David Drake - Master of the Cauldron

"They're up above us again," Manza said. "They're coming closer, I think."

"They aren't there!" Athan said. His head was bent forward as if he needed to watch his feet for every step. "Just don't look and they'll go away!"

"They willnot go away," said Mab. "But they can't do you physical harm. Follow me and we'll make it through."

One of the Sons clustering close behind her turned. Hard to tell what he was thinking, but when he saw Cashel bringing up the back with his quarterstaff across his body-and across the width of the crevice, which was just as tight as it'd looked before they entered-he jerked his face forward again and kept on the way he'd been going.

Cashel wouldn't have sworn which of them it'd been; and anyway, Orly needn't be ashamed for being scared. He'd proved he was brave when he'd charged Cashel on the exercise ground after seeing what the quarterstaff'd done to his friends.

They walked on, surrounded by Mab's light. Cashel knew from watching other wizards that it was a lot of work to keep up a steady thing like that light. Mab didn't seem to show the strain. She'd walked and talked with them just like always, but she must feel like she was carrying a load of timber.

Yes, that was pretty impressive; but in the long run it wouldn't make any difference. The light would go out and Mab would sink under the effort, fall down right here in the ooze and darkness. She'd be the lucky one. Cashel and the Sons wouldn't die right away but there wasn't anywhere for them to go, neither forward nor back. They'd die slowly, covered by the slime that was slowly filling the crevice. It'd fill the greater hall in back of them, and eventually slime would own all the places that men had been.

The world would be a better place when slime filled it.

He stumbled into Enfero, who'd knelt on the narrow path and was weeping. Though Cashel's eyes were open he'd been putting one foot in front of the other, scarcely aware of his surroundings. The collision shocked him back to the present. Though the light was no fainter than before, it was losing the rosy tinge. It turned the stone walls and the thin-stemmed plants that still lifted their leaves in hope a pale gray.

Cashel grabbed Enfero by the back of the collar, lifting him and shoving him forward. "Get on!" he said. "Keep walking! It's not time for us to die yet!"

At another time the words would've bothered Cashel to hear from anybody's mouth, let alone his own. Now it was the only truth in the world: they had to go on till they died and the world died and the sun grew cold. Cashel didn't know why that was, but he generally couldn't answer questions starting with "Why?" He just did the thing that'd been set him.

Stasslin hacked at the wall beside him. His sword made a nasty clang.

"It won't spark!" Stasslin cried. "It won'tspark!"

Nor did it, maybe because of the slime that covered the stone. Stasslin struck three times more; then his sword broke just above the guard. The blade flew off, and Stasslin flung his hilt after it.

Enfero was marching forward again. He'd lost his sword too, either back where he'd knelt or maybe earlier that that. That didn't matter: the swords weren't good for anything. Nothing was, not even Cashel's quarterstaff.

Furious at the hopelessness of it all, Cashel whirled his staff before him. It moved sluggishly, like he was trying to spin it underwater. Somethingripped sizzlingly; a brilliant azure flash lit the crevice. Momentarily, just for a heartbeat, the feeling of despair lifted.

Cashel spun the staff again. This time it moved the way it usually did, sliding through the air in an arc as pointless as the one the sun made every day: rising and setting, looking down on lands which slowly crumbled; sinking into a sea of cold gray slime that rose till the sun itself drowned in darkness.

The Sons stopped where they were, whining like a litter of puppies. Cashel set his staff crossways and shouted, "Go on!"

He shoved them forward. Altogether they weighed much more than he did, but that didn't matter in Cashel's current temper. It was like dragging a bullock-and he'd done that, more by determination than by main force, hauling against the rope and, every time the beast relaxed, jerking it a further hand's-breadth on.

"Go on, you puppies!" Cashel said. "We've got to keep going till we die. Walk on!"

The Sons gave before him, stumbling on again. They didn't have the will to resist. Therewas no will that could've resisted Cashel's now. He'd go on and go on driving them with him till they all died.

They came out from the crevice between the down-tapering walls. They were now in a natural cave, a huge bubble in the rock. There were no crystal windows from here to the surface, not even those smeared over with algae. The glow shimmering from between Mab's hands was the only light in these depths, and that was as faint as the sky an hour before winter dawn.

The walls had the layering of natural rock; stalactites pointed the distant roof. Across the great opening was a bronze door, impressive but smaller than those of some temples Cashel had by now seen in the waking world.

"Come!" said Mab, her voice shrill. She hobbled toward the doorway, taking full steps with her right leg but only half steps with her left. At some time during the journey she'd become an ancient harridan, toothless and hunching under the weight of years.

What was the truth of her? Cashel wondered, but the answer didn't matter because nothing mattered in a world that was merely a prelude to the end.

The Sons hesitated, their heads bent. "Get moving, you!" Cashel said. "Soon we can die, but not yet!" The boys obeyed because they didn't have the strength to do anything else.

Mab reached the bronze door. Close up it was larger than Cashel'd thought from across the cave. The metal was perfectly smooth except for the line down the center where the panels joined.

She raised her hands. The light she'd projected to that moment vanished; the dark closed in, complete. Now we can die, Cashel thought in a great wave of relief.

"Cashel, keep them off me," said a voice from the blackness. It must be Mab, but it sounded like a little girl. A frightened little girl.

"There's nothing I can do," Cashel said, too bleak to be angry, but he turned his back to the door and gave his staff a trial spin. First he rotated it widdershins, but that wasn't right, didn'tfeel right. He reversed the spin, turning the shaft sunwise, a little quicker each time and with all the power of his thick wrists behind it.

The touch of the hickory, smooth and familiar, reminded Cashel of times that thingsdid matter. Things like the sun and the way clouds piled up before a storm; and love, his for Sharina and the heartstopping wonder of hers for Cashel or-Kenset. He didn't feel those things, but he viewed them in memory as if in a mirror of black glass.

The quarterstaff spun. He brought it overhead, then shifted it before him again because that was what felt right. He couldn't see anything and there was nothing in the darkness to touch, but the spinning wood calmed him and the thrum of the staff as it sliced arcs from the air quieted the Sons' whimpers.

Mab spoke in an undertone. Hissing wizardlight, red weaving with blue, glanced from the bronze and threw back the endless night for a few moments more.

Cashel had his rhythm now. He kept the staff spinning, feeling the weight of what he couldn't see and knowing he was pressing back on it. He gasped with laughter. It was a fight after all, even though he didn't know what he was fighting. That didn't matter: a fight was a fight, and he'd win it or die.

"Brimaio thiahiao…," Mab said. Cashel didn't look behind him, but he heard metal squeal on metal and the bronze valves begin to rumble open. "Chermari!"

"Get in there, you Sons of Heroes!" Cashel said. The pressure was driving him backward and the quarterstaff turned in treacle, not air; but it turned. "Get in while I hold them!"