Under Fragile Stone Page 6

  The miners stepped around him and got to work again, pulling aside the moveable stones and digging dust and debris out with their picks and shovels. But they soon hit more of the larger boulders and had to give up. They were going to have to wait for the rescue teams to dig through from the other side with heavy lifting gear. Noogan and Dalegin sat down to watch Mirkrin’s recovery, and grieve for the friends they had lost. Paternasse picked up the lantern and took stock of the situation.

  They had enough oil to last them into the night, and methylated spirit for the lamps on their helmets. Walking down the tunnel to check their supplies, his heart sank as he found another pile of rubble down near the end. The cart lay somewhere underneath. He sat down and pulled the neckerchief from his mouth, rubbing the dust off his face and wiping his running nose. He hawked and spat a knot of phlegm from his throat. Then he pressed a finger against one side of his nose and snorted a lump of snot from one nostril, and then changed sides to clear the other. Their first problem was air. If the top end of the tunnel was completely closed off, they would be dead in two or three days. If they had enough air, then their next problem was water. The cave-in had filled at least forty paces of tunnel, probably more. That could be a few days’ digging for the rescue teams, more if there were a lot of those big slabs to move and he knew that those lads would be working flat out. But he and the others would be suffering the first real effects of thirst long before they were freed.

  But these were not his biggest worries. Paternasse had been buried three times in his life, and had been on the other side of cave-ins more times than he wanted to count. His biggest worry was the tremors. Because tremors never travelled alone; they always brought company. There could be more and that meant that they could still get buried and that the rescue teams would be in danger too. The shakes bothered him for another reason. Earthquakes happened in certain areas. Places just didn’t start getting them all of a sudden, and this land had no history of them. What did that mean? He shook his head, it didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that another one could bring the mountain down on them.

  Cave-ins too, created their own instability. If a section of rock fell downwards, it changed the structure of the ground above it and around it – one cave-in could cause more. This mine had turned into a death-trap. Cotch-Baumen would be considering all this, and the loss of potential time and profits. And Paternasse could not escape the conclusion that if he were in the Provinchus’s place, he would write this tunnel off, and them with it.

  He spat again, getting to his feet and stretching his aching back. They would have to salvage what they could from the cart, dig out anything useful that might have survived. He stood motionless for a moment. There was the faintest hint of a different smell in the air. Picking up the lantern, he held it up towards the pile of rubble at the end of the tunnel. He climbed up and found a small gap between the top of the debris and the ceiling, just large enough to squeeze through.

  Pushing the light in first, he scraped his head and shoulders through and discovered a crawlspace over the top of the pile. The scent was a little stronger here. He shuffled along it and saw that the wall at the end of the tunnel had split. There was a crack running down from the roof and there was empty space on the other side. It was too narrow to get the lantern through, but the light told him enough. There was a cave through there, and there was a faint smell of cool, stale air coming in from that cave. They might have another way out.

  Noogan’s voice carried down to him, calling him and he wriggled backwards out into the tunnel again.

  ‘It’s the lads!’ Noogan said to him as he walked up towards them. ‘Jube and the other lads are diggin’ in from the other side, I can hear ’em. We’re going to be all right!’

  ‘Jussek!’ a faint voice called. ‘You there?’

  ‘Aye!’ Paternasse shouted back through a crack in the rubble. ‘You’ve a beautiful voice, Jube, never appreciated it before!’

  ‘Well hold on in there, old man. You’ll see I’ve got a face to match!’

  ‘I’m desperate, lad, not blind!’ Paternasse roared back joyously.

  ‘Who’s alive in there?’

  ‘Me and Noogan and Dalegin. And two Myunans too!’

  ‘Myunans?’ the distant voice called back. ‘What are they doin’ in there?’

  Paternasse frowned and looked back at the shape-shifters. The question hadn’t even occurred to him.

  ‘We were looking for our children,’ Nayalla supplied, quietly.

  ‘Lookin’ for their young ’uns!’ Paternasse called out. ‘Get their people down here. They might be of some use an’ all. Listen, Jube, I found a cave at the end of the tunnel. There might be another way in!’

  ‘We’ll have a look. Hang in there, you old fart. We’ll get you out of there!’

  In the quiet that followed, they heard the distant bite of steel against stone, and if they had ever heard a more wonderful sound, none of them could recall it.

  * * * *

  Emos led the small group across a verdant meadow, Taya and Lorkrin listening to Draegar as he told them one of his dramatic stories with typical modesty.

  ‘… so I took on the four of them single-handed, armed with nothing but a monoclid’s jawbone and my wits! Those jankbats were fierce, with razor-sharp wings twice the width of my outspread arms, their tongues lined with teeth and their tentacles bristling with claws, and me trapped on the side of an erupting volcano! It was a close thing, but …’

  Draegar halted in mid-sentence. The rumble from the direction of the mining camp made them all look up. They could not see it from where they stood, but there was no mistaking the source of the sound.

  ‘What now?’ Emos muttered.

  After waiting for a while to see if there would be any more developments, they continued walking and Draegar took up where he left off.

  ‘Those jankbats almost had me, but I managed to smack one of them over the side of the head with the jawbone and it crashed to the ground. I cut it a bit with its own claws, rubbing its blood over me, and then I hauled it onto my back and walked around holding its wings out and flapping them. That confused the other jankbats. It was as if I had disappeared. Their eyesight is poor, and the blood was telling their sense of smell that I was one of them. They flew off, thinking their prey had escaped and was further down the side of the volcano …’

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ Emos interrupted.

  Draegar paused impatiently. They were walking downhill towards a road. They were in plain view and Emos considered moving into cover, but the vehicle growling along the road was a mining truck, with only two men in the cab. They seemed to be in a rush.

  ‘Let’s see what’s going on,’ Lorkrin suggested.

  Against his better judgement, Emos nodded. He was curious too.

  They hailed the truck, half expecting the miners to ignore them, because of their Myunan markings. But the vehicle skidded to a halt.

  ‘What’s happened at the mine?’ Emos asked. ‘Sounded like a cave-in.’

  ‘Aye,’ one of the men said. ‘A bad one. We’re making for Ungreth. They’ve got guides there who know the land. We can still talk to the fellows trapped down the mine. They say they found a cave, might be another way into the mine. What about you? Do you know of any entrances to caves on Absaleth?’

  Emos knew the area as well as anybody. He looked at Draegar. The Parsinor shrugged. The miners had dug their own hole. Let them lie in it. The guides in Ungreth might help, but there was no way the Noranians would allow a Myunan to get involved.

  ‘There are no cave mouths on Absaleth,’ he told them. ‘But there is a system of caves that stretches in from the other side of the mountain range, on Reisenick territory. There’s a chance they might reach in as far as the mountain. It’s a two-to three-day journey to the entrance, but there are people in Ungreth who can help you find it. It’s blocked off. You’ll need to move a massive stone to get in.’

  ‘You know the way?’ the driver asked.
‘Will you show us?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Emos waved him on.

  ‘Shouldn’t you help them?’ Taya asked quietly. Lorkrin nodded in agreement.

  ‘Look, there’s two of your kind trapped down there as well,’ the driver pleaded.

  ‘A likely story,’ Draegar snorted.

  ‘There is! A couple – names’re Murkin and Nalla or somethin’ like that. They were lookin’ for their young ’uns down there. Said they were missing.’

  Emos stared at him, Lorkrin and Taya’s faces dropped. A sudden sense of dread came over them, and they looked up at Emos in desperation. His face did not give them much hope.

  ‘Make room up on that contraption,’ Draegar barked at the men. ‘And get it turned around. We’re wasting time standing here!’

  * * * *

  Forward-Batterer Cullum was stout, some would even say big-boned. No one would actually say he was fat unless he was out of earshot, as Cullum was also a prize-fighter of some renown. His success in this particular field came largely from the false sense of security his protruding belly offered his opponents, shortly before his quick, hard, meaty fists pummelled them into unconsciousness.

  His language skills were somewhat less developed. So when a pair of Gabbit women approached the gate of the compound with a donkey pulling a cart full of rubbish and shouted some gibberish up at him, he instinctively looked around for someone else to do the talking. The other two soldiers on watch at the gate were equally bewildered and just shrugged at him.

  ‘Gutt ye eny uld lumps fur dumpin’, hardhide?’ the taller of the women called up again.

  Cullum stood staring down helplessly at the pair. Known as dog-people by those who avoided or ignored them, Gabbits were itinerants. Moving from place to place in small communities, they salvaged the rubbish of towns and cities and made use of it for their own purposes. The two women had mottled pink and yellow skin, and were shorter and thinner than the average human. They had tiny heads, half the size of a normal skull. Their clothes were patchwork affairs, held together with buttons for easy rearrangement. They had their own singsong language that few could understand.

  ‘Does anybody here speak dog-tongue?!’ Cullum roared at a group of miners in the yard.

  Halerus Jube came up the steps into the watchtower. He peered down at the two women, who were standing hands on hips, waiting for a sign of comprehension.

  ‘They’re here for the scrap,’ Jube told the soldiers. ‘They’re Gabbits, lads – what did you think they wanted?’

  He leaned over the rail.

  ‘Goofurnuffin’ stuff seek ye?’

  ‘Aye,’ the taller woman replied. ‘Takin out for makin’ back to mother. Hardhide here typically nearside of thickendom, not hawkin’ the talk.’

  Jube laughed and waved them in.

  ‘What was she saying?’ Cullum asked suspiciously.

  ‘Just sayin’ she wanted to take the junk away and make use of it – and she complimented you on your gentlemanly manner.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  The two women had been to the camp before, so they made their way straight over to the pile of scrap with their donkey and cart. Despite the rusted junk, there were plenty of rich pickings for an inventive Gabbit; but when the two women tried to pull the choice bits out, they found the heap of metal waste was impossibly tangled with baling wire.

  ‘Unweavin’ be work for busy-handed scamps,’ the tall one said impatiently. ‘Pack back to the village this all, and set the pets on it.’

  The short one nodded; better to bring the whole lot with them back to the village and let the children untangle it, leaving their mothers to more important work. With some struggle, they dragged the mess of rusted and discarded scrap up onto the back of the cart. It did not seem to want to go, but eventually they managed it. Then they sifted through the rest of the heap and took some other bits and pieces of clothes, wood and glass and anything else they could use. With the cart full, they led the donkey back to the gate – ignoring the dark looks from the fat guard – and left the compound, taking the road west towards the hills where their tribe had set up their village.

  5 THE HOLY MAN’S VISIONS

  Mirkrin had recovered his shape, but it would be some time before he was back to normal. There were dents here and there in his flesh and bruises covered most of his body. He lay off to one side, with his head on his wife’s lap, fast asleep, exhausted by his experience. Noogan was puzzled by the fact that the man’s clothes seemed to have bruised too. He failed to put two and two together.

  ‘How come your clothes are bruised?’ he asked.

  ‘We don’t actually wear clothes,’ Nayalla told him gently, her eyes never leaving her husband’s face.

  ‘But you’ve got … oh.’ Realisation dawned.

  ‘Centuries ago, when other races first started trading with Myunans, they considered us savages because we didn’t wear clothes,’ Nayalla told him. ‘We had no reason to; we’re not as vulnerable to the elements as humans. And we couldn’t start wearing them, because we needed to be able to sculpt ourselves without layers of cloth getting in the way. You see, even our hair is really made up of the same flesh as the rest of our bodies. But being naked put us at a disadvantage, so we started shaping our flesh into garments to keep up appearances whenever we met other tribes. Now, we do it anyway; it’s become part of life for us.’

  Dalegin was looking slightly disgusted. Noogan was determined not to seem too taken aback by the revelation, but it raised all sorts of questions that he just did not want to ask.

  ‘Put your headlamps out, lads,’ Paternasse said. ‘You’re wastin’ fuel.’

  Noogan and Dalegin took off their helmets, opened the lenses and pinched out the little flames. The pool of light from the lantern seemed all the more paltry now. The scratching and tapping sounds of the distant digging carried through to them, reassuring and frustrating them in equal measure. There was nothing to do but wait.

  ‘Anybody got any jokes?’ Dalegin asked, his thin, moustached face barely visible in the shadows.

  ‘For pity’s sake, Dal,’ Noogan said. ‘Balkrelt and the other lads are dead!’

  ‘And we could still follow them – I need a bloody laugh, man!’

  Paternasse could hear the tension in Dalegin’s voice and knew he was close to cracking. The old miner had been there and felt sympathy for the younger miner.

  ‘Here, how many Noranians does it take to boil an egg?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Ten. One to heat the water, the other nine to do the paperwork!’

  ‘Ha! Good one!’ Noogan’s laugh was forced, but it was still good to hear. ‘I’ve got one for you: what’s the difference between a Noranian and a skack?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘The skack has a mother who loves it.’

  ‘Ha, ha, haaaa!’

  ‘Ah, we’re too hard on them,’ Paternasse chortled. ‘Wish the Provinchus was here now. I’d be heartbroken if I died before I got to tell ’im how fetchin’ he looked in that nightshirt.’

  The strained, but rowdy laughter helped to release some of the tension.

  ‘How do you stop a Myunan from drownin’?’ Dalegin asked.

  ‘Dal, don’t,’ Noogan muttered.

  ‘Take your foot off his head.’

  Nayalla was sitting outside the light of the lantern, but Noogan still avoided looking in her direction. He was embarrassed for the shape-changers and thought Paternasse might come out with something to make it right, but the old miner said nothing. Noogan opened his mouth to speak, but did not know what to say. Myunans had always made his skin crawl, but they were all stuck in this hole, and making jokes about them didn’t seem right now.

  Paternasse cocked his head and listened. He put the flat of his hand against the floor, and then stood up suddenly. The tremor started slowly and rose in strength. Dust fell from the ceiling and the lantern started bouncing along the ground.

  ‘Noogan!
Pick up the light!’ Paternasse snapped.

  The young miner swept the lantern off the floor and held it up, anxiously watching the ceiling. Mirkrin woke, felt the shuddering and curled up into a ball, moaning. Nayalla hugged him, leaning over him protectively.

  ‘It’s going to hold!’ Paternasse told them. ‘The supports are holding.’

  There was a muffled rumble and the tremor eased off. They all waited stock still for something else to happen, but nothing did. Paternasse walked over to the crack in the pile of rubble.

  ‘Jube!’ he yelled. ‘You all right, up there?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Jube, can you hear me? Can anybody hear me?’

  There wasn’t a sound. Paternasse hung his head.

  ‘What does this mean?’ Nayalla asked him. ‘Are they still coming for us?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the old man replied. ‘I don’t know any more.’

  * * * *

  The miners had guaranteed the three Myunans and the Parsinor safe passage into and out of the camp. Emos decided Taya and Lorkrin would be as well off with him as they would be if he left them outside, so they came in with the two men. There was some arguing between the miners and the guards at the gate, but eventually the truck was let through. A crowd of miners gathered around as they dismounted from the truck. The Provinchus came out of the officers’ quarters, dressed in a poorly fitting whipholder’s uniform and flanked by six burly soldiers. He did not look pleased to see the new arrivals.

  ‘Forward-Batterer Cullum, arrest these Myunans,’ he snapped at the soldier in charge of the gate. ‘What do you mean by letting them enter the camp?’

  ‘They’re here to help our mates,’ the driver of the truck told him. ‘You leave them be.’