“Moss and vines and cave shrubs,” Gerrin answered. “Perhaps smaller bugs and insects as well, and the droppings of larger creatures.” He rubbed his stubbly jaw. “Let’s hope maple’s off the menu.”
“We have the stones if not,” Jonik said. The stones they used to weigh down the leaves were always big ones, and they always placed them right at the heart of the tunnel entrance, brushing all others aside, to make certain they stood out. “Even if some bug munches on our leaves, they’re not like to gorge themselves on chunks of rock. We’ll be fine. Stop fretting. And come, it’s this way.”
He began walking across the heart of the chamber, toward the opposite wall. There was another opening there, a scar no more than a metre wide, that would take them on from here. He could not see any other way, and not for a moment did the notion of squirming back through that tunnel appeal to him. He would have to later, when they came back this way, but not yet. When he reached the opening, he glanced back to make sure the others were following. Dutifully, they did so, though not without a measure of reluctance. He could almost hear Gerrin’s rugged old jaw grinding from here.
Let him brood, he thought. He’ll thank me later when we reach our quarry.
The tunnel was tight. The metre width soon narrowed to half that, and they were forced to crab along sideways to squeeze through. He could feel the tension in the others as the world gave a shiver, and gritty dust cascaded from the low rock roof above him. The earth was growing less stable as they went deeper, shifting and settling, and Jonik did not imagine all those rains were helping. They seeped into the lands, softening them, nibbling away at rock and stone and soil, forcing great subterranean lakes and rivers to form. He could feel one now, a powerful flow thrashing wildly along beneath him. The earth was quivering from its motion, and it only grew stronger the further along they went.
At last Gerrin vented his fears. “This is folly, Jonik. We’ll end up like your grandfather if we keep going like this. Is that how you want this to go? All three of us crushed and trapped?”
“We have our blades,” Jonik came back. “We can cut through if we have to.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You cut at one rock, and another will collapse in its place. That’s how displacement works.”
“I know how displacement works.” Jonik could not listen to reason, because it was duty that drove him, not logic. I swore an oath to Ilith, he told himself. I swore to him I would bring him the blades, and I will. He could not stop, despite the dangers. For the sake of the world and all the people in it, he had no choice but to keep on going.
The passage grew tighter. The rock was scraping at him, front and back, but he was not a fool, no matter what Gerrin thought. He would not lead them needlessly to their deaths if the way became too cramped. Many times they had been forced to turn back and find another way, and the same was true here.
“My lord…” Sir Owen said. Jonik could hear the worry in his voice. “The earth does not feel stable here. If the tunnel collapses…”
“It won’t.” Jonik crabbed doggedly on, stubbornly refusing to listen. Small pebbles rattled down on him, and he could hear them falling ahead and behind as well. For all he knew, there had been cave-ins and collapses at a dozen other tunnels they’d passed, blocking their way back, but he decided not to voice that concern.
The passage remained tight for a long while, before at last it began to widen, broadening until they could walk along shoulder to shoulder if they wanted. Another thirty paces on it yawned open into a capacious chamber, heavy with greenery, bright with bioluminescent. Nets of tangled plant life had taken root on the rock floor, thriving in this strange and hostile world, and above them the ceiling surged up high into the gloom, its glistening rock only partially glimpsed beyond a shroud of coloured mist. Jonik paused a moment to take a breath. The wonders down here never ceased to amaze him.
“Search for ways out,” he said to the others. “Find a passage that will take us down.”
“Still down?” Gerrin grunted. “How much deeper must we go?”
Not much, Jonik hoped. But deeper it still must be. “We’ll know when we get there,” he only said. His eyes roamed the space, seeking enemies, unknown creatures lurking in cracks and shadows. His eyes detected no movement, though above him he could hear flapping, twittering, see swirls and eddies in the coloured mist. Bats, he thought. They had seen those often enough, most of them of common size and species, but that did not mean some other larger and older variety had not made its lair down here.
“Eyes up,” he said. “We’re not alone.” Harmless as most bats were, some were fond of blood rather than fruit and bugs and might see them as prey. And if one of Brexatron’s brood is here…
He did not imagine so, not down so deep. The spawn of the giant bat did not care for heat, he knew, though their father had been born to it. That was thousands upon thousands of years ago, a time before time began, when Agarath had forged the colossal black-winged nightmare during his early days of life-creation. Brexatron was his first attempt at creating what would become his dragons, men said, and predated even Drulgar, an ancient horror, hated and reviled by all those who looked upon him.
Centuries after the bat’s birth, when Drulgar was forged of fire and rock and rage, Agarath marvelled upon the mastery of his art, and scorned Brexatron as an aberration, casting him from his sight in disgust, so the story went. In his shame and anger, the giant bat fled north, to forge a lair in the northernmost peaks of the Hammersongs, far from his father’s disdain. There he brooded on his vengeance, hiding in the mists and the cold and the darkness, biding his time to strike. When next war stirred between the gods, he saw his chance. Flying south in a shroud of black rage and storm clouds he descended upon his father as he sat his fiery throne, piercing the night with his echoing call. Such was the force of the blast from the bat’s lungs that Agarath was momentarily deafened, and Brexatron descended. Down he flew, raking at the All-Father’s face with his ravening claws, biting with elongated needles for teeth, savaging and scarring him as fire and smoke poured from the wounds.
But it was not enough. From Agarath’s lips bellowed a roar, and from the shadows Drulgar came. The dragon god had grown monstrous by then, an untamed power of volcanic rage, and he beat the bat back with fire and fang. Brexatron knew his chance was gone. With another shrill call to cover his retreat, he flew in fear of his younger, bigger brother, returning to his northern lair, and from that day on Drulgar swore that he would hunt and kill him in vengeance.
And so he did. Long years later the pair clashed once more, battling in the skies above the mountains, but not before Brexatron had spawned his brood, forging them from shadow and the will of his hate. Many died defending him against the Dread, but not all, and to this day some still lurked in dark places, it was said, bats as big as small dragons haunting high peaks and woods, living on blood.
Jonik looked around as the story passed through his mind. To him that’s all it had ever been, a story, a myth, not to be taken literally, and perhaps there remained some exaggeration in there…but perhaps not. If Drulgar was back, and as calamitous as the histories said, anything seemed possible now. And there was always that rumour of one of Braxatron’s brood living near the Shadowfort too, he remembered. The older knights and masters had spoken of it when he was a boy. The black menace lurking in the heights.
He took a step into the cavern, picking between the patches of lucent flora, trying to keep to the rocks. It was wetter here than in the other caves he’d seen, the ground spongy and…hollow, he thought. The floor beneath him felt thin. He paused, suddenly concerned, and looked around. Gerrin was moving right, Owen left, staying closer to the wall. The ground looked sturdier there. He was about to call out to them when he felt a shudder. There was a sound above him, of grit and small bits of stone coming free from the high ceiling, raining to the floor.
“My lord, watch out,” he heard Owen Armdall call out sharply.
He looked up. It was not just grit and pebbles. Right above him, several larger rocks had torn free, plummeting right down to where he stood, slicing through the whirling fogs. Colour flashed as they passed. Blue and green and violet and amber. Jonik dashed away unthinkingly, deeper into the heart of the cavern. The rocks crashed down right where he’d been standing, shattering on impact, striking and bursting and ricocheting away. His rear foot landed on something slimy, and he slipped, reaching out to steady his fall with a leather-gloved hand, godsteel gauntlet beneath. The weight of his plate smashed down hard. He felt the ground crack and sink…
There was a whooshing sound, of a heavy object moving. He twisted on the rocks and looked up. A spire of rock was plunging down from above him, some great stone stalactite with a fierce sharp tip, ten feet in length, wreathed in whipping vines. He scrambled away. The earth weakened at his movement; he could feel it crumbling.
“Jonik!” he heard Gerrin roar.
The old knight was stepping out toward him. “No. No, stay back! Stay back!” He tried to get to his feet, to scamper away, but the spire of stone was already on him. It pierced the floor two metres away, cutting down through rock and root and moss…
…and then suddenly the whole world was giving way beneath him, disintegrating, and the roar of the rushing river filled the cavern, bellowing up from below.
Jonik’s heart lurched inside him as he felt his weight go down…and then he too was falling, arms flailing for purchase, but there was nothing to hold onto. For a moment he was in freefall, his eyes staring up. He saw Gerrin there, shouting, saw Sir Owen Armdall leap and lurch for safety. Ten metres he fell, twenty, thirty…
…and then he felt the slap at his back, felt the water rise up about him, swallowing him whole. He had barely enough time to snatch a breath before he was being dragged right down beneath the surface by the weight of his armour, thrashing with his arms to stay afloat.
It was no use. The metal was too heavy. Down he went, into the black surging waters, two metres, three, four, five…
…the bottom rushed up to meet him. The back of his breastplate smacked against stone, solid stone, rugged and rough, the floor of some lower chamber. He fought to his feet, knelt down, and thrust up, breaching the surface, fighting to take a breath. He flailed wildly, blinking, saw the hole in the cavern high above him. It was moving…he was being pulled downstream. He kicked with all his strength, but it only did so much. The river was wild, waves splashing at its surface, eddying around hidden rocks. He was spun about, felt the summit of some outcrop rake against his armour, reached desperately to grab it and missed.
Then he was under again, the armour taking him down. He fought against it in his folly, wasting precious breath, kicking out. The water stung his eyes, blinding him, twisting and turning him this way and that. He crashed into another rock, gasping, gulping water. There was a grinding, a scraping, and he was on the bottom. He reached out, gripping a crack, planted his feet beneath him and bounded up once more.
The roar of the river rang out as he broke the surface. It echoed differently. He’d entered a tunnel. He could see the ceiling above him, just out of reach. Ahead, the tunnel was narrowing, tightening, the river speeding, the pressure building. Even in his heavy armour the strength of the water was tugging him along, and he was powerless to resist. Moss glowed on the walls, luminous lichen in blinding white. He went down again, reached the bottom, and pressed himself up, and down again and up, and down and up, gasping for a breath each time…and each time the tunnel narrowed…each time the ceiling grew lower, closer. I’ll have no air, he thought. Soon the water would reach the ceiling, and he’d have no air.
Panic soared, a desperate fear surging through his veins. He went down again, found the floor, and thrust up, gulping as big a breath as he could. The ceiling was close enough to touch. He reached up, hoping to dig his fingers into some crevice, but there was nothing. It was too smooth. Damn the worms, damn them all. He might have laughed if he wasn’t so afraid. I’m going to drown, he thought. I’m going to drown and they’ll never find me.
The water took him back down. It might be for the last time. He clunked against the bottom, a jagged rock cutting at his shoulder, tearing through leather and flesh. Blood reddened the water. He tumbled, scrambling to control himself, to slow. The power of the surf had swelled monstrously, racing through the narrowing passage. He could hear a great roaring sound, rumbling through the rock, like some hulking beast trapped in chains. The very water was starting to bubble and froth. Tremors shook through the walls.
His lungs were afire, desperate for air. He twisted, contorting against the current to get his feet beneath him, and launched himself up for the final time. He realised the folly too late. The ceiling was submerged; there was no air. But he thrust up hard all the same…
…and smacked his skull against the ceiling.
His eyes rolled, brain fogging, all strength leeching from his limbs. The flow took him, throwing him around like a ragdoll. He clattered against the walls, the floor, the roof of the tunnel, his flesh cut and torn in a dozen places. Vaguely, he sensed the blood leaking from a gash in his head. His ears pounded, heart smashing at his ribs. He felt like he was floating, spinning through space, glowing lights in white and green and blue racing past in a blur…
