Swords Against the Shadowland

The light vanished with Nuulpha's fleeing figure, and darkness closed about the Mouser like a fist. Cowering, he flung himself against the wall, finding little comfort in having something solid at his back. The screams continued, long blood-curdling waves of horror. Blind in the darkness, the Mouser shot desperate looks up and down the tunnel. He whipped out his dagger, gasping, fear sucking breath from his lungs like a cat. "Nuulpha!" he called. "Nuulpha!"

Then he clamped a hand over his own mouth, afraid that something unpleasant might hear and turn his way.

He twisted toward the screams, and an icy wind seemed to brush his soul as suddenly he thought he recognized some cries among others. That's Mish's voice! That's Jesane! They issued from the Temple of Hates, he had no doubt. On hands and knees, clutching Catsclaw, he began to crawl forward, groping at the wall, feeling his way.

A high-pitched child's shriek stung his heart. The little girl! he thought with an inward despairing cry. He lurched to his feet. With shambling steps he ran. He opened his mouth and screamed his own scream, a challenging and angry cry, feeling his throat tear with the ferocity of it. He hoped this time to draw the demons to himself and away from the temple—for demons there must surely be!

Pain flashed. Stars exploded inside his skull. Rebounding from the wall, a bend in the passage, he fell backward with a groan and sprawled on the cold earth. The screams became fewer, weaker. Shaking off the impact, he struggled to his knees, fumbled about for Catsclaw, which had fallen from his grasp. His fingers brushed the dagger's hilt.

The metal glimmered against his fingers. Light! He shot a look back over his shoulder. Nuulpha!

The corporal crouched down beside him. "Forgive me!" he begged.

The Mouser seized the lantern and ran ahead through the tunnel. The screams were no more than moans and groans now, yet no less terrible. "Which way?" he shouted, confronted with an unexpected intersection.

"This way," Nuulpha said grimly, squeezing past, taking the lead with his naked short-sword in hand. The Mouser raced beside him through the new, wider passage, envisioning the carnage ahead.

Even the moaning ceased. A dreadful silence filled the tunnels.

Another turn, a few more paces, and they reached the Temple of Hates. The Mouser's mouth went dry as he gazed up the ancient stone staircase. The huge door at the top stood ominously closed. On its wooden surface, the cracked and painted face of some unknown demon or deity mocked them with its leer.

Swallowing, the Mouser crept up the steps and put his hand against the door. At his touch, it swung open with a faint creaking. The lantern's light speared the darkness beyond the threshold, revealing only an empty corridor.

"Black as a bat's arsehole," Nuulpha whispered, close behind him.

The Mouser entered the passage with swift, soundless strides, exchanging his dagger for his sword. With the slender blade held on guard before him, he took each bend in the way and came to the seeming wall that separated the corridor from the Temple.

Nuulpha kicked the appropriate stone. The hidden entrance slid back, and the Mouser sprang inside.

Only darkness greeted them. Side by side, they moved through the chamber, shining the lantern about. The many columns that supported the low ceiling cast uncounted shadows, and every shadow seemed a threat. Yet no enemy accosted them.

Every pallet lay empty. Blankets were cast aside, pillows scattered. No real signs of a struggle, though. Water jars stood undisturbed; furniture sat upright; no traces of blood or violence.

"Where'd they go?" Nuulpha whispered. "Where's Demptha?"

The Mouser shook his head. His skin crawled as he looked about. The screaming he had heard were screams of death and slaughter. He had prepared himself for carnage and battle, not for this—this eerie emptiness.

The light fell upon a small straw doll that lay on the floor. Picking it up, he thought of the little blond girl in whose arms he had last seen it. Was she dead? Should he grieve? He dropped the doll on the nearby pallet where she had slept and moved on uncertainly, searching every corner, every shadow.

"Who put out the light?"

Nuulpha had dropped out of sight behind the Mouser. The Mouser turned to find the corporal standing a few paces away near a table pointing to a fat candle, its wax still soft and warm. "All the lanterns, all the candles and torches," the corporal said. "They've all been recently extinguished."

"Is there any other way out of here?" the Mouser asked. "Another tunnel or some secret passage Demptha might have shared with you?"

Nuulpha shrugged as he lit the candle from the Mouser's lantern. He moved forward, turned slowly about, and shook his head. "I know of only the one way," he answered. A look of puzzlement settled over his face. "There's something else," he said, staring toward the ceiling. "It's too quiet."