They did not see Aitonalà that day, nor was she there when they left early the next morning. They were accompanied for a time by various animals, most notably a long-tusked pig who was insistently helpful in showing them the best path. These dropped away one by one until all that was left was a lone brave rabbit. This led on to where a large fallen log bridged the side-stream. At this the rabbit waved its ears at them and bounced off. They edged across the log one by one, then bore right and uphill to the edge of the boulder patch. The jumble of rocks big and small, smooth and rough, splintered and tumbled on one another, would be the hardest of going. They trusted to the anteater’s knowledge and climbed as quietly as they could along the outskirts, up to where the largest rocks overshadowed a maze of clefts and crevices. Outside, they sorted themselves: Venalse to lead, followed by Rakt and Doryid. Chrys would come next as magical support, then Kosohona with the Toffee Apples and Grymwer last.

They looked around, tightened helmet straps, eased weapons from scabbards and ducked into the slot behind the last boulder. There, only a little way in under the overhead, a gully dipped into a patch of blackness. Chrys murmured Words and light sprang from a small stick fixed to Rakt’s shoulder. They bent their heads and entered.

The tunnel was low enough that all but Chrys had to stoop, rough-walled and twisty, narrow and shored up with rough timbers for the first few yards. Even when it widened a little it was not quite broad enough for two to walk abreast. The floor was an uneven mix of dirt and rock, sloping downwards. They stepped carefully, pausing to listen every few minutes. The tunnel went on, winding down into the rock, the only sounds their careful feet and soft breathing.

It was a little, but interminable, time before Venalse reached behind to softly signal Rakt to slow, then crept ahead. He had caught a faint rhythmic clanging, and perhaps the merest hint of a red glow tinging the absolute dark ahead. He felt for the spanned crossbow hanging by his hip, silently dropped a quarrel into the slot and crept forward. A turn, a crook in the passage, the feel of some larger space ahead. He took one step forward, another and there came a startled growl, the loom of a rising body before him. His fingers tightened, the bow twanged and the body was hurled back by the heavy bolt. As he dropped the bow and drew his sword, Rakt came up behind, spilling light into the cave.

A large underman lay thrashing on the cavern floor, upper body heaving as legs trailed uselessly below a shattered spine. Its bellows of rage rang from the walls. Venalse stepped forward, avoided the flailing arms and silenced it with a thrust to the throat. Rakt moved up to flank him, making room for Chrys, Kosohona and Grymwer to exit the tunnel. A glance around showed a wide passage to the left and a half-open set of doors to the right.

Even as Rakt moved to cover the doors, two hulking forms burst through. There was a flash of silver on the torso of the second. Kosohona reacted immediately, flinging a Toffee Apple hard and true. The underman was enwrapped in a sticky mass, incongruously sweet-smelling. It lurched about, gluing itself to the door and frame. The other jumped forward and launched a tremendous overhand blow at Rakt. The sword cut through the iron rim and embedded in the wood of Rakt’s up-flung shield. The underman bellowed and dragged the blade back and up. Left-handed Rakt gave with the motion and stabbed for the exposed armpit, slicing tendons and opening an artery.

The underman cried out in rage and tried to club Rakt with its other arm. Again, he blocked with the shield, swiping the underman in the head with its still-embedded sword, then pivoted left and cut behind its knee, sprang back and cut for the neck as it stumbled. It fell, and Rakt dragged his attention back to their surroundings. The room stank of blood and sugar, thick smells overlying the previous reek of undermen, smoke and old flesh. Venalse was circling to approach the toffee’d underman, Doryid and Kosohona were covering the passage to the left, with Chrys and Grymwer behind. He wrenched the underman’s sword from his shield and moved to join Venalse.

At Kosohona’s request, Grymwer called light to a pebble and tossed it down the passage. For a moment a dark shape was outlined before the pebble was scooped up and thrown back to land midway. A voice, guttural and heavily accented but still distinct, called from the gloom beyond. Kosohona blushed and Doryid took a pace forward. “What did it say?” asked Grymwer.“Some very rude things,” was Kosohona’s prim reply. The voice called again, challenging. Doryid called back but there was no reply. “We’ll watch here,” he called, “I’m not going in.”

Venalse and Rakt approached the mass of dark toffee with care. The underman within had stopped struggling, stuck as he was to floor, wall and door. Determined chewing had cleared a space around his mouth, and he spat a wad of toffee at them as they came near. The problem was, as Rakt noted, how to drag him clear without ensnaring themselves. “He’s like the story of the maiden made of pitch.”

Venalse agreed. “Also, he’s blocking the door. Which is good in so far as they can’t get to us, but we can’t get to them either. Any magical assistance appreciated,” he added to Chrys and Grymwer.

The magicians conferred for a moment, then Grymwer spoke, “Hmm. If we both cast Slitherslick on the areas he’s stuck to, he’ll sort of slide off. If we push him that way with hands covered, he’ll stick to the floor again.”

“Sounds good. Give us a moment.” Venalse retrieved his crossbow and cocked it, then cut pieces of from the skins worn by the dead undermen. With hands wrapped in these, he and Rakt waited for the magicians. As the spells took hold, the underman slid to the floor. A brisk shove pushed him into a corner where he stuck fast again. Grymwer said something cheerful in underman, and was spat at.

The removal of the underman did not prompt any immediate action beyond the door, nor did a tossed coin. Venalse and Rakt listened and heard only a distant clanging. They whipped through the door, shields up, to find a room littered with the everyday detritus of underman life - bedding, crude bowls, bones. Dim light filtered from a passage at one end and an opening gave onto a smoky forge room, also empty. They eased around a corner, through another chamber similar to the first from which a low narrow tunnel led down. They left this to explore first the passage, where Venalse grunted in satisfaction to find it led to an arrow-slit overlooking the front entrances, and then the forge area. From this a wide, relatively well-constructed passage led down. Some little way along a crude iron gate had been set from floor to roof; it now lay open, lock shattered. Similar treatment had been meted out to another iron gate giving onto the riverside. Puzzled, they returned to the forge and now noted a thick chain, one end stapled to the wall and the other ending in broken links.

“We’ll work it out later,” decided Venalse. “For now, let’s see if we can get the chief to talk, and have a look at that other passage.”

Grymwer had pried enough toffee from the underman’s feet to tie them together firmly, while Chrys and the two Sakai stood guard. Chrys now undertook to check out the passage with the Invisible Defence up, cautiously. As she said, if the undermen invited you to rush down it, it was best not to. She crept slowly forward, testing every step, and was not surprised to find a concealed pit not too far in. The spell of the Clinging Grasp allowed her to pass this along the wall, and another few steps brought her to where her questing fingers told her the passage opened into a room. There was no sound, none at all, so she ventured a light. Thick bedding piled high with skins, a stone slab lying next to a hole in the floor, a narrow tunnel in a corner. This must be the chief’s room, complete with personal exit. She called back to the party, then had a thorough look.

The hole in the floor had been hastily emptied. All it held now were two silver badges and a torn piece of paper – at first glance a hand-drawn map. Spikes had been driven into one wall. Scraps of rawhide and some ugly stains suggested that they had been used to hold someone, a guess confirmed by the find of two rent mail-shirts, some blood-stained clothing and two swords of human make. Chrys winced, thinking of the fate of the owners. She gathered up what she could, tied it into a bundle and went back to the pit. With light, it was easy to spot the locking mechanism; she pulled the lever, tested the floor and returned.

* * * *

When she came back with the sad evidence, the underman chief had been unstuck, dragged to the forge area and lashed to a cross fashioned from iron bars. He did not look comfortable. “I can understand him well enough,” said Grymwer, “at least if he keeps it simple. And vice versa, of course. I have told him that his clan seems to have deserted him, which led him to say some rude things about them. When we got him here he said that he hoped the bzhurghek came back and killed us, which solves one puzzle. When I said his room was empty he said some very rude things about his wife. Very rude indeed. He was quite the misogynist.”

“Bzhurghek? What’s that?” Rakt asked.

“It’s...we don’t have a term...bzhurghek are the largest undermen. They are often solitary and like bashing iron. The chief’s clan captured one and put him to work here. My guess is that when the ruckus started it saw its opportunity, cut its chains and went off. The small undermen – the ghriyek – are slaves. Ones like the chief here are jharghek, bosses, fighters.”

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“Well, his clan is dead or gone, and if they had any valuables, his wife has taken them,” Chrys said. Grymwer spoke to the chief, who replied at some length. “He is glad that we did not get our hands on his treasures, but it provoked him to some additional remarks about his wife. He really is very upset with her.”

“Will he tell you about the pectoral?” Chrys inquired. “The Green Liar Paste will tell you if he lies, but it can’t make him talk.”

“Oh, I’ll have to hurt him a bit – cut off a toe or two, something like that. Anything less would be disrespectful. His pride demands that he only yield to torture. Of course, he also expects that when we have done, we will torture him to death. Other undermen would roast him and then eat him.”

“No. I’ll eat snake, lizard, bat, but I draw the line at underman.”

“Well, yes, me too. In any event, undermen do not subscribe to stoicism, so there’s going to be a lot of screaming.”

Doryid and Kosohona came back into the room, having checked out the rest of the warren.

“Find anything?” Chrys asked.

“That lower tunnel is where the smaller ones lived. They’ve all run off, except for one old female. She was just cowering in a hole, so I left her alone. We had a look around the riverside, but couldn’t see any threats.”

Venalse picked up on an earlier remark. “He said the wife had gone off with the valuables?”

“That’s right.”

“I propose that a couple of us go after her, while the others stay here. Doryid is the best tracker, so maybe he and I should go.” There was no disagreement, and the pair soon left to follow the tunnel from the chief’s room.

“Now...” Grymwer selected a dagger, put an iron on to heat and turned to the chief. Chrys decided on a breath of fresh air.

When she came out on to the strip next to the river she was surprised to find that it was no more than late morning. After the fetid air of the underman tunnels, the breeze up the valley was welcome. She looked around, searching for landmarks to orient herself. There, across a bend in the river, was the forested high ground of Aitonalà’s Place. Below and across from that was the scrubbier growth where they had first met the undermen. Nearer, and thankfully downwind, a pile of refuse festered in the sun. Straight across the water, something white sat atop a pole. She thought of the badges and armour she had found. Was this another trophy from those deaths? Chrys walked down to the water, removed her boots and breeches and splashed through the shallow ford. A thorough look showed no danger, but she took the time to dry her feet and re-don her clothes before going further. No sudden eruption from the forest was going to find her barefoot and trouserless.

The object on the pole was indeed a skull, facing away from the river. As she came within view of those hollow eyes, it gave a long rising wail, followed by moaning words. “Who goes there, friend or foe?”

Chrys blinked. The skull had spoken in Rayat. What was a Sentinel doing here, far from the steppes? She replied in the same language, “Friend.”

“Speak then the word of the day and pass, if you be friend.”

“What day would that be?” The skull could not look uncertain, but it gave that impression.

“Erm, what day is it?”

“The 10th day of the second month of the dry season, in the one hundred and eighty-fourth Year of the Revelation.”

“That would be in the declension of the Year of the Polecat, no?”

“Well, that would depend on which stars the sun rose in on Great-Gods’ Day. It’s been a few years, so I’m not sure.” Chrys let it mull this over for a little, then suggested “I could give you a new word, if you like?”

“That would be...irregular.”

“Well, while you’re thinking about it, tell me what brought you here?”

Again, the skull could not look other than cheerful, but it seemed more so.

“Well, it was a long time ago, of course, when I still had a bit of hair. Good days. I was really on the ball, nobody got past me. Well, except one time. I was under three ells of snow, so you can’t blame me, can you? Unfortunate that. My owner joined me on watch, and he wasn’t happy. I mean, he seemed to think it was my fault. As if I could control the weather. Anyway, he carried on so much the new owners couldn’t stand it. Did they sell him? No they did not. Did they find me another post with an honourable clan? No they did not! Passed me off to some bloody tinkers, didn’t they. Well, I tell you...”

As the skull recounted, at great length, the twists and turns of fate that had brought it here, Chrys sat on a convenient stone and went over what she knew about spirits, their affinities for place and their likes and dislikes. It had been covered early in her magical studies and she had had little occasion to revisit the subject. Some pointed coughs from the skull roused her from her thoughts.

“So, as I just asked, was it wise, wise in your opinion to take that trail so late in the year?”“Well, clearly not. Tell me, would you like to return to the steppes? I know some people there.”

“I don’t miss the freezing wind whistling through my eye-sockets. Or those steppe hail-storms. Let me tell you, those can give you a head-ache that lasts for days. The constant moving got on my nerves a bit too. But it looks like this job is over, so what can I do?”

“I might know someone local who would appreciate a good voice. Let me ask.”

* * * *

She took her time outside before returning to the tunnels. When at last the screaming seemed to be over, she climbed back to the forge. She was glad to see that Grymwer looked weary rather than pleased. Rakt’s face was studiously blank. Kosohona looked a little sick. The underman chief, now formally introduced as Ekke, looked somewhat the worse for wear but was still capable of a steady cursing. The others gathered around and Grymwer shared what he had learned, leaving out, as he said, a tedious amount of threats, curses, boasting, detected lies and side-issues.

Ekke, said Grymwer, had been third in a small clan – something under twenty members and a like number of slaves, north of here. Magicians flew over the country from time to time. One - a young blonde man - flew lower than most. So Ekke laid a trap. He dyed a rabbit silver, tethered it near a cliff edge and hid close by. When the young man veered over to have a look at the strange rabbit, Ekke shot him. The man fell and his flying thing, which looked a bit like a saddle, flew off.

The clan chief took most of what the man had, and the clan ate him. Ekke kept the pectoral. Two days later a woman magician showed up, flying, and blasted open the front door. Arrows glanced off her. From the air she demanded to know where the young man was. The chief gave a rude reply. She said something, and the chief fell dead with his brain running out his ears. The chief wife, Berzo, used one of the clan treasures (a stick with a prong on top), the woman cried out, Ekke shot at her and hit her in the leg and she flew off.

Berzo installed a large but not too bright underman called Snirrig as chief. Then she said she had seen the magician’s tower some years ago, and maybe Ekke should be sent there as an apology. This would be better than waiting for her to come back and kill everyone. Snirrig thought this was a good idea. Ekke did not. The chief wife said maybe just Ekke's head would do. Ekke proposed attacking the tower. Berzo said the tower was not far, but was too strong to assault, and the magicians would just kill everyone from behind their walls.

Ekke left in the night with his family and slaves, and came to this place. Ekke knew of it from a trip this way to sell some humans they had captured to some other humans. He had been instructed by the chief wife. There was a rendezvous on the far side of the big river. They had cut across to the North Trail, followed that across the eel ford, then cut back into the hills to avoid some humans and so come across these caves. Ekke knew of another, shorter route, but you had to cross a bridge that was infested with very bad spirits.

They had captured the bzhurghek with a net and put it to work making tools, weapons and other things. The armour and badges came from two women they had ambushed near the slave exchange rendezvous two weeks earlier. They had been checking to see if the human buyers had been past. Grymwer added that this involved a system of agreed marks at the back of a small cave.

“We have a good idea where Ekke’s original clan lives?” asked Chrys. Grymwer nodded, “He was pleased to give us exact directions, although he did not know where the back door is. If they kill us, he is revenged. If we kill the chief wife and Snirrig, he is revenged also. Win-win, from his point of view.

I should say that I could not get all the information I wanted on the defences. He’s an amazingly persistent liar, even when he knows it will be detected and lead to pain. I want to reserve the rest of the paste for the other clan, so anything more he says will just confuse us.”

Chrys thought of the two women who had fallen into Ekke’s hands, and of the spikes and stains in his room. She looked at Rakt, Kosohona and Grymwer. “I can’t think of any other information we need, nor of any reason to let him live.”

“Aye”, “Yes by me”, “Has to be done”. Grymwer looked at Rakt, who sighed, drew his sword and went over to the bound chief. There was a last curse, a meaty thud, and he came back. “I don’t want to sleep here, with the smell of death and the stink of undermen. Also, we need to do something about Aitonala.”

“About Aitonala,” Chrys said, “I have an idea or two..”.