The Warlord's Legacy (46 page)

“I’ve come to bargain, as we have in the past.”

“So, bargain, yes, deal.” The vile creature licked its lips with something that more closely resembled a limp worm than a tongue. “Does it wish the same as before?”

“No, nothing so long term. We require you to guide us through your tunnels, far to the west.” Then, at the creature’s puzzled blinking, “Ah, in the direction of the sunset. For at least …”
Damn it, how do the little creeps measure distance
? “… at least, um, thirty-thousand paces. My paces, not yours.”

“It wishes to walk, yes, to travel below? Through his paths and corridors? This, he does not like, no, has never allowed. What does it offer?”

Corvis pretended not to hear Irrial’s whispered “I don’t have a lot more where that first one came from.” He gestured vaguely toward the cave mouth, still hidden from outside by Seilloah’s phantasm.

“Many men hunt us. I offer you the chance to spill their blood, to avenge the theft of your ancestors and the rape of earthen wombs, as I did before.”

The gnomes cocked their heads toward one another, puppets with loosened strings, and whispered in tones that Corvis felt vibrating in his gut and through the floor.

“No,” the speaker grumbled finally, “he does not think so, no, does not agree. Before, the Rebaine offered him crowds, yes, homes and cities high above, far above, where normally he cannot go, no, cannot reach. And now it thinks these men here, yes, in the hills above are payment? They are not payment, no. He can take them whenever he wants, anytime, yes.

“And he can take the Rebaine, yes, and its companions.”

“That would not be wise of him,” Corvis warned, rising to his feet with Sunder in hand. “It would also be inappropriate.”

The gnome, which had just begun to step forward, paused. “It thinks so? He wonders why …”

“Because I never actually did release you from my service,” he said
with a smile. “You agreed to serve. It’s been some time, but I never ended our agreement.”

It was a feeble argument, and he damn well knew it. But he knew, too, that the gnomes did not share humanity’s sense of time, and given their peculiar, even alien thought patterns, it just might …

No.

The laughter of the gnomes sounded like a man choking on gravel. “It is foolish, yes, pathetic and stupid! He will eat of its flesh, suck the juice of its inner white stones!”

“Don’t do this.” Corvis wasn’t sure if he was still warning, or if he’d crossed the line into pleading. He felt Irrial moving behind him, heard the rasp of steel on leather as she drew. “We’ve worked well together before. We might again. Don’t ruin it now.”

“He—”

Every face in the chamber turned as the cat yowled, a wretched, high-pitched squall of pain and terror. Belly pressed to the floor, it fled from beside Irrial’s feet and out into the uneven hills. For long seconds, humans and gnomes peered at the illusory wall, as though they could follow the animal’s flight.

Even as Corvis directed his bemused attention back to the gnomes, the foremost creature, the one who’d spoken, abruptly twitched. It was faint, scarcely a shiver, and the former warlord wouldn’t even have been certain he’d seen it were it not for what came next.

“It is correct,” the creature said thoughtfully. Was there, perhaps, just a slight change in its timbre? “He has worked well with the Rebaine in the past, yes, before.” The creature twisted its head completely around to address the others behind. “He will guide it, yes, as it has asked.”

Every other gnomish jaw dropped in a surprisingly human expression—assuming one allowed for the odd angles and excessive length of those gaping maws. “He is confused,” one of them—presumably the one who’d been addressed—began. “Why does he—”

The speaker raised a crooked arm overhead, a motion more comical than threatening. “He is not asking, no! He is telling! He will guide it, yes, will do what he says!”

The pronouns were, at this point, impossible for the bewildered humans
to follow, but the gnomes obviously got the message. The one who’d been yelled at actually managed to look a bit hurt. “He will obey,” it murmured petulantly.

The speaker nodded, a hideous gesture that took its head so far back it actually touched between its misshapen shoulder blades, and then stepped through a seamless stone wall without another word. Most of the others went their own way as well, leaving the sulking guide along with a very confused Irrial and Corvis. For several long moments, they stood motionless, unsure of what to say.

“It comes,” the creature finally snapped at them, “yes, follows swiftly. He will not wait for it, no.” With that it stuck its arm elbow-deep in the wall. “Go, pass through, yes.”

“What about—?” Irrial began.

“I’m here.” From a narrow crevice a strange shape emerged, soft and malleable as though extruded from some digestive orifice within the rock. Only as it hit the ground and scuttled toward them did Corvis recognize the two-foot salamander for what it was.

And it was then, finally, that he realized just what she had done.

Face pale, he knelt down—ignoring the impatient muttering of their reluctant guide—and lifted the creature to perch upon his shoulder. “We’re dead if they figure out what you did before we’re gone,” he whispered.

“They won’t,” she assured him quietly. “My previous host is, ah, somewhat indisposed. I walked him off a deep ravine down in the caves. It probably didn’t kill him, but he won’t be talking to anyone else for a good long—”

“Come!” the gnome shrieked at them. “Or he goes alone, yes!”

Steeling himself, Corvis stepped toward the wall. Every sense, every instinct, screamed at him to stop, that he was about to walk face-first into a solid barrier. Though he’d intended to stride casually through, he couldn’t keep himself from raising his hands before him, just to be sure.

It was, he decided later when he’d calmed his mind enough for rational thought, rather like pushing through a curtain of beef fat. It failed, for half a heartbeat, to give at all, and then it oozed around his fingers, his arms, his face and chest. It crept over every inch of his body,
pressing deep into his nostrils, the hollows of his mouth and ears. No, not over—
through;
he felt it sliding
inside
him, in his throat, his lungs, his gut. He struggled with a panic more primal than any fear he’d ever known, forced his gibbering brain to ignore the sensation of crushing suffocation that threatened to overwhelm him. Despite his efforts to blank his mind, he wondered what would happen if the impatient, spiteful little creature pulled its arm from the rock, allowing the wall to return to its normal state, and he found himself on the edge of hyperventilating despite his seeming inability to breathe.

And then he was through, standing in darkness as unrelenting as a demon’s heart. Though the viscous stone had felt wet and pasty as it passed over him—
through him
, and he shuddered at the thought—it hadn’t clung at all. He was no dirtier than when he’d begun, not the slightest bit damp save for his frightened sweat. For a time he simply stood, breathing deep of the stale but welcome cavern air, listening as the salamander on his shoulder did the same. He heard a horrified gasp beside him and knew that Irrial was through as well.

The air around them was dry, dusty, and very, very still. Wherever they were, it was a
long
way from any proper passage back to the world of light and wind.

“It follows.” Corvis jumped at the voice; he’d heard no hint of the gnome’s passage. He took a moment to mutter a spell, sending a gentle light emanating from his left hand. The gnome, presumably quite capable of seeing in the dark, glanced back with some irritation, but he felt his own tension ebb somewhat, and sensed some of the stiffness pass from Irrial’s shoulders as well.

Though there was, for the moment, nothing to see, nothing around them but an uneven passage of featureless stone. Corvis waved for the gnome to proceed, and the humans fell into step behind.

“I don’t understand,” Irrial whispered, trusting the echo of their footsteps to keep her voice from their guide’s ears. “I thought you couldn’t inhabit anything with a soul.” She, too, had clearly pieced together what Seilloah had done to ensure the gnomes’ cooperation.

“That’s correct,” the salamander told her. “I can’t.”

“But—”

“If you ever hear someone refer to gnomes as ‘soulless,’ ” Corvis said,
“they’re not just saying the bastards are vicious. It’s the gods’ honest truth. I have no idea what the little shits really are or where they came from—nobody does, as far as I know—but they’re even less human than they look.”

Irrial shivered. Then, “So why—?”

It was the witch, this time, who anticipated her question. “Because they have a sense of self, and a will of their own. I can inhabit them, but
control
is another matter entirely. It’s
very
difficult. I doubt I could have kept it up for more than a few minutes—not much longer than it took to get them to help us, really.”

‘
And to deal with the only one who knew what she’d done. The witch’s teeth are showing.
’

It took, at best guess, mere minutes to lose all sense of direction, all track of time. There was nothing but blank stone that had never before been seen by human eyes; narrow, jagged passages that tore at clothes and skin; overhangs that lurked in wait to crack careless skulls. They heard only their own breathing and their own footsteps. Even the echoes were oddly muted, repressed by the weight of the earth overhead.

At times they climbed, hauling themselves hand over fist up steep inclines that threatened to crumble beneath their weight, dropping them back into the shadowed emptiness; or scrambling down slopes on which standing was impossible, tearing hands and knees when they crawled, thighs and buttocks when they slid. And at other times they passed through solid walls, seeping through as the gnome held the way open, praying that the stone would never prove thicker than their lungs could handle. Corvis didn’t know for certain what would happen if he took a breath while he and the rock slid obscenely through each other, but he
did
know that he’d rather never find out.

The air grew stale as they traveled ever deeper, and the barriers between them and the outside world thicker. He struggled not to wheeze with every step, heard Irrial gasping at the slightest exertion. And never once did the gnome show any inclination to rest, or even to slow its headlong pace, either unaware of, or unconcerned with, their discomfort. Corvis started to wonder if battling through the Cephiran patrols might not have been the better option after all.

But slowly, so gradually he initially failed to notice, the walls spread outward, the echoes of their footsteps grew louder. Forcing his attention from his exhausted feet, Corvis examined his new surroundings and discovered a far wider passage, replete with forks and little side corridors. From within he heard the occasional scuff of movement, the hiss of a whispered word.

Two humans walked, with faltering steps, through the abode of gnomes.

Bulges protruded into the ever-expanding corridor, and from those solid rocks myriad faces appeared, staring in fascinated hatred at the intruders from above. On two feet and on all fours, across floor and walls and ceiling, the creatures skittered, misshapen limbs pumping and twisting at impossible angles. Air and rock, light and dark, all the same; Corvis, watching as a face slid from a stone to glower at him, realized that these were their actual homes, that the gnomes lived not in the empty spaces beneath the earth, but
inside the rocks themselves
. It was, somehow, even more than their grotesque ability to move through those rocks, a disturbing reminder of their alien nature.

They oozed through yet another solid wall, thicker than any they’d so far passed, and Corvis and Irrial froze, deaf to the impatient cajoling of their guide.

They stood upon a ledge, frighteningly narrow, at the lip of what could only be described as a gulf of darkness. It had, so far as Corvis’s light could reach, no floor and no sides save for the one beside them. He had little doubt that were Mecepheum itself somehow transported here, it would have room to grow.

Only the ceiling was visible, casting back reflections of that feeble illumination. Gems, or what Corvis assumed to be gems, gleamed back in every imaginable hue. Most were white or a pale yellow, but there were sporadic glints of rich red and deep green as well. Despite the steady glow of Corvis’s spell, the gems glittered, twinkling like the stars of night above.

Gnomes crawled betwixt and between them in defiance of gravity, stopping here and there to perform what Corvis, from his limited vantage, could only describe as a twisted genuflection. In the cavern air, what he’d first taken to be the rush of a distant waterfall resolved itself
into a grinding paean, a song produced by inhuman throats. A hundred identical voices wove it together, one picking up where another left off so not even the need for breath ever interrupted the unending, monotonous tone.

Only when the gnome had actually backtracked and reached out to physically drag Irrial along did they begin walking once more, making their way around the impossible, wondrous abyss. Corvis and Irrial kept their right hands on the wall, hoping to ensure that they would not step out over the edge, for they could not tear their attentions from the false firmament above.

At least, not at first. As they progressed, Corvis began to realize that the gems actually
did
match the stars of the night sky. He recognized constellations: here the Scales of Ulan; there Kirrestes the Archer, drawing back his great bow for the shot that, according to myth, passed through all seventeen heads to slay the Ryvrik hydra; farther along the winding coils of the wyrm Anolrach, whose spilled lifeblood made the oceans salty.

Corvis wasn’t certain which was worse: the thought that the gnomes had deliberately created this mirror of night, or the possibility that the stones had
naturally
taken such shapes and forms. His mind shied away from the deeper implications of either option.