Olim ignored the tiny sounds now, brushing his hands. “Gypsum,” he said to Gem Bluesleeve. “We are near the caverns.”
“Very near, Sire,” a delvemaster looked up from his spread chart. “Nearer than we thought. We could break through at any moment.”
“Into what?” Olim squinted at the chart.
“According to Urkhan’s calculations,” the delvemaster said, “there is a great natural cavern ahead. The one he called the first warren. It connects to other caverns beyond, and eventually to the subterranean sea.”
“I hope we break through above sea level,” Olim noted.
The delvemaster drew himself up, as one deeply offended. “Would you like to calculate the elevations yourself, Sire?”
“Of course not.” Olim smiled. “I trust your calculations above all others, Slate Coldsheet. Just keep doing the wonderful job you do.” He turned away, muttering to Gem Bluesleeve. “That’s the problem with delvers, Gem. By the time they are wise enough to chart a bore, their sense of humor has been drowned out by the ringing in their ears.”
Followed by some of his guard, Olim went forward to where the boring was in progress. The ring of hammers on iron drills, the splitting of stone as foot-wide slabs were broken away with prybars, and the clank of picks and mauls as the rubble was broken filled the wide tunnel with a chorus of sound. Beneath its tempo was the crunch of shovels, the low thunder of rubble raining into high-sided carts, and the ever-present, rhythmic tapping of mallets as spikes were set to steady the cart rails that followed along behind the dig.
The carts were wide, low-wheeled vehicles chained together by threes and fives, and a constant parade of them had been rolling back to the far side of Sky’s End for the past ten years to dump rubble. At intervals, where the tunnel was wider, empty returning carts were diverted to side-rails to make way for the full ones.
Working in shifts, with hammer drills and prybars, the Daewar delvers could extend their tunnel as much as fifty feet in a day’s time, even in the toughest rock. Now that the substance was softer, they were moving faster than that, though some additional effort was required for occasional shoring as they went. The first vertical fault they had encountered, a seep in soft, porous stone, had cost them a dozen lives and three days’ delay because of a cave-in. Now they took no such chances.
A lantern-bearer going before him, Olim Goldbuckle went all the way to the front, where a fresh layer of stone had just been levered away, adding another foot to the tunnel’s almost fifty miles of length. Drillers and drivers, cutters and prisers stepped back as the prince approached, and a sweating young Daewar with bulging forearms and whiskers of spun gold pointed at the new-cut face of the tunnel. “Softer by the minute, Sire. And we have sound.”
“We are that close?” Olim’s brow creased. “Let me hear.” He knelt at the sheer wall of the fresh cut and sniffed the stone, then pressed his ear against its surface. The young driver stepped forward, attached a string of bat-bells to the surface, raised his hammer, and delivered a smashing blow to the stone inches from his prince’s head. The bat-bells quivered and tinkled, and Olim counted his heartbeats, then grinned as a muted echo came back to him, ringing through the stone itself.
“Twenty feet,” he judged. “Not more than that.” He stood. “Gem, bring a company of fighters forward. I doubt if there is a Theiwar within miles. They don’t have the patience or the inclination to explore what is beneath their very feet, but let’s take no chances when we break through. If there happens to be anyone there, we don’t want reports going aloft just yet.”
“Yes, Sire,” Gem Bluesleeve agreed. “If they knew we were tunneling into their mountain, rather than building a city under ours, they might be rather upset.” Gem hurried back the way they had come to select his company of warriors. He would head it himself.
Olim followed him, away from the resumed clamor of the dig. He had a few hours to wait before the tunnel broke through into the first of the giant caverns charted by Urkhan and his band. He wanted to eat, and to rest, and to give some thought to what should be done once the tunnel was completed. He didn’t really expect to find anyone at the end of it. The Theiwar were not explorers, and who else could have stumbled onto Urkhan’s discovery?
Once fortified, not even dragons or magic would be likely to invade such a place. Olim shivered slightly at the thought. He had never seen a dragon and never expected to. But there was magic in the world, and, like all of his kind, he considered magic an abhorrent thing, an evil that only humans or other lesser races would even think about exercising. Even the primitive Theiwar and dark-dwelling Daergar … even the wild-eyed Klar abhorred magic. There were legends, of course, of a dwarf who had become involved with magic in some way, but to Olim Goldbuckle the idea was unthinkable. Yet, there had been times of late when Olim’s dreams had been troublesome. Several times, in his sleep, when he dreamed of the great undertaking now at hand, a spectral, shadowy figure had been there in his dreams — a figure that whispered words to him. “The Daewar are chosen,” the specter said, “to carve out a place.” But then it added, “But others will come to guide your race.” Each time, Olim had awakened shaken and puzzled. What others? What did it mean?
As an attendant handed him a loaf and a bowl, Olim Goldbuckle’s gold-whiskered face contorted itself into a scowl. “Guide my race?” he muttered. “None but Daewar shall rule Daewar!”
“Sire?” The attendant blinked at him, startled.
“Nothing!” Olim growled. “Bring me ale.”
“Yes, Sire.” The attendant hurried away, and Olim perched on the wheel of a sidelined cart to have his meal.
Had he been human, or even elf, Olim Goldbuckle might have dismissed the dreams as something imagined … as something simply beyond understanding. But Olim Goldbuckle, prince of the Daewar, was a dwarf. And like most full dwarves, his practical mind had no use for the unintelligible nor any patience for things indistinct. He could not ignore the dreams or simply forget them. Especially not the latest one.
“You will know them when they come,” the phantom voice had added, this last time. “You will know them by the drum.”
Olim was still thinking about dreams when distant shouts echoed back along the tunnel, and messengers came running. “We’re through, Sire!” they shouted. “We have entered the first warren, just as Urkhan’s charts promised!”
“Send runners northward,” Olim ordered. “Withdraw all Daewar from Daebardin and start them this way. Prepare to seal this tunnel when all have passed through. We will establish residence and claim this place as soon as we have looked around.”
The warren was an immense natural cavern, softly lighted by a high ceiling that was, in some places, pure quartz. More than half a mile beneath the surface, it was as Urkhan’s explorers had described — a vast, elongated chamber almost two miles across at its widest point and four miles long including a narrowing, funnel-like “tail” that curved away to the east. Here and there, stalactites hung from the high ceilings, their shapes as varied and fantastic as candle-beads. Beneath each was a waiting stalagmite, tall sentinel spires like the bases of trees in a giant forest.
“Marvelous!” Olim Goldbuckle exclaimed as he led his guards through the new opening into the silent cavern. Faint echoes of his voice drifted lazily back to him, and in the distance something moved — something very large, slowly raising what might have been a head, to listen.
Some of the Daewar clasped their swords, but an old delvemaster hurried forward to thrust an unrolled scroll under the nose of his prince. “Tractor worm,” he said, pointing. “As Urkhan described. They are large creatures. Very strong. But slow, dull-witted, and docile. The explorers supposed that they might be useful, if they could be controlled.”
“Tractor worm,” Olim repeated. Quickening his stride, he hurried toward the movement, dozens of Daewar following him as more entered the cavern behind them.
The thing was huge, at least thirty feet in length, and it turned what appeared
to be its head toward them as they approached. No eyes were visible, nor ears. Instead, its “face” was a cluster of waving tentacles surrounding an orifice that opened and closed rhythmically. Olim stepped closer, peering at the creature. He raised his shield and waved it from side to side. The creature did not respond. “It’s blind,” he said.
At the sound of his voice, the thing turned toward him, its tentacles quivering. “Ho!” Olim rasped. “It can hear me.”
Beside him, Gem Bluesleeve stepped aside and cupped his hands. “Ho, worm!” he called. Immediately, the raised end of the thing turned toward him. He stepped farther to the side and called again. Again the worm responded, turning to face him. “It hears,” he called to the others. “Watch!” Turning, he hurried away, quartering around the creature until he was off to one side of it. Then he called, “Ho! Worm! Here I am!”
Obediently, the thing turned toward him, this time moving its entire body in a slow, methodical arc to face him. The dwarf chuckled. “I have this thing’s full attention,” he called. “See? Now it is coming toward me!” He scampered away a hundred feet and turned to call once more. The huge worm increased its speed, its gray, banded body rippling as it flowed across the uneven floor of the cavern. It was faster than it had seemed, and Gem backpedaled, staying a good distance from it. Its pace was that of a walking dwarf.
“He has its attention, all right,” Olim noted to the others watching. “Now I wonder what he intends to do with it.”
“Or how he will get rid of it,” the old master delver Slate Coldsheet added. “The captain should have read these scrolls. Urkhan’s party reported that the worms tend to become … uh … attached to people. They follow and try to get close. The danger is that they might actually crush a person by their weight. Some of the explorers were nearly exhausted by the time they managed to elude their pets.”
“I could use some help here, I think!” Gem Bluesleeve called, walking briskly in the distance while the giant worm chugged along behind him. “I don’t know how to make this thing stop!”
“Some of you drillers,” Olim said, gesturing, “see if you can get some grapples on that thing.”
Gem was quite some distance away now, coming around in a long circle, trying to head back to the others. Behind him, the worm followed happily, its banded length rippling in the subdued light, its tentacled face waving merrily.
Carrying chains, throw-lines, and rock-harness, several dozen drillers and delvers fanned out to approach the monster from its flanks. It seemed not to mind them at all. Its full attention was focused on Gem Bluesleeve, and it seemed to desire nothing else in life than to reach him. Gem kept walking, trying to keep that from happening.
Flanking the worm, teams of dwarves managed to get sling-harness attached to it at various places and grasped the halter-lines, setting their heels. The worm neither slowed nor turned. It continued its methodical pace, following Gem Bluesleeve. Behind and along its flanks dozens of sturdy dwarves were dragged along, their steel soles carving ruts in the hard floor.
“Tie off those lines!” Olim Goldbuckle roared. Gem was approaching now, looking very worried, and the worm wasn’t far behind him.
Scrambling, the delvers spread and raced outward, carrying their cables. Two modest stalagmites were within reach, and they snugged the lines there, then watched in awe as the cables came taught, strained, and hummed, and the stone of the stalagmites began to crumble. The worm slowed, but surged forward again as one of the restraints burst in a shower of limestone dust. But other cables held the monster now, attached to sturdier uprights, and it tugged futilely at its bonds for a moment, then subsided.
“Tractor worm,” the old delvemaster remarked, shaking his head. “We should have a few of those things hauling our ore-carts.”
Behind Olim there was a clatter as something fell to the stone floor. Out in the cavern the tractor worm, which had been resting quietly on its tethers, suddenly raised the front half of its huge body upright, whistled a sound that might have been either a scream or a roar, and surged against the lines. Cables parted, and the worm shot free to roll over on the floor.
More quickly than seemed possible, it turned, raised itself, and dived straight at a group of drillers trying to back away. The great creature’s body smashed down on them, then it roared and raised itself again, flailing about like a creature gone berserk.
“The bat-bells!” the delvemaster shouted. “Someone dropped the bat-bells. That’s what it hears!”
Dwarves scurried about, collecting the spilled silver bells and thrusting them into clothing to muffle their sound. Out in the cavern, Gem Bluesleeve brandished his sword and shouted. “Ho! Worm! To me!”
Again the worm turned, away from the drillers, heading for Gem. Other drillers and several guardsmen raced toward it, throwing cables and stone-nets.
Then, as abruptly as it had reacted, the creature subsided. All the bat-bells had been muffled, and it no longer heard their clamor. Racing around the thing, delvers and guards bound it in a thick mesh of steel cables and ran anchor lines to several large stands of stone.
Where it had attacked, two delvers lay dead, smashed into the stone floor by the mass of the monster. Several others limped away, injured but still able to move.
“Keep those delving bells silent!” Olim Goldbuckle ordered. “Get them out of here. Take them back into the tunnel.” Then he swung around to face the delvemaster. “You still think those worms might be useful, Slate?”
“If they can be controlled,” Slate said. “They react to sound, and if there are some sounds that … I don’t know. We’ll have to work at it.”
Gem Bluesleeve approached, visibly shaken. It had been on impulse that he had distracted the raving worm from the delvers, calling its attention to himself. Now he was wondering just what he — sword and all — could have done had the thing not stopped.
Olim Goldbuckle looked at his captain and frowned, then sighed, shaking his head. It would do no good to admonish the guardsman for risking his own life. It was just the way he was.
Gem approached, started to speak, then simply shrugged.
“If you are through playing with your worm,” Olim Goldbuckle told him, “I believe we should get on with exploring these caverns.”
Slate Coldsheet glanced at his chart and pointed. “Straight south, Sire. A mile or so, then the cavern narrows for another mile, past which is some kind of crevice. Beyond should be another cavern — not quite as wide as this, but longer. From there should be a tunnel to Urkhan’s sea.”
18
The Blood of Ambition
By the double light of Krynn’s moons the raiders converged upon the nighttime slopes of Sky’s End, and Glome the Assassin stood atop a ridge, watching in satisfaction.
As chieftain of the Theiwar of Theibardin, now that Twist Cutshank was dead, he had been able to assemble the tribes of Theiwar to council. Once gathered, it had been an easy accession for Glome. No subtlety had been involved in his becoming chieftain of the Theiwar. A few beatings, a few assassinations, and now he was the undisputed leader of thousands of dwarves who must do his bidding. He had summarily repealed the rights of contest and of challenge.
More than that, his army of invasion now included a thousand or more Daergar from the Thunder Peaks, and a sizeable group — no one knew how many — of wild Klar, erratic and unpredictable but as determined as the rest to have a share in the treasures of the Daewar. It was the reward that Glome promised, in return for their support in the invasion of Daebardin, the stronghold beneath Sky’s End that none of them had ever seen. They had never seen it because no spy had ever managed to get past the Daewar guards. But the growing fan of rubble on the mountainside beneath the Daewar citadel told them that it was by now an extensive delve, and where Daewar delved, there were treasures.
All the clans knew of the wealth of the Daewar. The proud, arrogant gold-molders did more than display their wealth throughout Kal-Thax. They flaunted it. It was in the bright finery of thei
r apparel, the burnished sheen of their armor, the adornment of their ox-carts, in the very way they carried themselves when they walked.
Many Theiwar and Daergar had seen the insides of Daewar pavilions at trade camps, and it was a joke among the other tribes that the Daewar so enjoyed their comforts that no Daewar would travel a mile without a ton or so of carpets, crystal-wear, and gold-inlaid furniture for his comfort while roughing it in the wilderness. A joke, it was, but not one told with laughter. It was one of the reasons that so many of the other dwarves hated the Daewar.
The Daewar were rich, and flaunted their wealth.
For that reason — and because he had convinced many of them that the Daewar intended to conquer them, it had been easy for Glome the Assassin to recruit an army to invade Daebardin. The opportunity to loot the Daewar was promise enough for most of them.
The Daewar had made a fatal error by delving into Sky’s End. Their old citadel on the shoulder of the mountain was small, but it was also well-placed and difficult to attack. Now, though, the Daewar were under the mountain — with only one way out. It was a perfect situation for a successful siege. Their subterranean city would be a trap for them once Glome’s army held the citadel.
If any among the invaders suspected that Glome the Assassin had reasons of his own for this venture — that he in fact intended to make himself king of all Kal-Thax — they were wise enough not to mention the idea.
So now they gathered on the night-dark slope of Sky’s End, thousands of armed Theiwar, Daergar, and a smattering of erratic, fanatical Klar, and just below them were the ramparts of the old citadel of the Daewar.
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