With that, he leaves me. And there is only Valtar left. For a moment, he remains standing where he is, and I fear he will not come near me at all. Then, as though suddenly galvanized to life, he strides forward a single long step, takes my hand in his, and lifts it to his mouth. His fingers are cold as ice, not the scalding-hot touch I’ve come to associate with him. His lips never brush my skin.
I lean toward him nevertheless, and whisper so low only he will hear: “Luck, Prince Valtar.”
He freezes, his head still bent over my hand. For a fraction of an instant, I think perhaps his grip tightens just a little. But I might have imagined it, for the next thing I know, he’s turned away from me without a word or a glance, joining the other champions as they descend the narrow, dwarf-sized stairs to the pit.
When they reach the little space below, each man chooses an opening, seemingly at random. There they stand, awaiting the king’s signal. Warrick looks up at Philippa once more; Taiganlooks at the king. Elis casts a brilliant smile to me and waves hisscintiloverhead so that it glitters and shoots little sparks in an arc.
Valtar simply faces straight ahead into darkness.
“Brave champions,” Alderin says, lifting his hand above his head, “prove your will and worthiness for the honor set before you.Commence!”
His hand comes down in a sharp motion, and all four men spring forward into those black clefts. In a moment, they are gone. And we all remain standing at the rail, staring down at an empty pit.
“Now,” Alderin says softly, as though to himself, “we wait.”
25
Valtar
Perhaps there was a time when I was afraid of the dark. I do not remember it. Nor do I remember the person I was when I still felt such fear, or any fear for that matter. I gave it up long ago.
Living as I did with the Magjor Tribe, learning their ways, their language, I am better equipped than most to handle this particular challenge. In fact, I doubt it will prove much of a challenge at all. I descend rapidly, and yes, the passage is narrow and awkward for my frame. But as I learned with the air shafts, anywhere a full-grown dwarf may fit, so can I with a little effort.
I don’t even care when thescintillight goes out abruptly. Yes, it’s startling—I would have thought the magic feeding that little orb would last for hours yet. I lit it myself, after all. But dwarves notoriously hate magic, and no doubt set numerous anti-spellcraft runes in the walls of these shafts, some of which have lasted even into this age.
It doesn’t matter. While I do not see in the dark like a dragon, the dragon’s blood pumped into my veins gives me an awareness and sensitivity beyond that of mere men. I am no more than mildly inconvenienced. At first the carved-out tunnel offers a fairly easy descent, broad and shallow enough that a dwarf with a handcart might progress back and forth with little difficulty. After a while, the heat begins to increase. But even that is hardly concerning. My blood runs with fire, hot enough to enable me to ride on the back of a dragon and not burn. What do I care for a little sweat on my brow?
As I continue to descend, however, the heat intensifies. Slowly, slowly, so that at first I do not realize what is happening. Then, abruptly, a curse bursts from my lips, and I stagger and fall against the wall. But I cannot lean there for support; it is too searing hot. I pull away quickly, standing hunched in that too-small space, breathing with difficulty. There’s too little air down here. Too little air, too much heat. I feel as though my very bones are beginning to melt.
But it’s neither the lack of air nor the heat that is the real problem. No. It’s the pressure. That hideous weight above and below and on all sides. I am but a tiny insect, a mere spark of life—hardly worth the energy of my own existence. That weight, that vastness, that stone—it is so much older than I, so much greater. It can and it will crush me, and who will even notice when I am gone? I am too insignificant for even the cry of defiance squeezing from my tortured lungs. So insignificant, I might as well never have existed at all.
But wait…what is this madness? The panicked ravings of a lunatic. But I am no lunatic; I am cold, hard reason. I am the edge of the knife, death made incarnate. What do I care aboutsuch paltry matters as existence? What is existence anyway? A mere thread to be cut at the whim of greater powers. Nothing of importance. Nothing that should concern me.
I stagger forward another few paces, jaw clenched with resolve. But that pressure, that damned pressure…it’s too much, too great. How long have I been down here? How long have I been buried alive? The walls close in. I cannot see them—there is only darkness absolute. There is only weight and crushing stone. There is only the surety of my end. Gods, I cannot even remember why I am here. There is no reason, can be no reason. Reason has no place in this dark, in this heat.
Only…
Only I cannot give in, because…
“Arun.”
His name falls from my lips like a lump of burning coal, searing my tongue with its passing. I came here for Arun. For my brother, tortured and maimed almost beyond recognition. But still alive. Still alive, still holding on to that thread of existence with a tenacity that defies the foulest of all gods or demons. A bright spark in the darkness, a shining soul that would light the way for even a heart so blackened and blind as mine.
Arun. I must go on for Arun. I must finish what I set out to do, and that is…that is…I can’t remember. The heat is too much, driving all thought from my brain. I can do nothing but hold on to Arun, Arun,Arun. My brother’s name beats in time with my faltering heart, driving me on one horrible step after the other. Until I am no longer walking but crawling on my belly, pushing myself forward, my face pressed into jagged stone, the weight of the whole mountain on my shoulders. I will save you, Arun. I will save you. I will…
I will…
I…
I stop. I cannot go on, cannot move at all. It’s too tight, too close. There is no moving forward and, I suspect, no going back either. The walls press in on either side, wedging me in place. My panicked heart leaps to my throat, threatening to escape my body entirely.
This is it then. I’m done for. Caught in this trap of stone and lies and pressure and heat. Caught here until my pulsing veins burst from sheer terror. Which is a preferable death to the slow one of parched starvation which awaits me otherwise.
Or perhaps…
Perhaps I need not wait for either end. I have my knife. With a turn of my wrist, I can slide it from its secret place up my sleeve. If I can angle it just so and slice the artery at my throat, I’ll bleed out in moments, spared the long torture. I can do it. I twist my body, wrenching my shoulder, but it’s enough—just enough. The blade slides into my hand, and I grip the hilt like it’s my best friend in the world. My best…my only…
I think maybe we’re friends.
