the bottom, and if that whatsit can lower things then it can bloody well raise them up too.
“Look here, Arfur,” Constantine began. “Suppose we work together to get out of here. I might find a cure for that coating of yours.”
“Do you think it possible? But to defy the King Underneath . . .”
“What has cooperation got you? Now if we were to—”
But he was interrupted by Arfur’s shriek as several gripplers, feeling their way up the hole they’d crawled through, fastened themselves around Arfur’s legs. “They’ve got me! Help me!”
Constantine stumbled back through the darkness, caught Arfur’s crust-covered fingers flailing about, and tried to pull him back.
“Use your power, friend, use your light!” Arfur begged. “Please, in the name of God, they’ll punish me; they’ll pull me apart and feed me to the others!”
Constantine reached down inside him but in the sudden urgency of the moment—and after the psychic exertion he’d already made—he couldn’t make the contact. Still, he tried, shouting,
“Ignis Ico, Ilaturs!”
But it was no use just saying the words, you had to have the right inner state to go with them. The light didn’t come. He felt himself skidding along the floor as he tried to drag Arfur back by main strength—and suddenly lost his hold on Arfur’s fingers. “Arfur! Where are you!”
There was no reply, only a tussling sound, followed by a gurgling, a crackling, a ripping . . .
Arfur screamed, and . . . the scream was abruptly cut off.
Constantine listened, but only heard the sound of something, several things, being dragged away . . . and another sound. A furtive slithering. The gripplers coming back up the hole to look for him.
He backed away and thumped into the curved wall. He turned and felt his way hastily along it. He felt a movement of cooler air, and up ahead saw a faint, faint light defining a roughly diamond-shaped crack in the farther wall. In the upper world the light would probably not have been visible, but here, where there was no other light at all, it could just be made out. He hurried to it and climbed partway through the break in the wall, then lowered himself and hung by his hands in the shaft, holding his breath . . .
Constantine hung heavily in darkness, as quietly as possible. The light was from far up the shaft. He could hear machinery clunking, grinding; felt the whisper of rising air lifting the hair on the back of his neck. He waited, dangling in a void, his arms aching.
The gripplers came. He could hear the fingers snuffling inquisitively around in the chamber he’d just left—he could picture them clearly, in his mind’s eye, four-fingered hands, like something on toads, tip-tapping their way along the floor, bloodhounds with their smellers in their fingertips, picking up his scent . . .
His arms throbbed; he felt like his shoulders were slowly, slowly dislocating.
He could hear them coming closer now, tippity-tap, slither, tippity-tap, slither, closer and closer, looking to grab his wrists, perhaps to fling him down the shaft to their fellows, where the other gripplers would pull him apart or, maybe worse, impregnate his skin with fungi that would send their roots worming into his flesh, his veins, and finally into his brain . . .
Tippity-tap, slither, tippity . . . tap . . . tap . . .
They were moving off. He’d managed to dangle lower than the upper edge of the floor and, as he’d hoped, they’d missed him.
Constantine waited, listening. Slither, scrape . . . then nothing.
They were gone.
But still he hung by his hands, wanting to scream with the pain in his arms, his fingers . . . till at last he had to pull himself up, or drop.
Grinding his teeth with the effort, cursing his bad wind from smoking, he pulled himself up inch by inch, caught the edge of the wall with an elbow, and dragged himself back through the aperture. Then he lay for a time on the floor, panting softly in the darkness.
Now what? he
“Look here, Arfur,” Constantine began. “Suppose we work together to get out of here. I might find a cure for that coating of yours.”
“Do you think it possible? But to defy the King Underneath . . .”
“What has cooperation got you? Now if we were to—”
But he was interrupted by Arfur’s shriek as several gripplers, feeling their way up the hole they’d crawled through, fastened themselves around Arfur’s legs. “They’ve got me! Help me!”
Constantine stumbled back through the darkness, caught Arfur’s crust-covered fingers flailing about, and tried to pull him back.
“Use your power, friend, use your light!” Arfur begged. “Please, in the name of God, they’ll punish me; they’ll pull me apart and feed me to the others!”
Constantine reached down inside him but in the sudden urgency of the moment—and after the psychic exertion he’d already made—he couldn’t make the contact. Still, he tried, shouting,
“Ignis Ico, Ilaturs!”
But it was no use just saying the words, you had to have the right inner state to go with them. The light didn’t come. He felt himself skidding along the floor as he tried to drag Arfur back by main strength—and suddenly lost his hold on Arfur’s fingers. “Arfur! Where are you!”
There was no reply, only a tussling sound, followed by a gurgling, a crackling, a ripping . . .
Arfur screamed, and . . . the scream was abruptly cut off.
Constantine listened, but only heard the sound of something, several things, being dragged away . . . and another sound. A furtive slithering. The gripplers coming back up the hole to look for him.
He backed away and thumped into the curved wall. He turned and felt his way hastily along it. He felt a movement of cooler air, and up ahead saw a faint, faint light defining a roughly diamond-shaped crack in the farther wall. In the upper world the light would probably not have been visible, but here, where there was no other light at all, it could just be made out. He hurried to it and climbed partway through the break in the wall, then lowered himself and hung by his hands in the shaft, holding his breath . . .
Constantine hung heavily in darkness, as quietly as possible. The light was from far up the shaft. He could hear machinery clunking, grinding; felt the whisper of rising air lifting the hair on the back of his neck. He waited, dangling in a void, his arms aching.
The gripplers came. He could hear the fingers snuffling inquisitively around in the chamber he’d just left—he could picture them clearly, in his mind’s eye, four-fingered hands, like something on toads, tip-tapping their way along the floor, bloodhounds with their smellers in their fingertips, picking up his scent . . .
His arms throbbed; he felt like his shoulders were slowly, slowly dislocating.
He could hear them coming closer now, tippity-tap, slither, tippity-tap, slither, closer and closer, looking to grab his wrists, perhaps to fling him down the shaft to their fellows, where the other gripplers would pull him apart or, maybe worse, impregnate his skin with fungi that would send their roots worming into his flesh, his veins, and finally into his brain . . .
Tippity-tap, slither, tippity . . . tap . . . tap . . .
They were moving off. He’d managed to dangle lower than the upper edge of the floor and, as he’d hoped, they’d missed him.
Constantine waited, listening. Slither, scrape . . . then nothing.
They were gone.
But still he hung by his hands, wanting to scream with the pain in his arms, his fingers . . . till at last he had to pull himself up, or drop.
Grinding his teeth with the effort, cursing his bad wind from smoking, he pulled himself up inch by inch, caught the edge of the wall with an elbow, and dragged himself back through the aperture. Then he lay for a time on the floor, panting softly in the darkness.
Now what? he
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