The Bitterbynde Trilogy (56 page)

Imrhien gazed for one last time toward the north. Then, saying farewell to the open skies, they walked down into the dark.

Gradually their eyes adapted to the dim luminescence of the fungi. The rooster shortsightedly blundered about and crashed into a wall. Grudgingly Diarmid rescued it, setting it on his shoulder with deep misgivings. It pecked his ear affectionately.

Imrhien tapped on Diarmid's arm. <>

Diarmid squinted. “I can barely see your hands. Say you that we must watch our step in case we fall down some winze or ventilation shaft to a lower level? Aye, I'll not disagree. And we must look for branching passages. What was it now—take the left, except for the third and seventh?” She nodded.

An hour later they had not yet passed one side-opening, and still the tunnel descended. From afar off, the sounds of tapping and knocking started up again. There being no night or day in this worm's abode, the travelers at last halted when they had agreed it must be around noon. Snail-trails of water ran down the walls—it was difficult to find a dry place to sit. Brown mud smeared their faces and hands, caked their hair and garments. Rummaging in the food-pouches, they found little more than bunya nuts, with a few withered lillypilly berries, overripe apple-berries, and crumbled mushrooms. The nuts were rich and sustaining, but Imrhien knew they would tire of them before long. She crushed a few for the rooster to peck, which it did, peevishly.

“Those knocking sounds,” said Diarmid, his voice loud in the still darkness, “they would drive a man mad.”

Behind his back the rooster gave a sudden screech. Both travelers jumped. The bird shot off down the passageway.

<>

“Aye, and there was quite a pile of them on the ground here. The fowl could not have eaten them all in such a short moment. Mayhap we have company.” The Ertishman's voice dropped to a whisper.

They peered out into the gloom but could see no moving thing.

<>

Diarmid gave a shout and grabbed the food-pouches off the floor.

“I left a handful of bunya nuts right there. They are gone! Leave no food on the living rock. Let us get out of this place.”

A screech issued out of the darkness ahead and the rooster came running back. Imrhien scooped it up. Its eyes, usually wide and indignant-looking, were more so.

They walked on for a minute or two, then placed a couple of nuts on the limestone floor. Nothing happened until they looked away. Then, a faint scraping of stone on stone and the food was gone. A dim drone of bagpipes came to their ears from somewhere to the left and below.

<>

“Let us hope that they are not after food other than the vegetable kind.”

It seemed wiser to eat and drink as they walked. The drone of the pipes drew nearer. Such underground piping was not unfamiliar to the girl, for she had heard similar dim upwellings somewhere in the forests north of Gilvaris Tarv. The music crescendoed, rising from beneath the feet of the listeners to send cold thrills juddering through them.

The unseen subterranean piper moved along some sublevel crosscut to the right and passed farther away into distant labyrinthine reaches. After the music had faded, even the knocking ceased. Silence pressed more heavily than before.

The passage forked.

“That's one!”

They took the left-hand path.

The rocky floor ramped down more steeply now. On the slippery, uneven surface it would have been easy to lose one's footing. Down here, far from human aid, a broken limb could eventually prove fatal. This passage twisted and turned until those who followed it had lost all sense of direction. After what seemed hours it led them to another intersection. There, they rested, for surely it must be evening, somewhere far above their heads, and the first frosty stars opening in the sky.

The tappings had resumed as they walked. They rang louder now—instead of one or two knockers there seemed a multitude, all banging at different rhythms and tempos, some in the walls, others underfoot or overhead. They might have been nearby, or far off in some other section of the mine, their tappings amplified by some echo-chamber effect along a conduit. The travelers sat down on the cloak, abruptly realizing how weary they were.

“If anything can keep us from the thieves beneath the floor, 'tis this Dainnan cloak,” Diarmid muttered, “with whatever wizardly qualities it is endowed. Mayhap it is woven of wight-spun yarn.” To be completely certain, they let no crumb fall. The rooster refused to set foot on the ground under any circumstances and ended up perched on Imrhien's knee while she fed it from her hand and cupped water for it.

“The tin mines of Doundelding are ancient workings,” Diarmid mused with a yawn. “Digging has been going on here for centuries. The old mines, now hardly ever worked, intersect with the new on many levels, and the whole lot is laced with natural caverns. Back in the Tarv barracks, Sergeant Waterhouse used to tell tales of this place.”

There was no doubt that the Ertishman had become more informative and agreeable since the advent of the Dainnan's company. However, Imrhien's eyelids were so heavy that she could scarcely follow what he was saying.

“You sleep,” she heard him say. “I shall take first watch.”

It was hard to waken when Diarmid shook her to take her turn at the watch. The cockerel, having slumbered peacefully, skipped from her hip to the man's, sank its neck into its feathery chest, and closed its eyes smugly. Imrhien struggled to stay alert in the eternal gloom, listening to the sporadic
tap-tap
, now near at hand, now far off. Sometimes she paced up and down, longing for an end to this timeless night.

Deep in the ground, with miles of limestone hanging over their heads, they had only one timepiece to mark the rise and fall of the sun. The cockerel opened its affronted eyes, extended its neck, shook itself, glared all around, and puffed out its chest by way of ritual. Opening its wings and pointing its beak to the ceiling, it let fly with its fanfare. Such a crowing would have carried a long distance, had it been blasted forth over fields and farmlands. Here in this enclosed place it rolled around, making the rocks ring with its echoes.

When the triumphant cry finally faded, all sound ceased. The rooster fluffed up its feathers and shook itself.

Bleary-eyed and now wool-eared, the travelers breakfasted and continued on their way.

The path always ran downhill, always lit by fungus, always slicked with damp. Occasionally it would narrow, or widen, or turn this way or that, or the ceiling would soar away out of sight, or the walls would be streaked with layers of color, or the way would suddenly widen into a cavern, its roof supported by pillars of living rock, or the sound of rushing water would come chuckling and gurgling from behind the walls.

At the third branch they took the right-hand passage and the floor leveled off, no longer descending. The passage ran straight for many miles, without a turnoff. They dined while on the march, unwilling to rest on these treacherous floors and eager to reach the end of this journey as soon as possible.

In this long, straight hall the travelers felt vulnerable. If danger approached from ahead or behind, there would be no choice of escape route. Besides, the stark walls offered no caverns or niches in which they might take shelter. Often they glanced back over their shoulders, fancying they could hear following footsteps.

“Anything that dwells down here knows exactly where we are,” grunted Diarmid. “Our modest friend made sure of that.” Yet he allowed the bird to ride on his shoulder.

They were beginning to despair of ever finding another branch when they came upon two in rapid succession.

“Four and five! After the seventh, how many until the end, I wonder?”

Discouragingly, the way sloped downward again. The sixth fork appeared, and they entered the tunnel on the left. Everything seemed to be proceeding according to plan until they reached a section of the passage where, high in the right-hand wall, a small opening gaped, large enough for a man to crawl through. Dimly discernible by the glow of the cave-fungi, it was partly concealed by jutting rock. No steps led up to this hole, only several rough-hewn footholds. Perplexed, Diarmid stood scratching at the itchy new growth of his beard. Imrhien tugged at his sleeve and pointed.

<> she insisted.

“I am not so sure. It is not like the others. I suspect it is some exploratory drift, leading to some old stope, or simply a dead end.”

Vehemently she shook her head. <>

“No—he would expect us to choose the obvious path. This passage leads straight on.”

<>

Diarmid's jaw tightened. “I do not.”

They had reached an impasse. Presently Imrhien began to scale the wall. She had not climbed more than three feet when Diarmid's hands seized her around the waist and dragged her down.

“Foolish wench! You will not go that way.” She tried to pull free, but he would not release her. White anger flared in her skull, and she slapped her open palm hard against his cheek. He released his grip abruptly, and she fell back against the wall.

“Go, then.” His clenched hands trembled. They were dark with walnut-dye and mud. “But you will go without the water-bottle or any food.”

Although she guessed he was bluffing, she knew also that he had the upper hand. If she called his bluff, he might easily force her to accompany him, dragging her along by the hair if he so desired. Struggling to cool the boiling of her rage, she pushed past Diarmid and strode down the path he had chosen, hoping against her own conviction that it might be the correct way after all.

The passage inclined downhill. In antipathetic silence they marched for an hour or so. As ire dissipated, Imrhien became aware that she had heard no knockings for quite some time. The only sounds were the echoes of their own footfalls and the occasional melancholy
drip-drip
of water from the ceiling.

A barrier loomed before them: a rusted gate of thickset iron bars, like a portcullis. It blocked the whole passage.

<> Mockery flashed in Imrhien's eyes.

The Ertishman did not reply. With his hands and eyes he searched the crevices of the surrounding walls and floor. He found a lever and hauled hard. Somewhere an ancient mechanism stirred. With a squeaking and creaking of moribund pulleys and springs, the portcullis began to lift. It clanged into place above their heads, leaving the way clear. At this, the rooster balked and set up a tremendous racket, hissing and stretching out its wings. Diarmid regarded it with a baleful stare, as though it were a traitor, and strode forward. Taking a deep breath, Imrhien followed.

Farther along this path, the luminous fungi dwindled and disappeared, to be replaced by small blue lights emanating from a species of glow-worm clinging all over the rock like encrustations of gems. The air thickened and became stuffy. The travelers had for so long trodden upon a firm surface that they had become careless about where they put their feet. This proved a mistake.

Diarmid's booted foot stepped out into empty air. After that, it seemed time slowed down. A shaft was gaping in the floor in front of them, and the young man was falling into it. He tried to throw his weight backward, teetering on the brink. Imrhien thrust out her hand,
so slowly
, she thought in terror, too slowly as he wavered there between life and death. She felt as though her hand passed through flowing water instead of air, or as if time's current moved backward, retarding her actions. He was gone, almost, hovering there in the gelatinous liquid of suspended moments, and all she could reach was an outflung fold of his jacket and his flying hair. Grabbing a handful of both, she braced herself and then jerked back. The force was enough to swing the fragile balance, and the Ertishman fell backward to the floor.

The continuum resumed its normal flow. Diarmid lay, sobbing for breath. After a moment they both crawled to the shaft's edge. Nothing could be seen down there. It might have been as shallow as a wine vat or as deep as a well.

A ledge ran between the abyss and the wall.

<>

“No. The ledge is the path.”

He would heed her signs no longer, would not even look at her. Keeping his back firmly against the wall, he began to negotiate his way past the shaft, sliding his feet sideways along the narrow shelf. The cockerel took to Imrhien's shoulder. Yet again, she had no choice but to follow the Ertishman.

Once past the shaft, they went on slowly and cautiously. The air grew stuffier, the glow-worms more plentiful. They had traveled some seven hundred yards when they rounded a bend to find themselves confronting a breathtaking scene. Here loomed a mighty cavern hung with fantastic stalactites. The slow erosion of water on limestone had produced shapes of curtains, giant birds' wings, and organ pipes. Some of the pendant formations had joined with stalagmites to form fluted pillars. Like the interior of some surrealistic palace built by a mad King, the whole scene was pricked out with the jewels of billions of silent glow-worms dreaming sapphire dreams. Imrhien touched her companion's shoulder.

<>

He pointed to the ground.

“See, there is a channel, worn in the floor. From this door it leads across the cave.”

Indeed, a curious groove had been gouged into the cavern's floor. Measuring perhaps three feet across, it was defined by parallel sides and an inner surface that was perfectly concave, smooth, and polished. Imrhien looked around. They had unwittingly been walking along this arcane incision—it continued back the way they had come. There was something unsettling about it.

However, Diarmid's mind was made up, and he struck out again. They crossed the coldly glittering limestone cavern, dripping with its sculpted drapery and frozen swans' wings. The groove led straight into an opening on the opposite side, and soon they found themselves back in a passageway. The stuffy air gave out a prickling feeling and a curious metallic stench.