“Where is it coming from?” Drakis whispered hoarsely.
“I don’t see where. . wait!” Ethis pointed with his upper right hand. “There. . just to the right of center. I would swear that was closed just a moment ago!”
Drakis gazed closer in among the deepening shadows being cast by the overhang around the mound. One of the blocked openings was suddenly and inexplicably open. A tunnel ran backward and up into the mound. Two torches burned in sconces mounted on either wall.
“That’s a little too accommodating,” Ethis said.
The voice from within called once more. “Drakis. . Ethis. . night is falling. Come. . RuuKag. . Mala. . Jugar. . Lyric. . come!”
“It’s Belag,” Drakis said as much for his own assurance as Ethis’ benefit.
“No, it can’t be,” Ethis countered. “This makes no sense, Drakis!”
“Perhaps not, but I’m going to get a closer look,” Drakis said, dropping his pack. He unstrapped the small shield and adjusted the sword at his hip. “You wait here and watch. If I don’t come back, get everyone out of here and back to some more civilized place.”
“North, I suppose?” Ethis quipped.
Drakis chuckled. “If I don’t come back, I wouldn’t advise following such an obviously flawed prophecy.”
Drakis bounded from the cover of the grass straight onto the flat, open ground. He ran quickly across its surface, puzzled at the springy quality of the ground under his feet as he ran but too intent on the opening looming before him to stop. He flattened himself against the wall next to the opening and then slowly turned to look inside.
The tunnel floor rose upward. Pairs of torches fluttered in a breeze coming from inside the tunnel, emitting greasy smoke as they flagged, each pair lighting the way farther inside. The upward curve of the tunnel itself prevented him from seeing more than a hundred feet or so down its length. The closing mechanism was obvious to him now as a round, carved stone rolled out of its channel and into a space in the wall. Something had built this place.
“Drakis. . I’ve got to explain something.” The voice was unmistakably that of Belag, but there was an odd quality to it that Drakis could not identify.
Drakis ducked into the tunnel and, grabbing a torch, ran up the curving incline. He passed several pairs of torches along the way as the rough-walled tunnel first curved upward into an incline and then began to curve down away from him. There were no side passages nor openings that he could see. Each step carried him farther and deeper into the great mound.
The tunnel ended abruptly in a black void so large that the torch in his hand did not penetrate it.
Just over a hundred feet in front of him, illuminated by a single torch, sat a manticore on a woven throne.
“Belag?” Drakis called in a loud whisper.
The manticore stood. “Drakis! Thank the gods! I must beg your forgiveness. . I would have come, but the Hak’kaarin would not permit me to leave.”
Drakis did not wait but walked quickly toward his friend. “You are being held a prisoner, then?”
“No. . not exactly. . please, Drakis, I need to explain. .”
“Explanations later,” Drakis said. “First, let’s get you out of here.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Belag said, holding his huge hands out in front of him. “I need to warn you. The Hak’kaarin. .”