They walked on through passages that mostly descended, the downwards plunge sometimes so steep they had to slide several metres on their backsides. Once in a while a draught swept through, cold and stale, and vibrations from the surface could be felt now and then when touching the walls. The caverns seldom opened up enough to ease the sense of claustrophobia but for a few places where, without warning, to either side would appear a sheer drop down into absolute nothingness for just a few paces, before the walls closed in on the path again.
Eric tried not to worry about Case. He noticed Sharfy had put away his knife. Sharfy saw him noticing. ‘Groundmen see me armed, they might spring traps, no warning. Never know if they’re watching or not. I’m good hand to hand, so don’t try it.’
‘I had the feeling you’d be good hand to hand.’
‘Very good!’ said Sharfy, pleased. Indeed … their conversation had revealed that Sharfy was good at many things, and that what he wasn’t good at, wasn’t really worth doing. He hesitated a moment, then said, ‘Should’ve been there when those third-rank spearmen tried me.’
‘Do tell.’
So Sharfy did just that for several minutes. ‘I was at a pub in Yinfel, drunker than pissed ale. Six of the bastards came up to me at closing time …’ In Sharfy’s tale, he was wrongfully slighted but laid waste to many foes.
‘Pretty impressive,’ Eric said when it was finally done.
‘That was nothing. Should’ve seen the time in Esk …’ There followed a story in which Sharfy left a trail of carnage over many deserving wrongdoers. There were pauses to demonstrate some combat manoeuvres, one of which nearly broke Eric’s wrist. ‘It’s where I got this scar,’ said Sharfy, pointing at something on the back of his neck. ‘You tell one.’
‘Why not?’ Which edition, which edition …? ‘So, it was a dark and stormy night in Gotham City. I had finished repairing the damage to my Batmobile when Robin — my associate — brought grim news …’ Before long, Sharfy was a fan of Batman comics, and almost as enthusiastic about Eric’s stories as his own.
In some tunnels, the plain white lightstones gave way to mosaics of vivid glittering colour, filling the space around them with shafts of light probing the gloom like angelic fingers. The coloured stones themselves did not form clear pictures, but on the walls opposite, light beams cast from them projected shimmering visions almost clear as portraits, more beautiful than any work of paint. Though he’d complained at their slow pace, Sharfy paused to examine any of these they came across. ‘Groundmen art,’ he said with a hint of contempt.
The shimmering picture showed what seemed a gang of giants, whips and swords in hand, terrorising small people who were labouring in chains. There was even blood on the giants’ swords, which, with a slight flickering of the red light, seemed to drip and flow. Sharfy laughed. ‘Those big mean people, guess who that is? You and me. The small people in chains is them. That’s what they think of us.’
Staring at the picture, at the profound sadness on the small people’s faces, Eric could not help sharing the artwork’s sentiment. ‘Back in Otherworld, we don’t oppress ground-dwelling creatures,’ he said. ‘That is not our way. Did you guys actually enslave them?’
‘Not me! Someone must’ve, somewhere back. The castle still does. But they make slaves out of anyone.’
‘I’m detecting a pattern here. If something bad happens, the castle did it. Which means people who live there, I assume. Not the actual building.’
‘It’s them all right. Always them.’ Sharfy’s voice became thoughtful again; he sounded a different man when he spoke this way. ‘Each person’s a blade of grass, to them. Trample on whichever they need to, grow some when and where it suits. And not with love or care even then. No matter when some has to be cut or the turf left bare. No matter at all.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.’
Sharfy looked at him. ‘Eh? How?’
‘I know how these things work. Someone from my world comes into another, they end up a hero of great renown. Well, that’s me, apparently. Someone here’s going to teach me magic, you’re going to teach me how to use a sword, and I’ll be the greatest hero you people ever had. I know the script, man. Believe me. I’m Batman. Did I tell you?’
Sharfy looked lost for a reply. He shrugged. ‘Good, then. That’s good.’
‘You got it,’ Eric muttered, suddenly buoyed to realise he meant it. ‘I’m fucking Batman.’
Batman was, however, tiring of this stroll in the dark. Every so often Sharfy paused to examine the cavern’s roof, running a finger over little crisscrossed scratches in the rock. ‘We’re right under the castle,’ he said. He pointed at a squiggly line, no different to Eric’s eye from all the other squiggly lines they’d stopped to read. ‘Can almost feel it up there, eh? All that weight pressing down. All them high-ups, right up there.’ Sharfy shook his head in wonder. ‘If you could go far enough straight up, you’d be face to face with Vous. Face to face.’
‘How much longer are we going to walk? I may be a hero, but I’m a bit out of shape.’
‘Break now,’ said Sharfy. He took from his pocket a strip of dried meat, cut off a piece and tossed it to Eric. It was so stiff his teeth could hardly bend it till it had soaked in his mouth for a while. His head buzzed lightly with good cheer and the muscles in his legs suddenly craved work.
‘They feed you that in the army,’ said Sharfy, wrapping the rest in some kind of leaf and pocketing it. ‘Keep you going a long time, one little cut. It’s good stuff. Too much though, you drop dead on the spot. Heart just quits. Seen it many a time.’
Sharfy stood, stretching his arms, then frowned at something on the left wall. He bent close to examine it, again looking troubled. ‘Look. See these?’ There were gouge marks in the rock, deeper than the marks he’d claimed were writing of some kind. ‘Pit devils have been here. Not long ago.’
‘I take it that’s bad. But how can you tell they’re recent tracks?’
‘Here.’ There was a little powdered rock on his fingertips. ‘Means they’re new. Claws gouge right into the stone. Think what they’d do to us.’
‘It’s pretty soft stone …’
‘We got pretty soft bodies.’ Sharfy looked back the way they’d come. In both directions they had a long view of the tunnel’s gradual slope, and were suddenly aware of all the peculiar little noises that had been background until now — tap … grind … scrape, tap — all so quiet it was possible to think the ear had been tricked into hearing something not really there. Their whispering voices now seemed very loud.
‘Are you trying to freak me out here, Sharfy?’
Sharfy shook his head. He nervously eyed the path ahead and behind them. ‘We have to move.’ There was a muffled noise close by, not at first easily recognisable as speech. Sharfy grabbed him and signalled shh! so frantically he looked like a distressed chimp. The sound came close enough that whatever made it could only be on the other side of the wall. Nor could the wall be very thick, for even the shuffle of passing feet could be heard through it. Soon it faded. ‘They’re gone,’ whispered Sharfy. ‘But stay quiet. I’m allowed here, paid a toll. You didn’t.’
He examined the scratched markings on the roof. ‘Left way’s quicker,’ he muttered, ‘but goes across the grain route. If a shipment’s in, guards’ll see us. We don’t want that.’
At that moment something bounded out of the left tunnel. It was tall, long-limbed, and made a horrible shrieking noise. Its face was red-skinned, and it had two thin spiked horns through its crown. A flapping large jaw hung loose, lined with knots of sharp bone.