The sound of fire filled the world above and echoed down to the world below, where the Chronicler hastened along strange Paths as the lantern light revealed them. His two companions followed, Mouse bearing the sword, which still no one had thought to offer him. When the roar of the Dragonwitch boomed above them, the three crouched in the dark, huddling as near Akilun’s lantern as possible. Its light gleamed off Halisa’s blade.
The roar of the dragon above was deeper than the Midnight of the Black Dogs. They waited, expecting the sound to pass. But it did not. It went on and on with such destructive insistence, the Chronicler began to wonder if he would ever again find the strength to rise.
Suddenly he felt his hand clasped, and he looked up into Dame Imraldera’s drawn face. “Take it!” she said. Her other hand grabbed Mouse’s arm and drew her and the sword to the Chronicler. “Take it! You must defeat the Dragonwitch! Take it and slay her!”
Mouse and the Chronicler’s eyes met. The moment, then, was finally come. The moment of truth or lies; he could not guess which. The moment when he discovered whether or not his life had a purpose. He set Asha down upon the stone floor.
“Take it,” Mouse whispered, her voice an echo of Imraldera’s. And she pressed Halisa’s hilt into the Chronicler’s trembling grasp.
The sword fell.
The Chronicler believed his heart had stopped. Even the roar of the Dragonwitch above vanished in the ringing cry of Halisa as it crashed to the stone, too heavy for his arms to lift, too big for his hands to hold.
The two women said nothing. They did not look at him.
“I knew it,” the Chronicler whispered. “I knew it all along. I’m not the one. I cannot bear this sword.”
Without a word, Imraldera picked up the weapon. It did not shine in her grasp, did not even seem to reflect the light of the lantern anymore. Indeed, it had lost all its silver glow and returned to a form of chipped black stone, a dull, lifeless weapon without power or trace of glory.
“Come,” said she. “We’ll follow the light.”
The Chronicler did not reach for the lantern again, so Mouse took it up and set the pace, and Imraldera fell in step behind her, letting the Chronicler follow last of all. No one spoke. But Asha shone, and they pursued it.
Eanrin found the place where the chamber door had fallen in, recognizing it at once though he had never seen it. Springing to the nearest of the broken stones, he listened, and sure enough, heard the sounds of those within scratching away at the rubble. They were close. It would not be long before several large and angry eunuchs with spears freed themselves, and then what? Eanrin shuddered, but he had promised, so he took his man shape again and began picking up loose stones and tossing them to one side. He called out as he worked: “Fear not, my fine mortal fools! I’ll get you out in a trice; then you can have a go at skinning my furry hide.”
The work on the other side paused, and Eanrin heard a murmured conference before the prisoners set to work once more. Eanrin grimaced as he labored to free those who would gladly slit his throat. He called to them again, hoping they’d take some comfort in his cheerful voice. “Not long now!” he said. “Soon you’ll be able to push your way free.”
No answer. He tossed aside the last few stones, rolled one of the greater boulders away. There were pieces of intricate carving and tile broken into bits here, but Eanrin threw them away without a care. Only a thin barrier remained now. If he placed his shoulder so and gave a shove, he would be through. But he hated to risk a tumble into that dark chamber full of armed men.
He stood back, brushing dust from his hands and debris from his fine clothing. “All right!” he called. “It’s your turn now. Feel out the weak place and give us a push.”
Nothing. Eanrin, rubbing the back of his head, wondered if perhaps he’d lost track of time. It was possible, even probable here in the Netherworld.
“I should go,” Eanrin muttered. “I should retrace my steps and find Imraldera and see to it that all is made right—”
He had scarcely spoken when the roar of the Dragonwitch struck his ears. Even down here in the deep place, the sound was as present as a living thing, and Eanrin dropped to his knees, horrified by the pain of it. How that fire must be tearing the poor, sad creature apart!
Then, near at hand, he heard a voice cry, “The Flame!”
It was a woman’s voice, full of devotion.