Summerblood (17 page)

The timeless period after he'd overheard the invaders' plans and the torture session that concluded it was the worst of Kylin's life. Thwarted in his efforts at finding a way closer to ground level than he'd already ventured, and frightened beyond reason of being discovered—which could only result in him being interrogated and possibly tortured himself—he was reduced to a furtive existence a rat would not have envied. At least a rat would've risked showing itself for food. Kylin couldn't. Many times, as he made his way through the ductwork maze that had become his world, he caught the sounds of voices he could not approach and the scent of food he could not access. Fortunately, he did manage to find a rift in the wall of one of Woodcraft's private pantries, where he'd snared enough dry bread and cheese to sustain him, along with a skin of good ale. He made a special point of remembering where that place was, too, in case he needed to return—which he did, twice. Unfortunately, the suite beyond was occupied by the invaders, which ruled out assistance from that quarter. He was trying harder than ever to be systematic now, to explore every twist
and turn and remember it. But his greatest frustration was that he'd found no more stair-shafts.

All of which was of minimal import when reality was rapidly collapsing beneath a weight of urgency he could not assuage—because he could not escape. So on he went, exploring this way, probing that. Sometimes he crawled over mounds of fallen stonework or squeezed around them. Twice he found standing water, and three times came upon places where the sewage drains had ruptured, with attendant awful odor. Once, too, he smelled what could only be rotting human flesh, from which he divined that the damage, while not truly extensive, was far from minimal in some quarters.

And, always, he listened: straining his hearing for voices he could trust, but finding none. From the rest, the invaders, he determined how the explosion had occurred, and that efforts were being made to reach those trapped in the mines, but that Liallyn, who'd
caused
the cave-in, had been far more thorough than even she had anticipated. It would take eights to reach the mines, not days.

And, of course, he slept. But he came to dread those lapses into timelessness as he once had welcomed them, for he always awoke wearier and hungrier than when he'd begun, and more disoriented. He had a constant headache, too, and his body was a mass of scrapes and abrasions.

Even so, he wasn't prepared when he awoke from a particularly dull and heavy slumber to find something nibbling his fingers. He flinched reflexively, only to be rewarded with a sharper pain as his knuckles scraped rough-dressed stone. Forgetting where he was, he screamed. His voice echoed in the closed space, but of more concern was the soft scrabbling of whatever he'd hit, which indicated it hadn't gone away. It had been warm and furry—or at least not cold and sticky—which was some relief. But the only warm, furry things that ought to be sharing his space were rats, and hold rats could reach more than a quarter span in length.

He flinched again—and his foot impacted something soft. The recoil brought him in contact with another, and the recoil from
that
struck something hard enough to evoke a squeak before teeth bit down on his leg just above the big tendon at his heel. Something squeaked back, close to his head, and that was more than he could endure.

He had no idea how many rats were attempting to share the crawl space with him, but one was one too many. Still halfasleep and closer than he dared think to being terrified, he thrust himself forward. The duct was low here, and he had to worm his way along with his forearms—which, he suspected, meant that this was one of the older parts of the hold and probably a good way from the bulk of the edifice. The air was warmer, too, for no reason that made sense, but it smelled musty where it didn't smell of rats.

The bad thing was that he couldn't turn around. Worse, this was new territory, so he had no comfort from anticipation as he continued onward.

Nor were the rats ignoring him. More than once he felt one nip at his toes or heels, and one even dared run up his leg to stand atop his shoulders. Fortunately, the duct was high enough there that he could arch upward to scrape it off against the ceiling.

Unfortunately, when he flopped back down, it was atop another that had tried to crawl beneath him.

He screamed again, and then once more when it bit him savagely on the chest. Blood washed warm down his belly, even as he reached beneath him and, in an effort worthy of an epic poem, snared the wretched beast and threw it with what little strength remained back down the duct behind.

The result was not what he expected. Rather than being cowed, the rats gave chase. And though his bulk blocked most of the passage, that didn't prevent them taking increasingly frequent and stronger nips from his legs and buttocks. Before he knew it, he was crawling as fast as he had since coming there, with no concern for logic, no attempt at counting paces.

All that mattered was escaping the wretched rodents.

He was still bleeding, too, and that seemed to have triggered some reflex in what passed in the beasts for brains, so that they became more venturesome yet. And then one sank its teeth into his left calf and absolutely would not let go. Not only that, it was gnawing; more blood trickled past those sharp little incisors.

“Go away! Go away! Go away!” he shouted recklessly— even if the invaders found him, they'd be unlikely to eat him alive. And while his rational aspect reminded him that they'd also try to torture him into betraying his friend and King, he could not make that matter.

Another bite, as a second rat joined the fray, then another, and he could feel his strength start to fail. He was twisting every way he could think of, trying to crush them against the walls or scrape them off, but it seemed to be doing little good.

Abruptly, the air changed, and he felt the duct expand around him. Not that it was much wider, but he sensed more space above his back and head, which let him move faster. And then more again, and he could stand. Suddenly, he was running. The rats followed, but the constant jarring proved too much, even for those that held on most tenaciously. As soon as he dared, he slowed enough to reach down and slap away the few that remained. His legs were slick with blood, and he couldn't count the points of pain from his hips down, yet still he staggered onward, utterly lost, utterly tired and hungry. Utterly aimless.

And so was paying no attention when a mislaid step unbalanced him. His palms brushed rubble as he pinwheeled briefly on the brink of what sound and more subtle senses told him was a vast gulf. Something snared his tunic and steadied him for a moment before the fabric ripped free. And then he was falling, in truth.

The fall seemed to last forever, but in fact took less time than it took to draw one breath, ending when his hips slammed into what proved to be a steep slope that changed
pitch again soon after, sending him sliding down some kind of chute.

And he knew what
these
chutes were, for Strynn had considered using them when they'd planned their escape back in the winter. These were the master shafts that brought air from close to the ground outside and ducted it to the hold's interior. And if he remembered right, they ended in grilles recessed into the hold's outer walls at twice a man's height above the ground.

As if to confirm that supposition, the air turned warmer yet. Fresher, too, with the spice of conifers overriding the stench of burning. And then, in final confirmation, he found himself brought up short when his feet slammed into something with sufficient force that shock and pain became all of reality. Abruptly stationary, his body folded down around itself, so that he found himself wedged, half-sitting, half-lying, halfstanding, atop something very solid indeed. Probing fingers found a pierced stone grille set at an angle in the wall. But even his most energetic efforts loosened it not a whit—while serving to tire him further.

At least he'd evaded the rats—for a while. He wondered, grimly, if he'd remain there, unable to crawl upward, until he died and began to stink. Or maybe they wouldn't find him until he rotted enough for his small bones to fall through to the ground.

One thing was certain: He wasn't going up—at least not very far. And he didn't think he'd be going down, either— alive. Worse, there were even odds whether he'd wound up on the east side of the hold, which meant he was two spans away from freedom, assuming he could reach the ground, or on the side that faced the mountain, where a number of tiny enclosed gardens occupied the hollow between the hold and the mountain proper. He suspected the latter, if only because he didn't think he'd slid long enough to have traversed the six or so levels between where he'd begun and the grilles in the eastern
wall. Which meant he was farther down than when he'd started, but farther than ever from freedom.

He awoke to the sound of running water. It was raining; he could tell by the way the air felt, and the patter of heavy drops against the bare earth below the grille. But water was running elsewhere, too, and not, though he feared it, down the shaft in which he'd become lodged. No, this was somewhat muffled, yet at the same time it echoed, as though it flowed through channels. He could even feel it, as a vibration in the surrounding stone. The hold had drains, he knew, that fed into cisterns throughout the edifice. It also had drains that flushed out the garderobes. In either case, water close enough to hear was water close enough to investigate.

Drawing himself up to his full height, he stretched along the shaft down which he'd fallen, gratified to hear the sound intensify as he rose. He closed his eyes, too, for entering that deeper dark helped focus concentration. Slowly, methodically, he slid his hand along the walls of his stony prison in the direction in which the water lay. Right! Then farther to the right. The slope was steep, but not so much that he couldn't force himself up it, progress aided by a thin growth of lichen that had rooted there. The water sounded louder now, and definitely to the right. He stretched his hands that way, seeking some opening—some crack in the wall—anything that would provide one more choice than he'd had heretofore.

Twice he slipped and slid back down, but the third time he gathered what strength remained and hurled himself as far up the shaft as he could reach, flailing right as he did. And this time his fingers found something useful.

A ledge, as it turned out, and one that was dry enough and big enough that he could ease his other hand there. The water sounded louder, too, and he guessed the hold was being visited by one of those torrential storms that characterized summer in
the mountains. Pushing with his feet, he forced his way higher, twisting his torso so as to give his fingers better purchase on what he hoped was the lower edge of an opening onto that invisible watercourse. It was artificial masonry, not hewn native stone—or maybe not, for it began to narrow as he slid his arms through into a nothingness that was nevertheless cooler and wetter than any he'd encountered before.

In any case, it was worth the chance; besides which, he'd managed to work his feet to the other side of the shaft, so that he could brace against it and push.

A particularly strong thrust, coupled with a strained twist, put his upper half into the opening, and from there, it wasn't hard, all things considered, to wriggle the rest of the way in.

Water roared in his ears, but with it came the thunder that marked a truly magnificent storm outside, coupled with occasional gusts of chill wind that found him even there.

But the place he'd lodged was cramped—not that he was certain he could continue anyway. Besides which, he couldn't really swim, though he'd managed enough training at War-Hold to be able to float with reasonable confidence.
If
he set his mind to it. If panic didn't overrule rationality.

Well, he concluded, he could either lie there worrying and dreading, or he could take action. And he
was
privy to information Avall desperately needed. Information that had cost Crim her craft.

That decided it. Fumbling forward, his fingers found the opposite end of whatever this opening was that linked the air shaft and the drain. One minute his hand lay on solid rock, the next it flopped in air. Running water brushed his fingertips when he strained an arm downward, and a similar check above showed at least as much space overhead. Good: There might be enough air in the space beyond to allow him to breathe. Also, whatever he'd found was close to the hold's outer walls, which was where the main cisterns lay. More importantly, there was a series of overflow gates near the hold's south end, which diverted any surplus into the Ri-Megon,
which ran
under
the hold for most of the hold's length before exiting past the south court and the water garden.

Which would probably not be watched now.

But which were also at least three levels lower.