Chapter 3 - A Journey into Darkness

In the great Chamber were the forces of Darkness were gathering, Dierdre, Queen of Air and Darkness, paused, then turned her terrible eyes to her loyal servant, Kalaran.

"It moves," she said. She laid a cold and clammy hand over her heart.

"I feel it. Still, it rested. Not it moves again ... seeking, searching for a way to destroy us."

"We will not allow it. The one who wields it must be destroyed ... and those who know his secrets too. Your cousins ... Thomas, Arathorn, Christophe.

"Already I feel them on the Great Stairs. Take what troops you want ... and delay them ... destroy them ... "

~~~~~~~~~~

They were climbing steadily on long, stone stairs, worn down with ancient treads. Now it appeared they had reached a long low gallery, lit by flickering torches. The walls on either side were of solid rock. At the end of the gallery, the stairs started to descend again, this time twisting in a spiral.

Arathorn turned to Christophe with a slightly puzzled frown.

"We go =down= again?"

"No, we sit and enjoy a light snack of frankincense and myrrh," said Christophe sharply. "Yes we go down! Unless you want to invite whatever abominations are camping below up here."

After adjusting his sword belt, Christophe lashed out and snatched at one of the few remaining miniscules that still hovered near his head. He pressed his closed fist close to his mouth and spoke into it in a slow, clear voice.

"Command. Five five. Execute!"

Opening his hand, the tiny mote of light sputtered twice, then went dark.

"Come on, come on," urged Christophe, closing his fist again and shaking it up and down. "Bloody self-winding springs. . ."

Then he opened his fist again and a much more spry-looking miniscule now leapt up from his hand - straight up - buzzed efficiently twice, then zoomed off back along the path the three men had just come down.

"We'll see what that does for us. Now, let's have a look at these torches. I doubt that there's anyone who tends them. . .must be all dweommery or some rubbish like that."

Christophe then makes a close inspection of one of the torches in the wall.

From far below, in the darkness, there was a thick and oily chuckle.

"Lovely," sniffed Christophe. "Simply. . .lovely."

A low long hissing sound can be heard, then the flutter of bat wings emerging from the darkness below.

Three creatures made of solidified darkness suddenly explode upward moving at the occupants of the landing. Dragonets clawing and hissing a foul stench of darkness and decay!

Thomas' sabre emerged from its scabbard in a single fluid motion. He remained upright, sword-arm extended, tip of the blade at eye height, waiting motionlessly for one of the creatures to come within range.

Christophe drew his rapier with a smooth shuuuuuuush! as he plucked a torch from a sconce to his left.

"Why can't these things ever have a fresh, minty scent?" he grunted as he jammed the torch in the face on the first attacker, shuffle-stepping backward so as not to be side-flanked by the other two.

"Doubtless so we won't be tempted into eating them," responded Arathorn dryly, reaching for a second torch.

"Can I suggest we evolve some form of primitive strategy here?" he suggested, sweeping the flame around to force back a second dragonet. "Or would you prefer to simply go on jabbing at them until they expire from ennui?"

"But this strategy works so well for Martel," grimaced Christophe. "I thought I would give it a go. . .ennui is quite debilitating, you know."

"There are three of us, and they show a laudable desire to attack without teamwork in what is a fairly low ceilinged gallery. If you and I, Christophe, drive them forwards on either side with the torches, Thomas can finish them off with his sabre.

"What do you think?"

"I think. . .why not."

With that he lunges forward, swinging his torch for greatest effect in an attempt to drive the creatures forward as Arathorn suggested.

Thomas nodded, bending his knees ever so slightly and extending his left hand outward for balance. "Very well." The tip of his sabre dropped momentarily as he tested the blade's balance, then rose again as Thomas waited, absolutely still, for his precisely chosen moment of action to arrive.

The dragonets moved almost as Thomas predicted, though at the last second of their attack, they exhaled a killing frost from their jaws. The blast of icy air extinguished the torch that Christophe held and blistered Arathorn's left cheek stinging his flesh. Though all three dragons where now scant feet away from the Amber trio.

Arathorn jerked his head back with a curse, and for a second, his torch wavered.

"Manners!" hollered Christophe as the tip of his sword made an intricate pattern in the air around the head of the dragonet who blew out his torch. When he had finished, the dragonet's head fell to the ground, cuts above its eyes and cheeks lending it a strangely comic appearance.

Then he used the mass of his extinguished torch to slam down on the body of the dragonet to his left.

The second creature dodged aside ... his breath erupting with the hiss of an outraged steam engine ... but this was a plume of ice aimed at Christophe - who ducked ... but was left with a frosting of ice on top of his head and tingling tips to his ears.

But even as the dragonet hovered to direct this attack, Thomas moved forward and skewered it against the ceiling of the cave, even as Arathorn, recovering his equilibrium, swung the blazing torch full at the belly of the third. The creature shrieked horribly ... and exploded in little gobbets of red meat that blackened slowly and then liquefied to drip down the walls like black oil.

Where it touched the bodies of the other slain dragonets, their bodies too began to decay to the same black oil with appalling rapidity ... and then pool together on the gallery floor. And then, as if it had a mind of its own, the pool began to flow away from them and down the spiral staircase at the far end of the gallery, from whence the creatures had come.

Thomas watched, fascinated, as the oily stain on the tip of his sabre flowed away to join the retreating puddle. As it vanished down the stair, he stared after it as if he could pierce the darkness by will alone.

Arathorn sighed. "I really am reluctant to say this," he murmured, "but I have a feeling that those stairs will lead us to the heart of Darkness we've been bidden to seek."

"Good idea," nodded Christophe, who had sheathed his sword and was vigorously rubbing his ears and cheek to restore warmth to them. "Permit me a moment to take two more torches. . .then let us go see what form of unpleasantness awaits."

"I suspect you're right, Arathorn," Thomas added unnecessarily. "We should each have a torch...and perhaps each of us should carry one of the acorns as well, in case any one of us is...delayed."

"Actually, I think that you had best keep all three," Christophe replies, softly. "You are the most. . .hardy. . .of us all, I fear, and besides, they will expect us to distribute them. AS it is, I may be able to leap into the heart of things, drawing their attention away to afford you a chance to strike with your. . .nuts."

He smiled weakly then gripped the wooden handles of the torches and crept forward slowly.

"My boys, this does not feel good," he whispered. "Stay wary, now. . . whatever is down here may strike at any time. . ."

Thomas nodded as if not trusting himself to speak, his face glimmering palely in the wan torchlight.

Christophe looked up and around, trying with all his ability to see through the gloom that surrounded them, attempting to pick up some sign of what they faced, a hint of the enemy that lay coiled. . .somewhere.

Thomas, sabre in one hand and torch in the other, at first stared into the blackness as avidly as Christophe. After a few moments, though, he half-closed his eyes and tilted his head back, trying to somehow feel the source of the evil which they could not yet see.

Somewhere ... deep in the darkness, there was a rustle of dry scales. And then ... a sound ... like the long slow inhale of breath ...

And then ... to their right ... another ....

and somewhere behind them ... another ...

As though long forgotten monsters of nightmare were rousing themselves from their sleep.

"Thomas," hissed Christophe. "Maybe. . .this would be a good time. . . for you to discover a use for that Jewel in your chest? Could you perhaps. . .smite them with fire, or turn them into small birds?"

His head jerked to the side at another sign of stirring, then he quickly turned to face Thomas again. His face was a strange mix of fear and excitement.

"Really. You could try. Trying is a good idea. Better than being eaten by something for a mid-afternoon snack."

Thomas shook his head, though the gesture was visible only as a brief flicker of torchlight off his pale face. "I have had no time to attune to the Heartstone. I fear it will do us no good at the moment. Better that we rely on steel and fire, I think."

"And if that doesn't work. . .try the jewel," Christophe says, flatly.
"Humor me."

The Amberites see black lightning sliding along the floor from all directions and toward the three of them. As each suddenly realizes that what he faces is a winged serpent of darkness, some twenty feet in length, the creatures burrow into the solid stone floor, only to errupt out of the Amberites' very own shadows.

Thomas is bittem on the torso as the serpent coils around him, knocking him off balance!

Christophe drops a torch as the serpent on him strikes his arm, and coils like death around his body.

Reflexively, he swats at the serpent with the burning end of the torch, and hollers, "Where are those damn miniscules!"

Arathorn knows that no serpent alive can move that fast! Even so the creature latches onto the prince's calf and coils up his very body, bringing Arathorn to his knees.

For an instant, all three hear the low chuckling of a dark-clad figure ahead of them. And as it's white haired form disappears into the darkness, constricting scales press the lungs of Amber's heroes, and their blood is slowly being sucked into black fangs!

For once, Thomas is grateful for his mechanical body; while the powerful coils of the serpent constrain his movement, he does not rely on lungs for breath, and his "blood," while important, is less critical to his survival -- and hopefully less nutritious to the serpents -- than that of any other Amberite.

Moving his sword arm slowly but inexorably, Thomas strives to place the point of his sabre in some vulnerable spot on the serpent pinning him - eye, jaw, throat, whatever he can reach -- and apply slow but constant pressure in a powerful thrust.

"Perhaps I. . .failed to mention. . ." stammers Christophe, doing his best to bludgeon the snake on him with the torch, "That I. . .am not overly. . .fond of snakes?"

Then above the sounds of ths struggle, even above the sound of the chuckling dark clad figure, a buzzing sound can be heard.

It grows louder. . .suddenly louder. . .

Then a glow is visible behind them. . .growing suddenly brighter. . .

. . .as a swarm of tiny lights pour into the chamber. . .hundreds. . .
thousands of them. . .

"COMMAND!" Christophe yells, struggling to stay on his feet. "NINE NINE! EX...EXECUTE!"

The seething swarm of tiny lights spreads out, filling the room with a soft green light. . .

. . .then a flash!

. . .and another!

Like tiny stars giving up their last breath in a fiery explosion, so do the miniscules self destruct, one at a time, sending a hard flare of sodium light throughout the room, a piercing, coruscating volley of light that manages to bathe the entire chamber.

"We don't have much time!" says Christophe. "Maybe. . .a minute, maybe more. . ."

Dazzled by the blinding light, the creatures recoil with shrill screams of pain ... while Arathorn and Thomas, who were almost as unprepared, lay on with blows of their swords. All three struggle to freedom ... at the far end of the gallery, where the steps once more descend into darkness.

"Command! Nine seven! Execute!"

The remaining miniscules, their numbers sorely diminished, gather in a tight ball of glittering light before they settle into Christophe's waiting hand.

The light fades, revealing a small sphere seemingly made up of a lattice of still-smaller spheres, tiny crystalline wings folded away.

"There was someone here," says Arathorn. "Someone ... controlling them. White-haired ...

"Shall we descend in pursuit? Or return to the libra ... "

He looks back along the gallery towards the library stairs ... and in the darkness, the gleam of serpent eyes approaching is all too visible.

"What say you, cousins?" he asks.

"Onward," grunts Christophe as he slides the ball into a pouch on his belt. "Before it can regroup."

"Agreed," Thomas nods. "We've little enough time, let us make the most of it." Suiting word to deed, he begins a cautious but steady descent.

Arathorn beckons Christophe forward, deeming it advisable to place the one who bears the means of making that terrifying light in the middle. Also he is aware that Christophe has had little chance to recover from his injuries in Anglia.

The way leads down ... and the staircase is a corkscrew. What makes it worse is that it swiftly becomes apparent that the staircase is constructed around a marble pillar, with smooth, steep, marble steps - highly polished. The staircase is perhaps two feet wide ... And there is no railing - nothing to stop someone who slips pitching off the stairs and to the distant ground, perhaps two hundred feet below.

It quickly becomes apparent that the safest way to descend is with your back thrust hard against the marble pillar and shuffling sideways. And this serves to make you feel very vulnerable to attack ...

Thomas's mechanical body does seem to possess an almost preternatural sense of balance, but his low boots offer no better traction than his cousins', so he finds himself utilizing the same slow, awkward mode of descent.

"Christophe," he says wryly, "I don't suppose those minuscules of yours could manufacture a very long ladder, eh? Or, for that matter, enough rope to bind us to the pillar?"

"I would not put any faith in such a rope, old boy," Christophe said. "But we might be able to employ them as a sort of. . .moving barrier, perhaps. They might keep whatever this vile liquor is at bay long enough for us to descend to the bottom. Or perhaps your auld mum might come and lend us some help by freezing this stuff on the spot."

Realizing the coarseness of his words, Christophe managed to spare a hand to reach up and gently pat Thomas on the shoulder.

"No offense meant, of course."

Thomas holds Christophe's gaze for a moment. "Of course," he says simply.

Arathorn, at the rear, is aware of it first ...

The black oil that composed the hawks and the serpents ... dripping down the stairs ... and rapidly catching up with them.

But the others realize swiftly enough ...

"I only have enough miniscules for a few seconds relief," Christophe mutters. With each step he takes he winces. "When the time comes to plant our treasures. . .well, let us husband our limited resources."

He looks up to peer out into the yawning dark.

"Perhaps. . .we might imagine that the walls of this crypt are festooned with papier mache bas relief sculptures of dwarfs and eagles and drums and images of. . .of Arthur," he says, his voice trailing off to a whisper. "That would help make our current situation a bit more cheery, I think."

"On second thought, perhaps a dam or gutter would be more in order," says Thomas. "Arathorn, have you any way to divert the flow of the oil? I doubt that we can keep it from rejoining its source, but I would prefer that we not make the stairs any slicker than they already are."

Arathorn twists his head to try to shoot Thomas a pained look.

"You want me to hold back oil? With a sword? On marble steps?" he says.

"The sword may not be the best tool, Arathorn, but you're in the best position to judge," Thomas replies laconically. "Improvise."

"Perhaps. . .if we fashioned a sort of rope of our cloaks, joining the first and last of us together around the center pillar?" Christophe offered, weakly. "Then by drawing the cord tight, we might be afforded the chance to move more quickly?"

Arathorn slides his cloak off.

"Try it," he says briefly to Christophe. "And if we can recover those miniscules and use them again, a temporary barrier to hold back the flood of oil sounds an excellent idea. But I would not buy speed here at the expense of losing their light later ... "

Christophe pulls the latticework sphere of quiescent miniscules from his pocket and shakes it, producing a dim blue light.

"Command. . .hmm. . .seven eight. Execute!"

The sphere breaks apart as the individual miniscules take flight, forming up behind Thomas; rather than explode, as they did in the chamber above, the miniscules seem to be brightening and dimming in sequence, which produces more light than normal, but not the same sharp flares of brightness as before.

"That's ... odd," Arathorn adds - for in the process of handing it over to Christophe, the cloak has changed shape ... has acquired sleeves and is, indeed, very much closer to the frockcoat that constitutes formal wear in certain Shadows rather like Anglia ...

"Actually, old man, you should fling it around the center column; Thomas can grab it on its way around, perhaps. The miniscules should buy you some time. . .and the tightening of the cloak should let us move a little more quickly."

Arathorn directs the pained look at Christophe this time, but acts
as he suggests, throwing one sleeve of the coat to Thomas.

Thomas reaches around the central pillar to grab the extended sleeve, though it takes a try or two. Gripping the sleeve tightly, he hesitates a moment before sheathing his sabre and reaching his other hand back toward Christophe. "If we can join hands, we'll have a complete circle around the column, which should let us increase our speed. How close is the oil, Arathorn?"

"Close enough," returns Arathorn. The miniscules seems to be slowing it down though ... "

With the aid of the coat, progress is a little smoother. Perhaps too smooth ... it is very easy to feel giddy as they descend the next hundred feet of spiral staircase. Arathorn, conscious of this, hopes Thomas's mechanical construction has a stabilising effect as he - after all - is leading ...

Christophe manages to blurt something, and the miniscules seem to do
a better job of catching up.

The last hundred feet to go - and there comes to them, distantly, the noise of battle. But a battle of beasts it seems - the air is rent with the sound of squeals and roars and whinnyings, the calls of fierce wild birds ... and the occasional human cry.

Once they get to the bottom, Christophe recalls the miniscules and sets them to hover above his head.

"I hope that stair survives whatever trouble we're about to cause," he says. "Because that, my boys, was actually quite amusing."

With a smile he shakes first Thomas', then Arathorn's hand.

"Let's plant some acorns, shall we, and quickly."

They are standing in a long dark corridor, only dimly lit by the obedient miniscules that have acompanied them. Arathorn rests his broad shoulders against the wall for a moment, attempting to regain his equilibrium after the giddying descent. Then he moves forward with an oath.

"That damn oil!"

Indeed, the walls are dripping with it. It slides to their feet and trickles away down the tunnel ... towards ...

There comes the clash of steel and the shouts of combat.

That way lies our path, I believe," Arathorn says. "And with caution."

He draws his sword.

Christophe puts his hand on Arathorn's arm and raises his index finger to his lips, then touches Thomas' arm.

"We have the advantage of surprise," he says, softly. "Our mission is to plant those acorns in the heart of. . .whatever. . .lies beyond. I propose that we go quietly, with as much stealth as we can muster, and use the cover of battle to our benefit. It might be best to consolidate our efforts behind Thomas. . .as he is the 'man of hours', and the avatar of the new Pattern, it seems approprate that he be the one to strike the blow. We, old boy," he smiles, squeezing Arathorn's arm, shall cover him."

With a nod of his head, he motions that they should continue.

Thomas nods. "Fair enough," he murmurs. "Let us move ahead and see what we shall see."

Arathorn moves forward, close to the edge ... but trying to avoid contact with the black oil. The tunnel dips ... then bends. Arathorn
sighes and presses close to the wall, signalling the other two to wait, then disappears round the corner.

For three minutes they wait ... and then he returns.

"The tunnel opens out," he says briefly. "A vast cavern - deep in Kolvir, I suspect. But our tunnel ends about twenty feet above the floor. There's a rough stait down ... no spiral, thank the Unicorn! ... hewn from the basalt. A branch of the stair leads up to a platform ... there are three people there - I could only see the tops of their heads. But in the body of the cavern ... there's a fight going on ... and that I cannot explain. You must see it for yourselves ...

"What is more important for our purposes ... in the centre of the cavern is a tree ... and the roots of that, I suspect, are our goal."

"I suspect you're correct," Thomas nods. "How far away is the battle from the tree? If it's not too close, and you two can keep the three on the stairs away from me, I should be able to plant the acorns quickly enough."

"The battle appears to be moving closer as the one side ... our relatives ... move closer. Despite the opposition of ... our relatives. And, it appeared to me, ourselves."

"You do really need to come and see this," he adds, and a certain bemusement, even fear, is present in his voice.

Christophe seems quite pleased by Arathorn's scouting report.

"Excellent! Perhaps then our first order of business should be to blind the creatures on the higher platform with the miniscules, then make our way as quickly as possible to the tree. . .my hope is that we can confuse them into thinking that they are being attacked by others, drawing their attention away from our true intentions."

~~~~~~~~~~

Onlookers? There are the three on the platform, Martin, Kalaran and the Dark Deirdre herself.

And another three. Standing at the entrance to a tunnel some twenty feet above the heads of the aforementioned Darke trio, accessible by a rough-hewn staircase, have appeared the figures of Thomas, Arathorn and Christophe, the three of them with blades drawn.

At the same time that the three Amberites appear on the balcony, a sudden FLASH of bright blueish light suffuses the balcony where Martin, Kalaran and Dark Deirdre stand. The light ripples, bursts following one upon the next like fireworks exploding, save that there is no concurrent echo of thunder, merely a staccato ricochet of grinding metal.

The light is dazzling and the evil trio are blinded ...

So to, momentarily, are the forces of Amber in the cavern. But they recover quickly - in about five seconds.

Not so their Darke opponents. This light seems to affect them more powerfully than the torch that Merlin used. One and all they cringe back, and black blood seeps from around their silver disked eyes. But they are soon moving back into the attack once more.

Using the briliance of the blinding light, Arathorn, Thomas and Christophe run pellmell down the stairs, past the blinded Darke Trio
and to the floor of the Cavern. Once there, they race toward the tree.

Recovering her sight around the same point that the three Amberites gain the cavern floor, the Darke Deirdre gives a hiss of pure rage.

"Stop them!" she orders the Darke Kalaran and Martin. Then she turns aside, and a dark swirling mist envelopes her.

Thomas' pace momentarily slows as his eyes meet those of the Darke Deirdre above. A face once known and loved, then thought lost forever, has now reappeared before him, twisted though its nature may be. His feet seem to drag for a moment as he looks up at his mother's dopplegänger, searching her monochrome eyes for any sign of recognition. But then...

"No stopping now, *thank you*," hollers Christophe, flourishing his sword as the three men scramble forward, occasionally weaving and shifting direction slightly so as to confuse the aim of anyone with a missile weapon. "Look sharp, old boys, we seem to have annoyed her nibs!"

Christophe's shouts seem to have snapped Thomas back to reality, and he looks resolutely forward and resumes his dash towards the base of the mighty tree.

"Wonderful," sighs Arathorn. "And there was me thinking she'd be overjoyed to see her long lost son."

"You must have been quite naughty," Christophe replies. "Let us hope she prefers to spare the rod and spoil the child instead, hmm?"

Thomas adds nothing to this repartee; his face is sombre and his jaw tightly set.

"Thomas, just getting you =to= the tree will be enough, I trust?" demands Arathorn. "Or do you have strong feelings about it needing to be done on the south-facing side of the trunk, or something awkward like that? Let me warn you, now is not the moment to develop green fingers. It would make you appear too much at home."

"At the moment," Thomas replies, "I know no more than you about the precise placement of the seeds. If I should get any more specific clues, I shall try to let you know, but I can make no guaran--" He cuts off his words suddenly, as...

Kalaran leaps up on top of the stone balustrade and jumps straight down, as his black and tattered cloak flares out nicely, he drops the fifteen or twenty feet to the bottom. He lands with his darke sword drawn to confront Christophe. Landing between him and the tree. He laughs with sharp fanged teeth as a darke dragonet flies at Christophe's head.

Dodging to one side and ducking low, Thomas darts around Christophe without slowing his pace, leaving Bleys' son to deal with the dragonet. A few swift paces bring him near the dark form of Kalaran, and he hesitates not at all before planting his feet, left leg forward, and lunging at his unnatural foe, thrusting forward with both arms at once. Thomas' left hand holds a blazing torch, shoved directly at Kalaran's face; his right contains a sturdy cavalry sabre, aimed just below where Kalaran's sternum should end. Not knowing which will prove more harmful to this tool of the Darke, Thomas hopes at least that the glare and heat of the torch-flame will make it difficult for Kalaran to see (and defend against) the exact trajectory of his sabre thrust.

 

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