Pale lips, shaping a curse in the tongue of the Were; he watched with mild interest, watched the shapely right arm swing back, then forward, tendrils of smoke swirling in its wake. It all seemed so slow, until it was not. Vorax rocked on his heels at the impact of the half-breed’s palm against his bearded cheek.
“Enough!” he roared, anger stirring in his belly. “Do not try my patience!”
Ushahin’s eyes glittered through the smoke. One was black, drowning-black, swallowed by pupil; the other was silver-grey, fractured into splintered shards, like a mirror broken into a thousand pieces of bad luck, with a pinprick of black at the center. His hand, his right hand, fell upon the Staccian’s shoulder with unexpected strength, spinning him. “Vorax of Staccia, get out of this place!”
There was a shove, a powerful shove between the shoulder blades, and Vorax went, staggering under the impetus, placing one foot after the other until he reached the outermost opening with its narrow ledge. There the air was cold and clean and he breathed deeply of it, gazing at Darkhaven’s holdings until his head began to clear. There was edifice; there was the encircling wall, vanishing to encompass them. There was the Gorgantus River. There, in the distance, were the pastures and the mines; there, nearer, were the furnaces and forges, beneath their pall of smoke.
It made him glance involuntarily behind him; but the smoke of the All-Bane had not followed him. There was only Ushahin, huddled in his sheepskin cloak, looking raw with the cold.
“Are you well, cousin?” he asked in a low voice.
“Aye,” Vorax said roughly. With his chin, he pointed at the Dreamspinner’s hidden right arm. “Who would have thought there was such strength in that wing of yours. So is … that … what you might have been?”
“Perhaps.” Ushahin gave a terse laugh. “I am the Misbegotten, after all.”
“Ah, well. You would have made a doughty warrior, cousin.” There was nothing else in those words he wanted to touch. Vorax breathed slow and steady, watching the sluggish flow of the Gorgantus River below them. The waterwheel Tanaros’ Midlander protégé had built turned with excruciating slowness, murky water dripping from its paddles. Still, it did its job, powering the bellows. “Is it done?” he asked presently.
Ushahin shrugged his hunched shoulders. “Let us see.”
They did, returning step by step, side by side. There was the larder, lined with kegs and loaves and wheels. There, on the floor, a tiny pile of ashes smoldered, no longer smoking. Side by side, they stared at it.
“Is it still dangerous?” Vorax asked.
“I do not believe so.” Ushahin glanced into the darkness at the rear of the larder, where the chamber narrowed into a winding tunnel. “There is no one there to heed Oronin’s Horn. The passages are too low, even for my madlings.” He shrugged again. “Even if they were not, the tunnels leading from here link to the Vesdarlig Passage, and it is blocked, now. No one travels to or from your homeland, cousin.”
“I pray you are right.” Vorax stamped on the smoldering pile with a booted heel, grinding the remnants into harmless powder until nothing remained but a faint sooty smear. “There,” he said with satisfaction. “All evidence of our conspiracy is gone.”
Ushahin considered him. “Then we are finished?”
“Aye.” Vorax met his gaze unflinching. “I lack the courage of your madness, Dreamspinner. Already, you have shielded me from his Lordship’s wrath. I will not risk facing it a second time.” He shook his head. “Haomane’s Prophecy is no certain thing. His Lordship’s fury is. Do you cross his will again, there will be no mercy. I would sooner die in his name than at his hands.”
Ushahin nodded. “As you will, cousin.”
“Uru-Alat!” Dani whispered. “A rockfall?”
There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Beside him, Uncle Thulu was silent, staring in disbelief. By the wavering torchlight, the pile of boulders before them reached all the way to the ceiling.
“No.” Thulu spoke at last, his voice heavy. “No, this was done on purpose. There’s no damage to the tunnel itself.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Of course it was. Why wouldn’t they block it? One less entrance to guard.”
It was too much to encompass. How many days had they been traveling beneath the earth? Weeks, at least; it may have been longer. Each step filled with fear and trepidation, each curve in the tunnel harboring the potential of a Fjel attack. All for nothing. There had been no Fjel. There was no egress. The tunnel was blocked.
“Can we move them?” Dani asked. “Or climb over it?”
Uncle Thulu squared his shoulders, shaking off the yoke of despair. “I don’t know, lad. Let’s try.”
They wedged the torches into the pile and began working, shifting the smaller rocks and digging out around the larger, concentrating their efforts on one several feet off the tunnel floor that appeared to be supporting the weight of others.
“Ready, lad?” Uncle Thulu asked, once he could wrap his arms around it.
Dani nodded grimly, taking hold of the boulder. “Ready.”
On a count of three, they hauled together, tipping it. The massive stone’s weight did the rest, rolling loose. As they leapt clear of its path, a small section of the pile shifted, other boulders settling in a cascade of smaller rocks.
Otherwise, it was unchanged.
“No good.” Thulu shook his head. “This is Fjeltroll work. It may go on for yards; scores of them, is my guess. After all, they’re trying to keep an army out, not just a couple of weary Yarru-yami.”
Dani took a deep breath. “I’ll see if we can climb over it.”
He went slowly, testing each hand- and foothold with care. The boulders, disturbed by their efforts, shifted beneath his weight. For once, he was glad that he was unshod, feeling the subtle movement of the rocks beneath the soles of his bare feet. Although he no longer needed the sling, his left shoulder was imperfectly healed and ached with the strain. The muscles of his legs quivered; partly with effort, and partly with nerves. The clay vial strung around his neck had never seemed so vulnerable. One wrong step, and he would set off a rockslide. Whether or not Dani survived it, he doubted the fragile vessel would.
Endless as it seemed, he eventually reached the top.
“What do you see, lad?” Uncle Thulu called from the base of the pile, holding his torch as high as possible.
“Nothing.” Dani braced his palms on the ceiling of the tunnel and sighed. The pile was solid. There was no gap at the top; or at least, only inches. “We could try making a passage from here.” He reached forward with one hand to pry a few stones loose and tried to imagine it. Moving through the darkness, shifting rocks a scant few at a time, wriggling back and forth on their bellies, pinned against the ceiling. It was not a hopeful prospect.
“It might be quicker to walk back to Staccia,” Thulu said dourly. “And safer, too. Come down, Dani. We’ll find another way.”
“Wait.” There was something; a faint current of air, moving. Dani went still, holding his outspread hand over the rocks. He could feel it, a whisper against his skin. “There’s an air shaft.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Taking a better stance, Dani slid the vial around and tucked it under his collar at the back of his neck. “Stand clear, Uncle!”
It felt good, after days and days of grinding sameness, to be doing. He burrowed steadily into the pile, working with both hands, grabbing rocks and tossing them to either side. Those at the uttermost top were smaller, easier to move. They bounced down the rockpile in a rattling, satisfying procession. The larger ones were trickier. The first one he managed to expose was at chest height, twice as large around as his head. Whispering a swift prayer to Uru-Alat, Dani worked it loose.