Part 21 (1/2)

Soren hesitated, then with a grunt whisked the flashlight out of his hand. Yet before he turned to lead the way again he directed the beam up past the others at Rennor's sweat-soaked face. The man was giving everything he had to keep up, and to avoid a fatal slip on the nearly vertical walls of the pa.s.sage. Soren chuckled quietly as he resumed the descent.

Down into Graxmoar they burrowed, every step an exercise in caution. Eventually the flashlight revealed a smooth floor where the tunnel leveled off at once. Soren leaped the last few ledges, Caleb following soon after; Warren jumped half as far, landing lightly on his feet; Rennor struggled to the last ledge in the rocky wall and sank to the floor in exhaustion.

The other end of a short pa.s.sage ended at a small, dust-covered door. Soren hesitated, his fingers tight around the flashlight as the beam played over the rotting planks. Warren edged closer to his father.

Caleb squatted beside Rennor. ”I need you to stay with Warren while Soren and I go inside.”

The man leaned back against the damp wall, taking a moment to catch his breath. ”Here? Why? And why now?”

”I know, I should have left him by the stone with you. But I need to find out what lies beyond that door before I expose my son to it.”

Rennor's gaze strayed to Warren. ”There's nothing to fear. What we sense is only memories of evils done with the Second Lor'yentre ages ago.”

”Or a prescience of evils yet to come,” muttered Soren, glancing at the boy as well. ”Your faith in our history and lore changes to suit your arguments. I've tolerated your company this far only because it hasn't posed any real threat to our mission. But I refuse to allow anyone who hasn't taken the Oath to step beyond that door.”

Caleb, fuming over Soren's implied accusation about his son, surged to his feet. ”What about me?” he asked. ”I thought I was unworthy to be a Raen. Or have you forgotten what you said to me the other night?”

The Master Raen glared at him as Caleb pointed at the door. ”I'm going in there, Soren. I need to find out whether I'm chasing a dream, or exchanging it for something far worse.” He gripped the hilt of his Fetra. ”But I'm through putting up with your innuendos-especially your insinuating little glances at my boy. Either accept me as a full Raen, or finish what you started!”

For a moment Caleb thought he was going to call his bluff. Then Soren's eyes lost their fire, and he nodded.

Caleb looked down at Rennor. ”What about you?”

”What choice do I have? At least show me the courtesy of telling me when you find something.”

”Done,” said Caleb.

Warren shook his head emphatically when his father explained this arrangement. Rennor could be charming when necessary, however, and before long the boy sat nervously at his side.

Caleb grasped one of the short branches he had carried down from the surface, while Soren brought out an earthen jar of pitch Rennor had bought in Enili. Caleb soaked a small rag and wrapped it around one end, then after some difficulty lighting it gave the torch to Rennor, leaving extra pitch and a few spare torches. At such close quarters the fresh flames almost blinded them, and they were soon coughing from the acrid smoke gathering along the low ceiling. But the shaft behind provided an adequate vent, keeping the air clear near the ground where Rennor and the boy remained seated.

Soren crept down the short pa.s.sage, Caleb following. The door rose before them, its pitted surface and splitting joints covered in dust and old cobwebs. Soren gripped the rusted handle, but it tore loose at the slightest tug. He stuck his fingers between door and jamb, but no matter how he tried it wouldn't budge.

With help from Caleb it finally opened, though unexpectedly. A brittle crack, and an entire section of the door broke free, throwing splinters in all directions. Gray dust from inside rose up in a cloud. Caleb managed to stay clear, but Soren got it right in the face, and he blinked the dust out of his eyes, coughing hoa.r.s.ely.

Once he recovered he pointed the flashlight into the hole. Only a short expanse of floor appeared, the rest vanis.h.i.+ng into a stygian void. There was nothing for it. After a glance back at the others they both squeezed through, the Master Raen carefully leading the way.

20.

Ancient Warning We should be careful not so much what we wish for, but rather what we don't.

- from Etre Obald'aseli AT FIRST they saw nothing but a heavy layer of dust. Yet the whispering echo of their footsteps traveled all about them, and when Soren swung the beam of the flashlight, Caleb followed its flight in amazement.

They stood in a tall, roughly circular cave a few hundred feet in diameter. Giant stalact.i.tes hung from a dizzying nest of formations high above, some reaching the floor in narrow columns. Twisted ma.s.ses of rock like petrified entrails formed the walls. But there was no sheen of moisture or any sign of life to be found-a dust-strewn dungeon that even nature itself had long forgotten.

Caleb gaped at the spectacle, turning slowly. Then a shout brought his heart to his mouth.

”Ykea!”

The traditional warning cry bounded from wall to wall. ”Blast you, Soren!”

”Look,” he said, pointing toward the center of the cave.

A narrow monolith stood alone in a wide s.p.a.ce clear of stalagmites. Though a blanket of gray covered its top, its polished ebony flanks glistened with the light.

Scattered all about it lay several bizarre forms, a dozen at least, their features blurred by the dust. Caleb stepped forward for a closer inspection. They were corpses, lying like victims left to rot on an ancient battlefield. Tarnished swords were stuck between their ribs, their fleshless hands grasping the curved blades as if still trying to wrench them from hearts long withered and consumed. The ornate hilts, decayed as they were, were all too familiar.

Caleb approached the stone with the Master Raen, his fear and curiosity as one. Soren scanned the littered floor, his face pale and drawn. After threading a careful path through the bones they reached the obelisk, the glare of the flashlight reflecting off its surface.

The top was fas.h.i.+oned into a sculpture of some kind. Soren brushed away the dust, revealing a pair of black hands, heels touching, palms upward as if in supplication. Words were etched in the face of the stone below; dust filled the tiny crevices, offering easy contrast.

”Urmanayan?”

”Yes, but it's in an ancient dialect,” answered Soren. ”I think I can translate it well enough, though.” In a slow, halting voice he read: IN THE FIRST YEAR.

OF THE MOST HIGH AND n.o.bLE.

REIGN OF GRONDOLOS,.

HERADNORA.