“Don’t let go,” Tal pleaded, powerless to rise from the ground.
“It’s poisoning her every second it touches her,” Bradok said. “We’ve got to get her down or she’ll die soon enough.”
Tal rolled over, face-first in the sand, and forced himself to stand.
“Use my sword,” Bradok said, indicating, as he twisted and turned, the handle protruding from the scabbard on his hip.
Tal flung his limp arm against Bradok, and his fingers caught the hilt. He could grip the weapon, but lacked the strength to pull it out of its sheath. Finally he simply stepped back, and the weapon slid from its scabbard and hung as loosely as his arm.
“Cut at it,” Bradok gasped.
“Where?” Tal asked, swinging his body around so that the sword flailed out and smacked the tentacle with the flat of the blade.
“Anywhere,” Bradok said. “Try again.”
Tal swung again with similar ineffectual results.
“Again,” Bradok said, his voice a near scream. “Hold on, Rose!”
Then he heard the sound of steel whirring through the air, and suddenly Rose fell free. He fell with her, quickly rolling off and tearing the tentacles away. The top of the tentacle had been cleanly severed. Bradok turned and saw Thurl, his body forced into a sitting position, nodding before he slumped over.
Rose coughed, gasped, and began breathing. Tal cradled her head in his lap as best he could, and Bradok retrieved his sword.
“Go help the others,” Tal said. “We’re all right now.”
Bradok stood and faced the chamber. Everywhere dwarves were attacking the tentacles with knives and swords. Several bodies hung in the air, in the process of being pulled up to the ceiling, some already too high up to save. Bradok willed his eyes to avoid their faces. There would be time for a reckoning later.
A scream broke upon his ear as he chopped at a fresh tentacle that had dropped down too close to him. The sound was horrible, somehow visceral in its anguish. It took Bradok a minute to recognize the voice as Much’s.
He looked over to spot his old friend racing madly from group to group, chopping at tentacles with his short sword. But he kept moving and appeared to be looking for something, or someone.
“Teal!” Much screamed, vaulting over a cowering dwarf and racing on.
Bradok remembered the curly-haired toddler and looked around. With a gasp he realized he didn’t see the little girl. Fear gripped him and pulled his eyes inexorably upward. There, far above him on the ceiling, he saw a flash of color-the rag doll Much had made. The little girl Teal lay, still cradled in the arms of her unconscious mother, both wrapped by a tentacle.
“There!” Bradok yelled before he realized there was nothing that could be done. Already the mouth began to close around mother and child, and he had to turn away at the grisly slight.
Much screamed something, but his voice faded to insignificance as an animal roar erupted from behind Bradok. Turning, he saw Omer staring up at the horror. Omer’s hands were clenched into fists. Even from that distance, Bradok could see veins popping in the boy’s neck. An unearthly orange glow shone out from his eyes, as if his very brain were on fire. Then he screamed.
“TEAL, NO!”
The sound was so overpowering, it shook the ground, taking Bradok so much by surprise that he fell over backward from the force of the scream. Then, as Bradok lay on the ground, watching agape, the young dwarf with the mind of a child took three steps that brought him close to Bradok and launched himself into the air.
Remarkably, Omer’s leap took him all the way up to the roof of the cavern. He caught hold of the cave fisher that had grabbed his precious girl and, holding it around the middle, swung his legs up so his feet were planted on the ceiling. Then he pulled.
From his vantage point below, Bradok could see the veins in Omer’s arms and legs bulging and the look of naked rage on his face.
With a wet, tearing sound, the cave fisher began to pull free of the ceiling. Bradok could see its wiggling, thrashing roots flailing about. With a groan and a thunderous crack, the ceiling broke away, and Omer and the cave fisher both dropped to the ground.
The cave fisher burst open like an overripe melon, and Teal’s mother slid out. Her arm flopped down, sending little Teal rolling free from her grasp. Teal ended up in a heap on the sand, still clutching her rag doll but showing no signs of life.
Bradok started forward, but Omer beat him to Teal. He leaped beside the little girl and stood there, as if guarding her. The orange glow died from behind his eyes as he reached out one of his oversized hands and nudged Teal. The girl didn’t respond.
She had been too long in the grips of the tentacle, and she was so very small. The poison had taken Teal long before she’d reached the ceiling. Her tiny form lay in the sand as if asleep, but Bradok knew it was a sleep from which she’d never wake.
Omer pushed her again. “Teal,” he said, his voice childlike and pleading. “Please get up. Teal?” Finally, Omer understood. He reached out with trembling hands and lifted Teal to his bosom. In his hands, she seemed like a doll.
Omer’s shoulders shook as he sobbed, then he threw back his head and howled like a wounded dog. The mad howl echoed off the walls of the chamber, a howl of pain, love, and loss.
Much had come up beside Omer. He leaned down and picked up the rag doll that had slipped from Teal’s hand. As the young dwarf vented his grief, Much held the doll gently, as one would a living child. Tears streamed down the old dwarf’s face and wet his beard. Dwarves rarely cry in public, especially revered elders such as Much. But it took all of Much’s self-control not to drop to his knees and howl along with Omer.
Gradually Omer’s howls turned to hoarse sobs. Bradok looked around. Omer wasn’t the only one mourning. Marl Anvil held his grandchildren as they wept for the loss of their grandmother. Urlish Hearthhome and Seerten Rockhide held each other, and both seemed to be in shock. Others sat, stunned, miserable.
The tentacles had retreated to the ceiling, but Bradok knew they’d badly hurt the survivors. Behind him Omer howled again.
“Will someone shut him up?” Chisul said, emerging from behind a column of rock. He had a long smear of the sticky tentacle fluid on his right side and cradled his right arm against his body.
Bradok was enraged. With a howl to match Omer’s, he leaped at Chisul, brandishing his sword. He grabbed Silas’s son by the shirtfront and pressed his sword against the dwarf’s throat.
“I’d shut my mouth if I were you,” Bradok yelled, tasting bile in his mouth. “That little girl is dead because of you!”
Chisul struggled in vain to throw Bradok off with his one good arm.
“I had nothing to do with that,” he protested.
“You had to be the big dwarf,” Bradok spat. “You had to convince everyone to stay here. The compass warned us to move on!”
He shoved Chisul away so hard, the dwarf stumbled and fell in a heap. Bradok threw his sword down in the sand and stormed off. He wanted to be mad at Chisul, but he was really mad at himself. He couldn’t help thinking that he should have done more to convince everyone to follow the compass. In his dream, Silas had told him to be strong. In the future he would have to be stronger, strong enough to face down Chisul or Corin or anyone or everyone. If he weren’t strong in the future, more lives would be lost.
Bradok walked back to where Much stood clutching the little rag doll to his chest.
“This didn’t have to happen,” Bradok hissed. “We should have done what the compass said. It’s my fault. You should blame me.”
“You didn’t make us stay here,” Much said ruefully. “We voted for that. Remember?”