Washed Up

The moment the water touched her skin, she felt it - magic so strong it engulfed her in a tight tangle of invisible threads. It pulled inexorably toward the center of the lake, and in moments she was floundering, fighting against it, in water hip-deep.

She tried to shout, to warn the others, but the spell filled her throat in a thick formless mass that blocked sound. She shut her eyes and reached out with her mind; perhaps magic could be fought with magic - but it was no good; whatever had cast this spell was something foreign to everything she knew. Beyond even the strangeness of Medwyn's power, this was something even older and stronger, as ageless as earth, water and fire themselves; it sucked in her efforts to push against it as a river swallows the trickle of a mountain streamlet. Nameless smells and tastes filled her senses; sharper than iron, wilder than honeysuckle, colder than frost.

Buffeted, dragged underwater, she wondered if it were any use to hold her breath. Somewhere nearby she heard the gurgling shout of one of her companions, a panicked last gasp. Then there was only the whirling water, the jangling chorus of magic, a great crash..and then nothing.

She came to herself, with some surprise at doing so, but without any sense of how much time had passed. Blinking in semi-darkness, she lay still, cautious, and felt about within an arm's length. Stone...smooth and wet; there was a sound of running water nearby; a pale blue light, cold and vague, shone from somewhere above. There were seams in the floor, and it tingled with the same vibration of the magic she'd felt in the lake.

The dim light did little to illuminate her surroundings. Automatically she reached for the pocket in her skirts where she kept her bauble and found it empty. She fought down a rising sense of panic. Don't be an idiot. Losing her head wouldn't do any good. Think.

Very well. She was underground; that much was certain, and she was accustomed enough to that. She appeared to be in one piece, if bruised and, of course, wet. Where were her companions? She could neither see nor hear anyone, but shutting her eyes and thinking hard at her surroundings revealed...much. Much that was strange and terrifying.

There was...something here, but if it were life or intelligence, it was alien to her. If her companions were anywhere nearby, the familiar feel of their presence was swallowed in the confusing tangle of sensation now crowding upon her. Neither human nor animal, it was something entirely different, but the smell and taste of it made her think it was what stones would feel like, if they had any feelings to detect. And all surrounded and infused with that same ancient magic she'd felt in the lake.

Whatever it was had created that enchanted lake and sustained it; of that she was certain, but what was not clear was whether it was now any danger to her or not. She sat still, wondering what to do, as the hairs prickled at the back of her neck. It was a horrible feeling to be so alone and yet not alone. She sucked in her breath. Suppose it was ghosts. Or...or something even worse. Horror stories of the dark things that lived underground, some of them Achren's tales and some gleaned from books, piled into her mind, jostling for precedence. She pressed her knuckles against her teeth and fought back a whimper with effort. Stop it. Stop!

As if in answer to her silent command, there was a sudden noise - the jangling of harp strings. Fflewddur, then, oh, thank the fates! Swallowing a gasp of relief, she picked herself up and crept toward the sound, only to stop short when the bard's voice came from somewhere in the other direction. "Hello! Who's that?"

If Fflewddur was there...then who...or what...was she crawling toward? She froze in horror, listening intently, casting all her senses toward the source of the noise, but the magic blocked her as effectively as a blindfold. Crouching against the stone floor, heart pounding, she waited, tense as a bowstring. Pebbles rattled nearby, there was a scuffle; then she shrieked as something large knocked into her. Whatever it was fell with a familiar grunt to the wet slate.

Taran. Relief washed over her in a rush of alarming warmth, replaced instantly by icy fury. This was all his fault. "You've done very well, Taran of Caer Dallben, with all your shortcuts," she hissed.

"Eilonwy?" His voice was relieved, his figure a solid and reassuring presence next to her as he scrambled to his knees. "Oh, thank goodness. I saw you go under and I thought..." He stammered to a stop and she fought down a traitorous impulse to comfort him, maintaining stony silence even when his hand, reaching in the darkness, found her arm and squeezed it companionably. "Well, anyhow, I'm glad you're all right," he said, and paused, uncertain. "You are, aren't you?"

She sniffed. "No thanks to you. I'm soaked to the skin and I can't find my bauble." He sighed, a voiceless exhale of resignation. The hand on her arm disappeared, and she found, with profound irritation, that she missed it.

There was another haloo from Fflewddur somewhere above them, and Taran yelled back to give him a target. Eilonwy, groping about the stone floor, bumped into something smooth and round, and she let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, here it is. All wet, of course. And who knows what's happened to the rest of us?"

The light flared, but it seemed dimmer than usual, as though the rays had to physically push against the darkness around them. Taran's face was before her, dripping, wet hair plastered to his head. He was clutching Fflewddur's harp, and looking shamefaced. He started to say something, but the voice of Gurgi intervened. "Oh, poor tender head is filled with sloshings and washings!"

The creature tumbled toward them from the shadows, stopped a few paces away, crouched, and shook himself all over, sending a fine splatter of musty-smelling water in every direction. Eilonwy recoiled instinctively - though, really, she thought, they couldn't get any wetter.

Aided by the light, Fflewddur was picking his way down a stone embankment toward them, Melyngar following tentatively on the slick rock. "You're all safe!" he exclaimed, gripping each by the hand to pull them up. Taran held up the harp and the bard took it with a grateful sigh. "Ah, I thought I heard it down here. I couldn't believe it at first - never expected to see it again. But a Fflam never despairs! Quite a stroke of luck, though."

"I never thought I'd see anything again," Taran said, wringing water out of his cloak. "We've been washed into a cave of some kind, but it's not a natural one." He pointed to the ground. "Look at these flagstones."

Eilonwy glanced down, the sight confirming what she had felt in the darkness - the floor was carefully crafted, in orderly hexagonal slate tiles perfectly lined up and matched. She frowned, raising her bauble higher, trying to see the edges, the walls, anything - but it was no use. The shadows beyond the ring of light were thick and impenetrable, as though the darkness were a solid thing. She shuddered as she peered into them, unable to shake the sensation that they were full of watchful eyes.

Melyngar was pawing at the floor in agitation; though too well-trained to bolt, she was clearly anxious, her ears pricking this way and that and her dark eyes searching. Eilonwy crossed to her, and Melyngar pushed her soft nose into the girl's chest and whickered. Her back was bare of saddle and all their parcels. Wonderful. Yet another blow. "If you'd look at Melyngar you'd see all our provisions are gone. All our weapons, too, thanks to your precious short cut!"

The others looked her way; Taran's face fell. "I'm sorry. I admit we are here through my fault. I should not have followed this path, but what's done is done. I led us here, and I'll find a way out."

He was so humble it irritated her, she wanted him to snap back, argue, have a good row - anything to drown out the creeping sensation of that strange magic all around them, buzzing like a swarm of flies just outside her range of hearing.

She barely heard Taran's next words, or had time to respond to the way they were sheared short; she screamed as suddenly the shadows took on physical form - several of them, in fact - and converged upon her. Darkness closed over her head - a sack, it felt like, rough and musty-smelling. There were indistinct yelps and scuffling noises from her companions; Gurgi howled, and gruff voices shouted instructions to one another.

"Get that one!"

"I've done - here, watch that! Somebody catch it!"

"I've got my hands full - you chase it down!"

Despite the circumstances, Eilonwy felt a quick twinge of relief to find that their attackers were flesh and blood and used words like anyone else. The nameless horrors of her imaginings melted away and a rush of bold anger took their place. Instinct, born of years of scuffling with Achren, took over. Instead of struggling, she froze to get her bearings for an instant. Her captors made shining shapes in her mind and she struck at them with all her might, landing solidly; she split one knuckle on something hard and heard a howl of pain. Her arms were grabbed and pinned behind her by two sets of strong, but strangely small hands; in the process Drynwyn jerked at her shoulder and banged against her legs.

"You fool!" one of the voices exclaimed, "you didn't take their swords!" There was a tremendous tug at Dyrnwyn...oh no you don't...she shrieked and threw her weight backwards, loosening her arms, pivoted on one foot and swung the other in a vicious arc. It collided with something yielding, and she heard a muffled curse. After a moment of uncertain silence, the same voice grunted, "All right, let them keep their swords. You'll have the blame of it, letting them approach King Eiddileg with weapons!"

Eiddileg, she thought feverishly to herself, as she was shoved and pulled by several sets of small hands. She searched her memory for any mention of the name, but it was unfamiliar. They were moving through what sounded like cavernous spaces, but presently the echoes dimmed and were replaced by the scuffling of many feet and the murmurs of many voices, though nothing intelligible sounded through the hubbub. They were turned this way and that, too many times to keep track, before the sound of a heavy door slamming made them all flinch.

The sack was yanked from her head and Eilonwy blinked in astonishment, gazing about. They stood in a cavern-like chamber, high-vaulted, lit with thousands of tiny, multicolored lights. The walls and floor were stone, but stone unlike anything she'd ever seen - there were columns and pillars rising from the ground in great twisting masses of rock and crystal. Though much had obviously been worked by skillful masons, it was sculpted and shaped so as to flow without break into the natural forms of the cavern. Mica and chunks of quartz glittered upon every surface, and cataracts of clear water tumbled from unseen crevices in the roof, all reflecting the colored lights in dazzling rainbows. It was a breathtaking sight that she had no real time to take it in. For directly before them, at a low stone table carved all over with strange symbols, a figure had risen up, with an air of self-importance that quite belied its diminutive stature.

He was a dwarf, stout, dressed in a velvet robe of red and green, embroidered in gold. His bald head was crowned with gold and multicolored jewels. More of them encrusted each finger of his plump hands, and winked from every fastening of his garment. His yellow beard stuck out haphazardly under a face nearly purple with indignation. Like a tiny, glittering volcano, the little figure suddenly erupted.

"What's this? Who are these people? Didn't I give orders I wasn't to be disturbed?"