“No hope here,” the elder tracker said. “Naught but a few cracks in the mortar. But we’re on the trail. I can catch a whiff or two of the musk through those cracks. Another level or two-”
“Tracker Lorr,” the younger tracker called from another corner of the room. He held up his leech-oil lamp.
“What is it, Kytt?”
“The scent is strong here. And I’ve found a loose brick.”
Curiosity drew Dart and Brant inside. The bullhound tried to push after them, tongue lolling, but Dart stopped him with a palm on his wide nose.
“Stay, Barrin. That’s a good boy.”
He harrumphed and settled to a squat, filling the doorway. The giants looked equally discontented to be left in the hall, but the room was too low and cramped for their large forms.
Brant and Dart followed Tracker Lorr to the corner. Kytt squatted, wide-kneed, and pointed to the bottom stone in the wall. “The block here is loose from its mortar. If we worked, we might push it free.”
Lorr examined the stone and found that it rocked easily, like a rotten tooth. “Give me both your shoulders, lads,” he said with a nod to the young tracker and Brant.
Brant and Kytt supported Lorr as he sat on the floor and shoved the block with his feet. As they strained, Brant found himself nose to muzzle with the black-haired young tracker. The boy had the amber eyes of his ilk. Brant found himself holding his breath, not wishing to breathe this one’s corrupted air.
Kytt must have sensed Brant’s distaste, for he glanced away.
Brant felt a twinge of shame, but he could not fault his upbringing. In Saysh Mal, it was considered wrong to misshape man’s natural form with Grace, whether for good or ill. Such men were forbidden from the Huntress’s forests. And, Brant believed, rightly so. Especially when it came to wyld trackers. It went against the Way to turn man into beast, then to turn around and use those same blessed senses to hunt more beasts of the field. It was a cycle of corruption that had no place in Saysh Mal-or anywhere in Myrillia.
Out in the hallway, Malthumalbaen called to them. “Ock! Do you need an extra bit of muscle?”
“Not yet,” Lorr said with a groan as he shoved again, edging the stone farther into its socket.
Brant heard Dral mumble something to his brother.
Malthumalbaen answered, “No, I don’t know what bullhound tastes like.”
Brant found his eyes again on Kytt’s form. He remembered feeling a similar discomfort when he had first encountered the pair of Oldenbrook guards. Like wyld trackers, loam-giants were also forbidden from the cloud forests of Saysh Mal. Yet, Brant had found Multhumalbaen and Dralmarfillneer to be as big of heart as they were of limb. And hadn’t their strength saved his life in the storm? Did he not even consider them friends?
Kytt’s eyes flashed to his, stuck a moment, then glanced away.
Despite the contradiction, Brant found himself still bristling. Loam-giants were one matter. Trackers were another. They were an offense in both form and purpose to the Way. He felt this in his bones and blood.
“Hold tight!” Lorr called. “Almost there!”
Kytt and Brant braced Lorr’s back as he shoved one last time. Brant felt the tremble of the tracker’s strain. Stone scraped stone-then suddenly the block fell free, toppling into an empty space beyond.
A wash of stale air wafted out. Even Brant caught the taint of musk that came with it.
“There we go,” Lorr said, gaining his feet. He supported his lower back and kneaded out a kink. “The hard part’s over. All’s left is to fetch that pair of cubbies out of their stone burrow.”
Kytt had lowered to his belly and leaned his lamp through the opening. “I think I see some steps back there. An old stair. Looks like they may go down some ways.”
Confirming this, a faint animal whimper echoed up to them. It sounded as if lost down a deep well.
Lorr shook his head. “So it’s not going to be as easy as I’d hoped. But no matter, it must be done.” He squatted down again, and with a slight grimace, rubbed one of his knees. “It’ll be a narrow squeeze, but Kytt and I will flush them out.”
“I’m going with you,” Brant said.
Lorr shrugged, but his manner was unwelcoming. The old wyld tracker had recognized Brant from his clothes and skin as someone from Saysh Mal. He knew what folks from that god-realm thought of trackers. Brant suspected the only reason he was getting any cooperation from Lorr was because of Dart’s good word on his behalf.
So be it.
They didn’t have to like each other to work together. Brant had learned that well enough from Liannora in Oldenbrook.
Voices reached them from the outer hall.
Malthumalbaen hissed toward them, “Someone’s coming. Looks like a pair of shadowknights.”
Brant eyed Dart, who had already begun surreptitiously shooing something toward the opening in the wall.
Pupp, no doubt.
“I think it might be good if Dart came with us,” Brant said.
“And perhaps we should move quickly,” she added.
Dart matched gazes with Lorr.
The tracker nodded at some silent message passed between them. “Then why don’t you both go first,” he said. “I’ll make sure Barrin acts the good watchdog, along with your two giants. We’d best not have any strangers spooking the cubbies while we work.”
Dart pulled up the hood of her cloak and hurried toward the opening. She dropped to her belly and squirmed through. Brant waited until she was clear, then followed.
Once on his feet, he found Dart a step below him. The lamplight in the far room offered scant illumination. The narrow stairs spiraled quickly into an inky darkness. Spider threads whispered overhead, disturbed by their arrival. Underfoot, the steps were well-worn into raw stone, dry and dusty as old grave bones.
Kytt came next, brightening the stair with his oil lamp. He proceeded down a few steps, away from Brant. He busied himself with inspecting the stairs. Lorr came last with a bit of grunting.
He passed the second lamp to Dart.
“Tracker Lorr,” Kytt said, “come see this.”
Lorr squeezed past Brant to join the younger tracker.
Kytt lowered his lamp and pointed a finger. In the dust of the steps, a tiny paw print had been pressed.
Lorr nodded and moved slowly down a few more steps.
“They continue to flee deeper.”
“Wolf whelpings are always snugged in the darkest hole in their warren,” Brant said. “It’s where they feel safest.”
Lorr stood with a slight shake of his head. “ Safe is not a word I would use to describe this passage.” He huffed the air, nose high for a moment. “Something…something scents wrong here.”
Brant tested the air, but he could discern nothing but a bit of musk and an echo of bile, most likely coming from the houndskeep far overhead. Brant remembered his thoughts about its former use as a dungeon. Had the blood of the tortured once drained down these same steps? Did it still taint the passage?
Lorr lowered his muzzle. “Mayhap we’d best wait.”
Brant balked at this. If the whelpings’ trail grew any colder, they’d never be found. Who knew where this stair led or how much of a maze it might empty into? The best chance to secure the wolf cubbies was to keep as close on their tails as possible.
Muffled voices reached them from the outer chamber. The knights had reached the room and were questioning the giants.
Dart whispered, “It wouldn’t hurt to explore a bit farther.”
Lorr reluctantly agreed. “I will go first with Kytt. But only a few more levels. No one’s walked this passage in centuries. It could all come crashing atop us.”
Brant followed with Dart. At some point, he had offered Dart his hand to help her over a scrabble of broken steps, and she had yet to let go as they wound down into the depths below Tashijan.