Pick a direction and go.
I couldn’t stand up straight because of the low tunnel ceiling. All I could do was scuttle, hunched halfway over, clutching a Northern sword and trying not to trip on steel too long for use in the confines of the tunnel. The tip scraped from time to time, screeching against stone; pulling it back from the wall usually resulted in a banged elbow, unless I was very careful.
It’s hard to be very careful when you’re running for your life. Careful can get you killed.
Oh, Delilah. Where are you?
Don’t let her be dead again.
A howl pierced the dimness. I couldn’t tell from which direction.
I smacked my head, bit my lip, spat out blood, and cursed. Felt the prickling on my neck; the pinch of fear in my belly. And lurched to a dead stop, having reached the end of the tunnel.
Hoolies, get me out of here. It’s too much like Aladar’s mine—
I broke it off abruptly. Smelled the stink of hounds.
—end of the tunnel—
But it wasn’t the end of the world. The tunnel swelled into a hollow bulb large enough to stand up in. Wide enough for my sword. I straightened and struck a stance, cursing the tautness of scar tissue that pulled against my midriff.
I hadn’t been in a circle since the one where I’d faced Del. I hadn’t even sparred since the fight I’d danced with Del. Conditioning was a word that no longer applied to me.
But I’d been worse off before.
Of course, I’d also been younger—
A hound entered the bulb through the narrow neck.
At least, the hound tried to; I took its head with one blow.
There is something to be said for standing in an enclosed space while fighting vicious beasts. Because while I’d sooner be out of the mountain, in bright, clean sunlight again, I discovered there were advantages to fighting just as I was. Because each time I killed a hound, the body dropped to the floor. The pile was forming a plug against the beasts still in the tunnel. And it gave me a chance to breathe. To hoard my dwindling strength.
To wet my thirsty jivatma.
Eventually, they stopped. When they did, so did I. And I realized there were no more; at least, no more in the tunnel. The rest were somewhere else.
Winded, I stood sucking air, trying to clear my head. Sparks danced at the edges of vision, bursting like tiny flamelets. I leaned over, bracing forearms across bent knees, and tried to catch my breath. While beast-blood flowed over my boots.
When I could, I straightened, arched carefully backward, tried to unknot the kinks. Tried to stretch knurled scar tissue that threatened to crack with the strain.
Something echoed in the tunnel.
I snapped back into position, wincing, with jivatma at the ready. Before me was a piled blockade of bleeding bodies. Through the gaps I heard a voice, distorted by rock and distance; by the twists and turns of the dragon.
“—long I have waited?”
And Del’s voice, softly: “Six hundred and forty-two years.”
A pause, and surprise. “How can you know that?”
“They tell stories about you, Chosa.”
Chosa. Chosa Dei? But he was only legend. A man made out of stories.
“What else do they say about me?”
“That you are an ambitious, vengeful man.”
Uh-oh, bascha. Not the best thing to say.
“And what do they say about you?”
“That I am very like you.”
I heard a hint of laughter. “But I am not a woman, and you are not a man; yes?”
“Sword-dancer,” she answered quietly. “Sword-singer, as well. Staal-Ysta trained, Chosa … you do know of Staal-Ysta?”
“Oh, I know; yes, of course I know; I know many things, yes? I know Staal-Ysta—I know of jivatmas—I know many things, yes? As I know what you are, yes? Exactly what you are. It’s you I’ve been waiting for. I need you very badly, you and your jivatma—I’ve needed you for years—”
My cue, I thought. But my way was blocked by beasts.
Hastily I cleaned the blade on my dirty tunic and set the sword aside by the entrance. Without regard for the slime and putrid blood, I caught and dragged bodies aside, dumping them one on the other. Not all were in one piece; I kicked the bits aside. As soon as I cleared an exit, I caught up the sword and ran.
Trouble was, the moment I moved the voices faded, stolen away by tunnels and crannies. I stopped short, crouching to save my head, and listened. Heard nothing but my own breathing. No more Del. No more Chosa Dei.
It couldn’t be Chosa Dei.
I swore and went on awkwardly, hating the size of the tunnel. Hating myself for my height. Wishing I had the kind of power that could blast the mountain apart, taking Chosa with it. Chosa and his hounds.
“—so I had to have the whistle, yes? I had to have the wards. I have to have all the magic. It’s what I do: collect. And I have to have it all; of course, all, what else? There’s no point to it, otherwise; the purpose is defeated, yes? There is no value to any magic if everyone has a little.”