“Dragons, massed troops, that sort of thing?” Semoor asked impishly.
“That sort of thing,” Tessaril agreed, with the slightest of smiles, and waved them out the door.
Chapter 13
But deep in halls dark and haunted
Even heroes bold, high-vaunted
Twice and thrice, to end up daunted
Think of loved ones deeply wanted
And much safer places to be.
Thalloviir Vaundruth,
I mislike the look of yon doors,” Bey Freemantle said, breaking his habitual silence.
A few paces to his left, Martess wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell? ”
“Troll,” Islif said shortly. “Mate-rut: the stink they make to tell other trolls they’re ready to breed.” She tramped back and forth. “ ’Tis stronger in that direction.”
“So,” Semoor said brightly, “we’ll go the other way!”
Around him, several Swords looked uneasily about.
“I’d not want to come stumbling out of the Halls, weary and perhaps hurt-only to find half a dozen trolls waiting for me,” Doust said grimly.
Islif shrugged. “Then get you to yon temple and embrace new prayers as the ‘adventure’ in your life.”
“Our lanterns won’t burn forever,” Agannor snapped. “Let’s get going.”
Pennae looked to Florin, who nodded. Then she strolled forward, keeping close to the left wall of the square opening in the rockface. In one hand she held her own small lantern; in the other, a long, thin sapling she’d had Florin cut for her.
The Swords watched. Starwater Gorge seemed to have fallen very silent around them.
Holding her lantern high, Pennae peered at the stone wall, the ceiling, and the floor. She prodded all of them with her wooden pole, stepped forward, and repeated the probings. The Swords drifted forward a pace or two.
Pennae probed on, reaching a back corner beside the doors. She played her lantern back across the passage, peering at the far side, then turned her attention to the doors. Pressing herself right into the corner, she reached out to touch the nearest door with the sapling, letting its blunt end trail along the panels. Then she probed the floor in front of it and the ceiling above it. Nothing happened.
“Gods,” Semoor muttered. “I’m going to die of old age just standing here watching.”
“You could be praying,” Martess told him tartly.
Pennae paid them no attention at all, other than to look up at Doust and firmly point out at the gorge, to remind him he was supposed to be watching for approaching beasts or outlaws, not staring at her. Guiltily, the priestling of Tymora swung around.
The rest of the Swords watched Pennae step cautiously forward to take a ‘ready to spring’ stance right in front of one of the doors, peering at it as if she expected it to lunge at her. Never taking her eyes off it, she ducked down and bobbed back up again, in a single graceful movement, to pluck something long, dark, and thin from inside her right boot.
“She’s good at this,” Semoor muttered. “I wonder how much practice she’s had?”
The “something” proved to be a long rod with a small hook at one end and an eyelet at the other. Pennae undid a clasp at her belt, hooked that clasp around the eyelet-it fastened there with an audible click-then began to turn herself around and around while standing in the same spot, walking widdershins. Coils of dark cord that had been tight around her waist fell around her ankles, until she reached what looked like a slender, flat, miniature version of a ship’s turnbuckle. This she undid, hooking the end still wrapped around her onto to her belt buckle. Taking up the free end of the cord now separated from her, she knotted it around one end of the sapling and swung open her belt buckle to reveal a palm-sized bundle of heavy thread.
Islif moved forward, watching with narrowed eyes, as Pennae lashed the hook to the other end of sapling with expert speed. Kicking the coils of cord to one side, she stepped back toward the corner, carefully keeping her feet just to the flagstones she’d probed, until she could just reach the pull-ring of the nearest door with it. Ducking down and lifting one hand as a shield in front of her face, she couched her other arm around the sapling as if it were a knight’s lance, and deftly dropped the hook over the ring.
Nothing happened, though Pennae tensed, peering and listening, for two long breaths.
Then, careful to keep tension on the hook so it wouldn’t slip off, she backed away, keeping to the route along the wall she’d probed earlier. When she reached the end of the sapling and had to let go of it, she’d already wound the cord thrice around her arm, so as the wood sagged, the cord stayed as taut as a ready bowstring-and the door started to creak open.
Pennae stopped to frantically wave the Swords away to either side. After a moment, all of them obeyed, moving to right or left of the passage-mouth, and she nodded grimly and resumed her retreat, dragging the door open.
The doors proved not to be latched to each other, or secured in any way. They were old, thick, and heavy, but hung a thumbwidth or so clear of the flagstones, and so didn’t stick against the floor.
Beyond them was dark stillness. With one of the two doors fully open, Pennae crouched, aiming her lantern up high inside. Then, cautiously, she advanced along the wall, retrieving her hook and placing the sapling as a prop to hold the door wide.
She was restoring the cord to around her waist when Agannor stirred, sighed, and growled, “I’m not standing out here all day! Let’s be about this!”
A moment later, he’d drawn his sword and was striding forward, approaching the doors square-on as if traversing a long hallway in purposeful haste.
“Wait-” Pennae blurted, throwing out one hand.
Ignoring her, the fair-haired fighter ducked through the open door, glancing quickly to the right, then up at the ceiling. Then he stepped back. “Dark in here,” he drawled. “Lass, that lantern of yours?”
Pennae sighed in exasperation, took up her sapling, and joined him. He reached for the lantern, but she deftly ducked away behind him, snapping, “No. Bladesmen with lanterns make superb targets. Get yourself killed on your own time.”
Agannor glared at her for a moment, his eyes two hard points-then relaxed, laughed, and waved Pennae forward with a grand flourish.
Uneasily the rest of the Swords moved forward.
Take command, Florin reminded himself, hastening to their forefront. Behind him, Semoor asked the listening world, “So we’ve poked our noses into the Haunted Halls, yes? Fulfilled our promise to the king, and can go elsewhere, right now, heads high and-”
“Stoop,” Islif snapped, elbowing the priestling in the gut as she passed, “belt up. Now.”
Walking in her wake, Jhessail sighed. “I wondered how long it would take before we happy merry adventurers ended up at each other’s throats.”
Behind them, Doust cleared his throat tentatively. “Uh, do you want me to stay here on trollwatch? Or…?”
Islif swung around. “Come on, Clumsum. Stride on up here and get killed with the rest of us.”
Jhessail rolled her eyes.
Two tunics tied around his shoulders and his old and patched weathercloak shrugged on over them, plus the hargaunt arranged just so, made Horaundoon seem a huge-headed, bulbous-nosed giant of a man. As he lurched
