Tanequil

Sixteen

I hey fled through the tunnels, away from Taupo Rough and deep into the mountain rock. At first they followed the women and children, a part of their steady flow down the boltholes, and then they broke away to follow a different set of tunnels and did not see them again. Pen and the rest of their small group moved swiftly and purposefully, sliding through the darkness with torches to light the way and a sense of urgency to keep them focused. The din of the battle they had escaped was audible for a time, then dimmed and faded, and they were left with the soft scrape and rustle of their own movements in the ensuing silence.

No one spoke. All of their efforts were concentrated on moving through the tunnels, on getting clear of the pursuit that was sure to follow. It might be that the Druids and their Gnome Hunters couldn't track them through the rock corridors, but Pen knew that Kermadec and his Trolls would not rely on that. He held Cinnaminson's hand as they went, drawing on the strength he found there, reassuring himself that she was with him. He didn't even try to tell himself that the contact was for her, — he knew that she was better able to navigate the dark than he was. It was to keep his despair and loneliness at bay, for he was afraid that otherwise, without the feel of her, he would give way to the dark emotions that threatened to overwhelm his failing sense of purpose and leave him drained of strength.

The eyes of those women and children haunted him, burned into I his memory, became ghosts in his mind. That wouldn't have happened had he felt less guilt over their fate. But he could not absolve himself of the responsibility he felt, no matter what Kermadec might say. Too much of what had transpired already on the journey was directly attributable to him. Fortunes altered, plans shattered, and lives given up—that was pretty much the story for everyone with whom he had come in contact since leaving Patch Run. It might not be his fault and his involvement might not matter anyway in the long run, but he could only see what was, not what might be. His presence was the catalyst for everything that had happened. So much depended on him, and the weight of it was terrifying.

«Keep right," Kermadec called over his shoulder, motioning toward Pen and his companions. «Don't look down.»

They entered a cavern that dropped away on the left into a black hole so vast that it looked as if it could swallow whole villages. The trail became a narrow ledge that hugged the wall of the cavern, and the company pressed close to that wall as they edged forward. They were strung out in single file, torches spaced along the ledge. Pen could see for the first time the other Trolls who had joined them somewhere along the way, a line of burly, dark shadows in the flicker of the firelight. They wore no armor, only leather tunics and pants, closed–toe sandals, and heavy cloaks. All carried weapons strapped across their backs, along with packs of supplies. They moved ponderously, but with no visible effort or strain. They had the look of massive rocks into which faces had been carved.

On the far side of the cavern, a tunnel opened into the rock wall, and soon they were burrowing downward once more. They had been descending steadily since they had set out, and if Pen was judging right, they were below the level of the village of Taupo Rough by several hundred feet. He wanted to know where they were going, wanted to reach a place where he could ask, and wanted most of all to get out in the open air again, where he could breathe. The mountain and its darkness pressed down against him with suffocating force. He was a flier, born to the air, and he hated being closed away.

But the tunnels wound on, deep and dark passageways thick with stale air and tar smoke, dead feeling and tomblike. Pen closed his mind to them after a while, a defense against his distaste and the hint of fear that lay behind it. He whispered now and again to Cin–naminson, just so that he could hear her voice. Each time, she squeezed his hand, as if sensing his need to make contact.

When they finally emerged from the tunnels, it was late afternoon and the sun had disappeared behind the peaks west, the light gone gray and misty. A narrow wedge of sky was visible overhead, distant and thick with clouds. They were deep in a valley where the shadows were so heavily layered that the trees carpeting the slopes surrounding them seemed already given over to night. Mountains rose all about them in sheer cliffs and jagged edges. Pen stood with the others, breathing the fresh, cold air and thinking that he had somehow tunneled down to the bottom of the world and must now climb back out again before he lost his way forever.

Kermadec was speaking in his deep, calm voice with one of the Trolls at the front of the line, but the conversation was being conducted in his own tongue so that Pen could not understand it. When they were finished, the other Troll disappeared into the trees, and Kermadec walked over to the boy and his companions.

«Barek will scout ahead to make sure the way is safe. We will follow in a few minutes.» He gestured toward the dense line of peaks that lay east. «These are the Klu. Part of the Charnals, but their own range, as well. To the extent that it's possible to do so, we'll travel at night from here on.» He paused. «Is everyone all right?»

They nodded, all of them, but with nothing that approached enthusiasm. Pen was somewhat relieved to find that his companions had seemingly fared no better than he had within the tunnels and the dark.

Kermadec nodded. «We'll go on in a few minutes. We have to cross the valley floor before nightfall to be certain we're safe enough to get some sleep. Drink plenty of water. The air is dry here. You won't notice it until you pass out.»

Pen and his friends did as the big Troll instructed, casting uneasy glances back at the opening to the tunnels from which they had emerged, then at the sky overhead where searching airships might appear at any second.

«It will take them a day or two just to discover we're gone," Tagwen announced confidently.

«Only if they are exceedingly stupid," Atalan shot back, overhearing as he walked past. He gave a dismissive shrug. «The fortifications will have been abandoned by now and our people moved on. We're being hunted already, little man.»

Tagwen scowled deeply, not at all happy with being addressed in such familiar terms by the young Troll. After Atalan had moved away, Pen said quietly to the Dwarf, «His name is Atalan. He claims he's Kermadec's brother.»

Tagwen shook his head. «Kermadec never spoke of a brother. He never spoke about his family at all. Whoever this fellow is, he's in need of some manners.»

«I don't think he's overly fond of Kermadec, from what he said earlier. I think he resents Kermadec's position as Maturen.»

The Dwarf snorted. «Kermadec is a force to be reckoned with, make no mistake. If we're to complete this journey in one piece, he is the one who will make it possible. His brother, if that's what he is, ought to know as much.»

At Kermadec's command, they began walking east through the trees. Because they were already on the valley floor, travel was smooth and steady. The Trolls set the pace and chose the way, finding paths where there didn't seem to be any, moving everyone along, keeping watch on all sides. Pen felt much better out in the open again, and his earlier discomfort subsided and eventually disappeared. Things didn't seem so impossible when he didn't have an entire mountain pressing down on him. He gazed skyward and thought wistfully that if they could find an airship to convey them the rest of the way, things would be perfect.

But there would be no airships, of course. Kermadec had made it clear that airships were at risk in those mountains, and that travel afoot was much safer if their intent was to remain safely concealed from would–be pursuers. It was a choice that Pen might not have made, but they were in Kermadec's country, and the Rock Troll would know the best way to get to where they were going. Whatever else happened, Pen did not care to experience another encounter with the Druids who hunted him.

Ahead, the trees thinned as the valley floor opened up before them, and they crossed the central flats under a cover of clouds and mist and growing darkness. Diffuse and silvery, light from moon and stars began to filter through the haze, lending just enough brightness to enable the company to pick its way ahead without groping. Judging from the pace that Kermadec was setting, the Trolls knew the country well, — there was no suggestion of hesitation as they progressed.

When they stopped to rest, just inside a thick stand of fir midway across the valley, Tagwen sat down next to Pen and leaned close.

«This is what you need to know about Kermadec, young Pender–rin. It isn't the only story about him, but it is the one that I think says the most. Some years ago, when he was still a boy, he was taken on an outing with two dozen other young Trolls who were in the training stages of their wilderness survival education. All young Rock Trolls are given this instruction, boys and girls alike. Because they are a migratory people, it is presumed that at some point each of them will become separated from the tribe and be forced to find the way back alone, perhaps through dangerous country. Young Trolls are taken out twice a year beginning at the age of six or seven in order to learn what they need to know about doing so. The group in which Kermadec was included consisted of all ages and both sexes. For some, the littlest, it was the first time. It was autumn, and the green of summer was just changing to the bolder colors in the broad leaves. There was a bite to the night air.»

His head lowered into shadow, Tagwen rubbed his beard. «Three handlers managed the two dozen, about average for a class of that size. They were hiking through the Razor Mountains across the valley from one of the villages several miles below the Lazareen. A two–week outing, give or take a few days—that was the intended duration. The country was familiar to them, mostly uninhabited, forested low mountains, some small lakes, streams, typical for the middle Northland and safely above the Skull Kingdom. Nothing too dangerous.

«Except that the unexpected happened. A band of renegade Forest Trolls, traditional enemies of the Rock Trolls and dangerous in their own right, stumbled across the group while it was descending a steep slope and recognized it for what it was. They began tracking it, deciding they would wait until their quarry was sleeping, kill the handlers, steal their supplies and weapons, and take the smallest children as slaves to sell to those who use children in that way. It wasn't much of a reason for such slaughter, but renegades don't usually need much of a reason to justify what they do.»

He paused as Atalan stalked past, ignoring them as he had ignored them all day. Without a word of greeting, he moved over to talk with Kermadec. Tagwen glared at him balefully then sighed. «I wish I could think better of him. I wish he would give me a reason.»

He shook his head. «So, the Forest Trolls had their plan. But it failed because they weren't careful enough. The handlers spotted them and set about making an escape. That, too, failed. The Forest Trolls attacked, a dozen strong, and the two male handlers were killed along with one of the boys. Kermadec and the female handler managed to hide the rest of the children in a dense wood just as the sun was setting. The Forest Trolls spent all night hunting them, combing the wood in the dark. If they had been smarter, they might have thought better of the idea. But there were nine of them still alive after the battle with the handlers, and they thought there was safety in numbers. After all, these were only children they hunted.»

He smiled. «I would have liked to have seen their faces when they found out otherwise. Kermadec was less a child than they thought, already big and strong, already as skilled as the adults. When he realized that the renegades weren't giving up, he slipped away from the other children and the woman handler, who was badly injured in the earlier skirmish, and began stalking the Forest Trolls. He caught them by surprise, and one by one, he killed four of them before the rest realized what was happening and backed off. But still they didn't give up. These were only children, after all. They waited until dawn, and they began to hunt again. A reasonable idea, but not when you're dealing with someone like Kermadec. He was waiting for them. He ambushed them and killed two more. This time, the rest fled for good.

«But that wasn't the end of it. Kermadec's little group was deep in the Razors, miles from their own tribe, and the woman handler was so weak she could no longer walk, let alone act as guide. So Kermadec led the rest of the children out of those mountains and back to the tribe. It took them four days. He carried the handler on his back the entire way, more than fifty miles. No one was left behind. All of them arrived home safe.»

He paused. «Kermadec was fourteen years old when he did this.» He arched one eyebrow at the boy. «That's the sort of man you've placed your trust in, should you be in any doubt about the matter.»

They set out again shortly afterwards and walked the rest of the way across the valley into a deep wood that ran up the flank of the mountains and into the valleys and defiles in dark green fingers. The last of the light faded, and night drew in about them. By then, Kermadec had brought the Trolls and their charges to a grassy clearing by a stream that tumbled down out of the rocks into a high–banked pool that then spilled over to meander on across the valley west. They set camp, putting themselves safely within the cover of the fir and spruce and forgoing any sort of fire. They ate their dinner ration cold and rolled into their blankets to sleep without wasting further time.

But before they fell asleep, Khyber eased over next to Pen. Even in the darkness, he could see the troubled intensity of her dark eyes. «I've something to tell you, Pen. I'd forgotten earlier, in all the chaos, and when I remembered, I couldn't decide right away whether you should know. But I guess you should. I can't be sure if it's true, but Traunt Rowan told Kermadec that the Druids have made prisoners of your parents.»

Her dark eyes studied him carefully. «I'm sorry. Especially if I made a mistake in telling you. Are you all right?»

He wasn't, of course. He wasn't anything close to all right. He felt hollowed out, drained of any good feelings he might have salvaged from their escape from Taupo Rough. It was bad enough that he carried the weight of his guilt from all of the others who had suffered on his behalf. He had thought his parents safe. The King of the Silver River had said he would warn them of the danger, that he would take steps to protect them. But perhaps that hadn't been enough and not even they were to be spared.

«It might have been a lie," she said. Her hand rested on his. «In fact, it probably is a lie. They would say anything to get to you. Even something as evil as that.»

But it wasn't a lie. He knew it instinctively. It was the truth. Somehow, the Druids had lured his parents to Paranor and locked them away. What was expected of them, he couldn't be sure. But he was afraid for them because he thought that anyone connected with him, or with his aunt, was at risk. His impulse was to abandon the quest and go to them at once, to do anything that would help them. But of course, that was exactly what the Druids were hoping for, what they intended by giving out such information. He would not be helping his parents by giving in to his impulses. He could only help by finding his aunt and bringing her home again. She was the one who could save them all.

He remained awake long after the rest of them were asleep, trying to reassemble the shattered pieces of his confidence, trying to reassure himself that he wouldn't give way to what he was feeling.

They set out again at dawn, climbing out of the valley and into the jagged peaks of the Klu Mountains. The Klu were rugged, barren pinnacles that time and a shifting of the earth's crust had compressed as if they had been grasped by a giant's hand, the rock cracked and broken by the pressure, eroded by wind and water, and reshaped into strange formations that barely resembled the mountains they had once been. Narrow defiles and deep chasms split the rock at every turn, and passes were as likely to lead through stacked rocks and weather–carved fissures as along ledges or across slides. Nothing made sense about the Klu, which seemed to comprise an amalgam of every geological configuration that nature could devise.

As the day wore on and the air cooled at the higher elevations, the mist thickened about them. It did so slowly, but noticeably, so that Pen had time to realize that they would soon be climbing blindly into the rocks. It was not a pleasant prospect, given the treacherous terrain with its difficult and uncertain footing. But Ker–madec pressed ahead, moving them along as quickly as conditions would allow, taking them off the flank of the mountains and into a series of defiles that twisted and wound through cliffs towering hundreds of feet above them.

The mist dissipated, but forward progress slowed. Loose stone littered the trail, and ice patches coated its surface. Wind howled overhead and down the gaps in the cliffs, buffeting them as they struggled to put one foot in front of the other without slipping. The path fell away to the left, the resulting cliff a sheer and unbroken drop that vanished into blackness.

Pen hugged the rock wall on his right, trying not to think of what would happen if he slipped, trying not to look down. He had managed to put his concern for his parents and his doubts about himself aside upon waking, but they nudged their way back into his thinking now, prompted by an increasing suspicion that their efforts on this day alone, their first day, were not going to be enough to get them to Stridegate. He watched Cinnaminson as she moved cautiously ahead of him, hands and feet finding the way. He would have taken her hand, done something to help her, but it was too dangerous on the narrow trail.

Then, abruptly, the mist gathered and settled down about them with such compacted heaviness that everything simply disappeared.

«Stay where you are!» Kermadec called back to them.

Pen froze on the trail, feeling the cold of the rock seep into him, listening to the wind die away to nothing, thinking that the worst had just happened. They were trapped, unable to go forward or back, exposed to the whim of the elements. It was probably close to midday. What would happen when it was night?

He reached out, groping, until he found Cinnaminson's hand and took it in his own, then edged forward until he was just behind her. «Can you see anything that we can't?» he asked.

Her face turned to his, her lips cold when they pressed against his ear. «I can see a little of what lies ahead, but I don't know which way to go. There are too many choices. It all looks the same.»

Pen thought. «Could you guide us if Kermadec told you what to look for?»

She gripped his arm. «I don't know. Maybe.» She sounded scared, but no more scared than he felt. And she was their best hope. He called to Kermadec, then eased his way forward past the others, leading Cinnaminson by the hand. He moved carefully, taking his time, one foot in front of the other, body pressed to the cliff wall. The mist was getting worse, visibility dropping to where he couldn't see more than a few yards ahead, and no wind appeared to blow it all away.

When he reached the Maturen, he explained his idea. Once Kermadec understood what the Rover girl was able to do, he agreed to let her try. He had never seen fog so bad and didn't care to wait it out. Exposed as they were, it was too dangerous to remain on the cliff trails. They needed to find shelter.

So with Cinnaminson leading them, using her special sight to see beyond the layers of mist, they began inching forward. It was slow going, — Cinnaminson stopped often to explain what she was seeing so that Kermadec could advise her on which way to go. A maze of similar paths and trails awaited his decision, most of them leading to sudden drops or blank walls and only a few leading out. Pen wondered how far they were from safe ground and an easier passage, but wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

The mist got worse, and their progress slowed even more. Pen felt Cinnaminson hesitate more often, as if even her sight could not penetrate the haze. He turned his face into the mist, and the feel of it made him shiver. There was something wrong with its dampness and color, something that sent a whisper of warning rushing through his chilled body.

«Kermadec!» he called back. «Why is it getting worse?» «Because the mist is Druid–formed," Khyber answered, an invisible presence somewhere behind him. «Because it isn't real. We saw this before, Pen, when we crossed the Lazareen. The ones who track us now must have sent it through the peaks to trap us. They must know what we are trying to do!»

«Can you get rid of it, Elven girl?» Kermadec called back. «Can you counter their magic with your own?»

A long pause. «If I do, I will give us away. They will track my magic to where we are. I expect that is what they are hoping for.»

There was a long silence in the aftermath of this pronouncement, a silence filled with heavy breathing and a shuffling of feet.

«We can't just stand out here!» Atalan snapped angrily. «They'll find us anyway! Or the weather will. There's snow coming.»

Cinnaminson leaned over to Pen and whispered in his ear. «I can't see anymore. My sight is gone. The Druid magic must be affecting it.»

Pen leaned back against the rock, feeling the rough surface dig into his back. What could they do? If Cinnaminson couldn't find the way, they were trapped. But if Khyber used her magic to spring the trap, Traunt Rowan and his Gnome Hunters would be on them in minutes. They needed to find another way. But what way? A cave in which to hide? Even a deep crevice would be sufficient. Just something …

He turned his face into the rock, peering ahead, and felt something move against his cheek. He jerked away, looking back in surprise at a greenish gray patch on the stone.

Lichen.

But it had moved. He had felt it move. He hesitated, then placed his cheek against the patch again. Again, he felt it move. He wasn't sure if he was feeling it with his senses or his mind. It wasn't quite one or the other. He held his cheek against it and closed his eyes.

Warm.

The lichen was expressing what it felt, and his odd magic was reading its communication. He placed his cheek against it once more, feeling the faint movement of its tiny bristles, the expression of its tiny intelligence.

Warm.

He looked around quickly. Lichen grew all over these rocks in mottled greenish gray patches. He peered into the mist. Everything looked the same to him, but maybe not to the lichen. The lichen couldn't see, but it could feel. It was a plant. It sought the sun. That was what it was communicating to him.Warm. It was sensing the hidden sunlight.

Was there a way that he could use the lichen, a way that could help them get clear?

«Kermadec!» he said quickly, searching for the Maturen. The big man moved out of the haze past Cinnaminson. «What direction does the trail go, the one we need to follow?»

The big man bent down, his barked face as rugged as the mountains they were trapped in. «You look like you've seen a ghost.» «Just tell me. Which way?» «Southeast. Why?»

«And the time? What time of day is it?»

«After noon by about an hour, I would guess. What are you asking, Penderrin?»

«Then north would be that way?» He pointed, and Kermadec nodded. «And south that way?» Again, the Rock Troll nodded. Pen took a deep breath. «Let me take the lead. I think I can get us out of here. If the trail leads down at some point, back to tree level, maybe we can get below this mist. Will you let me try?»

Kermadec eased him to the front of the line, and Pen began to move forward, running his hands along the patches of lichen that grew on the rock face. The afternoon sun would be south and west of them. He needed to lead them south and east to stay on the path. It was easy at first, because the trail only led in one direction and there were no choices to be made. But it quickly grew more difficult as the number of twists and turns increased and the path split, forcing him to read the lichen's response to his touch and then advance accordingly.

He couldn't be sure he was going the right way, not entirely, not while he was unable to see anything of his surroundings, the mist so thick and impenetrable it was like swimming underwater at night. But at least they were moving somewhere, rather than just standing out in the open with night coming on. It was better to take the chance, he told himself. It was better to do something than nothing.

Sometimes the lichen disappeared, and he was forced to continue on blindly until he found a new patch. Sometimes he found patches in places so cold and shadowy that they were locked down inside themselves and he could read nothing from them. Sometimes he was reduced to guessing at which way they should go, unable to be certain that he was interpreting the lichen's message clearly. It was slow, torturous work; the lichen's form of communication was much more subtle than that of a seagull or a deer. It wasn't a life–form of high intelligence, and what it gave to him was not much more than a tiny response to the environment that sustained it.

I can do this.

To their credit, the others in the little company left him alone. Once or twice, he thought he heard grumbling from somewhere behind, but it was always momentary and not directed at him. He never let it bother him, never let it break his concentration. Forgotten were the fears and doubts he had experienced the night before. He had something to do now, a purpose that was as much a lifeline as a duty. They were all here because of him, but now he was doing something to help. He wasn't just a charge to whom they were committed, to whom they must offer their protection. He was a member of the company, a part of the effort to find a way to their destination.

He ran his hands carefully over the lichen, feeling its tiny movement, its soft response. Warm. Reaching toward the sun, toward the light.

Deep and still, the mist continued to blanket them, and the light faded slowly with the passing of the day. Time was slipping away. He kept moving, kept his concentration focused. Cinnaminson hadn't spoken once since he had taken command. He understood. She couldn't do anything to help, her inner sight rendered useless by the onslaught of Druid magic. Like the others, she was relying on him.

I can do this.

It was nearing dark when at last they emerged from the mist and found the first sparse patches of grassy earth, uneven and rocky high meadows forming cradles of life among the barren peaks of the Klu.

Slowly the mist began to dissipate as they continued downhill. Then all at once it was gone, and they were standing in scrub and twilight at the edge of an alpine forest, the air clear enough for them to see one another once more.

Kermadec came over to Pen at once and clapped him on the shoulder. «Well done, young Penderrin. We owe you a measurable debt for this day's work.»

The other Trolls, even Atalan, nodded their agreement, dark eyes communicating what words did not. Khyber was smiling. Even Tagwen muttered grudgingly that Pen was to be congratulated.

Cinnaminson didn't bother with words. She simply walked up to him and hugged him so tightly that the breath left his body.

It was the best he had felt in a long time.