Chapter 38 – Ingold
Ingold hit the water hard enough to break bones in his face. When he came to, he wondered if he were blind. Velvet darkness enfolded him and would not break though he willed a flame. An image of a man wreathed in lightning swam into his mind's eye. A man in a circle of light, falling away. Ingold jerked his hands to his face. The splashing and a shower of drops explained the failure of his fire. He lay on his back in the shallows of a pool.
He tried to stand. The pain of broken cheekbones paled to nothing against the agony that lanced through Ingold's right leg. The leg grated as he moved it, fragmented bone crunched on fragmented bone. He collapsed from all fours into a sprawl, face half in the water, weeping and cursing.
"Seven shades of shit. You're not lying here Ingold. You're going to move!"
He dragged himself from the pool, panting through gritted teeth. Once clear of the water he made a fist, squeezing with all his strength. The heat built rapidly in his grip, and within seconds a single flame sprang from his hand.
The great sinkhole, into which he'd fallen, formed a rough circle in the roof of the cavern. A clear lake, several fathoms deep at the middle, filled most of the chamber. A stream fed the pool from a crack in one wall, and bubbled cheerfully down a low tunnel on the opposite side. The waters leaving the chamber were darkly mottled. At great cost Ingold edged himself closer. He rested for a moment, cheek against the stone, it was cool but not cold. The water – he noted – was warm, like the air. Gritting his teeth Ingold made light again. Some dark pollutant oozed from a single hairline fracture in the rock. Ingold knew it at once.
"I was right about the redfish, Gartus," he muttered.
Ingold bid his fire burn more fiercely, and the cavern laid its secrets before him. The only exit was a narrow fissure leading away, close by the stream's inlet.
"Had to be on the other damn side didn't you?"
Borrowing curses from the Stilt Town fisherman Ingold dragged himself back to his original position, and on toward the crack. As he reached the entrance the reek of Blood almost overwhelmed him. He felt it like pepper in his lungs; he felt it in his veins, like claws. The flame rising from his hand became a sudden inferno, reaching up his wrist, spreading along his arteries. Panicked he willed the fire to stop. The blaze had a will of its own! A will that proved the stronger, and his arm caught light to the elbow.
Ingold threw himself back to the water, his leg shouting its pain but unheard above the screaming terror of the fire. Under the icy water Ingold's arm still burned. A red heat consumed his flesh.
Think man think! It's feeding on your fear!
Ingold turned his head away. Refusing to look at the fire. With a quavering voice he began to sing. He sang the marching song he'd sung with Gartus, his voice strengthening at the memory. And slowly, very slowly, the fire receded.
At length Ingold stood, rising from the shallows, dripping wet. His leg hurt like hell, but it bore his weight. His healing had kicked into an unheard-of pace. He asked for light and instantly flames danced on the shore before him, obedient to his thoughts. He felt a rush of new power such as he had experienced only once before.
"I'm going to look like Gartus before I get out of here."
Ingold wondered if talking to himself was a dangerous step toward insanity. He shrugged and decided that he liked the company. Preceded by the fire and limping heavily, he made his way to the crack. It stretched for some fifty yards and grew so narrow that Ingold thought he would have to retreat, or risk being wedged in the depths forever. With his head bracketed by two sheer walls of rock he drove on and burst through into a new chamber. Here pale, faintly luminous fungi crowded every surface. Ingold let his fire die and waited for his eyes to adjust to the soft light. Although of many sizes, the formations shared a common shape, a delicate perforated cap upon a graceful stalk, some of them three feet in height.
Waist-deep in the flora of this strangely alien grotto, Ingold inched his way across the cavern. In the water-cut tunnel that exited from the far side were more growths. These stood shorter than their more elegant cousins but shone more brightly, colouring their illumination with cobalt blue and copper green. Driven by some inner aesthetic, Ingold picked his way amongst the fungi, striving not to crush them. He was so bent upon the task that he didn't notice the wall until he was almost upon it.
The tunnel ended against a wholly unexpected wall, not made of rock. It cut through the narrow passage, sealing the way. A translucent, deep red substance formed the curving wall. It reached from side to side, roof to floor, with water lapping around its foot. The light of Ingold's flame reached an inch or two into the glassy material. He leaned over the water and reached out cautiously to press a hand to the surface. It might have been painted stone for all the give in it. It felt hot beneath his palm though. Ingold regarded the dead end. The wall closed the tunnel and left no way forward. He turned to retrace his steps.
At the back of Ingold's mind a voice spoke. The whispers that had scratched there for decades took voice and spoke. Maddeningly, when he tried to hear the words, the voice fell silent. When he moved to go on, it rose again. The words danced enticingly, just beyond understanding. Each syllable sounded eminently reasonable, but the whole proved too complex, familiar and yet incomprehensible. The voice held urgency, excitement. Something was close, something big. Something was about to happen. Ingold shook his head and started to walk away.
"Under." A single word amidst the babble.
Under? He turned. He knelt before the wall and reached into the puddle at its foot. His arm got to the elbow and then the shoulder, still he didn't reach the bottom.
"This is such a bad idea." Ingold drew a deep breath and wriggled in. The rock closed about him like a fist. Blind beneath the water, he inched forward. The space became tighter still, squeezing his lungs. He drove his foot against a ridge and pushed in further. Ingold's heart began to hammer in his chest. Pins and needles started to play through the muscles of his legs, and it occurred to him that he was too tightly wedged to retreat.
Desperate now, bucking wildly, Ingold fought the rock. The demand to breathe overwhelmed him, his chest burned with the need. Despairing, he opened his mouth to suck in a lungful of murky water; and found air.
Whoever built the strange wall did so long ago, long enough for the now-vanished stream to have cut a path under the curving belly of the obstruction. It took Ingold ten minutes to extricate himself from the hole on the far side. His leg ached abominably, but it held. The Blood worked quickly to mend his bone.
Flames, dancing to Ingold's will, illuminated the way ahead. He left a wet trail as he carried on. The watercourse turned steeply upward, steeper than a flight of steps. Ingold scrambled up, reaching from one hand-hold to the next. He gained several hundred feet before emerging into a wide chamber, its walls glittering with white crystalline formations. In the ceiling, a dozen yards overhead, a round opening marked the spot where a borehole had originally penetrated the cavern and let the river in. It appeared to be the only way out, and with any luck would put him close to level with his position before he fell.
Ingold regarded the exit above him. The only way to it would be to scale the cavern walls, climb upside-down across its damp ceiling and swing his way up into the hole. Even with a rope and climbing spikes it would be beyond his skill.
A scraping noise came from above, a shower of small rocks fell around him and Ingold dived to the side. The scant warning heralded the plummeting descent of something far larger. The massive object hammered into the spot vacated by Ingold, with enough force to make jelly of him. He rolled clear and scrambled for cover behind a boulder, letting his fires die.
Utter darkness and silence, then a breath, a sudden deep intake of breath. A dim glow broke the dark, gaining strength, colouring the walls with the orange of hot embers. Ingold peered around the edge of the rock, keeping low to the ground. The beast dwarfed him, even though crouched over. Almost as large as a troll, it was the source of the glow. It had its back to Ingold. He could see one huge red hand flat on the stone floor. Each thick finger ended in a translucent red talon. Scales covered its hulking body, lustrous, red-gold, arrayed along ridges down its back. From a great hump of muscle between the monster's shoulders, wings sprouted, patterned crimson hide was folded between red-gold stays. The wings reached maybe seven feet from top to tip, but given the bulk of the beast Ingold couldn't imagine it being born aloft.
No song known to Ingold mentioned such a thing. The creature swung its huge wedge-shaped head and he shrunk behind the rock. He heard claws grate on stone as the monster righted itself. Ingold pressed to the boulder, sweating, hand tight on the hilt of his sword. The shadows moved as the monster walked. It was coming toward him! At the last, as the shape loomed above his hiding spot, Ingold threw himself clear, sprawling backwards across the stone. His sword cleared its scabbard, and fire leapt along the blade.
The monster threatened nine feet in height. Its head reminded Ingold of a lizard's until it bared its teeth; then shark chased lizard from his mind. Even in his fear Ingold noted two strange features. The monster sported a rough leather skirt, seemingly the tattered remains of leather trousers. Moreover, a large blackened hammer hung from a loop of rope at its hip.
"Ingold." the word sounded difficult, twisted by a strange tongue, chopped short by those teeth. Flickers of fire escaped with the name.
Ingold met the beast's gaze and something in those crimson eyes connected.
"Gartus?"
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