by Angus Wells
Colun rose then, wiping his blade clean, and barked orders that sent two of his fellows scurrying off into the depths of the cavern, which was, Davyd now saw, not a cave but a tunnel that ran back deep into the mountain. He studied it closer and wondered dazedly what produced the sunny light, and then thought again of the opening appearing in the impervious cliff—closed now as if it had never existed—and realized his saviors commanded magic. He hoped they entertained no animosity toward Dreamers: he recognized there could now be no turning back.
Then the two gnomes Colun had dispatched returned with a litter, and Arcole was lifted gently onto the makeshift stretcher. Colun beckoned, indicating Flysse and Davyd rise and accompany him, and they obeyed unquestioning as he set off into the mountain.
Colun’s men bore the litter and Flysse and Davyd took station at either side. Flysse took Arcole’s hand, but he seemed unaware of her touch, gone away into restful unconsciousness. She kept her eyes on him, only occasionally glancing up to see what lay ahead, whilst Davyd—confident Arcole was in good hands—stared awed about.
It was a journey of wonder to walk that passageway, its floor smoother than a city pavement, the light radiating from the walls and roof bright as summer’s noon, the air flinty crisp, seeming to smell of the rock itself. More marvelous still was the knowledge that they traversed the mountains, that this tunnel ran straight and true through heights impossible to scale. As they progressed steadily deeper, Davyd felt growing inside him the absolute conviction that they came to sanctuary. He smiled, confident now that his dreams had guided them well, that he was the Dream Guide and had not failed his comrades. He looked across Arcole’s supine body to Flysse and saw her smile, albeit wanly, before her attention was returned to Arcole.
They went on through the perpetual light, which shone always around and ahead of them, though when Davyd glanced back he saw that it faded behind them, as if their passage allowed the glow to subside into twilight. He guessed—it was not possible to reckon time accurately on this subterranean journey—that they walked away the morning. Surely he felt weariness pervade his limbs, muscles strained by the desperate climb beginning to protest this further exertion. Flysse, he saw, began to limp, her breath laboring, and he quickened his pace so that he drew alongside Colun.
“Is it much farther?” he asked, then snorted laughter and shrugged as he realized that Colun likely understood him no better than he comprehended the gnome’s language. He pointed back at Flysse and then pantomimed exhaustion.
Colun nodded sagely and then shook his head, uttering a burst of the guttural syllables. Davyd frowned, thinking that the small man’s words seemed clearer now, almost understandable. It was as if they each spoke some oddly distorted version of the same language, denied interpretation only by accent and emphasis. But that, he thought, could not be: he spoke Evanderan, and Colun was surely not of that country—save Aunt Dory’s tales had all been true and gnomes did exist. But not, he quickly told himself, as Aunt Dory had described them—not child stealers, but benign. Still, some growing measure of communication was reached, for he gathered they had not much farther to go before they could rest. Perhaps, he thought, whatever magic gouged this tunnel and lights our way also gifts us with tongues, that we come to understanding.
He nodded to Colun, smiled, and fell back to speak with Flysse. “I think it’s not far,” he said, “before we can rest.”
Flysse smiled wearily. “You speak their language now?”
Davyd shrugged. “It’s as though”—he shook his head helplessly, grinning in mild embarrassment, for he’d not appear presumptuous in her eyes—“as if I almost understand. And Colun seems to understand me.”
“Perhaps,” Flysse returned him, echoing his own thoughts, “magic unites us. Why not? God knows, there’s surely magic here.”
They halted where the tunnel expanded into a circular stony chamber, openings gaping in the rock as if this were some kind of under-mountain crossroads. At the center was a well, and around the walls were benches wide enough to sleep on, with mattresses and brightly colored blankets. An oven was cut into the circular wall, set ready with kindling, and with niches to either side from which food was produced and set to cooking.
Arcole was lowered carefully to the floor, and Colun examined his bandages and his face, grinning delightedly as his patient opened bleary eyes and asked hoarsely, “Where am I?”
Flysse was at his side on the instant, clutching his hands and stooping to kiss his cheek even as she said, “Safe! Oh, God, Arcole! I feared you were slain.”
“I too,” he croaked. “Davyd?”
“We’re all safe. Davyd’s warning came timely. He was right about everything.”
“Did you doubt him?” Arcole attempted to rise, but Colun set an irresistible hand on his chest and pushed him back. Arcole gaped as he saw the craggy features. “I thought I’d dreamed you,” he muttered, “but whoever you are—or whatever—you’ve my thanks, ’sieur.”
Colun beamed as if he understood, and with words and gestures indicated that Arcole rest.
Davyd came to his side with a cup of water—this place was well equipped, as if it were some kind of dormitory—and brought the cup to Arcole’s lips.
Arcole drank and nodded thanks and said, “You did well, my friend. I’d not have thought to come here, wherever this is.”
“We’re under the mountain.” Davyd waved an excited hand, indicating the chamber. His words came tumbling out, impelled by the delight he felt that Arcole survived. “The cliff opened and the gnomes pulled us in. Then the cave closed and they dug the arrow out of your back and carried you here. Their leader’s called Colun, and I think the demons are their enemies.”
Colun glanced up at mention of his name, and Arcole said, “Well, ’sieur Colun, you’ve my gratitude. Indeed, my undying gratitude.”
He chuckled at the pun and then began to cough. Colun came quickly to his side, indicating he should not speak, but lie still. Flysse stroked his hair and mopped his sweat-beaded brow.
“Rest,” she urged. “You were sore hurt.”
Arcole said, “I know,” and grinned. “But it appears I am in good hands now. Surely, I’ve a pretty nurse. And”—he reached to take Davyd’s hand—“a true friend to guide and guard me.”
“I was afraid,” Davyd admitted. “I feared I was wrong, and that you were slain.”
“You saved us,” Arcole replied. “I’m the more in your debt now.”
Davyd grinned and shrugged. Flysse said, “As Colun tells you, rest. They prepare food, but after you’ve eaten you must sleep.”
“As you command”—Arcole’s eyes fixed on her worried face—“my lovely wife.”
She smiled and stroked his cheek and for a while it was obvious that they saw only each other. And so relieved was he that Arcole lived, Davyd could not envy that communion but feel only a tremendous gratitude that his friend was alive.
He withdrew a little way, settling on a bench as the chamber grew redolent of cooking, reminding his stomach it was a long time since last any of them had eaten. He smiled his thanks when a gnome handed him a bowl of beaten metal filled with meat and vegetables, and hungrily set to consuming the tasty food. Colun, he saw, mashed a bowl for Arcole, sprinkling the resultant soup with herbs of some kind before passing the dish to Flysse. The gnome nodded approvingly as she began to spoon the mixture into Arcole’s mouth, watching awhile as the man ate. Davyd assumed the little man satisfied with his patient’s progress, and that was a further comfort: Davyd realized he trusted Colun without reservation, as if his dreaming talent spoke on the gnome’s behalf.
When they had finished eating, Colun allowed them to rest awhile longer. Arcole was gone to sleep, and both Davyd and Flysse welcomed the respite. Flysse’s eyes drooped shut as she leant against a bench, still holding Arcole’s hand; and for all his wonderment, Davyd felt sleep’s curtains drawing closed. He could, he thought drowsily, sleep away days—now that he felt safe.
But soon enough Colun was s
haking them awake, indicating that they press on. Davyd went to the well and splashed cool water on his face, realizing the while that only Colun and the two litter bearers remained. He wondered where the others had gone, and with much gesturing, Colun succeeded in advising him they were returned to the cave mouth. To keep watch, Davyd thought; and wondered if that was a thing these strange folk always did, as if they were guardians of these mountains.
As they marched on, the tunnel grew wider and branched in places, and in others revealed openings, large and small, that suggested a labyrinth of passageways. Davyd thought of the vast and widespread heights he had seen from the wilderness forest, and marveled anew that those massy crags and peaks were all crisscrossed with tunnels like an ant’s nest. What magic Colun’s people must command to have built these secret ways. He wondered how long they had inhabited the hills, and wished he spoke their language that he might learn more about them.
But were the tunnels marvelous, still they did not prepare him for what he saw at the journey’s end.
They emerged under a wide and intricately decorated arch onto a broad balcony that seemed suspended in space. Davyd and Flysse gasped in unison, halting as they stared at the wondrous panorama spread before them. Colun, it would seem, had anticipated this, for he, too, halted, allowing them awhile to gape.
They were in a cavern so vast, it seemed the entire heart of the mountain had been carved out, the stone rendered a hollow shell containing as many, or more, folk as Grostheim. Indeed Davyd’s impression was of a city hidden in the hill, all bustling with industry and lit by that same magic as illuminated the tunnels.
To either side of the balcony, wide stairways descended to the cavern floor—save, Davyd thought, “cavern” was too small a word to encompass this place—where silvery springs filled pools and wells around which were constructed pathways, ramps, more balconies, and stairways. About the edges of the cavern stood houses that appeared less built than grown from the stone itself. They climbed the walls like martins’ nests, connected by arcing bridges and intricate walkways. Distant along the enormous hollow the glow of fires could be seen, the clangor of beaten metal echoing as if smiths worked there. Then Davyd saw the most wondrous thing of all. Peering down, he saw a gnome standing before an outcrop of jagged rock, his hands raised and his mouth moving. It was as if he worshipped or spoke to the stone. Davyd could not hear what was said, but as the tiny figure performed its strange ritual, the rock began to move like butter set too close to flame. Davyd’s jaw fell open as he watched the stone melt and flow, oozing viscous until the outcrop was become smooth, and steps formed in its side. The distant figure stepped back, arms akimbo as it surveyed its handiwork, then turned and called something that brought more gnomes to survey the magical construction.
Davyd started as Colun touched his elbow. The little man was smiling as if amused, and pointed at the Stone Shaper, saying a word that sounded to Davyd like “golan,” then pointed at the houses and back at the reformed stone. Davyd guessed he said the “golan” began work on a new house.
“This is …” Davyd shook his head, lost for words.
“Incredible,” Flysse supplied, her own eyes wide with wonder.
Colun chuckled and beckoned them on, down the stairway.
They were met at the foot by a group of the small folk, the men dressed, like Colun, in sturdy leathers, the women in wide-skirted dresses that gave them the appearance of fabulous animated dolls. One whose hair was a striking yellow stepped forward. Her face was round and friendly, her smile at first for Colun alone but then encompassing the bemused newcomers. Colun touched her cheek and said, “Marjia,” which Davyd assumed must be her name, and then spoke theirs.
Marjia nodded and repeated the names, then her smile faded as she drew close to Arcole. She bent over the sleeping man, gently touching his brow, then speaking swift words which set Colun to nodding gravely. He beckoned again, and Davyd and Flysse followed their hosts along a pavement of seamless stone to an ascending stair. The litter bearers carried their burden to a walled balcony fronting one of the rock-houses. Marjia led the way inside, clearly bidding the two gnomes wait as she gathered bright cushions and patterned blankets that she spread over the floor of an inner room. Arcole was set down on that bed, the packs and weapons to one side, and Marjia glanced inquiringly at Flysse, leveling a stubby finger at the taller woman and then at Arcole. Flysse nodded, and Marjia waved her closer, then made a shooing motion that hastened the others from the room.
The litter bearers departed and Colun led Davyd to a larger chamber, where glassless windows looked onto the balcony. He indicated that Davyd seat himself on a bench that was, it seemed, grown from the wall. It was too low a seat for Davyd’s height, and he found his knees raised uncomfortably close to his chin. Colun chuckled and found cushions that he tossed to the floor. Davyd sat there, watching as Colun went to a niche from which he brought two cups and an earthenware flask. He grinned as he brandished the flask, smacking his lips enthusiastically, and said, “Tiswin.”
Davyd accepted a cup, toasting his host.
It had been more than a year since alcohol had passed his lips, and the tiswin tasted fierce. It was, he thought, akin to gin but sweeter. Surely it warmed his belly and eased away his aches, so that a pleasant languor spread through his body, and before he had emptied a second cup he felt his eyes grow heavy and saw the room blur and dim. He was vaguely aware of Colun setting a cushion behind his head and taking the cup from his hand; he mumbled thanks and then fell sound asleep.
Flysse could make no sense of Marjia’s words, but she understood the woman’s gestures and obeyed as Marjia indicated she turn Arcole onto his belly. Marjia frowned when she saw the scars striping his back, then motioned that Flysse aid her in removing the bandages. She lifted the compress from the wound and studied Colun’s rude surgery. Flysse was much reassured when the gnomic woman nodded and smiled, and patted her hand: she seemed to be telling Flysse that the wound was not poisoned.
Then Flysse must wait as Marjia bustled out, returning in a while with a bowl of steaming water and an assortment of jars, vials, and cloths. Arcole stirred drowsily as they stripped him and Marjia bathed his wound. When it was clean, she ground up an ointment that she smeared liberally over the red-lipped gash. A fresh compress was set in place, and together they bandaged him. Marjia dribbled a dark liquid into his mouth, then spread a blanket over his body and gestured that Flysse follow her out of the chamber.
Flysse was at first reluctant to leave Arcole, but Marjia pantomimed that he would sleep on, and that Flysse might wash and eat, and she allowed herself to be persuaded.
She followed Marjia to a chamber that was clearly a bathroom, for water flowed out of the wall into a basin, and off to one side was a stone tub. Marjia indicated that she avail herself of the facilities and pointed back the way they had come before leaving Flysse alone.
Flysse was too concerned for Arcole to do more than quickly bathe her face and drag a comb through her tangled hair before she quit the room and went back to where he lay. He did sleep on, and for a moment she feared he sank into coma, but when she checked his breathing and his pulse, both were steady, and when she touched his brow, it was unfevered. She assumed the medicines of their curious hosts took effect, but even so she was loath to leave him, and had Marjia not reappeared, she would have settled by his side to wait impatiently for him to wake.
Instead, she went with the little doll-like woman to the outer chamber. There she found Colun seated at a wooden table with a flask and cup at his elbow. Davyd lay sprawled on the floor, snoring softly, and Colun pointed at the young man and then at the flask in explanation. Marjia shook her head in what was clearly a fond exaggeration and pantomimed her husband—Flysse assumed they were wed—drinking to excess. Colun laughed softly and said something in their strange language, at which Marjia smiled hugely and cuffed him gently on the ear.
It was so domestic a scene, so normal, Flysse burst into tears.
; Marjia was instantly at her side, a comforting arm encircling Flysse’s waist, leading her to a bench, where she slumped with helpless tears coursing her cheeks. Marjia passed her a kerchief and she mopped her eyes and blew her nose; Colun filled a cup, and after a moment’s hesitation she took it. Davyd’s condition persuaded her to sip cautiously, but the tiswin was comforting and her weeping gradually subsided.
She wiped her face anew and said, “Forgive me. I owe you thanks, we all owe you thanks. You saved our lives and you tend my husband. I …” She gestured helplessly, smiling now as she saw their faces intent on hers, their eyes sympathetic and uncomprehending.
Marjia spoke, but Flysse could understand the woman no better than Marjia understood her, and wondered how it was Davyd believed he almost interpreted their words. Certainly on the journey there it had seemed he and Colun attained a degree of communication denied her. She wondered if that might be something to do with Davyd’s talent for dreaming, and smiled fondly at the soundly slumbering youth. Were they to remain for any time with these little folk, she thought, she must attempt to learn their language.
Marjia grew busy again and, before Flysse had emptied her cup, food was set on the table. The savory odors roused Davyd, who opened somewhat bleary eyes and yawned hugely, then grinned and clambered to his feet.
“How’s Arcole?” His grin faded, replaced with an expression of concern. “Where is he?”
“He sleeps,” Flysse told him. “Marjia tended his wound, and now he sleeps. I think that’s likely for the best.”
“Yes.” Davyd nodded owlishly and yawned again.
Marjia asked with gestures and words if he’d sooner sleep than eat, and he shook his head, saying, “Eat first, then sleep,” which both she and Colun seemed to understand.
“This is good,” he declared as he wolfed mouthfuls. “Have you tried the tiswin yet, Flysse? That’s good too.”
“In measure,” she answered, thinking that his youth lent him recuperative powers greater than her own. She felt almost too weary to eat, and had she not wished to build her strength that she be ready when Arcole woke, she would have forgone the meal to stretch out by his side.