“Good.” He was quiet then as they continued to walk along, the contemplative silence floating about his pipe strange and heavy.
“Gramps,” Elayne finally said, shifting the pipe over her shoulder so it was a little closer to her, “What happened to Idris?”
There was a long sigh that dragged itself out of the pipe. “Crossbloods inherit their lifespan from the human side, my dear, and humans just don’t live that long.”
Humans could live a hundred years, and a hundred years, she thought, was a long time, especially after only experiencing a fifth of that herself, but to Gramps, she realized, that was nothing at all.
“And sometimes,” he said a little quieter, “they go before their time, and that’s even worse.” There was a longer moment of quiet in which Elayne felt she should say something sympathetic to Gramps but struggled for the right words. “Now!” Gramps suddenly piped up loudly. “Did I ever tell you about the time I visited a little place called Midvale all the way across the Falholm Expanse?”
***
Elayne found she enjoyed the sunshine, though she hadn’t expected that one bit seeing as the shadows of night were much better for obscuring her face. She also found that she didn’t abhor companionship as much as she had expected to, and even when Neoma and Gramps griped at one another or when Rosalind and Bix spoke incessantly about acorns or blacksmiths, she enjoyed it. In fact, even when Frederick lagged behind the others to strike up a conversation with her, she didn’t have the urge to tell him to screw off and stomp away. Even when he tried asking about the purple flame again, she simply guided the conversation elsewhere.
They traveled across the ridge, the peaks of the mountains kept to their right, Apos’phia just an idea off to the north, and Heulux far off in the western distance. They hadn’t seen another soul until late in the afternoon of the third day since they’d escaped the caves when they heard a voice that was distinctly not animalistic. It was gruff and far off, speaking in some language other than Bridgetongue, the shared language most in Maw understood. Then two others joined in shouting and calling after one another. A small handful of someones were in trouble, and they were headed their way.
Elayne followed Frederick when he sprinted up onto a hill to look out over the ridge. Along the edge of the wooded mountain ahead three figures raced across the terrain, behind them a creature on all fours.
“They need help,” she told him, noting how one of them was falling behind the others, his gait strange.
He grunted in agreement and started down the hill. “Stay here.”
She watched him run head on into danger, took a deep breath, then shook her head. “No.” And followed after.
The others were just behind her as they hurried down the craggy landscape. She was getting better at this, she thought just as she slipped on a loose stone, stumbled, and then landed on her feet much to her own surprise and delight, but she’d still fallen far behind Frederick, Rosalind, and even Bix. Neoma slid down just behind her and succeeded in staying on her feet as well with a steady hand from Elayne.
“Those are dwarves,” the elf told her, strained.
“I know you’re not fond of them, but they’re in trouble,” Elayne grumbled a bit more harshly than she meant.
“It’s not that.” Neoma kept up with her as they sprinted into the wood. “I’ve just never seen dwarves run away from something before.”
They crested the next outcropping and could finally see from what the dwarves were fleeing. Elayne came to an abrupt stop. With its back arched and head low, the goat—if it could be called that—charged after the short men. It had horns like any other mountainous goat, protruding from its head and spiraling, but then they went strange and turned grotesquely outward. Its coat had gone patchy, the skin raw and ripped where tufts had worn away, it foamed at the mouth, and it was at least twice as big as even the largest goat Elayne could ever remember seeing—and she was pretty sure that one had been mostly wool.
The goat was chasing its limping target down the mountain, and Frederick charged at it from the side, sword drawn. He’d get to it before it reached the dwarf, he had to, Elayne thought, but it was barreling so quickly right on the man’s heels. Just as the goat scaled a rock and aimed downward toward the dwarf, Frederick crashed into it with his sword sidelong.
The sword sliced up the goat’s side, spilling its guts onto the forest floor. But the beast just kept running, its eyes never tearing away from its prey. It lurched forward in pursuit, innards trailing behind, and then it stumbled, falling forward over its own head and tumbling to a stop when it simply had nothing left to give.
Elayne descended the last hill slowly, queasy at the sight of the carcass and its intestines trailing out behind it. It wasn’t like food preparation, even the messiest parts of it. Streaked with blackish blue and revolting green, the entrails gave off a sick, corrupted smell, and Elayne covered her mouth to ward it off, then gasped—corruption. Why had that word come to mind?
“Hail!” called out a dwarf as he hustled back to where Frederick stood, staring down at the beast. He hauled up his comrade who had collapsed the moment he realized he was no longer being pursued, a massive great axe almost as wide as the dwarf himself clutched in his hands. “Excellent form, taking that beast down. Nearly didn’t bloody outrun it. Not that we were running, that is.”
Frederick blinked over at the dwarf, as if only just seeing him then. “Hail,” he said a bit weaker than Elayne would have expected, then cleared his throat and patted his chest. “Sir Frederick of Yavarid City. Was this the only one?”
“Lorky Forgebristle, son of Dortuk Forgebristle.” The dwarf tipped his chin at Frederick. He stood to just below Elayne’s shoulder, taller and thicker than Bix, with a great, bushy beard, mustache, and eyebrows that haloed his small, round features. His ruddy hair was tied into an intricate set of knots all over his head, and he wore heavy leathers though they were badly damaged. “And aye, that was the only one left.”
“There were others?” Rosalind gripped her staff tightly, scouring the trees around them.
“Dispatched them all!” said the dwarf who’d been helped up to his feet, the wound on one of his legs deep. With a bit of a struggle, he managed to slide his great axe into a holder on his back, the head covered in a tar-like substance that clung thickly to the blade. He wore his golden hair in a high knot on the top of his head and had an elaborately braided mustache. Despite the injury, he still grinned, slapping his compatriot on the chest. “Lorky here even got a spear in this one, but he was a right, big bastard.”
“There is nothing right about this.” Neoma’s voice cut across the small clearing where she’d knelt at the beast’s head. Indeed a spear was sticking out of its shoulder, and even with its belly sliced open, the thing was still breathing, wet and shallow, its eyes wide with something like horror in them. She lay a hand on the side of its snout. It kicked weakly, then finally fell still. Neoma looked directly at Elayne, the blue of her eyes somehow deeper and wholly terrified.
“What’s caused this?” Frederick sheathed his sword.
“They’re sick,” the ginger dwarf called Lorky told them. “It can spread quick, we’ve seen. That’s why we chase em out, kill em off, to spare the others. Mountain goats is hearty, massive, but they don’t wanna attack us, not unless the eyes go bad.”
Elayne glanced again at the goat. Something in its pupils had been swirling there before, a darkness even blacker than the animal’s own eye, but it had gone out with its last breath.
“You think something like a fever?” Frederick looked at the thing dubiously.
“Rubinox,” suggested Bix, a finger in the air. “The hair loss and foaming might suggest that. Or lymfester if it’s suddenly aggressive for no reason.”
“No.” The third dwarf had come upon them then. He was a bit taller than the other two with black hair and eyes, but his beard was merely stubble. A frown creased his face. “I been telling them for moons now it ain’t sickness. It
ain’t nothing bloody natural.” He crossed between them all and grabbed onto the spear. With a boot on its head and a great tug, the body gave up the weapon, but no blood spurted out, and when he flipped the spear over, the tip was congealed with a black ooze. “It ain’t of Maw, this.”
Lorky sighed. “Aye, Bard’s been saying that for some time.” He rolled his eyes.
“Because it’s true.” The tallest dwarf extended the spear toward Lorky who reluctantly took it. “Bard Blackiron.” He placed a hand on his chest and gave a slight bow, then gestured to the other. “And Gwuinar Kegborn, son of Dagen Gundar Kegborn.”
Frederick glanced back at Elayne quickly. “Of the three clans?”
Bard nodded, readjusting the hammer over his shoulder, its onyx head catching the light. He looked at Elayne as well, cocking his head slightly. “You cross the range with a…small party. It is not safe here.”
“Bard,” Gwuinar snorted then winced as he tried to take a step. “Always doomsaying.”
“I’ve seen this before.” Neoma stood from the beast’s side, looking up at the others as if she had not heard a word they’d been saying.
Bard nodded at her to go on.
She closed a hand around the pipe hanging from her shoulder. “The baker’s son, in Kaspar, he had a cat. It used to disappear for a day or two, but it always came back to him. It was a sweet, little thing, but one time it came back, the last time, it was…wrong. It looked as if it had been mauled by something, but its body had just…changed.” She was struggling to find the right words, her pale eyes searching the ground. “It barely looked like a cat at all in the end, but it was wearing the tie around its neck the boy had given it. He was covered in scratches when he brought it to me in a sack—it was so angry—and he asked me to heal it.” Her eyes went glassy, and she shook her head. “I couldn’t. Only death could fix what happened to that poor creature.” She looked to Bard, her face grave. “This is the same. They’ve been corrupted.”
Eyes shifted back to the goat then, laying still at their feet. The stench was heavy in the air already, too soon for decay, but then there was nothing natural about the mangled beast.
“You agree with young Bardy here,” Gwuinar huffed, “So, elf, what is it then, if you’re so clever?”
“It’s the nexus, you daft dwarf!” Gramps’s voice echoed from the pipe around Neoma’s neck.
All three dwarves started, hands gripping onto hilts. Lorky sneered. “What in Greybeard’s bullocks is that?”
Neoma sighed, lifting up the pipe.
“Who,” corrected the voice from within with tinny exasperation. “And the name’s Gramps.”
CHAPTER 20
I scaled deadly Mount Kar and crossed o’re Lake Rind
Trekked through the night swamps wit me axe at me side
All on the memory in me head mighty fine
Of the loveliest dwarfess who would soon be mine
When I came to her cavern on me knees I did fall
Her beauty was greater than I could recall
She wept with joy that I’d survived the Great Hunt
Grabbed me whiskers and hollered, “Dwarf, kiss me lips!”
- from “Me Love’s Hollow,” a drinking song translated from Dwarvish to Bridgetongue, with liberties taken
Night would be falling soon, and after seeing the darkness in the goat’s eyes and what it had done to the dwarves who were clearly much worse for wear now that the danger had passed, Elayne was glad for their invitation back to their home. They were closer to Heulux here in the mountains, but not so close she would have guessed the corruption had reached this far beyond where the border was. She was glad she could not see through the trees to the dark clouds rolling in the west.
Gwuinar proved to be quite cheery despite how close to death he’d come and how painful his leg looked. He’d refused when Frederick offered Neoma’s help, and she had actually looked a bit relieved. Instead, he tied some torn linen around the gash and allowed Lorky and Bard to bolster him as they went. It proved a short trip to a wall of rock embedded in the mountainside where they slowed and announced they had arrived.
From the outside, the dwarven clan’s home was just an opening in the side of the mountain, mostly hidden by brush and easy to pass by if one didn’t already know it was there. They ducked in through the tight opening to find the entry was lit with seeing stones like those in the disused tunnels, an assortment of colors that glowed of their own accord, though these were much brighter. As they went, the craggy walls became smooth and opened wider as if they were stones laid atop one another and not instead picked out of the mountain. The ceiling grew too, suspiciously high for such short beings, but then Elayne saw the carvings, intricate reliefs etched right into the walls, climbing up onto the ceiling and down the other side depicting scenes and stories with which she was not familiar, but seemed to revolve around triumphing in battle and the inevitable celebration thereafter.
The cave went on like this, tunneling down and growing cooler. They passed a number of dwarven guards, axes at the ready, but with a few words from their hosts, they were allowed to pass. Elayne was not surprised when a few of them sneered at her—she was used to receiving disgusted looks, and frankly the dwarves were more polite about it than the courtiers, though the bushy mustaches certainly helped hide their derision—but when she noticed Neoma drawing even more revulsion, she remembered the curse had been lifted from her face, at least, and she tried unsuccessfully to tuck the tips of her ears into her hair.
Bix tugged at Elayne’s hand, pointing upward to the ceiling. She looked up to the tops of the carvings and noticed then the row of dwarves lining either side of the tunnel, crossbows at the ready. They’d been invisible to her before, hidden well amongst the stones, but now the trailing tips of their weapons gave her pause.
Finally they came to a stone wall at the end of the tunnel. It was chiseled in a similar way to the others, only this was covered in a single large image of two dwarves at least ten times larger than the real thing. The set of carved dwarves were each extending an axe toward the other that crossed over the center where a long, deep line was drawn from floor to ceiling. Over-sized brass handles were bolted into the stone on either side of the break, halfway up and above all of their heads.
“Doors?” Bix awed at Elayne’s side. “This ought to be very interesting.”
Even if they could reach the handles, Elayne thought, how any one of them would even begin pushing them open was Oh’oa’s guess.
Lorky rapped on one of the doors, and the stone rang out with the cadence. Someone called out, their voice ringing into the tunnel with the hearty bass of the dwarves’ language, and Lorky answered back in kind. Then there was a crumbling sound of stone against stone, as the door swung open—not the floor to ceiling, carved monstrosity, but a much smaller, dwarf-sized door laid into the carved wall so precisely that the edges of it couldn’t be seen until it moved. The dwarves and Bix sauntered through, but Elayne and the others had to duck to fit inside, and it was shut behind them by a set of beefy dwarves running a complex pulley system of metal gears and thick ropes.
The mountain’s innards opened up before them on the other side of the hefty gate, a huge space, so wide across that the far side would have been doused in darkness had there not been so many seeing stones laid into the earthen walls. But there was no crossing the space anyway, as its interior was a stone ledge running all around the outside and its center was a massive drop off. They were led to the edge of the berm where a knee-height rope fence was erected. When Elayne peered beyond, her stomach did a flip, but was soon replaced by awe at the sight below. An entire city carried on many stories down, the sounds of dwarves hustling about between little buildings and market stalls rising up to meet them.
Rosalind tapped Elayne’s shoulder, and she pointed upward, her eyes huge. The ceiling above the city reached up into darkness, but running along the walls was a long ramp, spiraling upward, along it doorways and arches leading dee
per into the mountain. The ramp continued on below them as well, winding down to the city at its bottom.
The ramp they stood on was generously wide but hanging out over the basin were a set of thick ropes every now and again with baskets large enough to carry a horse attached. As Lorky began to lead them downward, a pair of dwarves came rushing out of a doorway ahead, right toward a set of ropes. To Elayne’s abject horror, they propelled themselves over the fence, pulling their legs up into little balls and landing in one of the baskets. The ropes went stiff, and the cart began to descend at a speed that convinced her something had gone wrong and they were in a free fall. Rosalind scurried to the edge to watch the basket fly downward, then she looked back at Elayne with a grin that told her they hadn’t just splattered dead on the ground.
“We’d go that way,” Gwuinar laughed, “but I don’t reckon you’ve got the stomach for it.”
As they took the winding ramp down into the city, they passed a number of hollows that went off further into the cave. Some were simple doorways with lovely hand-painted signs hanging above in a language Elayne couldn’t read, and others were grander arches that led down wider halls.
Dwarven children swarmed about everywhere, running in little packs and giggling. They were impossibly small and Elayne thought for a minute how easy it would be to scoop one up for a cuddle. Of course seeing one purposely trip another and then a third jump on the first and begin punching him made her rethink the plan entirely. With them were small packs of terriers, nipping at heels and barking, but their noise barely dented the sound on the whole. The deeper they descended, the louder the voices, laughter, and sales pitches, the sounds mingling so that none was really distinguishable, and Elayne wondered if ever they experienced quiet here.
Finally at the bottom of the winding walkway, Elayne was slightly out of breath, but not jealous of the cart that came whizzing to a stop just beside them. She glanced back up at the ledge to see it was at least as high as Yavarid Castle’s towers and there had been at least three levels of homes and shops on their way. It was certainly night out on the mountain ridge, but here, lit by only seeing stones, there was no sense of the time.
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