"Tastes of wine," said Glurk thickly, as they half-pushed, half-carried him through the doorway.
"Only thing there was," said Pismire. "Now ... down!"
The whole roof fell in.
They ran down the steps, the others carrying Glurk between them like a battering ram. The roaring died away and all that could be heard was the thudding of their feet on the stone.
"Not out of the hairs yet!" panted Brocando.
"What ... mean?" puffed Pismire.
"No torches!"
Pismire only had enough breath left to grunt.
"!"
They piled into the little door at the bottom of the steps, and lay panting in the blackness.
"Well, there's no going back up," came Brocando's voice. "The door's under a mound of rubble now."
"Do you think you can find the way to the statue in the dark?" said Bane.
"That was the first time I've ever been down here!" wailed Brocando.
"But there must be other entrances," said Pismire.
He thought of the deep crevasses and windy caves of Underlay, and the stories of the creatures that dwelt there. Of course, he didn't believe in them. He'd told them, because the handing on of an oral mythology was very important to a developing culture, but he didn't believe in supernatural monsters. He shivered. He hoped they didn't believe in him.
In the darkness he heard the creak of the door.
"If we keep together and test every step, we should be safe," came Brocando's unsteady voice. "There's four of us. What would dare attack us?"
"Lots of things."
"Apart from them."
Glurk got heavier and heavier as the hours passed. They edged him along narrow paths in the dark, and dragged him through what felt, to judge by the change in the air, to be large caves. They carried him head first and feet first, sometimes propping him up against a hair root while they inched hand in hand along strange paths. They scrambled among thick roots and crept around holes so deep that a warm wind rushed up from them.
Eventually they sat down for a rest. They were walking endlessly. It wasn't as if they were getting anywhere.
"What's below Underlay?" said Brocando.
"The Floor," said Pismire's voice, out of darkness.
"What's below that?"
"Nothing. Something has to be below everything else. That's the Floor. That's as far as there is. You might as well ask what's above the Carpet."
"Well, what is above the-"
"How should I know? We've got far too many problems down here right now to worry about what's up there."
"The Carpet can't go on forever, though."
"It goes on far enough for me!" said Pismire testily.
Brocando felt the air move in front of his face. It was strange, talking to people when everything was completely black. For all he knew, they could be sitting right on the edge of another hole. Everything had to be done by feel.
"Pismire?" he said.
"What now?"
"What about mouls? Do they come down here?"
"It's your tunnel. You should know. I can't imagine why they'd want to, though. I shouldn't think they'd like it any more than we do."
"Correct."
There was silence.
"Was that you?"
"I thought it was you."
"Brocando?"
"Pismire?"
"Bane?"
"What?"
"You see," said Gormaleesh's voice by Pismire's ear, "we can see in the dark."
They didn't fight. How could you, when you might as easily hit a friend as an enemy?
It was the darkness that was the worst bit. And then the claws that gripped them, as easily as a child grips a toy.
"Well, well," said Gormaleesh, from somewhere nearby. "What an unexpected treat."
"Is my brother with you?" said Brocando.
After a pause, Gormaleesh said, "In a manner of speaking. Now, you will do what I say. The little king will hold on to Purgish's tail. The old man hold on to the king's belt. The Dumii soldier hold on to the old man's belt. Anyone let go, anyone try to run away, that person is a dead person."
Brocando, who could count quite quickly for a king, said, "But what about-ow!"
"Sorry," said Pismire, who could count faster, "Did I accidentally kick you? Well, he's right. He's got all three of us."
"But we can't leave Gl-ow! Oh. Yes. Of course. Yes, I see. You're right." Brocando's voice suddenly took on the kind of excited conspiratorial tone that would have made anyone smell a rat who didn't already smell like a moul. "All three of us. Yes. You've definitely got all three of us. How well can you see in the dark, incidentally? Probably not one-hundred-per-cent, eh?"
Oh, no, Pismire thought. How can they not get suspicious after that?
"Ow!" said Gormaleesh.
"Moul scum," said Bane. "When I get out I'll-"
There was the sound of a slap in the darkness.
"When you get out," said Gormaleesh, "you will do exactly as I say. Bring them along."
Well done, thought Pismire. Bane can count fast as well.
They were marched in shuffling single file for quite a short time. They must have been close to a way up to the surface. Pismire felt his hands guided to a ladder. We're going up and out, he thought. If Glurk wakes up, how will he know?
He climbed a few steps, and then let himself drop again.
"Ow! My leg! Ow!" The noise echoed around the caves of Underlay.
"What is the matter with your leg, old man?" said Gormaleesh.
"Nothing," said Pismire, and climbed back up the ladder.
And if Glurk hasn't heard that, we're done for.
It was already night on the surface.
They'd climbed out into a clearing, a long way from Jeopard. It seemed to be a gathering place for the surviving mouls from the city. The prisoners were tied up with leather thongs and thrown down by a bush. Nearby, a pack of snargs eyed them hungrily.
The mouls were talking in their own language, occasionally turning to look at the prisoners.
"Can you understand them?" said Pismire.
"Very crudely," said Bane. "They're taking us somewhere. Called ... gargatass, if that means anything."
"That's their word for the High Gate Land, I think," said Pismire. "Where the Vortgorns live."
"Them? They're our mortal enemies," said Brocando.
"I thought the Dumii were your mortal enemies," said Pismire.
"We like to have several mortal enemies at one time," said Brocando. "Just in case we run out."
Pismire took no notice. He was lying a little apart from the other two, and could see behind the snarg pack. In the glow of the moul's campfire he could just make out a guard lounging by the little overgrown entrance to Underlay, with his snarg tethered to a dust bush.
An arm was slowly growing out of the bush behind the unsuspecting moul. It stopped a few inches above his head, and carefully removed his helmet. The moul turned, and met a fist coming the other way. The arm caught him before he fell and dragged him into the bush ...
A moment later the hand appeared by the snarg, and started untethering it. It looked up, and with horror Pismire saw its eyes narrow. Before it could growl, though, the hand bunched up into a knotted fist and smacked it smartly between the eyes. He heard the creature give a little sigh, and saw it fall over slowly. Before it reached the ground the tether tightened and tugged it into the bush.
Pismire didn't know why, but he felt sure that everything was going to be all right.
Or, at least, more all right than it was now.
CHAPTER 12
All that night they journeyed south. Most of the pack were mounted on their snargs, though the prisoners and their guards had to run along in the middle of the jostling bodies. Dawn came. The hairs around had changed from deep purple to red again.
The next days merged for the prisoners into one continuous blur of running feet and moul voices. The hairs changed from crimson to orange, from orange to black. Feet blistered and bled, and minds were muddled by the constant pounding. Twice they crossed white Dumii roads, late at night, when no-one was abroad, and passed by sleeping villages like shadows.