Roland Green - The Wayward Knights

Fulvura would have questioned his wits, if not his honor or courage, and in private.

Darin had done man and minotaur alike great service, even if he had done so through listening to Lujimar's blandishments, and without considering all the possible consequences.

Zeskuk hoped that Darin would survive his grapple with Wilthur's Creation, and that he and Rynthala would have many tall sons with the knowledge of minotaur ways bred into their bones. He even allowed himself to hope that Lujimar would think again about his march to death.

But hope was all the chief could do. Against a priest determined to wash out dishonor with his blood, even the Emperor stood as much chance as a babe matched in the arena against a full-fledged warrior.

Hiding it with his body, Zeskuk made a gesture of aversion, for Darin's and Lujimar's good luck. He had just finished it when a cry rose from ahead: "We've found a cave!"

"Big enough for minotaurs!"

"It has to lead into the Smoker!"

Zeskuk hurried forward. There was no such thing as "has to" in this battle; even caves could have a mind of their own. But it was promising news, nonetheless.

The only problem was that one of the first to discover the cave seemed to have been Lujimar. At any rate, several warriors said they had seen him entering it when they arrived, and no one had seen him since. Zeskuk himself walked about half a shatang-throw into the cave. The passage twisted, turned, rose, fell, and generally behaved like a snake drunk on bad ale. But it allowed minotaurs fighting room nearly everywhere, and its general course was toward the depths of the Smoker.

The chief strode back into the light, and called for volunteers to follow him and Lujimar over the final stage of the journey to Wilthur's lair.

Darin was not good at measuring distances underground, with few marks to guide him. Rynthala was better, the sailors better still, and the Dimernesti best of all. So he had plenty of trustworthy observers to tell him that the underground attack had covered perhaps a mile and a third, when they came to the barrier.

It was not an unconquerable barrier, bringing all their efforts to naught. It was merely that a rockfall had blocked part of a natural arch, leaving at the top a clear passage-but only for persons of moderate stature. At the bottom was a partly blocked opening that would allow a minotaur with a kender standing on his shoulders to march through without stooping-once it was cleared.

There could be no simple solution, either, because on the far side they could hear the lapping of water. Not where it would be released as by a broken dam when they cleared the passage; that was not the peril. But any large body of water in these depths might hold the Creation. Any party who passed through at the top would need to be fighting-fit.

"I shall lead," Torvik said. "Chuina, I will need archers more than anything else. Archers and spearmen, and if they have fire arrows, so much the better. The more we can fight at a distance, the longer we can hold."

"What are you thinking, picking my people to help you die?" Chuina almost snapped.

Torvik said nothing, merely put an arm around his sister's shoulder.

"All right," she acquiesced. "Just be careful, or this could be a bad day for Mother."

Chuina's look said that a direct command from their mother could not have kept her from leading her people into this fight. Darin realized that if he had not already wed Rynthala, he might have begun to think of becoming Torvik's brother-by-marriage. Chuina had a sense of honor as fierce as a minotaur's, the discretion of a human, and such skill in war to make one reluctant to question either.

The knight and his lady stepped back. The tallest person able to fit through the upper gap was a good three inches shorter than Rynthala. Their task for now lay below, commanding, and, if need be, guarding the stone-movers.

He looked at the stones. The dwarves might not think much of his knowledge, but he had listened when they spoke, whether they knew it or not. Wise stonemasons always braced the upper stones before beginning work on the lower ones….

Torvik scrambled down the last slope of rock, crested the miniature sand dune, and looked at the underground lake. Behind him he heard the vanguard spreading out, to keep watch in all directions. Then he heard a not-quite-muffled oath.

Mirraleen was still in the upper passage, not through it as he had expected her to be. Indeed, she looked as if she were stuck.

He scrambled back up. The rough rock had scraped her skin the color of her hair in several places.

Now Torvik cursed. "If I took your hands-" he offered.

Mirraleen groaned, saying, "Don't tempt me. I would likely as not block the passage for everyone behind me, until folk came up from below to pull me back. And I would have no skin left to speak of."

It was no use suggesting that she transform. She could not do that again for several more hours. Even if she had been able to become a sea otter now, she would have been trapped in that form-and nearly helpless on land-for even more hours.

"Well, I appreciate your skin too much to wish it marred," Torvik said lightly. "But we need one of your folk on this side. The water looks too deep for human exploring, at least not without a boat."

Indeed, the lake seemed to have no end and no bottom, but that might only have been the weakness of the glow-balls. The band was not yet running short of light, but to avoid being cast into darkness they had to be cautious with the light that they had.

"Oh, stop panting for your lover and let one whose passions don't toss him like kelp in a whirlpool go forward," someone muttered. Mirraleen disappeared almost as fast as if she had been dragged backward. A moment later Kuyomolan scrambled through the opening. He was no more than a finger or maybe a thumb's breadth smaller than Mirraleen, but that was enough to make the difference.

Chuina squealed at the sight of the Dimernesti least fond of humans.

"You sound like a mating porpoise," Kuyomolan growled. "The first sign of pleasure at the sight of me I've heard in a good while."

Chuina looked as if her fingers itched to put an arrow through Kuyomolan, or at least spank him raw with her unstrung bow. The Dimernesti looked hardly fonder of her.

"Peace, both of you," Torvik said. At least that was what he tried to say. Echoes of what had already been said were still flitting about the cavern, and they trampled half his words into oblivion.

Then he heard a deep gurgling, like a barrel the size of Solinari emptying itself into an infinitely deep cellar. Something hissed like a clan of serpents, and an indescribable stench blew past him.

He turned, without surprise, to behold the Creation rising from the depths of the lake.

Gerik was thinking that the line of smoke plumes had reached the village when a kender scuttled out of the underbrush. It was one of the Shorn One's companions, looking as if he himself had been shorn of nearly everything but life itself-and a desire for vengeance.

"Riders on the yellow trail," the kender said. "That's from the yellow clay. Really, the fallen needles hide the yellow most of the time, but the name hasn't changed since my great-grandfather's time."

"Where is it?" Bertsa Wylum asked. Gerik was about to warn her not to be so impatient with a kender in a mood to chatter, when the kender knelt and began to draw a map in the dust.

Gerik and Wylum together were able to make sense of the map, and that sense was bad news. Some of the sell-swords might have deserted House Dirivan's service. Some might have died or stopped to loot and burn. But some eighty-odd were coming on swiftly, clearly trying to find a place where they could strike across every path that those retreating from Tirabot might take.