Isslun and Aliyea were still above, probably slain. Tershus was there too. Falling rock had obscured Aazen's last glimpse of the halfling. The rest of his party had either been slain by Kall's group or separated by the journey through the portal. Aazen had only five left with him. One of them, Kiliren's apprentice, had to be half-carried due to his wounds. If he didn't succumb, Aazen was tempted to leave the man, especially in light of what he intended to do.
"Straight ahead, torches low unless absolutely necessary," he said. "Kall is nearby."
"Whatever's down here's killing them already," said Bardie, shifting his weight against the man supporting him. "We should wait to see if any survive."
"If they do, we may never find them again in these tunnels," said Aazen. "We could wander down here until we starve, or until whatever made that noise finds us. Kall—or one of his group—had to have come through the main portal. To find the way out, we go to him."
Bardie laughed, drawing uneasy glances from the men standing near him, but the apprentice's eyes were wide, delirious with pain and blood loss. "You're a fool, Kortrun. You want to find your friend. Balram knew you wouldn't be able to kill him."
Aazen stopped, his expression frozen. Slowly, he turned and walked back to the man. He lifted his sagging head by the hair. "What an interesting observation. Please enlighten me. What is my father planning?"
Bardie coughed and tried to shake his head, but Aazen held him firmly.
"Very well." Aazen removed his hand and pressed his knuckles into one of Bardie's open wounds. The apprentice howled and thrashed, but Aazen pressed him back with his other forearm. "What is his plan?"
"Another party," Bardie choked out. "I overheard my. . . master speaking of it. He was communicating with Daen magically. If you betrayed us, he was to send word to the other party."
"Thank you." Aazen removed his hand, wiping his bloody fingers on Bardie's robes. The apprentice collapsed against the tunnel wall, sliding down to the floor.
Aazen's thoughts raced, but his eyes stayed on the men surrounding him. They kept their faces averted, their expressions schooled to reveal nothing of their thoughts. And why should they? They were well trained and knew that Aazen, traitor or not, was the best hope they had of getting out of the caverns alive. But how many of them had known? How many of his "family" plotted against him?
"We go on," he said at last. When one of the men moved to lift Bardie from the floor, Aazen shook his head. "Leave him. He'll slow us down. Scout ahead, but do not be seen. We follow Kall's party." he paused, looking at each of them, making them meet his eyes. "Unless anyone else has objections they'd like to voice?"
They had none. The scout started to move away down the tunnel. He turned a corner, and Aazen saw him stop and take a jerky step to the side, as if he'd lost his footing. The man behind him moved forward to steady him.
"Wait!" shouted Aazen.
The scout fell sideways. A triple line of gashes ran vertically from his chest to his bowels. The ribs and organs in between were mauled. The scout had died before he knew what killed him. The man behind him cried out as he was yanked forward, around the corner into the darkness. This time Aazen heard the swish of claws passing through air and smelled the unnatural fire reek.
Grabbing the man nearest him, Aazen dived into one of the narrower tunnels off the main route, one they'd decided not to take for fear it would dead-end or become impassable. He heard the screams of his men, of Bardie trying to remember the words to a spell as the horror overcame him.
"Keep moving," Aazen snapped to the man he'd saved. He did not look back.
* * * * *
Cesira lay on the floor, her vision encompassing all of an inch-tall gap between the storeroom door and the ground. Her forked tongue passed over her fangs, touching wood and tasting dust. At last, she saw the shadows of feet approaching. The lock rattled, and the footsteps retreated. Scant breaths later, a loud crack echoed in the dark space as a foot connected with the door, busting the old lock and splintering the doorframe.
A man poked his blade in among the stacks of linens, searching for a place a human woman might hide. He failed to notice the snake lying parallel to the threshold.
Cesira struck once, and then again, sinking her fangs into the flesh behind his knee. The man cried out, falling forward into the closet.
The black snake slithered away as the man's legs, sticking out into the dimly lit hall, began to twitch from the poison.
* * * * *
"Meisha once told me Varan believed the Delve to be an outpost of Deep Shanatar," said Kall. He looked out over the vast expanse of cavern. "I suppose this confirms it."
But the dwarf shook his head. "This is Deep Shanatar, lad."
Kall lifted an eyebrow. "I don't believe your memory for maps has failed you," he said. "So I don't have to remind you that we are not where Deep Shanatar should be."
"Who says so?" argued Garavin. "I'm telling ye—and having studied far longer than ye've been alive, I should know—we're in Shanatar, and I'm guessing a part of it that's never been known. An outpost, maybe, but a grander one I've never seen."
"Kept a secret, even from Iltkazar?" Kall asked, naming heretofore the only known surviving kingdom of Deep Shanatar. Garavin had told him stories of the place long ago. "Why does one build a secret outpost?" he asked. "Unless they're doing something other folk might not approve of?"
Garavin looked at him. "Yer point?"
"You dig strongholds for people who have secrets or who want to protect knowledge. Is it possible the dwarves did the same here, with magic? Did the Howlings, and by extension, Varan, stumble upon that work?"
"If they did, it was all tainted by the Howlings' greed when they turned to Abbathor." Garavin said, shaking his head sadly.
"Why are Abbathor and Dumathoin fighting over such a small group of souls?" Kall asked.
"Because the Howlings are fighting," Garavin replied. "These gods of the Morndin Samman, our pantheon, are forever locked in struggle. The Howlings are olorns, stories that become symbols. Whichever side wins in this will gain more than souls."
"They gain a victory in lore," said Kall, understanding. "Your stories will reflect the redemption of the Howlings from their greed. Dumathoin's power grows."
"And his children would rejoice," said Garavin.
"Are the Howlings powerless in this? If they seek redemption, why do they not renounce Abbathor and ask Dumathoin's forgiveness?"
"Because they made a pact with the god of greed and accepted his blessings and aid. That gives Abbathor power over the Howlings that isn't easy to forsake. Dumathoin can only intervene so far as to hold them between life and death. For the rest, they must atone."
"But Meisha's master disrupted that process," said Kall. "So her message—the dwarf's warning—was also a cry for help."
"Issued to one who might carry and keep a dangerous secret," Garavin affirmed, "and risk everything for the sake of a friend. Meisha was wise to seek ye out."
Kall did not voice his doubts on that score. "And do you think it's a coincidence that I count among my friends a devout servant of Dumathoin?" he asked instead.
Garavin smiled. "Little in this world is a coincidence, lad." He nodded up and down the abyss. "Which door?"
"I don't think it matters," said Kall, "but whichever we choose, we can't lose track of these doors." He looked back at the open portal. "That's our way back to the surface."