“No,” Del said quietly.
Chosa’s voice was as quiet. “Oh, I think yes.”
He unmade the man. Don’t ask me how. All I know is the shape of the man altered somehow, was altered somehow, slowly and subtly, until the nose was thrust outward, the jaw pushed backward, the shoulders folded inward, hips rebent into haunches—the man was no more a man but a thing in bestial form.
Eyes shone whitely. A tail was pulled out of buttocks. He—it—the thing—bent upon the rock floor with the joints and hair of a hound, and nothing at all of humanity.
“No,” Del repeated, but the tone was shaped by horror.
“Unmade,” Chosa said. “Now he will join the others. And perhaps he will take your throat.”
Oh, hoolies. Oh, gods—
I shut my eyes a moment, then forced myself to look.
Smoke gushed up from the forge. Most of it was sucked through the curtain as the wards allowed it to go. The rest dispersed in the chamber, escaping through cracks, fissures, and holes.
Cracks, fissures, and holes; mouthing obscenities, I pressed my face more tightly against the fissure and looked for the proper sign. Saw it almost immediately; lunged up and ran down the tunnel all of twelve paces farther, where the hole greeted me. My entrance into the chamber.
It was the largest of them all; I knew from watching the smoke. The greatest amount had been sucked through here, but it wasn’t saying much. Del could get through, maybe, but I doubted I could. Unless I was stark naked and painted with alla salve.
Flesh quailed; so did spirit. The idea of dropping down unannounced—and bare-butted—to face a sorcerer was not a pretty thought. A lot of me didn’t like it.
Especially my gehetties.
So, I’d compromise. Half of my clothes would come off.
I knelt by the hole and set the sword aside, then unhooked the wide leather belt with its weight of ornamental bosses, which could catch and scrape and grate. Then off came the harness itself, stripped over arms and head without undoing the buckles. And finally both tunics, which I dropped aside without thought. Cool tunnel air chafed bare chest and arms and set the flesh to rising.
First to test briefly: I eased boots and legs down into the hole punched through the rock, then braced forearms and elbows on either side and channeled my weight through shoulders. I lowered myself carefully. Felt hips catch briefly; a twist eased them through. But above them the spread of my rib cage and shoulder sockets promised to wedge me painfully if I didn’t take steps to avoid it.
Hoolies, but it hurt—I pulled myself up again, blowing noisy breath between gritted teeth, and clambered out of the hole once more.
Chosa’s voice drifted up: “My beasts are growing hungry. Tell me the name of your sword.”
Come on, Del; hang on … I’m doing what I can.
A quick glance showed me jagged protrusions in the rock wall. I knew I’d have to jump when it came right down to it, but I wanted to shorten the distance. The easiest way was to use belt and harness to lower myself through the hole as far as I could go, then drop the rest of the way.
I’d risk breaking a leg. But I was risking so much anyway it didn’t really matter.
I snugged the belt around the most promising stone protrusion, then buckled it firmly. I cut the sheath free of the harness, which left me with a crisscross affair of leather straps, and quickly severed the thong stitching. Then looped everything through the belt and dangled it down the hole.
Not very much. But something.
Meanwhile, there was the sword. I couldn’t very well carry it down with me as I worked my way through the hole; the extra bulk would end the attempt. And I didn’t dare tie it to my body with shredded bits of tunic; if I lost it by accident, Chosa would have a new jivatma. And I sort of wanted to keep it until I could stick it in him.
So I very carefully placed it beside the hole opposite my planned entry, and began to ease myself down.
In the tunnel, a beast bayed.
I froze. I didn’t particularly relish the thought of being attacked while wedged in the hole; I prefer a fair fight. So I pulled myself up again, grabbed the sword, and made it as far as my knees as the hound leaped out of shadow.
I was getting tired of this. I’d just as soon not have to do it.
On knees, I battled the hound. My balance was off, and my leverage, but clean steel still parts beast flesh. The spray of blood slicked my chest and dribbled down my belly to the drawstring of my trews.
Which gave me an idea.
In the dimness, I saw eyes. The shine of white hound eyes. But this beast turned tail and ran, which was a welcome change.
Again I set the blade carefully beside the jagged hole. Then scooped up dripping handfuls of beast blood and slapped it all over my chest and sides, paying particular attention to the rib cage beneath my armpits, where the spread of bone and muscle was greatest, and to the shoulder joints themselves where they met my upper arms.