Kellanved's Reach

Yet he knew that to fall unconscious now would mean death, and so he shook Kellanved, yelling, ‘We have to keep going!’ Or something like that, as his lips were completely numb.

The mage’s walking stick emerged to point, shaking, up the slope. Dancer squinted and just made out a darker shadow ahead – a cave mouth in the rising cliff face?

He took hold of a squelching Kellanved once more and half dragged, half pushed him upward. They fell into the cave and Dancer blinked, frowning, as he felt something smothering him. It took a moment for him to recognize warmth; with that realization he could fight off unconsciousness no longer and he allowed himself to slip down into oblivion.

He awoke with a start and peered about; it was still the pewter grey of a snowstorm without, and he couldn’t tell if it was night or day. Kellanved still lay asleep amid a litter of dry branches and leaves. Dancer flexed his fingers – he was warm. The heat seemed to be coming from the very rock of the walls and the floor beneath them. He threw off his hide wrap and was amused to see actual steam rise from his sodden sleeves.

He shook Kellanved. ‘Well, at least we won’t freeze to death.’

The seeming ancient peered up blearily, grumbled, ‘Cold comfort, that.’

Dancer ran a hand through his short hair, then rose and began searching the cave. ‘It leads to a tunnel,’ he announced. ‘Damned dark.’

The mage appeared, a dry torch in hand. ‘Try this.’

Dancer gaped at the thing. ‘You weren’t carrying that, were you?’

‘No. I was lying on it.’

‘Oh.’ He crouched down, gathered together a bunch of the dry twigs and leaves, pulled out the tiny flint and steel he always carried, and set to work.

In a short time he had the torch lit and he rose, adjusted his weapon-baldrics and belts, and offered Kellanved a nod. The mage tapped his walking stick to his shoulder and pursed his lips, answering the nod; then they started down the tunnel.

The passage was very rough; they clambered over uneven jutting rocks and ducked through narrow throats of stone. Along the way Dancer noticed that the natural walls had been widened here and there to allow easy passage, but the gouging and scraping was not smooth. It was as if a harder stone had been used rather than a metal tool.

After quite a long time Dancer saw a weak flickering glow ahead: more torch-light, in fact. Wary, he drew his best throwing blade and switched the torch he carried to his off hand. He went first, crouched, blade held behind his back.

The tunnel opened on to a wider natural chamber, or cavern. Multiple torches lit it, their sooty smoke rising to a distant ceiling hidden in darkness. Kellanved slipped in beside him and the dark-skinned mage’s breath caught.

For there, across the cavern, against a wall of natural stone, sat an object that could only be the throne of the Army of Bone. It was assembled from gigantic antlers and tusks of bygone beasts; leather straps wove the pieces together, forming a seat of sorts. Natural precious stones glinted upon it, as did shells and beads, and rotting animal furs lay heaped about, some obviously taken from huge animals of legend, such as the cave bear, or the great-toothed cat.

But what probably drew the gasped breath from Kellanved was the Witch Jadeen sitting upon it.

The hungry smile on the woman’s lips drew them even further from her teeth, and she raised a hand, beckoning them closer. ‘I knew you’d turn up quite soon,’ she said. ‘And so I prepared the place. Come here.’ She pointed to her other arm, the sleeve of her robes torn and blood dried black upon her hand. Her eyes narrowed upon Kellanved. ‘I have a bone to pick with you, little Shadow-mage.’

Dancer looked to his partner and their eyes met, and for the first time it seemed to him that Kellanved had been caught at a complete loss as to what to do.

Chapter 14

Baron Ranel of Nita pushed open a side door to the stables of Castle Gris and peered round the darkened hall. Horses snorted in their stalls, while a single lantern set on a stool provided the only light. He shut the door behind him and called, ‘Stabler! Where are you, man? Stablemaster!’

A great-bellied older fellow came stumbling out from the rear, pulling on his jacket. ‘Yes, m’lord? You called?’

‘Yes, dammit. That horse-dealer out of Unta – is she still here?’

The stablemaster blinked, still somewhat bleary, then nodded. ‘Oh, yes, sir. I believe so.’

Ranel glared, expectantly. ‘Well? Go get her, dammit!’

The stablemaster flinched, ducking. ‘Of course, m’lord. I’ll send one of the lads right away.’ He rushed to the rear.

Alone, Ranel tapped his hands nervously on his thighs and peered about the stables. He lifted a tankard and sniffed, only to make a disgusted face and set it aside. He then approached the nearest stall; the horse within reared, nickering, and he flinched away.