Eye of Darkness (Part Twenty-Five)

 

When they left that level at last, they went down a long sloping shaft. When it bottomed out, the Morgs found themselves in complete darkness, standing in front of a doorway that, to their probing hands, felt far too small and narrow for any Great Ogre to enter. Belmok knew that even he would have to stoop.

Leren unexpectedly released the cloak, and the Morgs suddenly could hear their hearts again. There was the tiniest glimmer, and the Ivra was faintly outlined before their eyes.

“Ogres rarely ever come so deep,” it announced. “It is forbidden. The cloak is unnecessary for now. We may rest here before you proceed. It is well. Such suppression is … tiring.”

“Aren’t you going any further with us?” asked Belmok.

“Further guidance is not necessary,” Leren whispered. “The path ahead is straight, there are no turnings. There is a door at the end. It is bound with … you would call them spells, to prevent such as I or the Dunwolf too near. But Ogre thralls do pass in now and then with no ill-effect. Do not take it ill, but in this way the Morgs and Ogres are alike: you have no trestalvess … no magic.

“Enter the door,” Leren said, both light and voice fading. “You have your lamps and tinder. Do not use them until inside. Touch nothing but note all that you see. I shall await here, and then we may leave this place.”

Before the last flicker of the Ivra’s light died away, Thron, who seemed to have recovered his composure, looked up ironically into Belmok’s face, and held out an inviting claw.

“After you, High Master.”

The big Morg scowled, thrusting his underlip out, squared his shoulders, gripped his staff, stooped, and stepped with determination into the lowering black tunnel ahead.

“Quite right,” he said stiffly.

They made their way through the darkness before them, the tapping of Belmok’s staff as he probed the path ahead and the shuffling of their booted feet sounding unnaturally loud, no matter how softly they tried to make them fall. After they had walked for an unguessable distance for what seemed an incalculable time, Thron spoke up.

“Whatever we find in there,” he grated, “It had better be worth it.”

They walked on a while.

“It must be something important,” Belmok answered at last. “It would not be hidden so completely if it weren’t.”

“Aye, important,” said Thron quickly. “But important to who? Important how? To the Morgish Kingdom? To this Ivra … academic? If we go in and we find the Ogre King’s private claw-trimmers, I’m going to be very, very annoyed.”

They walked a few paces on in the darkness.

“I know,” said Belmok quietly, understanding in his voice. “I’m as anxious as you are about what we’ll face at the end of this tunnel myself, Lieutenant. But having come so far, I feel I must open that door and find out, even if I were going to die the next instant.” He paused.

“I suppose,” he concluded wryly, “You could call it the academic in me.” He walked on.

“No, I’d call it the damn fool in you …” Thron began, when suddenly he was drawn up short. Belmok had stopped.

“We are here,” he said simply.

In the darkness the scholar could hear the metallic slither of Thron drawing his sword.

“Best let me go first,” the soldier hissed. “When it comes to Ogres, important means dangerous.”

“Now, now,” said Belmok, and from his tone he might have been lecturing a dull class back in school. “I am quite ready for surprises. And besides, I am the leader of this expedition, I believe.”

“Of all the …” Thron spluttered, but the big Morg had already pushed the door open. There was a burst of light from inside, dazzling after the pitch-black of their final passage.