She was glad for the current, for the speed with which they glided deeper into the cavern. The torch in her hand hissed and crackled. Then they heard a rustling sound, like papers ruffled in the wind. The sound grew louder. They heard a squeaking, like mice.
It was coming from somewhere deeper in the cave.
She looked at Chris questioningly.
"It's evening," Chris said, and then she began to see them - just a few at first, and then a hazy cloud, then a torrent of bats flying out of the cave, a brown river in the air above their boat. She felt a breeze from hundreds of flapping wings.
The bats continued for several minutes, and then it was silent again, except for the crackle of the torch.
They glided onward, down the dark river.
Her torch sputtered, and began to go out. She quickly lit one of the others that Chris had carried from the chapel. He had brought four torches, and now they had three left. Would three more torches see them to the surface again? What would they do if the final torch went out and they still had farther - perhaps miles - to go? Would they crawl forward in darkness, feeling their way along, perhaps for days? Would they ever make it, or would they die here, in darkness?
"Stop it," Chris said.
"Stop what?"
"Thinking about it."
"Thinking about what?"
Chris smiled at her. "We're doing okay. We'll make it."
She didn't ask him how he knew. But she was comforted by what he said, even though it was just bluster.
They had been passing through a twisting passageway, very low, but now the cave opened out into a huge chamber, a full-blown cave, with stalactites hanging down from the roof, in some places reaching to the ground, and even into the water. Everywhere the flickering light of the torch faded into blackness. She did, however, see a footpath along one dark shore. Apparently there was a path running the entire length of the cave.
The river was narrower, and moved faster, threading its way among the stalactites. It reminded her of a Louisiana swamp, except it was all underground. Anyway, they were making good time; she began to feel more confident. At this rate, they would cover even ten miles in a few minutes. They might make the two-hour deadline after all. In fact, they might make it easily.
The accident happened so fast, she hardly realized what had occurred. Chris said, "Kate!" and she turned in time to see a stalactite just by her ear, and her head struck the stone hard, and her torch hit it as well - and the burning cloth tip shook free from the stick it was tied to, and in a kind of ghastly slow motion, she watched it fall from her torch onto the surface of the water, joining its reflection. It sputtered, hissed and went out.
They were in total blackness.
She gasped.
She had never been in such darkness before. There was absolutely no light at all. She heard the dripping of the water, felt the slight cold breeze, the hugeness of the space around her. The boat was still moving; they were banging against stalactites, seemingly at random. She heard a grunt, the boat rocked wildly, and she heard a loud splash from the stern.
"Chris?"
She fought panic.
"Chris?" she said. "Chris, what do we do now?"
Her voice echoed.
01:33:00
It was now early night, the sky deepening from blue to black, the stars appearing in greater numbers. Lord Oliver, his threats and boasts finished for the moment, had gone with de Kere into the great hall to dine. From the hall, they heard shouts and carousing; Oliver's knights were drinking before the battle.
Marek walked with Johnston back to the arsenal. He glanced at his counter. It said 01:32:14. The Professor didn't ask him how much time was left, and Marek didn't volunteer. That was when he heard a whooshing sound. Men on the ramparts yelled as a huge fiery mass arced over the walls, tumbling in the air, and descended toward them in the inner courtyard.
"It's starting," the Professor said calmly.
Twenty yards away from them, the fire smashed onto the ground. Marek saw that it was a dead horse, the legs protruding stiffly from the flames. He smelled burning hair and flesh. The fat popped and sputtered.
"Jesus," Marek said.
"Dead for a long time," Johnston said, pointing to the stiff legs. "They like to fling old carcasses over the walls. We'll see worse than that before the night is over."
Soldiers ran with water to put the fire out. Johnston went back into the powder room. The fifty men were still there, grinding the powder. One of them was mixing a large, wide basin of resin and quicklime, producing a quantity of the brown goo.
Marek watched them work, and he heard another whoosh from outside. Something heavy thunked on the roof; all the candles in the windows shook. He heard men shouting, running onto the roof.
The Professor sighed. "They hit it on the second try," he said. "This is just what I was afraid of."
"What?"
"Arnaut knows there is an armory, and he knows roughly where it is - you can see it if you climb the hill. Arnaut knows this room will be full of powder. If he can hit it with an incendiary, he knows he'll cause great damage."
"It'll explode," Marek said, looking around at the stacked bags of powder. Although most medieval powder wouldn't explode, they had already demonstrated that Oliver's would detonate a cannon.
"Yes, it will explode," Johnston said. "And many people inside the castle will die; there will be confusion, and a huge fire left burning in the center courtyard. That means men will have to come off the walls to fight the fire. And if you take men off the walls during a siege . . ."
"Arnaut will scale."