The Bitterbynde Trilogy
Page 42
“What ails the fowl? ’Tis the middle of the night!” Diarmid complained.
A tang of wood-smoke and a savory scent drifted down the tunnel. Imrhien looked around for Thorn, but he was nowhere to be seen. She struggled to her feet and made a grab for the rooster, which eluded her. Leaving it to its own devices, she walked with the Ertishman back along the tunnel’s rising floor, through the entrance, and up out of the culvert into the open air. The cockerel followed several paces behind.
The sun had not yet lifted above the horizon. A gray predawn pallor washed over Emmyn Vale. Once again, uhta was on the world—that breathless hour between the marches of night and the threshold of day when nocturnal incarnations paused in their business, turning their eyes to the east, pricking up their ears; when birds began to stir sleepily in their nests, chirping tentatively as they made ready to greet the sun; when unseelie shapes and nightmares went skulking back to crannies and subtle places, there to hide from the solar glare and wait for nightfall.
There was no sign of the Foawr other than the aftermath of their battle—splintered trees, twisted bushes, gaping raw wounds in hillsides, gleaming facets of new-broken rock. Black mouths gaped from hillsides and under boulders, the entrances to the myriad caves that riddled the ground on which they stood. Daylight revealed that the adit ran into the side of a small grassy hill. The sight of this portal leading underground disturbed Imrhien, stirring a queer mingling of horror and excitement.
A fire sprang like a red lily in a stony clearing among the heather. Thorn stepped silently from the dusky trees, holding a brace of bunya cones. Errantry was perched on his shoulder. The Dainnan knelt by the fire and began to skin a dead rabbit that lay there already.
“The Foawr have done us a favor,” he said cheerfully. “A bunya pine lies shattered, its cones rolling—easy pickings.”
The bantam rooster scratched vigorously in the dirt, throwing dust over Diarmid’s boot.
“First the bird wakens me, then it befouls me,” the Ertishman said grimly, unaware of his pun. “It desires a short life.”
“Such birds can be useful,” said Thorn. “Even in dark places they can tell when dawn arrives in the world outside. Many wights fear the sun, including the Foawr. At a cockerel’s proclamation of the sun’s imminence, even powerful wights may flee in dread.”
As she sat warming herself by the flames, Imrhien cast her mind back to her old tilhal, the wooden rooster. It had been falling apart. She had lost it to the eastsiders when she and Muirne had been abducted—Ethlinn had given her the self-bored stone tilhal to replace it. The wooden rooster had been of no value, but the racketeers had taken it anyway, probably using it to fuel their fire. How much of Waterstair’s treasure had they plundered by now? Where did Sianadh’s body lie—had they possessed the decency to bury him, or had they left his remains to be devoured by wild things? That great treasure lawfully belonged to the Crown. What would the King-Emperor do when he learned of its existence?
Imrhien was tempted to tell Thorn of her mission. As a warrior of the King-Emperor he would be able to help—perhaps he might secure an audience with His Majesty. She was only a tattered wanderer with a maimed face. What chance would she have of speaking personally with the King-Emperor himself? At best, her information would be relayed up to him through the hierarchy of courtiers. Yet that mattered not in the long run, she supposed—for as long as the King-Emperor received word of Waterstair and of the evil deeds of the eastsiders, her mission would be complete. She need do no more, for then the Dainnan Brotherhood would be sent forth to dispatch justice.
<
Imrhien had made the “promise” signal, and thus she was bound, if not to her word, then to her sign.
Behind the ridge the eastern horizon was now brushed with orchid-pink, but the sun’s first ray was not yet visible when from behind a hillock came a grunting and a snorting as of a wild pig. Something lumbered over the hill and stood still for a moment, as if sniffing the air. It was a giant, barrel-chested man-thing, with a black pig’s head and two great tusks like a wild boar’s. This formidable apparition started to travel down the dark slope, lifting its feet high with its thick ham-hocks of legs. The feet were large and blunt, all the toes, however many there were, arranged in a straight row. Although it was ponderous. it moved swiftly, grunting and snuffling all the while.
Thorn remained unmoved by this apparition. “He has not seen us,” he commented. On his shoulder, the goshawk stood on one leg and nibbled a strand of his hair. Presently the pig-man moved off among the hummocks and was lost to view.
“Now you have beheld Jimmy Squarefoot,” said Thorn. “When he is a giant pig he is ridden over land and sea by the Foawr. In his present form he is a stone-thrower, like them, but he does no great damage. He is out late—before the first sunray touches the land he must find shelter—”
He broke off and leaped to his feet. Errantry flew up with a whirr and a clap of wings. Imrhien and Diarmid lifted their heads, alert for danger.
“Longbow, what approaches?”
Thorn silenced the Ertishman with a gesture. A noise grazed the edges of hearing. After a moment the Dainnan lifted the brass-mounted horn to his mouth and sounded a long note. Then he said:
“From the north I hear the winding of a Dainnan horn. One of the Brotherhood calls for aid. I must answer.”
He turned toward his companions, speaking with urgency.
“That call comes from a long distance. I must travel swiftly, and so cannot bring you with me. I may be gone for several days. It is not safe for you to remain here—you must press on by yourselves. Without my company, you must travel under the ground for this part of your journey. This region of Doundelding’s surface is an eldritch crossroad. Numbers of unseelie wights may pass through here on their way north, but belowground you will encounter mostly the seelie. Follow the adit down and then straight ahead—it winds through many mines, up and down—whenever it branches, take the left-hand path, save for the third and seventh branches. If you follow these directions, you will emerge in the west of Doundelding. If not, you will lose yourselves in the labyrinth and perish. Now, I must make haste. Drink only flowing water, never water that stands. Provision yourselves well and light no fires in the mines. Take these.”
He thrust the red phial, the cloak, and some other gear into their arms. Placing a hand lightly on Diarmid’s shoulder, he looked down at him—for the Dainnan was the taller by an inch or two—and said gravely:
“Captain, I would enjoin you to protect this damsel, but where native wit is of more use than a strong arm, she may prove the protectress. Yet, guard her with your strength, I do charge you. Both, come safely through.”
Diarmid opened his mouth to protest, but again Thorn silenced him.
“There is no time. Already it may be too late.”
<
“May our parting not be for long, Gold-Hair.”
Errantry rose on his pinions with a sound like rushing wind. The Dainnan tilted back his head, his eyes following the bird’s flight. His profile was drawn finely against the blushing sky of sunrise.
Then he was away.
As the sun lifted itself up over the blasted vale, Imrhien and Diarmid breakfasted in morose silence. Morning brought with it the first stirrings of a shang wind. The rooster pecked and strutted around authoritatively, obviously in charge now that the goshawk had departed. It had taken a liking to Diarmid, who kept pushing it away with his elbow and elaborately refraining from cursing it, to prove himself gentlemanly. Imrhien hardly noticed. She thought she must have swallowed a stone during the nigh
t, and it had lodged in her chest, just above the heart. She had become aware of it only after Thorn had gone. Her throat constricted, and she could not eat.
Few birds called from the surrounding countryside. A cold wind was blowing—the place seemed cheerless. As the travelers picked around the fallen boughs of the bunya pine, collecting as many nuts as they could cram into the pouches, the tinkling of a million miniature bells came over the hills. It was as though a meadowful of snowdrop flowers with tiny clappers were bowing under a breeze. The strange clouds of the shang blotted out the sun. Soft airs plucked at their clothes. Imrhien wanted to run on the hilltops, to spring into the air and see if the wind would buoy her up, would lift her into the sky and away from the ache of loss. Diarmid would disapprove—not that she cared.
Instead she tied on her taltry.
Rocks glittered with points of silver light. On a hillside a bloody skirmish was taking place between two bands of see-through warriors in old-fashioned mail and plumed helmets. They were up to their knees in turf, the ground level having altered since their day. Closer still, a young couple in peasant garb ran up a slope, he dragging her by the hand—she was exhausted. Fear was written on both their faces as they stared back over their shoulders at whatever had pursued them, long ago. Who they were and what they were running from was now lost and forgotten.
By the time the unstorm had passed, the travelers had packed and were ready to leave. They looked about for the entrance to the adit, and that was when consternation first set in. For there were numerous underground entrances puncturing the hills, and most of them were adits with cuttings running down into their mouths.
“We are left to ourselves for half an hour and already we are lost,” Diarmid expostulated as they searched. “Perhaps any one of these would do … I surmise that all are interconnected.”
Imrhien shook her head. Thorn’s directions had been specific—the wrong entrance could lead them in the wrong direction, into peril.
Eventually they sat down, at a loss.
“We shall have to find it before nightfall,” the Ertishman said grimly. “That Jimmy Squarefoot will be abroad, and who knows what else may roam after sunset.”
The girl gave a start and looked around wildly.
“No need to be troubled yet!” he said.
<
“I know not. I care not.”
Imrhien went looking for the rescued bird and saw it sitting on a hilltop. When she approached, it scuttled away down the other side of the hill. Following its trail, she came to the very entrance of the sought-after adit—she recognized it by a jutting limestone protuberance resembling a giant’s nose. The rooster was already inside, darting after flies. The girl climbed back to the hilltop and waved her arms to hail her companion. In a moment he was beside her, and she led him to the tunnel where the bird was pecking.
“Then it has a use after all, the witless fowl,” he grunted, but his smile revealed his gladness.
Imrhien gazed for one last time toward the north. Then, saying farewell to the open skies, they walked down into the dark.
Gradually their eyes adapted to the dim luminescence of the fungi. The rooster shortsightedly blundered about and crashed into a wall. Grudgingly Diarmid rescued it, setting it on his shoulder with deep misgivings. It pecked his ear affectionately.
Imrhien tapped on Diarmid’s arm. <
Diarmid squinted. “I can barely see your hands. Say you that we must watch our step in case we fall down some winze or ventilation shaft to a lower level? Aye, I’ll not disagree. And we must look for branching passages. What was it now—take the left, except for the third and seventh?” She nodded.
An hour later they had not yet passed one side-opening, and still the tunnel descended. From afar off, the sounds of tapping and knocking started up again. There being no night or day in this worm’s abode, the travelers at last halted when they had agreed it must be around noon. Snail-trails of water ran down the walls—it was difficult to find a dry place to sit. Brown mud smeared their faces and hands, caked their hair and garments. Rummaging in the food-pouches, they found little more than bunya nuts, with a few withered lillypilly berries, overripe apple-berries, and crumbled mushrooms. The nuts were rich and sustaining, but Imrhien knew they would tire of them before long. She crushed a few for the rooster to peck, which it did, peevishly.
“Those knocking sounds,” said Diarmid, his voice loud in the still darkness, “they would drive a man mad.”
Behind his back the rooster gave a sudden screech. Both travelers jumped. The bird shot off down the passageway.
<
“Aye, and there was quite a pile of them on the ground here. The fowl could not have eaten them all in such a short moment. Mayhap we have company.” The Ertishman’s voice dropped to a whisper.
They peered out into the gloom but could see no moving thing.
<
Diarmid gave a shout and grabbed the food-pouches off the floor.
“I left a handful of bunya nuts right there. They are gone! Leave no food on the living rock. Let us get out of this place.”
A screech issued out of the darkness ahead and the rooster came running back. Imrhien scooped it up. Its eyes, usually wide and indignant-looking, were more so.
They walked on for a minute or two, then placed a couple of nuts on the limestone floor. Nothing happened until they looked away. Then, a faint scraping of stone on stone and the food was gone. A dim drone of bagpipes came to their ears from somewhere to the left and below.
<
“Let us hope that they are not after food other than the vegetable kind.”
It seemed wiser to eat and drink as they walked. The drone of the pipes drew nearer. Such underground piping was not unfamiliar to the girl, for she had heard similar dim upwellings somewhere in the forests north of Gilvaris Tarv. The music crescendoed, rising from beneath the feet of the listeners to send cold thrills juddering through them.
The unseen subterranean piper moved along some sublevel crosscut to the right and passed farther away into distant labyrinthine reaches. After the music had faded, even the knocking ceased. Silence pressed more heavily than before.
The passage forked.
“That’s one!”
They took the left-hand path.
The rocky floor ramped down more steeply now. On the slippery, uneven surface it would have been easy to lose one’s footing. Down here, far from human aid, a broken limb could eventually prove fatal. This passage twisted and turned until those who followed it had lost all sense of direction. After what seemed hours it led them to another intersection. There, they rested, for surely it must be evening, somewhere far above their heads, and the first frosty stars opening in the sky.
The tappings had resumed as they walked. They rang louder now—instead of one or two knockers there seemed a multitude, all banging at different rhythms and tempos, some in the walls, others underfoot or overhead. They might have been nearby, or far off in some other section of the mine, their tappings amplified by some echo-chamber effect along a conduit. The travelers sat down on the cloak, abruptly realizing how weary they were.
“If anything can keep us from the thieves beneath the floor, ’tis this Dainnan cloak,” Diarmid muttered, “with whatever wizardly qualities it is endowed. Mayhap it is woven of wight-spun yarn.” To be completely certain, they let no crumb fall. The rooster refused to set foot on the ground under any circumstances and ended up perched on Imrhien’s knee while she fed it from her hand and cupped water for it.
“The tin mines of Doundelding are ancient workings,” Diarmid mused with a yawn. “Digging has been going on here for centuries. The old mines, now hardly ever worked, intersect with the new on many levels, and the whole lot is laced with natural caverns. Back in the Tarv barracks
, Sergeant Waterhouse used to tell tales of this place.”
There was no doubt that the Ertishman had become more informative and agreeable since the advent of the Dainnan’s company. However, Imrhien’s eyelids were so heavy that she could scarcely follow what he was saying.
“You sleep,” she heard him say. “I shall take first watch.”
It was hard to waken when Diarmid shook her to take her turn at the watch. The cockerel, having slumbered peacefully, skipped from her hip to the man’s, sank its neck into its feathery chest, and closed its eyes smugly. Imrhien struggled to stay alert in the eternal gloom, listening to the sporadic tap-tap, now near at hand, now far off. Sometimes she paced up and down, longing for an end to this timeless night.
Deep in the ground, with miles of limestone hanging over their heads, they had only one timepiece to mark the rise and fall of the sun. The cockerel opened its affronted eyes, extended its neck, shook itself, glared all around, and puffed out its chest by way of ritual. Opening its wings and pointing its beak to the ceiling, it let fly with its fanfare. Such a crowing would have carried a long distance, had it been blasted forth over fields and farmlands. Here in this enclosed place it rolled around, making the rocks ring with its echoes.
When the triumphant cry finally faded, all sound ceased. The rooster fluffed up its feathers and shook itself.
Bleary-eyed and now wool-eared, the travelers breakfasted and continued on their way.
The path always ran downhill, always lit by fungus, always slicked with damp. Occasionally it would narrow, or widen, or turn this way or that, or the ceiling would soar away out of sight, or the walls would be streaked with layers of color, or the way would suddenly widen into a cavern, its roof supported by pillars of living rock, or the sound of rushing water would come chuckling and gurgling from behind the walls.