He knows at once what they want from him, and he blushes furiously, heat spreading along his body.
“Pledge to us that which you have held to yourself for so long. If you find her, bring her here, and here, fulfill your pledge.”
“So be it,” he murmurs.
Sorrow barked. Alain staggered as though the ground had dropped out from under him. Beor caught the torch before it fell. He seemed about to speak, but they heard a ghostly whimper and both turned, weapons raised, just as Kel stumbled into the chamber, sweating with fear but with a grimace of determination on his young face.
Rage began digging furiously by the stone altar. Dirt flew, stinging the walls, and a moment later the deepening hole revealed a small plank door laid flat against the ground. Straining, Beor tugged it up. An ancient stairway cut down into the rock. At once, Sorrow descended cautiously. Kel muttered imprecations under his breath, but when Alain started down after the hound, he felt Kel head down behind him. Light flared; Beor had lit a second torch to bring up the rear.
The stairs were as smooth as if they’d been polished, and they descended in a curving sweep for long enough that they might have sung Nocturns and seen the sun rise at Prime. Instead of counting the steps, Alain focused his attention past Sorrow so they wouldn’t be ambushed out of the dark. Once he stopped so abruptly, hearing a noise, that Kel bumped into his back. The entire party came to a halt.
The noise came again. And again. It was only water, dripping into an unseen pool.
Beor handed round the waterskin and a corner of wayfarer’s bread, enough to slake thirst and hunger.
Torchlight flickered on featureless walls. The ceiling lay so low that he could easily touch it with the flat of his palm. By lifting his arms, he could tap the walls with his elbows. Truly, the rock had them closed in. Better not to think about it. Better not to dwell on a force of armed warriors skulking ahead of him, with spears leveled to pierce his gut. Better to be grateful that the rock remained dry instead of dripping clammy water all over them. It was always wise to thank God for small mercies. He smiled grimly as Sorrow headed down into darkness again. What need had he to fear, when he had already suffered the worst that could happen to any mortal?
They kept going until the stairs gave out abruptly in a landing just large enough to contain the two hounds and the three men. Beor lifted his spear to tap the rock ceiling, now out of arm’s reach. Two tunnels opened before them. A breath of air teased Alain’s face as though the rock itself had exhaled. Then all was still.
They each took a sip of water to wet their dry throats. The air had changed, stung with a sharp scent. The rock had changed as well; it didn’t precisely look like rock any more but had a smooth, polished gleam to it, shuddering under torchlight.
Kel spoke in a frightened whisper, something about a hill, or something under the hill. Nay, a people who lived under the hill, or so it seemed, for he used the word skrolin-sisi several times, enough that Alain was able to pick it out from the others. Was there a tribe who lived deep in the earth? Someone had carved these tunnels.
Beor answered in his big man’s rumble. If he, too, were afraid, it was impossible for Alain to tell.
Rage snuffled around the two black openings and chose the one to the right. They went on, but soon the tunnel split into two again and two more. If not for the hounds, they would have lost themselves, for they had stumbled into a labyrinth that went on and on for what seemed forever. Yet the stone walls remained dry and unmarked, oddly warm to the touch, unnaturally smooth. Whatever hand had built this place had not chosen to adorn it with any form of ornamentation. That made it easy for Alain to paint a sooty mark on the right-hand side of each new turning they took, so that they could, he devoutly hoped, find their way back.
The torch, burning low, began to sputter. They paused to take water with a bite of dried fish. The pitchy smoke steamed past Alain’s head, making him cough. His eyes streamed. Fighting for air, he inhaled but took in a lungful of the noxious smoke instead. Head spinning, he caught himself on the wall, leaning with his head pressed against the cool stone, trying to get steady. From deep in the rock noise shuddered up to drown out the pounding of his heart: a grinding rumble kicked at rhythmic intervals with a decisive clang, like the stroke of a gigantic blacksmith’s hammer.
He shut his eyes to stop the dizziness. For an instant he hallucinated: his cheek, pressed against the wall, lay against iron, as though he had fallen asleep on his sword.
He slid a hand up the wall as understanding struck him. The walls were not stone at all. Iron had been forged and shaped to form a cloak for the walls in the same way that soft leather was formed into a glove to fit a person’s fingers.