The hunter rose and moved carefully, her eyes on the ground, in the direction the footprint faced. Her hand hovered in the air, then pointed. “Here-the mark of a heel. Here-another footprint. All in a straight line.” She stopped and held out her arm, marking the path.
The footprints led directly to a shallow hollow filled with thorn bushes. Orshok took one look at the bushes and said immediately, “Those are dead.”
Singe considered the bushes. “Are you sure? They just look dry.”
“I know dead plants when I see them.” The druid went up to the bushes and bent down low, peering underneath the tangled branches. “There’s something behind them. A big piece of leather.” He stood up and reached in among the bushes with his hunda stick, hooking the crooked end of the staff around a branch and tugging the mass of dry wood to one side. Geth helped him, gripping the prickly wood with his gauntleted hand. The dead bushes moved in a single mass to reveal a large section of heavy hide that was very nearly the same color as the soil. Stones had been lashed to the edges of the hide to give it extra weight and anchor it against the side of the hollow. Geth grabbed one and pulled the hide away.
Underneath was a hole just large enough for a big person to squeeze through.
“Well, well,” murmured Singe. “Not exactly a door, but I don’t think we need to be fussy.” Drawing his rapier, he laid a hand against the blade and spoke a word of magic. A warm glow spread along the metal, practically invisible in the sunlight but bright as a torch when he extended the sword into the dark hole. The sides of the hole were smooth earth, packed solid and held firm by old roots; just a short distance beyond the tip of his rapier, the hole passed through the stones of a broken wall and opened into shadows. Of the space beyond, he could see nothing. He cursed under his breath and pulled back the sword. There could be a short drop on the other side of the hole-or a long one. He looked around at the others. “Any volunteers to go in first?” Everyone glanced at everyone else. Singe grunted. “Fine. Ashi, Orshok, hold onto my legs.”
Geth interrupted again. “I’m stronger than Orshok,” he said. “Maybe I should-”
Singe sucked air between his teeth. Talking to Geth was one thing. Placing his safety in the shifter’s hairy hands was another. “Don’t touch me.”
Geth stopped and dropped back, a flush on his face. The others fell silent for a moment as well. Singe felt blood burn in his face for a moment as well-at least until the memory of Treykin, dying horribly in the streets of Narath but refusing to let an Aundairian touch him, came back to him. He stood straight. “Orshok can do it,” he said tightly. “You’re no weakling, are you, Orshok?”
The young orc glanced from him to Geth, then shook his head slowly. “No?” asked Singe. “Good.” He turned back to the hollow, putting Geth behind him.
His righteous anger lasted until he knelt before the hole and stretched his arms-sword hand first-into the hole, then his head, shoulders and torso. Suddenly he felt like a rodent. The space was cramped. Stray roots tickled his cheek and neck. Dirt sifted into his hair. When he felt strong hands locked around his shins and ankles, he took a deep breath and squirmed forward, pulling himself with his elbows and his free hand.
His body blocked daylight, leaving only the magical illumination of his rapier blade. He stretched the sword out ahead of him. Its light fell on the stones he had seen before, then passed on into the space beyond to flash against another wall not far away.
There was writing on the wall, stark black characters on gray stone.
“Singe,” said Ashi, her voice muffled, “we’re almost at your knees!”
“Keep going!” he called back softly. He wriggled a little more and pushed his arms past the broken wall and into open air beyond. Another push and his head was through as well. Arching his back and propping himself up with his free hand, he stared in amazement.
He had emerged in a corridor constructed of large stones, carefully smoothed and tightly fitted. Angular writing-some form of Goblin-covered both walls, scrawled across the stones in irregular patches as though a scribe had taken to graffiti. The strokes of the writing were sharp-edged, like a pen on paper, but there was no sign of ink or paint. Instead, it was as if the stone itself had been stained-a simple magic, but one applied on scale far larger than Singe had ever imagined. The light of his sword didn’t reach far, but it looked like one end of the corridor headed back toward the collapsed entrance, while the other continued on into darkness. The writing marched into the shadows in an unending stream.
The floor was an easy drop beneath him, the stones that had been removed to open the hole stacked neatly to one side. He lowered his rapier and carefully flicked it to the far side of the corridor. It fell to the floor with a swirl of light and a quiet clatter that rang like chimes on the still air. Singe paused, watching the darkness and listening, before twisting around and hissing back up the hole, “Let go!”
Hands released his ankles. Singe spread his legs, pressing against the sides of the hole in an attempt to control his descent, but he still came sliding out like the pit from a ripe cherry. He tucked as he fell, rolling back to his feet and snatching up his rapier in a smooth motion. He held it the weapon high and ready, light splashing around him.
Nothing stirred in the shadows. His breath hissed between his teeth and he stepped back over beneath the hole. He could see Dandra peering down at him. He gestured for her to join him. “Come down! Twelve moons, you have to see this!”
Geth was the last one down the hole. The slide into darkness was brief, the impact of his feet on the tunnel floor jarring, the cascade of dirt dislodged by his gauntlet extremely uncomfortable-it poured onto the top of his head and right down his back. “Rat!” he cursed, shaking himself and trying to dislodge it.
“Careful!” snapped Singe. The wizard was just lifting his hand from the head of Dandra’s spear. Light shone from the weapon just as it shone from his rapier. Geth growled and bared his teeth at him, for a moment caught up in their old, familiar rivalry.
Except that the anger in Singe’s eyes was real, just as it had been all the way along the road from Vralkek. Geth’s growl died in his throat and the shame that had haunted him since seeing Robrand again returned like a punch in his gut. The instant that Singe’s gaze left him, he pressed back into the shadows.
Why did it have to be Robrand working for Tzaryan? He could have happily lived his whole life without ever facing the old man again.
Orshok and Natrac came trotting along the tunnel. “You’re right,” Natrac said to Singe. “It ends at the collapse outside. Someone has been working down there-stones have been pulled out and pieced together on the floor like they were trying to match up fragments of writing.”
“Ekhaas,” Singe said. “I’d bet my hand on it.” He raised his sword so that its light shone full on a patch of writing. “This is some variation of Goblin. I recognize the script.”
“Can you read it?” asked Dandra.
Singe shook his head. “Not on my own. I can cast a spell that will let me, but the magic doesn’t last long. We need to go deeper-try and find the heart of the writing.”
“How? There doesn’t seem to be any end to it.” Dandra gestured with her spear, sending light dancing along the corridor. The strange writing on the walls stretched as far as Geth could see.
Singe reached up and touched some of the black characters. “Dah’mir left us instructions,” he said. “Look neither left nor right. The riches there are not for you. Hold to the path that leads to the Hall and find what waits in the shade of the grieving tree.”
“If there were ever riches here, they’re long gone,” said Geth. Singe glanced at him coldly.
“They’re not gone.” He patted the wall. “They’re here.”