“Back,” ordered Sorgrad. We found ourselves in a dead end of shattered stones, bounded by a conduit full of foul water.
“Arseholes,” hissed ’Gren.
“Trouble,” I spat. A handful of figures were silhouetted against the glow of the battle. One had already seen us and he alerted his mates with a delighted shout, thick with the accents of Grynth. The other four spread out to block the gaps we might have fled through. These were out to take their recompense wherever they could, slung around with the lumpy outlines of purses and pouches, looted bags and belts. One saw Aritane, bare legs seductive beneath the gaudy blanket. The lowlander licked his lips and showed a gap-toothed smile of eager anticipation.
’Gren dumped the enchantress unceremoniously. “You want a taste of honey, you get past my sting, shit-sucker.”
Hearing obscenities from the gutters of Col coming out of a Mountain mouth halted these bravos long enough for me and Sorgrad to take stance either side of ’Gren. All our opponents had swords but held them more with the tight, close grip of the self-taught than the relaxed readiness of the competent.
’Gren took a pace forward and the middle man lifted his blade, but in opening his shoulders he ducked his head forward. ’Gren shoved the beak of his pry-bar up under the lowlander’s chin, ripping up into the skull beyond. The man went down like poleaxed beef, blood and spittle spraying.
As ’Gren yanked his pry-bar free, the next man along recovered enough to stab at him. He didn’t even look at me in my muddy skirts until my iron bar smashed his arm with a crack audible even above the tumult. He gaped, aghast as I brought the jemmy up under his ear, sending him clean into the Shades. Shoving him hard against his fellow gave me time to slide out of reach. ’Gren filled the gap, a sword sharp in his hand sending the man howling toward a sizable gang of ruffians, clutching a bloody gash to his thigh.
“Leave him!” Sorgrad wiped his own captured sword on a decapitated body.
’Gren halted, expression mutinous.
“You’re going to take them all on?” Sorgrad pulled his pry-bar free from the head of another corpse, where it stuck through the temple like a spoon in an egg.
“This way.” I followed the conduit up the slope, slabbed rim treacherous and water evil with an oily sheen. It had to be coming from somewhere in the apparently featureless cliff face. I traced the flow to an opening barely perceptible in the inky shadows, ’Gren and Sorgrad hard on my heels, our pursuers shouting their outrage over the bodies we’d left behind.
Once in the mine entrance I flattened myself against the wall, forcing myself to slow my breathing. Sorgrad pushed past and ’Gren came next, Aritane’s shift brushing my arm. I laid one hand on ’Gren’s shoulder and stretched out the other, running fingertips along the wall to steady myself in the utter darkness. We shuffled slowly forward until shouts behind us made us halt.
I turned and looked at the pale square of starlit sky. At least down here they could only come at us one or two at a time. Sorgrad worked his way to my side, sword ready. The curses and taunts came and went, the only sound the distant clamor of battle.
“Do we risk going out again or do we sit in our hole until they’ve all killed each other?” My voice sounded heavy in the still air.
“Let’s see where this goes first.” Cloth rustled as ’Gren shifted Aritane’s weight. “Word is you can get right through from the next valley into these seams.”
“They say that about any number of sokes.” Sorgrad clicked his tongue in thought. “But Teyvafess have been working this valley pretty much since Misaen made it. We could try to get around the fighting through the tunnels.”
“What are the odds?” I asked. “There won’t be any miners in here?”
“Nothing more than a few surprised rats.” Sorgrad led the way. ’Gren slung Aritane over one shoulder like a sack of wheat and I followed close behind, sliding my feet cautiously over the irregular rock, cursing as a cold puddle caught me unawares and splashed my bare legs.
Pry-bar still in one hand, I felt my way along the jagged wall with the other. The stone was slick with moisture and slimy in patches that I didn’t want to think about. I looked back over my shoulder to see the square of night sky get smaller and smaller. What had been darkness outside now looked more pale and bright with each step away. The still, cool air smelled of metal and earth, with a faint undercurrent of piss. The faint echoes of the fight outside could have been coming from the Otherworld, they sounded so far removed from us.
We turned a corner and the darkness was absolute, a cocoon of black so total it made no difference whether my eyes were open or closed. Forest blood did me no favors here. I swallowed to get a little spit for the dryness catching my throat and carefully felt for tinder, flint and steel in my belt-pouch. “Sorgrad, can you take the lamp for a moment?”
His hand touched mine and I closed his fingers around the punched-metal cylinder. “Wait till I get the slide open.”
I heard a grating noise and struck a spark. The darkness fled at the bright flare of the candle only to come rushing straight back. The boundless black was revealed as a tunnel tapering slightly to its roof and curving gradually in the direction of the valley bottom. The walls were brown and gray, streaked with odd pigments and sparkling faintly, perhaps from moisture, perhaps from some crystal or metal in the rock. My spirits rose at the cheerful flame throwing dapples of light out through the lamp’s pierced sides. We were well away from the fighting, we finally had a prize worth holding, and once we found a way out of this warren we could be clear and on our way back to somewhere civilized before sunrise, Halcarion willing.
The Teyvarekin,
18th of Aft-Summer
Jeirran hammered on the gate with the hilt of his sword, bloodied to the pommel and beyond. “Open, do you hear me, open up!”
For all the rage swelling his chest, his bellows made little impression with the clamor on every side. Choking on fury, fear and the treacherous fumes of alcohol, he vomited, the spirits searing his throat. Coughing, he reeled unsteadily, sweat breaking out on his forehead, cold shivers running the length of his body. Without the bulk of the fess wall to support his blindly reaching hand, he would have fallen.
The spasm passed, but little improved. The ground seemed to be rocking beneath his feet and his head was ringing like an anvil. The hollow in his gut had little to do with spewing up the golden liquor, looted bread and meat.
Where was Eresken? Where were the foreigner’s promises of lofty enchantments and secret wisdom? Jeirran groaned with confusion; this was no time for wavering, when they were hemmed against the walls of the fess. But why hadn’t Eresken warned them of this, asked a treacherous hint of doubt as the press of bodies grew ever thicker, struggling for the gate blind and deaf to their entreaties. The yells of the encroaching lowlanders grew ever more threatening.
“Aritane!” roared Jeirran in frenzy. Some echo of his desperation, some sympathy of blood must surely stir her Sheltya skills. He stood, panting, mouth dry and foul, but felt no gentle touch of her mind on his. Two men shoved him aside, raising bloodied hammers more used to honest toil than warfare. They hit the gate together with three ringing blows. A pause for breath, the same again, and a slide in the arch above the lintel wrenched open.
“Maewelin’s mercy, let us in!” screamed someone.
There was a moment of frantic debate, voices raised in argument and fear. “Get ready to run. We can only do this once.”