Wars of the Aoten

by Craig Davis

  Chapter XLV

  For each man a candle, for each face a flame, the traveling party followed Rhodan through a twisting route of murky passageways. Mercedi walked at his side, followed by Artur and Geoffrey; Linus and Vespus took positions with the archers, whom they joined to keep Severus under guard. The narrow tunnels forced the travelers into contortions, at times swiveling their shoulders, then bowing their backs, stooping and crawling. Many a time did Dungo become wedged fast, and Artur’s knees complained sorely at the long abuse. Huge spiders dangled tantalizingly from their webs, awaiting a victim for their fey silk to entangle. Bats clung to the stone ceiling, swinging slightly before flitting in a panic to each new inverted perch. As intractable as Raspars, these native denizens complained mightily at each new disturbance, and still the travelers moved on. Gradually the etchings on the walls thinned and disappeared, then the cut stones at their feet gave way to poorly matched rocks, then finally changed to earth, roots and ancient history.

  The clay and sludge of their surroundings soon revealed a house of horrors, illuminated by the tiny candle flames sputtering and flaring in small pockets of gas, earthy burps from the planet’s entrails. Sudden flashes gave fleeting display of human bones, many broken and crushed as if in tremendous battle. Skeletal remains of fantastic monsters flickered into view, bizarre sculptures no man could ever have imagined; beasts such as populate nightmares, with dreadful pikes and plates upon them, performed a macabre kabuki of death within the earthen walls, dancing shadows giving them new life. A stray, careless glance, a flash of light, and a man might look into the face of a human skull, peering back with loamy eyes, animate with millipedes and nematodes.

  The going grew loathsome and tedious. Quickly mud caked the travelers’ feet and leggings, forcing frequent pauses to scrape shoes clean. The damp of the passageway’s walls evolved into visible trickles of water. A constant drip developed and grew so loud, it could be heard over the men’s slogging footsteps.

  “Are you sure of this tunnel?” asked Artur.

  “Nay, of course not,” Rhodan replied. The Raspars, each and every one, held not the least concern about the confining tunnel. Living all their lives in tight quarters, the pressing walls and low ceiling seemed not much different from their city.

  “What man would have thought of digging such a burrow?” Artur asked nobody.

  “The world conceals its new wonders even in its underbelly,” said Theodoric.

  On they crept, the drip-drip-drip counting off the seconds, the trickles ever increasing. Now the line had to march fully single file, with heads bent low and arms held tightly against bodies. Artur could do no better than drag his feet along, dredging clods of mud upon his toes and leaving trenches filled with water behind. Koinoni battled their urge to spin, hopeless indeed. At first too subtle to notice, then suddenly insistent, the dripping sound gave way to a roar, a growling wail that built until it seemed to engulf them just as the passageway did. The rushing tumult made the very muck they stood in tremble.

  “Lo, what is that?” asked Mercedi.

  “The river! The Gravidas!” exulted Dungo, crammed into the tunnel like milk in a skin, his elegant woven robes now the simple plain brown of mud.

  “We’re under the river?” exclaimed Geoffrey.

  “Let’s not stop and find out,” said Artur, thin streams of muddy water splattering off his head. “This will never catch on.”

  “Yes, let us move on,” said Theodoric nervously, now walking several men back, ahead of only the Koinoni and Raspar archers. “We can take a break when everyone arrives on the far side of the river.” Then to himself, “Truly a bird was never meant to live like a mole.”

  The candles struggled to stay lit, as water and the thick air fiendishly conspired to snuff their flames, and the travelers’ every footstep produced a comical sound in the sucking mud. Odd amphibians appeared out of the slime at each footfall to hop or slither for cover, this perhaps the first time they had ever been disturbed. The treacherous ground toyed with footholds, and any man who went down invited trampling as he labored to regain his feet ahead of the marching soldiers. The going slowed so in the heavy mire, Artur began to despair of ever stretching his limbs again; he had to lift his bandaged legs with his arms at each new step. The sound of the rushing river blasted in their ears. Dungo muttered under his breath about the “cursed Alluvia,” though that river yet flowed many groonits away. Still on and on they walked, inching along in their underground escape.

  At last the pouring of the water overhead began to diminish, the racket of the current declined to a whisper, and the ground underfoot became more stable. The soil turned rocky in composition, which made walking easier, but along with the dampness from overhead now came sifting gravel and sand. The travelers imagined that collapse could turn the tunnel into a long grave. On they trudged, on and on; the fit people of Medialia did not tire easily, and they bore under the burden of the long trek well. But for the infirm, and the corpulent, the ordeal took its toll.

  “Haffa! To feel the sun again,” said Dungo, who all along had continued a monologue that nobody could hear. “My feet! My feet, they will never forgive me.”

  “We must stop,” said Artur. “Though the danger threatens as much here, I must stop a moment.”

  “Aye, it is well enough,” said Mercedi.

  “I’m sorry,” said Artur, glancing up at Geoffrey. His breathing heaved, his head swam, and he tenderly massaged his injured knees.

  “For what?” Geoffrey returned. “Does it make a difference to me? Perhaps I will finally meet my end. If this spot knows that secret, then I’m only too happy to stop. We’ll move along in time.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll make it.”

  “You’ve got more reason to make it than you think.”

  “Lo, how much longer?” Mercedi asked Rhodan.

  “Lo, I know not. Ye know I have never traveled this tunnel. I know nothing of the Gravidas, nor this far side of it.”

  The passage remained narrow, so cramped that Mercedi could not consult with the captains of her archers. Neither could she keep an eye on her subjects.

  “Lo, we must kill her,” Severus hissed at Vespus.

  “Nay, ye do not learn, do ye? Do ye think to make allies of us?” Vespus growled back at him.

  “Aye, ye will see what must be done for the Raspars. She will cause our end, the end of the clan. We must kill her!”

  “Lo, ye are a murderous one, willing to violate even the first law of the Raspars,” said Linus. “I will have no part of ye.”

  “Aye, ye will become one with me!” screamed Severus. With nobody to give them orders, the archers sat by silently, not seeing nor hearing.

  “Lo, though ye left me with one eye, I see ye too well, and ye will not have your way,” said Vespus, snarling like a rabid dog.

  “Aye, indeed, ye will see your own end. Ye will see your own death in your depraved conspiracies,” said Linus, and he took hold of his collar. “No longer will we cover up your crimes.”

  “Lo, I will kill ye,” Severus vowed deep in his throat.

  Artur strained to peer down the tunnel, frustrated as he sought a hint of light. Did the ground above see day or night? None of them could tell. Most of the company’s candles had burned to stubs. Artur had no mind to be trapped underground with no means to light the way out.

  “Come on,” he groaned at Geoffrey, lurching to his feet. “I’m ready. Let’s get going.”

  The others around him mustered themselves, and slowly the train began to move forward again. Artur trudged along again behind Mercedi and Rhodan. The way seemed endless. He grimaced under the pain of his legs, and wondered what the temperature was. The dampness on his forehead returned, though almost no dripping came from above anymore. Artur forgot where he was. He saw the dimly lit walls of the tunnel surge toward him, and then away again, and the light of his candle grew into a great flame, then a fiery ball like the sun. Then he saw nothing.

  “Haffa!�
�� cried Dungo.

  “Theodoric!” called out Geoffrey, and the Melic king peered over shoulders to see Artur lying face down.

  “He needs fresh air, and we must tend his wounds,” he said. “Franken, how can we carry him? We must reach the outside.”

  “I can not see well enough here to do much,” he replied. “But take off your coat and we’ll see what we make.”

  Franken took the two Melics’ coats, buttoned closed, and two Raspar bows. Removing the strings, he inserted the bows into the coats, along the sides, to make a stretcher. The strong vine-woven fabric held Artur well, and the bows’ curve created a pocket for him, but carrying his bulk proved difficult. Geoffrey held up one end easily, and two of the strongest Raspar archers tried to take up the other end. This arrangement proved impossible in the close quarters, and finally one Raspar slipped in under the litter and supported it upon his back, crawling on all fours as best as he could.

  “Lo, this is intolerable,” said Mercedi.

  “There will be no remedy until we reach the outside, and yet that too is the remedy,” said Theodoric. “The sun struggles through the night, but when morning dawns, it is warm again.”

  “Aye. Indeed.”

  Rhodan led the group on as the litter-bearers strained and the dusty shower continued to fall upon their heads. Many times Artur went into convulsive coughing after breathing in the grit, until Mercedi draped a cloth over his face. The rocky terrain gave way slowly to more agreeable soil, but still the troupe had to stop often to relieve whichever Raspar braced the stretcher. As well they often shared a bite to eat to keep up their strength; still, exhaustion was overtaking them all. The candles dwindled to only a few, spaced out along the long line of travelers, and light became the most coveted commodity of all.

  “Lo!” cried Rhodan.

  “Aye?”

  “Lo, a glimmer ahead! Light before us!” and Rhodan pointed to a speck of pinkish gold ahead of them.

  As quickly as he could in his stooped position, Rhodan loped toward the speck. Mercedi followed, and Geoffrey struggled with the pallet carrying Artur. The crush of anxious men behind them made their position yet more difficult and desperate. They felt an obvious incline underfoot, as the tunnel gradually made for the Earth’s surface. Geoffrey saw Rhodan and Mercedi slip through the opening, hidden under a heavy thatch of grasses, but he could tell it would accommodate neither him nor Artur, much less Dungo. He set down the stretcher and squeezed in close to the opening, then with a bellow pushed with his shoulders against the ground above him. Clenching fists and teeth, emitting unlikely noises from either end, his legs and back strained against Mother Earth until she suddenly gave way, and his head and upper body popped out into the open air.

  There before his eyes, high upon a bluff eerily lit in the distance by the setting sun, Geoffrey spied the ruins of a wooden stockade; then he fell in exhaustion.