one of Balif’s greatest triumphs.
Obviously later generations had forgotten it. Hamaramis was frankly astonished. “You mean elf fought elf?”
She nodded. “Hundreds died. As a result, the western forest was divided into military districts, each with its own garrison. The society of Brown Hoods, believed by the Speaker to have been behind the rebellion, was ruthlessly suppressed.”
“Brown Hoods?”
“A league of rural clerics and wild magicians. The most famous Brown Hood was Vedvedsica.”
By now, all the warriors were listening. They regarded the young scribe with new respect.
“How do you know all this?” Hamaramis asked.
“I’m a scribe. I read.”
The draft grew stronger, forcing the warriors to shield their torches with their bodies. Hamaramis considered their next move. The southwest leg of the crossing tunnel would take them beneath the woodland and away from their camp. Northeast led directly to the circular stone platform. Hamaramis thought it likely that if the tunnel system had a hub, it would be found under the huge platform, the valley’s dominant feature.
They headed northeast, with the breeze at their backs, walking in single file. Hamaramis led, followed by two warriors, then Vixona, and finally the last warrior. Vixona kept count of her paces, measuring the length of the tunnel as they traveled. They’d gone about a mile when the wind abruptly grew stronger. One warrior, caught with too light a grip on his torch, found it snatched from his hand. The burning brand bounced ahead of them for quite a distance, sending out sparks with each impact. It finally came to rest against the wall. By its light they saw a figure struggling on the floor.
“Help!” The plea was in the Common tongue, flavored by a human accent. “Help me, please!” The man was clinging to the edge of a wide pit. Only his head and arms were visible. The elves ran to him, and two warriors dragged him to safety.
He was a human of middle years, dark haired, and dressed in brown leather. When the warriors saw his scabbard and knife, they drew their own weapons.
“Who are you?” Hamaramis demanded.
“My name is Jeralund. I’m a hunter-”
“How did you get here? There are no humans in Inath-Wakenti.”
“I chased a stag through a narrow ravine in the mountains and emerged in the valley. It wasn’t on my map. Last night, before I could get out, some sort of floating fireball touched me. Next thing I know, I’m in these caves.”
One of the warriors relieved Jeralund of his weapons.
Hamaramis eyed the human’s sword with suspicion. It was a war blade, “Are you a soldier?”
“I have been.” So had most of the able-bodied folk on the continent.
A further search produced a pouch of coins, new ones. Steel coins usually turned brown after a month or two in circulation. His were still bright and free of rust. They were also Nerakan.
“I’m afraid you must consider yourself our prisoner, at least for now,” Hamaramis said, The man protested, but Hamaramis cut him off. “It’s for the Speaker to decide what’s to become of you.”
Vixona, who had moved away from the interrogation for a peek into the pit, called for the general to take a look. The pit was extraordinarily deep. She doubted there was enough rope in the valley to plumb its depths. But that wasn’t what interested her.
“Take the torches away and look down,” she said. A warrior took their lit torches and moved a short distance away. In the ensuing darkness, a faint, bluish aura could be seen far, far down in the pit.
“And listen,” Vixona said.
From the deep shaft came a slow, regular thud. It sounded very much like the rhythm of a beating heart.
Chapter 13
Showers of rain trailed across Inath-Wakenti like filmy curtains. From the elves’ camp in the center of the valley, the entire panorama of clouds and clear sky, sunlight and rain, was laid out like a magnificent mural. Gray clouds advanced rapidly across the heavens, bursts of rain alternating with shafts of sunlight that reached down with golden fingers to caress the ancient white monoliths.
Gilthas stared at the beautiful vista and saw none of it. He was sitting alone in his palanquin at the edge of the great stone disk, recruiting his strength. The explorers he’d sent into the tunnel were overdue. Repeated shouts into the pit had evinced no response. There was no shortage of volunteers ready to go down after the explorers, but Gilthas forbade it. He wouldn’t risk more lives.
Even more bitter was Kerian’s absence. She had a habit of overcoming long odds, but a trip alone to Khuri- Khan to spirit away the Khurs’ most holy priestess might be more than even the Lioness could handle. He intended to use the platform’s power to call to his wife and the missing explorers, as he had spoken with Hytanthas before. None of them knew the scope of the valley’s strange influence. If Gilthas could shift a gigantic monolith with one hand, perhaps he could send his words beyond the valley’s confines to wherever his wife might be. It was the only thing he could think to do for her.
The shaft of sunlight that briefly illuminated the platform was swallowed up by a new squall. The golden light seemed to race across the white granite, trailing rain in its wake. The palanquin had a canvas shade to keep off sun and rain. Gilthas found the sound of the rain pattering on the canvas surprisingly soothing.
He had need of such small comforts. Other problems had worsened. Food supplies continued to dwindle. He authorized more foraging parties, but they returned with frustratingly little sustenance. A few bushels of herbs, some dandelion greens, and a smattering of wild mushrooms would not sustain a nation. For the first time, he questioned his decision to bring his people to Inath-Wakenti. He wondered whether he had made a disastrous choice. Perilous as their existence in Khurinost had been, there they faced enemies they could see and fight. In the valley the foe was a situation, exacerbated by an army of silent phantoms. The elves had paid a high price to get here. Many had died during the march across the desert, and those who survived heat and nomad attacks found death still stalking them, death by starvation.
Could he have chosen another path? Kerian had never wavered in championing her dream of retaking their homelands. Yet Gilthas knew without any doubt that that was beyond their power, at least for the moment. Her secondary plan, to seize Khuri-Khan and hold it as a citadel, was completely outlandish and would have resulted in slaughter and suffering on a terrifying scale. Their one and only advantage-the sanctuary they’d purchased from the khan-would have been lost. Every hand would have turned against them.
The rain fell harder. He shouldn’t delay any longer. He stood too quickly. His legs nearly betrayed him, but he bore down hard on his staff and did not fall. Droplets of rain fell on his face. He ignored them and approached the platform. The granite was more finely grained and purely white than any he’d seen before.
Fifteen inches showed above ground. More lay buried. Gilthas should’ve been able to leap onto the slab in one easy bound. Instead, he struggled as though scaling a mountain.
When he finally succeeded, he was gasping. The rain soaked his hair, streamed over his eyes, and ran off his chin. Rather than a hindrance, the rain was pleasant, almost warm, which was odd since it came from the lofty mountains. Its effect was unexpected. It acted like a tonic, giving his thoughts new clarity, his body new strength of purpose. He pushed forward, making for the center of the huge circular monument.
The tip of his staff slipped on the wet granite, and he went sprawling. He skinned the knuckles of his left hand and got a nasty knock on the jaw. Undeterred, he got himself back onto his feet. Rain rinsed the blood away.
When he reached the exact center of the platform, an odd thing happened. The rain continued to pour down on him and splash onto the stone, but it made no noise. It was weird to observe the fall of rain yet hear no sound of it at all. Curious, he clapped his hands together. They made no sound either. He drove the butt of his staff into the
