The Draykon Series (1-3)

Chapter Twenty Four

Working his way laboriously through a bristling set of bushes, Tren almost tripped over the shortig that sat, panting, in the midst of the undergrowth. The dog grinned up at Tren, tongue lolling, with the air of a workman reaching the end of the day's business.

   'What? That's it?' Tren stood still, looking in puzzlement at the self-satisfied creature. He couldn't see any reason why the animal would consider its task finished. He hadn't found Griel, or Ana, or Eva. He didn't appear to have discovered anything.

   Tren groaned. The absurd creature had probably been following the scent of one of the brightly-coloured tree beasts that Tren had repeatedly glimpsed as they journeyed. The dog hadn't been tracking Griel at all. He exhaled slowly and sat down where he stood, weary and discouraged and afraid.

   Rikbeek swooped down from above, chattering. Tren frowned. He couldn't place the meaning of the gwaystrel's utterances the way Eva did, but the string of notes sounded like a warning. Tren surged to his feet, alert. His straining ears caught the sound of cracking underbrush as somebody made their way through the jungle ahead of him.

   He grabbed Bartel and slipped into the bushes. Rikbeek stopped chattering and followed, settling once again on the dog's back. Tren took up a station several feet from the little clearing the dog had found. He wanted to be out of the sight of whoever was approaching, but he also wanted to observe that person himself.

   After a couple of minutes, a whurthag emerged from the trees. The beast moved with the sinuous grace of an enormous feline, at ease and apparently docile. Nonetheless, the raw power in its muscled limbs sent shivers down Tren's spine. He hoped it was fully under control.

   Then Griel appeared, walking a few paces behind his terrifying companion. He whistled briefly and the whurthag stopped and sat on its haunches. The sorcerer paused approximately where the shortig had been sitting moments earlier. Tren couldn't see what he did, but he did see the door that opened in the ground. Griel and his companion walked through, their figures diminishing as if they descended a staircase. Then the door closed neatly behind them.

   Tren darted forward, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the patch of ground that had apparently held a door. He knelt before it, searching with eyes and hands. He could see nothing but damp earth and the sparse fungi that struggled to grow under the heavy canopy. His fingers, however, met wood, smooth and warm and unmistakeably forming a rounded door like the one he'd seen in the sands.

   Tren cursed himself for having failed to expect that. It was an advanced illusion, one bound into the darkness that held sway beneath the trees. It wouldn't have been possible under the strong moonlight that bathed the exposed white sand, but here it was a relatively simple matter to replicate the appearance of shadow-bound earth.

   He didn't expect to find a handle. The door in the sands had not had one, and he couldn't find one here either. He dispelled Griel's illusion, and a neat round door materialised in the ground. Tren blinked. There was a stylised face painted into the wood, a congenially happy face composed of a mere few lines. Beneath it was an arrow pointing to the bottommost edge of the door. Tentatively, Tren pressed the spot beneath the arrow. A latch sprung and the door popped open.

   He paused for a moment, sitting on his haunches. It occurred to him that he was being toyed with. Had Griel known he was there, crouched in the bushes? Had he expected that Tren would discover the entrance to his home, or were the face and the arrow aimed at someone else?

   No matter. He had no choice but to proceed. Checking that the shortig and Rikbeek followed, Tren descended a set of packed earth stairs into a dark underground passage. The staircase was long, leading him far under the earth. The door closed silently behind him.