Ignoring it, he lunged back into the cave and leaped, swinging the club with all his strength to bring it whistling over and around the boulder-like shoulder to crack into the monster’s temple.
The beast felt the blow, its head jerking aside, and it opened its mouth to roar, pieces of Havert tumbling out to fall wetly to the ground.
The door smashed down onto the stone block, made a warping, metallic sound of protest, then stayed open, a foot of darkness between it and the ground.
“Get through!” shouted Scorio, backing away, arms wide, the club feeling loose and weak in his grip. “Hestia, go!”
He couldn’t tell if she obeyed. The monster oriented on him, gave its blunt head a shake, then hunched and spread its arms open wide to let loose an ear-splitting roar, head turning from side to side as it gave vent to its hunger and fury, the purple flames that patterned its body flaring out everywhere a foot in height.
Scorio hurled the club with all his strength, a wild and desperate gamble.
The club spun as it flew at the monster’s face, only to be batted aside by a violent flick of its claws.
But Scorio wasn’t waiting. He took three long strides and dove under the door, slid most of the way across, then scrabbled the rest of the way and through.
Only to realize that Hestia was trapped, her eyes wide, fingers clawing at the naked stone floor as she tried to disentangle herself from her pack. She’d tried to dive through sideways while wearing it, but it had gotten stuck.
“Scorio!” Her eyes were panicked in the light of the moss-lamp she’d shoved in ahead of her. “I can’t—I’m stuck—”
He lurched toward her, grabbing hold of her wrist. There were tears in her eyes, and he saw that the strap was nearly torn clean off. Digging his heels in, he yanked as hard as he could, and heard the strap tear further.
“One more time,” he shouted. “One more—”
Then her eyes opened wide as her whole body jerked, and Scorio barely had time to let go before she was ripped out screaming from under the door and disappeared.
Scorio crashed down onto his rear and simply gaped. He blinked, stunned into immobility, then heard Hestia’s scream cut short.
He had to get moving. Had to back away, do something, anything, but he just stared at where she’d been a second ago, her freckled face still vivid in his mind’s eye.
Then a burning purple claw reached under the rim of the door, took hold, and began to lift it open.
Scorio snapped back to life. Snatching up the moss lamp, he wheeled around to take in the small cavern in which he stood. A half-dozen ragged tunnels led into absolute darkness. Sal and Nissa had fled ahead without him.
With no pack, no weapon, and no idea as to where he was running, he raised the moss lantern high, picked a tunnel, and bolted.
Chapter 9
The fiend charged right after him. Glancing back over his shoulder, Scorio saw its purple markings burning in the darkness behind him, surreal and terrifying and savage. It moved silently, so that when he looked forward once more it felt as if he sprinted alone, pushing for speed as he raced down the tunnel, the moss-lantern jouncing and swinging wildly in his fist.
A fork. He chose the left, ran down it, and glanced behind, saw that the huge beast was almost upon him, its bulk filling the tunnel, looming over him like a wave about to crest.
Desperate, Scorio pushed himself to run faster, his lungs burning, feet feeling as if they barely touched the rough ground. The blue light swung and bounced across the rough features of the tunnel walls before him, shadows leaping and retreating with each swing of his fist.
No time to think, to calculate, he had to turn around. Perhaps if he smashed the lantern across its face, blinded it—no, wait—there! A shadow that remained solid, a crack in the wall. Scorio was running so fast that he nearly passed it, tried to stop, leaned back, and crashed to the ground.
Just as a huge claw swiped through the air above him, the talons trailing purple flame.
Scorio lurched into the crack, racing on all fours, scrambling into the depths. It was just wide enough for him to squeeze into. Turning sideways, he shoved himself in deeper, the tight walls scraping his chest and back. Deeper he wormed, breath loud in his ears, head turned back to the mouth of the crack where the beast had paused to lower its head and gaze at him with one malevolently burning eye.
Gasping, Scorio realized he couldn’t go in any deeper. He was wedged in as far as he could go. He could only watch as the monster slowly inserted its hand and probed for him, burning talons scoring the raw rock and leaving shallow grooves behind.
Carefully, experimentally, the monster pushed its huge hand in, claws rippling, but then it slowed. Stopped. Scorio had managed to slide in just outside its reach.
For a moment the beast simply stood there, contemplative. Scorio waited for a roar of fury, but none came. Instead, it tapped its claws upon the rocks, the sound rhythmic, then withdrew its arm.
It stood outside the crack for a spell, studying him with one baleful eye, and then it turned and was gone.
A trick? Definitely.
So he remained still. Waiting. Watching the crack, the darkness beyond that his moss lamp failed to illuminate.
His entire world reduced to its tight, radiant-blue confines.
Eventually, body growing stiff and sore, unsure if he’d been standing there an hour or three, he eased himself back toward the entrance. Stepped past the point where the beast’s claws could reach, slowed, and listened.
Nothing.
He moved forward again. Envisioned, over and over, the massive hand darting into the crack, claws sinking into his flesh, hooking him and hauling him out.
Saw again Havert’s legs dancing as the maw crunched down upon his body.
Nothing happened.
He reached the very edge of the crack. The glowing radiance of his moss lamp would have given his approach away. But when he finally risked a quick glance out into the tunnel, he saw that it was empty.
Scorio sagged with relief and rested his brow against the stone. The fiend was gone. So vividly had his imagination painted it in the hallway, hunched and ready to strike, that he could scarcely believe it had left. But eventually, he stepped out, shivering, and swung his lantern back and forth.
Should he return to the Brass Door and see if he could find the others? Or head in deeper by himself, without a pack, without water, and without a weapon?
He considered. It was feasible that he could return quietly. He’d taken a variety of turns, but he thought he could retrace his steps. And fetching a pack would go a long way toward improving his odds of survival.
But that would be pressing his luck. The monster had clearly opted to return to the Brass Door to feast on Hestia and Havert. It would no doubt be there now. And if it sensed Scorio creeping close, that would be it.
Scorio sighed. His odds of surviving alone down here with nothing but a lantern were dismal. But still slightly better than creeping back to the Brass Door, where other fiends would be drawn to with every passing minute.
So he turned, frowned at the extent of tunnel before him, and resumed walking.
The tunnel wound back and forth, narrowed, then widened to become a large, high-ceilinged cavern. The floor was interrupted by large stalagmites, slick and glistening in the mosslight, while massive fang-like stalactites descended from the shadowed ceiling.
Scorio picked a path between the columns, taking in the eldritch beauty of the stone formations, the way they glittered in the mosslight. He moved slowly, unsure as to where this meandering cavern’s exit was, only to pause at the sight of something sticking out of the floor.
It was a metal buckle, nearly swallowed up by silt, the iron badly rusted. Scorio crouched down to examine it, considered working it free, then sighed. Of what use would it prove?
Still, it was a sign that others had passed through here before. Raising his lantern, he stared all around.