That was what it felt like.
The tunnel smelled of Fjeltroll; musky, faintly rank. Old or fresh? There was no way of knowing. They could see nothing beyond the edge of the torchlight. Every step forward was fraught with tension. If they could have done without the torches, they would have, but it was impossible. They would have been bumbling into the walls with every other step; or worse, wandered into one of the smaller side tunnels.
From time to time, they came upon ventilation shafts cut into the ceiling high above. When they did, they would pause, breathing deeply of the clean air and gazing upward at the slanting rays of daylight filtering into the tunnel. Uncle Thulu would snuff his torch, and for a precious span of yards they would continue by virtue of the faint illumination, no longer an excruciatingly visible target.
Then the air would grow stale and darkness thicker, until they could no longer see their hands before their faces, and they would pause again, straining their ears for any sound of approaching Fjeltroll. The sound of the flint striking, the violent spray of sparks as Uncle Thulu relit the torch, always seemed too loud, too bright.
There was no way of marking the passage of days. Although they tried counting the ventilation shafts, they had no idea how far apart they were. When they grew too weary to continue, they rested, taking turns sleeping in shifts, huddled in one of the side tunnels. Sometimes in their endless trudging, they felt a whisper of cool air on their faces though the darkness remained unalleviated. When that happened, Dani reckoned it was night aboveground.
In the tunnel, it made no difference.
They found resting-places where the forces of Darkhaven had made camp; broad caverns with traces of old campfires. There they found supply-caches, as Sorhild of Gerflod had told them. At the first such site they reached, Dani lingered beneath the ventilation shaft, studying marks scratched onto the cavern wall above the cold ashes of an abandoned campfire.
“Can you read what it says, Uncle?” he asked.
Uncle Thulu shook his head. “No, lad. I don’t have the art of it.”
Dani traced the markings with his fingertips, wondering. “Is it a spell, do you think? Or a warning?”
His uncle gave them a second glance. “It looks like clan markings as much as anything. Come on, let’s be on our way.”
Afterward, they did not linger in these places, for the scent of Fjeltroll was strongest where they had eaten and slept, but took aught that might be of use and hurried onward. Dani found himself thinking about the marks; wondering who had written them, wondering what they meant. It was true, they did look like clan markings. Among the Six Clans of the Yarru-yami, it was a courtesy to leave such signs in territories they hunted in common, letting others know where a new drought-eater had taken root, when a waterhole had silted closed, where a patch of gamal might be found. Or it could simply be a sign to let Lizard Rock Clan know that the Stone Grove had already passed through, hunting such prey as might be found.
It hurt to think of home.
He wondered what would be worth marking in the endless tunnel. Caches, perhaps; or perhaps it was notes about the other tunnels, the side tunnels Sorhild had warned them not to venture far into. Maybe it was nothing, only marks to show someone had passed this way. It was easy, in the tunnels, to believe the outside world could forget you ever existed.
He wondered if there was anyone left in the outside world to remember him. Surely the Fjeltroll could not have slain all of the Yarru-yami, not unless all of the Six Clans had remained at the Stone Grove. The desert was vast and Fjeltroll were not suited to traveling in an arid clime. Perhaps some of the Yarru lived.
Or perhaps they did not. Who, then, would remember Dam of the Yarru and his fat Uncle Thulu if they died beneath the earth? Blaise? Fianna? Hobard? Peldras, the Haomane-gaali? Carfax, who had saved him after all? He held out little hope that any of them had survived. There had been too few of them, and the Were too swift, too deadly. Even Malthus had deemed it imperative to flee.
There was Malthus, if it was true, if he was the Galäinridder after all. Dani thought he must be, even though the gem was the wrong color. But the Galäinridder had gone south without looking for them. He must think they were dead already, or lost forever in the Ways.
He was still thinking about it when they broke for a rest, laying their bedrolls a short, safe distance inside one of the side tunnels. It took a bit of searching to find a stone with a sharp point that fit nicely in the hand.
“What are you doing, lad?” Uncle Thulu, rummaging through their packs, eyed him curiously. “We’re in enough danger without leaving a sign to point our trail.”
“With the two of us marching down the tunnel plain as day, I don’t think we need to worry about it, Uncle.” Scratching on the tunnel wall, Dani drew the marking of the Stone Grove clan, five monoliths in a rough circle. He frowned, settling back to squat on his heels, then leaned forward to sketch a small vessel with a cork stopper in it, adding a digging-stick for good measure. “There.”
Against his will, Uncle Thulu smiled. “There we are.”
“Aye.” Dani set down the stone and met his uncle’s gaze. “It’s just … if we fail, if we’re caught and slain out of hand, maybe someday someone will find this; Malthus, or one of the Haomane-gaali; they have long memories. Or maybe a Staccian from Gerflod who remembers the Lady Sorhild’s stories. And they will say, ‘Look, the Bearer was here and his Guide was with him. Two Yarru-yami from the Stone Grove clan. They made it this far. They tried. Can we not do as much?’”
“Ah, lad!” Thulu’s voice was rough. “I wish I had my digging-stick with me now. There may be no waterways to trace down here, but I hated to leave it in that Fjeltroll.”
“You’ll make another,” Dani said. “I’ll help you find it. After we go home. We’ll rise before dawn and chew gamal together, then when the stars begin to pale, we’ll go to the baari-grove and watch the dew form and pick just the right one.” He smiled at his uncle. “One with a thirst for water, straight and strong, that peels clean as a whistle and fits firm in the hand, so you can lean on it once you’ve grown fat again.”
Thulu laughed softly, deep in his chest “Do you think so?”
“No.” Dani’s smile turned wistful. “But we can pretend.”
“Then we shall.” Thulu stroked the clan markings on the wall with his strong, blunt fingertips. “And, aye, lad, I promise you. Whatever happens, one day the world will say, ‘Dani the Bearer was here, and his fat Uncle Thulu, too. They did their best. Let us do the same’”
Ushahin Dreamspinner sat cross-legged on a high crag overlooking the plains of Curonan, squeezing a rock in his right hand. The heavy sheepskin cloak he wore cut the worst of the wind, but his bones still ached in the cold.
All except his right arm.
It felt strange; a foreign thing, this straight and shapely limb that moved with effortless grace. This finely made hand, the fingers capable of nimble manipulation and a powerful grip alike. Gone was the familiar stiffness of joint and bone-deep ache that plagued the rest of his body. In its place was an easy, lithesome strength and the memory of an agony that surpassed any pain the rest of his body had known, living like a phantom beneath the surface of his skin. The bones did not merely ache. They remembered.
Tanaros had told him to squeeze the rock. It would strengthen the new sinew and muscle, toughen the soft skin of his palm and fingers. It seemed unnecessary to Ushahin, but it gave a focal point to the pain; to the memory of pain. So he squeezed, and each time his hand constricted around the rock, it sent a pulse through fiber and bone that remembered its own slow pulverization. There was a macabre comfort in it; and irony, too. Another memory, an image that lay over him like a shadow, and it, too, carried a pain his bones remembered. Now, a thousand years later, here he was, a rock clenched in his fist. It was strange the way time brought all things full circle. Ushahin wished he could speak to Calanthrag about it. The Eldest would have understood.