Bro-Butt cracked the lash as he and the Rummer Boars drove Helga and the captives roughly through the large heavy door and onto a long stone passage descending into a dank, dimly-lit stairway leading downward through a tunnel in the rock. The stairway was narrow, requiring the beasts to move single-file, and was constructed merely by hewing rough footholds from the stone. Walking on the slippery surface was treacherous in the best of circumstances, but for chained beasts, it was especially difficult. A few of the Rummer Boars carried oil lamps to light the way. The burning oil wicks sputtered in the oppressive dampness of the tunnel, casting barely enough faint light for the beasts to see the steps they were taking. Otherwise, the tunnel was completely dark. Water dripped everywhere in the tunnel like a light rain shower and tiny rivulets ran down the walls—pooling on the steps, or running down the stairs in slow streams. As the beasts descended into what seemed an endless dark abyss, even Helga, brave and stout-hearted beast though she was, felt her heart race in the pitch blackness. The heavy, fearful breathing of the captives, with the constant backdrop of chains dragging across the rock, echoed in the tunnel—as if no other sound existed in the world.
The passage descended in fits and spurts: going down steeply at times, leveling off at times, and climbing somewhat at times. The overall effect was to leave Helga unable to judge if their journey was generally downward or not. Helga was certain, however, of another unsettling observation. As the flickering light played across the wet yellow sandstone walls, Helga could see that the sandstone was flaking away in places. The constant dripping and erosion from small rivulets was slowly undermining its strength. Here and there, the constant erosion created and steadily enlarged holes and seams in the walls and roof of the passage. Walking along, chips and flakes of sandstone dropped with a “Plink” in the puddles, and at places, large rocks lay pell-mell or in piles where entire sections had fallen away. Helga felt certain that someday—how far in the future was anyone’s guess—the roof of the passage would collapse completely. The image of the tunnel collapsing into rubble added to the unsettling anxiety she felt as they continued through the dark, dripping passage.
Fortunately, they were not long in descending the passage. Less than an hour, Helga judged, after they had begun their journey through the passage, a voice called out, “Hullo, my frippers! What’s the lark?”
In the faint light of the oil lamps, Helga could make out the face of a snub-nosed, flat-browed Wolf floating just ahead in a rowboat.
“Frippers hailing for a Butter Skimmer,” Bro-Butt replied. “Butter for the High One and a spit of grog for you.”
The dangerous-looking Wolf, armed with an immense club, wore an ill-fitting uniform, which, in the darkness, made it look like his head was plopped on top of a shapeless mass. His small, pinched eyes, peering through spectacles, showed red in the lamplight. A leather helmet, perched precariously on his head, tilted so badly over his left ear that it threatened to fall off at any moment. The overall effect, Helga thought, was more ludicrous than sinister. But that calming assessment did not change the fact that she stood in a line of chained slaves, with whip-lashing thugs behind and a well armed Wolf in front.
“Who on earth is that,” said Christer, stifling a laugh.
“It’s no laughing matter,” one of the Pogwaggers replied. “That’s a Club Wolf sentry boat—one of the Norder Wolf patrols that keep unwanted notice away from their tidy little trade in slaves.”
Bro-Butt pulled a small metal flask from his coat pocket and gave it to the Wolf, who took a couple of long draws, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his uniform, and belched. “BUUURRCHUTUP—BUZZCHUPTT!” Smiling happily, the Wolf put the cork back in the flask and dropped it into his uniform pocket. “How there, frippers! I’ll whistle you up a Skimmer, now there!”
The Wolf gave a low, warbling whistle, which had hardly died away when—WHOOOSH! Just off-shore, pine knot torches were touched with a match and burst into flame. The sudden blaze of brilliant light came from a long, grimy barge gliding in from the lake.