“He must release the trap before we can pass through.”
The cave smelled of carrion, enough to disturb the hounds, who wanted to find the source of the scent. Abruptly, Shevros’ shield vanished. Alain crawled after him through the dusty tunnel, which dipped down and rose up, emerging into the midst of thorns in a cavelike hollow carved out of the tangle of growth. He could barely see the sky through the skein of branches above, but a person standing on the ridge certainly would not be able to see the people scuttling along underneath. Broken thorns crunched beneath his feet as he followed Shevros down a dim tunnel hacked out of the vegetation. They waited until the others joined them.
“The trap is sealed again,” said Agalleos.
They went on, careful of hands and shoulders as the slope steepened. In this way, they headed down into the ravine. Alain had his hands full making sure the hounds did not tumble into the tearing wall of thorns. After Maklos had eased his passage through a tight opening a hand’s measure of times, Rage decided to befriend the cocky young man and even went so far as to lick his face, which made Maklos spit and sputter. Agalleos trailed at the rear, often lost beyond twists and turns. How much labor had it taken Shu-Sha’s tribe to cut this labyrinth under the thorns?
Shevros halted at a crossroads to wait and, as if divining Alain’s amazement from his expression, spoke. “The queen’s magic is strong.” Then he scrambled on, bent over like a hunched old man as he scurried down the right-hand fork.
Alain’s hand was beginning to hurt again, but he gritted his teeth against the pain and went on.
They emerged out of the last thorn tunnel by shinnying along a depression dug alongside a huge boulder that brought them into a confusing jumble of boulders and scree wider across than an arrow’s shot, the tail end of a massive avalanche that had ripped down the western slope and torn through the thorny cover. Alain expected to hear the wind moaning through the rocks, to hear anything except silence, but all he heard was the scritch of Agalleos’ feet as the man walked forward to survey the devastation. It was still morning, early enough that the eastern slope of the valley remained in shadow. The calls and answers of the Cursed Ones’ scouts rang in the air as they continued their search down the eastern ridge. Sun crept steadily down the broad western side of the valley; it would reach them soon enough. With heat already rising from the rocks, it promised to be a blistering hot day.
“Come.” Agalleos gestured.
The fall of rocks, tumbled, fallen, shattered, loose shale and streams of fist-sized rocks snaking paths through larger brethren, made difficult going. It was hard to be quiet as they crunched over pebbles, negotiated a field of boulders as big as sheep, and squeezed through clefts made by two boulders fallen one up against the next. Shevros knew the twisty, dusty lanes well; he led them unerringly, never hesitating. Had he spent his entire life, from childhood on, engaged in this game of life or death, one step ahead of the Cursed Ones? Alain could not think of the child who had swung down before them, at the stream, without shuddering. So young to be sent out already on the hunt, to be trained for nothing but war.
No plants grew within the rockfall except for an occasional dusting of lichen. No birds flitted to catch his attention. But there was one sign of human encroachment: here and there, tucked away under ledges, caught around a jagged line of sight, scattered out in the open, lay human bones, picked clean by scavengers, scattered by wind and erosion or caught in spring streams that had, by now, dried up. The sun rose higher, light cutting down. The rocks grew hot to the touch as they picked their way forward, bearing on a diagonal line upslope.
“Why are they called the Screaming Rocks?” Alain asked at last when they paused to catch their breath in the shadow of a leaning slab of rock, some giant’s finger torn loose from the escarpment above. He let the hounds lap water out of his cupped hands, their dry tongues eager on his palms. “I thought there would be pipes in the rock, some natural sound.”
Agalleos smiled softly. Shevros had gone ahead to keep watch. Alain saw a corner of his kilt flapping out as the breeze caught it; otherwise, the young man was hidden from view. Maklos had dropped behind to guard the rear.
“It is not the wind that screamed here. In my father’s youth the Cursed Ones set fire to the great city of my people, the one built in the time of Queen Aradousa. A battle raged among these rocks for days. It was the men who screamed, the ones who had been cut down, injured, left for the scorpions or the crows, left to die of thirst in the sun, because no one could reach them.”
“Who won?”