Sword Play (25 page)

Shrieking, she whirled and ran. Another wall had been erected behind her, forming an arch. Running full-tilt, half-blind with tears, she ducked to dash under it.

The arch lowered as she came. Lights exploded in her dark mind as her head slammed stone.

Sunbright floated and swam through fog, dropping slowly until his hobnailed boots chuffed in what he guessed to be dirt. Fog swirled around his shoulders, but a quick shake dissipated it.

Instinctively casting about for the lay of the land, Sunbright concluded this place, wherever it was, didn’t seem dangerous, just a tunnel cut through dirt. But instinctively he found Harvester in his hand, for the tunnel hadn’t been cut by humans.

Giant earthworms, more likely. No part of the tunnel floor was smooth, but every step was ridged, rippled like the bottom of a shallow stream—or something else. Then he got it. It resembled the guts of a reindeer, tubes ringed with muscles, and he was caught inside like a tapeworm. Nor was any stretch straight, but twisted every inch. Ahead the tunnel rose gradually, then so abruptly he couldn’t have climbed the walls. Another sloping branch from an acute angle turned suddenly downward, then leveled again.

His judgment, his decision to jump from the black glass platform, had been foolish and hasty. He might follow turns to dead ends and backtrack for days and never find his way clear to whatever was above ground. He was underground, and yet he could see. Light didn’t come from any one source, but seemed to hang in the air, if that made any sense. And the fog he’d dropped from was gone.

Seeking courage, he pronounced aloud, “Well, I can’t stand still forever.” But the tunnels of guts sucked up the sound of his voice.

Too, they sucked at his courage, like wading in icy water sucked body heat, until all that was left was coldness inside. Sunbright shook his head, but couldn’t shake the sensation of dread. Time and again he flicked a glance over his shoulder, trying to catch whatever crept up on him.

Coward, the tunnels seemed to whisper. Gutless. You’re afraid of your own shadow, a child frightened of the dark.

Frowning, grip on his sword sweaty, Sunbright turned right and went up the slope. Upward would be his strategy for the nonce. But the trail didn’t go up for long; it only flowed over a hump and back down again. He cursed. “What now? Back or ahead?”

Cursing more, he turned back. Perhaps if he returned in the direction from whence came the fog, he’d go “up,” since he’d dropped “down.” Or had he?

But that, too, failed. He counted as he walked forty paces back, but he couldn’t find the fork. Any fork. Just more wavering tunnel.

Now the grip on Sunbright’s sword made the weapon slippery. If the tunnels could change when he turned his back, he’d never get out. He’d be lost until he died of thirst and his body rotted to bones.

Despite years of wilderness training and lore, Sunbright panicked and ran. Cursing, gasping, fighting not to cry out in fear, he plunged through the tunnels headlong. Clambering up with clawed hands, sliding down slopes steep enough to break legs, choosing directions willy-nilly, he charged—until he ran out of wind and dropped.

Heaving, retching on air, he fought for control. Perhaps this was good, he thought. Perhaps getting the panic over would leave him cool-headed. Certainly he was ashamed, not that anyone would ever know he’d panicked. Only himself.

And certainly he could blame himself for leaping off the platform and leaving Greenwillow, a boon companion, if an enigmatic one. The feeling of dread turned to bitter sorrow when he thought of her. Surely abandoning her was the worst mistake he’d ever made. He’d die unhappy knowing …

He rapped his skull with the heel of his hand. Flogging himself wouldn’t help. Better not to think at all. Stumbling to his feet, the barbarian forced himself to walk, not run, and to try to think his way out of this dilemma. If only he had a landmark to work from, he might…

As if the maze had read his thoughts, a stretch of rippled wall turned dark and craggy. The giant earthworms had cut through something jagged and splintered like a midden of broken brown glass. While some frightened childlike portion of himself wanted to run screaming, his native curiosity made him pause. Perhaps it would provide a clue, point the way out. He studied the lumps overhead and underfoot and at either hand.

They were bones, so old and buried so long they’d taken the color of the earth. Thick, many of them, with knobby joints like those of a lion or bear. A flattened claw was long and hooked like an eagle’s talon.

And on one wall was a huge brown beak, much bigger than any eagle’s could be, larger than Sunbright’s head.

Bears with beaks?

Something stirred in his memory. Hadn’t someone somewhere once routed a valley of—what were they called?—owlbears? These people had slaughtered hundreds of them to gain the valley, which held gold or copper or other riches. A few of the creatures had survived, but not many, left to wander the deeper forests, seeking prey and never dying.

Idly he felt the walls. How had owlbear carcasses come to be here? Was this the bottom of a huge kettle, a natural cavity in the forest gouged by a glacier? If he chopped at the ceiling, would he see daylight? Or must he hack through thousands of bones only to find more dirt? If he could find freedom, could he win back Greenwillow? But with her name came the crushing doubt again and heartbreaking sorrow. What was wrong with him?

Under his fingers, something tingled. Snatching back his hand, he found frost crusting his fingernails. What… ?

With a splintering, clattering roar, an owlbear broke free of the wall.

Rearing higher than Sunbright, the monster raised long claws like brown glass and slashed at the barbarian. A fearsome beak, like obsidian, clacked and clashed for his face. Yet it wasn’t a proper owlbear. The skull was only partly clad in dusty fur. Its coat sported huge rents through which could be seen brittle brown bones. The gaping eye sockets glared empty, and its breath was as musty as an old grave.

Undead. Superstitions overwhelming him, Sunbright’s head swam. Lying uneasy, the bones steeped in ghosts had needed only a living touch to come alive and wreak vengeance. The fiend had sucked life-force from his hand, and now it would destroy him and gain company, the living joining the dead.

All these thoughts occurred in seconds; then Sunbright swung. Panic gave him strength, and Harvester chopped deep into the owlbear’s side below the powerful forelegs. But he might as well have used a stick to beat a rug. A puff of stone dust rushed around his hands, choked and gagged him.

Backing, clutching his sword as if it were a lifeline, he tried again. Two-handed, he swung high and chopped low, putting all the might of his shoulders into the blow. He aimed for the lower leg, hoping to cut deep and knock the underpinning from the monster.

The sword chuffed into fur, then bone, but failed to bite, for the bone was ancient and as hard as iron-wood. Skipping, the barbarian danced aside, sawed the great parrot-beak arc over the creature’s tough limb, and twisted to hook Harvester’s crook behind its knee. With a gasp, he yanked on the sword hard enough to rip an oak tree up by the roots.

The hook simply skidded off. Flailing, Sunbright staggered and crashed on his back. Glassy bones and beaks and claws clattered at his elbow. The undead owlbear swung like a juggernaut and slashed the air above him.

Dread returned in a wave. He’d die here, he was sure of it. Sunbright fought an overpowering urge to throw away his sword and run or crawl off into the tunnel, gibbering in fear. No one would know his cowardice, came the whispers.

Yet, clambering to his feet, he couldn’t even run. The undead beast had felt nothing of his blows, had never even paused. A maggot-eaten paw swung claws like a fistful of knives. Sunbright dodged and hurled his sword blade at the thing’s head. The blade thunked in dry fur, sheared to a dry skull. Did nothing.

Then the fiend’s claws scored. Like a giant’s pitchfork, the razor talons ripped down Sunbright’s arm, ripping meat and arteries and shredding them from his bone.

Red blood spurted on bone-thick walls as the barbarian stumbled. The owlbear’s other paw sliced up under his stunned, hopeless defense and raked his side. Sunbright backed away, tripping over his heels, looking frantically for escape, a chance to run for his life. But his spine slammed the rounded wall as the owlbear’s paws trapped him on either side. Its claws raked down fragments of comrades that clittered to the dirt around Sunbright’s feet.

Gasping, growling like a bear himself, Sunbright managed to jerk his sword up and shove it into the beast’s body. He felt only tough skin part; then the blade waggled in emptiness. Desperate to escape, he bashed his forehead against the brute’s beak.

It might have driven back a live owl or even a bear. It did nothing to the dead owlbear. Claws from both sides rasped into his sides, splitting skin, shedding blood, seeking his vitals. He felt guts tear deep inside.

He’d never survive now. He was dead but still standing upright. What should be his death song, and where would his body lie? Would he feed grass or worms, or simply rot into shreds of dusty bones like those around him?

Too weak to even sag, Sunbright watched the awful dark glass beak snap. He saw only darkness inside.

The beak swallowed his head whole. The last thing he felt were the points piercing his neck and his forehead. Pressure and pain crashed upon him like a falling tree.

A grinding like an earthquake told him his skull was being crushed. Then nothing.

Candlemas shivered as he hopped along, as clumsy as a crippled frog. For company, he cursed himself and Sysquemalyn and everyone else he could think of. Especially Lady Polaris, though she’d done nothing especial lately.

He missed a step, slid, dropped his foot into a gap with ankle-wrenching agony, teetered, and flopped on his side. His bald head struck hard, so a clotted gash cracked anew. Cursing, almost weeping, he rubbed blood from the sore spot, then levered himself up. Immediately he slipped and fell again, smacking the same spot.

Bleary-eyed and gloomy, he studied his unchanging surroundings. The floors and walls and low ceiling resembled a sea of giant glass marbles in all directions. Every surface was a half-sphere an armspan wide. Between them were gaps perversely as wide as his sandaled feet. The cloudy marbles were slippery and could roll in place, yet the only way to traverse them was by hopping from one to another. Often he stumbled, sliding in between them, twisting his ankles and banging his knees. He knew he’d shattered and ground his ankle bones to paste by now, but magic kept them firm and the pain low. So far. His magic could last only so long, and the dull ache was rising. Soon he’d be distracted by it, then tortured.

Grabbing a marble with bloody hands, he climbed atop it and gingerly skidded toward a wall. But just before he reached it, it swung away like flotsam on a sea wave. He tumbled and cracked his knee, losing skin to stone. The low glassy ceiling, he’d learned, could dip unexpectedly, and he’d rapped his bald head many times.

Cursing feebly, the mage squatted atop a marble and tried to think how to escape. Slowly the marble turned over, and he had to squinch his backside to stay atop. He’d get no rest in this cold hole.

Too, he was flummoxed, his thoughts murky. The only thing he could concentrate on was blame and doubt: overwhelming blame for others and himself, doubt of everything. This anti-confidence was a curse too, more magic he was sure, but knowing that didn’t banish it any better than ignoring a toothache would make the pain go away. If he hadn’t wagered with Sysquemalyn … If he hadn’t attended Lady Polaris … If he hadn’t manipulated the barbarian…

Hissing, he bit his lip, shook his head until his brain rattled in its pan. He had to think. There was something he’d learned once, a way out, but he couldn’t recall it. If only he were smarter. If only …

A flap and squawk, and the raven skittered from above to perch on a nearby marble. Preening its wings, it tugged loose a shed feather. The black pin-feather slid down a marble surface and vanished into the crevices between the orbs. Candlemas tried not to imagine what might lay underneath.

“Tough sledding,” croaked the bird.

“Never mind that,” snapped the mage. His breath fogged, for the temperature was chilly. Cold also made him clumsy. “What have you found?”

A jog of the humped beak. “Only more of this. The glass balls move, too. I hit walls twice.”

Candlemas stifled a sigh. “How far does it extend, you lopsided menace?”

“Farther than I can fly without hitting a wall.” The raven turned its tail to him, cocking its head to peer at the ceiling.

Candlemas cursed. He was like a cockroach trapped in a rolling jar of marbles. If only he’d brought his potions, or his grimoire, he might have…

No. “If only” led to sorrow and madness. It had killed more than one dream, and dreamer.

Hissing at rasped skin, the mage continued to crawl from marble to marble, like a pigeon hopping from fencepost to fencepost. But his palms were raw and slippery with blood, and when his hands betrayed him he careened and smacked his cheek into another cold marble. The hand, slipping into the crevice, was chilled to the bone. If not for his magic shields, he’d have been frozen solid by now. If only he’d worn a cape.

The bird waggled its tail, then leaped into the air. Candlemas yelled, “Hey! Come back! I need a direction—”

But he’d reached out unconsciously. The marble underneath him shifted and rolled. The surface from below was frigid, almost paralyzing, and he jumped to get away.

Everything whirled, and his head was flying toward another marble. He stabbed out with numb hands to halt his fall, felt his finger snap as he rolled helplessly.

He’d never catch himself in time, came a doubt. Then he recalled with a shock …

… There was a way out.

He’d seen it before. In the palace of Tyralhorn the Archmage, in Anauria, at Sysquemalyn’s “entertainment.” The benighted human hero had suffered in a hellhole like this too. And he’d won free by doing … what? Something about cutting saplings, tying them under his arms to support himself? No, there was more to it.