Walk, and changed me somehow. “Who are you?”

  The past. Counselors. Friends. Looking, looking, but now we have found you…

  I sat back on my heels, considering. I could perceive other peoples’ emotions and their presence. The voices in the Ghost Walk had not talked specifically to me, yet these did. When had they begun and were they the same? I closed my eyes and endeavored to remember. It had been in the Real Vault, when they’d directed me to the ugly statue. Clammy with dread, I fumbled for the pendant I’d taken. “It’s this thing, isn’t it?”

  No! Yes! Sometimes. Not always. Not later.

  “What does that mean?”

  It is ours. You are ours.

  I did not wish to be collared and owned; I had enough trouble with a miserable wizard thinking he could do that. I did not wish to be haunted. Pulling the pendant off over my head, I tossed it away. The Voices wailed pitifully.

  No! No! Do not leave us! they cried.

  Ignoring them, I crawled down the tunnel, pushing the torch ahead. The further I went, the more faint the whispering became. I let out a breath of relief and kept going. The tunnel twisted downward, but did not change in height or width. I bumped my head several times, until I sat down and wriggled my pack around to dig out my hat. Hopefully, it would cushion the blows somewhat. I checked the egg, and it moved in a sort of revolting manner. After a while, the tunnel branched. Both sides appeared to maintain the same level for as far as I could see. I rested there and studied them for a moment, queasy and wondering absently how long ago I’d eaten.

  “All right,” I surrendered. “Which way?”

  I heard a rustling like dry leaves, but no words.

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  “Hello!” I called, a little louder. I didn’t even hear an echo of my own voice.

  Strange dread crept up on me. The darkness seemed heavier, the surrounding rock more oppressive, the egg I carried more sinister. And I was cold. In spite of the movement that ought to have helped warm me, I was cold to the bone.

  Abruptly, I crawled backward. I couldn’t turn around and I couldn’t use the torch to light my reverse journey. I scraped my hands and knees and banged into the walls any number of times before I finally tumbled out into the larger passageway. Frantically, I cast about for the necklace, and when I saw the light gleam off its polished surface, I grabbed it up and held it close against my chest, panting in terror and relief. “I’ve got it back!” I shouted. “Don’t leave me here!”

  How pathetic was it to plead with ghosts?

  Their very soft voices gradually wrapped around me, and I had to hold my breath and strain to hear. Angry, he is… What have we done? Is he hurt? Frightened. Do we frighten him? Sorry! Sorry! What have we done? So sorry!

  The emotional and physical turmoil I’d suffered came out in tears to wet my cheeks. “I’m not angry. I’m not. I’m—” Desperately afraid. Not a wise piece of information to surrender to anyone, even apparently friendly ghosts. “I’m not used to talking to ghosts.”

  Ghosts! The air swirled with agitation.

  Were not the voices of people long gone ghosts? “I am not—used to talking to people I cannot see.”

  Cannot see us… No one sees us. Kalinamsin! Where is Kalinamsin now? Gone, gone! Who is this one? Like him, he is…Does he have a name? He cannot see us! Woe! Woe! What is his name?

  “Crow. My name is Crow!”

  He is a bird! Can he fly? He has no feathers, how can he fly?

  “Did you find the wizards?” I asked tentatively.

  Wizards, yes. Dangerous no more. Bottom of the abyss. Broken to bits. Pieces strewn all up and down. Wreckage spattered—

  “Thank you!” I interrupted. “That’s good to know. I can live without the graphic descriptions.”

  Fragile. Delicate sensibilities. Like a bird. Crow!

  On they went, their murmuring nonsense strangely comforting. I hung the amulet around my neck again, tucked it safely under my tunic, and set out to crawl back down the hideously small passage, fairly certain I was a raving lunatic and it would serve Baron Duzayan right should he happen to find some way to survive my wrath and bind me to him as his servant forever. When I came to the forked passage, it took a few tries to get the attention of my companions, for they were still arguing and debating over my name, my abilities, my relationship with Kalinamsin—whoever he might have been—something about a “door,” and their awful invisibility. They directed me to the left side.

  It descended sharply, awkwardly downward. I could not slide on my belly for fear of damaging the egg, and I couldn’t crawl because I kept pitching forward. It was a long, long way down, and I was alternately exasperated, afraid, hungry, sick, hopeless, and hysterical. Nothing prepared me to fall out of the side of the mountain. I missed seeing it altogether. From my sprawl beneath the pines, staring up at the cloud-covered sky between the branches, I reasoned the torch had blinded me.

  A pitchy, smoky smell assailed my nose and I sat up with a yelp. The torch smoldered again
st damp pine needles, and I leaped up to stamp it out before it became a blaze. Safe for the moment, I sat down on a fallen log, pressed one hand against my forehead, and laughed helplessly.

  — 24 —

  Burning, Looting, Squashing

  I would have liked an end of going up and down. I would have liked to stop moving entirely, for my hands and knees were bruised and torn, my head hurt, my back ached, and my belly roiled. What I wanted most in all the world—aside from a cure for the horrible poison—was a hot bath and then a warm, soft bed in which I could sleep for at least ten days. How long since I’d had a dose of the antidote? I couldn’t remember. Perhaps that was why I felt so ill and not what Brother Three had done to me. I had nothing but water to wash down my two bitter drops. I checked the egg, then forced myself up the nearest ridge to get my bearings.

  I don’t know why I didn’t smell or see the smoke before I made the exhausting climb. I blame the torch. Unexpected fear stabbed me as I stared down upon the dragon’s work. Whatever reason had kept the dragons from laying waste to the village before was now null and void. Houses and fields burned, and even the temple sent up a pillar of thick black smoke. People ran back and forth every which way. They were probably screaming, but the wind blew steadily at my back, taking their voices with it and tipping the column of smoke away east and southward from me. A group of people—the good brothers by the way they were dressed—ran to one side, bulging sacks under their arms and robes lifted high to keep from tangling in their pumping legs. They could only be looting, for the Vault itself with its walls and doors constructed of thick stone and marble would not burn. I had nothing against thieving itself, mind you, but a strict moral code forbids any such thing by priests, and looting is simply crass and vulgar. Wouldn’t priests be doing something to aid and protect their people rather than hightailing it for safety with sacks full of plunder?