by Tad Williams
Something in the darkness shifted-nothing he could see, but something he could feel, as if the massy ocean floor itself had shrugged. It was so near-and so huge! The sheer size of what he felt terrified him, and for a moment Barrick Eddon almost flung himself away from the thing that frightened him, away from the darkest deeps and up toward the light. Then he remembered what would happen if he failed.
My lord! Hear me! Open the road for me to your house. Open the door! If you ever loved us, now is the time to help us! Please, Father Erivor!
And then he felt… something. It reached out to him and touched his thoughts, mossy and gigantic as a mountain. He could feel the immense slumbering impossibility of it, this thing sunk deep in millennia of sediment, slow as a starfish moving across a rock but also with parts of its thought as swift as tiny fish dodging in and out of the safety of coral fronds.
Manchild…?
The thought was ageless, ponderous and strange, as though the lord of the sea truly were a giant turtle or lobster, something immense buried in the muck for thousands of years, its shell covered in countless other, smaller living things, waiting for who knew what distant happenstance.
Will you open the door for me, Father Erivor?
It could barely hear him, barely sense him at all. It was not entirely asleep, but it certainly was not awake-he could feel the greater part of its thought lying beyond his reach, inert, dreaming, moving at a rate so slow that no living thing could understand it. Door…?
The door to your house! Open it for me! A thought occurred to him, floating in like a bubble. I will make you many sacrifices, I promise!
The door… it said again, and then he could feel the immense thing suddenly very near-a bright eye in the darkness, a mouth that might have been a hole into the heart of the world, a lightless whirlpool. It was so much bigger-it was big as the world…!
Little worshiper… you… may… pass.
The darkness fell away and Barrick fell with it. For a moment all was as it had been when he traveled through Crooked's Hall out of Sleep. Then pressure and cold smashed in on him, crushing him almost to nothingness. Terrified, he opened his mouth to scream, and it filled with salty water.
Father Erivor had opened the door to his house, but his house was at the bottom of the sea.
Barrick was deep, deep in green water-only the gods knew how deep. He'd swallowed more than a little of it in his initial shock, a stinging mouthful that burned in his throat and windpipe until all he wanted to do was cough, which he knew would doom him. He clenched his teeth against it, flailing against the cold water, but he did not even know which way was up. He opened his eyes to the caustic green and saw bubbles streaming and circling him like dandelion fluff. The Fireflower chorus in his head was shrieking a warning but it seemed muffled, distant. He watched the bubbles swirl even as the water began to grow dark-as if here, deep beneath the ocean, twilight had fallen. It was beautiful in a strange way…
Even as Barrick realized he was dying, that the breath trapped in his lungs was turning to hot poison, he saw that the bubbles were forming actual shapes, shapes ghostly as mist that circled him, watching. Did he see pity on those spectral, frothy faces, or only curiosity?
The god's children, his thoughts told him, but they were not exactly his own thoughts.
Something clasped his arm and drew him out of the cloud of bubbles into shadowed green emptiness. Floating, he could not resist, but everything around him was turning black and he did not really care to resist anyway. Was he rising? No, sinking…
Her face loomed close to his, smooth and pale, hard as a statue, green as southern jade. For a dreamlike instant he thought it was his own mother's face-Meriel, the mother he had never seen, who had died birthing him. The apparition held her hand up before him and caught a bubble the size of a duck's egg; when it touched her slim fingers, it began to grow until it had become as big as a rubyskin melon. He could scarcely see it, but felt it press against his face, cool and delicate as a first kiss. New air pushed into his chest, replacing the water that had been choking him, and suddenly the darkness was crossed with streaks of light as his thoughts stirred back into life once more.
Do nothing, manchild-only breathe. Saqri's voice was distant at first, but by the last words it filled his mind. We must give thanks to the god, even if he only sleeps and dreams us. Even more so, in fact, if he only dreams us…
Barrick had no idea what she meant. He was content to float and taste the sweetness of air while all around him the green seemed to grow deeper and wider until he thought he could see shadowy shapes on all sides, pillars and arches. He couldn't tell if they were natural or the work of some supernatural hand-in fact, he could not be entirely certain he was even seeing them.
But behind the vertical shadows was one deeper and darker than all the rest-a cave? A hall? For a moment, as a little light streamed down through the green from above-and as he realized for the first time where "up" actually was-he thought he could make out a massive shape crouched deep in that darkness, something so big and so strange that he could barely steel himself to face in its direction, let alone look carefully.
Tell him, she said.
Tell him what? Despite the bubble of air over his face, diminished in size now but still filling his lungs with life, he was finding it hard to take a breath. Something was in that cave, something unimaginably huge and powerful and alive, and he was terrif ied…
Tell him!
I… we… thank you. Thank you, Lord Erivor. By… He could remember nothing-all those bored mornings sitting in the chapel, and how could he have ever guessed this hour would come? Why hadn't he paid better attention? By the blood of… of my ancestors, who have always served you, O Lord, and upon whom you have showered your blessings… No! That was wrong! That was the harvest prayer to Erilo!
Something stirred in the depths of the shadows; even with an incomprehensible weight of water pressing down on him from all sides Barrick could feel it in his bones. Whatever it was, it had become restless. Awake, angry, it could pull down mountains.
As panic rose, something else drifted up in him, too-not the voices of the Fireflower, which had become almost ordinary, but another voice, thin and quavering-a memory of Father Timoid, reciting the Erivor Mass, words that he had forgotten he knew. O Father of the Waters, Whose blood is the green water Whose beard is the white wave Who raised up the land Who is the master of the flood And the father of tears Who lifted Connord and Sharm From the mud Who lifted Ocsa and Frannac Out of the ocean wrack into sunlight So that the people could live And the grass could grow O Father of the Waters, Who calms the storm And guides the boats safe back to harbor Who sends his fish into the nets Of Glin's children Who sends his winds to fill the sails Of Glin's children's boats Who lifts his hand To bring the waves gentle upon the shore We praise you. We praise you. We praise you. Give us your blessing As we give our thanks to you.
And as the last oh-so-familiar word fell down into the blackness, the great shadow stirred again and slowly drifted backward into deeper dark. The presence that had, merely by existing, almost squeezed Barrick breathless began to recede from his thoughts, from his senses.
Thank you, Great Lord. It was Saqri's voice, and to his astonishment there was a teasing lilt to it, like a cheeky girl taxing a beloved older relative. Thank you for your help, both to bring us here and to send us a little farther on, where the air is not so damp…
Send us? Barrick thought. Where? Hasn't there been enough sending and coming and going…?
He and Saqri began slowly to rise. The green grew brighter, the streaks of light smearing into one general circle that glowed high above them like a burning jade sun.
Barrick rose, and as he did the voices of the Fireflower woke again into what seemed a chorus of alarm and wonder, as though the darkness of the depths had made them somnolent, but the growing circle of light had wakened them.
Above the green…
Saved by the spawn of Moisture!
N
o! Do not trust them…!
And then the light widened overhead, swift as a brushfire sweeping across a hillside, brightness that expanded to swallow him up as he broke out of the green and into the dazzle, splashing and gasping for air. He discovered there not the unbroken sea as he had expected, an endless expanse of waves, but a jut of rocks and beyond that the dim shape of something he had not seen in so long that he almost could not recognize it, especially as the voices inside him grew to a singing crescendo.
The Last Hour of the Ancestor…!
We see it again! Praise to the honorable Children of Breeze!
May they dwell in bliss!
Jutting on the horizon like a mountain range whose peaks had been whittled into sharp points, blasted white by the sharp morning sun so that it seemed sculpted in ice, loomed Southmarch Castle, the only home Barrick had ever known. It no longer seemed familiar to him, but had instead become something beautiful and strange.
It frightened him.
Something boomed nearby, loud as thunder, catching him completely by surprise. It happened again but now he saw a plume of smoke on the shore. Cannons! Someone was firing at the castle.
He stopped paddling for a moment in surprise and sank back down into the waters of the bay. Only then did Barrick realize his mouth was hanging open.
Coughing and spitting and sputtering, he almost slipped back under the water again until he heard Saqri's voice, so loud and firm that it was like a hand grabbing his collar.
Swim, fool child. Swim to the shore.
Shore? Even the closest part of the bay's edge was too far away, and that was where the cannon was being fired!
Not that part, Saqri told him. Tiring now, Barrick paddled and kicked himself in a tight circle to look around, but he could see no trace of her. He did see something else, however. Yes, she said. There. Swim.
With his back to the land and his shoulder toward the castle, he could finally see it-another lump of stone that didn't stretch as high above the waves as the castle mount but was washed by the same breezy, white capped bay waters. He had not seen it in so long that it took him a moment to recognize it, even after he made out the angular shape of the lodge at the top of the hilly island.
M'Helan's Rock!
Barrick summoned his weary strength and began swimming.
9
The Thing with Claws "After many adventures and perils he was taken up at last as an unlawful beggar by the guards of the city and brought before the magistrates. Because the Orphan could show no such crippling injuries as he pretended, he was sent as a slave to the temple of Zuriyal…"
-from "A Child's Book of the Orphan, and His Life and Death and Reward in Heaven"
"There's no need for you to go farther, Captain," Sledge Jasper told Vansen. "Truth is, some of these tunnels may be too small for you."
"We'll see, Wardthane. Carry on, I'll follow."
The other Funderlings, five more new-minted warders, looked from Vansen to Jasper in worried anticipation. They all carried gurodir, heavy stabbing-spears with broad iron spearheads and shafts of precious oak, a war weapon something like a boar spear. It had not been in common use among the small folk for a long time; now every single one that could be found in Funderling Town had been repaired and pressed into service, and more were being made. Even Vansen carried one, although he also kept his dagger and scabbarded sword for their comfort and familiarity.
He waved his hand to pass leadership of the patrol to Jasper, then let the others file past him into the Moonless Reach. The most recent patrol through the caverns, led by one of Jasper's most trusted men, had gone out that morning and not come back.
As they stepped out of the broad main tunnel, which was illuminated by dim fungus-lights at irregular intervals, Vansen reached up to make sure he was wearing his coral lamp. He had discovered that the Funderlings did not always remember that he could not see as well as they could and he wanted to make sure he didn't walk into any unexpected pits or low-hanging rocks.
"You mark my words, Captain," Jasper said quietly as they made their way across the middle of the great chamber, so full of man-high stone towers that it looked like a hall of frozen dancers, "it'll be the fairy what done it, whatever's gone wrong."
Vansen was confused. "What are you talking about? It's the southerners we're fighting, now-the autarch's men." Had the entire peace council with the Qar fallen on deaf ears?
"Talking about that half-drow my men took with 'em. I don't trust that langedy-leg fellow."
The "langedy-leg" fellow had been a Qar of sorts-one of the Funderling cousins known as "drows"-a scout named Spelter who was a bit taller and longer of limb than Sledge Jasper's folk. Spelter and any of the other drows who were familiar with the tunnels of Midlan's Mount from the last few weeks' siege had been joining the Funderlings on their patrol. "What, you think he did something to them?"
"He had a foul look," said Jasper stubbornly, pulling off his helmet to wipe sweat from his bald head. It was beginning to get warm as they moved away from the tunnel that led up to Funderling Town. Up? Vansen wondered if that could be right. They were certainly above the Temple, but were they still below Funderling Town or just off to one side of it? He again found himself muddled by the way the Funderlings underground world fit together.
"But see now, Sledge," he said, raising his voice a little higher so that the other warders would hear him, too. "I know you don't trust them, but why would the Qar bother to stay and betray us? It would be so much easier for them simply to leave us to fight the autarch…"
He never had the chance to finish. Something hammered him hard in the back and knocked him forward so that he spilled Jasper and several of the warders like skittles. Vansen lost his spear and was feeling for it when something grabbed his collar and wrenched him another few paces across the stony cavern floor.
"What…?" He struggled to his knees, but before he could turn to see what had grabbed him, a nightmare shape lurched out of a dark place along the wall, a glowing obscenity that Vansen could not even understand, twice as big as a cart horse and with more legs than anything that large should have.
"Perin's Hammer!" he shouted in sudden fright, shoving himself upright and stumbling backward from the huge creature so quickly that he lost his balance and fell down again. All around him the Funderlings were also retreating, howling in dismay and amazement.
It was a monstrous spider or insect, something Vansen could not recognize and would not be able to see at all except for its own green-blue glow. It lumbered toward them with frightening speed, its armored body making a noise like the creaking of bellows-leather; when he saw it whole, he wished he hadn't. The indistinct outline had not only spiderish legs but claws like a crab's and some kind of huge tail swaying above its broad back.
"Have you fire?" a voice said from behind him. "They fear it a little. I chased one away with a torch, but that has long burned away."
Vansen put a large, round stone between himself and the creature, then took a swift glance backward. The light from his coral lamp fell onto a strange, long-jawed, bearded face-the Qar scout, Spelter. "No fire," Vansen said. "Where is the rest of your company?"
"Dead or lost." Spelter spoke the language surprisingly well-one of the reasons he'd been chosen to travel with the Funderlings, no doubt. "We were separated hours ago when the first of these things came out of a tunnel and took the leader and two of the others. Crushed them with its claws. The rest scattered. I tried to get back to Ancestor's Place, to our temple-camp, but found this thing between me and the way back."
"That was you who grabbed me, then?"
"Yes. I heard your voices coming. I did not know exactly where it was waiting, and I was afraid to call because it hunted me, too."
The creaking, whistling monster abruptly tried to clamber up onto the boulder that shielded Vansen and the drow; the monster's scent, musty and slightly fishy, filled Vansen's nostrils. Its huge claws clacked above their heads as he and Spelter scrambled backward. Van
sen thought for a moment that they might be able to make a run for the passage that had led them to the chamber, but the creature backed down off the rock and began making its slow way around the wide boulder again, searching almost blindly. Then it lurched forward again, astonishingly fast, this time scraping around the side of the rock where Vansen couldn't see it; an instant later it scuttled back with a screeching Funderling warder in its claw. The little man struggled helplessly, and although his comrades stabbed at the monster with their heavy spears, the blows could not penetrate the thing's armor. The Funderling was pulled into the dark region at the front of the head. Vansen heard a hideous crunching noise, and the screaming abruptly stopped.
Sledge Jasper had managed to climb up on top of the boulder, where he was stabbing almost dementedly at the creature. It spread its claws and lifted its front section onto the rock, then the long, lumpy tail quivered as if in preparation for a strike. Vansen jumped up and caught at Jasper's clothing, yanking backward so that the Funderling fell on top of him only inches ahead of a swipe from the deadly tail. Vansen could smell the venom, a sour, hard smell like hot metal. Some of it spattered onto Sledge Jasper, who screamed and began writhing on the floor as if he'd been burned. The Qar, Spelter, leaped to help him.
Vansen stood. "We can't let it keep us pinned down!" he shouted to the others. "Get out into the center of the cave!"
He led the warders to a spot in the middle of a small forest of stone spikes. He grabbed at one with his hand and was able to break off the very tip, but decided that the spikes were thick enough to give some protection. He turned back to help Spelter drag Jasper into the center of the open space he'd chosen, then quickly set the terrified Funderlings into a tight-packed arrangement, spears pointing outward like the spines of a hedgehog.
The monstrous, green-glowing thing came stilting toward them again but could not immediately pass between the stone spikes. It stopped short a few paces away from Vansen's side. He leaped out and stabbed hard at the place he thought the thing should have eyes, but his gurodir only skimmed off hard plate. The tail lashed at him. He danced back out of its reach and his coral lamp fell off his head. Strangely, the monster's glow dimmed, as though some inner light had guttered and almost failed. Vansen snatched up the headband and jumped back into the forest of stones, putting his back against the nearest Funderlings as he pulled his lamp into place. The creature was glowing brightly again. It was too big, too strong, too well armored. Vansen could see no way to defeat it.