“Out swords!” Vixa ordered. “Charge!”
The elves ran down the hill, shouting Qualinesti war cries. The attackers had seized Esquelamar. His sailors tried to free him, and one received a spear in the chest.
Vixa raised her blade in a high overhand swing and brought it down on the closest foe. Keen elven steel sliced through the eelweed cape, and a broad section fell away, revealing some type of shiny green armor.
The attacker let go of Esquelamar and turned to face Vixa. He towered over her by at least a foot, though she herself was six feet tall. He jabbed his short spear at her. She batted it away with her sword. The head of the spear was a reddish, glassy material, barbed like a fishing hook.
The other Qualinesti warriors poured into the fight. Vanthanoris ran up behind the enemy and grabbed one of them, spinning him around and slashing hard across his opponent’s chest. Eelweed fell away, revealing a cuirass of bright green. The elf dodged a spear thrust, lunged, and felt his sword tip strike home. His moment of triumph was short-lived, though. His tall opponent grasped the blade and wrenched it from Vanthanoris’s grip. He then brought up his own spear, willing to continue the battle with a sword in his side. The now weaponless Vanthanoris hastily withdrew from this display of fortitude.
The other two weed-robed figures were retreating. They had abandoned Esquelamar and dashed back into the steam vent, bowling over Harmanutis, who tried to block their way. The third antagonist staggered toward the other steam vent. After wrenching Vanthanoris’s blade from his body, he plunged into the cave.
Vanthanoris and Harmanutis gave a shout and started after the fleeing foe. Armantaro called them back. The old colonel and Esquelamar were kneeling by the dead sailor.
“Sir! The enemy escapes!” Vanthanoris exclaimed. The bandage on his forehead had slipped, and blood trickled down his face.
“Stand your ground, soldier!” snapped Armantaro. “Will you charge blindly into a dark cave, like some wild kender? Retrieve your weapon and stand guard at the mouths of those caves, both of you.”
Vixa went over to the spot where one of the strange creatures had been wounded by Vanthanoris. Drops of greenish liquid were soaking into the sand. She touched the colored spots and raised her fingers to her nose. It was blood-of a completely alien shade, but blood nonetheless. She showed the others the odd bloodstains, saying, “I know of no race on Krynn with green blood in their veins.”
“Do we go after them?” the colonel asked her.
“Yes,” was her grim reply. “I want them alive, to question.”
She led them to the mouth of one of the caves, guarded by Vanthanoris, who was cleaning green stains from his sword with his kerchief. The opening had an arch to it and looked to be made of some smooth stone. Esquelamar scratched the rock. “Limestone,” he reported.
“Two of our marauders went in here,” Vixa said. “We’ll go after them. Captain, you and your lads should stay and guard the entrance.”
“Nay, lady,” Esquelamar contradicted. “It’s my comrade who lies dead. I want a hand in catching his killers.” The captain ordered his two sailors to remain on guard, then the elves entered the cave. The sudden change from bright sunlight to damp darkness left them all temporarily blind. They paused inside, allowing their eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. The sound of their footfalls echoed in the tunnel.
The floor tilted downward. Harmanutis and Vanthanoris lost their footing, slid down the slippery slope, and fetched up in a heap at its bottom. They called warnings to their companions, but too late. Vixa, Armantaro, and Esquelamar joined the pile.
“Your pardon, lady,” Armantaro said, untangling himself from Vixa’s long legs.
“Think nothing of it.” Vixa stifled a chuckle at his unfailing politeness, then grunted as something dug into her ribs. “Mind that elbow, Captain.”
“Beg-oof-your pardon, lady,” Esquelamar puffed. They managed to separate and get to their feet, all except Vanthanoris. He remained crouched on the floor, feeling with his long, sensitive fingers.
“What is it, Van?” asked the princess, straightening her clothing.
“The floor is ridged,” he replied, curiosity in his voice. “The gap between the ridges is filled with something soft.” Vanthanoris drew his dagger. “I’ll nip out a piece, and we can examine it.”
As soon as his dagger penetrated the soft layer in the floor, the island convulsed. The floor rose up under their feet, then dropped away, knocking them all down.
“Earthquake!” yelled Harmanutis.
It was no ordinary earthquake. A great inrush of air howled through the cave, tearing at their clothes and ripping the burnoose from Vixa’s head. Sand, sucked in from outside, stung their skin. Then the rush of air reversed direction, bellowing out as hard as it had previously roared in. Thick steam came with the outward flow, soaking them to the skin.
“We must get out!” Esquelamar cried.
Vanthanoris and Harmanutis cupped their hands, and Esquelamar placed his feet in them. The soldiers boosted him to the top of the slope.
“Gods preserve us!” Esquelamar shouted over the screeching wind. “The cave is closing!”
He offered his hands to Harmanutis. After the two of them pulled the rest of the party up, they all ran in a body for the shrinking exit.
Indeed, the walls of the cave mouth were closing together. The faint light that penetrated the cave was fading fast. Creases appeared in the floor, and the whole tunnel seemed to be folding in on itself like a concertina. Air shrieked inward once more, blowing Vixa and Vanthanoris off their feet and back into the others. When they regained their footing, they saw that the opening was sealed tight. They were trapped.
Before they could take in what had happened, the floor dropped out from under them once more. A mighty rushing sound filled their ears, as though the entire ocean roared around them. Vixa shouted for her comrades. If they replied, she couldn’t be sure, but a hand reached out from the darkness and clasped her own. She would know those knobby fingers anywhere. Armantaro.
The floor continued to rise and shake, throwing them about like pebbles tumbling in a gourd. In spite of the thundering sound of water, no torrent breached the cave.
The walls of the cave had begun to glow a dark red.
“Armantaro,” Vixa gasped, “what is happening?”
“The fires of the deep underground,” he replied, drawing her closer. “Don’t look, Your Highness. Turn away.”
She could not resist a glance. By the ruddy light, she saw the warriors and Esquelamar huddled on the floor. The walls and the ceiling of the cave seemed to be shifting. Was the cave collapsing?
With loud wheezes and gulps, they fought for breath. Sweat broke out on their faces. The temperature was rising.
They would be crushed, if the heat and pressure didn’t kill them first. Clumsily, her chest heaving, Vixa drew her sword. It had been presented to her on her last birthday by her mother. Ten ingots of dwarven iron forged by the finest smith in Qualinost into a single blade. The hilt was finely wrought with leaves and twining branches, forming a lattice handguard set with a large topaz.
Vixa was determined that if this was her time to die, then Astra and E’li, the highest gods of her people, would find her with sword in hand when they came to collect her soul. She would face death as befitted the granddaughter of Kith-Kanan, as befitted the daughter of her mother.
The air, compressed by the closing walls, battered the companions into oblivion. Esquelamar and Harmanutis lost consciousness first, and Armantaro felt himself joining them. Vixa tried to reach out to the colonel, but before she could do more than contemplate the action, her sword dropped from her nerveless hand. Van had likewise drawn steel. But finally, even the stalwart Vanthanoris, skilled hunter and warrior, could fight for breath no longer. His sword fell from fingers suddenly gone numb, and he knew no more.