marker embossed with the flowing river of Eldath on it.
“Quiet,” Two-Fingers ordered. “Cerril’s found something.”
Instantly, all other noise inside the charity crypt stopped.
Cerril could almost hear the group stop breathing behind him. He stepped forward and tried the door. The handle refused to turn, and the door wouldn’t budge. Cerril stepped back and raised his voice.
“Two-Fingers.”
“Yeah.”
“Open the door.”
Two-Fingers moved forward, almost big enough to fill the front of the door.
“Do you want it all in one piece?” he asked. “I don’t care.”
Bracing himself, Two-Fingers slammed a shoulder against the door. The old, rotted wood shattered. Instead of the door breaking open, though, a hole appeared and Two-Fingers accidentally staggered through.
The bigger boy turned around, shocked by his own success, and said, “It’s open.”
The door opened onto a small room that once must have housed a record keeper’s office. A scribe’s inkpot lay shattered on the stone floor, and moldering books lined shelves built into the walls.
“Light a candle,” Cerril said as he stared around the room.
Someone took one of the candle stubs from a mounting on the wall and lit it. The wavering yellow flame filled the small room with light and hard-carved shadows that danced on the walls.
“I don’t see any treasure,” Hekkel commented.
Cerril went through the books, not knowing exactly what it was that he hoped to find. There was nothing in the book stacks, and equally nothing in the small desk against the wall. He knelt down, checking under the drawers because he’d learned that people often stuck secreted items there. None of the drawers had anything stuck under them.
He noticed a shattered inkpot on the floor. The small, fragmented glass pieces reflected light from the candle. The ink had been spilled dozens of years before and had dried to a solid black spot. However, the pool of dried liquid inscribed two fairly straight lines that ran perpendicular to one another.
Cerril knee-walked over to the lines. Seeing the way the ink seemed to have suddenly stopped in both places, he drew his dagger and traced the blade’s sharp point along the edges.
“Two-Fingers,” he said, “there’s a hidden entrance here. Can you open it?”
Two-Fingers removed two L-shaped shims from his clothing. Holding them tightly, he hooked the shims into the floor, getting in behind the concealed trapdoor. Growling with effort, he lifted a section of the floor away.
Hekkel pushed forward the lighted candle he held. The flickering flame chewed down through the darkness that filled the opening.
“It’s a passageway,” Two-Fingers said.
“I know,” Cerril said, then eased down into the opening, following the spiral staircase down into the bowels of the graveyard.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The wolf gazed down from a rocky promontory forty feet above Haarn.
Druz Talimsir, unaware of the wolfs vigilance, threaded through the forest only a little ahead of the druid. She’d grown quiet in her anger and had become competitive. Two days had passed since the confrontation with the slavers.
Drawing back into the shadows of a gnarled oak tree whose growth had split a boulder as tall as a man on the mountainside, Haarn studied the wolf. The animal was huge, standing half again as tall as the bitch wolf that stood at his right.
A jagged streak of lightning cut through the night, spearing through several clouds. In the night’s usual darkness the clouds hadn’t been visible, but with the lightning passing through them, they had length and width and breadth that faded away between blinks. The superheated air prickled Haarn’s nose. The druid knew rain was going to come at any moment. He could feel the air laden with moisture as it wrapped around his body.
Haarn knew his and the woman’s scents hadn’t alerted the wolf because he’d been careful to keep them downwind of the pack. Broadfoot had roamed a lot while
“Quiet,” Two-Fingers ordered. “Cerril’s found something.”
Instantly, all other noise inside the charity crypt stopped.
Cerril could almost hear the group stop breathing behind him. He stepped forward and tried the door. The handle refused to turn, and the door wouldn’t budge. Cerril stepped back and raised his voice.
“Two-Fingers.”
“Yeah.”
“Open the door.”
Two-Fingers moved forward, almost big enough to fill the front of the door.
“Do you want it all in one piece?” he asked. “I don’t care.”
Bracing himself, Two-Fingers slammed a shoulder against the door. The old, rotted wood shattered. Instead of the door breaking open, though, a hole appeared and Two-Fingers accidentally staggered through.
The bigger boy turned around, shocked by his own success, and said, “It’s open.”
The door opened onto a small room that once must have housed a record keeper’s office. A scribe’s inkpot lay shattered on the stone floor, and moldering books lined shelves built into the walls.
“Light a candle,” Cerril said as he stared around the room.
Someone took one of the candle stubs from a mounting on the wall and lit it. The wavering yellow flame filled the small room with light and hard-carved shadows that danced on the walls.
“I don’t see any treasure,” Hekkel commented.
Cerril went through the books, not knowing exactly what it was that he hoped to find. There was nothing in the book stacks, and equally nothing in the small desk against the wall. He knelt down, checking under the drawers because he’d learned that people often stuck secreted items there. None of the drawers had anything stuck under them.
He noticed a shattered inkpot on the floor. The small, fragmented glass pieces reflected light from the candle. The ink had been spilled dozens of years before and had dried to a solid black spot. However, the pool of dried liquid inscribed two fairly straight lines that ran perpendicular to one another.
Cerril knee-walked over to the lines. Seeing the way the ink seemed to have suddenly stopped in both places, he drew his dagger and traced the blade’s sharp point along the edges.
“Two-Fingers,” he said, “there’s a hidden entrance here. Can you open it?”
Two-Fingers removed two L-shaped shims from his clothing. Holding them tightly, he hooked the shims into the floor, getting in behind the concealed trapdoor. Growling with effort, he lifted a section of the floor away.
Hekkel pushed forward the lighted candle he held. The flickering flame chewed down through the darkness that filled the opening.
“It’s a passageway,” Two-Fingers said.
“I know,” Cerril said, then eased down into the opening, following the spiral staircase down into the bowels of the graveyard.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The wolf gazed down from a rocky promontory forty feet above Haarn.
Druz Talimsir, unaware of the wolfs vigilance, threaded through the forest only a little ahead of the druid. She’d grown quiet in her anger and had become competitive. Two days had passed since the confrontation with the slavers.
Drawing back into the shadows of a gnarled oak tree whose growth had split a boulder as tall as a man on the mountainside, Haarn studied the wolf. The animal was huge, standing half again as tall as the bitch wolf that stood at his right.
A jagged streak of lightning cut through the night, spearing through several clouds. In the night’s usual darkness the clouds hadn’t been visible, but with the lightning passing through them, they had length and width and breadth that faded away between blinks. The superheated air prickled Haarn’s nose. The druid knew rain was going to come at any moment. He could feel the air laden with moisture as it wrapped around his body.
Haarn knew his and the woman’s scents hadn’t alerted the wolf because he’d been careful to keep them downwind of the pack. Broadfoot had roamed a lot while
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