The pool seemed small because the cavern was so broad. In some other setting, it might have been considered a lake.

From its center outward, it trembled to the pulse of the bane’s approaching hunger. Ripples fled in circles, sloshing timorously onto the travertine sides of the basin.

The water fell from the tips of stalactites the size of Revelstone’s watchtower. And below each pending taper of stone rose a stalagmite. Cluttered—In some places, the stalagmites had met and melded with their sources, forming misshapen columns with constricted waists. In others, the calcified residue of ages appeared to strain for union, yearning upward drop by incessant drop, and infinitely patient. And everywhere around the monolithic deposits, water fell like light rain from lesser flaws in the porous ceiling. Within the reach of the company’s illuminations, every wet surface had been cut or sculpted into scallops and whorls delicate as filigree, and keen as knives.

Grueburn stuck out her tongue to catch a few falling drops, then spat in disgust. To the Giants around her, she shook her head sourly.

Rain splashed onto Linden’s forehead; ran into her eyes and stung. Blinking rapidly, she searched the cavern for some sign of egress or hope.

To her left, the basin narrowed. Beyond the pool there, at least a Giant’s stone’s throw distant, a concave wall of granite too obdurate to be eroded by mere moisture formed the lower end of the tremendous cavity. But she could not descry the cavern’s limit opposite her. As far as she knew, it reached forever into darkness. To her right, however, the side of the basin rose slowly, and continued to rise in gradual increments, until it was swallowed by midnight.

In the crevice behind the company, the bane still poured upward without haste, confident of Her craved prey. Heartbeats agitated the surface of the pool more and more. Nevertheless the Giants paused to gasp for breath, straining to imagine endurance which they no longer possessed. At the same time, the noxious crawling on Linden’s skin intensified. She needed every scrap and fragment of her remaining will to refuse the torment of small creatures that did not exist. Hundreds of them, or thousands, crept everywhere to savor her illimitable faults.

Under Esmer’s scornful gaze, the Waynhim had halted off to Linden’s right, apparently waiting for the Ardent and the ur-viles. But now all of the Swordmainnir stood on the slope of the basin, fighting to breathe and looking urgently around them. Soon three or four score ur-viles arrived in a black torrent. Limping badly, the Ardent tottered toward Coldspray and Grueburn. Strips of his raiment dragged after him like beaten things, and his head hung down as if he had lost the will to meet anyone’s gaze.

At once, the grey Demondim-spawn ran at the slope, beckoning and barking for Linden’s company to follow. Without delay, the ur-viles joined the Waynhim. Led by their loremaster, the black creatures snarled demands like curses. Esmer trailed after them as though as he assumed that everyone else would do the same.