Morgain had had no choice but to follow him. Atla caught up the torch from its cresset and walked close behind. About them, the People of the Dark scrambled and scurried. Morgain had kept her eyes on Nero’s billowing cloak.
They had walked at least a mile, perhaps two or more-Morgain lost track during the nightmarish trek through limitless grottoes and cramped passageways in between. At first the girl had tried to take note of their path-soon realized she could never hope to retrace it.
Morgain was exhausted when at last they entered a great cavern, where witchfire radiance shown from some source the girl could not immediately identify. The extent of the cavern was beyond the glow of light, and from the sudden loss of echo, Morgain realized that its ceiling must be unthinkably vast. The floor of the grotto sloped slightly downward toward its center, forming a shallow bowl-whether natural or hewn out from the stone, she could not decide.
In the center of the cavern was an altar of human skulls. Atop the cairn of grinning death’s-heads was-Morgain knew it instantly-the Black Stone.
Sullen black and strangely ominous, it dominated the colossal vault, even though in size it was no larger than one of the pallid skulls stacked high beneath it. There existed a repellent magnetism about the sinister object. Morgain would have known it for what it was, even had Bran not described the unearthly hexahedral stone, with its sixty dagger-like glyphs etched upon each hexagonal face.
Morgain halted, and, noting her look of terror, Atla laughed. “So you recognize the Black Stone, girl?”
“Are we then in Wales?” asked Morgain in wonder, for it seemed indeed that she had been dragged through these burrows beneath the earth for an eternity.
“No, you are in hell,” Atla assured her. “The People of the Dark chose to remove the Black Stone to a less accessible temple after your brother stole it from them.”
Morgain swallowed her dismay. Despite its sinister aspect, the sight of the Black Stone had given her a spark of hope. Bran had won through to its altar once before-surely now he would lead his army through the familiar tunnels beneath Dagon’s Barrow in search of her. But the Black Stone had been hidden in some new and secret grotto within these labyrinthine caverns. He might never find her here.
A sombre row of iron cages waited within the cavern-empty and ominous, their thick bars stark and rusted. Morgain did not care to speculate as to why these grim cages had been placed here, nor upon the fate of those who had been imprisoned within.
Fumbling with the tight knots, Nero untied her wrists and pushed her into one of the empty cages. The iron door swung shut with a groan of rusty hinges; the lock engaged with a dull rasp. Passing the curiously wrought key to Atla, Claudius Nero and the witch had left the girl to her thoughts.
The cage-and the others as well, from what she could see-had been vacant for an indefinite time. The grating extended beneath her feet and over her head a foot or more beyond her outstretched fingers. The bars were thick, deeply pitted with rust though still quite solid, and spaced too closely for even one of her slight frame to pass between. The stone beneath was dry and free of debris or refuse-only a few crumbling patches of dust, vaguely recognizable as ancient bone. Morgain could not conjecture how these cages were brought here, though clearly it had been very long ago-nor how such vermin as the serpent-folk came into possession of so costly and complex a work of iron.
Long hours passed-how much time, Morgain had no means to ascertain. She grew hungry despite her fear-and terribly thirsty. She had not drunk so much at the banquet to account for her parched throat and throbbing head. She wondered whether some subtle drug had been placed in the food or wine. Eventually one of the serpent-folk approached from the darkness beyond the altar, and thrust a jar of tepid water and a lump of rancid meat through the grating. With some misgivings Morgain gulped down the water, but she left the meat lying where the creature had dropped it.
The vast cavern remained in eerie silence, and only rarely did Morgain see the stunted figures slink past the area of light. The light, she finally decided, seemed to come from the altar itself-either the cairn of skulls had been treated with some phosphorescent substance, or perhaps the Black Stone itself emanated some uncanny radiance.
Often the girl sensed the baleful scrutiny of some unseen presence-somewhere from the darkness beyond. The sensation terrified her, all the more so for she could never discover the hidden watcher from the shadow.
At least they had given her food and water-evidence they wished to keep her alive. With that bleak bit of hope, Morgain slumped into a corner of the bars and tried to sleep.
Sleep would not come, her overwrought nerves overmastering her fatigue. In a nightmarish daze, Morgain shivered against the cold grating and tried not to think. The rusted iron was harsh and bruising to her slender frame, so that she formed a vague notion of the passing of time from how often the dull ache of the bars against her flesh forced her to change position. After a while she lost count even of that.
An angry murmur of voices snapped the girl back to alertness. Stiffly Morgain rose to her feet and stared through the bars of the cage. Torchlight flamed eerily beyond the blackness that curtained the vast cavern.
As it bobbed closer and into the circle of light, Morgain recognized Atla and Claudius Nero. To her amazement there were several other men with them. She could not see them clearly, but the flickering light glinted on Roman armor and weapons. Their speech was in Latin-which Morgain poorly understood-and in the hissing gibberish of the serpent-folk. Morgain could not grasp the cause of their anger.
The witch had separated from the others then, and the torchlight wavered off into the darkness again, vanishing about the turn of a barely seen passageway from the grotto’s far wall. Toying with the heavy key that hung at her belt, Atla glided toward her. Her smile was deadly as the grin of a viper.
“Your brother is very foolish,” Atla told her icily. Morgain noticed the witch’s disheveled appearance, the scum of dirt that smeared her sheath-like gown and sinuous limbs. “Did you fall down a hole?” she asked solicitously.
Atla’s smile twitched. “We sought to make terms with your brother. The fool will not listen.”
“Bran will make no pacts with serpent-spawn!” Morgain sneered.
“Your lofty-principled brother is a treacherous fool!” Ada retorted. “He thought to capture us. We showed him one of the real nightmares of the pit.”
“Is he…?” Morgain cursed herself for not withholding that cry of dismay.
The witch exulted in her fear. “Bran Mak Morn will live to remember-though his men fared not so well. The Wolf of the Heather dragged himself back to his lair. We shall allow him one last chance to bow to reason. If he remains obstinate…”
Atla studied the girl intendy. “I suggested to Claudius Nero that we might present Bran with some memento to remind him of his sister’s plight. Your tom-out nails, perhaps-strung on a necklace along with your ears…”
“But your ears are so much prettier,” Morgain told her. “Tell me, how do you achieve that lovely pointed effect?”
Atla hissed in fury, struck at her face through the bars.
With desperate quickness, Morgain seized the witch’s arm and flung herself backward. Jerked off balance, Atla fell against the cage, brutally slamming her head and shoulders into the rusted bars.
Leaping forward, the Pictish girl grappled with the stunned witch. Whipping her strong forearm through the bars, Morgain caught Atlas slender throat in an armlock, jammed her head against the bars-cutting off the woman’s outcry.