The Book Man, Chapter 79 (Revised)

79 DOWN THE TUNNEL

Inside the tunnel it was cold and terribly, terribly dark. The ceiling was much too low; Christian was bent almost double, with one hand above him to keep from hitting his head as he limped his way down a stairway he could not see. He felt the ground ahead of him with his cane like a blind man.

Dirt brushed loose from the ceiling as he went. Every time a clump hit his shoulders, he thought for a heart-stopping moment something was in the tunnel with him. Worse were the roots hanging above him; they hit him in the face as he made his way downward. He felt like they were attacking him.

Light flared up, so bright that Christian’s eyes watered at the change. Now he could see the stairs, narrow and steep and low-ceilinged, old stone so worn it was barely discernible from the dirt surrounding it. The stairs dug deep into the bowels of the earth, on and on as if they might never end.

“Sorry about that,” said Morrow. He too was bent over (though not as much as his taller companions), but he held a torch smeared with pitch. “Better let our eyes adjust for a second.”

They stood with their eyes following the descent of the stairs, down into gloom so deep even the burning pitch could not penetrate it.

“Let’s go,” said Morrow. “I’ll lead the way with the torch, Tirion will take the rear. Here.”

From inside his coat, he pulled out a jagged-edged knife. It had a curiously dark, rough blade and a wooden handle smooth with age. He handed it to Christian, who tested its weight in his hand. It was much heavier than a normal knife.

“An iron blade,” Morrow said, “and a handle of ash. Magic-repelling, iron. Highly powerful protection against witches, ghosts, hellhounds—all sorts. Dad made it. None of the weapons he had back then could kill Goblin. That’s why he had to use a spell to trap him instead.”

Christian made to put the knife in his belt, but Morrow said, “Best keep it out, just in case.”

“In case?” Christian said.

“In case I’m fighting one thing and Tirion’s fighting another. It’s for Goblin, but if something else comes along and we’re too busy to kill it ourselves, go on and stab it.”

“Oh,” said Christian weakly. “Alright.”

Easy for Morrow to talk about stabbing things. Son of a great Rover king, friends with an elf who killed things without even thinking about it. Whereas Christian couldn’t even squash the carpenter spider he’d once found roaming along his bookshelves; he’d trapped it between a piece of paper and a glass and set it free in his front garden. Why on earth had they asked him to be the one to stab Goblin?

Well, that was easy. Because he had no apparent skills that would come in handy on a battlefield, and this, at least, was (supposedly) a quick in-and-out, something involving little fighting, less bloodshed, and no particular skill with any weapon.

The toe of his boot caught a loose stone on the stairs and sent it clattering down the staircase, echoing off the tunnel walls. The three men froze, listening as the sound grew fainter and fainter until it finally stopped.

“That’s a long way down,” Tirion observed.

“Well,” said Morrow, “if they didn’t already know we were coming, they know now.” A pause, and then: “I wish I had a drink.”

Christian said nothing except an embarrassed and almost inaudible, “Sorry.” They listened for a moment more, but nothing came out of the shadows to gobble them up. They pressed on.

The tunnel seemed even longer and more silent than before. Christian’s back ached from walking down them bent almost in half. His hip throbbed with every step.

Then his toe caught another stone. This time, instead of sending the stone down the stairs, he fell forward and crashed into Morrow. The two of them tumbled down, down, down, end over end, making such a racket they could not even hear Tirion running lightly down the stairs after them. Morrow lost his grip on the torch, which hit a wall and went out. There was a clank and clatter of metal as something dropped from Christian’s hand and he could not even think what it was—they were falling in darkness and he hoped all the bumping and swearing and scraping really was just the two of them, hoped they had not been joined by any nasty creatures, though it was impossible any creatures nearby had not heard them now—

They landed with a thud in the blackness and lay there for several seconds without moving, groaning in pain despite themselves. Christian felt Morrow’s hands trembling.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” Morrow grunted. “Need a drink, that’s all. Haven’t been this long without one in—well, it’s been a long time.”

They sat up and disentangled from each other. There was the rasping sound of a canteen opening, a gurgling, and then a curse from Morrow as he spilled water on himself.

“Where’s Tirion?” asked Christian.

“No way he’s getting down those stairs fast as we did. Not running bent over like that.”

Christian groaned and put his head in his hands. His heart still pounded from the shock of the fall, and his head felt so heavy he thought it might snap off his neck. Added to the soreness of his back and hip were dozens of bumps and bruises where his elbows, knees, and forehead had hit the stairs. He felt sick. Morrow pushed the canteen into his hands. Christian sipped at the water, trying not to throw up.

Then he remembered the knife and groaned again, louder.

“What ails you?” the Rover asked grumpily. “I’ve all the same cuts and bruises you have. Keep it down or something’ll hear you.”

“The knife,” Christian moaned. “I’ve lost the knife.”

“Damn,” said Morrow. There was a pause and a rustle of fabric as he patted his clothes. “My sword, too. It had iron in the blade, I could’ve at least—Damn it. Hang on, I might have a flint and tinder in here somewhere—”

As he was searching, there came a light a little way up the stairs. They froze and looked up fearfully. The light grew bigger, brighter, almost blinding after their time in the darkness. Then a hunched figure came into view. Christian jumped as Morrow spoke to it.

“Took you long enough.”

“Apologies,” Tirion said, “but I couldn’t very well follow you without this.”

He held up the knife. Christian breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” he said.

Tirion handed him the knife. “Nothing seems to have heard us and that was a much faster way to get down those stairs, but you might be more careful from here on out.”

He had spoken too soon about nothing hearing them. They had gone only a short way when the tunnel opened up into a cavernous stone room with massive archways in the far wall and a ceiling so high it was lost in darkness.

From inside the middle archway, a tremendous hellhound stood growling at them with its eyes glowing yellow.