glowing lamp as he stood on watch before the pitifully small coffin on the table. Lamplight glowed on the gold clasps of the coffin, on the fastenings of Husk’s robe, and on the fine embroidery of the cuffs. Still and silent, he stood on guard alone until a hedgehog marched solemnly down the hall to take the next watch.
Leaving the hall with his lamp, he did not go straight to his own quarters. In the anteroom he took off the heavy robe and laid it in the chest, then crossed the hall with a solemn bow toward the coffin and walked with grave dignity down a flight of stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs, he would not be seen. He slipped noiselessly back up a neglected narrow stairway that led him to a little space, no more than a cupboard, next to the Gathering Chamber. An opening at the back, so well concealed that it could hardly be found, led down another set of stairs, darker and narrower. He was hurrying by now. A passageway came next, hardly more than a tunnel, and so small that he had to lower his head and draw in his shoulders. He turned right, left, right again, down another flight, through tunnels and chilly passageways, where his lamp gave only a feeble wisp of light and the air smelled of mold and damp. Unseen things ran and scrabbled in the darkness. Old cobwebs caught in his fur. These were ancient passageways, unknown even to the moles.
Darkness, absolute darkness. It was around him, and deep within him. He breathed it in; it smelled of death. Death, decay, and worse. It was better not to see what might be in these tunnels. The cold was like a chilling where nothing can live. Keeping his nerve, not knowing what would come at him from the dark, Husk came to the door that waited for him.
He laid down the lamp. This was not a place for light.
Fear shivered him. He pushed with both front paws at the door, and as it creaked and moved, he felt sickening terror.
Bang the door shut! Turn! Fly! But he always felt like that at the moment of pressing the door, knowing the horror of the place. It disgusted and fascinated him, but the fascination was stronger. He shut the door behind him and absorbed the sense of creeping evil.
Rough, cold stone was clammy under his paws. The smell of decay filtered into him. He could taste the smell. In the thick, deep darkness he could see no more than a gleam of slime on the rough walls, and a patch of even deeper darkness. That was the pit. Dark as a nightmare, dark as drowning, the pit yawned like a hungry mouth from the center of the floor. It was as if by being here he could feed its evil, as it fed his. He closed his eyes and reached into the greed and ruthlessness in himself.
He had first found this place when he wasn’t looking for it. He had been looking for the legendary Old Palace but had stumbled on this ancient dungeon instead.
He wished he knew the story of this place. It must have a history. Its aura of horror told him that murder and despair had happened here.
Evil breathed and echoed around him, exciting and satisfying him even as it appalled him. It spoke to him of power, fear, treachery. In here, he could think clearly of how worthless the other animals were, and how unfair it was that he had to serve the king, when he would be a far better king himself. He thought of the first murder he had ever committed. As he soaked himself in the atmosphere of the dungeon, its power seeped into him until it spoke to him. It spoke to him. Words formed themselves clearly, grimly, in his head and heart. They were words of prophecy.
I will be all powerful. But the one that falls from the sky must be destroyed.
The one that falls from the sky? What did that mean? He imagined something falling from the sky. In the smothering blackness behind his closed eyes, a picture was forming. A picture of something falling from the sky—something almost white—he ached to see what it was, but it was not clear. Was it falling, or was it flying? The picture in his head was clearer now,
Leaving the hall with his lamp, he did not go straight to his own quarters. In the anteroom he took off the heavy robe and laid it in the chest, then crossed the hall with a solemn bow toward the coffin and walked with grave dignity down a flight of stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs, he would not be seen. He slipped noiselessly back up a neglected narrow stairway that led him to a little space, no more than a cupboard, next to the Gathering Chamber. An opening at the back, so well concealed that it could hardly be found, led down another set of stairs, darker and narrower. He was hurrying by now. A passageway came next, hardly more than a tunnel, and so small that he had to lower his head and draw in his shoulders. He turned right, left, right again, down another flight, through tunnels and chilly passageways, where his lamp gave only a feeble wisp of light and the air smelled of mold and damp. Unseen things ran and scrabbled in the darkness. Old cobwebs caught in his fur. These were ancient passageways, unknown even to the moles.
Darkness, absolute darkness. It was around him, and deep within him. He breathed it in; it smelled of death. Death, decay, and worse. It was better not to see what might be in these tunnels. The cold was like a chilling where nothing can live. Keeping his nerve, not knowing what would come at him from the dark, Husk came to the door that waited for him.
He laid down the lamp. This was not a place for light.
Fear shivered him. He pushed with both front paws at the door, and as it creaked and moved, he felt sickening terror.
Bang the door shut! Turn! Fly! But he always felt like that at the moment of pressing the door, knowing the horror of the place. It disgusted and fascinated him, but the fascination was stronger. He shut the door behind him and absorbed the sense of creeping evil.
Rough, cold stone was clammy under his paws. The smell of decay filtered into him. He could taste the smell. In the thick, deep darkness he could see no more than a gleam of slime on the rough walls, and a patch of even deeper darkness. That was the pit. Dark as a nightmare, dark as drowning, the pit yawned like a hungry mouth from the center of the floor. It was as if by being here he could feed its evil, as it fed his. He closed his eyes and reached into the greed and ruthlessness in himself.
He had first found this place when he wasn’t looking for it. He had been looking for the legendary Old Palace but had stumbled on this ancient dungeon instead.
He wished he knew the story of this place. It must have a history. Its aura of horror told him that murder and despair had happened here.
Evil breathed and echoed around him, exciting and satisfying him even as it appalled him. It spoke to him of power, fear, treachery. In here, he could think clearly of how worthless the other animals were, and how unfair it was that he had to serve the king, when he would be a far better king himself. He thought of the first murder he had ever committed. As he soaked himself in the atmosphere of the dungeon, its power seeped into him until it spoke to him. It spoke to him. Words formed themselves clearly, grimly, in his head and heart. They were words of prophecy.
I will be all powerful. But the one that falls from the sky must be destroyed.
The one that falls from the sky? What did that mean? He imagined something falling from the sky. In the smothering blackness behind his closed eyes, a picture was forming. A picture of something falling from the sky—something almost white—he ached to see what it was, but it was not clear. Was it falling, or was it flying? The picture in his head was clearer now,
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