FIFTEEN
The Gulnagel were in high spirits, and Speros’ lifted accordingly. He was grateful for the assignment, grateful for the show of trust on General Tanaros’ part. And truth be told, he was grateful to be away from Darkhaven and the presence of the Lady Cerelinde. It made him feel at once awestruck and insignificant, vile and ashamed, and between the General’s fierce glare and Ushahin Dreamspinner’s insinuations, it was altogether too unnerving.
This, now; this was more the thing. The camaraderie of the Fjel and a purpose to achieve. A warrior’s purpose, serving Darkhaven’s needs. He’d had only a small glimpse of the tunnels underlying Urulat when they’d traveled through the Ways. The Vesdarlig Passage was bigger than he could have imagined; wide enough for two Fjel to run abreast, tall enough for Speros to ride his tall grey horse.
Ghost, he had named her, because of her coloring. She moved like one, smooth and gliding. After his first mount had been lost in the Ways, Speros had thought he might never be given another such to ride, but the General had let him keep Ghost for his own. She bore him willingly, though Speros was uncertain whether she liked him. She had a trick of gazing at him out of the corner of one limpid eye as if wondering how he would taste, and her teeth were unnaturally sharp.
That was all right. He didn’t know whether he liked her. He was, however, quite certain that he loved her.
They moved swiftly, the Gulnagel at their steady lope, with one pair scouting ahead and Ghost keeping pace with the others at a swift canter. Streaking torchlight painted the walls with a shifting fresco of light and shadow, and it felt strange and exciting, a little like the unforgettable ride through the Midlands when Ushahin Dreamspinner had led them along the paths between waking and dreaming.
How odd it was to think that the plains of Curonan were above them. In another day, Haomane’s Allies might be riding over their heads and never even know it.
If there had been more time, Speros mused, perhaps it would have been better to use the tunnels rather than block them. How long would it take to move the army in a narrow column? He calculated in his head, trying to estimate how large an opening it would require to allow them egress, how far away it would have to be to enable them to assemble unseen, yet close the distance and fall upon the enemy before they could rally.
A sound from the darkness ahead broke his reverie. For an instant, it sounded like a hound baying, and Speros was confused, remembering a dusty road and a small farmstead, trying to steal horses with the General.
But no, there were Ghost’s tireless muscles surging beneath him, and there was one of the Fjel grinning upward, eyes reflecting torchlight, and the sound was deep, far too deep and resonant to issue from any hound’s throat. It was the hunting-cry of the Gulnagel Fjel.
“Quarry, boss!”
Speros whooped aloud in triumph, setting his heels to Ghost’s flanks. She surged forward, and the Gulnagel quickened their pace. They burst down the tunnel like a wave, prepared to sweep away everything before them.
“There, boss!” A taloned finger, pointing down a side tunnel. Speros wrenched Ghost’s head, and she sank onto her haunches like a cat, skidding and turning, her iron-shod hooves sparking against the stones while the Gulnagel bounded ahead.
He followed them, their torches bobbing like fireflies, while the tunnel grew steadily narrower. Here and there it branched, then branched again, doubling back toward Darkhaven. The air grew hot and close. The feeling of triumph gave way to unease. As the walls closed in upon them and the ceiling lowered, he slowed Ghost to a trot, then a walk, slower and slower, until the walls of the tunnel were brushing his knees.
When he could ride no farther, Speros dismounted and felt along the wall until he found a crevice into which he could jam Ghost’s reins. He continued on foot, stumbling over the tunnel’s floor. Unlike the main passage, worn smooth over centuries, it was rocky and uneven. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he wondered why he had bothered to wear full armor in pursuit of a pair of Charred Folk.
Ahead, the torches swarmed and separated, growing more distant. The sound of baying had ceased. It was hard to breathe, and harder to see. Speros fought back a spasm of panic. How many branchings had he taken? He hadn’t kept track. If the Gulnagel left him, he wasn’t sure he could find his way back.
“Hold up, lads!” he shouted.
To his relief, a pair of torches lingered unmoving. He made his way down the tunnel, forced to walk bent and doubled under the sloping ceiling. The Gulnagel were crouching, resting their weight on the knuckles of one hand, torches held awkward in the other. As Speros arrived, other Fjel were returning from farther tunnels, some nearly crawling. The narrow space was crammed with flesh and hide, rife with the acrid tang of smoke, the musty odor of Fjel, and something faint and sweet beneath it.
“Any luck?” Speros asked grimly.
“Sorry, boss.” It was Krolgun who answered, blinking. His eyes looked bleary. “Our mistake. Thought we scented Man-prey close at hand, but it’s gone.”
“You’re sure?” Craning his bent neck, Speros tried to peer past the hulking forms. There was nothing but tunnels and more tunnels, a maze of tunnels, each one narrowing like a funnel into the darkness beneath the mountains.
“Sure enough.” Krolgun shrugged. “Can’t smell prey, and the tunnels are too small to go farther.” He chuckled low in his throat. “Maybe it was you we caught a whiff of.”
“What is that smell?” Speros sniffed the air, trying to identify the underlying odor. It reminded him of his boyhood, long ago; before he had ever filched a coin or borrowed an untended horse, before his father had disavowed his name. A heady odor, like ripe, sun-warm strawberries in the fields of Haimhault.
Krolgun gave another shrug. “Sheep?”
“No, not sheep.” Speros frowned, then shook himself. The torches were guttering for lack of air and his thoughts were doing the same. “Never mind. Let’s get out of here before we suffocate, lads. We’ll double back, retrace our steps. Maybe it was a trick.”
If it was a trick, it was well-played. The Fjel searched every turn and blind alley and found nothing. Speros made his way back through the smoke-wreathed air to where Ghost stood awaiting him with unnatural patience, baring her teeth at his return. He took care to avoid them as he mounted. There was no room to turn her and he had to back her down the tunnel, watching uneasily as the dark maze before him receded.
Surely, no living thing could survive in such a place.
The remainder of their search was uneventful. They traveled at a more moderate pace until they reached the massive rock-pile that blocked the Vesdarlig Passage. The Gulnagel glanced at one another and shrugged.
Speros sighed. “Back toward Darkhaven, lads. Slow and careful, eyes and ears! Aye, and noses, too.”
There was nothing to be found. Hours later they emerged to murky daylight in the Vale of Gorgantum. Speros relayed orders regarding doubled patrolling of the tunnels, then rode toward the fortress to stable Ghost before reporting to General Tanaros. Despite the futility of his mission, open air and Ghost’s smooth, gliding pace cheered him. He wished the news were better, but perhaps it had been a fool’s errand after all, chasing after something a raven had not quite seen. A plaited rope? It may have been, or it may have been the wind in the tall grass. Like as not, it had been. At least he could set the General’s mind at ease. Soon, battle would be upon them and there would be no more need for mucking about after bits and pieces of Haomane’s cursed Prophecy.
Riding toward Darkhaven, Speros of Haimhault smiled and dismissed from his memory the scent of strawberries ripening on the sun-warmed earth.