Elven Star

22

The dwarves had spent centuries building the tunnels. The passageways branched out in all directions, the major routes extending norinth to the dwarven realms of Klag and Grish—realms now ominously silent—and vars-sorinth, to the land of the SeaKings and beyond to Thillia. The dwarves could have traveled overland; the trade routes to the sorinth, particularly, were well established. But they preferred (he darkness and privacy of their tunnels. Dwarves dislike and distrust “light seekers” as they refer disparagingly to humans and elves.

Traveling the tunnels made sense, it was plainly safer; but Drugar took grim delight in the knowledge that his “victims” hated the tunnels, hated the smothering, closed-in feeling, hated—above all—the darkness. The tunnels were built for people of Drugar’s height. The humans and the taller elf had to hunch over when they walked, sometimes even crawl on hands and knees. Muscles rebelled, bodies ached, knees were bruised, palms were raw and bleeding. In satisfaction, Drugar watched them sweat, heard them pant for air and groan in pain. His only regret was that they were moving much too swiftly. The elf, in particular, was extremely anxious to reach his homeland. Rega and Roland were just anxious to get out.

They paused only for short rests, and then only when they were near collapsing from exhaustion. Drugar often stayed awake, watching them sleep, fingering the blade of his knife. He could have murdered them at any time, for the fools trusted him now. But killing them would be a barren gesture. He might as well have let the tytans kill them. No, he hadn’t risked his own Hfe to save these wretches just to knife them in their sleep. They must first watch as Drugar had watched, they must first witness the slaughter of their loved ones. They must experience the horror, the helplessness. They must battle without, hope, knowing that their entire race was going to be wiped out. Then, and only then, would Drugar permit them to die. Then he could die himself.

But the body cannot live on obsession alone. The dwarf had to sleep himself, and when he could be heard loudly snoring, his victims talked.

“Do you know where we are?” Paithan edged his way painfully over to where Roland was sitting, nursing torn hands.

“No.”

“What if he’s leading us the wrong way? Up norinth?”

“Why should he? I wish we had some of that ointment stuff of Rega’s.”

“Maybe she had it with her—”

“Don’t wake her. Poor kid, she’s about done in.” Roland wrung his hands, wincing. “Ouch, damn that stings.”

Paithan shook his head. They couldn’t see each other, the dwarf had insisted the torch be doused when they weren’t moving. The wood used to make it burned long, but they had traveled far, and it was rapidly being consumed.

“I think we should risk going up,” said Paithan, after a moment’s pause. “I have my etherilite[25] with me. I can tell where we are.” Roland shrugged. “Suit yourself. I don’t want to meet those bastards again. I’m considering staying down here permanently. I’m getting kind of used to it.”

“What about your people?”

“What the hell can I do to help them?”

“You could warn them …”

“As fast as those bastards travel, they’re probably already there by now. Let the knights fight ’em. That’s what they’re trained for.”

“You’re a coward. You’re not worthy of—” Paithan realized what he had been about to say, snapped his mouth shut on the words.

Roland kindly finished his sentence for him. “Not worthy of who? My wife?

Save-her-skin Rega?”

“Don’t talk about her like that!”

“I can talk about her any damn way I feel like, elf. She’s my wife, or have you forgotten that little fact? You know, by god, I think you have forgotten.” Roland was glib, talked tough. The words were a shell, meant to hold in his quivering guts. He liked to pretend he lived a danger-filled life, but it wasn’t true. Once he’d nearly been knifed in a barroom scuffle and another time he’d been mauled by an enraged wildeboar. Then there was the time he and Rega had fought fellow smugglers during a dispute over free trade. Strong and powerful, quick and cunning, Roland had emerged from these adventures with a couple of bruises and a few scratches.

Courage comes easy to a person in a fight. Adrenaline pumps, bloodlust burns. Courage is hard to find, however, when you’re tied to a tree and you’ve been splattered with the blood and brains of the man tied next to you. Roland was shaken, unnerved. Every time he fell asleep he saw that horrible scene again, played out before his closed eyes. He grew to bless the darkness, it hid his shivering. Time and again he’d caught himself waking with a scream on his lips.

The thought of leaving the security of the tunnels, of facing those monsters was almost more than he could bear. Like a wounded animal who fears to betray its own weakness lest others come and tear it apart, Roland went into hiding behind the one thing that seemed to him to offer shelter, the one thing that promised to help him forget—money.

It’d be a different world up there once the tytans passed through. People dead, cities destroyed. Those who survived would have it all, especially if they had money—elven money.

He’d lost all he’d planned to make on the weapons sale. But there was always the elf. Roland was fairly certain, now, of Paithan’s true feelings for Rega. He planned to use the elf’s love to squeeze him, wring him dry.

“I’ve got my eye on you, Quin. You better keep clear of my wife or I’ll make you wish the tytans had battered in your head like they did poor Andor.” Roland’s voice caught, he hadn’t meant to bring that up. It was dark, the elf couldn’t see. Maybe he’d chalk the quiver up to righteous anger.

“You’re a coward and a bully,” said Paithan, teeth clenched, his entire body clenched to keep from throttling the human. “Rega is worth ten of you! I—” But he was too furious, he couldn’t go on, perhaps he wasn’t certain what he’d say. Roland heard the elf move over to the opposite side of the tunnel, heard him throw himself down onto the floor.

If that doesn’t force him to make love to her, nothing will, thought Roland. He stared into the darkness and thought desperately about money. Lying apart from both her brother and the elf, Rega kept very still, pretended to sleep, and swallowed her tears.

“The tunnels end here,” announced Drugar.

“Where is ‘here’?” demanded Paithan.

“We are at the border of Thillia, near Griffith.”

“We’ve come that far?”

“The way through the tunnels is shorter and easier than the way above. We have traveled in a straight line, instead of being forced to follow the winding trails of the jungle.”

“One of us should go up there,” said Rega, “see what … see what’s happening.”

“Why don’t you go, Rega? You’re so all fired hot to get out of here,” suggested her brother.

Rega didn’t move, didn’t look at him. “I… I thought I was. I guess I’m not.”

“I’ll go,” offered Paithan. Anything to get away from the woman, to be able to think clearly without the sight of her scattering his thoughts around like the pieces of a broken toy.

“Take this tunnel to the top,” instructed the dwarf, holding the torch high and pointing. “It will bring you out in a fernmoss cavern. The town of Griffith is about a mile on your right. The path is plainly marked.”

“I’ll go with you,” offered Rega, ashamed of her fear. “We both will, won’t we, Roland?”

“I’ll go alone!” Paithan snapped.

The runnel wound upward through the bole of a huge tree, twisting round and round like a spiral staircase. He stood, looking up it, when he felt a hand touch his arm.

“Be careful,” said Rega softly.

The tips of her fingers sent ripples of heat through the elf’s body. He dared not turn, dared not look into the brown, fire-lit eyes. Leaving her abruptly, without a word or a glance, Paithan began to crawl up the tunnel. He was soon beyond the light of the torch and had to feel his way, making the going slow and arduous. He didn’t mind. He both longed for and dreaded reaching the world again. Once he emerged into the sun, his questions would be answered, he’d be forced to take decisive action.

Had the tytans reached Thillia? How many of the creatures were there? If no more than they had encountered in the jungle, Paithan could almost believe Roland’s boast that the human knights of the five kingdoms could deal with them. He wanted very much to believe in that. Unfortunately, logic kept sticking its sharp point into his rainbow-colored bubbles. These tytans had destroyed an empire. They had destroyed the dwarven nation. Doom and destruction, said the old man. You will bring it with you. No, I won’t. I’ll reach my people in time. We’ll be prepared. Rega and I will warn them.

Elves are, in general, strict observers of the law. They abhor chaos and rely on laws to keep their society in order. The family unit and the sanctity of marriage were held sacred. Paithan was different, however. His entire family was different. Calandra held money and success sacred, Aleatha believed in money and status, Paithan believed in pleasing himself. If at any time society’s rules and regulations interfered with a Quindiniar belief, the rules and regulations were conveniently swept into the wastebasket. Paithan knew he should feel some sort of qualm at asking Rega to run away with him. He was satisfied to discover that he didn’t. If Roland couldn’t hang onto his own wife, that was his problem, not Paithan’s. The elf did remember, now and then, the conversation he’d overheard between Rega and Roland; the one in which it had seemed Rega was plotting to blackmail him. But he remembered, too, Rega’s face when the tytans were dosing in on them, when they were facing certain death. She’d told him she loved him. She wouldn’t have lied to him then. Paithan concluded, therefore, that the scheme had been Roland’s, and that Rega had never truly had any part in it. Perhaps he was forcing her, threatening her with physical harm. Absorbed in his thoughts and the difficult climb, Paithan was startled to find himself at the top sooner than he’d expected. It occurred to him that the dwarven tunnel must have been sloping upward during the last few cycles’ travel and that he hadn’t noticed. He poked his head cautiously out of the tunnel opening. He was somewhat disappointed to find himself surrounded by darkness, then he remembered that he was in a cavern. Eagerly he gazed around and—some distance from him—he could see sunlight. He drew in a deep breath, tasted fresh air.

The elf’s spirits rose. He could almost believe the tytans had been nothing but a bad dream. It was all he could do to contain himself and not leap up out of the tunnel and dash into the blessed sunlight. Paithan pulled himself cautiously up over the lip of the tunnel and, moving quietly, crept through the cavern until he reached the opening.

He peered outside. All seemed perfectly normal. Recalling the terrible silence in the jungle just before the tytans appeared, he was relieved to hear birds squawking and cawing, animals rustling through—the trees on their own private business. Several greevils popped up out of the undergrowth, staring at him with their four eyes, their legendary curiosity banishing fear. Paithan grinned at them and, reaching into a pocket, tossed them some crumbs of bread. Emerging from the cavern, the elf stretched to his full height, bending backward to relieve muscles cramped from traveling stooped and hunched over. He looked carefully in all directions, though he didn’t expect to see the jungle moving. The testimony of the animals was clear to him. The tytans were nowhere around. Perhaps they’ve been here and moved on. Perhaps when you walk into Griffith, you’ll find a dead city.

No, Paithan couldn’t believe it. The world was too bright, too sunny and sweet smelling. Maybe it had all been just a bad dream.

He decided he would go back and tell the others. There was no reason all of them couldn’t travel to Griffith together. He turned around, dreading going back into the tunnels again, when he heard a voice, echoing in the cavern.

“Paithan? Is everything all right?”

“All right?” cried Paithan. “Rega, it’s beautiful! Come out and stand in the sunshine! Come on. It’s safe. Hear the birds?”

Rega ran through the cavern. Bursting into the sun, she lifted her upturned face to the heavens and breathed deeply.

“It’s glorious!” she sighed. Her gaze went to Paithan. Before either quite knew how it happened, they were in each other’s arms, holding each other tightly, lips searching, meeting, finding.

“Your husband,” said Paithan, when he could catch his bretath. “He might come up, might catch us—”

“No!” Rega murmured, clinging to him fiercely. “No, he’s down there with the dwarf. He’s going to wait … to keep an eye on Drugar. Besides”—she drew a deep breath, moved back slightly so that she could look into Paithan’s face—“it wouldn’t matter if he did catch us. I’ve made a decision. There’s something I have to tell you.”

Paithan ran his hand through her dark hair, entangling his fingers in the thick, shining mass. “You’ve decided to run away with me. I know. It will be for the best. He’ll never find us in my country—”

“Please listen to me and don’t interrupt!” Rega shook her head, nuzzling it beneath Paithan’s hand like a cat wanting to be stroked. “Roland isn’t my husband.” The words came out in a gasp, forced up from the pit of her stomach. Paithan stared at her, puzzled. “What?”

“He’s … my brother. My half-brother.” Rega had to swallow, to keep her throat moist enough to talk.

Paithan continued to hold her, but his hands were suddenly cold. He recalled the conversation in the glade; it took on a new and more sinister meaning.

“Why did you lie to me?”

Rega felt his hands tremble, felt the chill in his fingers, saw his face pale and grow cold as his hands. She couldn’t meet his intense, searching gaze. Her eyes lowered, sought her feet.

“We didn’t lie to you,” she said, trying to make her voice light. “We lied to everyone. Safety, you see. Men don’t … bother me if they think … I’m married …” She felt him stiffen, and looked at him. Her words dried up, cracked. “What’s wrong? I thought you’d be pleased! Don’t … don’t you believe me?”

Paithan shoved her away. Tripping over a vine, Rega stumbled and fell. She started to get up, but the elf stood over her, his frightening gaze pinned her to the moss.

“Believe you? No! Why should I? You’ve lied to me before! And you’re lying now. Safety! I overheard you and your brother”—he spit the word—“talking. I heard about your little scheme to seduce me and then blackmail me! You bitch!” Paithan turned his back on her, stalked over to the path that led into town. He set his foot on it; kept walking, determined to leave the pain and the horror of this trip behind him. He didn’t move very fast, however, and his walk slowed further when he heard a rustling in the undergrowth and the sound of light footfalls hurrying after him.

A hand touched his arm. Paithan continued walking, didn’t look around.

“I deserved that,” said Rega. “I am … what you said. I’ve done terrible things in my life. Oh, I could tell you”—her grip on Paithan tightened—“I could tell you that it wasn’t my fault. You might say life has been like a mother to Roland and me: every time we turn around, it smacks us in the face. I could tell you that we live the way we do because that’s how we survive. But it wouldn’t be true.

“No, Paithan! Don’t look at me. I want to say one more thing and then you can go. If you know about the plan we had to blackmail you, then you know that I didn’t go through with it. I wasn’t being noble. I was being selfish. Whenever you look at me, I feel … ugly. I meant what I said. I do love you. And that’s why I’m letting you go. Good-bye, Paithan.” Her hand slid from his arm. Paithan turned, captured the hand and kissed it. He smiled ruefully into the brown eyes. “I’m not such a prize, you know. Look at me. I was ready to seduce a married woman, ready to carry you off from your husband. I love you, Rega. That was my excuse. But the poets say that when you love someone, you want only the best for the other person. That means you come out ahead in our game, because you wanted the best for me.” The elf’s smile twisted. “And so did I.”

“You love me, Paithan? You truly love me?”

“Yes, but—”

“No.” Her hand covered his lips. “No, don’t say anything else. I love you and if we love each other, nothing else matters. Not then, not now, not whatever comes.”

Doom and destruction. The old man’s words echoed in Paithan’s heart. He ignored the voice. Taking Rega in his arms, he shoved his fear firmly back into the shadows, along with various other nagging doubts such as “where will this relationship lead?” Paithan didn’t see why that question needed to be answered. Right now their love was leading to pleasure, and that was all that mattered.

“I warned you, elf!”

Roland had apparently grown tired of waiting. He and the dwarf stood before them. The human yanked his raztar from his belt. “I warned you to keep away from her! Blackbeard, you’re a witness—”

Rega, snuggled in Paithan’s embrace, smiled at her brother. “It’s over, Roland. He knows the truth.”

“He knows?” Roland stared, amazed.

“I told him,” sighed Rega, looking back up into Paithan’s eyes.

“Well, that’s great! That’s just dandy!” Roland hurled the raztar blades-down into the moss, rage conveniently masking his fear. “First we lose the money from the weapons, now we lose the elf. Just what are we supposed to live on—” The boom of a huge, snakeskin drum rolled through the jungle, scaring the birds, sending them flapping and shrieking up from the trees. The drum boomed out again and yet again. Roland hushed, listening, his face gone pale. Rega tensed in the elf’s arms, her gaze going to the direction of the town.

“What is it?” asked Paithan.

“They’re sounding the alarm. Calling out the men to defend the village against an attack!” Rega looked around fearfully. The birds had risen into the air with the sound of the drum, but they had ceased their raucous protest. The jungle was suddenly still, deathly quiet.

“You wanted to know what you were going to live on?” Paithan glanced at Roland. “That might not be much of an issue.”

No one was paying any attention to the dwarf, or they would have seen Drugar’s lips, beneath the beard, part in a rictus grin.