The Wanderer's Tale (41 page)

Later that evening as Bolldhe left the pub, his head was still buzzing loudly with the music, the noise and the dizzying effects of potent Hauger-ale. After tripping over several times, he eventually reached the temple gate. But just as he was about to enter, he turned back and gazed at the midnight blackness of the swamp. He could not see a thing there.

And into his mind came the words of Wodeman: ‘
The rune of Ignorance seems fated to play a heavy hand in this game, right up to the end.
’

These words were still racing around his confused and inebriated brain when he noticed the dark shape slip out through one of the windows of their dormitory and race away into the darkened alleys beyond. It was clutching a sack – and a large broadaxe.

‘Oy, that’s mine!’ Bolldhe cried in amazement. ‘Come back here, you bloody thief!’

Incensed, he plunged after the burglar. It was a chase that saw him fall flat on his face more than once, slam into walls and snag his garments at every turn. The thief was quick, but Bolldhe was determined not to lose sight of him. He had owned that broadaxe for more years than he cared to remember, and though he bore no particular love for the weapon itself, he did bear a deep-seated loathing for thieves. He chased the fleeing figure down through the streets of the old town, off the knoll via one of the alarmingly springy footbridges, and onto the encircling dyke. The thief sprinted along the path running along the top of the dyke, looking back at the panting and spluttering pursuer.

All of a sudden it leapt off the dyke and headed sure-footedly for a lengthy walkway leading out into the marshes.

‘Howzat!’ Bolldhe exclaimed, confidently believing those shackle-boards led out onto a jetty or some other dead end.

But the thief was on home ground here. With Bolldhe clattering noisily along the loose planks in hot pursuit, the thief leapt off the end of the walkway, and landed not in water, but on firm ground. Straight away the dark shape sprinted off into the night.

Bolldhe snarled in drunken rage, but did not hesitate. He followed the barely visible shade of his quarry over muddy but reasonably firm ground, never once thinking of giving up. He was confident that he could outrun any thief that was carrying a sack in one hand and a heavy axe in the other.

For long minutes they ran. Uphill, always uphill. And the higher they progressed, the firmer became the ground. But just as Bolldhe seemed about to catch up, the thief suddenly vanished.

‘Wha’! Where . . . ?’ Bolldhe cursed between wheezing gasps. He was by this time almost completely sober. ‘Come out, ya . . . ya bastar’!’

It was only then that he realized he was now right out on the moors, a long way from town.

Nothing stirred out here on the dark moors, save perhaps for a light summer breeze that ruffled his hair. Not a sound could be heard. It truly was profoundly dark and lonely out here.

His leg brushed a stand of reeds, and immediately a tremendous cacophony of brain-penetrating squeals, wails, grunts and groans burst into the night, right by his side.

Half a dozen yards away, Bolldhe picked himself up where he had landed, and breathed deeply. ‘Rails!’ he cursed, damning all marsh-birds to hell, then took some time to regain his composure.

What was that? A chink of stone, off to the left! Bolldhe stalked silently over to where he thought the sound had come from, and almost fell down a hole.

He patted himself up and down, but to his dismay found his bull’s-eye lantern was not in its usual place; he must have left it back at the temple.
Cuna-on-a-kebab!
That thief hadn’t taken it, surely?
No!
Of all the things!

He ceased his useless worrying; he did not know yet if it was gone. He investigated his clothing further, and was consoled to find his flint and steel. Moments later his probing hands alighted upon a length of dry timber amongst a pile of debris, near the hole’s entrance. Minutes later, he held a dim and flickering torch in his hand.

A long mineshaft sloped away into the dark before him. Barely hesitating, Bolldhe descended into its subterranean levels.

Almost immediately his foot slipped on the loose, wet scree of the shaft, and he fell flat on his backside. He cried out in pain and swore vehemently. But far from taking greater care, he sprang back up onto his feet and plunged further into the darkness. Anger and self-reproach at his foolishness spurred him on ever more determinedly, till, barely a dozen paces later, he slipped again, lost his balance completely and pitched forward into the darkness.

When he came to, Bolldhe’s head was throbbing painfully and he felt horribly queasy. At first he could see nothing, but after a while he sensed light before his eyes, and it was gradually growing brighter. Soon its piercing glare shot needles of pain through his bleary eyes and into his bruised and jellied brain. With an odd sense of detachedness he watched the light as it pulsated luridly. All the while, sharp stones pressed painfully into his cheek.

Torch!
he suddenly remembered, and heaved himself groggily to his feet. He picked up the makeshift torch just as it was about to go out, and breathed life back into it. Slowly the flames grew, and he held the stick of flickering wood out before him.

With a sudden rush of blood to his head, he felt violently sick. He lurched sideways, and collided with the wall of the shaft. Extending his free hand against its surface, he managed to steady himself and his spinning world. Then he began breathing slowly, deeply, steadily.

Can’t have been out for long, then
, he thought as he looked down at his torch. He tried not to think what could have happened to him down here, and instead concentrated his thoughts on images of cool, leafy forests and sparkling waterfalls. That usually worked. Soon he noticed that ice-cold water was running down the wall and trickling soothingly between his fingers. The buzzing in his head gradually subsided.

Hauger-ale!
he cursed.
They can stick it right up their secretive, closely guarded little backsides!

A few moments and several lungfuls of air later, Bolldhe’s legs finally stopped shaking, and he could stand upright on his own. He peered into the darkness around him, and decided to get this over with as soon as possible. The torch, if it could be called that, cast little light; he would have to rely on his ears more than anything.

‘Stupid!’ he muttered as he explored the mineshaft. That was the trouble with travelling for too long with others. He hated getting drunk; hated the sickness; hated the befuddlement and incapacitation; he hated the way it made one act so stupid, like a kid at his first grown-up party.

And he especially
loathed
the way it opened your mouth so wide that anybody within earshot could see right the way down into your soul.

That was the trouble, really. He was just so unused to company that whenever he did mix with others he ran the risk of making a real tit of himself. But he was sober again, and now he meant business.

Bolldhe soon discovered that the torch was next to useless in these dark passages. The little light it provided, as he held it directly before him, only managed to dazzle him, and there was not enough room above his head so that he could hold it up higher. He tried holding it a little behind his head and to one side, but that was too awkward; and when he held it behind his back it nearly set light to his deerskin tunic. Bolldhe swore in frustration and groped his way ahead.

These passages smelt awful. The reek of refuse tips, stale cellars and urine made Bolldhe wrinkle his nose in disgust. He was used to scummy backstreets, but at least they were out in the open, not fifty feet underground. This smelt like the lowest level of the five-tiered city of Qaladmir, where even the lepers wore masks to filter the stench . . .

Fifty feet underground!
The thought alone was enough to clamp a steely hand of terror around Bolldhe’s heart. He hated caves at the best of times, to be trapped so deep underground with only bare stone all around you! He fancied he could hear the screams of men and children, and the washing of the sea . . . and something so much worse . . .

This had happened before. There had been times in his life when this cave-fear had taken him. He did not understand it, and furthermore he did not want to admit to it.

More deep breaths, more mind-stuff, more control. He was Bolldhe, remember. He was Bolldhe . . .

Again, he forced himself to concentrate upon the search. He studied the walls, the roof, the floor. The floor, what a mess! It was strewn with a hundred different types of debris and filth. Apart from the rusty and mouldering remains of mining tools, there were also slides of fallen rock, collapsed timbers that half-blocked his way, household refuse from the people who lived above and, rising up out of all this, the occasional skeletal hand, skull or ribcage. Whether these originated from humans, beasts or something more sinister, Bolldhe did not care to ponder. And between it all were pools of that same stinking, oily water he had noticed in the mine just after Nym-Cadog had vanished.

Bolldhe picked his way forward extremely carefully. He guessed that this part of the mine, closer to the surface, would serve as a refuge for the odd outlaw, drunken vagrant or other scabrous low-life that might pass this way from time to time. He wondered whether the thief who had stolen his axe was one such.

After five minutes he came to a dead end. The passageway abruptly finished with an immovable pile of fallen rock. Bolldhe held his glowing stick inches away from the bank of rock and studied it carefully. His probing eyes could discern no sign of recent disturbance. It was impossible to be sure, but as far as he could tell, in this almost non-existent light, it looked as if none of this had been touched for years.

He sighed; maybe his quarry had not come down here at all. Then, he reflected, it was possible that he had missed a side passage on the way. Not very likely, but possible. He would have to check . . .

Bolldhe instantly turned around, and instinctively grabbed for the axe that was not there. He stared intently into the darkness ahead, heart suddenly pounding madly.

What in the name of the wee man . . . ?
Why had he started like that? He had not heard anything, nothing at all . . . yet he had
felt
something. Something evil, right behind him. His eyes strained to pierce the darkness beyond the glowing brand he held, almost willing his sight to extend further than its pitiful radiance.

The hair at the back of his head prickled like a living animal. He could still see no sign of anything, but
something
had made him start, something right behind him . . .

Bolldhe rubbed the nape of his neck with a wet hand. This spooky old pit was getting to him. It must have been his imagination. Yes, he was scared, still very scared, though now managing to push his fear to the back of his mind. But in any case, he was not going to hang around here a moment longer; the makeshift torch was on the point of sputtering out for good, and he had no intention of finding himself stuck down this damnable pit without any light at all. If there were indeed any side passages he had missed, maybe he would find them on the way back out.

As swiftly as he could whilst resisting the urge to panic and bolt, he started making his way back. He had almost reached the place where the passage met the shaft leading up to the surface when he did spot another opening. It was a small side passage, barely four feet high, that plunged down steeply into utter blackness. The stench from this hole was worse than the rest of the mine, and hinted at ‘something’ lurking down there. Not so much a presence, more like an aura, it almost shouted at him to retreat.

Bolldhe, however, had not got where he was today by listening to his feelings. If he had been the sort who was easily constrained by his fears, he would never have even left Moel-Bryn. Perversely, he decided to check this new way out.

He bent down and entered.

Straight away he knew this was not the right decision. Every particle of his being screamed at him to turn back and run, to get out of this godforsaken tunnel immediately. He could sense that he was entering a place that contained within its heart a great evil, and a deeper shade of darkness that had no tolerance for the living.

The shaft led down to all this horror, and bit by bit Bolldhe lowered himself down towards it.

He had to stoop and choose his footing carefully. Whatever lay down there, he did not want to tumble into it. One hand clasped the wall to brace himself; his eyes were as wide as lantern lenses.

As he made his slow progress downwards, he began to hear his careful footsteps echoing back to him. Each measured pace he took repeated itself dully like a gritty
chink
, off in the distance. He listened with growing concern, and thought it odd that, in such a confined space as this, where all sound fell dead, there should be any echo at all. But as he continued, he soon realized that these reverberations were not emulating his footfall with very much accuracy. His tread was careful and regular; the echoes were decidedly not.

He stopped abruptly and listened hard. The sound of his footsteps ceased at once – but the echoes, carried on –
chink
,
chink
,
chink
. . . Bolldhe’s heartbeat doubled in speed, and his head felt thick with pumping blood.

Then he heard them, the voices so quiet he was not sure at first that they were not merely the slight eruptions of his own restrained breathing.

No, voices – tiny, chilling, macabre voices, squeaking in laughter and eerie song, only just audible above the tapping of their tools. From all around the traveller they came, yet sounded so distant they might originate from deep within the rock itself. Either that or they were just memories, vestiges of sound from a distant past.

Then the name came to Bolldhe as clearly as if it had just been spoken:
Knockers.
The huldre-miners. More tales from his childhood, come back to haunt him.

Little bastards, he cursed fearfully, they’re mocking me!

He had to go on. This he knew for sure. Knockers were not considered to be dangerous unless one crossed them or returned their mockery. If he gave in to his fear now, he would likely spend the final few hours of his miserable life hurtling round these lightless passages in blind, screaming terror. Furthermore, Bolldhe realized with unexpected insight, if he were to turn back from this now, he would never be able to confront the horror that might await him on Melhus Island. As it had always been in his life, Bolldhe had to conquer his own fears.