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.”
“The Shadow Thieves are sure to block it,” Garavin pointed out. “If they haven’t already. Might be we’ll have to find a different exit.”
Kall didn’t need to tell the dwarf how monumental a task that would be. Their odds of surviving long enough to collect the others and find the way out seemed slim indeed at the moment.
“We could call out,” he said finally, “from the bridge. The echo will carry down at least a dozen of these tunnels. If they’re nearby, one of them might hear us.”
“As could any number of beasties foraging in the tunnels,” Garavin said.
Kall nodded. “Better to encounter them in the open than a bottleneck in a tunnel, where traps may be waiting to spring.”
“Agreed,” said the dwarf. He drew his maul out and cradled it in both hands.
Kall strode to the center of the bridge. His bootsteps echoed in the vast chamber.
Thousands of feet must have trodden these bridges, Kall reflected, a testament to the forgotten legacy of the dwarves, and far grander than all the merchants of Amn above. The enormity of such a lost existence humbled Kall.
He raised a hand to the side of his mouth. “Meisha!” he shouted. The Harper’s name carried far down the cavern in either direction. “Laerin! Morgan!”
He shouted until his lungs ached. Nothing stirred in the vastness.
Kall turned back to Garavin, seeking a new suggestion, when Borl began to bark furiously. The dog pushed his head between the stone slats of the bridge.
Kall looked down. Thirty feet below, Talal ran from a tunnel in the opposite wall onto a bridge, so fast and stumbling so much that he nearly toppled over the edge. Sheer luck kept him upright as he plowed across.
“Morgan!” Kall yelled as the tall man came out behind Talal. “Up here!”
Neither slowed. Morgan flung his head back and hollered, “Stay there!” Spinning, he flung a dagger at the tunnel mouth. The throw broke his stride, and the normally graceful thief fell sprawling on the bridge.
Kall saw Morgan’s dagger stick to the hilt, and his eyes traveled upward in horror to see the demon. The beast stalked onto the bridge, his four legs spread to block any possible retreat. Blood ran from his mouth all the way to the stone. Crouching down, the demon leaped into the air, springing toward Morgan.
The Howlings’ penance—Meisha’s beast, with blood-soaked claws—and Kall’s friend, lying helpless on the bridge without Laerin to back him up.
“No! Gods of stone damn you!” Kall shouted. He vaulted over the rail and dropped, curling his body and praying he could hit the beast in mid-spring. If nothing else, he would take the demon over the side with him.
They collided in the air. Kall felt the heat, the blast of brimstone, before he even touched the demon’s hide. He landed flat on the beast’s back, surprising him and driving him aside of his intended target. The demon’s claws raked for balance; his hindquarters fishtailed back and forth on the bridge, trying to shake Kall off.
Kall felt blood on his hands. They were covered with small wounds ripped open on the spines sprouting from the demon’s back. And he burned. He felt slick blisters form on his palms and remembered the sickening smell of his campfire burns. If the nerves in his hands hadn’t been dulled, he wouldn’t have been able to withstand the pain.
The demon reared onto his hind legs. Kall slid off his back to the walkway. He no longer needed to worry about taking the attention off Morgan. The demon’s smoldering, malevolent gaze was firmly fixed on Kall. The beast lunged at him, his claws poised to rake whatever exposed flesh they could find.
Kall had no space to maneuver or dodge on the bridge. Without really considering it, he jumped over the rail and off the bridge, plunging straight down again. Reaching out, he caught the bridge’s stone ledge. The sudden, snapping weight jarred his shoulder, nearly wrenching it from its socket. Kall gritted his teeth and reached up with his other hand.
The demon hit the bridge where Kall had stood and turned, coming back for another attack.
In his peripheral vision Kall saw Morgan on his feet, climbing a rope Garavin had tied onto the upper walkway. The dwarf fired his crossbow at the demon. Dangling from the rope, Morgan threw another dagger.
The demon hardly seemed to feel the stings. The beast shook out his long, red mane and stalked Kall. Up close, Kall could see a fresh piercing wound had rent his abdomen, but the maimed socket where his eye had once been was an old wound. Hatred emanated from the orb that still functioned. Kall felt it as a creeping fear that worked its way up his spine, threatening to paralyze him.