I don't think, despite her apparent agelessness, that she was much older than Chenyth. Say twenty. She might have missed the Great Eastern Wars too.
We went on, warriors in the lead. The tunnel's slope steepened. Twice we descended spiraling stairs hanging in the sides of wide shafts. Twice we encountered narrow places with ambushes like that we had already faced. We broke through each. Sigurd took our only wound, a slight cut on his forearm. We left a lot of dead men on our backtrail.
The final attack was more cunning. It came from behind, from a side tunnel, and took us by surprise. Even Lord Hammer was taken off guard.
His mystique just cracked a little more, I thought as I whirled.
There was sorcery in it this time.
The hillmen witch-doctors had saved themselves for the final defense. They had used their command of the Power passively, to conceal themselves and their men. Our only warning was a premature warwhoop.
Lord Hammer whirled. His hands flew in frenetic passes. The rest of us struggled to interpose ourselves between the attackers and Lord Hammer and Fetch.
Sorceries scarred the tunnel walls. The shamen threw everything they had at the man in black.
Their success was a wan one. They devoured Lord Hammer's complete attention for no more than a minute.
We soldiers fought. Sigurd and I locked shields with Con-tini-Marcusco and the Itaskian. The Harish, who disdained and reviled shields, remained behind us. They rained scimitar strokes over our heads.
The savages forced us back by sheer weight. But we held the wall even against suicide charges.
They hadn't the training to handle professional soldiers who couldn't be flanked. We crouched behind our shields and let them come to their deaths.
But they did get their licks in before Lord Hammer finished their witch-doctors and turned on them.
It lasted no longer than three minutes. We beat them again. But when the clang and screaming faded, we had little reason to cheer.
Hanneker was mortally wounded. Contini-Marcusco had a spearhead in his thigh. Sigurd had taken a deep cut on his left shoulder.
Fetch was down.
Me and Harish, we were fine. Tired and drained, but unharmed.
I dropped to my knees beside Fetch's still little form. Tears filled my eyes. She had become one of my favorite people.
She had been last in line, walking behind Lord Hammer. We hadn't been able to get to her.
She was alive. She opened her eyes once, when I touched her, and bravely tried one of her smiles.
Lord Hammer knelt opposite me. He touched her cheeks, her hair, tenderly. The tension in him proclaimed his feeling. His gaze crossed mine. For an instant I could feel his pain.
Lord, I thought, your mystique is dying. You care.
Fetch opened her eyes again. She lifted a feeble hand, clasped Lord Hammer's for an instant. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Don't be," he said, and it felt like an order from a god. The fingers of his left hand twitched.
I gasped, so startling was his voice, so suddenly did the Power gather. He did something to Fetch's wounds, then to Sigurd's, then to Contini-Marcusco's. Hanneker was beyond help.
He turned, faced downhill, stared. He started walking.
We who could do so followed.
"What did he do?" I whispered to Sigurd.
The big man shrugged. "It don't hurt anymore."
"Did you hear him? He talked. To Fetch."
"No."
Had I imagined it?
I glanced back. The Harish were two steps behind us. They came with the same self-certainty they always showed. Only a tiny tick at the corner of Aboud's eye betrayed any internal feeling.
Foud smiled his little smile. Once again I wondered what they were doing here.
And I wondered about Lord Hammer, whose long process of creating a mythic image seemed to be unraveling.
A mile down into the earth is one hell of a long way. Ignoring the problem of surviving the dragon, I worried about climbing back out. And about my little brother, up there getting his blooding...
I should have stayed with Chenyth. Somebody had to look out for him...
"I have taken the gold," I muttered, and turned to thoughts of poor Fetch.
Now I would never learn what had brought her here. I was sure we wouldn't find her alive when we returned.
If we returned.
Then 1 worried about how we would know what Lord Hammer wanted of us.
I needn't have.
XI
The home hall of the Father of All Dragons was more vast than any stadium. It was one of the great caverns that, before Silcroscuar's coming, had housed the eldritch city Kammengarn.
The cavern's walls glowed. The ruins of the homes of Kammengarn lay in mounds across the floor. As legends proclaimed, that floor was strewn with gold and jewels. The great dragon snored atop a precious hillock.
The place was just as Rainheart had described. With one exception.
The dragon lived.
We heard the monster's stentorian snores long before we reached his den. Our spines had become jelly before we came to that cavern.
Lord Hammer paused before we got there. He spoke.
"There are guardians."
"I wasn't wrong," I whispered.
The others seemed petrified.
The voice came from everywhere at once. It was in keeping with Lord Hammer's style. Deep. Loud. Terrifying. Like the crash of icebergs breaking off glaciers into arctic seas. Huge. Bottomless. Cold.
Something stepped into the tunnel ahead. It was tall, lean, and awkward in appearance. Its skin had the pallor of death. It glistened with an ichorous fluid. It had the form of a man, but I don't think it was human.
Fetch had said there would be guardians who were the descendants of the people of Kammengarn. Had the Kammengarners been human? I didn't know.
The guardian bore a long, wicked sword.
An identical twin appeared behind it. Then another. And another.
Lord Hammer raised his hands in one of those mystic signs. The things halted. But they would not retreat.
For a moment I feared Lord Hammer had no power over them.
I didn't want to fight. Something told me there would be no contest. I am good. Sigurd was good. The Harish were superb. But I knew they would slaughter us as if we were children.
"Salt," Lord Hammer said.
"What the hell?" Sigurd muttered. "Who carries salt around?..."
He shut up. Because Foud had leaned past him to drop a small leather bag into the palm of Lord Hammer's glove.
"Ah!" I murmured. "Sigurd, salt is precious in Hammad al Nakir. It's a measure of wealth. El Murid's true devotees always carry some. Because the Disciple's father was a salt caravaneer."
Foud smiled the smile and nodded at Sigurd. Proving he wasn't ignorant of Itaskian, he added, "El Murid received his revelation after bandits attacked his father's caravan. They left the child Micah al Rhami to die of thirst in the desert. But the love of the Lord descended, a glorious angel, and the child was saved, and made whole, and given to look upon the earth. And, Lo! The womb of the desert brought forth not Death, but the Son of Heaven, El Murid, whom you call the Disciple."
For a moment Foud seemed almost as embarrassed as Sigurd and I. Like sex, faith was a force not to be mocked.