Rope chafes his wrists and ankles as he shuffles along, tugged awkwardly at intervals when the wagon to which he is tied speeds up. Once he slams into the back, not anticipating that it has stopped. Sharp rocks cut his feet, and he shifts in the hope of finding gentler ground.
A man curses him; a whip stings his backside more in annoyance than because he has hindered the line. The pain makes him flinch, but he does not cry out.
He has no voice. He cannot see. Blind and mute.
The canoe bumped up against the willow’s trunk as Stronghand threw his head back, searching the mist, but like the swamp lights the vision was already gone. Vanished.
What had happened to Alain? Where were the hounds?
He hadn’t the luxury for questions. They were vulnerable to attack here at the foot of the island cliff; a sentry moved far overhead. “What’s that light?” the sentry called.
Elafi grasped the trunk of the tree. He eased his fingers under the peeling bark and pried a piece of the trunk open to reveal a gaping hole large enough to admit the boat. The willow was rotten inside but cunningly disguised so as to seem whole. Elafi and Ki pushed them through as, above, a second sentry replied to the first.
“Swamp lights. See, that one just winked out.”
They glided under the willow’s gnarled roots and came into a chamber awash in mud and stinking of decay. Rocking the canoe, Ki leaned precariously out over the stern to close up the opening behind them.
“From here we must climb,” whispered Elafi.
They left the canoe, careful not to tip it, and waded through knee-deep sludge to a rock embankment. The air seeped like liquid into Stronghand’s lungs; the mud oozed around his shins, slurping and sucking. He had never smelled anything so vile, and he was careful to keep the standard entirely out of the muck lest some poison in the sludge contaminate its magic.
Elafi’s lamp illuminated the young man’s face as he scrambled up the embankment. He lifted the lamp to reveal a maw ridged with huge teeth. The jawbone and teeth of some huge creature, yawning, made the archway through which they must pass into a low tunnel.
“What is it?” asked First Son as Last Son grunted with surprise.
“A wyvern,” said Ki, behind him. “In ancient days the old sorcerers killed it and laid it here in the earth. A wyvern’s bones hold magic. That’s why it’s never been found by our enemies.”
Stairs made of slate slabs had been laid into the earth, braced on one side against the huge spinal column. As the creature had died, it had rolled to the right, and it was the impossibly long rib cage of the dead wyvern that gave support to the tunnel’s damp earth walls, so it seemed they were climbing up inside its belly. Only Ki and Elafi could stand upright; the RockChildren had to hunch over as they climbed the stairs by feel, since Elafi’s body blocked most of the light.
Maybe it was the magic lingering in the wyvern’s bones. Maybe it was the darkness, or the proximity of the stone crown. With each careful step up to the next slate stair, flashes of sound and sensation ripped through Stronghand.
“I don’t like the sound of that!” says one of the men—they all smell rank, that much he does know. “Move on! Move on! If we’re caught here, we’ll be slaughtered.”
His fingers slipped along a smooth rib, but he steadied himself and took another step up.
“Get up, bitch! Or I’ll kill the baby.” A woman sobs, crying for mercy.
He turns, seeking the direction of that despairing voice.
Far away, as in a dream, he hears horses’ hooves.
“Go! Go!”
“We’ll split up and meet in the town.”
He gropes, finds the weeping woman’s arm, and helps her up. A switch cuts into his ear, the one that throbs all the time, the swollen one, and he jerks back as pain roars through his head.
He staggered and barely caught himself, hand grasping at dirt, claws shicking out to scrape earth and send it spattering to the ground.
“Stronghand?” First Son sounded surprised, as well he might to see any sign of weakness.
Elafi hissed. “Hush, now! Hush!”
They waited as Elafi went ahead into the darkness, the gleam of curved bone flashing above him with each step until the young man simply vanished.
Stronghand took a step forward to follow him.
“I’ll take the woman.”
Screaming, she fights them. Her arm is torn from his grasp but as she is hauled away, she thrusts a bundle into his arms. The wagon lurches forward and he almost loses his footing as the rope snaps tight. He stumbles forward in its wake, clutching the bundle against him, wondering what it is. Moisture leaks onto his hands through cloth. For a while he has as much as he can do to trot along behind the rolling wagon, with staffs prodding him and the others who are bound.
