"So, if they're there," said Rathe, "how easy would it be to spot them?"
"That's the hard part," Orvig admitted. "If Carkulroth is as big as Rhyanis says it is, it might cover an acre or more. But I like it better than Kel's plan."
Rathe looked inquiringly at her.
"We become throgs," Kel said.
"That's why you were looking over their clothes?" Rathe asked. She nodded. He frowned, then shook his head. "It might fool them at a distance in bad—I mean good—light. But not up close. And we probably smell different, too."
"She's not talking about an ordinary disguise," Orvig said. "She's talking about using rune magick. I don't like it." He looked unhappy. "Tell Rathe what you'd have to do, Kelandra."
Kelandra explained what the rune-spell involved. It was simple but ruthless; Rathe was appalled. But he could think of nothing else. The throgs they had killed were already dead, he told himself. Jhen wasn't. The rest didn't matter. Over Orvig's objections, he gave Kel his assent.
At Rathe's insistence, they dragged the four throg bodies into the bushes, so they were out of sight of the captive. He could be ruthless, but letting Rhyanis watch what they were about to do, Rathe knew, was beyond cruelty.
Kelandra bent over the first throg corpse. She had spent the last few minutes sharpening her knife.
"It's nothing special," Kel said modestly. "It's one of the first runes I learned. Every shaman knows it. Washoora, the beast-mask. Our hunters used it," Kel said. "To stalk game."
"Aye," said Orvig glumly. "I've heard trader's tales of it. Your hunters dress in a cloak cut from an animal skin. A Shaman draws a rune and an illusion covers the hunter, so he looks like the beast whose skin he wears. But the spell is for animals!"
"Yes," said Kel. "It was, wasn't it?" She smiled, tested the knife's edge on her finger, drew blood. Then she bent to her work.
Orvig looked away. "Jedaykeen," he muttered under his breath.
As afternoon faded into evening, three throg warriors gazed at the fastness that was Carkulroth. One was a young male, who bore a captured sword of good Dwarven make. The second was a female, carrying a flint-carved spear, its tip wrapped in rags. The third was very short—perhaps he had been stunted at birth, or had some shar-ga blood. Unusual for throgs, the eyes of these three warriors did not blink in the late afternoon sun.
Those eyes looked upon a bleak plateau, broken by jagged outcropping of yellow and brown stone, bare under a brooding sky. The ground was naked save for scraggly bushes and a few hardy rhododendrons, cracked in places, strewn with boulders elsewhere. A dirt track wound its way among them.
In its midst squatted a grim fastness... a rude keep built of great blocks of black unmortared stone. The only entrance was a spiked gate of iron-reinforced timber. The walls were topped with rough battlements. No banner fluttered from its towers, nor did they see warriors manning the defenses.
"Most of it's underground," said the small throg, who spoke in the language of Stonekeep, but with a Dwarven accent. "Those works are just to protect the entrance."
"Kyas," agreed the male warrior, whose name was Rathe. It meant "yes," in throg-speech. Orvig had drilled them in a few simple throg phrases, in case they were challenged.
"Ky-AS," the dwarf corrected. "The accent's on the last syllable."
"I'd sooner kill a throg them speak with him," said Kel.
"Try to restrain yourself," Rathe said. "I think we should take cover, rest, and then enter an hour or so before dawn. That way most of the throgs will be tired or getting ready to sleep."
"That sounds good, boy," said Orvig. "Kelandra?"
"Kyas," said Kel, pronouncing it correctly. She stuck her tongue out at Orvig. It was green.
They concealed themselves among boulders and rested, although one of them always kept watch.
Earlier, Kelandra had spent the morning casting the runes that created the shape-masking cloaks. Rathe and Orvig had sealed the captive throg in a makeshift prison, a hillside cave with a heavy boulder pushed over the entrance. Over Kel's protests, the trail rations and spare canteens they'd taken from the dead throgs were left with Rhyanis. They'd last a week, maybe. Rathe hoped he'd be back before then.
Rathe couldn't relax. He tugged at the fastening of the skin cloak he wore. It felt constricting, and the smell was a constant reminder of what it was. Yet he dared not remove it—that would break the rune-spell. It could only be used once. To replace it would take Kel over an hour—not to mention another skin.
To take his mind off it, he watched the throg stronghold. By night, Carkulroth was alive with activity. Soon after dark, several parties had left the stronghold, disappearing into the forest—Rathe guessed most were hunters, for they carried long spears but lacked shields or armor. Twice they heard the beating of wings, and once the moonlight glinted off a half-dozen Tse'Mara. They settled on the battlements like pigeons on a balcony.
Ultimately, gaining entrance proved easier then they thought. Rathe spotted two sizable hunting parties returning at the same time. It was earlier than they'd planned, but he decided to seize the moment. He rousted Orvig and Kelandra, and broke cover. They moved in behind the hunters, mingling with the stragglers as the two parties merged into a single larger group of jostling throgs.
Rathe was tense—he knew he was sweating, and hoped the spell would conceal it. He chanced a glance at Kel: she moved confidently, like a stalking tigress. Being in the stronghold of her enemy didn't discomfit her. She acted like a throg, snarling at one hunter who stepped too close to her, pushing her way through the mass. He tried to imitate her, to move more confidently without drawing attention to himself.
The gate yawned open, and they passed through it. Rathe noted the thickness of the walls: a dozen feet of stone. They entered a timber-roofed corridor that sloped downward. Two guards stood just inside, wearing armor of boiled leather, and bright helmets of beaten copper with their cheeks carved like boar-tusks. They carried wooden shields and steel shortswords, blades Rathe was sure had been taken from dead Stonekeep traders. No password was asked. The guards merely exchanged guttural greetings with the leaders of the hunting party. Rathe nodded at the guards, and was waved through.
The passage ended in a series of deep wells. The hunters ahead of Rathe swarmed into and down them, and Rathe saw that wooden ladders led downward. He hesitated, but Orvig tugged at his arm—deep places held no terror for a dwarf. Kel was already past him. He followed, hand over hand into the dark. Thankfully, it wasn't pitch black. Small lights shone at intervals, tiny sparks that Rathe realized were caged fireflies.
The ladder took Rathe into a wide fire-lit hall. Its walls were of roughhewn stone, decorated with shields, crossed spears and animal trophies. A half-dozen side passages led from it, and some of the hunters vanished down them. Throgs, bare to the waist, turned haunches of meat over huge fires. Copper cauldrons bubbled over other firepits. The air was filled with the odors of throg cooking: acrid and spicy, but oddly appetizing. A throg in a leather apron shouted instructions to scurrying figures who Rathe first thought were throg children. Then he realized they were shargas, the throg's stunted cousins.
He was blocking traffic. A slim throg, a young female balancing a sloshing urn on her head, jostled into Rathe, and nearly spilled her burden. She stepped back and cringed. He murmured "Skarl"—sorry. She looked startled—maybe proper warriors didn't apologize—then favored him with an appraising glance and a tusky throg smile. He caught Kel looking at him oddly, and with a start, he realized the throg girl had, perhaps, found him attractive.
Most of the hunters had dumped their kills on wood tables or hung them from hooks in the ceiling, then left. Rathe knew he had to keep moving. He looked to Orvig, and the dwarf nodded. They picked a little-trod passage at random and took it. Soon Rathe lost all sense of direction: corridors branched away like fingers from a hand, multiplying into a bewildering labyrinth.
"Rhyanis said this place has at least three levels," said Orvig. "The pits a
re at the bottom. Look for any ladders or stairs."
The passage they were traveling was narrow, pierced with crude doorways covered with hanging blankets. From behind some came voices, and once what sounded like a blow followed by a yelp. He hesitated beside it—could that be Jhen?—when it flew open and a pair of tiny throg children, naked save for sandals, ran out, holding loaves of bread. They ducked around Rathe, and ran down the corridor. A moment later, an elderly throg stuck his head out the doorway and shook his fist—then noticed Rathe and Kel, paused, muttered "skarl," and backed away.
Rathe grinned sheepishly. They continued on their way.
"Gods, what a maze," Kel said. She shuddered. They'd been walking for some minutes. As they went deeper into Carkulroth, the firefly cages became fewer in number, the dark grew more oppressive. "Are the Dwarves' caverns like this?"
"Somewhat," answered Rathe, "but they are lit by silver lamps, and decorated by hanging tapestries. Not like this gloom."
"Still, this is good stonework," Orvig remarked. He tapped the closefitting blocks making up the wall. "If they'd..."
He was interrupted by shouts and the sound of many boots, and suddenly the passage was filled with jostling, pushing throgs. The living wave carried Rathe down the corridor, into a side chamber filled with tables and benches, its walls decorated with hunting trophies and crossed spears. The warriors elbowed each other, calling out names and snatches of songs. Most bore drinking horns filled with foaming liquid.
"Une-Makkar-skay!" a throg yelled. There was an answering shout, and a dozen horns were raised in toast.
In the crush, Rathe had lost sight of Orvig. He thought he saw Kel, but it was hard to be sure among so many green, leather-clad bodies. He tried to move in that direction.
A bulky warrior in a copper helmet like those the gate-guards had worn was beside Rathe. He raised his drink and yelled "Ystack! Gotha-skay!"
Several heads turned, but none answered him, and Rathe felt a tension in the room. Had that been a toast to Gotha Karn? The copper-helmed warrior lurched to his feet and glared around him. His eyes came to rest on Rathe beside him. He shoved a drinking horn into Rathe's hand, then splashed liquid into it from a flask. "Ystack yi Gotha?" he snarled, one fist raised threateningly.
No need for trouble. Rathe lifted the horn and shouted "Gotha-skay!" hoping it made sense. The toast was echoed by the copper-helmed warrior, and by a few others as well—though not by all.
Experimentally, Rathe downed the brew. He nearly choked—it was steaming hot! The copper-helmed warrior laughed and clapped him on the arm, pushing past to sit by him, ignoring what looked like glares from those around him. A second copper-helmeted throg pushed through the crowd and joined him at the table. They conversed in low tones. Rathe tried to listen, but he could understand little throg-speech. He caught one or two words—Tse'Mara was one, Gotha another—but no meaning.
Rathe pretended to sip his drink, and looked about, seeking his companions in the press of bodies. There was still no sign of Orvig—but from somewhere behind him he heard what sounded like Kelandra's voice, raised in urgent tones.
He whirled about, spotted her. "Ay, Ay!" she was saying—throgspeech for "No!" A tall throg had grabbed hold of her, was trying to plant wet kisses on her face. Kel was struggling, breathing hard. The throg reached for Kel's cloak, to tear it away.
That would break the rune spell! Without thinking, Rathe stepped forward, grabbed the over-amorous throg by the collar and yanked him back. The warrior fell heavily against the floor with a crash, his drinking-horn splashing Rathe with hot brew. The throg shook his head, stunned, and stared up dumbly.
A dozen heads turned. Trouble!
"M'tar!" shouted Rathe, exhausting his store of throg speech. Mine! He drew Kel roughly into his arms and kissed her full on the mouth, then took a swig of his drink. "M'tar!" he repeated. He hoped he looked and sounded like a drunken, jealous lover. Kel helped, wrapping her arms tightly about him. She snarled down at the throg on the floor, then grinned up at Rathe.
It worked—there was laughter, not threats, and the heads turned away. The copper-helmed throg who'd given Rathe the drink slapped him on the back. Two others helped the downed throg to his feet, then passed him a fresh drink. Holding Kel tightly—it was strange to feel her lithe shape under the throg disguise—Rathe shouldered his way to the edge of the crowd.
They found Orvig waiting just outside the chamber, tapping his foot. He looked none the worse for wear. He noticed Rathe's drink-splashed tunic, Kelandra's disarrayed clothes, and raised an eyebrow.
"Didn't stay for the party?" said Rathe lightly. He was still breathing hard. It had been close. Kel pressed his hand and smiled at him, then stepped back and smoothed her clothes back into shape. Rathe looked right, then left. They were in a narrow hallway lined with doorways. "Come on, let's go," Rathe said.
They came to a bend, heard more shouts and noise coming along one passage, took the other. It seemed to slant downwards. They followed it for several minutes. Twice they saw single throgs run by, stripped to loincloths and wearing coarse yellow scarves about their necks. "Are they messengers?" he asked Orvig. The dwarf shrugged—he didn't know.
The trio took a side passage. Ahead, they heard the hiss of fabric on stone, grunting voices cursing. It was a trio of skinny throgs in ragged clothes, dragging heavy sacks. Before Rathe could pull him back, Orvig stepped in front of them. The throg workers stopped, looking nervously at each other.
"Hroi, makkar-brotah," Orvig hailed them. Good night, kinsman, Rathe knew that was. Orvig slurred his words as if drunk to cover any deficiencies in his accent. "Yi te'sriech po—ah, podor?" Rathe wasn't sure what the rest meant, only that it was a question.
One of them scratched his head. "Skarl," he said. "Yi podor mis-trach." He waved down a side passage. "Yi podor rukos nu."
"Kyas," said Orvig. He gestured at Rathe to follow, and he and Kel did so. The throgs stepped aside to let them pass.
They turned right, and Rathe could feel a faint draft. They found themselves in a small chamber with a stairway leading down.
"You asked directions?" Kel asked the dwarf.
"Aye," Orvig said. He gestured. "The pits are down this way, past a storeroom." He frowned. "They seemed edgy."
"Maybe they thought you were drunk and mean," Kel said. She looked down on him, patted his head. "A pint-sized warrior like you's got to be twice as nasty, right?"
Orvig gave her an irritated glare. "It was more than that," he told her. "Perhaps no one likes to talk about the dungeons."
They followed the stairwell down. It led down a long way, past a landing, and then into a small chamber with three passages branching out of it. A well stood in the middle, a bucket beside it. Orvig sniffed the water. "It should be safe," he said, and took a short drink. The others followed suit.
"Which way?" asked Rathe.
"He said the left passage," Orvig answered. He led them down it. The stonework here seemed rougher, more natural. The passage was dark and poorly lit, and they were taken by surprise when it suddenly widened into a cavernous chamber filled with wooden barrels, Rathe banging into one of them. It sloshed slightly.
They looked about, found a wooden doorway. A faint light showed under it.
"The dungeons?" said Kel.
"It's in the right place," Orvig answered.
"Careful," warned Rathe. "There may be guards we can't talk our way past."
Orvig put his ear to the door, listened, then motioned Rathe over and unfastened his pack. As Rathe and Kel watched, the dwarf carefully looked through the many bottles and implements there. After what seemed like hours, his stubby fingers seized a small vial. He uncorked it, and dripped a thick liquid over the door's hinges.
"Oil," Orvig said. "So it won't squeak. Open it just a crack."
Rathe did, slowly and carefully, a hairline crack. The door opened noiselessly. He peered through.
The chamber was squarish, about ten paces on a side, lit by the
glow of a shielded brazier filled with hot coals. There was a closed wooden door at the far end. Beside it stood a slim, youthful throg dressed in closefitting brown leather. He wore a dark cowl over his head, his ears protruding from it. He was speaking with one of the copper-helmeted warriors that Rathe was beginning to think of as Gotha's Guards. The warrior was gesturing at the floor, pointing at a trap-door, one of five evenly spaced about the room. Rathe couldn't make out his words, though.
He moved his head slightly, trying to take in the entire room through the narrow crack. Two other copper-helmed guards were seated around a low table, ignoring the conversation. They were scratching designs into it the tabletop with knives, concentrating on them. A pitcher of water and a half-eaten loaf of bread sat on the table beside them, and after a moment, Rathe guessed they were playing some kind of game. Behind the guards' table was a cross-shaped wooden frame, its sides pitted and stained. Beside it Rathe saw a long coil of coarse rope, a bucket, and a many-thonged whip. He shuddered, guessing at their purpose.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Kelandra. He pulled back, letting Kel and Orvig take their own turns. Orvig stayed for a long while. After a moment, Rathe saw his friend's shoulders were shaking.
They moved back from the door, and took cover behind a barrel. "What is it?" Rathe asked. "Did you hear what they were saying?"
"Curse them," said Orvig. He turned to Rathe, eyes burning. "The cowled throg came from Gotha Karn. The Shaman is impatient. The prisoners' rations are halved. Again." Orvig stressed the last word. "The guard told him they'd already halved them once. If they fed them any less, they'll eat each other." Orvig slammed his fist into his palm. "Then they both laughed."
"We'll get her out," Rathe said. "Don't worry."
Rathe and Orvig conferred in low voices. In the end, they could come up with nothing more clever than a frontal attack. They would try to freeze the guards with a shout, kill them all, and take their clothing. With luck, the copper helms would be symbols of authority that would let them get outside. As they spoke, Kel remained silent, simply nodding in agreement. Rathe wondered what she was thinking. He remembered the feel of her against him, when they'd kissed. He took Kel's hand. She looked up. "Be careful," he told her.
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