The Summer King (26 page)

Overcome with hysterical laughter, they stuffed their fists into their mouths to muffle the noise. Tears pricked their eyes as they fought for control.

“What are we like,” said Ian, catching his breath at last.

“Eejits,” she agreed.

Moving deeper into the mountain, they discovered a vast network of passageways. New tunnels continually branched out on either side of them. With the help of a compass, they kept heading north and, when faced with choices, always took the way where the ground appeared to rise. Their strategy was simple. Further in and further up. Though the incline was subtle, they knew they were climbing; their legs felt the strain, and so too their lungs. As the air grew icier, their breath streamed like mist.

The silence weighed down on them, like the mountain itself. They were alert at all times for the slightest sound. The rasp of their own breathing began to unnerve them and they covered their mouths to keep quiet.

Sometimes they came to a cul de sac and had to retrace their steps. Both were beginning to suspect they were going in circles, despite the compass. It was Ian’s idea to mark the entrance when they next entered a new tunnel. They scratched their initials in the stone above the opening. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before they found themselves staring at their own graffiti.

Their hearts sank.

“It’s like one of those labyrinth puzzles,” Laurel said. “You know, the ones where you have to draw a line to the center? But this seems to be in spirals rather than squares. That’s what’s throwing us off.”

“Another line of defense,” he agreed. “We could be here forever trying to guess the pattern.”

“We need to change the way we’re moving,” she suggested. “Put away the flashlights and compass. Go on instinct.”

Neither liked the idea, but they agreed to try it for awhile.

“Safer too,” Ian pointed out. “They might see the light before we see them.”

The pitch-blackness was a shock. It engulfed them like dark water. Disoriented, unnerved, they proceeded slowly, groping their way along the walls. The open mouth of a new passage was always a nightmare. One minute they were handling stone, the next, nothing, and a blast of cold air would strike them.

Laurel could feel her heart pounding against her ribs. How long could she keep this up? The suspense alone was harrowing.

They had waded through the darkness for quite a while before the sound they most dreaded reached their ears.

Whoosh whoosh.

The whirr of great wings!

They pressed against the wall, holding their breath. The sound was ahead of them. In the same tunnel or one of the offshoots? Minutes stretched like hours. Their hands met in the dark and gripped tightly. They strained to hear. Was it drawing nearer or fading away? One bird or more? Good thing they weren’t using their flashlights! Now they let go of each other to slowly, quietly, reach for their weapons. Ian slipped a knife into each hand. Laurel retrieved the salt she had stored in her pockets. Was the sound receding? The beat was steady and rhythmic. No sense of urgency. A routine patrol. As the whirr faded into the distance, they breathed more easily.

Neither spoke as they resumed their slow progress through the darkness. Meeting the guard was confirmation that they had finally breached the inner defenses. Laurel was attacked by doubts once more. How many patrols would they have to avoid? What if they couldn’t find the King’s Cave? And if they did, would they be able to overcome the guards and escape? It was a daring plan, but it was beginning to look foolhardy.

They hadn’t gone far when a raven came screeching from the mouth of a new passage. There was a flurry of wings, sharp talons, and beak. Ian struck out blindly with his knives. Laurel threw the salt, then pulled off her knapsack to get at her flashlight. By the time she aimed it at the huge bird, it was flying away.

“We’ve got to stop it!” Ian cried. “Before it warns the others!”

But they hadn’t a hope of catching it. With a
whoosh whoosh
of wings, it disappeared down the tunnel.

They had to think fast. Continue with the plan or flee? Could they hide out in the tunnels? Do battle for the king? But the Fir-Fia-Caw had the advantage of numbers as well as home ground.

“We’ve lost the element of surprise,” Ian said quickly. “It’s too dangerous now. Time for Plan B. Grace and her army.”

Laurel wasn’t happy, but she had to agree. They had little chance of reaching the king now. The guard around him would be doubled, even trebled. All hope of a covert operation was gone.

Sounds broke out in the tunnels beyond, confirming their decision. A clamor of shrill squawks. The alarm had been raised. Worse still, the closest cries came from the direction of their escape route. They couldn’t go back to the Underground House.

Laurel pulled out her compass.

“Dirk is to the northwest. On one of the lower slopes. We can go that way, moving downward. But there’s no guarantee it’s open!”

“We’ll have to take the chance,” said Ian, gripping his knives. “You lead. I’ll cover our backs. Let’s go!”

Fear spurred them on as they raced through the tunnels. Behind them, they could hear a whisper that grew, like a wave rushing toward them. The swift beat of wings.

They were being hunted by a terror of ravens.

Laurel clutched her side. Her breathing was ragged, and she had a stitch. It was more annoying than painful, but it was slowing her down. She could hear the birds gaining. Wings were faster than feet.

“We could do with the bike right now,” Ian swore.

Every time they came to a fork, it was Laurel’s decision which way to run. Always northwest. Always downward. But now they were traveling through ruinous passageways. Many had collapsed, with great blocks of stone barring their way. They had to clamber over the rubble. It was awkward with flashlights. Sometimes they had to remove their knapsacks to cram them through the narrow spaces, then scrape through themselves. Haste made them reckless. The jagged stone cut and bruised them. The disrepair of the tunnels only increased their worry about the state of the exit. And all the time they were hounded by the harsh sounds of pursuit.

Kra-a-a-w. Kra-a-a-w.

Then they stumbled into a wide open space. Pointing their flashlights around, they gasped with surprise. They were in an immense hall of impossible proportions. The roof disappeared beyond their sight. The floor was a vast chessboard of splintered stone. The walls bristled with weapons of every kind and more were stacked in heaps around the chamber—swords, spears, disks, javelins, strongbows, and axes. Even in the dimness Laurel could see the faint image embossed on the shields: a great golden eagle. But all the weapons were rusted and broken. This was the arsenal of an elite legion, long dead and gone.

There was no time to dwell on the past. Their pursuers were closing in on them.

They trained their flashlights across the room, but couldn’t see to the far side. They had no idea if there were other ways in or out of the hall.

“Salt!” Laurel cried.

She pulled the packets out of her knapsack and started to pour the salt across the mouth of the tunnel. Ian did the same. Hands shaking with adrenaline, they drew a straight line. They should have brought more! It took all they had to bar the way.

They were running across the broken floor when the ravens arrived. The shrieks were deafening. Laurel couldn’t stop herself from looking back. All she could see in the dark were the white eyes, flashing like lightning.

The barrier held. The birds couldn’t cross it.

On the far side of the hall at last, the two were relieved to find another exit. But they weren’t in the clear yet. The ravens had left the salted passage. They would know other ways to catch up to the intruders.

Laurel and Ian ran on.

“Should be near,” Laurel gasped out, keeping an eye on her compass.

She was picturing Dirk on the map in her mind and assessing how far they had traveled inside the mountain.

“Please let it be this way,” she prayed.

Then they came to a dead end.

Ian swore wildly. Laurel was almost sick. Until it struck her.

The stone that blocked their way was covered with writing.

“This is it! It’s like the other one!”

Frantically she pushed against the wall, pressing the inscriptions.

The rumble was more like a screech this time and the door only partially opened. As soon as they squeezed through, they saw why. This guardhouse was in ruins. Most of the walls and half of the roof had collapsed. It was filled with rubble.
Where was the way out?
They shoved their flashlights into a niche on the wall to give them some light, then searched frenziedly through the debris at the edges.

Harsh cries broke out in the tunnel. The
whoosh whoosh
bore down on them. They ran to block the gap with rocks. But did they want to brick themselves into a space with no exit?

Ian stopped suddenly, his chest heaving. He ran to turn off the flashlights. Yes! In the dark they could see it: a speck of light. They hurried to the spot to fling aside the rubble that covered the opening.

“Go! Go!” he shouted.

The Fir-Fia-Caw had arrived at the gap. They were shrieking and pecking at the stones with their beaks. Now a more horrifying sound. Hands pushing the rocks aside. At least one of the ravens had changed to humanoid form.

Laurel and Ian scurried through the burrow like rats in a run.

And scrambled out on the other side.

A quick look around and they knew where they were. Immediately to their left was the booley village of Dirk. The cluster of stone huts stood on a slope overlooking the bay. Directly below was a rocky cove. All around rolled the broad back of Slievemore, open and boggy and swirling with mist. They needed to get back to the Deserted Village, where their vehicles were parked. It was over the ridge behind them and down the southern slope.

There was no time to block off the exit against the ravens, and they had no more salt. All they could do was run.

As they hurried away from Dirk, Laurel spied it on her left, leading up to the summit: a craggy promontory, like a stony gray face. The King’s Cave? So close, but unreachable! The cries were already rising behind them. Soon the ravens would be in the air. There was nowhere to hide. No trees, no cover. They were out in the open, stumbling across a sodden bog.

Ahead was a lake bordered with rushes. Laurel frowned, disoriented. This wasn’t on the map. There was only Lough Aigher on the eastern side of the mountain. Could they have gone the wrong way? Taken a wrong turn? At the center of the tarn was a small
crannóg
, a manmade island overgrown with brambles. A little stone cottage peeked out from the greenery, with smoke curling from the chimney. The door opened and Grace stood on the threshold, waving to her.

“She’s come!” cried Laurel, overjoyed. “We can go back for the king!”

She ran toward the lake, too excited to hear Ian’s protests.

“Wait! There’s something wrong. Grace belongs at sea not—”

He rushed to catch up with her, but she was too fast.

And as Laurel reached the water’s edge, the image of the pirate queen dissolved. There stood a tall figure cloaked in black, with a wide-brimmed hat. The leader of the Fir-Fia-Caw. Now he took to the air in his raven form, emitting a shrill cry.

Laurel had no time to react. As the island disappeared in a wisp of smoke so too did the ground under her. She was not at the lakeside, but deep in the mere and sinking fast.

Struggling out of her knapsack, she kicked her legs to surface, spitting out the brackish water.

“Stay back!” she screamed at Ian, remembering he couldn’t swim.

He stopped, just in time, on the true bank of the bog pool, but almost lost his balance.

Laurel began to swim toward him when something caught her foot. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a green tendril twist around her ankle. Was she caught in some pond weed? She turned on her side to kick it away. The leafy grip tightened.

And pulled her under.

She was submerged for a few seconds, then fought her way up again. Now that she knew she was under attack, her resistance was fiercer.

Ian was rushing from place to place on the bank, trying to find the spot that was closest to her. He had the rope from his knapsack. It hit the water with a splash. Just beyond her reach. He swore with frustration. Cast it out again. In his haste, he almost fell in.

“Be careful!” she shouted.

The bog pool was deep. Deep enough to drown him.

The thing that clutched Laurel’s ankle felt like a hand. Thrashing wildly, she tried to swim away from it. She had to get nearer to Ian.

He tied a knot in the end of the rope and threw it again.

She lunged with all her might.

Her hands closed on the knot. It burned her palms, but she didn’t let go.

“Yes!” he cried.

Now he twisted his end of the rope around his hand and leaned back for more leverage. With him pulling and her kicking, it looked as if they would win the tug-of-war. But their triumph was short-lived.

Kra-a-aw. Kra-a-aw.

The raven swooped down on Ian. He struck at the bird with one hand, clinging to the rope with the other. The beak stabbed his arm. He roared with pain.

Laurel was shouting too. The tug on her foot was relentless. She couldn’t keep her grip on the rope. With an anguished cry she let it go, only to be dragged farther away from the shore. Now the thing wrenched her underwater again and she caught a glimpse of her adversary. Something green and wizened, with long flowing hair.
Greenteeth
. She kicked out against it with her one free foot and surfaced again, gasping for breath.

The rope abandoned, Ian was slashing at the raven with his knife and dagger. The bird managed to stay out of reach, but kept flying behind him. As the great black wings battered his head, he backed away to avoid them.

With horror, Laurel saw that the raven was driving him into the water.

Now he cried out as he fell into the bog pool, flailing and splashing.