The party ran across the bare ground under the cliff in a tight group, veered across to the leftmost hole, and entered one by one as quickly as they could. Within, they had to bend to keep their heads from the low roof. Venalse led, helmet glowstone bobbing as he scuttled along. He turned at the third passage left, almost stopped when a small underman face appeared in the mouth of a side-cave, then ran on as it fell back squealing in terror. From behind came questioning cries as the slaves roused. Here was the second passage right, rising as it went. Around a turn, duck under an even lower stretch, past a hole winding into the rock and there was the last passage, even steeper than the last. Up he went, shield to the fore, sword in hand.
As luck would have it, the hubbub below had alerted an underman near the exit. Venalse looked up to see an astonished underman face falling back, cursed and drove on harder. He burst into the room as the underman shouted alarm. The underman had perhaps been preparing for daily sleep. It wore no armour, and its best weapon was the long knife it grabbed from its belt. Venalse did not hesitate, but charged immediately he exited the tunnel. A stab was turned by his shield, his own blade slid forward and the underman went down. Six to go, Venalse thought.
Chrys hissed at Aitonala to halt just after they turned into the last tunnel. The others scrambled ahead, towards the cries of alarm and Venalse’s yell.
“Light.” Aitonala’s hands twisted and a beam sprang from her forefinger. Chrys crouched, placed a copper coin on edge, two small rocks holding it upright. She spoke strange Words and the coin grew, filling out the space until it met the walls and roof. Chrys grinned.
“That should keep them off our backs. Now let’s join the mayhem.” They turned and scurried up the tunnel.
When they reached the end of the tunnel it was clear that something of a standoff had developed. The tunnel came out in one corner of a large hall which curved around, interrupted by pillars, to left and right. Nearly opposite the clustered party was a wide door, from within which a booming voice shouted commands. The undermen here were clearly too canny to charge in recklessly, as Ekke had done.
“I’d charge the door, but we are too few to fight in three directions at once,” Venalse said. “Better to stay here and wait for them. They’ll be armouring up and I expect they’ll all come at us at once.”
“I have a trick for that,” said Rakt. He dug into his pouch and brought out a small brass sphere. “Just keep back until it has done its work.”
Venalse nodded. “Here they come.”
There came a shout from the door and what seemed a mass of armoured figures burst around the right-hand corner. Rakt immediately hurled the sphere into their midst where it burst, scattering a fine black powder. Armour, swords, daggers, shield-rims and bosses, spearheads, all melted away. The surge continued, but at half pace and confused. Rakt and Venalse leapt forward, striking great blows at their uncertain, now unarmoured, foes. At the same time two figures came from the left, and a huge horned shape emerged bellowing from the door.
Chrys and Grymwer reacted at the same time, tossing daggers into the air as they shouted spells. The knives darted like birds at the undermen to the left, one striking an up-flung arm, the other swooping around it to hit home in an eye. As the underman fell its companion crashed into Kosohona, bearing her back and down. Her shield was battered aside and a sweep of the underman’s curved blade sliced through leather to open her stomach, spilling entrails to the floor. Before it could follow up, Aitonala’s dart sank into its neck, a second dagger flew from Chrys to plunge into its cheek and Grymwer, abandoning magic, snatched up his halberd and swept its head off. Aitonala dropped to her knees beside Kosohona, grabbed her head and poured a vial down her throat. She threw the empty glass aside, pulled another from her pouch and poured that in too. Kosohona went from shocked moans to agonised whimpers, looked down to see her own guts sliding back into her body, muscle and sinew knitting together, skin closing up. She looked up at Aitonala, whispered “Thanks,” and fainted.
“That’s two,” grunted Venalse as he stabbed the last underman then, as he wheeled around, took in the two dead by Aitonala and the horn-helmed giant smashing at Doryid, “None, if underwomen could count.”Before he could start forward, Chrys launched yet another dagger. This flew at the underman’s face, then curved up, circled around and came back from another angle, distracting the creature from its unequal contest with Doryid. Battered Doryid fell back as Rakt came forward, bloody sword raised. It glanced left and right, ducked as the dagger came back in, then slid a foot back. Venalse was not going to let it escape. He ran forward, ducked under a sweeping blow, pivoted to stab the underman in the back of the knee, then again in the neck. It lurched, fell to one knee and Rakt stabbed over the lowered shield even as the flying dagger came at its face. Venalse sprang back as the underman toppled backwards, helmet falling off to hit the floor with an echoing clang.
“That’s minus one,” he panted. He felt a stir of air, then an excruciating pain lanced through his back. “They can’t count,” he thought, and fell into blackness.
Rakt had focused on the dying, the dead, giant, mindful for any last lunges. He looked up at Venalse’s gasp, to see a large figure retreating into the room beyond the door, Venalse lying face down with a black hilt protruding from his lower back.
“Aitonala, see to Venalse! There’s at least one more.” He sprang over the bodies and ran after the figure, the others behind him. The figure glanced back, wrenched open another door and sped through. Rakt circled wide, looked to see a corridor receding into the dark. His helmet light dimly illuminated a fugitive back. Grymwer, unburdened by armour, sprang past him to follow at a run. Rakt and Chrys caught him moments later, halted before yet another door, this one closed. Rakt pulled out the black rod, spoke a word, and the door gave to his boot. Rakt shouldered past, down a short passage and into the chief’s sanctum. It was empty.
As he looked at the wide, low bed, the dead naked underman slave manacled to the wall, the weapon-stand, Chrys and Grymwer crowded in behind. Chrys took in the empty room at once, went to a panelled cupboard, flung it open and looked in.
“There’s a shaft. We need one alive. Grymwer?”
Grymwer crossed to her side, twisted to look up the shaft, grasped the rod and spoke a Word to bring forth light, another that produced a thumping, bumping fall. Grymwer pulled his head back just in time to avoid being hit by a body.
“Unconscious and bruised, but essentially intact.”
Their quarry was large, female, armoured and armed with knife and whip.
“Berzo herself, I believe,” Chrys remarked. “just the one to give us answers.”
They dragged the body out and used the chains to hand.“She had a sack,” Grymwer noted. “Why would she need that, unless...” He returned to the shaft, clambered in and climbed out of sight. A few minutes later he returned, picked up the empty sack and disappeared, only to return again with it full.
“Chief’s private hoard, ready to hand should one need to leave in a hurry.” The sack clinked as he swung it. “Let’s show the others.” He nudged Berzo with a foot. “This one will be out for another twenty minutes.”
“I’ll watch her, just in case,” volunteered Rakt. The other two left, retracing the short pursuit. When they came back to the hall, Aitonala unbent from where she leaned against a wall to show them a tear-streaked face.
Stolen story; please report.
“Venalse is dead. I couldn’t do anything. That dagger would not come out until his life had left – it sucked it out of him.”
Chrys looked around at the squalor of violent death, thought of competent, caring Venalse and felt both grief and utter depression. She slid down the wall and sat there, an arm around Aitonala, too moved to do more. Grymwer swore, Doryid and Kosohona stayed slumped against a pillar, both wane, clothes and armour rent.
Aitonala roused first. “Sorry, but we need to keep going, or we might all be dead. Grymwer, can you tell Rakt. Then we should check the front door and perhaps see if our little underwoman is still there.” The party stirred to life. Doryid and Kosohona limped off to look at the front door while Aitonala and Chrys dragged the bodies into a pile, then laid out Venalse in a corner, limbs straightened and eyes decently closed.
“What do I do with this?” Aitonala held up a black knife, blade still smeared red but drooping from the hilt like a wilted stalk. Chrys took it from her gingerly, laid it on the floor, spoke Words, then studied it intensely.
“It’s a leech dagger. It’s limp now, but will become active once it hardens again. Then, if it so much as touches flesh, it will sink to the hilt and gorge until no life is left. You could have done nothing for Venalse once this had touched him. A dangerous weapon, and one to handle carefully. Try to find a sheath.”
Doryid came back to report that no activity could be seen through the front door. Kosohona had gone to fetch the underwoman. As no sound came from the tunnel they had used, Chrys thought it safe to poke through the rest of the area by herself. Well-squared rooms with level floors, a kitchen with a well, a storeroom full of jars and barrels; clearly these undermen had put time and effort into their home. Again she wondered about whether it was right to burst in and kill. Then she recalled the little underwoman’s scars, the whip carried by Gharriagha, the chains in the chief’s room and the naked slave. The undermen dealt harshly by others; they could not complain if harsh measures were dealt them.
She carried on to the chief’s room, where Berzo had at last wakened to find herself chained to her own bed. Grymwer sat next to her, small jar and dagger in hand.
“You will answer my questions. The paste in this jar will tell me if you lie.”
Berzo snarled. “Then what, tasty boy? I will say nothing, neither lies nor truth. You will kill me anyway.”
“If you answer, I will give you a quick death. If you do not, I will leave you to your slaves to play with.”
It was not possible for Berzo’s grey-green skin to pale, but her eyes widened and her mouth tightened.
“I will leave you to think on my offer.” He switched languages. “Chrys, will you stay and watch this scheming hulk? Be careful. She knows there is no end to this road but death, but she would be glad to see one of us go before her.”
Kosohona was standing beside an apprehensive underwoman when Grymwer came back to the main hall. Kosohona spoke.
“Our little ally stayed beside the gate. Her name is something like Shemur.”
Grymwer sat cross-legged, so that he was eye to eye with the underwoman.
“The big woman says your name is Shemur. Is that right?”
“Zhema,” she corrected.
“Zhema, all the jharghek are dead. At least, all the ones that were here. We have not killed any of your people. We will be leaving soon. What will you do?”
“All dead? I do not see Berzo’s body.”
“Ah. We found two more jharghek here than you named.”
Zhema walked over and looked at the bodies, muttered names as she ticked each off on her fingers.
“This one is Mgurash. He left maybe two moon-darks, maybe three. Thought he never come back. This one I don’t know. Maybe he come back with Mgurash.”“So what will you do?”
“Drag their bodies outside and leave them for the crows. Berzo’s body I will nail to the wall to warn others.”
“Who will lead the ghriyek? You?”
Zhema looked thoughtful, reckoning her chances of establishing herself as leader. Aitonala looked between Grymwer and Zhema.
“What does she want to do?” she asked.“My guess is she is not sure how the ghriyek – the slaves – will greet events, or her.”
“I thought so. Ask her to wait here for a little time.” Aitonala rose and sped off, to return shortly with a vial and a long black knife.
Zhema’s eyes widened. “That is Berzo’s knife.”
“Tell her yes, it is. And now it is hers. Also, I have something that will show the others that she is special.” Grymwer nodded and spoke to Zhema, whose gaze remained fixed on the knife. Aitonala showed the vial to Grymwer.
“Salko had just one of these. It makes the aura visible for a few hours. I think he might have used it for diagnostic purposes, but it’s not much use to us. Should make Zhema look impressive, though. Can you tell her what it does and ask if she wants to use it?”
After a brief exchange, Grymwer nodded to Aitonala. “She’s fine with that, and thanks you.”
A second entrance to the slave warrens, this one closed by a heavy door, led off from near the front gate. Aitonala accompanied Zhema there, wrestled the door open and poured the vial over her head. Her aura sprang into visibility, a fine glow of green intelligence, blue apprehension, red anger, tinged with black fear. Zhema dipped her head to Aitonala then descended into the tunnels.
As Aitonala turned away, her eye was caught by a too-regular outline in the stone opposite. She looked more closely, then tested the wall with the point of her dagger. A few minutes of experiment opened a cavity in which rested a short black rod topped with two silver prongs. Aitonala took this with gloved hand and went to find a magician.
Grymwer had returned to the chief’s room, where Berzo glared impotently from the bed.
“The ghriyek want to nail you to a wall. If you answer my question, you will not be alive when they do so.”
“What is your question?” Berzo growled.
“We want to know just one thing: the way to the magician’s tower. The magician who killed your chief. We know you have been there.”
“You kill this magician?”
“Maybe she kills us.”
“We ask her for your bodies, eat you, piss in your skulls.”
“So tell us the way.”
Berzo shifted, tested her chains again, found them as firm as before, shut her mouth firmly.“I gave your knife to a ghriyek. She said it would need to be sharper, to keep the cuts fine.” He paused. “We could give her ideas. We could give her some magic, make you last longer.” Berzo stayed silent. Grymwer shrugged. “You have chosen. I go to give the ghriyek the good news.”
He rose and went to the door. Berzo spoke.
“I tell you.”
* * *
The party gathered at the open door, waiting for Zhema to emerge from the slave tunnels. Water bottles were passed round, bits of food brought from pouches and eaten listlessly, more from obligation to weary bodies than from taste. There was little talk. All were conscious of Venalse’s body, now wrapped in his cloak, lying at the top of the stairs. Even the Item Aitonala had found had aroused no great enthusiasm, just agreement to look it over later.
There was a stir at the warren entrance and Zhema came out, bloody black knife in hand, aura pulsing about her. Stirrings and grumbles from the dark behind her told of her fellows watching. Grymwer spoke.
“We go now. This place is yours.”
Zhema looked him squarely in the eyes. “Yes, it is. We will not hunt along your path for three nights.”
“You can command your people?”
Zhema grinned, glanced down at the dripping knife. “I can, now.”
“Then we go. You will not see us again.”
Rakt and Grymwer took up Venalse and they moved off, stepping carefully down the stair, across to the still-open gate and on into the woods. The undermen did not come out into the sun to watch them go.