To Green Angel Tower

  She found herself in a circular passageway as wide as her outstretched arms and only a little taller than her own head. Isgrimnur had to hunch down, and Camaris, who followed Miriamele, had to bend even lower. The mud walls were spiky with loose stones and bits of splintered sticks, all covered with pale froth that looked like spittle. The tunnel was dark and steamily humid and smelled of rotting vegetation.

  “Ugh.” Miriamele wrinkled her nose. Her heart was pounding. “I don’t like this at all.”

  “I know,” Isgrimnur whispered. “It’s foul. Come on, let’s see what we can see.”

  They followed the winding passageway, struggling for footing on the slippery mud. Isgrimnur and Camaris had to lean forward, which made balancing even more difficult. Miriamele felt her courage beginning to fail. Why had she been so anxious to prove herself? This was no place for a girl. This was no place for anyone.

  “I think Cadrach was right.” She tried to keep the quaver out of her voice.

  “No sensible person would want to come in here,” the duke said quietly, “but that’s not the question. Besides, if this is as bad as it gets, I’ll be happy. I’m afraid we might find ourselves in a smaller tunnel and have to go on our knees.”

  Miriamele thought of being chased by the scuttling ghants but not being able to run. She stared at the slickly glistening tunnel floor and shuddered.

  The light from the entrance began to dim as they put several bends of the tunnel behind them. The rotten smell grew stronger, accompanied now by a strange spicy odor, musty and cloyingly sweet. Miriamele slipped her club into her belt and lit one of her brands from Isgrimnur’s, then lit another and gave it to Camaris, who took it as placidly as an infant handed a crust of bread. Miriamele envied his idiot calm. “Where are the ghants?” she whispered.

  “Don’t look for trouble.” Isgrimnur made the Tree sign in the air with his torch before moving on.

  The uneven passage turned and turned again, as though they clambered through the guts of some vast animal. After a few more squishing steps, they reached a point where a new tunnel crossed theirs. Isgrimnur stood and listened for a moment.

  “I think I hear more noise from this one.” The duke pointed down one of the side branches. Indeed, the dull humming did seem stronger there.

  “But should we go toward it or away from it?” Miriamele tried to wave the choking torch smoke away from her face.

  Isgrimnur’s expression was fatalistic. “I think that Tiamak or any other prisoners would be at the heart of the thing. I say, follow the noise. Not that I like it,” he added. He reached up and scraped a circle in the froth with one of his reed spears, exposing the muddy wall beneath. “We have to remember to mark our way.”

  The froth on the walls was thicker in the new passage; in places it hung from the tunnel roof in viscous, ropy strands. Miriamele did her best to avoid touching the stuff, but there was no way to avoid breathing. She could almost feel the damp, unpleasant air of the tunnels congealing inside her chest. Still, Miriamele told herself, she had no real cause for complaint: they had been in the nest for no little time, and still had not met any of the inhabitants. That alone was an incredible piece of luck.

  “This place doesn’t look nearly so big from outside,” she said to Isgrimnur.

  “We never saw the back of it, for one thing.” He stepped carefully over a glob of pale muck in the passageway. “And I think that these tunnels may be looping back on themselves. I’d wager that if you broke through this …” he prodded at the wall with his torch; the froth hissed and bubbled, “… you’d find another tunnel just on the other side of it.”

  “Round and round. Farther and farther in. Like a chamber-shell,” Miriamele whispered. It was more than a little dizzying to think of such an endless spiral of mud and shadows. Again she fought down rising panic. “Still …” she began.

  There was a scuttling movement in the tunnel before them.

  The ghant had apparently stepped out of another side tunnel; it crouched motionless in the middle of the passage as though stunned. Isgrimnur also froze for a moment, then slowly walked forward. The ghant, devoid of anything that could truly be called a face, stared at their approach, the tiny legs below its head straightening and contracting. Suddenly it turned and scuttled away up the tunnel. Isgrimnur hesitated for a moment, then ran heavily after it, struggling to keep his balance. He stopped and hurled his spear, then pulled up suddenly with a hiss of pain that made Miriamele’s heart race.

  “Damn! I’ve hit my head. Careful, the cursed roof is low here.” He rubbed at his forehead.

  “Did you get it?”

  “I think so. I can’t quite see it yet.” He went forward a little way. “Yes. It’s dead—or it looks it, anyway.”

  Miriamele came up beside him, peering around the duke’s wide shoulders at the thing in the pool of torchlight. The ghant lay in the mud of the passageway with Isgrimnur’s spear protruding from the armor of its back; the wound oozed a thin fluid a shade paler than blood. The jointed legs twitched a few times, then slowly came to rest as Camaris stepped forward and reached out his long arm to turn the creature over. The ghant’s face was as blank in death as in life. The old man, with a contemplative look, scooped a handful of mucky earth from the tunnel floor and dropped it onto the dead thing’s chest. It was a strange gesture, Miriamele thought.

  “Come,” Isgrimnur muttered.

  The new tunnel did not twist as much as the first had. It ran steeply downward, bumpy and sodden, the walls as uneven as if they had been chewed out of the mud by monstrous jaws: looking at the gleaming strands of foam, Miriamele decided that was not a pleasant thought to pursue.

  “Curse it,” Isgrimnur said suddenly. “I’m stuck.”

  His boot had sunk deep into the squelching mud of the tunnel floor. Miriamele held out her arm to him so he could balance as he pulled. A terrible odor rose from the disturbed mud, and tiny wet things brought to light by Isgrimnur’s struggles quickly buried themselves again. The Rimmersman, for all his efforts, only seemed to sink deeper.

  “It’s like that sucking sand Tiamak said they have in the swamp. Can’t get free.” There was an edge of panic in Isgrimnur’s voice.

  “It’s just mud.” Miriamele tried to sound calm, but she could not help wondering what would happen if the ghants came upon them suddenly. “Leave the boot if you have to.”

  “It’s my whole leg, not just the boot.” Indeed, one leg had now sunk to the knee, and the foot of the other boot was also lodged in the slime. The carrion smell grew worse.

  Camaris stepped forward, then braced his own legs to either side of Isgrimnur’s foot before taking the Rimmersman’s leg in his hands; Miriamele prayed there was only one patch of treacherous mud. If not, they might both become trapped. What would she do then?

  The old knight heaved. Isgrimnur grunted in pain, but his foot did not come loose. Camaris pulled again, so strenuously that the cords on his neck grew taut as ropes. With a sucking gasp, Isgrimnur’s leg came free; Camaris tugged him away to a firmer patch of ground.

  The duke stood bent over for a moment, examining the glob of mud below his knee. “Just stuck,” he said. He was breathing heavily. “Just stuck. Let’s keep moving.” The fear was not entirely gone from his voice.

  They sloshed on, trying to find the driest spots to walk. The smoke of the torches and the stench of the mud was making Miriamele feel ill, so she was almost heartened when the narrow passage opened at last into a wider room, a sort of grotto in which the white froth hung like stalactites. They entered it cautiously, but it seemed as deserted as the tunnel had been. As they made their way across the chamber, stepping around the larger puddles, Miriamele looked up.

  “What are those?” she asked, frowning. Large, faintly luminous sacs sagged from the ceiling, hanging unpleasantly close overhead. Each was as long as a crofter’s hammock, with thin, cobwebby white tendrils depending from its center, a wispy fringe that drifted lazily in the warm air rising from the torches.


  “I don’t know, but I don’t like them,” Isgrimnur said with a grimace of distaste.

  “I think they’re egg pouches. You know, like the spider eggs you see on the bottoms of leaves.”

  “Haven’t looked much at the bottoms of leaves,” the duke muttered. “And I don’t want to look at these any longer than I have to.”

  “Shouldn’t we do something? Kill them or something? Burn them?”

  “We’re not here to kill all these bugs,” said Isgrimnur. “We’re here to get in and find that poor little marsh fellow, then get out. God only knows what would happen if we started mucking around with these things.”

  With mud sucking at their bootheels, they made their way quickly to the other side of the chamber, where the tunnel resumed its former size. Miriamele, drawn by a horrid sort of interest, turned back for a last glance. In the fading light of the torch, she thought she saw a shadowy movement in one of the sacs, as though something was pawing at the maggot-white membrane, seeking a way out. She wished she hadn’t looked.

  Within a few steps the passageway turned and they found themselves facing a half-dozen ghants. Several had been climbing up the tunnel wall and now hung in place, clicking in apparent surprise. The others squatted on the floor, mudsmeared shells glimmering dully in the torchglow. Miriamele felt her heart turn over.

  Isgrimnur stepped forward and wagged Kvalnir from side to side. Swallowing hard, Miriamele moved up behind him and lifted her torch. After a few more seconds of chittering indecision, the ghants turned and scrambled away down the tunnel.

  “They’re afraid of us!” Miriamele was exhilarated.

  “Perhaps,” said Isgrimnur. “Or perhaps they’re going for their friends. Let’s get on.” He began walking swiftly, head hunched beneath the low ceiling.

  “But that’s the direction they went,” Miriamele pointed out.

  “I said, it’s the heart of this wretched place we want.”

  They passed numerous side tunnels as they traveled downward, but Isgrimnur seemed certain of where he was going. The humming continued to grow louder; the stench of putrefaction grew stronger, too, until Miriamele’s head ached. They passed through two more of the egg chambers—if that was indeed what they were—hurrying through both. Miriamele no longer felt any urge to linger and stare.

  They came upon the central chamber so suddenly that they almost fell through the tunnel mouth and tumbled down the sloping mud into the vast swarm of ghants.

  The room was huge and dark; the torches of Miriamele and her companions cast the only light, but it was enough to reveal the great crawling horde, the faint wink of their shells as they clambered over each other in the darkness at the bottom of the chamber, the muted glimmering of their countless eyes. The chamber was a long stone’s throw in width, with walls of piled and smoothed mud. The entire floor was covered with many-legged things, hundreds and hundreds of ghants.

  The humming sound that arose from the squirming mass was stronger here, a pulsing throb of sound so powerful that Miriamele could feel it in her teeth and the bones of her head.

  “Mother of Usires,” Isgrimnur swore brokenly.

  Miriamele felt chilly and light-headed. “W–what …” She swallowed bile and tried again. “What … do we do?”

  Isgrimnur leaned forward, squinting. The swarm of ghants did not appear to have noticed them, though the nearest was only a dozen cubits away: they seemed enmeshed in some dreadful and all-consuming activity. Miriamele fought to catch her breath. Maybe they were laying their eggs here and, caught up in the grip of Nature, would not notice the interlopers.

  “What’s that at the middle?” Isgrimnur whispered. The duke was having trouble keeping his voice from breaking. “That thing they’re all gathered around?”

  Miriamele strained to see, although at that moment there was nothing she would less rather look at. It was like the worst vision of hell, a writhing pile of muddy things without hope or joy, legs kicking pointlessly, shells scraping as they rubbed against each other—and always the terrible droning, the ceaseless grinding sound of the assembled ghants. Miriamele blinked and forced herself to concentrate. At the center, where the activity seemed the most fervid, stood a row of pale, shining lumps. The nearest had a dark spot at the top which seemed to be moving. It took her a moment to realize that the spot atop the gleaming mass was a head—a human head.

  “It’s Tiamak,” she gasped, horrified. Her stomach heaved. “He’s stuck in something terrible—it’s like a pudding. Oh, Elysia Mother of God, we have to help him!”

  “Ssshhh.” Isgrimnur, who looked as sickened as Miriamele felt, gestured her to silence. “Think,” he murmured. “Got to think.”

  The tiny ball that was Tiamak’s head began to wiggle back and forth atop the gelatinous mound. As Miriamele and Isgrimnur stared in amazement, the mouth opened and Tiamak began to shout in a loud voice. But instead of words, what roared out was the tormented sound of buzzing, clicking ghant-speech—something that sounded so cruelly wrong coming from the little Wrannaman’s mouth that Miriamele burst into tears.

  “What have they done to him!?” she cried. Suddenly there was movement beside her, a rush of hot air as a torch swished past, then the flame was bobbing down the slope toward the floor and the squirming congregation of ghants.

  “Camaris!” Isgrimnur shouted, but the old man was already forcing his way through the outermost ghants, swinging his torch like a scythe. The great humming sound faltered, leaving echoes in Miriamele’s ears. The ghants around Camaris started to buzz shrilly, and others in the vast gathering took up the cries of alarm. The tall old man waded through them like a master of hounds come to take the fox away. Agitated creatures swirled around his legs, some clutching at his cloak and breeches even as he knocked others away with his club.

  “Oh, God help me, he can’t do it himself,” Isgrimnur groaned. He began making his way down the slippery mud, spreading his arms for balance. “Stay there,” he called to Miriamele.

  “I’m coming with you,” she shouted back.

  “No, damn it,” the duke cried. “Stay there with the torch so we can find our way back to this tunnel! If we lose the light, we’re done for!”

  He turned, lifting Kvalnir over his head, and swung it at the nearest ghants. There was an awful hollow smack as he struck the first one. He took a few steps forward into the swarm and the noise of his struggle was lost in the greater uproar.

  The humming had completely died out. The great chamber was now filled instead with the staccato cries of angry ghants, a dreadful chorus of wet clicking. Miriamele tried to make out what was happening, but Isgrimnur had already lost his torch and was now little more than a dark shape in the middle of a seething mass of shells and twitching legs. Somewhere closer to the center, Camaris’ torch still cut the air like a banner of fire, swinging back and forth, back and forth, as he waded toward the spot where Tiamak was prisoned.

  Miriamele was terrified but furious. Why should she wait while Isgrimnur and Camaris risked their lives? They were her friends! And what if they died or were captured? Then she would be alone, forced to try and find her way out, pursued by those horrible things. It was stupid. She wouldn’t do it. But what else could she do?

  Think, girl, think, she told herself, even as she hopped up and down anxiously, trying to see if Isgrimnur was still on his feet. Do what? What?

  She couldn’t stand waiting. It was too horrible. She took the two remaining torches from her belt and lit them. When they were burning, she thrust them down into the mud on either side of the tunnel mouth, then took a deep breath and followed Isgrimnur’s track down the slope, her legs so wobbly she feared she might fall down. Unreality gripped her: she couldn’t be doing this. Her skin was pricklingly cold. No one with their wits left would go down into that pit. But somehow her booted feet kept moving.

  “Isgrimnur!” she shrieked. “Where are you?”

  Cold muddy legs clutched at her, chitinous things like animate tree branches.
The hissing creatures were all around; knobby heads butted at her legs and she felt her stomach thrash again. She kicked out like a horse, trying to drive them back. A claw caught at her leg and hooked itself into her boot top; the torch momentarily illuminated her target, which gleamed like a wet stone. She lifted her short spear, almost dropping the torch, which was clutched awkwardly in the same hand, and stabbed down as hard as she could. The spear thumped into something which gave satisfyingly. When she jerked it back, the claw let go.

  It was easier to swing the club, but it did not seem to kill the things. At every blow they fell and tumbled, but a moment later they were back again, scratching, clasping, worse than any nightmare. After a few moments she pushed the cudgel into her belt and took up the torch in her free hand, which seemed at least to keep them at bay. She hit one of the ghants full in its empty face, and some of the burning palm oil spattered and stuck. The thing shrieked like a fool’s whistle and dove forward, digging itself into the mud, but another clambered over its quivering shell to take its place. She shouted in fear and disgust as she kicked it aside. The army of ghants was never-ending.

  “Miriamele!” It was Isgrimnur, somewhere ahead of her. “Is that you!?”

  “Here!” she cried, her voice tearing along the edge, threatening to become a shriek that would never stop. “Oh, hurry, hurry, hurry!”

  “I told you to stay!” he shouted. “Camaris is coming back! See the torch!”

  She stabbed at one of the things before her, but her spear only scraped along the shell. Out in the churning mass there was suddenly a glint of flame. “I see it!”

  “We’re coming!” The duke was barely audible above the rattling voices of the ghants. “Stay where you are and wave your torch!”

  “I’m here,” she howled, “I’m here!”

  The sea of writhing creatures seemed to pulse as though a wave rolled through it. The light of the torch jiggled above them, moving closer. Miriamele fought desperately—there was still a chance! She swung her torch in as wide an arc as she could, trying to keep her attackers at a distance. A clawing leg caught at the brand and suddenly it was gone, sizzling into the mud and leaving her in darkness. She thrust out wildly with the spear.