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  Curious, Trev walked after the other and came to a mound of strange wreckage. He almost opened his mouth to ask what it was—when he had it.

  “Is this a Kindred war machine?” he asked in awe.

  “Yep. There can be little doubt of that. It’s one of the crawlers with a dead or escaped belly-burner. ”

  Trev knew, from what schooling he’d received from the people of Riverton, that the Kindred had the most amazing war machines. These were made of metal and rare minerals. Crawlers were like spiders with weaponry attached. They had drivers, and steam was used to power the machines. Each crawler had a small elemental in its belly—a fire elemental. When water was dripped down onto the imprisoned beast, it would turn the liquid to hot, expanding steam. This steam in turn drove the machine itself to walk, dig or move its murderous mechanical limbs.

  “Amazing!” Trev said, hopping on top of the crawler and poking around.

  “Get down off that, are you daft?”

  “You said it was dead or disabled.”

  “I said its belly-burner had left, but that doesn’t mean it’s harmless.”

  Trev left the machine’s ribbed iron back reluctantly.

  “Here, push on this then,” Harrdin directed him. Together, they began forcing the crawler’s legs to move one at a time.

  The machine appeared to have broken down during the last conflict between the Gnomes, Kobolds and the Kindred. They’d come up this way from the deepest reaches of the Everdark to invade the Earthlight, which was close under the surface of the mountains. This machine had been abandoned and left sitting down here since then.

  “Having a bit of trouble with this one,” Harrdin said, grunting and straining at the last leg in the line. “Squeeze in past those rocks, will you? We need to get this thing moving. Feels like it’s rusted a joint.”

  Trev did as he was told, squeezing into the tunnel past the final leg of the dead crawler. The machinery ticked and squeaked as he climbed over it. Harrdin was too thick around to get through—but Trev managed it.

  Standing behind the crawler, inside the dark tunnel, he was immediately overwhelmed with a sense of adventure. Here was the path many champions and even a dragon had taken to escape the deeps! He found it exciting to be here.

  He turned and began to explore more deeply into the tunnel.

  “Hey!” shouted Harrdin behind him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Trev glanced back. “I just thought I’d take a look around. No one’s been down here for a decade or more. At least, no one who’s civilized.”

  “I see,” said Harrdin. His single baleful eye, which had been watching Trev from the entrance, disappeared.

  Trev shrugged after a moment and took two steps farther into the tunnel. He paused to dig out a sun-stick, another invention of the ingenious Kindred.

  He thought he heard a strange sound behind him. Frowning, he glanced back again, holding the sun-stick high.

  The tail section of the crawler seemed to be moving slightly. One of the hind limbs elevated itself. Then a rattling sound echoed through the tunnel. Clearly, Harrdin was fooling with the crawler.

  Trev shrugged and turned back to the mysterious tunnel. It went on and on ahead of him until he could see no farther into the gloom. He decided he might as well explore a bit deeper if Harrdin was going to start toying with the derelict crawler. The old Warrior was grumpy today anyway.

  He’d not taken two steps before a snap and a loud jangling sound erupted all around him. On instinct, he leapt into the air. This turned out to be a bad move. His head smashed into the roof of the tunnel and he saw bright lights that existed only within his own skull.

  When he came down, the trap was unavoidable. A steel net had been laid out behind the crawler, and it now closed around him. He knew in the next few seconds that the crawler had captured him with a mechanism he’d never learned about in the Haven.

  He also knew, due to the low chuckling from the crawler’s driver seat, that Harrdin had sprung this trap upon him purposefully.

  “I should have done this days ago,” Harrdin said. He approached with heavy steps.

  Inside the net of woven steel, Trev squirmed around, but accomplished little other than to entangle himself further. The net had cinched up like a bag, ensnaring him like an idiot rabbit in a farmer’s garden.

  * * *

  Brand didn’t relish his return to the Everdark. The last time he’d gone so deep underground Modi had been burned away by a dragon, and Telyn had nearly suffered the same fate.

  Tomkin had come along for the trip, but Gudrin had left it to younger people just as she had the last time. She’d made the same excuses over a decade ago, claiming she was too old to be much more than a nuisance. Brand didn’t buy that—not entirely. Gudrin had later led a punitive expedition down here during the Siege of Snowdon against the kobolds. Perhaps that was it, he thought. Perhaps she would only go into the Everdark at the head of a powerful army. A wise policy, he had to admit.

  Keeping up with Tomkin was taxing. Brand fairly jogged after the little bounder, but he couldn’t maintain the pace. Every hundred steps he caught up with Tomkin again, who would be standing with his back leaned up against a wall, tapping his foot impatiently. This process of almost losing the little monster then catching up with him again went on for long hours before Brand called a halt.

  “Where are you leading me?” he demanded between puffs of breath. He choked on some dust, had a coughing fit, then eyed Tomkin expectantly.

  “Does it matter?” asked the manling. “At this rate you’ll be slumped over a dripstone in a sheen of sweat long before we get there.”

  “That’s because you’re going too fast,” Brand growled. “Now tell me where we’re headed. I know these under-lands as well as you do.”

  Tomkin sniffed. “I doubt that. But we’re headed for the Magnesium Bowels.”

  “So deep? Why that stretch of desolation? I found the place unpleasant in the extreme.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “I said as much.”

  Tomkin narrowed his eyes at Brand. “Then you must know the dragons lie below that level. Each of the long tunnels that feed the Bowels leads to a magma chamber. It is along those twisting tubes that the dragon likes to nest.”

  Brand nodded slowly. He hadn’t known this, but he did know they’d found their last dragon in one of those side tunnels.

  “So, you think that’s where Trev is headed?”

  “Where else?” Tomkin asked. “Unless he’s daft enough to enter the Gnome City and pester their king for information, the dragons are the only other source down here.”

  “There is another possibility,” Brand said.

  “What?”

  “He could be seeking a mound down here.”

  Tomkin was interested now. He hopped up on top of a dripstone and perched there like a robin on a branch. “Now why, pray tell, would he do that?”

  “It’s just a theory,” Brand said with a shrug. “His grandfather comes and goes that way down here. Look, if he’s trying to find someone with information, the elves are a logical next choice. The fastest way to reach the Twilight Lands from here would be to walk one of the mounds in the Everdark.”

  Tomkin nodded slowly. “You have a point there. It could be his goal. But if it is, we’re probably already too late to catch him. Therefore, I think we should stick to the plan.”

  “Which is, specifically?”

  “We race to find an open dragon-plug and to catch Trev there. Or we may locate his scorched skeleton.”

  Brand nodded. It made sense. He wasn’t sure what Trev hoped to get out of a dragon, even if he found one willing to talk. Most likely, the monster would just eat him.

  Then he turned to Tomkin suddenly and snapped his fingers.

  “The boy isn’t alone, is he?” Brand asked.

  “Not according to Gudrin. That’s a mystery to me as well. I can understand him needing a guide, but not why one would consent to m
ake the trip.”

  “I think I know why there are two of them,” Brand said, heaving himself onto his feet again and beginning to march. He reached into his pack and took hold of the haft of his Axe. “We need to hurry!”

  Tomkin bounded after him. Even though Brand was now marching with gleaming eyes and indomitable purpose, the manling could easily match his pace.

  “Can you speak?” Tomkin asked.

  “If I must, manling,” Brand grunted with effort. He puffed and strained like a plowhorse going uphill.

  “Why? You must tell me. You say you know the answer and then march off in a frenzy without imparting it.”

  Brand grinned and glanced down at Tomkin. For just a moment, he imagined how fun it would be to cleave the little bugger in twain. Diagonally, and by surprise. One half, the upper part with the brain and the candlestick nose would slide away with a look of permanent shock written in the eyes. The other half with the legs might well take a final bound before coming down and wetting the dust at their feet, twitching feebly.

  Brand’s grin became feral, and Tomkin wisely increased the distance between them. A moment later, Brand’s eyes turned back to the seemingly endless path ahead.

  “Why did he take the Warrior?” Tomkin whispered.

  “Because he needs something to bargain with. Something the other might want to trade for.”

  “Ah!” shouted Tomkin, leaping ahead and bounding around Brand in two complete circles. This elaborate movement took less than ten seconds.

  Brand was sorely tempted again to take a swing at the little blighter—but he held back.

  “I see your thinking Axeman! Can Trev be as clever as that?”

  Brand shrugged. “He’s half Fae. You tell me.”

  “It is possible,” Tomkin admitted. “Not what I would expect from Trev, but definitely on the list of maybes if he was a full elf. Maybe his father’s side is stronger in him than his mother’s.”

  “As to that, I can’t say.”

  They held their tongues after this exchange, saving their breath for the interminable march ahead. If Trev was plotting to hand a dragon a nice dinner, that was all the more reason to get there before he managed it. A freshly-awoken dragon might well appreciate such a gesture long enough to answer a few questions. Whether the questioner would escape after that was doubtful.

  Brand wasn’t sure he could catch up in time. He was trying, but he knew his best hope was that the plug would hold firm, or that when Trev opened it up, exposing the centuries-old chamber beyond, he found the lair empty.

  Despite his fixed state of mind, he wondered what a dragon might say upon being awakened not by treasure-seekers, but by persons wanting knowledge.

  Chapter Eight

  The Dragon-Child

  Slet was winded and frightened by the time he reached the northern end of Stone Island. He had been fleeing for long hours.

  At the final bluff over the flood of the Berrywine the river was split in two, each half threading its way past the granite cliffs at the point of the island and spreading around it, isolating it from the mainland to the east and west.

  “Why did you lead me here, Puck?” Slet demanded. “There is no escape. They’re sure to bring hounds that could hardly miss the scent of a troll, a man and a Dead-thing.”

  “You’re words are true, Master,” said Puck. “But the waters on the left bank aren’t terribly deep and swift. I can cross because I don’t need to draw breath. When I’ve reached the far side, I’ll take that boat you can see among the trees on the eastern bank and row it back here.”

  Slet squinted in the fading light. He couldn’t see the boat that Puck had mentioned, but he had no reason to doubt the creature.

  “That’s the plan then? I wait here and hope you return with the boat before the militia catches up to us?”

  “Unless you have a better one, Master?”

  Slet thought hard for several seconds. As he did so, a horn pealed in the distance. It was a hunting horn, and it sent a chill down his back. The time for planning had passed. They found a trail and climbed down it to the thin shoreline along the river.

  “Go, and be quick about it. I doubt my troll-child can swim.”

  Puck left him there at the point and walked directly into the flood. He sheathed his blade, staggering somewhat against the current. He kept walking until his head was under water. No bubbles came up to mark his passage.

  Slet watched this with a new shiver. He’d come to think of Puck as a living thing, and every time he saw irrefutable evidence to the contrary it gave him a chill.

  He waited there for several precious minutes. Each second that passed his eyes swept the water looking for any sign of Puck. There was none. The water was not placid, but it wasn’t loud and white either. It ran deep and pure here. He felt he should be able to see something.

  Occasionally, he glanced back the way he had come. The horsemen were out there, he knew. They’d have a hard time of it on horseback, he was glad of that. The northern end of the island was heavily wooded and sparsely populated. Horses weren’t easy to ride over the rocky ground full of thickets and low-hanging branches.

  But the horn pealed again, and it was much closer now. They were increasing their speed. He could imagine their efforts. They would have spread out in a line, each man within the sight of the next, and worked their way up the island so that no one could slip by. With hounds assuring them the quarry was still ahead, they would speed up at the end. They’d probably dismount and—

  Fear struck him. What was that rustle? A rush of feet? Had they loosed their dogs on him? What of Corbin’s promise to let him flee? Obviously, that had been an accursed lie.

  A dog rushed up out of the dark. There were more behind the first pack. These were not the same baying hounds people often used when hunting game in the forests. They were quiet, dark-eyed and certain of their quarry. They were used for hunting the Fae who plagued the Haven from time to time. There was no point in sending barking dogs after the Fae. To bring one down required stealth and surprise. These wolfish brutes were bred for the purpose, and they hunted silently.

  Slet knew the scent they must be tracking: his child’s.

  “I hope you can swim, child of mine!” Slet said, rushing downslope to the water’s edge.

  He plunged in without waiting for Puck or even an answer from the troll. He figured that if worst came to worst, he would revive the child by pushing water from its lungs on the far side.

  The troll didn’t appreciate the cold water when it felt it. Slet sucked in his breath, gasping as claws dug into his sides. They grated on his ribs and he would have cried out if he hadn’t been so intent on keeping away from the hounds. The troll’s claws were only an inkling of what the dog’s teeth would feel like, worrying at him with a snapping dozen bites.

  “Master!” cried Puck.

  Slet saw him then, he was standing in the boat, but it was wallowing and sinking. Slet knew in an instant Puck had made a grievous error. He’d cast off and paddled the stolen boat from shore—but hadn’t checked the plugs in the bottom of it.

  As wise as the elf was, he hadn’t known something every river-boy in the Haven had hammered into him since birth: the proper handling of a boat on water.

  Slet cried aloud at Puck: “You’ve killed us both, fool!”

  “Walk ahead,” shouted Puck, climbing over the side of the sinking boat. “I’ll meet you in the middle of the flood.”

  “I have to breathe, man!”

  “No, you don’t. Take hold of the Black. Wield it, and walk.”

  So saying, the Dead elf vanished into the inky waters of the river. Slet looked down into his tunic. There were the eyes of his child looking up at him. He reached in, pulled the infant out and showed it the shoreline.

  Dogs had gathered. There were six—no, a seventh had just arrived. They whimpered and milled at the edge of the flood, reluctant to go into the deep water.

  “Child of mine,” Slet said, “you have to trust m
e. I’m going to walk into this river, or we’ll be torn apart by those hounds and the men who are certainly coming after the pack. If you die, I’ll revive you on the far side. It’s the only way for us to survive.”

  The troll stared at the hounds for a moment, then squirmed like a feral cat. Slet shoved it back into his tunic, where it hugged him again.

  Then he drew the Black. The moment he touched the Scepter he felt both stronger and sicker at the same time.

  The images coming to his eyes shifted, as if a colored glass had been laid over them. He saw reddish outlines of the dogs, and much fainter blue outlines of the fish that swam nearby. He turned toward the far bank and waded deeper into the Berrywine.

  The troll clinging to his side writhed in panic, but did not leave him. Slet cried aloud at the pain of its scrabbling, curved claws. Blood ran freely from his sides and tears came down from his eyes to merge with the river.

  He cried not only because of the pain, but because he knew his child was dying again at his side. Would this never end? Must he torment his own offspring to keep others from doing worse? He felt sick, but determined.

  At last, his head went under the rippling surface of the river and he was gone from sight. Down deep, Puck was the only thing he could not easily see. Being Dead, he did not shine with the light of the living. When a bony hand took his, Slet winced at Puck’s chill touch, but he allowed himself to be guided into the cold, dark water.

  * * *

  Trev spent hours in a sour mood. He was sore in body and spirit, as Harrdin dragged him down the dusty tunnel floor for some inexplicable purpose. His pride had been wounded worst of all. He’d been caught with casual ease. What would his father or—worse yet—his grandfather have had to say about this sad state of affairs?

  All his attempts to engage Harrdin in conversation had been fruitless. He’d begged, raged and hurled insults. The most he’d gotten from the other was a few snorts and an occasional hard kick in the ribs.