Part 25 (1/2)

”It is me, Princess,” Binabik gasped. He had climbed up onto Sea-Arrow's Sea-Arrow's railing. He stooped for a moment and vanished, then reemerged, only his eyes clearly visible in the blood and earth that smeared his face. He thrust the b.u.t.t of a long spear down for her to grasp. ”Take this. Do not let them become close!” railing. He stooped for a moment and vanished, then reemerged, only his eyes clearly visible in the blood and earth that smeared his face. He thrust the b.u.t.t of a long spear down for her to grasp. ”Take this. Do not let them become close!”

She grasped the spear, then was forced to turn and sweep a half dozen of the things against the barrow wall. She dropped one of the torches. As she bent, another of the shriveled creatures pranced toward her; she speared it as a fisherman might. It wriggled on the spearhead, slow to die.

”Simon!” she shouted. ”Where is he?” She picked up the second torch and held it toward Binabik, who had ducked down into the boat once more, and now stood with an ax clutched in his hands, a weapon nearly as long as the troll was tall.

”I cannot be holding the torch,” Binabik said breathlessly. ”Push it into the wall.” He raised the ax over his head and then jumped down beside her.

Miriamele did as he said, jamming the b.u.t.t of the torch into the crumbling earth.

”Hinik Aia!” Binabik shouted. Qantaqa backed up, but the wolf seemed reluctant to disengage; she made several snarling rushes back toward the chirping creatures. While she was engaged on one such sortie, another swarm of the things scurried around her. Binabik swept several into b.l.o.o.d.y ruin with the ax and Miriamele fended off others with jabs of the spear. Qantaqa finished her engagement and swept in to finish off the raiding party. The rest of the crowding creatures sputtered angrily, their white eyes gleaming like a hundred tiny moons, but they did not seem anxious to follow Miriamele and her companions as they backed toward the hole. Binabik shouted. Qantaqa backed up, but the wolf seemed reluctant to disengage; she made several snarling rushes back toward the chirping creatures. While she was engaged on one such sortie, another swarm of the things scurried around her. Binabik swept several into b.l.o.o.d.y ruin with the ax and Miriamele fended off others with jabs of the spear. Qantaqa finished her engagement and swept in to finish off the raiding party. The rest of the crowding creatures sputtered angrily, their white eyes gleaming like a hundred tiny moons, but they did not seem anxious to follow Miriamele and her companions as they backed toward the hole.

”Where is Simon?” she asked again. Even as she spoke, she knew she did not want to hear the answer. There was a kind of cold nothingness inside her. Binabik would not leave Simon behind if he still lived.

”I am not knowing,” Binabik said harshly. ”But he is beyond our power for helping. Lead us into the air.”

Miriamele pulled herself up and through the hole in the mound. She emerged from the darkness into the violet of evening and a chilly wind. When she turned to extend the spear's haft down into the barrow for Binabik to clasp, she saw the creatures capering in impotent anger around the base of Sea-Arrow, Sea-Arrow, their shadows made long and even more grotesque by torchlight. Just before Binabik's shoulders rose to block the hole, she caught a momentary glimpse of her grandfather's pale, serene face. their shadows made long and even more grotesque by torchlight. Just before Binabik's shoulders rose to block the hole, she caught a momentary glimpse of her grandfather's pale, serene face.

The troll huddled before the paltry fire, his face a soiled mask of loss. Miriamele tried to find her own pain and could not. She felt empty, scoured of feeling. Qantaqa, reclining nearby, c.o.c.ked her head to one side as if puzzled by the silence. Her chops were sticky with gore.

”He was falling through,” Binabik said slowly. ”One moment he was before me, then he was gone. I was digging and digging, but there was only dirt.” He shook his head. ”Digging and digging. Then the boghanik boghanik came.” He coughed and spat a glob of mud onto the fire. ”So many they were, up from the dirt like worms. And more were coming always. More and more.” came.” He coughed and spat a glob of mud onto the fire. ”So many they were, up from the dirt like worms. And more were coming always. More and more.”

”You said it was a tunnel. Maybe there were other tunnels.” Miriamele heard the unreal calmness of her voice with wonder. ”Maybe he just fell through into another tunnel. When those things, those ... diggers ... go away, we can search.”

”Yes, with certainty.” Binabik's voice was flat.

”We'll find him. You'll see.”

The troll ran his hand across his face and brought it away smeared with dirt and blood. He stared at it absently.

”There's water in the skin bag,” she said. ”Let me clean those cuts.”

”You are also bleeding.” Binabik pointed a stubby black finger at her face.

”I'll get the water.” She stood on shaky legs. ”We'll find Simon. You'll see.”

Binabik did not reply. As Miriamele walked unsteadily toward their packs, she reached up to dab at her jaw, at the spot where the digger's claws had raked her. The blood was almost dry, but when she touched her cheeks, they were wet with tears-tears that she had not even known she was crying.

He's gone, she thought. Gone. Gone.

Her eyes blurred so that she almost stumbled.

Elias, High King of Osten Ard, stood at the window and stared up at the pale, looming finger of Green Angel Tower, silvered by moonlight. Wrapped in silence and secrecy, it seemed a specter sent from another world, a bearer of strange tidings. Elias watched it as a man who knows he will live and die a sailor watches the sea.

The king's chamber was as disorderly as an animal nest. The bed in the middle of the room was naked but for the sweat-stained pallet; the few blankets that remained lay tangled on the floor, unused, home now to whatever small creatures could bear the chilly air that Elias found more a necessity than a comfort.

The window at which the king stood, like all the other windows of the long chamber, was flung wide. Rainwater was puddled on the stone tiles beneath the cas.e.m.e.nts; on some particularly cold nights it froze, making streaks of white across the floor. The wind had also carried in leaves and stems and even the stiffened corpse of a sparrow.

Elias watched the tower until the moon haloed the angel's silhouette atop the spire. At last he turned, pulling his tattered robe about him, his white skin showing through the gaps where the threads had rotted in their seams.

”Hengfisk,” he whispered. ”My cup.”

What had seemed another clump of bedding wadded in the corner of the room now unfurled itself and stood. The silent monk scurried to a table just inside the chamber door and uncapped a stone ewer. He filled a goblet with dark, steaming liquid, then brought it to the king. The monk's ever-present smile, perhaps a little less wide than usual, glimmered faintly in the dark room.

”I shall not sleep again tonight,” the king said. ”It is the dreams, you know.”

Hengfisk stood silently, but his bulging eyes offered complete attention.

”And there is something else. Something I can feel but cannot understand.” He took his goblet and returned to the window. The hilt of the gray sword Sorrow sc.r.a.ped against the stone sill. Elias had not taken it off in a long time, even to sleep; the blade had pressed its own shape into the pallet beside the indentation of the king's form.

Elias raised his cup to his lips, swallowed, then sighed. ”There is a change in the music,” he said quietly. ”The great music of the dark. Pryrates has said nothing, but I know. I do not need that eunuch to tell me everything. I can see things now, hear things ... smell things.” He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, leaving a new smear of black among the countless others already dried on the cloth. ”Somebody has changed things.” He paused for a long moment. ”But perhaps Pryrates isn't merely hiding it from me.” The king turned to regard his cupbearer with an expression that was almost sane. ”Perhaps Pryrates himself doesn't know. It wouldn't be the only thing he doesn't know. I still have a few secrets of my own.” Elias brooded. ”But if Pryrates doesn't realize how ... how things have changed ... now what might that that mean, I wonder?” He turned back to the window, watching the tower. ”What might that mean?” mean, I wonder?” He turned back to the window, watching the tower. ”What might that mean?”

Hengfisk waited patiently. Finally, Elias finished his draught and held out the cup. The monk took it from the king's hand and returned it to the table beside the door, then moved back to his corner. He curled himself against the wall, but his head stayed up, as though he waited further instruction.

”The tower is waiting,” Elias said quietly. ”It has been waiting a long time.”

As he leaned against the sill a wind arose and set his dark hair fluttering, then lifted some of the leaves from the floor and sent them whispering and rattling around the chamber.

”Oh, Father ...” the king said softly. ”G.o.d of Mercy, I wish I could sleep.”

For a horrifying time, Simon felt himself drowning in cold, damp earth. Every nightmare he had ever had of death and burial flooded through him as dirt filled his eyes, his nose, pinioned his arms and legs. He clawed until he could not feel his hands at the ends of his arms, but still the choking earth surrounded him.

Then, just as abruptly as the earth had swallowed him, it seemed to vomit him out once more. His legs, kicking like a drowning man's, were suddenly thras.h.i.+ng without resistance; an instant later he felt himself tumbling downward in a great avalanche of loose soil. He landed heavily, the breath he had held so long pushed out of him in a painful hiss. He gasped and swallowed dirt.

He was on his knees for long moments, choking and retching. When the flashes of light swarming before his eyes began to disperse, he lifted his head. There was light somewhere-not much, but enough to show him the vague outlines of a rounded s.p.a.ce only a little wider than he was. Another tunnel? Or just a pit down in the depths, a grave of his very own where the air would soon give out?

A small flame seemed to have sprouted from the loose mound of soil upon which he crouched. That was the source of light. When he could force his trembling limbs to move, he crawled toward it and discovered that it was the tip of one of his torches, the only part of the burning brand that had not been buried in the great fall of earth. As carefully as he could, he worked his hand into the loamy earth and freed the torch, then flicked off the clinging dirt, cursing distractedly when he scorched his fingers. When it was as clean as he could get it, he turned it upside down so that the small flame could spread; soon the glow widened.

The first thing Simon saw was that he was indeed in another tunnel. In one direction it led downward, just like the one he had entered from the barrow, but this tunnel had no opening to the world above: the end was just beside him, a featureless spill of dirt, a great blunt nothingness of damp clods and loose soil. He could see no light or anything else beyond it; whatever gap he had fallen through was now choked with earth.

The second thing he saw was a dull glint of metal in the pile of dirt before him. He reached to pick it up, and was distractedly disappointed at how easily it came loose, how small an object it was. It was not Bright-Nail. It was a silver belt buckle.

Simon lifted the mud-smeared buckle up to catch the torchlight. When he wiped the dirt away with his fingers, he laughed, a harshly painful sound that died quickly in the narrow confines. So this was what he had risked his life for-this was the lure that had dropped him into the prisoning depths. The buckle was so scratched and worn that the markings were only faintly recognizable. Some kind of animal head was at the center of it, something square-snouted like a bear or pig; around it were a few slender things that might be sticks or arrows. It was old and meaningless. It was worthless. was the lure that had dropped him into the prisoning depths. The buckle was so scratched and worn that the markings were only faintly recognizable. Some kind of animal head was at the center of it, something square-snouted like a bear or pig; around it were a few slender things that might be sticks or arrows. It was old and meaningless. It was worthless.

Simon plunged his torch handle into the ground, then abruptly scrambled up the mound of soil. The sky must must be somewhere above. His terror was growing strong. Surely Binabik was digging for him! But how would the troll find him if Simon did not help!? He slid back a cubit for every cubit he scrambled at first, until he found a way to move without dislodging so much soil. At last he climbed far enough that he could lay his hands against the loose earth at the tunnel's end. He dug there frantically, freeing a shower of dirt, but more dirt kept appearing to take its place. As long moments pa.s.sed his movements became even more uncontrolled. He tore at the unresisting earth, gouged it away in great handfuls, bringing down avalanches of soil from above, but all to no effect. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the beads of sweat until his eyes stung. There was no end to it, no matter how he dug. be somewhere above. His terror was growing strong. Surely Binabik was digging for him! But how would the troll find him if Simon did not help!? He slid back a cubit for every cubit he scrambled at first, until he found a way to move without dislodging so much soil. At last he climbed far enough that he could lay his hands against the loose earth at the tunnel's end. He dug there frantically, freeing a shower of dirt, but more dirt kept appearing to take its place. As long moments pa.s.sed his movements became even more uncontrolled. He tore at the unresisting earth, gouged it away in great handfuls, bringing down avalanches of soil from above, but all to no effect. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the beads of sweat until his eyes stung. There was no end to it, no matter how he dug.

He stopped at last, shuddering, covered in settling dirt almost to his waist. His heart was racing so swiftly that it took him a moment to realize that the tunnel had grown darker. He turned to see that his heedless digging had almost buried the torch once more. Simon stared, suddenly afraid that if he crawled back down the slope, down the pile of loose earth, sliding soil would cover the flame completely. Once extinguished, there would be no re-lighting it. He would be in complete and utter blackness.

He carefully freed himself from the small landslide that prisoned his legs, moving as delicately as he once had while stalking frogs across the Hayholt's moat.

Gently, gently gently, he told himself. Not the dark, no. Need the light. There won't be anything left for them to find if I lose the light. Not the dark, no. Need the light. There won't be anything left for them to find if I lose the light.

A tiny avalanche was stirred. Clods of dirt went tumbling down the pile and a small slide stopped just short of the flame, which wavered. Simon's heart nearly stopped.