The trail was so narrow in some parts that the party had to go single file. This was awkward for Catchflea, but awkward in the extreme for Riverwind, being as tall as he was and not having the use of his arms. Both men bumped their heads and barked their knees on sharp outcroppings. The girl doubled back at one point and took hold of Riverwind’s chain. She steered him gently through the obstacles, never saying a word. When the tunnel finally broadened again, she left Riverwind with the leader and went back to bring Catchflea along. She was not so careful with him, and he protested loudly.
“We see who her favorite is, yes?” the old man said grumpily. His nose had stopped bleeding, but he had fresh gouges on his shins.
“Maybe it’s your beard,” Riverwind said. “These elves don’t seem to favor facial hair.”
“Barbarians,” the old man muttered.
The dead air of the corridor freshened. A definite breeze, warm and scented with a smoky tang, washed Riverwind’s face. The blue globes were more numerous, and the men could see that they had descended below the strata of basalt into a more mixed realm. Crystals glinted in the walls, and streaks of red and purple stone showed in the worn floor. There were signs of water, too; ruts eroded along the right side of the passage emitted a moldy odor.
After one more sharp turn to the right, the tunnel ended. The gloom of the close passage gave way to brighter air. Riverwind straightened his back and stopped walking. The girl tugged vainly on his chain. He would not budge. He was taking in a sight of great wonder.
“Catchflea” was all he could say. The old man stood by Riverwind’s shoulder, mouth agape.
They had arrived in a vast cavern, several miles long and at least a mile wide. It was a true cave, with mighty stalactites twenty feet long hanging from the roof, four hundred feet overhead. On the distant right side of the cave was a rough opening to another cavern, also filled with light.
The cave’s floor was broad and flat, forested with garishly hued stalagmites. Yellow, blue-white, and orange concretions sprouted from the floor. Even more remarkable was the truly enormous number of blue globes that clustered on the conical towers of stone. Riverwind couldn’t begin to count them. Many were dark, but enough were lit with their unnatural, moving light to make the cavern as bright as the Que-Shu village at twilight.
The elf leader unsnapped a catch on the neck of his helmet and removed the headgear. He had broad shoulders for his height, and these rose and fell when he sighed. The leader’s hair was long and shining white, though his face gave no clue as to his age. In a conversational tone, he spoke at length to the two men. He gestured at the great cavern and sighed once more.
A path had been cut through the stalagmites. Once away from the tunnel mouth, the girl bolted free of the soldiers and ran. Two of the trailing soldiers started after her, but the leader called them back.
“I’m sorry to see her go,” Riverwind said. “Hers was the only spark of kindness I’ve seen in these people.”
“I hope she runs far, yes. Then they cannot hurt her,” Catchflea observed.
The breeze was stronger in the upper end of the cave. Tinkling chimes of bronze and copper hung from thin chains between the peaks of the stalagmites. Catchflea was enchanted by the sound. He wandered unconsciously toward the chimes, until the soldiers steered him back. They were less brutal this time. The cave seemed to inspire a mood Riverwind could only think of as reverence.
The acrid smell was more pronounced in the cavern. A yellowish haze hung in the air near the roof, swirling around the hanging spires. The odor reminded Riverwind of a blacksmith’s forge—burning coal and hot metal.
The path broadened near the arched opening into the next cavern. The leader pointed into the new cave and said one word: “Vartoom.”
“What does he mean?” asked Riverwind.
“Vartoom,” the leader repeated. “Vartoom.”
“Sounds like a name, yes,” Catchflea said. Raising his voice, he said, “I understand; your home is Vartoom, yes?”
“Vartoom,” said the leader, then resumed his march.
Where the first cave ended and the second began there was a deep chasm, too deep to estimate. Across this gulf was a narrow bridge of stone. The leader walked quickly onto the span, though it was no wider than his own foot. He urged Riverwind to follow. “Moyun!”
The plainsman balked.
“I can’t balance on a narrow track like that!” Riverwind said. “Not with my arms bound!” The leader waved and repeated the word “moyun” to him.
Catchflea looked over the edge and blanched. “Mercy!” he gasped. “We can’t do it!”
“They don’t understand that we’ll get dizzy and fall,” Riverwind said. The soldier behind him gave him a little push. “No,” he said, planting his feet. “I’ll fall.” The elf pushed harder. Riverwind snapped his head around and scowled at him. “NO!” he said more loudly. The soldier fell back to his fellows, muttering nervously. The leader kept repeating “moyun,” with less and less patience.
“Take off our chains and we’ll follow. You needn’t bind us. There’s no place for us to escape to,” Riverwind said, twisting to present his chains to the leader. The gist of his meaning seemed to penetrate the language barrier. The leader crossed back briskly and untwisted the length of wire that secured the ends of the chain. Riverwind shrugged off his bonds and rubbed some feeling back into his chafed arms. On a word from their leader, the elf soldiers drew swords while the leader freed Catchflea.
“I don’t think they trust us,” the old man said.
“Moyun,” said the leader.
The ramp was not only narrow, it was also glass-smooth. The soles of Riverwind’s deerskin boots slipped on the treacherous surface. Catchflea essayed a few steps on the dizzy bridge, then backed off. A soldier poked him in the stomach with his sword point. Catchflea yelped and bounded away.
“Let me have my shoes off, yes?” he screeched, pointing at his feet. The elves watched impassively as he unwound the rags that held his cobbled-up bits of leather on his feet. On the bridge he proceeded more surely, gripping the cold stone with his bare toes. The soldiers, shod in metal-studded sandals, came nonchalantly after him.
Despite a few scary slips, Riverwind made it across. The leader, hands planted on hips, frowned at his awkward progress. He said something that sounded sarcastic. Riverwind was glad he didn’t understand the words. The tone was insulting enough.
The ground on the other side of the bridge was carefully terraced in a series of broad, low steps. The stalagmites had been hammered off at elven shoulder height—Riverwind’s waist level—and the flat stump tops decorated with delicate metal sculptures. Catchflea was intrigued, especially by the abstract ones. Coils of brass wire, silver bells, and rods of green-patinated copper, all balanced on pinpoint bases, moved gently in the wind. Catchflea put out one thin hand to touch the airy treasures.
A soldier smote him across the shoulders with the flat of his blade. Outraged, Riverwind whirled and grabbed the offender by his polished backplate and hauled him off his feet. Armor and all, the elf probably weight one hundred and fifty pounds. Riverwind hoisted him over his head and held him there. The elf howled in fear and anger. The leader brandished his sword and spoke imperious commands.
“You want him down?” Riverwind puffed. “Have him then!” He heaved the squirming bully at the remaining two soldiers. The elf landed with a crash, though his comrades were timely in their dodge.
Breathing hard from the exertion, Riverwind said to the leader, “If you want to abuse us, at least give us swords, so we can fight like men!” The head elf yelled right back at him. The debate was still raging when the elven girl returned.
All fell silent. The girl was not alone. Beside her was a rather tall elf, dressed in an ankle-length skirt of shimmering copper thread. His hair, like that of the soldiers’ leader, was white. His thin, pale chest was bare, and he wore a necklace of copper tubes strung radially around his neck.
The leader
of the soldiers snapped something angry at the newcomer. The skirted elf replied in soothing fashion and gestured at the girl. She shrank away from the soldier, speaking in pleading tones. Riverwind was fascinated by the interplay, even though he couldn’t fathom the tongue.
Catchflea had recovered from his blow. Coughing, he joined Riverwind. “Why did he do that? I only meant to touch the bells, yes?”
“Who knows? Perhaps touching them is taboo.” He pointed to the skirted elf. “This one looks like a priest.”
“He sounds kindly,” Catchflea said. Riverwind agreed, though for all he knew, the two elves could be arguing over who’d get to execute them.
The soft-spoken “priest” elf reached into a hidden pocket in his skirt and brought out two bits of jewelry. The girl bowed her head with great deference and took both pieces. She approached Riverwind and held one up for him to see: it was an amulet, wrought in gold, which fit neatly in her small hand. At first Riverwind thought it was made to represent a butterfly, but upon closer inspection he saw it was actually a likeness of two elfin ears joined in the center.
“You want me to wear this? A gift?” he asked. Riverwind had to bend far down to get within the small girl’s reach. She dropped the chain over his head. He straightened, and the heavy amulet swung against his chest.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You are welcome,” she replied.
“I understand you!”
“As you should. You wear the Sign of True Hearing, which makes our words known to you.” The girl’s eyes were bright on his face. “My name is Di An.”
“I am Riverwind, son of Wanderer, of the Que-Shu.”
Catchflea tugged impatiently on his sleeve. “What is it?” Riverwind asked.
“Gug murga lokil la,” said Catchflea. Riverwind stared. He couldn’t make out a thing his companion said. “Grom sust idi wock!”
“Let me give him a Sign also,” Di An said. She hung an identical amulet around Catchflea’s neck.
“—supposed to get by with no one to talk to? I’ll go mad, yes?”
“Ho there, old one; can you understand me now?” Riverwind said.
Catchflea blinked rapidly. “By my ancestors! So I can.”
“This is not proper,” the elf leader said darkly. “The intruders would have been easier to control if they didn’t know what we were saying.”
“If you cannot persuade, you cannot control,” said the skirted elf. He faced the Que-Shu men and smiled. “I am Vvelz. I greet you in the name of the Hall of Light.” The head soldier harumphed. “And this impatient person is Karn, lieutenant of the Host.”
“Who are you people?” Riverwind said.
“We are the people of Hest,” Vvelz said.
“What is this place?” asked Catchflea.
“We are near the city of Vartoom. We shall all be going there soon.”
More questions formed on Riverwind’s lips, but Karn said, My mistress awaits our return.” To Vvelz he muttered, “I shall tell Her Highness of your meddling.”
Vvelz dismissed him with a wave. “Do what you will. It is I who sits at Li El’s right hand, not you.” Karn snorted and pushed Riverwind and Catchflea into motion.
A few yards down the terrace steps a horseless wagon stood on level ground. Karn, his soldiers, and the two humans mounted the open back. Vvelz stood by the empty trace poles. After a nod from Karn, he raised thin white arms over his head. Though his lips never moved, Vvelz’s voice rang inside Riverwind’s head, commanding: Come hither, diggers, and take up your burden. Riverwind’s head reeled as the command was repeated. He felt as if he’d been struck a blow. To Catchflea he said, “Did you feel that?”
“Not only us,” the old man replied. “Look!”
One by one, small elven figures clad in black appeared. Di An joined them. They approached Vvelz like sleepwalkers, their eyes glazed, their arms limp at their sides. At additional commands from Vvelz, the elves arranged themselves at the handles attached to the twin trace poles. Ten black-clad elves, male and female, filled the spaces at the handles. Vvelz climbed in the wagon with the others.
“Where to, Karn?” he said cheerily.
Karn gave him a sour glare.
Vvelz shrugged and lifted his hands. To the palace, and be quick! The elves bent their backs, and the wagon lurched forward. Riverwind had a strong urge to leap over the side and join them, for Vvelz’s words resonated in his mind with awful persistence. Only as miles passed beneath the wagon’s wheels did the strange compulsion fade.
Catchflea was likewise gripping the side rail tightly, looking dazed. Karn studied their reactions closely. Riverwind mastered himself, and focused his mind on the black-garbed elves hauling the wagon along.
“Are these people slaves?” he asked. “I loathe slavery; it is a wicked institution.”
“They are diggers,” Karn said laconically.
Catchflea said to Vvelz, “You are a sorcerer, yes?”
Vvelz inclined his head. “I am a fellow of the Hall of Light, just as Karn is a fellow of the Hall of Arms. Those who do not qualify for either house remain diggers.”
Riverwind was outraged. Turning his gaze from the straining backs of the diggers to Vvelz, he said, “Who speaks for the diggers? Who protects them and champions their needs?”
Karn laughed. “They get what they need,” he quipped.
“We look after them,” Vvelz said calmly. “They are very important to us.”
“As a farmer tends his beasts?”
“More like a father tending his children.” Vvelz glanced at the diggers. “Every Hestite has the chance to enter the Hall of Light or the Hall of Arms, once they reach adult age. Those with strength and agility take up the sword; those with wit and magical talent apprentice as sorcerers. Those with none of these traits work as diggers.”
Riverwind was not mollified. Before he did serious harm by insulting their captors, Catchflea interrupted.
“Am I correct in thinking you are elves?” he asked.
Vvelz recoiled so sharply that his flowing silver hair lashed across his shoulders. “You must not speak that word!”
“It is forbidden!” added Karn. His hand moved toward his sword.
Riverwind and Catchflea exchanged a glance. “You will forgive me, yes?” the soothsayer said. “I did not know.”
Riverwind noticed that while Vvelz was agitated, the diggers pushed the wagon faster. Somehow his will acted like a spur to drive them on. Some of the diggers stumbled trying to keep up. The plainsman saw Di An, the smallest elf present, slip from her handhold as larger diggers outstripped her effort. She grabbed futilely at the handle as it tore away. She fell. The diggers behind her trod mindlessly over her.
Riverwind vaulted over the side and ran ahead of the iron-shod wheels. He shoved his way through the diggers and snatched up Di An mere seconds before the front right wheel would have cut her in two.
Vvelz halted the wagon. “Is she hurt?” he inquired.
Riverwind brushed grit from the girl’s face. She was featherlight in his arms. “Bruises only. I will put her in back.”
“No,” Karn said sternly. “Diggers do not ride with warriors.”
“Then I shall carry her.”
And he did. The diggers reformed and fell to heaving the wagon again. Riverwind strode alongside with Di An cradled in his arms. Shamed to ride, Catchflea stepped down and shuffled ahead to keep pace with his companion.
“If you walk, tall man, I walk,” he said.
Di An groaned and stirred. She came to, and when she saw where she was, she thrashed wildly.
“Please! Put me down!” she cried.
“It’s all right,” Riverwind said gently. “I have you.”
“No! I must pull with my brothers!” She squirmed out of his grasp.
“You were hurt, child. Take your ease a while, yes?” Catchflea said.
“I cannot! The High Ones command us serve, and I must—” Tears streaked her face. “You’re hurting me.”
Riverwind opened his arms, and Di An dropped to the ground. Before the astonished men could say anything, the elf girl was back in her place, hunched over the trace pole of the heavy wagon.
“You see,” called Karn from the wagon, “Hestites know their place.”
Catchflea grabbed Riverwind’s arm. The plainsman was taut with barely suppressed anger. “Be prudent, tall man,” he hissed. “We are strangers in a very strange country. Let’s listen twice before we answer once, yes?”
Riverwind nodded curtly. “You’re pretty wise for a fool who talks to acorns,” he muttered. Riverwind put a hand on Catchflea’s shoulder and, together, they walked on toward the underground city of Vartoom.
Chapter 5
City of Smoke and Fire
They rolled across a spacious plain, wider than the previous cavern and with a much higher ceiling. Clouds actually formed in the upper reaches, muting the light from the enormous brazen sphere that blazed at the peak of the cavern’s vaulted roof. The plain was carpeted with floury gray soil and, most remarkably, grass and flowers. They were not like any plants the Que-Shu men had ever seen before. Their stems and leaves were a listless gray-green, and the flower petals were brilliant shades of orange, pink, and yellow. After receiving a nod from Vvelz, Catchflea plucked a gaudy pink blossom and put it to his nose.
“No smell,” he said.
“It doesn’t look real,” Riverwind remarked. He rubbed the petals with his thumb. “I’d swear it’s painted!”
The way was carefully laid out by fitted blocks of gray granite, so old and worn that the wagon’s wheels fit neatly into ruts in the stone made by countless wheels before. The smoky smell was much stronger on the plain. It was enough to make Riverwind’s nostrils burn.
“What is that odor?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Is there an odor?” Vvelz replied lightly.
Riverwind the Plainsman Page 6
