Fighting the dragonfear, holding the collecting bag over his head, Ander stood up, turned on his heel to leave. He stopped dead in his tracks in surprise. Blot stood a foot or two away from him, knife raised, a look of pure terror frozen upon his face.
“Shhh …” cautioned Ander, breathing a sigh of relief and pointing to the cavern roof. “Another loud noise and the other half of this mountain could come down on us.” He stepped over a wide crevice and hastened to Blot’s side. “You startled me for a moment there, but thanks for backing me up. We’ve got to get out of here! I found a scale, and the mystery of poor Rilliger’s fate is solved. But I think we should leave now. The dragon’s returned home!”
Blot slowly lowered the knife, his chance gone. But then Ander edged past him, moving down the tunnel, his back again vulnerable. From the north wall, the click and scrape of claws.
There was no time to lose. Blot raised the knife and took a step toward the torchlight, lunging for Ander’s back. But the would-be assassin slipped on the ice-slick floor. Blot’s feet went out from underneath him and he toppled backward into a deep crevice.
Ander turned at the sound of falling rock and ripping fabric.
“Blot! Are you all right?” Ander called softly, dodging a low-hanging lancet of ice. He held the sputtering torch out a few feet away from him, trying to find the inkmaker in the absolute darkness of the tunnel.
“Down here!” cried Blot, his voice muted and full of pain.
Ander bent to the sound. Holding his torch over the crevice, he discovered Blot three feet below, hanging over the grisly oubliette, held fast by one leg. He clutched at the other shin, a dark streak of blood beginning to ooze from his trouser.
“Hold on, Blot, I believe I can still reach you. Just don’t move. And stay quiet,” whispered Ander. Planting the torch into a crack in the cave wall, he lay down on the cold grit of the floor. Mercifully, the sounds coming from the north wall now seemed to be those of the great beast feeding. Ander leaned forward as far as he dared. Reaching down, he caught hold of Blot by the grimy shirt collar and pulled the dwarf up and over the edge.
“Put your arms around my neck!” Ander ordered. He lifted the dwarf upon his back and dashed through the corridor, back toward the fire and safety.
*****
“There-that will do until we can get you to a proper healer,” said Ander as he finished wrapping Blot’s leg. “It’s needing stitches sure enough, though. I know it must pain you.”
“You have no idea.” said Blot weakly.
“But, thank Gilean, the storm has moved off.” Ander pointed to the mouth of the cave, where a bright beam of the afternoon sun glittered off the new dusting of snow. “There’s enough light left to get down the mountain if we hurry. And I think we had better take this chance. The dragon’s probably occupied with her kill now, but who knows how long before she notices us.” “I’m ready,” said Blot, wincing as he tried to stand.
“Let me carry you,” Ander offered. “We can leave everything but the tablet and the scale.”
Blot nodded, unable to refuse, unable to meet Ander’s eyes.
*****
The trip down was quicker by far, and by far more uncomfortable. Because the dwarf outweighed Ander by at least thirty pounds, the journey was something of a miracle. Blot’s leg throbbed and pounded with every step Ander took over the rough country, and the snow turned to rain as they descended into the tree line. Then Ander stumbled and they both slid the next hundred and fifty feet down a deep ravine, shaving at least an hour off the walk but also some three inches of skin from Ander’s shoulder.
Blot passed out somewhere along the rocky slide, the deep gash on his leg reopening. When he regained consciousness, the leg had been rebound and Ander was carrying him through the last of the pine forest in labored silence, concentrating on the ever-darkening path before him. Sure enough, just as the sun set, the ground leveled out into a warmer, drier, wider way.