The Nether Scroll - Lynn Abbey [121]
Only time and distance, mostly distance, could dull the remembered agony, the sense of violation and helpless rage he'd felt when the Beast Lord had overwhelmed his spirit. This night, Druhallen of Sunderath had experienced cruelty, hunger, and degradation on a scale he'd not imagined possible; he was not grateful for the lesson, which was worse in reflection than it had been in reality. Were it not for Rozt'a, Tiep, and the goblin he carried on his back, Dru would not have returned to the light.
"The horses, Dru," Rozt'a whispered. "Get the horses."
She'd reclaimed her sword belt on the way out. Shortly after that, she'd rediscovered her voice. Dru didn't know what she had endured in the last hour and would never ask. She was shivering now, from cold and memory. He would have held her close, if his arms hadn't been locked behind his back supporting the goblin.
Tiep walked a bit apart from them and added distance as the sky grew brighter than the light spell-a feeble effort, ruddy with desperation-that had guided them away from the pool chamber. Dru owed his life to Tiep. If the youth hadn't risked everything in his brave, senseless attempt to slay the Beast Lord, Dru would be a fading part of the alhoon's memory. Tiep's reward had been the Beast Lord's embrace.
Druhallen didn't know what to say to his bloodied foster-son; he didn't know what to say to himself.
They reached the carved steps to the High Trail, which, like many stairways, were higher and steeper going up than coming down. Dru's legs were jellied halfway through the third tier. He called a halt when they reached the top.
Dekanter's clouds were reassembling in the north and west. There'd be rain in the quarry by mid-morning, but for now it was sun-streaked and quiet. Nothing moved on the mounds or showed its face at the gaping mine entrance. He didn't particularly want to see the remnants of Ghistpok's tribe and suffered a visceral fear when he imagined the Beast Lord or its living kin, but the silence spoke of tragedy, at least for the goblins who were guilty of no crime other than being born in Dekanter.
Their horses were restless with hunger. Tiep went to work spreading the last of the grass they'd brought up from the bogs while Rozt'a ransacked her gear for clothing and Dru settled Sheemzher on the rock. The goblin's left eye fluttered open.
"Sky," he murmured.
"We made it out of there," Dru assured him. "All of us."
"People, too?"
Dru dodged the question. "Save your strength, little fellow. We'll take care of you."
Sheemzher closed his eye and appeared to sleep. Rozt'a came over. She'd dressed herself in layers of everything. Her movements were calm and confident as she washed the goblin's wounds with water from the run-off.
"He's lost the eye," she said, bandaging it. "And a lot of blood. A hole like that-" She indicated the thrust wound in Sheemzher's right flank."-Is beyond my skill."
"Wyndyfarh will heal him."
It was the least Lady Mantis could do.
The very least she would do after they delivered the golden scroll and reclaimed Galimer Longfingers from her behind-the-waterfall glade.
"How will we get there? Which way should we go? Back through the rocks and bogs? Or the other way?"
The other way was back to the High Trail, down the steps, and across the quarry to the eastward gorge. Did they want to take their chances with the Zhentarim on the Dawn Pass Trail? Or with the gods-knew-what on the bogs?
"We'll go faster astride on the trail."
Rozt'a looked east. "If we get that far."
There were new words for fear written on her face. Druhallen imagined similar words were written on his own beneath the blood and swelling.
"We'll get through while the sun's shining. They're creatures of the Underdark. They won't come into the light."
Clouds were thickening in the north and west.
"We'd best hurry," Rozt'a concluded.