Basalt stumbled past the edge of the clearing and barely avoided tripping on an overgrown log. He rushed forward, heedless of his path, and more than once crashed into a shadowy tree or lost his feet in a tangle of creepers. Desper ately he wanted to stop and rest, or stop and listen for sounds of his pursuers, but he knew he could not — if he stopped, he might never move again. He also knew that he would never hear anything over the sound of his own lungs heaving against his bruised ribs or the blood pounding in his ears.
He ran blindly and nearly senseless, until suddenly the ground gave way beneath him. He stepped out into nothing, and silvery blackness rushed past him. Less than a heartbeat later, Basalt splashed into an ice-cold stream. His throat wanted to scream even while his mind fought to keep con trol. His chest felt as if it were wrapped in iron bands.
In panic Basalt clawed his way up the muddy bank and lay there shivering, his courage spent. The tiny bit of strength that remained was completely occupied in keeping
Basalt from weeping openly. But he swore he would not cry, not even if the derro found him there and chopped him to bits on the spot.
'I know Flint wouldn't cry,' he sputtered through clenched teeth. But he could not stop the tears from flowing, for his agony, for his fear and desperation. For his Uncle Flint.
After a few minutes, Basalt hiccupped to a stop. He could hear the sounds of the forest again. His teeth stopped chat tering, and the ringing subsided in his ears. He crawled a few yards away from the stream and toward a thicket. There he lay, waiting for the pursuing derro.
Basalt listened for several minutes, but heard nothing.
Could they have lost my trail? he wondered. But he knew that made no sense. Used to life underground, the derro could see even better than him in the dark, and they weren't frightened out of their wits either. He had certainly left a trail that even a child could follow. So where were they?
Either they are toying with me, or… or they didn't fol low me at all, Basalt thought. Strangely, the first possibility did not frighten him, but the second made him angry. Basalt reflected on the humiliating beating, remembered his bruises and shattered bones, and felt the cuts and scrapes suffered during his wild flight through the forest. He was nothing but a joke to these derro, first a punching bag and then a frightened rabbit to be chased off.
The shame was almost more than he could bear. Exhausted beyond endurance, broken in body and spirit, Ba salt lapsed gratefully into unconsciousness.
Flint plunged down the steeply angled, rocky chute, tum bling head over heels, slamming from side to side. He fought to gain some control over the plummet, but could barely discern up from down. Jagged edges of granite tore at his flesh and clothing as his hands groped desperately for any thing to grip. Suddenly his short fingers slapped against something long, thin, and hard, and instantly they locked around it. The dwarf growled in pain as his hand slid along the knobby shaft. Dirt and rock rained down on his head as the sudden weight on his handhold loosened sections of the wall. Daring to glance up, Flint saw he had caught an an cient tree root, half buried in the wall of the pit. He clamped his fist around it tighter and clung to the exposed root with all his might and desperation.
His feet met a rocky outcropping as he came to a stop. Ex pecting the rock beneath him to tear lose under the impact,
Flint tightened his grip on the root as he tested the size of the ledge with his toes. To his alarm, it was only six inches deep, albeit three times his girth in width. He pressed his back against the wall and tried to think as he caught his breath.
What now?
That thought was barely formed in his head when some thing heavy crashed down around his shoulders, flailing and thrashing.
'Help me!'
Stunned and knocked off balance by the weight, Flint nearly lost his grip and tumbled over the edge, but blind in stinct locked his fingers around the tree root. In spite of its tone of terror, he recognized the voice of the dwarven frawl guard, although he didn't dare budge an inch to look up.
'I can't hang on — ' she squealed as she began to tumble off of Flint's shoulders, windmilling her arms.
'Get your feet on the ledge!' Flint hissed. 'Hug the wall!'
Flattening himself even more, he grabbed her flapping arms in one hand and held them tightly while she scrambled for footing next to him. Flint guided her hands to the root and together they clung to it, panting from fear and exertion.
After a moment's rest, Flint peered at the frawl. 'What are you doing here?' he asked bluntly as he pressed his bleeding cheek to his shoulder. 'Trip?' He coughed violently on the dirt in his throat.
'Hardly.' Perian shot back, not daring to move. 'I was pushed in behind you by that swine-son, Pitrick. He'll roast on a slow spit for this.'
'That's assuming we get unspitted ourselves,' Hint re sponded. 'Do you have any idea how far down the bottom is, or how to get out, or what exactly is at the bottom?'
'Of course not!' Perian snapped. 'It's a beast pit. No one comes down here exploring. No one comes down here at all with any hope of getting out.'
A noise from below froze her in place. Her eyes locked onto Flint's.
'I heard it, too.' Flint shifted his position to get a better look down into the pit. The old mine shaft twisted and bent as it descended. After a few moments his eyes focused on what he thought must be the earthen floor approximately thirty feet below. As Flint strained to pick out any addi tional details, the noise — a sort of scuffling, he thought — came again. And a shadow passed below.
Still peering down, Flint asked, 'What in the name of
Reorx is that?'
'A killer,' Perian replied. 'Beyond that, I couldn't say.
And I really don't want to find out. I want to wait for my hands to stop shaking and then climb back out of here.'
'I don't think that's too likely,' Flint said, now scanning the tunnel above. 'The sides of this pit are rough but crum bling. Trying to climb out is likely to send you plunging even sooner to the bottom. If we had something to dig hand holds with, maybe we could work our way…'
Flint's idea was cut off by a scraping sound from below, as if something of great bulk was being dragged across damp rocks. Perian released the root with one hand to clutch
Flint's shoulder instead. 'I can see it — or something — moving down there,' she whispered. 'There it is again!'
Flint blinked, trying to focus on the small patch of floor at the bottom of the twisting shaft. He could hear the sound plainly now. It was a dragging, sloshing sort of noise, punc tuated with numerous clicks and slaps. Though vaguely fa miliar, he couldn't quite identify it.
Until the smell reached them. With sickening thickness, the stench of rot and waste rose around them, filling the tun nel. Perian shrank back to the wall as Flint spat, trying to clear the taste from his mouth. 'What is it'/' groaned the frawl.
'Carrion crawler,' answered the hill dwarf. 'They eat most anything, as long as it's dead. If it's not, all the better, they have fun killing it. They can climb, too, so I expect it will be coming up.' As if on cue, a section of pink and purple flesh passed across the pit floor. A moment later, an enor mous green eye stared up at the pair. Glistening tentacles, each more than five feet long, circled a gnashing mouth filled with hundreds of grinding teeth. The head swayed back and forth, into view and then out again. All the while, the stench grew stronger and the noise louder.
'Look for big rocks, maybe we can drive it off,' advised
Flint frantically, releasing his grip on the root to grope across the ledge and wall. Moments later he had a small pile of fist-sized stones at his feet. 'It's not much, but we might slow it down. Aim for its eyes. And whatever you do, don't let those tentacles touch your skin.'
'What happens if they do?' whispered Perian, staring at the bobbing head.
'Its venom will paralyze you so it can dine at leisure later.
Be careful!'
