strain, and dried in the wind. The musty air was punctuated only with occasional horse flatulence. Traces of fine dust swirled and caked on the front of their clothing, collecting in wrinkles of fabric and escaping as the riders shifted position.
Glints of silver spiked the sides of the tunnel, and Britger-Stoun’s hand moved again to the brake lever.
“Hold fast!” he shouted, releasing the brake. The wheels turned back slowly at first, the horses groaning at the increased drag, then charging harder to compensate for it.
The wagon lurched as it passed between the shining markers. Wheels that had begun spinning backwards surged forward, threatening to drive them over the team that led the way. Britger pulled the brake lever again, and the ride resumed its maniacal familiarity.
“That’s the only break in this line,” the dwarf yelled over the whistle of the wind. “We’ve only lost two teams te it this generation!”
Bertus’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the rail and the seat-board tighter, ready for the journey to be over.
“Are you all right?” Alma asked Martin, the wind nearly tearing the words from her lips as she spoke them.
The focused drumming kept him from answering, but even in the flickering lantern light, she could see that all the color had drained from Martin’s face.
“Let me help.”
Climbing under Martin’s swinging arm, Alma slid in front of her husband, nestled her back against him, and scooted back onto the bale of hay he sat on. She twined her arms around his, feeling the beat, sensing the rhythm that drove them onward toward their destination. After a minute, her fingers overlapped his hands and wrapped around the drumsticks, grasping them firmly enough that Martin could let go.
His connection to the strange phenomenon severed, Martin sagged, slid further back on the baled hay, and slipped into unconsciousness.
Three awkward beats, and Alma found the rhythm. The team coursed ahead, steadier than before. Smooth stone walls masked the miles that their journey devoured. The headwind they fought was the best indication of their progress, and even that seemed unreliable, at best. Her hair whipped around her face, streaming behind like a frayed pennant, but her eyes were closed. She felt, rather than saw the drums, focusing only on her breathing and the music. The whine of whirling stone cylinders mirrored her breaths, ebbing and flowing with eerie similarity.
Martin woke hours later when Britger-Stoun called out from the front bench.
“Steady!” the dwarf called, turning to make sure he’d been heard. “We’re almost there.”
The first opposing drumbeat took Alma by surprise. Her concentration and hands were both shaken by the unfamiliar beat. No sooner had she recovered from the surprise, than another beat pounded into her. She could feel the wagon slowing, the decreasing wind from behind her let her lean back into Martin, who was only starting to sit up.
“Keep drumming!” Britger screamed, moving his hand to the wagon’s brake.
Alma sat forward, tightening her grip on the drumsticks, and smoothed out the tempo, a task made far more difficult now that the trance she’d been in for the last few hours had been broken.
The drumbeats from ahead sped up, building until there was one for every two that Alma struck. The wind calmed, and the air freshened.
Britger released the brake lever, and the wheels rolled lazily forward, lurching the wagon only slightly as they burst into a large lighted chamber. “Ho!” he called, and the drumming from the chamber stopped a few beats before Alma managed to control herself.
“ Bertus-Oscare! ” Britger-Stoun shouted as scowling dwarves swarmed the wagon, snatching the drums and sticks away from Alma. The king’s nephew shouted a few choice words in his native language before pointing to the blindfold hanging around the Warrior’s neck. “My apologies,” he growled.
----
“About time,” Bertus said, slipping the
Glints of silver spiked the sides of the tunnel, and Britger-Stoun’s hand moved again to the brake lever.
“Hold fast!” he shouted, releasing the brake. The wheels turned back slowly at first, the horses groaning at the increased drag, then charging harder to compensate for it.
The wagon lurched as it passed between the shining markers. Wheels that had begun spinning backwards surged forward, threatening to drive them over the team that led the way. Britger pulled the brake lever again, and the ride resumed its maniacal familiarity.
“That’s the only break in this line,” the dwarf yelled over the whistle of the wind. “We’ve only lost two teams te it this generation!”
Bertus’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the rail and the seat-board tighter, ready for the journey to be over.
“Are you all right?” Alma asked Martin, the wind nearly tearing the words from her lips as she spoke them.
The focused drumming kept him from answering, but even in the flickering lantern light, she could see that all the color had drained from Martin’s face.
“Let me help.”
Climbing under Martin’s swinging arm, Alma slid in front of her husband, nestled her back against him, and scooted back onto the bale of hay he sat on. She twined her arms around his, feeling the beat, sensing the rhythm that drove them onward toward their destination. After a minute, her fingers overlapped his hands and wrapped around the drumsticks, grasping them firmly enough that Martin could let go.
His connection to the strange phenomenon severed, Martin sagged, slid further back on the baled hay, and slipped into unconsciousness.
Three awkward beats, and Alma found the rhythm. The team coursed ahead, steadier than before. Smooth stone walls masked the miles that their journey devoured. The headwind they fought was the best indication of their progress, and even that seemed unreliable, at best. Her hair whipped around her face, streaming behind like a frayed pennant, but her eyes were closed. She felt, rather than saw the drums, focusing only on her breathing and the music. The whine of whirling stone cylinders mirrored her breaths, ebbing and flowing with eerie similarity.
Martin woke hours later when Britger-Stoun called out from the front bench.
“Steady!” the dwarf called, turning to make sure he’d been heard. “We’re almost there.”
The first opposing drumbeat took Alma by surprise. Her concentration and hands were both shaken by the unfamiliar beat. No sooner had she recovered from the surprise, than another beat pounded into her. She could feel the wagon slowing, the decreasing wind from behind her let her lean back into Martin, who was only starting to sit up.
“Keep drumming!” Britger screamed, moving his hand to the wagon’s brake.
Alma sat forward, tightening her grip on the drumsticks, and smoothed out the tempo, a task made far more difficult now that the trance she’d been in for the last few hours had been broken.
The drumbeats from ahead sped up, building until there was one for every two that Alma struck. The wind calmed, and the air freshened.
Britger released the brake lever, and the wheels rolled lazily forward, lurching the wagon only slightly as they burst into a large lighted chamber. “Ho!” he called, and the drumming from the chamber stopped a few beats before Alma managed to control herself.
“ Bertus-Oscare! ” Britger-Stoun shouted as scowling dwarves swarmed the wagon, snatching the drums and sticks away from Alma. The king’s nephew shouted a few choice words in his native language before pointing to the blindfold hanging around the Warrior’s neck. “My apologies,” he growled.
----
“About time,” Bertus said, slipping the
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