But suddenly that desire struck terror through her; she drew away shaking and sweating.
Chapter 70
The ponies jogged along steadily behind Braden’s gray gelding. The Catswold folk from the upperworld, dressed in borrowed Netherworld leathers, were hardly distinguishable from Netherworld peasants. Except, on closer inspection, they had better styled haircuts, and the women had pierced ears and painted nails. They handled their horses passably; they had learned more quickly than Braden had thought possible. Likely it was their feline balance. The sturdy ponies had made good time across Affandar.
By now, the women had wiped off their lipstick and tied their hair back or slicked it under caps, and their manicured hands were dirty and blistered, and they carried sharpened shovels and axes and crudely made bows. Above them the Harpy circled impatiently.
For Braden, the upperworld had faded, the Netherworld was all that was real. The earth beneath him was solid. The hard stones under the gelding’s hooves struck sparks. The smell of pine and juniper filled his nostrils. The cold rush of the river where they had stopped to water the horses had left his boots wet. The stone sky above him seemed totally normal, so that if he were again to face the emptiness of the upperworld sky he would feel too exposed.
He rode with one thought in mind, one goal. Melissa.
He turned once to urge on the pack pony he led. Each rider led a pack animal, heavily burdened with a long, cumbersome bundle.
And when suddenly the Harpy did a wingover and dove at the horses, he responded at once, moving his mount on fast. “Kick those ponies,” he shouted, “get them moving!”
“The pit is beyond that mountain,” shouted the Harpy.
“We will camp at the crest. On the other side, the valley is thick with Affandar warriors.”
Chapter 71
Melissa, riding the upperworld stallion meant for Helsa, wearing the golden robe Helsa had worn, led the Catswold warriors into the dark tunnel. The green of the Netherworld night disappeared behind them. As they pushed into total blackness they brought spell-lights. The Griffon walked among them, his wings folded in the tight space; he was cross and nervous confined thus, and the Catswold warriors kept their distance from him. Melissa was surprised he had stayed with them.
The journey took all night. They stopped once, at the tunnel’s deep springs, to water and rest the horses and feed them from the bags of grain they carried. It was well past midnight when they came up out of the black tunnel and turned south. The Griffon had burst out ahead of them, lifted away, and was gone.
Soon the stone sky grew red, reflecting the fires of the Hell Pit. Beyond the flaming pit burned hundreds of small fires in the camps of the two armies as the enemies waited, facing each other across an expanse of empty plain in the enforced truce of darkness. The air was filled with smoke.
Fear made Melissa’s hands sweat on the reins, and with her uncertainty the stallion began to fuss and shiver. She could hear, ahead, occasional low voices and the muffled cries of the wounded. They pushed on to the lip of the Hell Pit then drew back startled. The pit was broad here, and it seethed with liquid fire in rolling waves. But deep within the fire a blackness writhed—a dragon, its thick coils stretching away in both directions—humping, sliding, disappearing as the fires shifted. Melissa backed her trembling horse away.
Watching the dragon, they dismounted and led their balking mounts fast up the steep cliffs beside the pit. They entered a narrow overhead pass tunneling through the granite sky above the Hell Pit. The terrified horses went slowly, sweating and shivering. Melissa alternately fought her stallion and talked to him, drawing him on.
They came out of the tunnel and onto the battlefield in the first green light of approaching dawn, greeted by the crash of metal and by soldiers boiling out of the two camps. Hooves thundered as rebel troops swept in waves toward Siddonie’s armies. Melissa’s horse lunged and pawed, wanting to join battle. Already the fighting stretched for more than a mile, and the clashing and screams filled the valley. But suddenly an enchantment of terror hit the battlefield. The spell weakened Melissa as if water ran in her veins. Rebel horses bolted, their riders frozen with fear in the saddle to fall under the blades of Siddonie’s army. All across the plain the rebel lines fell back. Fleeing horses stumbled over their fallen riders. Could this be Siddonie’s magic? Did the dark queen, alone, have such power?
