The Land of the Silver Apples

something to do with being enclosed on all sides. It was like being swallowed alive.

“I, uh, I—” He gulped.

“I’ll help you,” said Brutus. He swiftly dropped all the carrying parcels over the side. Then he slung the boy, staff and all, over his shoulder and started down the swaying rope ladder. It happened so quickly, Jack only had time to stifle a scream and cling to the slave’s arms like a cat trying to keep from being dragged out of a tree. At the bottom of the rope Brutus pulled the boy’s fingers loose, swung him out, and let go.

Then Jack did scream—he couldn’t help it. Almost at once he landed on soft sand and felt like an idiot. He looked up at the rim of torches and saw Brutus coming down with Pega in his arms. “If you’ve broken those cider bags, I’ll never forgive you,” she threatened.

“Don’t worry, lassie. It’s as soft as heather down there.” Brutus jumped with a soft crunch on sand, and the guards pulled up the rope ladder.

“Hey!” Pega shouted. “How are we supposed to get out?”

“When the water starts flowing, you can swim out!” The captain and his men guffawed heartily as Pega let fly a string of insults.

“Pay no attention,” said Brutus, gathering up the supplies. “They’re sitting around like tadpoles in an empty pond. Soon they’ll dry up and blow away.”

“What about us? We’ll dry up too,” said Pega.

Brutus struck flint and iron, and lit a torch. It flared noisily, having been dipped in pitch, and settled down to a reddish flame. “It’s true we may die on this quest, but there is honor in what we do, far beyond merely waiting for fate to overtake us.”

The ruddy light shone on his face, marking out his strong cheekbones. Gone was the sniveling slave, and in his place was a man—rough and doglike to be sure—who might almost be noble. Or at least until something scares him, Jack thought. “I suppose we’d better get started,” the boy said.

It was the hardest thing Jack ever did, walking into that long, black tunnel. Every nerve cried out to flee back to where he could see the ring of torches and the circle of stars beyond. But he would not show less courage than Brutus. He would not be outdone by someone who whimpered if a moth flew past his face.

So Jack walked ahead as though he hadn’t a worry in the world. He did, of course. The tunnel led deeper under the earth, and the mass of rock overhead became that much thicker and heavier. It could collapse at any moment, squashing them as flat as fleas. Jack saw no reason why it couldn’t.

They trudged for miles past dull limestone walls. Torches burned away and Brutus lit more. The ground was not only littered with discarded branches, but broken pottery, apple cores, fish bones, and mussel shells. Elves must have been trooping through the tunnel for years, and from the smell, Jack suspected they buried their waste in the sand like cats. They were, as Brother Aiden had said, extremely trashy.

After a long while Jack and his companions came to a place where the passage divided in two. One path went to the left and the other, equal in size, to the right. A faint breeze wafted from both of them, so it was impossible for Jack to choose between them. But for the first time something new appeared on the walls. Knobs of gleaming, black material jutted from the limestone of the right-hand tunnel. “What’s that?” said Jack, and was shocked by how loud his voice seemed after walking in silence so long.

“Some call it ‘jet’,” said Brutus. “The Romans made it into jewelry.”

Jack worked a knob loose. It was curiously warm and light. “Does it have another name?”

“My mother called it ‘dragon poop’.”

Jack dropped the knob and dusted off his hands.

“That means we should stay out of the right-hand tunnel,” Pega observed.

Jack unpacked the Y-shaped stick the Bard had given him. He held it out. Very faintly, he felt a stir in the wood and a corresponding tremor of energy in his hands. The water was far away down the right-hand tunnel. “Wouldn’t you know it?” Jack muttered.

“By my reckoning, we’ve walked a quarter of the night away,” said Brutus. “You and I could keep moving, but the lassie is clearly tired.”

Jack had been so involved with his own worries, he hadn’t noticed the girl’s exhaustion. “Oh! You should have said something, Pega. Of course we can camp here.”

“I’m no weakling,” she protested, but didn’t suggest going on.

Brutus gathered wood and soon had a merry fire crackling—or as merry as a fire could be in a dark tunnel studded with dragon poop. He passed out slabs of oat pudding. “Drink as little as possible,” he said, producing a bag of cider. “Who knows when we shall find water?”

“I think there’s water down there,” said Jack, pointing, “but it doesn’t make sense. The Bard said a dragon wouldn’t use a tunnel with water in it.”

“It depends,” said Brutus, his mouth full of pudding.

“And I suppose you know more about it than the Bard?”

“I might,” said the slave with irritating confidence.

“One of my owners saw a dragon swimming in a lake,” Pega offered. She picked the weevils out of her pudding and flicked them at the wall.

“He probably did,” Brutus said. “Only fire dragons make tunnels, you see, but other kinds can use them—wyverns, hippogriffs, cockatrices, manticores, basilisks, hydras, krakens, and, of course, Pictish beasts, which prefer water above all else.” Brutus grinned boyishly as he warmed to his subject. “It’s like a badger hole. The badger digs it, but foxes, rabbits, and mice use it once the original owner moves out.”

“So we needn’t worry about fire dragons,” said Jack, “only wyverns, hippogriffs, cockatrices, manticores, basilisks, hydras, krakens, and—and—what was the other one?”

“Pictish beasts,” the slave said enthusiastically. “Mother found one and brought it home for a pet. It was newly hatched, no bigger than a cucumber, but it grew extremely fast. She got rid of it when it started devouring cattle.”

The underworld was far more crowded than Jack had suspected. He didn’t know what a Pictish beast was, but—going by the Picts—it was probably thoroughly nasty.

“I hope I didn’t dampen your spirits,” Brutus apologized. “Personally, I’m looking forward to adventures—my stars! I forgot the most important thing.” He pounced on his bundle of supplies and withdrew the parcel the Bard had given him. The smell Jack had noticed earlier became stronger. He had supposed it came from the trash discarded by the elves.

“I thought this had been lost forever,” said Brutus, unwrapping the noxious parcel.

Pega hurriedly moved to the edge of the firelight and cupped her hands over her mouth.

“Sorry, lassie. I forgot that most people don’t like the odor of pig flop.” Brutus strode up the tunnel and buried the wrapping under sand. “That smell takes me right back to my childhood. How I used to love mucking about with pigs, scratching their bristly ears, and riding on their backs. They adored Mother, naturally. So did I. To think they’d hidden this under their sty all these years.” He drew the object from its scabbard, and Jack saw a flash of light. It was a beautifully made sword with a blade as bright as a setting sun. The scabbard flashed with gems—rubies, emeralds, and amethysts—and the belt to which it was attached was of bright green leather.

“An ordinary sword would have corroded, but not this,” said Brutus. And, indeed, not a crumb of filth stained the wonderful object, nor a speck of rust. Even more surprising, the foul smell didn’t cling to it either. The slave brought the sword down, dividing the fire in two. Sparks flew up in a dazzling cloud. “Behold Anredden!” he cried. “It was made by the Lady of the Lake for Lancelot. It is dedicated to her service, as am I!”

Sparks pattered all around, and Brutus’ shadow loomed up taller and more glorious than the man who cast it. He sat down abruptly with the sword across his lap. The shadow shrank back to normal. “I’m sorry. It’s ignoble to brag before you’ve earned your reputation, but it does feel nice.”

Jack and Pega stared at him, openmouthed. “Who are you?” the boy said at last.

“I am the true ruler of Din Guardi, torn from my rightful inheritance by the treacherous Yffi. The Lords of Din Guardi have served the Lady of the Lake since time out of mind, and she in turn has protected them. But Yffi crept in with lies that my father unfortunately believed. Poor Father! Mother always said he was too trusting.”

“Yffi killed your father?” said Pega.

“He came alone, begging for asylum. Father welcomed him, but all the while the traitor was planning his