Somewhere beneath his feet there were thousands of men slaving away; from dawn to dusk, Garth almost thought but then realised that they would have no idea when dawn and dusk was, and probably worked until they dropped, rested, then rose to exhaust themselves once more.
And all about rose the rank smell of the gloam itself. Still damp from the mines, it gave off a sulphurous stench that Garth knew would take him days to get used to. Underlying the smell of the gloam was something else, and Garth had to concentrate to make it out.
It was the stench of the cart that had passed them on the road to Ruen; the stench of old blood and sweat and fear and despair, and it made Garth sick to the stomach.
Three weeks would be a lifetime for him under these conditions—yet how did men survive a year? Two? Three?
Suddenly Garth could bear it no longer, and he turned and leaned down his horse’s side, choking and spluttering.
Underneath, the ground shifted and rumbled; Garth could not only hear it, but feel it through his horse’s flesh. He sat up, wiping his mouth, puzzled. Far into the mounds of gloam he saw tiny figures running about in the fog, gesturing wildly. Wheels started to turn faster, their pace frantic; carts clanged and crashed as they were hauled to the surface at twice their previous rate.
A door banged behind him and Garth jumped.
It was his father, and an older and stouter man behind him. Both wore horrified faces.
“By the gods!” the older man wailed. “‘Tis the wicked sea! She’s broached the hanging wall!” He turned and ran towards a group of men emerging from an abutting building.
Joseph grabbed the bridle of Garth’s horse. “Courage, lad,” he said, his voice clearly strained. “But we’re going to be needed this minute. There are men dying below, and others in danger of it.”
Behind them bells pealed madly into the thickening night.
FOUR
DESCENT INTO MADNESS
“We can’t afford to lose many more prisoners,” the guard grunted as he buckled Garth’s helmet for him with sharp, economical movements. “We’re already behind our monthly quota of gloam production. There.”
Garth could feel his fear uncoiling in his stomach, but he refused to let it shine from his face. Once the bells had begun to peal, Joseph had hurried him from his horse, seized their bags of instruments and powders, and hustled him towards the nearest poppet head—the gaunt iron framework above one of the shafts that supported the winding mechanisms that sent cages and carts plummeting into the unknown depths below.
“I’m sorry, lad,” Joseph had muttered, feeling Garth’s fear through the hand he had about his son’s arm. “But you’re too useful to leave above.” His mouth twisted. “And you did plead and beg to come.”
Now they stood waiting for the great cage which would carry them down the shaft; they could hear its dull scream as it sped its way to the surface. Waiting to come down with them was a small group of heavily muscled guards, all armed with swords, knives and batons and wearing helmets and breastplates over brief leather wraps about their hips. All wore sandals on their feet, and all bore the scars of old wounds. The man who had helped Garth to fasten his helmet, a tall, balding man by the name of Jack, now indicated his cloak.
“Throw that to one side, boy. It’ll only hinder you below.”
Joseph nodded at Garth to obey, tossing his own cloak to one side and rolling his shirt sleeves up. “It’s warm below, Garth.”
The next instant the machinery above them screeched and groaned. A great shape, indistinct in the clinging fog and flickering torchlight, lurched out of the shaft yawning at their feet.
“Inside.” Jack gave Garth a shove, and the youth leaped into the cage beside his father, the other guards crowding in behind them. The cage was made of dense woven wire, thick with rust, stretched over a crudely welded iron framework. It rocked, and Garth couldn’t help wondering if the chains that held it were so corroded by the sea air the cage would fall free any moment, plunging them to their deaths below.
“Are there any other physicians below?” Joseph asked of Jack.
The man smiled maniacally. “Yeah. Five or six. But two of ‘em were in the sections of the Veins that have been broached. The sea and the gloam have eaten ‘em by now. A black and watery death it be, crushed against the hanging wall.” He shrugged their deaths aside. “They take their chances, as do we.”
Garth felt physically ill, and his father’s hand tightened about his arm in support. “Ah,” Joseph said. Fog drifted into the cage and curled about their bodies.
“Can that boy do anything?” Jack asked doubtfully. Again the cage lurched under their feet, and Garth felt his stomach lurch with it. Above them the machinery whined and screeched again.
“He’s my son and my apprentice,” Joseph said calmly, as if he were standing by the banks of a pleasant stream, discussing fishing prospects. “He can handle anything to broken bones, but not crushing injuries or internal bleeding.”
“Well, I’m sure we can find him enough broken bones and gashes to keep him busy ‘til breakfast time.” Jack laughed harshly, and two of the other guards joined in. “If he still feels like it, that is. This your first time down the Veins, boy?”
Garth nodded, unable to speak. The cage was slowly beginning to move.
Jack grunted, and the cage dropped.
It fell like a stone through a crazed whirlpool. Garth cried out and grabbed at his father. He thought the world had gone mad—and indeed it sounded like it, for Jack’s laughter rang out about him, and from beneath his feet rose the echoes of disembodied cries and the clink of even stranger machinery waiting below and the foul smell Garth had noticed on the surface but intensified ten times. But worst of all was the horrifying sound of surf breaking—from below their feet!
“Stop,” said Jack after a lifetime, and amazingly they did. Only then did Garth realise that there was some internal device that controlled the cage’s movement.
“Any further and we’d drown,” Jack said conversationally, and winked at another of the guards. He was chewing something, and the thin squelch of his mouth made Garth’s stomach heave.
“Are the pumps working?” asked Joseph.
Jack nodded, the torchlight flickering weirdly over his face. “Yeah, but it’ll take until morning for the mines to be cleared of the sea water. Longer, if bodies clog the pipes.”
Garth leaned against one of the cool iron bars of the cage and wondered if he could keep from being sick.
“Garth,” Joseph whispered urgently in his ear as Jack opened the door of the cage and motioned the guards out. “There are men dying down here. We can do nothing about the dead—and they care little if their bodies clog up some pipe—but the living are still alive and in pain and just as afraid as you. And yet you will be able to escape in the morning. Do you understand me?”
Garth nodded. “Yes,” he said, standing straight again. “I’m sorry, father. I’ll be all right.”
“Good lad.” Joseph squeezed his arm one last time and motioned him out of the cage.
They stepped into a cavern roughly carved from the black rock, the openings of several tunnels yawning hungrily out of the darkness. Moisture ran down the cavern’s rough walls in glistening, inky rivulets, and Garth started as a great drop fell on his helmet.
“The gloam always sweats, boy,” Jack said roughly. “The sea thunders another hundred paces below us. We’re safe enough here. From the waters, that is.”
Again he laughed, and Garth found himself wondering just how sane Jack really was.
A group of men huddled to one side, by the dark opening of a tunnel, and Garth looked them over curiously. There were nine of them, naked save for rough loincloths, their skin as black as the gloam itself. Dust, he realised, rather than natural skin colour. Chains bound their ankles.
“This gang was just about to descend when the sea, cursed be her name, broke through.” Another guard stepped forth from the tunnel and saluted Jack. He grinned. “‘Twas their lucky day.”
From the look on the men’s faces Garth thought their luck had run out a long while ago, but he said nothing.
“Where do you want us to go?” asked Joseph.
Jack sniffed and raised his eyebrows at the new guard. “They’re both competent, though the boy’ll only treat the broken bones and sliced flesh.”
“Well, we’ve enough for the both of them,” the guard said, wiping his nose along his arm. He looked as though he could use their help himself; there was a gash that ran the length of his cheekbone, and one, deeper, that had cut into his upper arm. “I’ll take the older man. There’s a portion of the tunnel that has collapsed on a gang further down. Jack, take the boy to Section 205. The sudden change of air pressure when the sea rushed in caused several sections of the hanging wall to collapse. A few broken bones, ‘tis all, but the cursed men mutter and refuse to move until they’re fixed.”