Blackness cascaded before Richard, a vertical speeding ribbon of water, the sheets disappearing into the oblivion below like a deafening, runaway train. The origin of the waterfall was lost in the ceiling above, the light of the rock under their feet unable to infiltrate the gloom. Cold spray licked the world in wetness. The footing treacherous, Richard skirted the wall, as far from the yawning maw of the chasm as he could get.
“The Bydew,” Hollick shouted in front of him, the young guard unworried, his blonde short beard beading with dampness.
“It is an amazing site,” Richard yelled back.
The single file group passed the waterfall into a new series of dry corridors that steadily led into upper reaches. Smokeless torches lit the hallways every hundred feet. New corridors came and went, a vast array leading in all directions. Henrick did not once deviate, his path certain. More aware of them, the holes the guardsmen had been hiding in littered the walls of the honeycomb, able to hide an army if the need presented itself. Looking closer, Richard saw traps set in the ceiling, allowing rockslides to hinder the advance of any assault upon the mountain.
Caer Glain would be defended well during an attack.
Of that, Richard had no doubt.
After an indeterminate march, the passageway they trudged through opened into an enormous cavern where stationary bluish-white orbs cast their light over all from positions near jagged stalactites. Dozens of colorful silk tents, multi-poled constructions as large as any circus big top, pointed back at the serrated teeth of the ceiling, the stone floor beneath Richard’s feet worn flat. The cavern was unexpected, a beautiful menagerie of warmth in the heart of cold rock. The knight had never seen anything like it.
Coblynau dressed in normal thick pants and flowing tunics of all shades scurried from dozens of passageways into the chambers beyond, most looking fearfully backward.
Richard brought his companions to a halt.
Three-dozen warriors waited, pole-axes, spears, and short swords drawn.
“Be still, knight,” Henrick ordered Richard. “I will take care of this.”
One of the new guards stepped forward ahead of the rest, a coblynau as stocky and thick as Henrick but younger and wearing armor as black as obsidian, his left cheek inflicted by a long gnarled scar that ran to his neck.
“Commander Masyn,” the Master Guardsman greeted.
“Where do you go, Henrick?” Masyn asked disdainfully. “And who are these…visitors?”
“We must speak, Commander,” Henrick answered. “In private.”
Masyn frowned but nodded. The two coblynau spoke at length to the side, their words lost to distance. The longer the guards spoke, the more animated Masyn became, his scar darkening to purple. The conversation mounted to an angry buzz. Whatever was being said, Masyn disagreed with Henrick. All the while, Richard grew worried; he didn’t think they would be able to fight their way free of Caer Glain if the need arose.
When Masyn and Henrick returned, they both bore scowls.
“Who is the knight here?” Masyn questioned.
“I am, Master Commander,” Richard said. “I bear the Witchbane, Arondight.”
“Show it to me then.”
“I will not. It is for your liege lord to see.”
“I do not agree with how you entered Caer Glain—with no invitation. It shows a clear lack of good intention.”
“My deepest apologies,” Richard assured.
Masyn grunted. “I must also inform you Lord Fafnir will not be pleased. He may kill you. All of you.”
“The situation warrants that risk.”
“Very well,” Masyn snorted. “Follow me.”
Surrounded by dozens of coblynau guards, Richard looked to Deirdre, who gave him an encouraging smile. The company was guided from the tent city marketplace, its stalls filled with produce, wares, and art. Warmer air met them in a new passage, the odor of cooking food and baking bread strengthening until they entered a series of kitchens with blazing hearths. Richard passed through more rooms, each catering to a discipline—tailoring, cobbling, carpentry, weaving spun silk into cloth, and others he had never seen before. Masyn progressed quickly through the bustling community, his anger evident.
The corridor finally ended, and Richard, Bran, and the others entered the throne room of Caer Glain.
It was a long rectangular area with massive granite pillars holding a ceiling lost to the underground midnight. It was hard for Richard to see most of it; the end of the hall he had come in lacked orbs or torches. Up the middle, the aisle was open, while to either side of it benches were pushed beneath rows of tables covered in dusty linen. Long banners of colored silk fell from the ceiling over statues lining both walls: