He discovered the entrance to the mine precisely where Xarius had said he would, at the base of the bluff forming the promontory above, amid a forest of brambles that clawed skyward a dozen feet overhead. A thread of foul-smelling mineral water trickled from its mouth over a bed of crushed stones, forming a muddy layer at the bottom of the ravine. The signs of passage were abundant—boot prints in the mud, smears and scuffs on the dry slopes to either side, bent and broken bramble stalks, and loose stones recently overturned. Whatever company had trekked this way had made no attempt to mask its travels through the wild, scratching tangle. No fewer than six men, Kylac determined. Mayhap as many as ten.
Given time, he would have performed a more thorough inspection, attempting to better gauge the precise number of men he must face. But the Shrike’s Hour drew near, the night half gone already. The only set of prints that truly concerned him were those matching the size of his father’s boots, the shortened stride and scraped wedges that spanned them indicating ankle irons. Although it might have been another armored company escorting some other prisoner through this remote, uninviting region, Kylac thought it unlikely. And he didn’t imagine they had dragged his father this far out of the way with the intent of ever dragging him back again.
Better that he did not tarry.
He did take a moment to search for snares at the tunnel’s mouth. Finding none, he crept past the half-collapsed framework of rotted timbers, treading lightly upon the stoop of moldering deadwood branches and crushed stones, weightless as a stray breeze. As part of their training in stealth, students of Talonar were trained to walk and later race across fields of eggs. Kylac had been nine years old the last time he’d lost a race, and five when last he’d suffered the penalty of breaking a yolk.
Once inside the mine’s gullet, a shortsword came to hand. He’d forged and fashioned it himself—along with the matching blade that hung from his opposing hip—under the tutelage of Vehn, the school’s master bladewright. They were not the first weapons he’d crafted, but the first to pass all of Vehn’s tests, thus earning him the achievement of bladewright third grade. He would have to hone his smithing skills for another ten years before he could hope to achieve second grade. So he would have to hope these served to pass the only test of true consequence.
His longsword, he’d left in his weapons closet, owing to the anticipation of close quarters. A decision that might haunt him before this night was done, but Kylac had learned to shun such misgivings. He had no intention of getting caught in any protracted duels. He intended to be swift, silent, and well gone by the time anyone was alerted to his presence.
The meager wash of moonlight that trailed him into the tunnel bled away twelve paces in. A cold, clammy darkness embraced him in its stead. Kylac eased his pace, allowing for his eyes to find what light they could. He didn’t dare a flame, for the beacon it would become. Instead, his free hand traced the tunnel wall, finding chiseled stone amid patches of raw earth ushered through by piercing root tendrils. A stale and vaguely sulfurous smell drew him onward, deepening with each silent stride.
He heard the skittering of rats and beetles, and now and again brushed one or the other with his hand or foot. Worms dug amid the roots sprouting from the wall; he could tell by the way they recoiled at his touch. It became harder to advance silently, for he could no longer determine the lay of the loose rocks upon the tunnel floor. Fortunately, that ground had been largely worn smooth from the days when the mine had been in use, and covered since with mud and clay that had seeped down over the years.
The tunnel delved steadily along a mostly direct course. Kylac had counted four hundred thirty-seven paces when he felt the weight of the ceiling rise overhead and the closeness of the walls retreat. He did not require his vision to know that he had entered a larger chamber or cavern. But to map it blindly could take hours, depending on its size. And if it held multiple passages, as seemed likely, he’d have to guess as to which he should follow.
Seeing no other choice, he drew back into the tunnel to ignite a small firebrand. Alas for his cloak of darkness.
His flame spawned only a meager globe. Held near the ground, however, it served to reveal the trail of those he followed. He moved more quickly now, racing along in a crouch, brand outstretched to one side. Should he happen across any bowmen stationed in ambush, he didn’t want them aiming for the light and catching his face or chest in the bargain.