Ross Lawhead by The Realms Thereunder Page A

pale campfires, burning with a dirty flame. The travelers proceeded with slow caution from stalagmite to stalagmite. Crouching close to one column, they saw shapes flicker in front of them—fast, darting shapes, very similar to those that had attacked them in the tunnels. Rasping voices could just be heard. Daniel strained his ears but could make out only a few phrases, but those phrases didn’t make any sense.
    â€œ. . . and three more spoon measures make twenty pebbles’ worth for the final measure,” explained a grating voice.
    â€œEight twenties make one and sixty; from two hundreds and twenty, that leaves sixty,” came a creaky reply. This comment was met with a few grunts of annoyance.
    â€œBetween eight,” continued the second voice, straining slightly, “that’s another seven pebbles’ worth each, at least! Too mean, too mean by far!” There was a slap of a palm against the bare ground and a chorus of voices rumbling with indignation. “Weigh again! Weigh again, and rats take your toes! I’m so hungry my teeth tingle!” There were further odd curses and then a rattling clank.
    â€œTo my ear and eye,” whispered Ecgbryt, withdrawing slightly, “they are the kith and kind of the creature whose head and hand I have in my belt.”
    â€œAgreed,” said Swiðgar. “And likely as friendly. We need a path through.”
    â€œI fear they have the whole plain surrounded. We could charge them and try to break through the weakest point,” Ecgbryt suggested.
    â€œEven without the lifiendes, I would fear . . .” Swiðgar’s voice drifted off. “No,” he decided, “we should investigate the Neothstream. Its waters run beneath the city. We may gain entry that way.”
    Ecgbryt was silent for a time and then replied, “Very well. Be it so.”
    â€œThis way, æðelingas,” Swiðgar commanded. “Follow me. Do not talk; the price of an overheard word may be our lives. There might be guards or patrols at any point, especially as we near the water’s head.”
    They turned and crept through the dark, hunching low to the ground. Freya wondered what time it was in the real world. How long had they been walking? Was it as dark up there as it was under here?
    She doubted it. There were no stars here, no street lamps, no houselights, only the dingy little campfires of those disgusting creatures. Her breath became short and erratic as her emotions were pulled deeper and deeper into a whirlpool of worry. She wasn’t afraid of the dark but couldn’t help wondering what things there were in the darkness that she couldn’t see, or wouldn’t want to see, or couldn’t even imagine. She felt her eyes grow hot. She blinked a couple times, and then tears were flowing.
    She kept her sobbing quiet—sometimes choking back her cries, sometimes drawing breath in wide gulps, but always being careful to move forward at the same pace.
    After a few minutes, the worst had passed and she was wiping her wet cheeks with the palm of her hand and drawing in deep gasps.
    As she swallowed her third deep breath, she realised that there was another sound, a low, subtle sound that she had been hearing for some time without knowing it, a sound that had been growing in the distance. She concentrated on it, trying to tune out the quiet shuffle of their footsteps as they trudged into the darkness.
    She spent a fair amount of time guessing before the answer came to her: water. There was no liquid hissing or crashing to the sound, just the gentle, playful gurgle and burble of water sliding along smooth rocks. It was such a pleasant, beautiful sound. She focused her attention on it, letting the sound fill her head and trickle down her spine in a pleasant rush that reminded her of hikes in hills, of bright skies and fresh air.
    The sound grew. They were obviously approaching the source.
    The knights slowed and