He hadn't been in position for more than ten minutes when a horn blast rang out.
He froze, terrified. For a moment, he thought it was an alarm and that an alert sentry had spotted him moving among the rocks. Then he heard more cracking of whips and the grunting cries of the Wargals and, as he raised his head, he saw that they were driving the Celts off the bridge and back toward the half-finished tunnel. The prisoners, as they went, downed their tools in stacks. Wargals began reshackling them to a central leash.
Glancing up to the west, Will saw the last curve of the sun dropping behind the hills and he realized that the horn had simply been sounding the end of the working day. Now the prisoners were being returned to wherever it was that they were kept.
There was one brief altercation, a few meters from the tunnel mouth, as two of the Celt prisoners stopped to try to lift a prone figure that lay there. Angrily, the Wargal guards surged forward, beating the miners away with their whips and forcing them to leave the still figure where it lay.
Then, one after the other, they filed through the narrow entrance of the tunnel and disappeared.
The shadows of the huge bridge lengthened across the hillside. Will remained unmoving for another ten minutes, waiting to see if any Wargals reemerged from the tunnel.
But there was no sound, no sign of anyone returning. Only the still form lying by the tunnel mouth remained. In the rapidly worsening light, Will couldn't make it out clearly. It looked like the body of a miner. But he couldn't be sure.
Then the figure moved and he realized that, whoever it was, he was still alive.
19
T READING CAREFULLY, W ILL AND H ORACE MADE THEIR WAY across the narrow plank path that bridged the last fifteen meters of the Fissure. Will, with his excellent head for heights, could have run lightly across it without a problem. But he went slowly out of regard for his bigger, less nimble friend.
When they finally made it to the finished roadway, Horace heaved a sigh of relief. Now they took a moment to examine the structure. It was built with all the thoroughness that Celts were famous for. As a nation, they'd developed the art of tunneling and bridging over the centuries and this was a typical sturdy structure.
The smell of fresh-sawn pine planking filled the cold night air, and overlaid on that, there was another sweetish, aromatic smell. They looked at each other, puzzled, for a moment. Then Horace recognized it.
"Tar," he said, and they looked around to see that the massive rope cables and support ropes were thick with the stuff. Will touched a hand on one and it came away sticky.
"I guess it prevents the ropes from fraying and rotting," he said carefully, noticing that the main cables were constructed of three heavy ropes twisted and plaited together, then thickly coated with the tar to protect them. Also, as the tar hardened, it would bind the three together more permanently.
Horace glanced around. "No guards?" he commented. There was a disapproving note in his voice.
"They're either very confident or very careless," Will agreed.
It was full night now and the moon was yet to rise. Will moved toward the eastern bank of the Fissure. Loosening his sword in its scabbard, Horace followed him.
The figure by the tunnel mouth lay as Will had last seen it. There had been no further sign of movement. The two boys approached him carefully now and knelt beside him-for now they could see that it was a Celt miner. His chest rose and fell-barely moving.
"He's still alive," Will whispered.
"Only just," Horace replied. He placed his forefinger to the Celt's neck to gauge the pulse there. At the touch, the man's eyes slowly opened and he gazed up at the two of them, uncomprehending.
"Who:you?" he managed to croak. Will unslung the water bottle from his shoulder and moistened the man's lips with a little of the liquid. The tongue moved greedily across the wetness and the man croaked again, trying to rise on one elbow.
"More."
Gently, Will stopped him from moving, and gave him a little more water.
"Rest easy, friend," he said softly. "We're not going to harm you."
It was obvious that somebody had done him harm-and plenty of it. His face was matted with the dried blood that had welled from a dozen whip cuts. His leather jerkin was shredded and torn, and his bare torso underneath showed signs of more whipping-recent and from long ago.
"Who are you?" Will asked softly.
"Glendyss," the man sighed, seeming to wonder at the sound of his own name. Then he coughed, a racking, rattling cough that shook his chest. Will and Horace exchanged sad glances. Glendyss didn't have long, they both realized.
"When did you come here?" Will asked the man, gently allowing more water to trickle through the dried, cracked lips.
"Months:" Glendyss replied in a voice they could barely hear. "Months and months I've been here:working on the tunnel."
Again, the two boys looked at one another. Maybe the man's mind was wandering.
"Months?" Will pressed him. "But the Wargal attacks only started a month ago, surely?"
But Glendyss was shaking his head. He tried to speak, coughed and subsided, gathering his fading strength. Then he spoke, so softly that Will and Horace had to lean close to hear him.
"They took us almost a year ago:from all over. Secretly:a man here, two men there:fifty of us in all. Most of the others:dead:by now. Me soon." He stopped, gasping for breath again. The effort of speaking was almost too much for him. Will and Horace looked at each other, puzzling over this new information.
"How was it that nobody knew this was happening?" Horace asked his friend. "I mean, fifty people go missing and nobody says anything?"
But Will shook his head. "He said they took them from villages all over Celtica. So one or two men go missing-people might talk about it locally, but nobody could see the entire picture."
"Still," said Horace, "why do it? And why are they so open about it now?"
Will shrugged. "Maybe we'll get an idea on that if we take a look around," he said.
They hesitated uncertainly, not sure what they could do for the crumpled, battered form beside them. As they waited, the moon rose, soaring over the hills and flooding the bridge and the bank with soft, pale light. It touched on Glendyss's face and his eyes opened. Then he tried weakly to raise an arm to ward off the light. Gently, Will leaned forward to shield him.
"I'm dying," said the miner, with a sudden clarity and a sense of peace. Will hesitated, then answered simply.
"Yes." It would have been no kindness to lie to him, to try to cheer him along and protest that he would be all right. He was dying and they all knew it. Better to let him prepare, to let him face death with dignity and calm. The hand clutched feebly at Will's sleeve and he took it in his own, pressing it gently, letting the Celt feel the contact with another person.
"Don't let me die out here in the light."
Again, Horace and Will exchanged glances.
"I want the peace of the Out of Light," he continued softly, and Will suddenly understood.
"I guess Celts like the darkness. They spend most of their lives in tunnels and mines, after all. Maybe that's what he wants."
Horace leaned forward. "Glendyss?" he said. "Do you want us to carry you into the tunnel?"
The miner's head had swiveled to Horace as the boy spoke. Now he nodded, faintly. Just enough for them to make out the action.
"Please," he whispered. "Take me to the Out of Light."
Horace nodded to him, then slipped his arms under the Celt's shoulders and knees to lift him. Glendyss was small-boned and the weeks he had spent in captivity had obviously been a time of starvation for him. He was an easy burden for Horace to lift.