by Daniel Kirk
it didn’t matter to Macta. The little Goblin in the crook of his arm whimpered and whined in the winds of the Cord. Macta held him tightly, whispering quiet reassurances, while he held his mechanical arm before him as if it were the prow of a ship. If there was one skill at which Macta excelled, it was riding the Cord. Even in this strange underground passage, where the sensation was less like a bird in flight and more like plunging into an abyss, Macta negotiated the twists and turns as if it were his birthright. What was terror or monotony for others was to him boundless pleasure. He loved the subtle flexing of his muscles to swoop and soar, navigating the air, becoming one with its power. He was a born Aeronaut in the Cord; but it was not this way for everyone. “Asra,” Macta cried, but it was obvious to him that the Princess didn’t hear.
He saw her falling next to him, not twenty feet away. She was curled into a ball, her eyes shut, hair streaming back, dropping like a rock through space. Macta knew that if she lost consciousness her spirit could slip out of her body and be lost forever. She’d never been fond of travel in the Cord; when she’d been forced to ride, it had almost always been in the royal Gondola. She wasn’t weak, or spoiled, not really. This just wasn’t her element. And when her friend Skara had been killed in the Cord accident outside Storehoj, her opinion had been sealed. “Asra, are you awake?” Macta called again.
When they went to enter the Cord at the Gate of Hujr, it had been difficult for him to convince Asra that she really needed to relax, have faith in him as well as the winds to take them safely to the heart of the Underworld. The Goddess had given them the Cord for this purpose, after all. He coaxed her, told her that she’d come this far; it would be foolish to give up now. In the end Asra leapt into the void as if it would be the last thing she ever did. Now, many hours had passed. Fear for herself had given way to worry over Becky’s fate, boredom, fatigue, and finally a kind of numb distraction, a wide-eyed daydreaming that was perilously close to sleep. Macta had to be vigilant to make sure Asra stayed awake and alert. He’d been rubbing Powcca’s knobby head for some time, too, preventing the Goblin from drifting off.
Macta twitched one shoulder, shifted his weight, and arced across the width of the Cord toward her. As he drew closer he called her name again. “Asra!” Each time he said her name, he found it sweet beyond measure. His capacity for love and gentleness surprised him; he knew the passion in anger, contempt, and the desire for vengeance. He knew how bitter, how cold his heart could be. It was only this time with Asra that let him know how much tenderness there was inside of him. With his mechanical arm outstretched he reached for Asra and drew her close.
Her eyes fluttered open. “What?”
“Don’t be afraid,” Macta soothed, whispering in her ear. “You mustn’t go to sleep. Stay with me. Watch the way I ride. Try to copy my motions. Let me try again to teach you, now that you’re not afraid anymore. It’s exciting! You’ll like it, I know.”
He let go of Asra and maneuvered back into the open air. Then he turned and met her gaze. She was looking into his eyes, and he smiled at her. “Arms out,” he cried into the wind, “like this!”
For Asra, the following hours seemed like an eternity of reaching, stretching, paying undue attention to the position of her hands, and how the hands and arms either met with wind resistance or cut through the air like a hot knife in butter. It was deadly dull. It was also a lot of work. For Macta it was an exercise in sharing something that was important to him, something that he was good at, something that would help his beloved grow and help her get to know him. This time together, just the two of them and little Powcca, was challenging her to succeed at a skill that Macta loved. Perhaps, he thought, they would do this together, riding in the Cord, when they were both old and gray. Maybe their children would join them. That is, if any of the Cords were still around by then. If the tree died, and all of the Cords withered away, life would certainly change. But for now, Macta was in paradise. All thoughts of Jardaine and her betrayal were set aside as he flew toward the heart of the Underworld, next to his beloved.
Like most good things in Macta’s life, though, the feeling didn’t last long. Perhaps it was the pressure in his ears. Perhaps it was a subtle shift of the wind. It was a sensation honed through years of experience, and Macta was the first to notice a change in the air. He had an odd sense that the passage was narrowing up ahead. They’d come so far, they’d dropped down into the earth for … how long? Time, in the Cord, was meaningless. But so far, Macta had felt nothing particularly unusual on this trip, even though their travel was vertical, not horizontal. As his apprehension grew Macta drew close to Asra, so that they were flying side by side. “I’ve got a strange feeling,” he cried.
Asra blinked at him, trying to stay focused. She brushed the hair from her face and stared. “What?”
“I haven’t felt this way since my old friend Druga broke his neck, when a Cord we were riding in took a sharp turn.”
“What are you saying?”
“Just that something’s about to change, Asra, something … big. I don’t know what, a change in direction, I’m not sure. We may be reaching the center of the world, and the Cord may be winding around the core, getting ready to continue on to the other side of the earth. Listen: when the time comes, I’m going to take you in my arms and hold on to you. Powcca will be between us. You must make sure he doesn’t slip out. His leash is tied around my waist, but it may not be enough to hold him if anything drastic happens. You’ll need to wrap your arms and legs around me and hold on, tight. No matter what happens, you mustn’t let go!”
Asra frowned. With her arms extended overhead, and the wind coursing over every inch of her body, she already felt exposed and vulnerable. “It sounds like another one of your tricks to make me get close to you.”
At that moment a large black root came into view; it jutted into the Cord like a hand tipped with daggers. Startled, Asra threw her arms around Macta’s chest, and they sailed past it. “That’s just what I meant!” he hollered, as they swept past another root, and then another.
Macta bobbed and weaved through the sprouting underground branches like a fish hurtling through rapids. He dodged the barbs and clots of black wood, narrowly avoiding every barricade and blockage, until the Cord veered sharply to the right. Asra clung to him, squeezing so hard that Macta could barely breathe; and then he grabbed for the side of the Cord with his mechanical hand. The razors at the ends of his robotic fingers shot from their hiding places and tore an opening in the Cord. He swung his body back around, so that the soft membrane absorbed the impact of the hit. Asra’s face was pressed against his own rough cheek, and Powcca squealed in alarm. “Now,” he ordered, “reach for it! We’re going inside!”
They tumbled into darkness. They rolled over and over, until Macta let go of the Princess and they lay sprawled on a dusty floor. Asra got to her knees and coughed convulsively. Powcca trotted away from her, shaking his coat and grunting. A creaking sound came from above. Then, seconds later, a pitter-pat of tiny rocks and stone dust sprinkled around them. “Shhhhh,” Macta said, helping Asra to her feet. “You must try to be quiet.”
He pulled off the soft pack he wore on his back and reached inside. The Queen of Hunaland had provided them Kollis, like those she’d given Tuava-Li, Matt, and Tomtar. Macta opened the lid of one and held it aloft. The Fire Sprite raised its head and lit up like a torch. Macta opened another and handed it to Asra. They looked at the place where they’d come out of the Cord: a layer of stone had crumbled to coarse powder, and the wall of the Cord bulged against the rock that remained. Asra went to smooth the cut Macta had made. Then the two travelers lifted their Kollis high and surveyed the scene before them. They were at the top of a huge, round amphitheater. Concentric circles of stadium seating surrounded a gnarled, black column that rose all the way from the floor to the ceiling, hundreds of feet above. Macta eyed it up and down. He observed how it thickened, split, and braided itself back in a convoluted knot, and disappeared into a
high crevice. Thousands of little branches, tendrils, fingers of wood broke from the main stalk and grew around the dome of the ceiling. The stone itself was a lattice of cracks and fissures. Macta was certain the place was structurally unsound; too much noise, too much vibration might well bring the entire cavern down on their heads. “Where are we?” Asra whispered. “Is this the center of the world? Is that gnarly stalk where the Adri begins? Does it start like this?”
Macta shook his head and trod lightly toward the ancient column. “Who knows?”
The bottom of the stalk, surprisingly, descended straight into a pool of black water. The form of the pool was strange; it took Macta a minute to realize that it was the shape of an Elfin figure, with arms, legs, and a head. It was enormous, though, perhaps thirty feet long. The black column rose up like an umbilical cord from the abdomen of the figure. Macta held up his Fire Sprite as he approached the pool, and saw his reflection there. He wondered absently how deep the pool might be. Powcca limped to his Master’s side. He sniffed the air, let out a low growl, and backed away from the water. “It’s strange,” Macta said to Asra. “Do you feel it? Do you feel the energy here? I think we must be getting close!”
“I know what you mean,” Asra agreed. She shivered, flush with an energy that might have been excitement or anxiety; it was impossible to tell. “But I don’t think we’re close, Macta. I think we’re here. I think we’ve reached the center of the earth … thanks to you! It was amazing, the way you got us through that jungle of roots in the Cord.”
Macta tried not to smile. If he let Asra know that she’d given him a compliment, she might be inclined to take it back. “’Tis odd how we were the last to leave Hunaland, and yet we’ve beaten everyone else to this place … if, of course, this is the place. There’s no sign of anybody else having been here in thousands of moons. No footprints, nothing. Just some swishing marks in the dust.”
“I know why we’re the first to arrive,” Asra said. “Those roots would have stopped anybody with lesser skills than you. I think the others must have cut their way out of the Cord a little higher than we did, just to avoid being battered to pieces.”
“Or perhaps they were all battered to pieces?”
Asra shuddered. “That’s impossible. We’d have seen … signs.”
Macta sat down on a piece of a broken column and rooted in his pack for a treat for Powcca. When he held up a chunk of dried biscuit, the Goblin barked, prancing on his hind legs and begging. “Quiet, my boy, quiet,” Macta cooed, “this entire place could collapse at any moment!”
Powcca gulped down the biscuit, and then greedily licked the crumbs from Macta’s fingers. “Well,” Asra said, “if it’s too dangerous for us to wait here, perhaps we’d be better off trying to find Becky and the others!” She wandered toward an archway at the side of the chamber and raised her Kolli into the darkness. “This looks like a way out of here, a corridor!” Light flickered on the carvings along the narrow passage. “Harvest scenes. Our ancestors were peaceful folk!”
“There’s only one way to find out where it goes,” Macta said, joining her.
Asra turned and looked again at the vast ceiling, the pool, and the tree that grew out of the black water. “There must have been Elves who came down to this amphitheater, long ago. Perhaps they sat on these stone seats, watching something in that pool. Perhaps they watched the birth of the Adri, the last time the tree grew from the Sacred Seed! Where do you suppose the Seed must be planted? There, in the pool?”
Macta shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we find Jardaine—I mean, Becky, and save her from that witch. Let’s see what lies along these corridors. If we have a sense of where the others may be coming from, the greater our chances of surprising them. We must play the offense, now.”
“The offense?”
“As opposed to the defense, my dear. Sporting terminology. I shall have to explain it to you.”
“Perhaps another time,” Asra said.
They wandered together into the dark passage at the side of the amphitheater, with Powcca trailing behind. The Goblin kept up his low growl. He was obviously concerned about some subtle odor in the stale air, something that escaped Macta’s and Asra’s notice. The corridor slowly arched to the left. When they came to a place where another corridor branched from the main path, Asra lifted her Kolli high, peered into the darkness, and said, “I have a feeling we ought to turn here.”
Macta shook his head. “Why would you say that? If these passages keep splitting off, and we keep following them, we’ll be lost in no time. We should keep going on the main path. The others will surely come this way.”
“Not necessarily,” Asra said. “If I’m right about this, there’ll be another junction not far ahead. Then … we’ll go to the left.”
“How could you possibly know what’s ahead?”
“Just … a funny feeling, that’s all.”
Macta grinned. “Then perhaps you’d care to make a little wager? If you’re right, I’ll—”
“Don’t start,” Asra said.
“Very well,” Macta said with a sigh. He picked up a chunk of stone from the path and scraped it against the wall. “Whether you’re right or wrong, we can at least mark the trail, so we’ll be able to find our way back to the amphitheater, when the time comes.”
Though the grinding of rock against rock left a mark, it was still hard to see the gouge Macta made amid all the ancient carvings. “Wait,” he said. “I’ve got an idea.” He placed his Fire Sprite on the ground. Then he stood up straight, took a deep breath, and flexed a muscle in his shoulder. A moment later the blades along the fingers of his mechanical arm shot out with a satisfying click. He pressed the point of his metal pinkie against the stone and dragged his finger downward. After the first scratch, he deepened the notch by chiseling away at it, pushing down on the mechanical hand with his good arm. “That’s better! Now we’ll see the marks, for sure!”
“You’re wasting time,” Asra said. “If you want, you can wait for me here, and I’ll go on ahead. I’m sure there’ll be another juncture this way, and then to the left.”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Macta said, and they proceeded down the branching path.
Not more than a hundred yards ahead there was yet another opening on the left, just as Asra had predicted. She looked at Macta and said, “Now this way!”
As Macta notched the stone in the arch, Powcca began growling more fiercely. “What is it, boy?” the King said. “I wish you could talk to us.” He knelt to give the Goblin a reassuring pet.
“Perhaps there’s someone near,” Asra said hopefully. “Goblins must have acute senses; you’d know more about that than I do!”
“Of course they do. In Helfratheim we use them for hunting.”
“In Ljosalfar,” Asra said, “hunting is considered a crime against the Goddess.”
Macta chuckled. “Where I’m from, nearly all of our behavior would be considered a crime against your Goddess.”
“Let’s keep moving,” Asra said, ignoring his remark. When they found another corridor on the right, and then a fork to the left, Asra turned to Macta. “We’re inside a maze, you know.”
“I didn’t know. But now that you say it, I can see what you mean! If that amphitheater is the midpoint of the earth, we must be moving now toward the outside of the maze. Maybe Jardaine, and Becky, too, are already in the maze, trying to find their way toward the center!”
Asra nodded. “That’s right.”
“How did you recognize it? What gave it away? Even with all these carvings, and all the broken rock and rubble to distract you, there must have been something that let you know.”
“When I lived in Ljosalfar, young Elves often played in a labyrinth made of hedges. Elflads entered the maze from the north, and Elfmaids from the south. There was a race to the center of the maze, and if the lads and maids happened to meet at any of the places where the corridors were joined, they were expected to …”
“Expected to what?”
Asra blushed. “Expected to kiss, but that’s entirely beside the point. The important thing is, we’re inside a maze, and it’s remarkably like the one I know from Ljosalfar. Perhaps ours was based on this one. It was an ancient maze, an ancient tradition.”
“There were such mazes in Helfratheim, too,” Macta said. “My father would sometimes place a convicted criminal at the entrance to a maze, and then loose a wild beast to chase him through the passages. We’d watch the chase from our viewing stands. Whether the criminal managed to reach the center of the maze or not, he was still torn apart and eaten. That was all part of the—” Macta stopped himself from saying the word fun. He didn’t want to give the Princess the impression that he was as much of a brute as his father had been. “Well, it certainly wasn’t entertaining to me!”
“Honestly,” Asra said, “I don’t know how you managed to come out as well as you did, given the horrors you had to endure in that place.”
Powcca stopped in his tracks. He bent low to the ground and let out a growl from the back of his throat that made the hair on Macta’s neck stand up. A swishing sound came from above, and Macta thrust his Kolli overhead. Above him he saw a jagged black tunnel carved into the rock. The ceiling was, in fact, laced with tunnels. In the dark distance he thought he could see something moving. Something was gleaming—eyes, or teeth. Snakelike, the thing was moving too fast for Macta to recognize it. All he had time to do before the creature opened its slavering jaws was shove Asra out of the way. Squealing with delight, the monster dropped from the hole and reached for Macta. There was no time to think. Macta thrust out his mechanical arm, and with the razored fingers jutting into the air, he punctured the monster’s soft underbelly.
Macta flung the creature to the floor. He watched it writhe there, throwing up clouds of choking dust, as emerald-colored fluid gushed from its wounds. It took Macta a moment to realize that Asra was behind him, with her own arms wrapped tightly around his waist. The Princess still clutched her Kolli; Macta felt the heat singe his belly. Reluctantly he pried away Asra’s hand. “Careful, darling,” he said, and stepped backwards. The creature was still thrashing. Powcca rushed at the monster, growling and snapping, snatching bites from its hide. In a strange, soft voice, the monster moved its lips and cried, “Noooo, intruders, intruders must die, intruders—must—”