“Lie still,” Rhapsody ordered the demon-spawn. The child struggled within his bonds, hissing and making gargled threats. She ignored him and walked to the edge of the well. “Why the secrecy? What are they doing?”
“There are human rats down there, undoubtedly the ‘slave boys’ that one just mentioned. One of them is the other tainted heartbeat, but it’s hard to distinguish between them because they are swathed in mud and up to their ankles in water. I would guess they are digging the tunnel themselves; probably laying the tile, too.” He turned to the blond apprentice, whose eyes stared in wide terror above the gag in his mouth. “What do you think? Does that sound plausible to you?” The boy nodded, glassy-eyed and terrified. “What a cooperative young whelp you are. I think I may let you live after all.”
“But why are they tiling the tunnel?” Rhapsody asked, leaning down in the attempt to peer into the horizontal hole at the bottom of the shaft. “And if they are merely digging for clay to make into slip for the tileworks, wouldn’t it make more sense for them not to build so narrow a tunnel? Have less distance to haul the clay?”
“Perhaps our new friend here can tell us,” the Firbolg king suggested. “Any thoughts?” The apprentice shook his head violently, shrugging his shoulders in exaggerated motions. Achmed exhaled in disgust. “They are deep in, Rhapsody—some of them asleep halfway up the tunnel, more of them at the terminus half a league away. You won’t be able to see anything from up here.”
“How many are there?”
Achmed blotted the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. Slowly he eased his arrhythmic pulse to disconnect from the heartbeat of the glowering apprentice who still struggled in his bonds, glancing from the two of them to the bell beside the open kiln. “Hard to say. They’re masked by water. You know how much I love water.”
Rhapsody nodded and stepped away from the alcove. Achmed watched as her face went suddenly pale in the flickering light of the ovens; the kiln fires roared to sudden life as terror came over her face.
“Gods,” she whispered. She walked quickly over to Achmed and spoke softly in his ear. “Water. Below Entudenin. That’s what they’re doing here—they’re tunneling to the artery that once was Entudenin.”
Achmed cast a glance at the enormous metal disk leaning against the alcove’s wall.
“It’s a well—an aqueduct,” he said. “They’re building an aqueduct to harness the water from the wellspring that once fed the geyser. A sensible idea; should be incredibly lucrative if they plan to sell the water, though I can’t imagine that the duke would allow such a thing.”
“Which must be why they are doing it in secret,” Rhapsody added, glancing nervously over her shoulder at the bound apprentices; the blond boy and Omet looked at her hopefully in return, while the demon-spawn snarled and spat around the edges of his gag.
“It might also have something to do with the fact that they are employing slave children to do the digging,” Achmed said curtly, rolling the dark-haired apprentice over on his face with a swift kick. The demon-spawn only grew more angry, spitting and cursing at the floor. “No one else would undertake the project; much too risky.”
Rhapsody was trembling. “Once they break through to the artery, those children are dead,” she said. “The force of Entudenin was said to be strong enough to shatter a man’s back on the first day of the water cycle; imagine the power it will have blasting through the first crack in the clay.”
Achmed walked back over to the alcove and peered down into the well shaft. “If there’s water now, then they’ve already broached the water table. They were fortunate to find it in its fallow part of the cycle—whatever it was you said the lore called it, the time of Slumber. When the Awakening happens again, the water will roar forth. It could happen at any time, judging by the waterflow down there already. We’d best get the other child out now, then.”
“Child? You mean children. Achmed, we have to get all of them out of there.”
The Firbolg king rolled his eyes. He drew his long, thin sword of Seren steel and handed it to her.
“Gag the bald one. If any of them move so much as a hairsbreadth while I’m gone, cut their throats,” he said in the Orlandan vernacular to be certain each of the apprentices understood him.
He waited until he was certain that Rhapsody was watching all three apprentices at the same time before lowering himself into the well shaft. The tiles were smooth and slippery, and Achmed had to fully extend both legs, then both arms, bracing himself against the sides of the shaft, inching down the vertical tunnel with agonizing slowness.
At the bottom of the well shaft he gingerly removed one foot, then the other, from the walls, and dropped carefully into the debris of broken pallets and mudfilth that coated the tiled floor. He bent and stared into the dark horizontal passageway that tunneled away into even blacker darkness.
A few moments later he hoisted himself back out and came back to where Rhapsody stood in the pulsing light of the kiln fires. The logs under the huge vats of clay slip were burning down to coals, unattended, and now the slip was beginning to thicken in heavy clumps within the viscous liquid.
“There’s nothing to be done; I can’t fit down the aqueduct,” he said, brushing the mud from his cloak.
He watched her face carefully in the inconstant light, knowing what she would say.
“Can I fit?”
“You can.” His voice was quiet, his words considered. “It would be much like crawling along the Root again.”
He had expected her to shudder, but instead she just nodded and began to remove her pack.
“Narrower, perhaps,” he added.
“I understand. Can you lower me down? My arms aren’t long enough to climb down as you did.”
Achmed cast a glance around the firing room of the foundry. The demon-spawn had settled into seething quiet, and was still lying facedown on the dirt floor, his countenance contorted by the twisting shadows cast by the firecoals beneath the cooling vats of slip. The other two apprentices lay near him, frozen with fear, watching Achmed apprehensively. He pointed at the nearest vat of hot slip.
“If you ever wanted to be the subject of a statue, just move.”
He turned and picked up a pole with a hook on it that was obviously used to lower and raise up buckets of clay from the bottom of the well shaft. Achmed held it at an angle and Rhapsody stepped on to the hook, grasping it with both hands. Her eyes were calm, though they were shining brightly.
“Are you certain you want to do this?” he asked quietly in Bolgish.
“Is there another option? Besides, I’m the Iliancheva’ar. It’s my duty to bring light into a dark place.”
Achmed snorted and began to lower the pole into the shaft.
“Perhaps you should wedge your blade squarely inside my head, then. There has been no illumination burning in there for a long time; it’s been utterly absent of reason ever since I allowed myself to get caught up in this ridiculous crusade of yours. Hurry. And remember, if there’s a moment’s hesitation, or threat, kill the little bastards. That was the agreement.”
“Yes. That was the agreement.” Her smile shone as brightly as her eyes for a moment, then disappeared into the murky blackness at the bottom of the well shaft.
A moment later the dark vertical tunnel filled with a brilliant pulse of light, and a hum that rang like a silvery horn being sounded. Achmed glanced over the edge of the tunnel. Rhapsody stared up at him from the bottom of the well shaft, Daystar Clarion in her hand. The sword of melded element fire and starlight burned brightly, sending glistening waves of illumination over fetid water on the shaft’s floor. She smiled again, then waded to the tiled hole in the well-shaft wall and crawled inside the horizontal tunnel, holding the sword before her like a torch.
Achmed watched as the blazing light from Daystar Clarion receded into a faint glow inside the tunnel. He turned around just in time to see the child of the Rakshas lurch to the side, rolling into the firecoals that burned beneat
h one of the steaming vats of hot slip.
Achmed lunged with the hooked pole, but it was too late. A shower of burning coals sprayed at him as the demon-spawn, now free of the leg ropes that had incinerated in the fire, kicked the coal logs and burning dung out from under the vat, scrambling beneath the hot metal of the cauldron’s base to the other side. He could hear the apprentices’ muffled cries behind him, probably more from fear than pain, as the sparks hit the dirt floor and burned out in puffs of dusty smoke.
Beneath the vat he could see the boy plunging his hands into the fiery coals, burning free of those bindings as well. Then the apprentice retreated even farther behind the cauldron of slip, apparently unharmed by the fire.
Achmed swept the long pole under the vat, trying to catch the leg of the boy, but barely had time to leap clear as the child pulled the chain on the cauldron, upending the enormous vessel and sending its boiling contents spilling out in a great steaming mudslide onto the floor of the room.
Swiftly Achmed swung the hooked pole at the nearer of the two apprentices, the bald boy to the right of the alcove, catching the ropes by which his hands were bound and hauling him clear of the river of hot mud. The other apprentice, directly in the pathway of the boiling slip, was buried in the ton of slag within seconds; the blond wisps of his hair disappeared into the steaming dirt as the muddy liquid swallowed his body, filling his mouth, then nose, then eyes in fragments of a second, drowning him instantly.
With a violent shake Achmed loosed the trembling apprentice from the end of the pole, leaving the bound boy gasping in fear behind a stack of broken pallets. He turned back in time to see the demon-spawn, now standing on the far side of the tipped vat closest to the oven, hurl a mold at the cast-iron bell. The heavy weight collided with the bell and reverberated loudly; the ripples of sound tore across Achmed’s skin and eyelids, sending waves of pain through his body to the roots of his hair.
He swallowed his fury, leapt across the space between them, and lunged, slamming the hooked end of the pole into the boy’s shoulder as his arm was coming down from tossing the weight. He could hear the crack as the collarbone snapped; the black-eyed apprentice gasped aloud, the first time Achmed had witnessed him experience pain, though a moment later he determined it might just have been shock. The boy glanced in the direction of the journeymen’s wing, then turned back and stared at him, readying a lunge, but he barely had time to parry a second swing of the staff. The heavy iron hook shattered his wrist and pushed him off balance.
The insolent look in the demon-spawn’s eyes had cleared, leaving nothing behind but panic. His arms and legs stiffened for a moment; then he dashed toward the empty wire racks, desperately searching for cover. But Achmed was too fast for him; he arced the pole in the other direction, catching the apprentice in the ribs with sufficient force to break the shaft. The Bolg king drove the end of the pole into the boy’s shoulder again, then shoved him, full force, into the base of the open kiln. Before the boy could catch his breath, Achmed was upon him, grabbing his rope belt and singed shirt to lift and heave him through the opening. The broken wrist and shoulder offered little resistance. Achmed firmly closed the door and wedged the latch closed before he brushed the still-hot ash and embers from his gloves.
He listened. A moment later he could hear them coming, footfalls and sounds of alarm approaching from the journeymen’s quarters.
Achmed looked quickly around the room, gauging the shadows. A deep one hovered near the farthest kiln, next to which stood rows of pottery in various stages of firing, forming a dark labyrinth. He ducked into the shadow as the pounding of boots drew nearer.
Into the room spilled a cadre of men, more than a dozen, many heavyset, most of them trying to adjust sleep-blind eyes to the destruction in the firing room. Those at the head of the group exclaimed in shock at the upended cauldron and the oozing hill of hardening slip that had been dumped onto the floor. From their initial exchanges Achmed could tell that they believed they had been summoned because of what seemed to be a disastrous accident.
Then they discovered Omet, bound and gagged behind the broken pallets.
During the pause that followed while the journeymen, now armed, searched the room, Achmed reached behind his back and silently drew his cwellan, the asymmetrical crossbow-like weapon of his own design, loading it with disks without a sound. He slid quietly along the wall near the maze of shelves, wanting to be in position as soon as the cadre realized he was there.
It took longer than he expected. Almost a full minute passed before the muttering came to an abrupt halt, and one of the thinner men made a dash for the bell.
Achmed stepped out of the shadow and fired, sending three razor-sharp disks, thin as butterfly wings but made of serrated steel, through the back of the would-be messenger’s neck, severing his spine and all but decapitating him. The body spun in a half-circle to the ground, the blade he carried clattering against some of the stone molds on the dirt floor. Two more of the journeymen died a moment later, felled by the deadly disks. Then Achmed stepped back into the shadows once again.
Like rats when a lantern is suddenly unhooded the journeymen scattered, fleeing to all corners of the firing room. Achmed counted them silently; he had seen thirteen come in, and had dispatched three. Ten remained for him to deal with.
Odds he liked.
He crept quietly through the shadows that writhed on the wall leading up to the alcove, passing the place where the bound apprentice still remained behind the pallets. Achmed paused long enough to stare down at the boy, still hog-tied—the journeymen had not bothered to release him—and held a finger to his lips. The apprentice did not move or cry out, but merely blinked, signaling his understanding.
Slowly Achmed circumvented where the boy Rhapsody had called Omet sat, stepping around the broken pallets and the outer reaches of the new hill of mud. The shadow of a man with a long knife lurked in the opening of the alcove, waiting for Achmed to pass so he could stab from behind.
Achmed leaned against the outer wall, listening to the ragged breathing of the journeyman on the other side of it. He measured the shadows from the fires of the four remaining vats of slip and the two open kilns, waiting until one particularly bright one flickered against the wall. As the light surged he passed his fist through it, casting an elongated shadow into the alcove.
As he expected, the journeyman lunged, taking a wide swipe at the shadow, missing any solid target but encountering Achmed’s swift kick in the shins instead. The man stumbled, then teetered on the edge of the well shaft, his eyes bulging wide. His arms circled wildly; then, losing his battle against the forces of gravity, he toppled headfirst into the well shaft. A shriek embarrassingly void of male characteristics followed him down, ending in an impressive crescendo of clattering pails and shattering pallets.
Rhapsody’s voice echoed up the well shaft, distant.
“What’s happening up there?”
Achmed pivoted and fired the cwellan into the far corner by the double doors, sending silvery disks spinning through the fireshadows, catching the light. A heavyset body slumped in the doorframe.
“Dropped something,” he called down the well. “Sorry. Keep going.”
“Try to be quieter,” the faraway voice echoed. “Someone will hear you.”
Achmed stepped back over the bound apprentice and took cover behind the second kiln’s open door near the labyrinth of shadows where he knew more of the journeymen lurked.
“Wouldn’t want that,” he said under his breath.
A growl of anger erupted behind him. Achmed ducked and dodged the charging man’s attack, knocking him unconscious with a blow to the head.
He crouched behind a wire rack, waiting, stilling his breathing until it was almost nonexistent. These opponents posed so little challenge that he turned his mind to avoiding the waste of supplies. He would wait, patient, until the remaining seven were all positioned in simultaneous view.
One round for the rest of them, at the most two
, he thought. Conserves disks that way.
8
When Rhapsody first crawled into the tunnel she felt no harkening back to their passage along the Root at all. Unlike the dank darkness of Sagia’s sheath, which was uneven in its height and full of stringy, hairlike minor roots called radix, the catacomb had been carefully and evenly tiled, more closely resembling one of the aqueducts in Canrif, part of the enormous ventilation and water-collection system Gwylliam had designed and built into the mountain. In addition, the warm glow of Daystar Clarion’s flames, burning low and steady above the murky water through which she was crawling, made the tunnel walls shine as bright as day.
She pushed all thoughts of confinement and depth out of her mind, concentrating instead on the ethereal light below the flames of the sword. So focused was she on the sword, so intent on keeping her panic in check, that she barely caught sight of the two glittering eyes in the distant darkness up ahead.
As soon as she saw them she stopped; the flames of the sword, deeply bonded to her through her tie to elemental fire, roared to life with her excitement.
A shriek of pain and fear echoed up the catacomb as the slave child, night blind from digging and living in the endless dark, covered his eyes and scurried away, sobbing in horror.
Quickly Rhapsody sheathed the sword, dousing the light, feeling remorse for not realizing what dread the glowing radiance might be bringing to those who lived in this place of endless night.
“It’s all right,” she called softly up the tunnel. “It’s all right. I’m sorry.”
Only silence and the sound of trickling water answered her.
Now blind herself, she felt along the tiled floor, conscious now of the rats that skittered along the edge of the tunnel, the snakes that swirled in the deepest parts of the flow, the worms. In the absence of the light the vermin began to return.