"I think perhaps they are under the command of the mouls," said Bane.
The pone watched him pass.
They reached the angular metal hills and went through a dark archway. Inside they were handed over to other, swarthier, mouls.
There was a maze of tunnels that echoed with the chip-chip of hammers, but these they passed, going deeper, until they came to a dimly-lit hall lined with doors. One was opened, and they were thrown inside.
As they struggled on the dank floor Gormaleesh's grinning face appeared at the bars, lit red in the torchlight of the dungeons. "Enjoy the hospitality of our dungeons while you may. Soon you'll go to the mines. There you will not sleep. But you'll be safe from Fray!"
"Why do they talk like that?" said Pismire. "Melodrama. I'm amazed he doesn't go 'har-har-har'."
"Gormaleesh!" said Bane.
The moul reappeared. "Yes, lowly scum?" he said.
"Lowly scum," said Pismire. "Imagination of a loaf of bread, that one."
"When we get out of here I'm going to find you and kill you," said Bane, in quite normal conversational tones. "I thought I ought to tell you now. I wouldn't want you to say afterwards that you hadn't been warned."
Gormaleesh stepped back; and then said, "Your threats I treat with scorn. Har-har-har!"
Pismire nodded happily. "Knew he would, sooner or later," he said to himself.
They lay in the darkness, listening to the distant knocking of the hammers.
"So these are the mines," said Brocando, "where my people have been taken. Mining metal."
"Everyone's people, by the sound of it," said Pismire.
He lay staring at the dark, wondering about Glurk. He could have imagined the shadow. And Snibril ... well, perhaps he did get out before the roof fell in ...
They were roughly woken by the prodding of a spear.
Two mouls were standing in the doorway, grinning down at them. "These three for the mines, eh?"
"Aye," came a growl from outside. Pismire's ears pricked.
"That one's a bit small, and that one's an old codger. Still, use up the old ones first, eh?"
"Let's see 'em," came the voice from outside.
The prisoners were dragged upright, and had their thongs inspected before they were thrust out into the dim hall. A bronze-clad Vortgorn stood there, terrible in the half-light.
"You stupid oafs," he snarled at the mouls. "Look at their bonds! Practically falling off!" And he strode forward and caught up Pismire's hands. The old man looked for a moment into familiar brown eyes, one of which winked at him.
"We tightened them special!" said one moul indignantly.
"Oh yes? Look at this one, then."
The two mouls slunk over and stood one on either side of the Vortgorn.
One said: "They're as tight as a ... "
The Vortgorn reached out and placed one gnarled hand about each hairy neck. The voice faded into a strangled squeak. The Vortgorn brought his hands together with a satisfying crack, and let the stunned creatures drop.
Glurk removed his helmet.
"Well, here we are, then," he said.
He couldn't resist dancing a little jig in front of their staring faces. Then he put his helmet back on again.
"We left you in Underlay!"
"How d'you come here?"
"Was it you I saw?" asked Pismire. "It was, wasn't it?"
"Safety first, stories later," said Glurk.
He took a knife from his belt and cut their ropes. They rubbed some life into their numb wrists while he dragged the guards into the cell and locked them in, despite Brocando pointing out that the best time to kill an enemy was when they were unconscious.
Glurk came back with their swords. "They're nasty things, but better than nothing if it comes to a fight," he said. "Try to look like prisoners if anyone sees you. There's all sorts up here. You might not be noticed."
Glurk led, in his Vortgorn armour. Twice they met moul guards who paid no attention to him until it was too late.
"Where are we going?" said Pismire.
"I've found some friends."
"We ought to rescue the prisoners," said Brocando.
"There's thousands of them. Thousands of mouls, too," said Glurk. "Too many."
That's right," said Bane. "We've got to get out. Then we can get help. And don't say that if they've got a lot of Deftmenes prisoner it means we've got an army right inside their lines."
"I've seen some of the prisoners, too," said Glurk. "They ain't in any condition to fight, if you want my opinion."
"You're talking about Deftmenes, you know," said Brocando stoutly.
Glurk peered around a corner, and then beckoned them to follow him. "I know," he said. "And it's still true. What I'm saying is, it's not a case of stealing a bunch of keys and unlocking a few doors and shouting, "Har-har-har, my people, throw off your shackles". This is real. And I've been listening. You know why the mouls attacked Jeopard?"
"To subjugate and enslave a proud people," said Brocando.
"For grit."
"Grit?
"That's what Jeopard's built on, isn't it? Stone chisels, see. They use dozens of 'em just to hack out a bit of metal."
"My lovely city-"
"Grit," said Glurk.
"My palace-"
"Grit, too."
"Metal," said Bane. "They're trying to get as much metal as they can. Metal weapons'll beat varnish and wood any day."
"Why all this effort, I wonder?" said Pismire.
"Ware's only a few days away," said Bane. "That's why. We've got to warn people."
"Come on. In here," said Glurk.
" 'Here' was a long cave mined out of the bronze. Light filtered in from holes in the ceiling, showing dim shadows lining the walls. The air was warm and smelt of animal. The prisoners heard the shifting of great feet in their stalls, and deep breathing. There was a movement, and a pair of green eyes came towards them in the semi-darkness.
"What's your business here?" said the moul guard.
"Ah," said Glurk, "I have brought the prisoners! Har-har-har!"
The guard looked suspiciously at the four of them. "What for?" it said.
Glurk blinked at him.
"Enough of this talking, har-har-har," he said eventually, and hit the guard on the head.
The green eyes went out.
"I runs out of ideas after a while," said Glurk.
Pismire's eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom. It was a big cave, but it didn't look as big as it really ought to have done because of the enormous size of the things in it.
"These are pones, aren't they?" said Brocando.
"Not easy to mistake for anything else. Why are they here?" said Pismire.
"They turns the wheels for the lifting platform," said Glurk. "They're used for all the heavy work. Know something? They're intelligent."
"No, that's just a story," said Pismire airily. "They look bright, I'll grant you, but the head's tiny compared to the body. They've got a brain the size of a dried pea."
"But a very clever dried pea," said Glurk. "I lay low in here last night. They've got a language. All made up of thumps and nose honks. Watch."
A tiny head was lowered towards him out of the shadows, and two bright eyes blinked.
"Er ... if you can understand me, stamp twice," he said hoarsely.
Thud. Thud.
Even Glurk himself looked surprised.
"These are friends. You'll help, OK?"
Thud. Thud.
"That means yes," said Glurk.
"Really?" said Pismire.
"There's his saddle, by the stall."
It was more like a small castle. It had wide girths made of red cloth studded with bronze, and a roof over it, hung with curtains and bells. Inside were cushioned seats, and on the decorated harness was the word 'Acretongue' in tarnished bronze letters.
Pismire sidled closer to the pone while the others were manhandling the saddle, and held up his hand with the fingers spread out.
"How many fingers am I holding up?" he said suspiciously.