The Plains of Kallanash (24 page)

Runa chuckled. “Not me! I’m the old woman here.” Then, seeing Mia’s mystified face, she added, “The old woman does the stitching and such like. And looks after the sick. But you know about that. Through there.”

A door stood open, and Mia went through it to find herself in the tunnel. Two men were standing there waiting for her, leaning casually against the wall. She could see at once they were soldiers, although they wore no uniform, just a random selection of mail and armoured leather clothing. Unlike Skirmishers, they were bearded. They each carried a long knife in a scabbard, like a sword, and she could see two or three other knives tucked into belts or clothing.

Without a word one of them gestured to her to follow, and when she did, the other one tucked in behind her. She felt uncomfortable, but she reasoned that if they planned to kill her they had already had plenty of opportunity. They walked some distance down the tunnel, and then into a side room, and then up a set of spiral stairs. When they reached the top, only a short distance away was another set, and after that a third. Eventually Mia lost count.

Before long there were windows, and a brief view of the empty plains, grey with rain. No roads, no fields, no trees. She must be outside the Karningplain altogether, beyond civilisation. But then who were these people? They didn’t look like the Vahsi she’d seen depicted in books, but they were rough-mannered enough to be barbarians. She shivered. And still they climbed, until Mia’s legs were aching and she felt weak.

Just when she felt she would have to stop, they came out at the top. It was a big room, six sided, with windows in every wall. Right in the middle of it, directly facing her as she emerged from the stairway, was a man on a throne. For an instant she wondered if perhaps the Petty Kings still ruled somewhere on the plains, as in the old days, but then she realised that this man was not a king. His chair might be overlarge and elaborately carved, but he was just a man, a soldier like the others, wearing slightly better made battle gear but still just as odd an assembly of bits and pieces.

He was the only one sitting, she realised. Six or seven men stood around the room, and two of them, one either side of the throne, wore swords. But none of them looked as if they would harm her. In fact, the man on the throne, who must be Bulraney, she guessed, was laughing and all of them were smiling and chatting, as if they had been sharing a joke.

One of her escort pushed her forward with a hand at her back, until she was only a few feet away from Bulraney. He was a big man, big in every sense, tall and well-built, with massive muscled arms, and the heavy clothes perhaps made him look even more imposing. If she’d had to describe him, she would have said he was ugly. He had thick frizzled hair, seemingly uncombed, a bulbous nose and a vivid red scar from hairline to beard across one cheek. It was hard to tell, but she thought one ear was missing. She knew instinctively that he was dangerous.

He grinned at her. “Well, there’s not much of this one,” he said. “Tiny little thing, isn’t she? We’ll have to be careful, lads, or she’ll get squashed.” They all laughed heartily at this. Mia kept silent, although she boiled inside.

“I like bigger tits on them, myself,” said one of the others.

Another one shook his head. “You never did have any taste, Delnor. Small but delicate, she is. Very nice.”

Bulraney waved a hand vigorously, and they all fell silent, staring at her. She tried to keep her composure, but nothing in her life had prepared her for such an encounter. She remembered something Runa had said, that ‘
Bulraney’s not going to do anything with you for a bit’
. She was beginning to get an inkling of what Bulraney’s plans for her might be. She had a clutching feeling in her stomach, and her mouth was dry.

Bulraney leaned forward. “Your name is Cassia,” he said.

“Mia,” she croaked. Then, more firmly, “My name is Mia.”

“Your name is Cassia,” he repeated. “Whoever you were once, that’s gone. So you have a new name.”

“I like my old name,” she said.

“Your name is Cassia,” he said, and this time his tone brooked no argument. Then, unexpectedly, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m a little better, thank you.”

They laughed at her again, although she couldn’t see why.

“Well, Cassia,” he said, with a chilling smile, “we’re not monsters here, so you’ll not be assigned until you’re fit enough for the work. A week or two, maybe. You should be ready to lie down by then.” They all roared with laughter. “Till then, you can help out in the kitchen. Kellan, show her to her new quarters. Remember my orders, mind. And get her some decent clothes. I can’t stand women in trousers.”

The gate was closed. There was no visible handle or latch on it, but it was firmly locked. The lever that opened it was embedded in an alcove out of reach on the other side, and there was no sign of another lever. While Trimon and Walst methodically examined the gate to look for a hidden catch, Hurst lit a torch and looked around the tunnel with Gantor. In one direction he soon found another metal gate, also locked, and with no sign of a lever. In the other direction, the tunnel stretched endlessly away, its smooth stone walls unmarked by symbols or levers or gates. Only a trio of small round metal pipes running high up along one wall marred the symmetry, presumably carrying the mysterious vapour for the Funeral Towers.

“Not a thing!” Trimon said in frustration. “If we shout, will Hemmond hear us, do you think?”

“Even if he could, he can’t climb up to the window to rescue us,” Walst said.

“We’re trapped here,” said Trimon gloomily. “We’re going to die down here, aren’t we?”

“Nonsense!” Hurst said briskly. “The tunnel is open in this direction, at least, and we’ve got our packs with us. We have enough food and water for
– what, a couple of weeks or so? If we’re careful.”

“So we die in two weeks, instead of now
– if we’re careful. This was a bad idea.”

“Look,” Hurst said, “we came here to explore the tunnels, so let’s explore them. If we come to another gate, well, we can come back and shout for Hemmond. But let’s at least try this. It’s an adventure, right?”

“You really don’t care whether you live or die, do you?” said Trimon.

“Not much, no. If you want to stay here like idiots and shout for help, be my guest, but I’m going to find out where this tunnel goes.”

The three Companions looked at each other, and then Gantor shrugged. “I swore I’d stay with him until death and beyond. I suppose that covers this. Even if he’s completely crazy.” He turned back to Hurst. “Lead on, Commander Sir.” Walst nodded, and Trimon sighed and shouldered his pack again.

Hurst grinned at them.

They carried a single torch to preserve their supplies, and walked in file down the tunnel. It was lined with a smooth kind of stone which none of them could identify, with a slatted stone floor and arched roof. Beneath their feet they could hear water trickling. Walst had his sword unsheathed, and they trod silently, aware that the slightest sound would echo and perhaps alert anyone ahead of them. But there was no sign of anyone, no sound, no movement but their own, no lights but their flickering torch.

“One thousand,” said Walst after a while, who had been counting their paces.

“Feels like more,” said Trimon.

Then, out of the darkness they saw a glimmer, which became
brighter as they drew near another metal gate, barring their path. In an alcove a short distance before they reached it was a lever. Hurst thrust the lever upwards and the gates swung open. No one moved. In silence, they all stood waiting. After a while, there was a low thunk behind the lever and the gates closed again.

“Well, this is interesting,” said Gantor. “On one side of the gate is a lever to open it, but once through on the other side
– no way to get back. We can only go one way.”

“Is there any way to prop these gates open?” Walst asked.

“There’s nothing to tie them to,” Gantor said, “and we can’t afford to leave equipment behind at every gate. Not if there’s one every thousand paces.”

They all looked at Hurst. “What do you expect me to say?” he said, with a wry grin. “Behind us are only locked gates, and the remote possibility that Hemmond can get us out again. Ahead of us
– well, here’s another gate that opens. These tunnels have to go somewhere, right? Let’s find out where.”

Without a word, Gantor pushed the lever to open the gate and they all stepped through. They waited until it closed again with an audible click, and Trimon sighed.

“We must be very careful not to leave anything on the wrong side of a gate,” said Gantor. “We don’t know what we may need.”

Then they turned and walked down the tunnel.

~~~

They walked for days. Every thousand paces, roughly, was another gate which they could open and pass through, but could not open from the other side. They all had markings on the wall on that side, which Gantor became convinced was a key to enable the gate to be opened in that direction, but they had no way to interpret them. Occasionally there were side tunnels, but they were blocked by gates or doors. There was only one way forward. Even so, Hurst meticulously marked each junction with chalk to show which way they had come.

Every ten gates they came across something that Gantor called a camp cave – a side tunnel which went nowhere, ending in a blank wall, or sometimes an irregular natural cavern, but fitted up with benches, a brazier with a chimney above it, sconces for torches, a latrine and shelves filled with useful items, like blankets, cooking pots and bowls.

A hole in the floor with a bucket suspended above it, like a primitive well, allowed them to pull water from the stream flowing constantly below them, sometimes rushing and noisy, sometimes no more than a trickle. Hanging on hooks from the ceiling, presumably to deter rats, were metal containers of grains, dried meat and the like. It took them some time to realise that the slabs of dried dung piled in the corner were actually fuel for the brazier.

After that they were all more cheerful, for it seemed they would not starve to death after all, and could even enjoy hot food. They ate the last of their perishable supplies and restocked with food from the cave. Only Trimon gloomily wondered who had provided all these good things, and when they might bump into them.

From time to time they passed another Godstower, noticeable by the fresh air wafting downwards and sometimes by the sun or moonlight illuminating the tunnel. There was always a gate barring access, however. Gantor noticed that they were always close to the camp caves.

“I suppose that’s how they keep these places supplied,” he said thoughtfully. “But I do wonder
why
? Since there’s no one else using these tunnels, it appears.”

After six days, as best they could judge, they came into a larger tunnel crossing their path at an angle. As always, the arrangement of the gates meant that there was only one way they could go, to the left.

“If we were heading southeast before,” said Gantor thoughtfully, “which we seemed to be by the angle we left the original Godstower, I would guess that we are now heading due east.”

“Have we crossed the boundary yet, do you think?” Hurst asked.

“I think we must be well into the fourth line by now,” Gantor said. “If my calculations are anywhere close, that is.”

“Do these tunnels run all the way to the border?” Trimon said. “Maybe we’ll end up at the Crested Mountains.”

No one answered him.

Sometimes as they walked, they passed side tunnels or caves stocked with wooden carts with what looked like rubber wheels.

“Now that would be easier,” Walst murmured. “We wouldn’t have to carry all the gear.”

But inevitably a locked gate kept them away from the carts.

After ten days, they had grown wearily used to the tunnels. They fell into a rhythm which took no account of the cycles of sun and moon above. They stopped at every camp cave for food and a brief rest. At every third one, they would sleep for a few hours, taking turns to stand watch. Then onwards.

The tunnel appeared to be going in a straight line, but it was hard to tell underground. It felt level, although there was always water flowing beneath their feet. They just had to hope they would eventually reach an exit.

They did in time encounter other tunnel users. Walst was on guard while the others slept, but he woke them in haste.

“Quick! Someone’s coming! Douse the torch.”

Like all Skirmishers, they were instantly awake. Walst had already closed the wooden door of their cave, but it was ill-fitting and any light shining from behind it would betray them. The brazier had burned down to nothing some time before, and they just had to hope there was not enough lingering smoke to arouse suspicion. Walst, Gantor and Hurst silently drew their swords, while Trimon prepared his bow. Then they waited.

Even with the door closed they could hear the rumbling that had alerted Walst. It came closer and closer, from the direction they themselves had come. Then it stopped, not far away, and they heard the distinctive sounds of a gate opening. The rumbling began again, they could see the flickering of light beyond, then it was passing their door
– a single cart. Slowly the sounds receded into the distance. When they ventured outside again, the tunnel was filled with an unearthly greenish light emanating from one wall below the vapour pipes which gradually faded away to nothing.

“Well,” said Hurst. “It seems we’re not alone down here.”

After that, they proceeded more cautiously, so they were not surprised when a couple of days later they heard rumbling again, ahead of them this time. They were caught out between camp caves, between gates, with nowhere to hide. Walst drew his sword but Hurst put a hand on his arm.

“Not unless we have to,” he whispered. “There was a side tunnel just back there, with a bit of space before the gate
– we can hide in there.”

It was not much of a hiding place, but with the torch doused, everything metal covered and their cloaks pulled over their faces, they hoped they would not be noticed. Fortunately, the angle of the side tunnel was in their favour, and anyone passing back up the tunnel would have to turn and look back to see them. Again a single cart rolled past. They moved quietly out after it had gone by, to see only one man standing on the back, a torch fitted to a metal post on a corner of the cart.

“How does it move?” Trimon asked. “There’s nothing pushing or pulling.”

“I guess you push to get it started,” Gantor said, frowning. “Then it just keeps going for a while. These tunnels are almost completely flat. When it slows down, push again. Easier than walking. There are pushcarts like these that run through the mining tunnels in the Ring of Bonnegar. Was there anything in it, could anyone see?”

“Nothing visible,” said Trimon. “What do you think he was doing, then?”

“I suppose he took something down the tunnel in the cart, and now he’s bringing the empty cart back,” Gantor said.

“Something – or someone,” Hurst said.

“You think they brought Mia down here in a cart?”

“I think she must have come this way, yes.”

“If she’s alive.”

“Yes, if she’s alive,” Hurst admitted. “But I’m sure some of them are alive – maybe just the Companions, maybe Mia too – and I’m sure they came down to the tunnels. But whether they came the same way as us – who knows? We have no other way to go, but whoever brought them here can presumably get out anywhere – through any of these side tunnels, or out to a Godstower. But I just feel sure they came this way.”

“Feelings are not a good guide,” Gantor said. “So your father always said. You must have more than feelings to go on.”

“Very well, then, try this. Imagine you find yourself in that situation – supposedly dead, but actually alive and trapped in the funeral tower. You can’t escape because of the Silent Guards. Someone brings you down here, and you travel for days – weeks – in these tunnels. What would you do? You’d try to escape, wouldn’t you? You’d try to get away from – whoever it is.”

“Maybe they had guards watching them,” Walst said.

“Well – maybe. But the gates mean you don’t actually need guards. Even if anyone runs off, they can still only go one way. So I think this must be the way they want everyone to go – everyone they collect from the funeral towers. And sooner or later, we’ll get to wherever it is – and we’ll find out who ‘they’ are.”

~~~

It was the end of their third week in the tunnels when they smelled smoke and saw light ahead of them. They doused their torch and warily crept forward. Walst drew his sword. At the next gate, they held their breath as it closed behind them, the creak of the hinges and the click of the lock echoing through the tunnels. They waited for some time, but no one came to investigate. There was a camp cave nearby, and a side tunnel with the distinctive smell of damp fresh air from a Godstower just beyond. They silently filed into the cave, put their torch into a sconce and closed the door.

“Well, the moment of truth,” Trimon said.

“I propose one of us goes to investigate,” Walst said, “and I volunteer.”

“No,” said Hurst at once. “We stay together. Besides, there might be gates between here and there. The question now is
– where exactly is ‘there’? Is this just another group of people travelling, or is it something else?”

No one answered.

They stayed in the cave for some time, resting, eating and taking turns to go out into the tunnel to see if the distant light grew any closer. It didn’t, nor could they hear voices.

“We’d look pretty stupid if it’s just a torch someone left burning on the wall,” Walst said.

“If we have been travelling due east,” Hurst said thoughtfully, “we must be quite close to the border by now.”

“Or beyond it,” Gantor said. “Don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but we haven’t passed any side tunnels for a couple of days now. Godstowers, yes, and storage areas, but not an actual tunnel that looks as if it goes somewhere. If, as we think, the side tunnels connect up with Funeral Towers, then we’re beyond those now.”