The Howling Delve (31 page)

“We’d better start looking,” Laerin said. “Let me scout ahead.”

“What do we do with him?” Talal asked, indicating the thief.

“Trap trigger,” Morgan said cheerfully. “We’ll move faster that way, with him testing the path ahead of us.”

“Clear,” Laerin declared, trotting back up the passage. “Narrow, but more likely to be free of traps. These caves are buried too deep to be heavily protected.”

“Cheerful thought for this one,” said Morgan, dragging the Shadow Thief to his feet. He shone his last torch over the walls. “Not one of these tunnels looks to be sloping up. They’re all going deeper underground. Anything look familiar?” he asked, nudging Talal.

Talal shook his head. “Where do you think the othets are?”

he asked, though he feared the answet. He’d seen Meisha fall down the chasm.

“Portals malfunction,” said Laerin. “When that happens, they can deposit a person off the mark from where they intended to appeat—a few feet, a mile …”

“Into a wall,” Morgan muttered, and Talal’s heart wrenched.

Laerin squeezed his shoulder and sent Morgan a quelling glance. “The portal is old,” he said, “but I believe it to be sound. We’ll find them.”

“I suppose mote of them damn shadow mongrels got scattered about, too,” said Morgan.

“That might be a blessing,” said Laerin. “If they followed us and are separated, we may have a better chance of overcoming them. Speaking of which …” The half-elf drew his dagger and prodded the Shadow Thief in the back. “Heatty congratulations,” he told the man, “you’re taking point. Stray too far ahead and you’ll find my blade between your shoulders.”

The thief nodded cut tly, and the group set off with him and Laerin leading.

The first tunnel bent to the right, then bent back on itself so shatply that the way was impassable for even Talal; they had to backtrack to the second tunnel.

Morgan made slash marks on the walls with a crusty piece of chalk to show where they’d been.

The center tunnel connected three larger chambers. A blackened firepit in the center of the first room suggested a kitchen; fragments of rotting wood might once have served as furniture.

“Living quarters,” Laerin said. “If the Howlings did dwell all the way down here, they lived sparsely.”

“The tunnel’s are defensible,” Morgan said. “Long bottlenecks, mazelike. And if the portal’s the only way down, they can dig themselves in cozy if they have to.”

“I have a hard time believing the dwarves would rely on magic alone to move them through the earth,” said Laerin. “It’s not their nature.”

Talal gazed down the third tunnel. The passage spilled into a long, natrow chamber. Chipped and sheared stalagmites formed stone benches. A dozen men would have fit comfortably in the room, Talal thought, but the benches squatted close to the floor to accommodate shortet legs.

At the back of the room, situated in front of another tunnel, a wide altar rose up from the floor. Spiky writing was etched deep into the stone, but a crack cut a jagged line down the center of the monument.

Talal watched Morgan and Laerin examine the writing. The half-elPs lips moved as if he could read the words. His face creased in consternation.

“What does it say?” Talal asked.

The half-elf cocked his head. “The script is Dwarvish, of course. It’s an altar to Abbathor, the dwarf god of greed.”

Talal knew nothing of the dwarf gods, not enough to blaspheme them, anyway. He would have to ask Meisha about Abbathor.

The thought of the Harper sent an unexpected stab of pain through his chest. If she’s alive, she’s safer than you are, Talal told himself. He was the fool. He’d had the opportunity to escape and see daylight again, but he’d wasted it worrying over a fire-twisted Harper he barely knew.

His thoughts shattered when a sharp blow cuffed the side of his head.

“Watch him!” Laerin shouted, and the half-elf was suddenly in front of Talal, shielding him with his body.

Dizzy and in pain, Talal heard Morgan grunt and, a breath later, the sound of a body dropping on stone.

Laerin’s arm caught his. “Are you all right?”

Talal wiped blood from his temple where the Shadow Thief had struck him. “Second time they’ve roughed up my head,” he mumbled.

Laerin grinned. “Luckily you keep nothing important up there.” His face sobered. “Forgive me, I should have been watching him more closely.” He turned to Morgan, who was

wiping blood from his sword. “Dead?”

Morgan nodded. “Hope you were done questioning him.”

“I was,” Laerin replied, taking one last look at the altar. “A pity Garavin isn’t here. He would have wanted to see this.”

They headed for the tunnel at the back of the temple, but Talal stopped abruptly. His head still felt fuzzy from the blow. He wondered if he were imagining things. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

Morgan and Laerin continued ahead of him. “Keep up,” grunted Morgan.

“It sounded like … rain.”

They moved past an intersection of four tunnels. Laerin choose to keep going straight, but the sound persisted just at the edges of Talal’s hearing. He wondered why the half-elf couldn’t heat the steady beat, water against stone.

Talal glanced behind and saw movement in the darkness of the intersection. “Look at that!”

Laerin turned, following the streak of Morgan’s pointing torch.

A dwarf ran into the intersection. He was bald, dressed in plated armor that should have creaked loudly in the stillness. His short legs skidded on the loose dirt, but he caught himself with a hand on the ground. He half-turned toward them, and Talal gasped.

The entire left side of the dwarPs face was gone, exposing white skull and a length of jawbone. Torchlight flickered off the shadows and hollows created by the missing flesh. No one could be that injured and live. The dwarf was dead, Talal thought, just like the one he and Meisha had encounteted in the upper tunnels. He was dead, and he was running. None of the other ghosts had run, and none had looked at Talal with such terror-filled eyes.

The dwarf regained his feet and plowed on down the tunnel. The sound of rain drew closer.

“Talal,” said Laerin, drawing his sword, “Run. Down the passage—now!”

Talal felt the half-elf shove him hard. He stumbled and fell, unable to take his eyes off the intersection. Fear crawled along his body. A breeze passed over his skin, bringing heat and a scent that made his eyes water. The tunnel suddenly felt humid. Steam pools rose up from the floor, and the sound of rain became a sizzling.

Talal crushed his eyes shut, and time seemed to slow, as if he were experiencing everything from a great distance. He opened his eyes in time to see a shape pass through the intersection, filling it utterly with weight and light. The timeless silence shattered, sundered by a roar that filled the caverns, knocking Morgan and Laerin to their knees.

Talal covered his ears and screamed, but he could not hear the sound of his voice over the terrible roar. Morgan and Laerin crouched beside him, shielding him with their bodies and weapons. They, too, seemed incapable of movement.

The beast’s head looked vaguely like that of a lion. A full, red mane streamed out behind it, stained with black ash from an ember fire. His body, as it stretched into the tunnel after the dwarf, filled the length of the intersection. Huge, muscled haunches tapered to four black-clawed feet that scraped furrows in the stone. The rain sound was the sizzle of the demon’s claws, constantly burning where they touched the earth.

Talal watched, transfixed, as the creature drew his head out of the tunnel. In his jaws struggled the dead dwarf. The beast bit through its shoulder, and the dwarf’s screams were as loud and pitiful as any living being’s. It was the screaming that finally galvanized them.

Morgan grabbed Talal by one arm, Laerin by the other, and they ran down the tunnel at breakneck speed, careening around corners at random.

Morgan cursed liberally. “What the bloody piss and Hells is it?” he shouted.

“A demon,” said Laerin grimly. “Meisha’s beast. The doom of the Howlings.”

“A jarilith,” said Dantane as the phantom image of the creature stepped into the chamber. “A tanarri—a hunting beast from the Abyss.”

The demon leaped at Vatan. The battle that ensued was horrificaHy beautiful to watch. Varan hurled spells that ravaged the left side of the creatures face, removing the jarilith’s eye. Enraged, the demon sprang forward, curling around the wizard. The jarilith raked his claws sideways along the wizatd’s flank.

Varan retreated, trying to heal himself with a ciacked potion vial, but he bled from dozens of small wounds. He grasped the demon’s lost eye and chanted. The words spilled out, booming with powet, and it seemed he would complete the magic before the beast could launch another attack.

But the demon charged, tangling with the release of the Art. Tremors shook the cavern, and suddenly, Varan clutched the left side of his face. His mouth twisted in agony.

Horrified, Meisha watched the flesh beneath Varan’s fingers blend together and melt, becoming a hideous mirror to the jarilith’s mined visage.

The demon tossed his head in renewed frenzy, as if some invisible foe were attacking him. Clawing the stone, the jarilith fell back into the caves from whence he had come. Varan followed, crawling on his hands and knees, one arm clutched awkwardly against his face. He did not have to go far. The demon collapsed, unconscious or enspelled. Meisha could not tell which.

When the scene faded at last, Meisha saw the breached wall, just as the vision had rendered it. Empty.

“The demon’s awake,” said Dantane.

“I don’t understand,” Meisha said. “Why did he do it? Why did he stay to fight?” He could have escaped, come back when he’d tecovered from Prieces’ death and the battle with the elemental, Meisha thought. Why had he fought the demon in his weakened state, using magic to merely put it to sleep?

“What was that spell?” asked Dantane.

Meisha had no idea. “It seemed to allow him to control the demon, at least in that moment.”

“Through a mental connection,” said Dantane, nodding. “It requires a focus. In this case—”

“The jarilith’s eye,” said Meisha, and the truth dawned on her. Varan hadn’t been weakened or desperate when he’d cast the spell. He’d known exactly what he was doing. “Watching gods, he couldn’t have wanted to keep it alive,” she said.

“For curiosity’s sake,” Dantane affirmed. At Meisha’s revolted expression, he added, “Fueled by arrogance, I grant you. Your master saw a new vehicle to test his spells and acted accordingly, believing his will would be enough to overcome the jarilith. He discovered differently, to his doom. The spell drove him mad.”

Dantane’s voice was coldly mattet-of-fact, but he was right. Meisha accepted the truth, though it filled her with a profound anger and disappointment in her former teachet. “Are they still linked?” she said. “Is that why Varan opened the portal and cast us down here? Is the demon fighting him for control?”

“Fighting him, fighting the dwarves,” said Dantane. “There may be hope for us and your master, if that’s the case.”

“But if the demon escaped from Varan’s spell, why is he still down here? Why has he not tried to get to the surface?”

“Can’t you feel it?” Dantane asked. “The demon’s aura? It’s everywhere.”

Meisha nodded. “I’ve felt it ever since I was a child. I still wake at night blanketed in the dread and the cold. I just never had a name for it before. What does that have to do with the demon’s escape?”

“He doesn’t want to escape,” Dantane said. “From the dwarves, yes, and from Varan’s control, but the Delve has been absorbing the demon’s essence for a century or longer. The Delve has become part of him—the ideal hunting ground. I suspect all the demon wants is something worthwhile to hunt.”

“Through Varan, he’s gotten everything he needs,” Meisha

said bitterly. “All he has to do is pick us off one by one.”

“An appealing fate for the Shadow Thieves that may have followed us,” Dantane said. “In fact, without the demon’s interference, we might have died at their hands.”

“Astounding how the gods sott matters out,” Meisha muttered. “This way,” she said, leading Dantane on to the next testing chamber. “We have to move quickly. We don’t know where the demon is now.”

As with the other chambers, raised rock platforms dominated the next room they entered, but the entire back wall of the cavern had gone, plucked from the surrounding stone like a cork from a wine cask. Darkness, impenetrable by her spell light, stretched down a long passage Meisha had never seen before.

“A permanent tunnel of darkness,” Dantane said. “Small wonder your master concealed this entrance. There will be traps and wards, unless he cleared them himself.”

“Let’s hope so,” Meisha said. “We’ll have enough to wotry about when we find the jarilith.” She took stock of het weapons. Her stilettos were gone, but she still had one dagger. Fire crackled in her mind. “Ready?”

Dantane nodded and srepped forward. They were almost to the mouth of darkness when they heard the demon roar.

Talal didn’t look back. He knew the creature had turned to pursue them. He could heat the sizzle-click of his paws hitting the stone. The beast’s huge sttides would have overtaken them immediately if the passage hadn’t kept making sharp corners.

Morgan swung around a bend and came up short, shouting, “Too narrow!”

Talal fetched up behind Laerin. He saw the bigger man wedged between two slabs of stone. Beyond lay an open chamber.

“We can’t go back!” Laerin shouted, before he plowed into Motgan from behind.

Morgan’s tunic ripped as Laerin’s weight pushed him through the narrow gap. The half-elf followed, and Talal, grateful for once to be the slightest, had no trouble slipping through the crack.

In the chamber beyond flowed an underground river.

Talal stopped and stared at the black watet darting with shadows under the torchlight. The river rushed from a fissure in the northwest corner of the room, flowing out through a wishbone shaped crack at the opposite end. On the other side of the water, the cavern dead-ended.

Morgan crouched at the river’s edge. He splashed handfuls of water on two wicked slashes across his chest where the stone had cut into his flesh. “That’s got it,” he wheezed. “Game’s over before it began.”