The Pleasure of Memory (76 page)

“No such luck,” Chance said.

Beam groped his way to his feet. As his vision cleared, he saw that Chance was tending to someone. It was the Vaemyd. She wasn’t moving. “She’s hurt?” he whispered to Chance.

“Get me the blankets, will you?” Chance asked.

“Sure,” Jhom and Beam answered in unison.

Beam nearly jumped out of his skin. He wheeled around to find the biggest Baeldon he’d ever seen towering over him. The man made the sarcophagi rising up behind him look small in comparison. He was dressed in Baeldonian field armor, including a strangely jointed steel breastplate that started at his clavicles and swept downward to a point that covered his crotch. He had a short, closely cropped black beard and a leather hat with rolled up sides like those worn by plainsmen, including a spear of a blue feather that shot back from the band and swept out over the rear brim.

“Where in the Nine did you come from?” he asked the mountain, “By gods, you’re a big one.”

“Don’t flatter him, he’s not that big,” Chance said, “Now will someone please get me those blankets?”

Jhom pulled a bedroll from under the shoulder of a dead gor’naeyd, and then used his foot to shove the oily white body farther down the hall as easily as Beam might shove a chair.

“I sure as hell hope this is a friend of yours,” Beam said as he watched Jhom cover Koonta’ar with the blanket, “Otherwise, we’re both dead.”

Jhom laughed.

Beam felt the heat of goodwill radiating from the giant’s mind. It told him everything he needed to know. This one and Chance were as close as brothers, and despite the man’s calm exterior, he was worried sick about Chance.

“So,” Jhom asked from a studious gaze, “Just what manner of mayhem have you gotten my friend into that’s left him looking so careworn?”

“You have it reversed, my friend,” Beam replied, “If I hadn’t made his acquaintance when I did, he’d be fertilizing the trees right now. Truth is he’s the one who’s been leading
me
into trouble these past days. And I’ve been a damned good sport about it, if I have to say so myself.”

Chance sent him a look.

As Beam met Chance’s eyes, he felt the worry gripping the man’s mind. He was terrified for Koonta’s condition, but he was also trying hard not to think of the boy. As he looked down at the brutalized Vaemyd, he realized he couldn’t sense her thoughts anymore.

“She’s sick,” he said as he crawled over beside Chance.

“You think so, Beam?”

Beam knelt across her from him. She was shaking as violently as he’d ever seen anyone shake. He touched her forehead and quickly recoiled. “Damn me if she’s not clammy as a fish.”

“I know,” Chance said as he carefully rolled Koonta up onto her side, “Give me a hand with her.”

Beam held her by the shoulder and hip as Chance propped her up with a rolled blanket.

“If I didn’t know better,” Beam said, “I’d suspect the plague.”

“It’s no plague,” Chance said, “Look at these wounds on her back. They’re festering already.”

“What does that mean?”

Chance just looked at him.

“What?” Beam asked again, “I’m not a healer. What is it?”

“I think it’s venom. Jhom, you ever hear stories about gor’naeyds having venom in their claws or teeth?”

“No,” Jhom said, “I don’t believe as I have. But who knows what horrors grow in the misery of these breached caverns?”

Chance finished cleaning the first of the back wounds, then applied a loose outer dressing of torn linen to them. Sitting back on his haunches, he thoughtfully stroked the reddish fuzz covering his cheeks.

Beam looked down at Koonta’ar and listened. He willed himself into her mind, pushing forward through that ethereal tunnel connecting them. As he did, a sensation of terrible pain seized him. He pulled back so hard it left his head swimming. “She’s dying,” he said to Chance, “The pain’s unbearable. You need to do something.”

“What the hell does it look like I’m doing, Beam? Brewing tea?”

“I’m sorry,” Beam said seriously. He absolutely was. “I didn’t mean—”

“Hold up!” Jhom said suddenly, “By Calina’s tits, I recall now. There was a type of gor’naeyd bred to work these tunnels back when they were new, but they died out during the Fifty Year War. I believe they were mildly venomous, but fairly docile. These bastards are six hells of a lot bigger. Mayhaps it’s some new race of gor’naeyds. Could be some that only recently found their way up from some deeper caverns.”

“That could explain the white fur and tiny eyes,” Chance said.

“And the ears,” Jhom said, crossing arms the size of logs, “They may have developed the—”

“What the hell difference does it make?” Beam yelled.

The others looked at him.

“Damn me, she’s laying there dying and you two are discussing the origin of those mops over there? Focus on the task at hand, will you? What’re we going to do?”

Chance watched him for a minute, and then he asked Jhom, “How much farther to the next hatch?”

“Hm, mayhaps four miles.”

“Good. I’ve applied an herbal poultice that should help draw out any poison still in the wounds, but it won’t help what’s already in her blood. We get topside and I might be able to find some Cobbler’s Vetch and other herbs I can use to make a more effective tonic. We’ll need some fat from a rabbit or squirrel, too. And I’ll definitely need a fire.”

“Then let’s do it,” Beam said, standing up, “We’re just wasting time here.”

The Baeldon knelt down and carefully scooped the unconscious Vaemyn into his arms. Beam felt the cool shock of Jhom’s surprise as the Baeldon touched the icy cold of her flesh.

“By gods, Chance,” Jhom said, “Her mail’s warmer than she is.”

Chance shouldered his pack and grabbed his staff. “Let’s move out.”

Beam studied the darkness and found a point of red light a dozen paces down the tunnel. When he picked up the sword, he wasn’t surprised to find it still in perfect condition. There wasn’t a scratch on it. There wasn’t even any blood. As he sheathed it, he wondered why the creature had so easily knocked it out of his hands. Wasn’t the damned weapon supposed to be protecting him? It made no sense.

On his way back to the others, he grabbed three of the dropped torches. He handed one off to Chance and carried the remaining two since the Baeldon’s hands were full of Koonta’ar. Then again, as he considered how tiny the Vaemyd looked in those colossal arms, he figured the Baeldon could have easily managed a half dozen torches if he’d wanted to.

∞

Beam listened without much interest as Chance and Jhom exchanged information.

Chance spent the walk explaining the circumstance of his meeting with Beam, about the sentries and the Divinic Demon. He told Jhom about Luren’s abduction, assuring him that the boy was still alive, and that hope was not yet lost.

Beam had his doubts on that point.

Finally, Chance explained how the Vaemyn tracked them to Sanctuary, about their decision to take the tunnels, and of the unfortunate encounter in the swamp that led to the circumstance of a Baeldon holding a dying Vaemysh kadeer in his arms.

Then, just when he was feeling some relief that Chance was finished with his drama, the damned Baeldon apparently felt compelled to reciprocate, telling about the sentry and the scandal it raised, and the Gran’ghanter’s less than jolly response to it.

Blather, prattle, and spew.

Beam picked up his pace. He was sick of thinking about it, sick of living it, and doubly sick of hearing it retold. If he didn’t get out of earshot of their gossip, he swore he was going to throw himself on his own damned sword. He redoubled his pace, trotting now as he tried to distance himself from the voices. They were killing him with tedium.

His head had been aching mercilessly since their fight with the gor’naeyds. He felt shaken and jittery. Considering the Vaemyd’s state, however, he realized he had nothing to complain about. At least he hadn’t been bitten or scratched. She was dying, and she was doing so in a bum’s rush.

Even more distressing than her condition was the fact that he was actually worried about her.

He wasn’t sure where these uninvited feelings of concern were coming from, especially in view of their mutual history. When he thought about how many Vaemyn he’d killed over the years it almost made him sick. It’d always been in self-defense, of course. He’d never hunted them for sport like so many of the half-witted thugs he’d known in the Nolands. Still, when he thought back on it he felt...

He stopped.

There was light ahead.

A half circle of light loitered at the side of the tunnel. It cast the black marble floor into a pearly gleam too dim to be sunlight or even torchlight.

The giddiness of truth seized him. It was moonlight!

“Is that...?” He turned back toward Chance and Jhom who were dawdling along a hundred yards behind him. “Is that the hatch?” he yelled out.

“Yea!” Jhom called back, “That’s the hatch, all right.” The words echoed on in joyous celebration of the announcement.

Beam turned back toward the light. A waft of cool, dry air hushed over him. He closed his eyes and lifted his face into it. “Oh lords, can you smell that?” he whispered to himself, “That’s fresh air, son. Fresh! Air!”

It was too much to resist. He fell into a run toward the hatch. Chance yelled something behind him, but the words were lost to echoes. He slid to a stop at the base of the hatch and looked up. The breeze whispered more insistently here, caressing his face like a lover’s summon. Familiar iron rungs climbed up the wall of a wide, metal turret that ended in a small half-circle of night sky smeared sweetly with the soothing glaze of Mengrae’s blade. It was like looking through a spyglass into the very bosom of Pentyrfal.

It was too much to resist. He leaped for the rungs. Carrying the torch slowed his ascent, but he didn’t care. Each new rung brought the smell of freedom closer. The wind poured down over him like a baptism.

Chance again called to him from somewhere below, but he again ignored it. The last thing he wanted to hear was the chastising, motherly nag he knew was coming. Anyway, he didn’t care what the mage thought or wanted or feared. Not now. Not when he was so close to feeling the sweet love of earth beneath his feet again.

“Beam, wait!” It was the Baeldon’s voice this time.

Beam didn’t want to stop. He wouldn’t stop. He was too close to freedom.

“Wait!” Chance called, “It’s not safe!” His voice sounded miles away.

Despite his nearly unbearable urges to the contrary, Beam did stop. He hugged the rungs and waited for his breath. The edge of the rim was right there, just a few more steps away. The stars were so close, he could nearly pick them from the sky. He was almost there, for Calina’s sake! Why did the man perpetually rain on his hopes?

He looked down and considered the caeyl embedded in the hilt of his sheathed sword. The red eye was dark as night. There was no warning spark in it, no worrying gleam, no suggestion of danger at all. It had to be safe or the caeyl would be blazing just like when the gor’naeyds attacked. Not that it mattered. Right now, his excitement was so extreme, he’d risk just about anything to feel the grass in his hands again.

He scampered up the last few rungs, laid the torch up on the stone rim, and then climbed up out of the grave and into the night air like a dead man reborn. He stood there on the rim of the hatch with the torch burning at his feet and the midnight sky shining on his face. A robust breeze sifted past. It felt as pure and delicate as a butterfly’s kiss, free of the reek of mildewed earth or stagnant water. The world was ripe with the heady aroma of grass and wind and life.

He hopped down to the dark grass and laughed. The wind hissed seductively through the tall grass. Crickets chirruped gaily from a thousand blinds. Somewhere in the nocturnal darkness above him, a bird cried out. It was a singular instant of pure joy. For the first time in weeks, he felt the thrill of impending calm.

The bird cried out again, closer this time.

Calm rudely deserted him.

He opened his eyes and looked up into the inky night. Birds? At night?

He glanced down at his sword. The eye was still silent. So why were his alarms clanging like a call to arms? Something warm flushed past his head. He swatted reflexively at it, but found only air. What was that? A moth? Maybe a field bat?

Another bird cried out.

He grabbed the torch from the rim of the hatch and drew his sword. Something fluttered behind him. He wheeled toward the sound, swinging his torch wildly at it.

Nothing was there. Then the darkness shifted and something brushed his face. This time he caught a whiff of foul, musky odor as it passed.

He held the torch out at arm’s length and turned a studious circle, scanning the night just beyond the light’s reach. It was probably nothing, just a reaction to leaving his confinement, a kind of hallucination induced by so much space.

Another something swept past, close enough to feel the wind on his neck. He swung his torch toward it an instant too late. The shadow was absorbed into the night, but this time he caught the whispers of primitive, chaotic thoughts. Whatever it was, it was ripe with the lust of violence.

Then a snip of sound to his side, like a sheet snapping in the wind. Something brushed the back of his head. He whirled toward it, swinging both the torch and his sword. A black shape flew past and he barely dodged what looked like a talon.

He threw the torch into the grass and grabbed the sword with both hands. He sensed the creature making another pass to his right. He flipped around and threw himself at it. The sword intercepted the thing, slicing it cleanly in two. The remains of a monstrous creature flopped in the grass, all barbs and talons and teeth.

He caught the vile thoughts of another creature an instant before its talons raked his back. He screamed and twisted toward it, slicing wildly at empty air. His spine felt like someone had thrown boiling water on it. He groped at his back and felt the blood-soaked shreds of leather. “How the devil can—”

The agitated thoughts of others erupted in his mind. They were coming for him! There were dozens of them, too many to fight. He turned to make for the hatch an instant too late. Two of the creatures dove in from his left. He heaved his sword into the attack. A wing flipped away but the body kept going. Another scream rang out to his right, and he swung his blade at it. The creature’s head flipped free, but the body slammed against him, knocking him to the grass.