Chapter 42. The Cave

rmand sat in the lee of a lichen encrusted boulder scowling.  Of all the miserable luck.  He and Tyhric had spent the last two hours combing the craggy mound of wind swept rock for shelter or an escape route.  There was none.  The outbuildings around the squat stone house were equally devoid of good hiding places.  Of course, that would be the first place Ashekoroth would search.  There was nowhere else to hide.

The roiling gray clouds spat frigid sleet and rain at them and it was growing colder as the sun started its western descent.  They were wrapped in wool blankets and what little clothing they could scrounge from the various chests Layla had brought with her to the island.   Armand gazed down the narrow cliff to the long pier.  There was no where they could conceal themselves, not even under the pier for it abutted the raw stone and the wind was currently hurling heavy waves against it.

“I respect our foe’s tactical knowledge.  It seems he has out-witted us in his absence,” Tyhric said with a wry smile.  The warrior had found a battered sword and whetstone and was currently distracting himself by fruitlessly trying to make the blade take an edge as they sat there on the highest landing gazing out to sea.

“I’ll respect him when he has the decency to die,” Armand replied, frustrated.  He would never again suffer himself to be controlled by Ashekoroth.  The very thought of it filled him with rage.  But he also had to grant Ashekoroth had been clever to bring them here.  They might as well both be back in chains awaiting whatever fate the villain had in store for them.

“The tide is going out.  I want to investigate the beach with the iron grate.  Maybe there is a way in,” Armand said, rising and chafing his arms against the frigid wind, “At least it might give us a place to shelter for the night.”

“Or a place to drown when the tide returns,” Tyhric said gloomily, “It’s getting dark.  Are you sure you want to scale a cliff now?”

Armand shrugged.

“Ever helped someone rappel?”

“No.  What’s rappelling?” asked Tyhric dubiously.

“Looks like you’re about to learn.  Let’s stop by the house.  I’m sure our host has a supply of rope lying around.  In fact, I’m almost certain of it,” Armand said with a bitter laugh.

Tyrhic snorted at Armand’s dark humor.  Armand shouldered the stolen pack he had filled with his new possessions and set off quickly, determined to make good use of any time remaining to them.  There was no telling when Ashekoroth would return and he did not doubt for a minute that the fiend would come after them the moment he discovered they had escaped.

As predicted, there was an abundance of rope and chain in one of the out buildings.  It was a disturbing place with its stained floor and deep shadows.  Daylight did not reach the farthest end of it and there was a noisome reek of decay.  A fleeting impression of death and fear crept into Armand’s consciousness.  The rising hair of his nape told him there were ghosts, unquiet spirits that were still tied to the misery of their final days.  A very large number of people had ended their lives here.   His stomach and he fought his animal instincts to flee from that place.  Their chances would not be improved by giving up or panicking and he pushed aside the psychic stain of fear and sadness without mentioning it to Tyhric.

He did not fully understand what Ashekoroth intended for him, but he knew it was something terrible, a fate worse than death itself if that were possible.  Armand did not want to die.  In fact, he had grown rather attached to his life despite its flaws and inadequacies.  He had every intention of foiling Ashekoroth, regardless of the cost.  After weeks of having nothing to do but consider his fate, he accepted that now.

Tyhric offered to carry the heavy coil of rope that Armand selected for its weight and state of repair.  Even the warrior seemed unwilling to delve deeper into the throat of the building and looked grateful when Armand closed the heavy door and led him away.  The two of them stalked toward the southern side of the island in grim silence, squinting as they walked into the bitter wind.  Twilight cloaked the bleak landscape in dull gray shadows as Armand showed Tyhric where to stand and how to brace the rope since there were no adequate anchor points available. 

Only one of them would be able to go down and by the same token, Armand was utterly dependent upon Tyhric when he was ready to climb back up.  He tossed the line down over the craggy lip of weathered limestone then looped it deftly under his left thigh and over his right shoulder.  He tugged once to make sure Tyhric was paying attention before pushing lightly over the edge.  The warrior’s look of queasy alarm amused him.  What would he have made of some of the more daring stunts Armand had performed with his family’s troupe?  Poor man.

He reached the moist black sand in five easy bounds and tugged to let Tyhric know he had safely arrived after stepping clear of the rope.  The warrior lowered his pack down to him, a precaution in case Ashekoroth arrived and Tyhric had to abandon him.  The rope was left in place, but if Tyhric had to flee, it would be tossed down as a sign of Ashekoroth’s return and a means of concealing Armand’s location.

He had a few hours to explore before the tide came back.  The height of the water line etched on the cliff face told him that if were abandoned, he would be in for a very wet and cold night, provided he could somehow survive the pounding of the surf.

Armand banished such unpleasant thoughts from his mind and focused on the task at hand.  He moved cautiously toward the grate, noting barnacles coated the rocks surrounding it and seaweed festooned the iron crossbars.  It was a roughly rectangular shape set within the walls of the cave’s mouth, roughly two arm spans across and rising to the height of his shoulder.  The rusty metal was battered flat, two fingers in thickness.  There were crabs on the opposite side, none larger than fist sized for they would not be able to move freely between the beach and the grate.  Armand tested the strength of the structure but it did not budge.  Reaching into the pack, he removed the wooden bowl and knelt on the black shore, using it to dig quickly so that he could see the extent of the bars as they disappeared beneath the sand.

After many long minutes the flat base of the structure was revealed.  Encouraged, he renewed his effort, mounding up discarded sand as darkness fell and the hiss of the surf grew closer.  He heard a distant shout and the scudding of rope sliding down the cliff face.  Armand swiftly emptied his mind and retreated to the craggy shadows of the cliff.  The potent force of Ashekoroth’s mind sought for him, tense with barely contained rage.

“There is nowhere to run, my prize.  Come back into the house where it is warm and I will not punish you.”

Armand closed his eyes so that Ashekoroth could not enter him and surmise his location. 

“Very well, my hounds will find you.”

Armand shuddered at those words.  He was not inherently afraid of dogs, but for an instant he had an image of slavering white jaws and hateful eyes.  Ashekoroth abandoned him and now Armand hurried back to the grate, digging frantically in the darkness.  The returning tide was starting to smooth out the pile of sand from his excavation and the bottom of the hole below the grate was filling with water. 

After testing the opening with his shoulder, he crawled into the tiny space, emptying his lungs and squeezing through the impossibly small trench until his head and shoulders emerged awkwardly on the opposite side. He dragged one arm and then the other through the hole then pushed upward, pulling his legs free and emerging wet and dirty behind the grate.  A moment later he reached back and tugged the pack after him.   Shivering, he gazed into the darkness, flinching away from the crabs that scuttled around his feet.

Now that he was out of the wind, the odor of the cave bludgeoned his senses.  The fetid reek grew stronger as he moved away from the grate, a mixture of rotting seaweed, fish and musky decay.  Water smacked the inside of the entrance and filled the trench with a low gurgling sound.  Soon his way out would be submerged.  On the other hand, he doubted Ashekoroth would be able to find him now and that gave him some measure of satisfaction.

He fumbled in the darkness, finding the small wooden box of matches and the thick  stump of the candle.  A sulfurous flare burned white and he guided the flame to the wick.  It was not the most practical light source, but it was better than nothing.  He tossed the expended match aside and stashed away the box containing the remaining half dozen matches.  Glass bottles clattered as he shouldered his pack with a shrug.  Careful to ward the flame with a cupped hand, he crept forward as the darkness was slowly revealed to his straining eyes.

The craggy interior of the cave shifted and seethed around his feet, as if the floor were alive.  He was hesitant to step forward for a closer look, but he would have to move soon if he did not find a safe place to hide when the tide came back in.  Bracing himself, Armand drew closer to the rocks, aware of a faint clicking and popping sound.  Crabs lay thick upon the ground and rocks in the back of the cave busily amassed over… corpses.

He retched, backing away in disgust and nearly falling over as crabs crunched beneath his boots.  Fighting to regain his composure, he retreated to the wall beside the grate, narrowly avoiding dropping the candle. 

How many bodies lay beneath the seething mass of scavenging crabs?  Where had they come from?  Clearly there was another way into the cave.  Water curled around his ankles and tugged at his feet.  He had to move now, there was no going back. Swallowing, he inched forward, kicking aside crabs to find the rocks and sand beneath them thick with rotting flesh and bleached bone.  The overwhelming odor of death washed over him and his stomach protested its last meager meal.  Fighting down rising bile, he set the candle on an upper ledge and forced himself to climb up after it, his feet sliding and scrabbling over seaweed, barnacles and scrambling crustaceans.

More corpses greeted him there and a seething mass of crabs sidled toward him as he clambered to his feet, seizing the candle as he gagged and stamped at them, their armored bodies writhing beneath his feet.  They were everywhere, and as the sea thrust into the cavern, they began their ascent up the rocks to join him.  Maddened with disgust and fear, he swore and crushed them beneath his heels until the rocks were slick with their putrid orange guts.

“I’m not dying here!” he roared, his voice laced with anger and despair, “I’m not going to be crab food!”

He ascended again to a narrower ledge, placing the candle above him like a beacon as he struggled and kicked until he perched frog-like on the shelf of stone.  There were no barnacles or crabs up here and thus he decided he was safe from drowning.  Armand sat there panting for a time as the rush of the tide burst through the grate and splattered over the stones below.  In the expectant exhalation between each breaking wave he could still hear the gnawing rustle of numberless crabs.  Exhausted, he leaned trembling against the stone.  His clothes were soaked through with sea water and he had expended all his adrenaline and energy on that final ascent.

Dangling his feet over the narrow shelf of stone, he tugged the woolen blanket he had used earlier from his pack and huddled under it.  His body could do no more for him without rest and sustenance.  Locked in the darkness by stone and water, he was safe after a fashion and allowed himself the luxury of rest. 

“I’m not dying here,” he murmured, closing his eyes as he reached over and snuffed the candle.