Something suddenly occurred to Kyle. “Wait, Master Forger. Did you find Vidin? My worm?”
“I’m afraid nothing came out of that cavern alive except you before the tunnel came down.”
Kyle lay still. Images of Vidin, Fola and the shorn cleaner floating in the black of his bandaged eyes. He lay still, scarcely breathing.
He did not speak.
And it was a long time until sleep finally paid him a visit.
Kyle lay awake in his bed in his own home. Many of his bandages had been removed before he was discharged from the infirmary. Being able to see was a blessing, but his broken arm remained encased in a cast made from bandages soaked in a thin mixture of worm slurry.
He had been happy to be free of the darkness of his own closed eyes and the visions that it brought, but there was no escaping the memories of what he saw. His imagination conjured ever more gruesome ways to view the deaths of those he did not see. His nights had become a cavalcade of fitful sleep and those terrible visions.
Part of the problem was that Kyle had not been allowed to go back to work. He had been told to rest. But why did he need to rest when he hadn’t spent any time working? He was not physically tired the way he would be after a hard day’s work, and that too made it more difficult for him to sleep.
Poor Vidin, he thought. I hope he managed to escape that monster. Maybe it wouldn’t have attacked something that it used to be? Or Vidin might have tunneled to safety. Though surely, he would have returned by now.
Staring at the ceiling of his room, his mind thankfully wandered away from the gruesome fate of his companions, and settled on the other thing that had been weighing on him.
Stone walls, streaked with glittering blue. Granthium.
Kyle was certain that the cavern where that monster lay did have a deposit of that most rare of metals, even though the Forger was skeptical. Granthium was naturally strong—stronger than steel—and once forged by a dwarven smith any weapon would be unbreakable. The edge of an axe would never dull.
Most importantly, granthium could absorb the blessings of Varcon, the god of the Deep People, and become imbued with fantastic abilities. It had been granthium that was used to forge fabled weapons that would be encased with fire, or as cold to the touch as the freezing ice on top of Mount Tiston.
And if there really was granthium in that cavern then his people needed it. Many of the best craftspeople of Unedar Halt had never had the opportunity to work with granthium. Surely that was not fair; that they would not be able to test their abilities in the most exceptional of circumstances?
It wasn’t fair.
For the good of the Deep People, he had to work out how they could mine the fabulous blue ore.
And so Kyle—chiseler, not warrior—had to know how to beat the monster.
The archives were kept in the House of Varcon, one of the twin-peaked buildings in the center of the vast main cavern of Unedar Halt. The House of Varcon was part temple, part place of learning, and though the priesthood lived inside the needle shaped building, it was open to all of the Deep People.
Not that Kyle visited very often anymore. Feast day celebrations were typically held in large public spaces, either there in the central chamber or in clan meeting areas such as the one he had been recently expanding. But Kyle had spent time in the archives in the past, back when he was the student of Raghallack; who it seemed, at the time, took enormous pleasure in tasking Kyle to research the answers to his own questions, and would not let him return until he had discovered a satisfactory answer.
Which sometimes would take weeks.
And every time, when Kyle returned with an answer, Raghallack would nod his head in agreement at the results of his study, obviously knowing the answer himself.
Initially that had been very frustrating to Kyle. If Raghallack was supposed to be his teacher then why wouldn’t he simply tell him the answers? Wasn’t that the point of being a teacher? But now, as Kyle passed through a series of staggered entrance chambers, each door booming closed behind him as he would wait for the next to open—safeguards against any contaminants that could damage the books— he knew that Raghallack had prepared him for this moment.
“Good morning,” said a young dwarf in dark blue robes, beard and hair shorn to a stubble—the mark of an initiate. “Can I help you find what you are looking for?”
Kyle paused to survey the vast archive in front of him, wondering where to start. Low shelves of books and study tables were arrayed in neat lines that disappeared almost into darkness at the far end of the room; and that was only the first level of this chamber. Pillars interrupted the stacks of books to support the next layer, similarly arranged with shelves, books, tables and columns, further floors repeating in open construction up to the cavernous ceiling. Twenty-seven layers of the archive, all connected with iron ladders, housing the collected learnings and histories of the Deep People.
Remembering the initiate who had spoken to him, Kyle turned to address him. A smile on his face for the first time in weeks. “No that’s fine, thank you. I don’t know what I’m looking for yet.”
Research did not bring quite the same sense of fulfillment to Kyle as when he was chiseling, but it did give him purpose. That brought a spring back into his step, and untroubled sleep came once more from long days poring over books. The gruesome visions that had been invading his dreams began to fade.
Kyle had lost count of the number of days he had been coming to the archives. In fact, there hadn’t really been a need to keep count in the first place. There were no other demands on his time. And he had lost himself in the stacks of books; most bound with metal plates, the pages thin, almost translucent and made of the skin of various subterranean creatures.
He discovered histories of the Deep People that were rarely read. Much of it would be considered mundane—the Deep People were avid historians and kept records of everything—writings on the key events of Unedar Halt; births, deaths and marriages, mining records, ever expanding multi-paged maps of the city.
He learned of Sefu, mother to twins some five hundred years past. Twins! The only known occurrence of a dwarven mother giving birth to more than one child at once.
He read of the skirmishes with Kingshold, petty arguments with Kings who looked to bring the Deep People under their sway.
And slowly, he found teasing little parts of the puzzle that he pieced together.
The archive began to feel like a new home. And like a new home, he began to recognize his neighbors. There was one old lady, Eanrind, he would see every day. Retired from her prior life as a smith, but with her mind still sharp, she had taken on the task of creating a family tree, tracing back centuries to illuminate the deeds of her ancestors. There was a steady stream of initiates, pulling specific tomes and then hurrying back to whomever of the priesthood had tasked them with the job. He saw younger versions of himself—disgruntled young dwarves, sent there by their masters to answer their own questions. But most peculiarly, he saw a female human wandering the aisles, paging through book after book.
Other than old Eanrind, she was the person he saw most often. She was taller than he, though not as tall as he had heard some humans could be, with long dark hair that hung in a braid down her back. She wore simple purple robes and carried a small leather satchel with her at all times. After the fifth time they had seen each other she had smiled at him, and he had nodded good day. By the tenth time they had crossed in the stacks, they were at the “good morning” and “fancy seeing you here” stage.
Yesterday had been a good day. A book entitled Occurrences Requiring The Guard from more than a thousand years ago had proved to be a revelation. Or so Kyle hoped. A record of a creature that bore an uncanny resemblance to the monster that Kyle had loosed. They had called it a spectre, a creature not dead nor alive, tainted by magic and a bringer of death.
Finally: progress.
This spectre had come from deep tunnels and rampaged through clan living quarters, killing tens of
Deep People before the guards had been able to contain it and then kill it, but not without the loss of life. Frustratingly, “Occurrences” did not provide details of how the beast was defeated or where it came from, it instead named each of the fallen on that sad day; but it provided some hints as to the nature of the beast and it was that Kyle had as his goal to pursue that morning.
His day passed one book at a time, searching for another mention of the spectre. The earlier forays into the annals that morning had not recovered much; but that was the way with research in the vault—whole days could be spent without finding what you need when you don’t know what you’re looking for.
But despite all of this, Kyle was enjoying himself. He walked to a far-off corner of the vault, searching the shelves for his next target, whilst whistling a little ditty (though the initiates might pretend to be upset, he knew they enjoyed it really). Turning a corner, he found the human woman standing in front of him, holding a book in her hands. The cover read Sourcery and Deamons in the Darke. The book he was looking for.
The woman looked at Kyle and smiled. “Good afternoon,” she said.
“Oh, yes. Good afternoon, miss,” said Kyle in return, offering a little bow. He was a little apprehensive talking to the human, but he didn’t want her to move on with his book. Who knew if she would put it back in the correct place? In any case, she seemed to be approachable.
“I see you here all the time. I am Neenahwi.”
“I see you too, miss. I mean, Neenahwi. A pleasure to meet you. My name is Kyle.”
“Do you work here?” she asked.
“Oh, no, miss…Neenahwi. I am a chiseler,” said Kyle, his back getting a little straighter and standing a little taller. “I’m just here trying to answer some pretty serious questions. Er… are you finished with that book?”
“What, this one?” she said, holding it up in the air like it was a surprise it was in her hands. “You are a strange chiseler indeed, to be interested in these kinds of magics.”
“Well, maybe that’s not the right book then,” he said, suddenly nervous at the question. “It probably doesn’t talk about the locus seeds anyway.”
“I remember seeing a page on that,” said Neenahwi. She flipped through some pages, balancing the heavy book on the shelf and holding it with one hand. “Wait a second… Here. Is that what you’re looking for?”
Kyle moved to take a closer look. He nodded. “Yes, that looks very interesting. I can come back and get the book when you are finished.”
“Oh, that’s ok. Reading these books is a lonely business, don’t you think? Come, let’s find a table and you can tell me more about what you’re researching. I’m fascinated.”
Kyle nodded and allowed himself to be led away by the friendly human, continuing to make small talk until, before he realized it, he was telling her all about his shame of releasing the spectre. She nodded along as he told his story, not interrupting—even though dwarven stories typically came with a lot of background and technical details about the craft—until he reached the part about his recent findings.
“So, you believe that the creature you found was a spectre? A worm tainted by magic?” she asked.
“Aye. And I think it’s these locus seeds that do it. I have a theory that it’s those seeds that create granthium too.”
“What are locus seeds, Kyle?”
“That’s what I wanted this book for.” He slid the book across the table over to himself and read quietly for a few minutes. “I have found few references to them. They are described as small stones that have been found when mining. Extremely rare, and unbreakable—only two known instances throughout the history of Unedar Halt. And magic is very strong around these stones. That’s why they are called locus stones. Ah, yes!” He exclaimed in triumph. “Look here, the author thinks that the magic leaks out.”
Kyle looked up from the book to see Neenahwi staring at him with wide eyes, her mouth hanging open. “Are you ok?” he asked.
Neenahwi shook her head, returning her attention to the book which she slid over to herself to read the same passages. Once she had finished, she returned her attention to Kyle, the intensity of her expression surprising him.
“And what do you think this has to do with the spectre?”
“I don’t know how much you know about purple worms, but I know a lot. Worms will eat anything they come across, and they can digest almost everything. Except precious stones. Too dense, you see. Now, I saw a worm once who had a diamond as big as your fist get stuck in his stomach. It wouldn’t pass. Poor thing was going to die but the worm-keepers, they operated on it and pulled it out. What if this other worm ate one of these locus seeds, and it got stuck? All of that magic leaking out into its body wouldn’t be a good thing.”
Neenahwi exhaled in a slow whistle. “I never thought there could be one so close,” she mumbled. “And you think it’s still inside the spectre?” she asked.
“Don’t know. It could have passed eventually, I guess. We won’t know until we cut it open.”
“Kyle. I knew there was knowledge in the vault that I had to find. But I didn’t expect to find you,” said Neenahwi. “I want to help.”
Kyle and Neenahwi waited on a long, low carved stone bench in a corridor covered in reliefs of the great and the good from Unedar’s long history. A brass door beside them opened, and out walked an old dwarf. Old, but not ancient. This dwarf was still strong in the arm and shoulders; once a great smith, the decades of pounding with a heavy hammer had developed muscle that was only now turning a little soft. His job was no longer to create works of art; for many years it had been his job to bring the clans together.
“Come in, you two,” said the Forger, issuing them into his office and closing the door behind them. It was a simple room; smooth stone walls, unadorned with etchings or decorations, separated shelves built into the walls that were overflowing with books and loose leaves of paper. In the center of the room was a wooden desk and chairs—such a rarity to see wood from above ground in Unedar Halt—and it was here he asked Kyle and Neenahwi to sit.
Kyle ran a hand across the polished surface of the desk without thinking, marveling at its construction and solidity, before he noticed the Forger looking at him appraisingly. Kyle snatched his hand back.
“That’s ok, lad,” said the Forger. “It is a beauty, isn’t it? It was a gift, long ago, to one of my predecessors. I believe it was from your father, Neenahwi.”
Neenahwi nodded and smiled.
“Now, I don’t think you two have come here to discuss furniture. And I don’t remember saying it was ok for you to be colluding with young ‘uns either, Neenahwi. I thought you wanted to use the vault.”
“Master Forger,” she began, “it was not my intention. But I believe that Kyle has made a significant discovery that aligns with my own inquiry. And I’d like to help him.”
The Forger turned to regard Kyle. Kyle had promised himself not to show his nervousness at this meeting, and he took deep breaths to calm his somersaulting heart that he hoped were not too obvious.
“What is it then, Kyle? I haven’t got all day.”
“Forger. I have been researching the creature we discovered those weeks ago. It’s called a spectre, a creature that has been corrupted by magic. Once it was a purple worm and now it’s something not alive or dead—”
“—but still bloody dangerous!” interrupted the Forger.
“Yes. Yes, it is. But me and Neenahwi, we have a plan about how we can kill it.”
“No, no, no. Absolutely not. We lost too many good people last time. We have it locked up, and it doesn’t seem like it has any intention of eating its way out of its hole. So, let’s just leave it there.”
“But who knows when it might decide to break through?” blurted Kyle. The Forger shook his head again, the gold earrings in his great lobes jangling together. “And there is granthium there. I am certain of it.”
“How are you certain?”
“I have a theory,” sai
d Kyle, confident in his work and now eager to share. “The same magic that mutated the worm created the granthium. We think it could have been a locus seed. And Master Forger, there was a lot of granthium.”
The old dwarf narrowed his eyes and leaning on the desk he stared at Kyle, looking like Varcon himself. Breathe. Meet his gaze.
“A locus seed you say? Very doubtful. Very rare. This spectre could have just eaten the granthium,” said the Forger. Kyle and Neenahwi exchanged a glance. They hadn’t thought about that possibility.
“Well, if that’s the case,” said Neenahwi, “then the granthium would still be where the spectre is.”
“Yes, yes. You’ve got me there, Neenahwi.” The old dwarf sighed in resignation but didn’t shift his attention from Kyle. There was silence for a moment, and then the Forger leaned back in his chair, and Kyle felt a great burden lift as the Forger regarded them both equally. “So, what do you need? The guard?”
“No master Forger,” said Kyle. “I just need a new worm, and we need a… we need a juggernaut.”
Kyle and Neenahwi were escorted down the long main corridor of the House of Varcon by a priest that had collected them from the vault. They hadn’t introduced themselves but he knew who they were. Word had come from the Forger.
The priest opened a door and ushered Kyle and Neenahwi in before him. They entered a small circular room through its only door. Neenahwi shot him a look and he nodded not to be concerned. The priest closed the door behind them, and pulled a lever set in the wall nearby. The floor momentarily lurched upwards, a thrumming noise in the background.
“Is this room moving?” asked Neenahwi.
“Yes,” said Kyle. “It’s called a lift. There are a few in the city, though I don’t know where this one is going.”
The floor lurched again and the thrumming noise stopped. The priest opened the door, waiting for them to exit. Kyle and Neenahwi stepped out into another, greater, circular chamber, ringed with archways open to the city allowing a view of the central chamber of Unedar Halt from high. Kyle turned around on the spot, taking in the workmanship of the tall columns and the relief-covered ceiling.
Tales of Kingshold Page 5
