The torch 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.