The Ring of Winter - James Lowder [65]
Artus had his doubts, but did as the wombat asked. Even if Kaverin caught up with him now, this spot would be easy to defend since the goblins would have to climb through one at a time to get at him.
As he took up position farther down the tunnel and settled in to wait, Artus's stomach reminded him noisily that he hadn't eaten in some time. He fished through his pockets and came up a single strip of dried beef, mangled and dirty. At that moment, the jerky bore a striking resemblance to the finest steak Artus had ever eaten. He had the stringy strip halfway to his mouth before his years of traveling stayed his hand. Byrt had said the exit was a day away. While they might stumble across something edible, it was unlikely. Best save the meager ration until later.
Artus turned his attention to taking inventory of the wounds he'd gathered in the last few days. His head ached from the three lumps, though the rain in the goblin camp had washed most of the blood away. His jaw throbbed from Kaverin's stone-fisted punch. That was likely bruised, too. He touched it tenderly and found the cheek swollen and warm. Correction: definitely bruised. He had lots of scratches and a few small cuts across his chest from falling atop the junk heap, but nothing serious. His hand was scraped raw from his fall into the pit. All in all, he was in great shape, considering the events of the past few days.
"Awright," Lugg said wearily. "That's taken care of that." The brown wombat was covered in dirt, and his muzzle was scratched and grimy.
"Oh?" Artus said. He stretched and sat up straight. "I didn't hear anything."
As he hurried up the tunnel, Byrt said, "All in good time, as they say. We did our best not to bring the roof down around our round little ears. We're wombats, you know, not earthworms." The gray creature went puffing right past Artus. "I wouldn't dawdle, friends. Wombat construction-or should I say demolition-is not the most exact of sciences."
Artus and Lugg gathered themselves quickly, but not quickly enough. A grating roar filled the air, the sort of sound that makes teeth lock together and hackles rise. Then the ground lurched and a cloud of choking dust rumbled up the tunnel. Fine grit settled over the explorer and the larger wombat, leaving them gasping for air.
"Rather an improvement, I would say," Byrt noted wryly. He had apparently outdistanced most of the disturbance, though his gray fur would have hidden any dirt that settled upon him. "Now we look like a team-birds of a uniform gray color, or something like that."
Artus abruptly turned around. "Wait!" Byrt shouted. "No offense intended. Really!"
"You've done it again," Lugg grumbled, watching Artus disappear into the dust-choked tunnel. "Just like aboard the Rampage. You talked and talked and now 'e's 'ad it with us. Probably went back to the cave-in to bury 'imself rather than listen to you any more."
The little wombat was berating Lugg for his sour mood when Artus reappeared a short time later, coated even more heavily with the gray soot. He was coughing, and the dirt had stung his eyes red. With knees stiff from long walks and little restful sleep, Artus kneeled down in front of Byrt. "Thanks for taking care of the tunnel," he said sincerely. "It will take Kaverin days to dig through that mess." The explorer smiled. "I don't know if I should pat you on the head or shake your paw."
"Either will do," Byrt said. "I'm actually quite easy to get along with, you know."
Artus smiled and patted the wombat on the head. When he looked around, the explorer found that Lugg had trundled ahead before he could be treated to the same.
* * * * *
"This happened only a short time ago," Kaverin noted flatly. He wiped the grime from his hands, stared at the pile of rock and earth blocking the tunnel, and stood a moment in thought. "Cimber might have killed Grumog with that blasted journal of his, but he didn't do this on his own. Not in so short a time. There is definitely someone-or something-down here helping him."