shiver of pleasure in the dwarf so honored, and it reassured the leader that his role was secure.
Beyond the physical sense, Zystyl also perceived his men through the power of his arcane being. He felt the powerful hunger in all of them. Most pronounced, of course, was the yearning for food, for warm meat that would fill bellies and slake the gnawing aches that had thus far characterized this campaign. But he sensed a hunger for war, as well, and for violence and torture and plunder. He knew that once they reached Nayve and found enough food for a few good meals, his army would be once again ready for war.
No other Delver leader could have engineered such a march, Zystyl knew with pride. Kerriastyn was a skilled enough arcane-she had proven adept at finding a good, wide route through the caverns of the Interworld. But the female had no sense of the grand plan, and she lacked the power to bend a thousand wills to her own desires. In truth, she was content to let Zystyl lead, and as long as she remained that way, he would be content to let her live, and to use her skills in whatever way he desired.
Lost in his musings, Zystel’s attention snapped back to the present as a soft murmur of noise whispered along the line. The column slowed to a halt, and the captain was already making his way beside the file of men. By the time he reached the head of the line he knew why they had halted, though Kerriastyn told him, anyway.
“Smell the air… and feel its movement against your face. There are living things before us.”
“Nayve!” hissed the captain.
“I think you are right,” Kerriastyn said, a remark bordering on impudence. Still, in his excitement Zystyl would let it pass.
“Advance with caution!”
Now the two arcanes led the way. The cavern widened around them, and myriad new odors were carried on the gentle breeze. A number of scents were tantalizing, promises of food and nourishment. Others were strange, rich and unusual but not unpleasant. The cavern opened still wider, the Delvers pushing through a curtain of ropy strands that were clearly some kind of vegetation.
Abruptly Zystyl’s sensations were overwhelmed with heat, searing pain that scorched his skin and drew an involuntary scream from his throat. He heard Kerriastyn, beside him, similarly groan. Together the two arcanes tumbled backward, through the screen of vegetation into the tolerable coolness of the cave.
“The sun!” hissed the captain, making the word into a curse. “Who would have thought it could be so vicious?” For a moment he felt a glimmer of panic-could it be that this whole expedition was a mad dream, doomed to failure by the presence of unbearable brightness and heat?
It was Kerriastyn who offered him some comfort. “Remember the legends-the sun is bright for half of each cycle. Then the Fourth Circle grows dark. We must wait until then before we venture out.”
Her suggestion made sense, and Zystyl was, grudgingly, about to agree, when they were distracted by a noise from outside.
“Who’s there?” It was a youthful voice, soft and mellifluous. “Are you hurt?”
Immediately Zystyl tensed, drawing a breath through his wide, moist nostrils. A new scent greeted him, rich and meaty and sweet in a way that no dwarf had ever been.
“Yes,” he replied, his voice a rasping croak as he affected great weakness. At the same time he touched Kerriastyn, signaling her to fall back against one side of the cave while he pressed against the opposite wall.
“Where are you?” The voice was closer now. “I can’t see through the creepers… I say! A cave! Matty, come here and help.”
“Yes… please help!” gasped Zystyl.
They heard hands clawing at the vegetation. “Here… let’s just pull this out of the way.” The speaker was very close now. Zystyl’s arcane senses could sense the living spark of a person barely a step away from him. Tall, slender… clearly an elf.
“There you-” The elf’s statement ended in a startled gasp.
Zystyl and Kerriastyn came forward at the same time and snatched the elves. Zystyl seized one by the forearms and pulled him unceremoniously into the cave, latching steel-taloned fingers into his victim so harshly that the elf screamed shrilly. The one called Matty, a female, was taken by Kerriastyn. In a few seconds dozens of Delvers had gathered around the two sobbing, terrified elves.
“This one,” Zystyl said, indicating the male. “Butcher him now, so that the horde may eat. You.” He turned to the female, who had sucked in a dry gasp of air at his words. “You may live, so long as you provide us with information.”
The male elf tried to squirm away, but a dagger sliced his neck and he fell without further sound. Matty shrieked so loudly that Zystyl bashed her across the face; the blow was powerful enough to knock her out. As a consequence, the captain was forced to wait, sulking, until she groaned and recovered consciousness.
And then she sobbed so hysterically that Zystyl was on the verge of slicing her throat, too, just for some peace and quiet. He restrained himself only because he so desperately needed knowledge about this world.
Instead, he contented himself by partaking of the feast that was already rejuvenating his army. The male elf was not plump, and the pickings were slim, but the very thought that the Delvers were in a region where there was fresh meat for the taking improved morale many times over.
Finally, they were able to get some pieces of information from the elfwoman. They would have to wait only a few hours before the Hour of Darken, as she called it. Zystyl judged that the Blind Ones would be able to tolerate the world then, at least until the Lighten Hour.
“We need to go to a place where there is a great cave,” he said, clacking his metal jaws in anticipation. “You will lead us to that place-or we will eat you.”
“I-I will show you the way,” the woman agreed. “There is a tunnel through the Ringhills, just such a great cave where you can hide from the sun.”
She described the tunnel, a long corridor of darkness that carried a road toward the city. Zystyl determined that the Delvers could reach that tunnel in one night of marching, so he settled his army to rest. When it was dark, they would commence the advance on the Metal Highway and its long, dark tunnel.
13
Battle of the Blue Swan
From hill they came, and miner’s deep to slay with axe and sword
And bold stood he the line to keep before the murd’rous horde
From The Ballad of the First Warrior
“We will stay here, on the lakeshore-but you must take word to the city,” declared Tamarwind.
Belynda nodded. For nearly twenty days she had accompanied Natac’s band on a grueling march through the hills. Now they had come to the edge of the lake, at the Blue Swan Inn, with the Silver Loom rising from its island across the causeway. The Lighten Hour was just past, and the spire gleamed with argent brilliance. The city structures, the manors and museums of so many hues of marble, stood impassive. In their eternal majesty Belynda could almost make herself believe that nothing had changed.
But in truth, everything had changed.
She was more tired than she had ever been in her life. After the first few days, during which she had ridden on the back of the centaur Gallupper, she had forced herself to walk on her own. Her shoes had tattered, been replaced by deerskin moccasins of Tamarwind’s making, as the company had fled from the Greens. They had skirted the edge of the Snakesea, knowing that the Crusaders had marched in pursuit. Then, though the tunnel of the Metal Highway had beckoned as an easy route back to the city, Natac had led his little force on a grueling trek through the Ringhills. The elves had not questioned his orders, and the objections of the two men-Owen and Fionn-had been overcome with a sharp rebuke from Miradel’s warrior.
Along the way Belynda had learned that Natac had a company of about a hundred elves, and that they had been joined by some twenty-five giants. During the long march back to Circle at Center the fighters had been in high
