“Help me—close it!” Macenion looked as frightened as Paks had ever seen him. She, too leaned on the door, as Macenion fumbled for something in his pouch with one hand. It seemed reluctant to stay closed, as if pressure were on it from the other side. “Don’t let it come open,” warned Macenion. “If that gets out, we’re dead.”
“What is it?”
“Not now! I’m trying to—” Macenion grunted suddenly, and began to mutter in a language Paks didn’t know. Suddenly Paks felt a great shove from the other side of the door. “Blast! Wrong one.” Macenion began muttering again, as Paks held the door with all her strength. She heard an abrupt click, and found that she needed no strength to hold the door. Macenion sighed. “That should do it,” he said. “I expect it will. You can let go now, Paks.”
“What was that?” Paks noticed that Macenion still looked worried.
“I don’t know how to explain it to you.”
“Try.”
“A sort of evil spirit, then, that can take solid form, and attack any intruder, elves preferred. It has many ways of attacking, all of them unpleasant.”
“And a sword would be no use against it?”
Macenion laughed. “No.”
“Is it the thing we came to find? What’s holding the other thing prisoner?”
“No. Unlikely. I fear, though, that it may be in league with it. This may prove harder than I thought. And we certainly can’t risk returning this way to the surface.”
“Unless we’ve destroyed that thing.” Paks felt better. Her intuition had been right after all, and, as always, the joining of the fight roused her spirits. Macenion looked at her curiously.
“Don’t you understand? We can’t destroy that—and we don’t know any other way out. If what we’re looking for is as bad or worse, we may never get out.”
Paks grinned. “I understand. We took the bait, and we’re in the trap: and we don’t even know the size of the trap. But they, Macenion, don’t know the size of their catch.” She drew her sword and looked along the blade for a moment. “You managed to shut the door against that thing. I can deal with more fleshly dangers. And—I’ve been in traps before.”
“Yes, but—Well, there’s no help for it. We’d better keep moving. We want to be well away from that door if it breaks through.”
They were in a short corridor, lit as the stairwell and hall had been, and ahead of them an archway gave into a larger room. Here, too, the floor was thick with dust. Paks led the way forward, sword out and ready. Macenion followed.
The room had obviously been a kitchen. Not a stick of furniture remained, but two great hearths, blocked up with hasty stonework, told the tale of many feastings. On the left, a narrower archway led to another corridor. On their right, a short passage led to another room, just visible beyond it.
“That should have been the cellar,” said Macenion. “I wonder if any of the wine is left.”
Paks chuckled. “After so long? It wouldn’t be worth trying.”
“I suppose not. We’ll go this way, then.” He gestured to the left. As they crossed the kitchen, Paks looked around for any sign of recent disturbance but saw nothing.
“Was that thing back there what drove the elves out?” asked Paks.
“No. I don’t think so. Enough high elves together would be able to drive it away. It’s—well, you humans know of gods, don’t you? Good and evil gods?”
“Of course.” Paks glared back at him for an instant.
“Do you know of the Court of Gods? Their rankings, and all that?”
Paks shook her head. “Gods are gods.”
“No, Paksenarrion, they are not. Some are far more powerful than others. You should have learned that in Aarenis, even as a soldier. You fought in Sibili, didn’t you? Yes—and didn’t you see the temple of the Master of Torments there? I heard it was sacked.”
Paks shivered as she remembered the assault on Sibili. “I was knocked out,” she said. “I didn’t see it.”
“Well, you’ve heard of the Webmistress—”
“Of course. But what—”
“Liart—the Master of Torments—and that other, they’re both fairly low in the court of evil. Between the least of the gods and the common evils of the world, there are still beings—they have more power than any human or elf, but not nearly so much as a god.”
Paks was suddenly curious. “What about the heroes and saints like Gird and Pargun?”
“Who knows? They were humans once; I don’t know what, if anything, they are now. But that creature, Paks, is more powerful than any elf, and yet is far below the gods. Our gods—the gods of elves.”
The corridor they traveled curved slightly to the left. Paks glanced back and saw that the kitchen entrance was now out of sight. Ahead was a doorway blocked by a closed door, this one of carved wood. As they neared it, Paks noticed that the dust on the floor was not nearly so deep; their footsteps began to ring on the stone and echo off the stone walls. She wondered what had moved the dust. Macenion, when she pointed it out, looked around and shook his head.
“I don’t know. Draft under that door, possibly—”
“Underground?” Paks remembered that she didn’t know much about underground construction, and put that thought aside. She moved as quietly as possible toward the door. In the cool white light of the corridor, its rich red and black grain and intricate carving seemed warm and alive. She reached out to touch it gently. It felt slightly warm under her hand. “That’s odd. It’s—”
The door heaved under her hand; Paks jumped backward just in time to avoid a blow as it swung wide. Facing them were several armed humans in rough leather and woolen clothes; the leader grinned.
“’Ere’s our bonus, lads!” he said. “The ears off these’ll give us something to show the lord—”
Paks had her sword in motion before he finished; his boast ended in a howl of pain. She took a hard blow on her shield, and dodged a thrust meant for her throat. Behind her, she heard Macenion draw, then the ring of his blade on one of the others. The noise brought two more fighters skidding around the corner ahead to throw themselves into the fight. Paks and Macenion fought almost silently; they had no need for words. Paks pressed ahead, finding the attackers to be good but not exceptional fighters. She had the reach of most of them, and she was as strong as any. Macenion yelped suddenly, breaking her concentration; as she glanced for him, a hard blow caught her in the side. She grunted, grateful for the chain shirt she wore, and pushed off from the wall to skewer her opponent. Macenion’s arm was bleeding, but he fought on. Paks shifted her ground to give him some respite. She took a glancing blow on her helmet that gashed her forehead as it passed. She could feel the blood trickling down toward her eye. Macenion lunged forward, flipping the sword away from one of their attackers; Paks downed the man with a blow to the face. They advanced again; the other attackers seemed less eager. Finally only two were still fighting. The others, dead or wounded too badly to fight, lay scattered on the corridor floor. Paks expected them to break away and flee, but they didn’t; instead, they fought doggedly on, until she and Macenion managed to kill them.
5
Paks leaned against the wall breathing heavily. Her side ached, and she could feel a trickle of blood running down the side of her face. Her shield had broken; she pulled the straps free and dropped the pieces. Macenion had ripped a length of cloth from his tunic, and was wrapping the wound on his arm. As he moved, she caught a glimpse of the bright mail under his outer clothing.
“If I’d known you wore mail,” she said finally, “I wouldn’t have worried so much. I was sure you were being skewered.”
Macenion glanced up. “I nearly was. By Orphin, you’re a good fighter in trouble. I wouldn’t have made it alone, even with mail.” He looked at her more closely. “You’re bleeding—is it bad?”