“Little enough.” His tone was flat. “You have no other knowledge—none of its doors or how it might be entered?”
She was forced to shake her head, resenting that she must seem so stupid in his eyes. Why had her dreams not given her more? To her this ignorance seemed so utterly defeating that she knew again some of the soul-darkness that had struck her on the way.
“There is that which you found with the dead.”
Tirtha started, her hand went quickly to her belt pouch. She had forgotten that bit of over-written skin. Now she pulled it out with desperate eagerness, smoothing the scrap upon the nearest flat surface.
Together they bent over it, but still the lines there made no sense. If it possessed a secret, Tirtha could not connect it with the ruined hold. There was no indication of a wall or passage, anything that looked to be a guide.
“Ritual perhaps,” she said at last. Nor did he deny her identification.
“Yet it had a meaning for the dead.”
“Which perhaps died with him.” She rerolled the page, set it once more within its container. No, there was no easy way for them. This venture depended upon their wits and strength alone. She slipped the container back into her belt pouch.
“Wind Warrior sees with other eyes,” The Falconer spoke musingly. “He is of the old stock, one keen-witted beyond the others remaining of his lost folk, or he would not have come to me. However, he was never battle-trained, and he cannot supply us now with such information as would point out any weaknesses in what defenses they may have.”
“Since he has returned,” Tirtha said, “why do you not rest, leaving the watch to me? You cannot take all sentry duty upon yourself.”
He did not refuse. Though she knew well that his sort made no complaint, his body was human, and she could guess that he needed sleep—even desired it— that he might be better prepared for what lay ahead. When he had settled himself, discarding his helm and drawing his worn cloak about him, Tirtha moved into a position where she could stare directly at Hawkholme, wishing that she dared use a trance to reconnoiter, though she realized the fateful folly of that.
The sun was warm. She tugged a little at the fastenings of her jerkin. A breeze lingered over the river, and the constant murmur of the water could be lulling. Tirtha sat up the straighter, strove to plan. The curling of the flood about the remains of the bridge piers attracted her attention from time to time. Where the stones had fallen from the broken span, there were pile-ups of captured drift. Not long ago the water level must have been higher, fed by spring storms wild and strong enough to tear small trees, as well as brush, from collapsing banks, sweeping such along. There remained enough force to tug loose pieces of that wreckage which caught on the broken piers, sending them tumbling on. In fact, Tirtha began to watch the rush of water with more care. The current was apparently still to be reckoned with.
The river curved below the bridge, where rocks broke the surface, standing foam ringed, with more drift jammed among them. Beyond that the water ran between banks where bushes were still half buried in its swollen abundance. Well within the range of her sight was the artificial cut made to feed water into the moat.
Surely, with such a force of running water at hand, there must have been drains from the fortress into that cutoff. And even as Tirtha studied the rippling of the current, she could see some of the debris caught among the rocks being pulled loose from time to time, to be whirled or bobbing and tossing in the water. This could just be their way. . . .
By the time dusk arrived and she had awakened the Falconer, allowing Alon to sleep on, she had a plan, a shaky one and risky enough, but was not their whole venture risky? He listened to her suggestion, and half to her surprise and feeding her pride, he agreed.
“To enter below the rocks”—he studied the scene carefully as she had been doing all afternoon—“yes, it is possible. Also it would appear the only way one might gain that place without being sighted. Masked by drift, it is possible.”
“You can swim?” She knew that while she was no mistress of water ways, she could handle herself well enough, using floating branches as a screen to make the attempt.
“We have served as marines on the Sulcar ships,” he replied. “None go to sea with those warriors unless they are able to take care of themselves mid wind and wave. The mounts we must leave behind. To attempt to tow them through the water, no.”
“Falgon will go. . . .” Alon's voice startled them both. They turned as one to look at the boy.
“Falgon?” questioned Tirtha.
“Him whom you call the Torgian—he has made bond with me,” Alon returned simply. “And if he goes, then so will the ponies, for he is strong, and they will follow where he leads.”
Tirtha was not surprised. The Torgians were noted for choosing masters whom they served until death. “It might not work,” she cautioned. “We seek a way into the hold, perhaps through a drain, some small passageway, which a horse could not follow.”
“Yes,” Alon returned. “But he will wait nearby, the ponies with him. We shall need them later.”
“And you shall wait with them.” Tirtha was inspired. She had no wish to take Alon into what might well be a trap. It was hard enough to bear the burden of leading the Falconer into battle. This boy-child—no, let him remain with the horses and relieve her mind that much.
“No, you shall need me.” He spoke with authority, an odd compelling authority, which stifled any protest she might have raised.
So, when at dusk they made their way down past the rocky stretch of river, Alon, as well as the three mounts, were of the company. They squatted by the water's edge, working as quickly as they could in the dark, fashioning narrow rafts of drift on which they piled most of their gear, including their clothing. The falcon had taken off, heading toward the main tower of the waiting ruin, as they stepped into water cold enough to wring gasps from them all. Then, having waded out a few steps, they abandoned themselves to the steady pull of the current, their shoulders supported by the rafts, kicking their feet to steer them straight.
Thus they reached the entrance to the moat. Here a fall of stone had nearly dammed the entrance, but they scrambled over it. On the other side the Falconer tested the depth where the water washed directly against the walls and found it no more than knee-deep, though stagnant and evil-smelling, so they redressed hurriedly. Alon stood and set his hands on either side of the Torgian's head. Then he released the animal, which turned to climb the nearest bank, the ponies following. The beasts were gone before Tirtha could send Alon with them. Luckily it was a dark night, with the beginning of rain, and the animals, with near-human intelligence, picked as silent a way as they could.
Above, the building showed no lights, nor had they, during all their drifting with the current, sighted any signs of life. Did those now holding the place believe that, in the prisoner they had taken, they had the one they had waited for? Tirtha found the lack of any sentries suspicious, but there was nothing they could do except go on. With the Falconer moving in the lead, they began a search along the wall for an entrance into the hold from the moatside.
They were dwarfed by the rise of the walls above, and the stench of the mud they stirred up by their passing made Tirtha sick, though she had had only one scant meal that day. To all outward evidence they rounded a deserted building, and Tirtha kept a tight hold on her thoughts, did not try in any way to sense out what might be above. She saw the dark shadow that was the Falconer stop short, set both his hands against the slimed wall, his head at an angle. She, too, looked up.
There, just above them, was what they had been seeking, a rounded opening. Alon pressed close to the man.
“Up! Let me see.”
The Falconer caught the boy about the waist, lifted him until Alon's feet were on his shoulders and Alon's arms and chest above the lower rim of the opening. Alon stretched out his hands. By straining her sight, Tirtha could see them against the opening, moving back and forth.
14
/> ALON set one hand against the edge of the opening; with the other he thrust inward. Tirtha heard a rattle and was alarmed lest the sound carry. It was plain that Alon worked to loosen something within the shadow of the opening. The Falconer braced his body closer to the slimed wall, holding steady. There came another sharp ping from above. Alon swung down a dark bar that Tirtha hastened to catch.
It was metal, foul smelling, flaking off rusted bits in her hands. She let it slide on down into the sludge about her feet where turgid water swallowed it up without sound. Alon was at work again, and it was not too long before a second bar, torn from its setting, was freed, dropped, and likewise disappeared.
They might be striving to force entrance into a totally deserted building, and the very fact that they heard nothing, saw no sign of any guards, was to Tirtha a source of continued uneasiness. Those within might know very well that their prey was coming to them, resting at ease, needing only to wait. Yet what other recourse had she and her companions?
A third bar was freed. Then Alon dropped down from his perch to report in the thinnest of whispers:
“There is now a full opening, and I felt within. It is a foul place, but it is clear. There are even hand holds on the walls. Perhaps the lord here once planned a way of escape for a bad time.”
“That could be true,” murmured the Falconer. Tirtha could also understand the logic. Had this moat not been half dammed off from the river by the fallen wall and if, instead, the water in it had been up over the old markings they had felt as they had come, the opening would have been below the surface, completely masked. A determined or desperate in-dweller could well use it secretly. However, she eyed this particular door to Hawkholme with little favor. This opening was narrow, it was good that they had gone short of rations recently, and that she had always been thin, with few curves to plump out her jerkin or leggings. She wondered if the Falconer could force entrance, but, like all his breed, he was wiry, not thick of body.
“I go first,” Tirtha declared firmly. “But how will you reach it?” She looked to the Falconer; he could give her a hand up as he had Alon, but who could do the same for him?
“There will be a way.” He spoke with such confidence that Tirtha knew he was sure of his own ability. He caught her quickly under the arms to lift her, steadying her body against the wall until she thrust her hands into the mouth of the drain. One arm scraped across a broken space from which Alon had loosed a bar. She groped frantically within, seeking those holds Alon said existed. Then one hand, digging deep into noisome, crusty filth, hooked into what was manifestly a loop. A moment later she discovered its twin on the opposite side.
Tirtha was grateful for past hard work in the fields. What she had learned on Estcarp farms gave her the strength needed. Had she not had those years of hard physical work behind her, she could never have fought her way up that hidden ladder where the stench near choked her, her hair and garments rendered sodden and thick with foulness. Her cloak she had left bound to her saddle, and she was glad of that, for its folds would never have allowed her passage. As it was she felt the harsh rasp of stone against her leather garments, with now and then a painful scrape on her skin.
Luckily the way was not straight up but slanted. And Tirtha discovered, once inside the hole, she could feel ahead for each hold, drawing herself along more easily than she would have believed possible, though it was a worm's progress. The nastiness of the foul encrustation choked her, so that she could only hope that the exit lay not too far ahead.
In the dark she could move only by touch. Also the stench grew even thicker, though this drain had been abandoned for many years. Finally, her hand hit against a solid barrier and she could have cried out in her dismay. Holding on with one hand, she clawed along that surface. The drain took an abrupt turn here.
The long slant, up which she had worked her way, ended in a right-angled space. Above that there seemed to be nothing but solid roof. She refused to let herself panic. She ran first one hand and then the other back and forth across the barrier. Her third such try brought success. She knocked loose a solid cake of encrustation, enough so that once more her fingers hooked into a space that felt carved to receive just such a grip.
First she bore down, dragging with all her might, to no purpose. Must she believe that, if there had ever been an opening here, it was now impossible to move? A last desperate try made her shove instead of pull. There was a grating sound. So heartened, Tirtha changed hands again quickly and put all the effort she could into a full sidewise push. Stationed so awkwardly, able to work only with one hand, she fought stubbornly. There was a give, the barrier moved, though with a louder grating that winged her heart to a faster beat. She held on for a wild moment, five fingers gripped on the sliding panel, the other hand flailing out into an open space. Then she was able to hook that hand over an edge and pull herself up with a wrench that took what seemed the last flare of her strength. Her head and shoulders rose into clean air as she flopped across the edge of a stone bench onto the floor of a narrow chamber in the heart of the wall itself.
A cool rush of night air struck at her as Tirtha pulled herself around to face the fissure in the wall through which that welcome breeze came. This must be the upper floor of the main dwelling chambers wherein the family had once had their private apartments. She scrambled to her feet, feeling about her. Her outflung hand broke a remnant of charred wood, as she stumbled into a narrow hall. The far end of it showed faint light, radiating from far below. Sighting this, Tirtha crouched, trying to still the gasps of air she had been drawing into her lungs, as if such sounds might betray her to any keeping vigil by that distant gleam of light.
Sounds from the wall chamber marked Alon's arrival in turn. The boy moved out to clutch at Tirtha's shoulder. They leaned against the wall together, intent upon the far end of the hall, until the Falconer joined them. With him came light, dim and wan yet visible. The pommel of the power weapon was awakening.
Again Tirtha left the other two, to slip along that wall. She passed yawning caverns on her right where more burnt wood marked doors to chambers, but those were not important. She had to reach the Great Hall. Only from there could she trace the steps to be taken for conclusion of her mission. And surely the Great Hall would be the one place where their enemies within would be.
Corridor's end gave upon a staircase circling about a center core, winding steeply downward, the steps narrow edges of stone. There was a groove cut in the wall about this formidable coil of descent, perhaps to provide a hand hold.
At the foot of the spiral was a lamp in a niche, a basin of stone with a wick fed into it through a hole in the loose lid. The light it gave was limited, but that any here had seen fit to light this stair at all was a warning, one that Tirtha thought it well to heed. She hesitated at the top of that well-like way. Only one person at a time could descend, and if a guard waited below, out of sight . . .
She became aware of a soft rustle and glanced back. By the eerie light of the Falconer's weapon, she saw that the bird which accompanied him was again perched on the man's shoulder. Its head was extended well forward as it also stared down.
The presence of the lamp bothered Tirtha. Since they had come into the upper hall, the place had been utterly silent. Though these walls were thick, much of the interior had clearly been destroyed by fire and sounds should carry. Such quiet only meant to her that the three of them were, in spite of Alon's earlier reassurance, not only expected but that a trap awaited them. She edged away from the stairway, then wondered if that was exactly how she was expected to reason—that the lamp below was set so as to make them take another path.
A hand caught hers, startling her, pulling her down so that she was on a level with the boy.
“He—he is here. . . .” There was fear in his voice.
His grasp on Tirtha tightened, held with frantic force, pinning her to the fire-stained wall. If he should lapse now into that state of withdrawal . . . Terror was building up in him to such an ext
ent as to awake panic in Tirtha herself. By his very touch he fed it to her. She caught at him, strove to shut out of her mind any dread of her own, to return only what strength of spirit she had to offer.
Somehow their alarm must have spread in turn to the Falconer, perhaps through the medium of the bird on his shoulder, for he swung up between them. The dim glow of his sword rested on both woman and boy, its pommel pulsating with the light that was both a warning and a solace against the spread of the Dark.
Alon's involuntary shudders shook Tirtha. She could see his face, a vague blur turned up to hers. Then the light swept over him. He had closed his eyes tightly, his mouth was twisted as if to utter a noiseless scream. However, as the thin glow of the gemstone touched him, that expression of witless terror receded, even as she, also, felt a warmth rising within her body.
They had more than one weapon, these enemies who made their den in Hawkholme, and perhaps the strongest could not be seen or heard. They who invaded must seek action, for to remain cowering here was to open gates to this other, more deadly form of attack.
If she had only had better preparation! Those dreams—they seemed now to her to have been more deceptive than helpful. There must be a way through this ruined stronghold, yet she could only blunder and hope and perhaps fail.
No! Again that insidious thing which attacked through mind and emotion had struck at Alon through one kind of fear, at her with another. What of the Falconer—what did it strive to reach in him? For the impression grew in Tirtha that the thing lairing here with its servants might indeed need to reach them by devious means, that it shrank from physical attack. Why? The Sword—yes, it could be that weapon of power which had spun about them its small light. Perhaps, because it had come into the Falconer's hand from the first, he was now the best armored of the three.
She heard again a rustle of wing as she deliberately pushed closer to the man so that her shoulder rubbed against his.