orch died in his hand. He groped for the spare one tucked in his belt, but a big hand closed over his, to stop him. Beor’s hostile presence hulked beside him. Nothing could stop Beor from killing him right here and right now. The hounds did not growl.
In the silence, he heard what Beor and Kel were straining to hear: the distant clash of a melee echoing weirdly down the labyrinth of iron halls. Beor pushed past Alain to take the lead, but he had gone no farther than ten steps, past two branching tunnels, before he faltered. Some trick of the labyrinth made the sound fade. For a moment, the hiss of Beor’s torch drowned out the battle. The big man turned back to try one of the other tunnels, but the hounds surged past him, Alain in their wake, and continued on in the same direction. As the passage twisted, the clamor of arms would sound close, then far, and although they went quickly, still Alain was careful to mark each turning so that they could return.
His sight had adjusted to the dimness. With Beor’s torch flaring fitfully behind him, painting shadows and streaks of light over the uncannily regular curve of the tunnel’s ceiling, he had no trouble marking his footing. The hounds did not falter. Kel brought up the rear.
He had no trouble marking his footing until he stumbled, slipped where the ground banked sharply down, and half slid into a chamber lit by sorcery, a flaring yellow-white light that blinded him because it was so bright.
One of the hounds barreled into him. He staggered back into the shadowed archway of the tunnel, fell to his knees, and flung up his staff, thinking he would be struck down while he was helpless. No blow came.
Not four steps in front lay an abyss, into which he had almost stumbled. From this angle, he couldn’t see its bottom.
The clash of arms echoed all around the chamber, making it hard to tell where it was coming from. Strangest of all, he heard no voices, as if the melee were being conducted in silence. The hounds did not bark or cry out a warning. Kel whispered a word: skrolin! Beor gave a sharp hiss to keep Kel quiet.
Bright light flared again and immediately dimmed to a mellow glow as suddenly as if a giant’s breath had blown out a rack of ten torches, leaving only one burning. By this light, Alain saw a melee strung out on the other side of the chasm. About a dozen of the masked warriors struggled against slender, small creatures, who looked like half-grown children whose skin had been polished until it had the muted gleam of pewter. The feathers ornamenting the warriors’ helmets and armor convulsed with their movements. Many had pushed their masks down for better sight in the dimness. Their bronze spears rang on the round shields held by the little people, shields incised with strange geometric patterns too peculiar to recognize. In their left hands these small fighters held slender clubs with knobby heads that seemed inadequate to the task of war.
All at once, Alain saw Adica, caught in the mob, her hands bound. A man with a helmet crested entirely with snow-white feathers shoved her forward into the hands of his foremost soldiers, trying to move her toward a far archway that gave into a larger passage: their escape route.
Beor nudged Alain, pointing.
A bridge spanned the chasm.
“Ashioi,” Beor continued in a low voice. “Fe skrolin d’Ashioiket.”
Alain set two fingers to his lips for silence and crept forward.
The narrow bridge was cunningly spun out of massive iron rope. He crossed swiftly, crouched low, with the hounds at his heels and the two men following. The bridge swayed beneath his tread. No one on the other side had seen them; they were too intent on keeping alive as the battle swayed back and forth, voices grunting, coughing, and once a shriek of pain, quickly cut off.
The light changed again, brightening with a flash. The skrolin leaped forward in unison to grapple with their enemies. Now Alain could see that the skrolin weapon was more vicious than it appeared: protruding from the club were two moist spikes, serpent fangs with drops of venom that sparkled in the sorcerous light. They used it to strike at the legs of their taller opponents, bringing them down. One masked warrior, forced to her knees, came eye-to-eye with the small warrior whose club was now pinned under her weight. The skrolin punched its shield into her beautiful hawk’s mask, splintering wood, but as the skrolin drew back for another strike, the kneeling warrior wrapped the haft of her spear behind the neck of the skrolin to force it against its own shield, choking it until its eyes bulged and its head began to loll as it fought for air. Its helmet fell free, rolling along the edge with a rhythmic tinkling sound before plummeting into the black pit.
Alain leaped from the bridge to the firm rock below. Swinging his staff in a full arc, he caught the warrior on the side of the head to knock her flat. The skrolin struggled, squirmed, and rolled away. The fallen woman’s eyelids fluttered. Her mouth, visible through the shattered mask, sighed open as in death. Had he killed her? But she moaned again and tried to rise before falling back, still stunned.
The nearest masked warrior slammed his shield against the skrolin facing him, before thrusting hard at Alain’s head. Alain gave a sharp parry and stepped inside his range to bring the butt end of his staff hard up into the gut of the warrior, then whipped the staff back down onto the man’s shoulder, forcing him to the ground.
Beor and the two hounds charged past Alain. The white-crested captain stepped forward to counter this new threat. Rage and Sorrow leaped to the attack but were met by a mist of gnats. Sorrow yelped and collapsed to the ground, scratching violently at his head, as Rage bit the haft of a spear. With jaws clenched tight over the wood, she shook the spear back and forth, worrying it free of the captain’s grasp. Beor quickly took advantage of White Feather’s helplessness with a thrust at the man’s unprotected back, but the white-crested warrior let go of the spear, dropped, and rolled to evade the thrust. In an eye blink, he leaped to his feet and drew his bronze sword. Beor had no shield to counter its thrusting tip. With a berserker’s fury or perhaps only an experienced warrior’s quick calculation of the odds, Beor dropped his spear, dodged the thrust, and grappled hand to hand with the captain.
Kel had joined Alain and together they parried blows from the other warriors, trying to sow confusion. Trying to stay alive. Rage leaped into the fray and Alain quickly lost sight of her. Sorrow had rolled out of harm’s way, still frantically clawing at his muzzle.
Kel had courage but little experience. His hesitations were costly, and only the presence of the skrolin kept the enemy from overwhelming them. But many of the skrolin had already fallen. Alain could mark each one—who was wounded, who was dead. That awareness swelled to encompass the entire field marked by the skirmish as he fought to keep alive, to keep his companions alive, and to drive a path through their ranks to Adica. The Lady of Battles did not attend him here. He had no desire to kill; the thought of killing revolted him. But as he parried and struck, spared Kel a glancing blow and shoved a fallen skrolin out of harm’s way, the melee gained sharpness and clarity, an uncanny predictability, a slowing down of time and motion as though all the other participants had been caught in a spell.
The openings became obvious, the blows struck at him easy to counter. As a child he had so loved and dreamed about the frescoes that adorned the church walls:
The fall of the ancient city of Dariya to savage horsemen. The fateful battle of Auxelles, where Taillefer’s nephew and his men lost their lives but saved the empire. The glorious victory of the first King Henry against Quman invaders along the River Eldar, where his bastard grandson Conrad the Dragon charged his troop of cavalry straight into the midst of the terrible host of Quman riders, breaking their line and sending them scattering back to their own lands.
The field of battle became itself like one of those tapestries, not an undecipherable chaos but a painting in which each fighter was as transparent to him as if he had opened a window into that mind. He knew who was scared and who was hesitant, who new to war, who dangerous through experience or because she was coldblooded. He knew who was ready to run and who was prepared to die.
The warrior before him did not wish to fight; she wanted nothing to do with humans and had all along thought it unwise to trespass below ground. The other warrior, facing Kel, was young, ready to prove himself valiant, and fearful enough of humans that he had the advantage over Kel. Alain stepped in to knock away a spear thrust that Kel, attention caught by Beor’s tumbling on the ground, wasn’t prepared to meet. At the same time the experienced warrior swung her haft toward his head, but he caught the blow on his staff. He pushed the lower tip of his staff behind the leg of the younger one, and with a twist tripped the young one while striking the elder in the forehead. Both fell.
Kel exclaimed aloud. The enemy line was breaking. Freed of her guard, Adica ducked low and dashed away along the cavern wall, into shadow.
The woman below Alain struggled to get up. Alain placed the heel of his hand on the center of her chest to pin her to the ground. Her eyes widened: they flashed green, like jade, bright and penetrating. Sanglant had such eyes, startling with their gemlike intensity. He stared at her and she at him, he in wonder at her beauty and fierce heart, she in a puzzlement that expanded into surprise and respect. Without a word, Alain granted her passage to leave. She sprang up and retreated, dragging the stumbling youth with her. Rage tumbled, unhurt, out of the melee to take up her position beside Alain.
Beor hadn’t as much luck. White Feather struck him hard in the shoulder, rocking him back, and jumped to his feet, calling out in a voice that reverberated through the chamber. His warriors, some still struggling and some in retreat, formed up into a stout line with their wounded at the rear.
earest masked warrior slammed his shield against the skrolin facing him, before thrusting hard at Alain’s head. Alain gave a sharp parry and stepped inside his range to bring the butt end of his staff hard up into the gut of the warrior, then whipped the staff back down onto the man’s shoulder, forcing him to the ground.
Beor and the two hounds charged past Alain. The white-crested captain stepped forward to counter this new threat. Rage and Sorrow leaped to the attack but were met by a mist of gnats. Sorrow yelped and collapsed to the ground, scratching violently at his head, as Rage bit the haft of a spear. With jaws clenched tight over the wood, she shook the spear back and forth, worrying it free of the captain’s grasp. Beor quickly took advantage of White Feather’s helplessness with a thrust at the man’s unprotected back, but the white-crested warrior let go of the spear, dropped, and rolled to evade the thrust. In an eye blink, he leaped to his feet and drew his bronze sword. Beor had no shield to counter its thrusting tip. With a berserker’s fury or perhaps only an experienced warrior’s quick calculation of the odds, Beor dropped his spear, dodged the thrust, and grappled hand to hand with the captain.
Kel had joined Alain and together they parried blows from the other warriors, trying to sow confusion. Trying to stay alive. Rage leaped into the fray and Alain quickly lost sight of her. Sorrow had rolled out of harm’s way, still frantically clawing at his muzzle.