by Paul S. Kemp
“Shadem, Vyrhas,” Riven said. “Take them down. They live, if possible.”
Ordinarily, Riven would leave no one alive behind him. But he had made Cale a promise, and as much as he disliked it, he intended to keep it. He clutched his saber in his fist. Its missing magic made the otherwise enchanted blade feel heavier than usual. He made no effort to mask the sound of his approach. Ahead, he could see that the tunnel opened onto a larger chamber.
“Talk, boy,” he whispered to Phraig.
“Two coming down,” Phraig called.
Riven hustled Phraig down the tunnel. It opened onto an irregular, rough-hewn chamber with a large hole in the center of its floor. A low stone wall circled the hole and a four-legged frame of timbers straddled it. Thick hemp lines hung from pulleys set into the frame, directly above the shaft. Riven guessed the lines to be attached to a lift at the bottom of the shaft.
Two guards with tired eyes stood near the lift mechanism. Chain hauberks draped their fat bodies. Blades hung at their belts. Their helms lay on the stone wall at the edge of the lift. Both looked curiously at Riven as he and Phraig walked into their view.
“Well met,” Riven said, as disarmingly as he could manage. He prodded Phraig and the boy said, “Birg, Nilmon, this is—”
Shadem and Vyrhas stepped out from behind the men. Each grabbed a man in an armhold around the throat and leaned back to lift them off the ground. The guards did not so much as gag. Their legs kicked, and their eyes went wide as the shadowwalkers choked them into unconsciousness.
“Well done,” Riven said.
“Gods,” Phraig said softly.
Riven knew the guards would not remain unconscious for long. He left Phraig for a moment and smacked each man in the temple with the hilt of his dagger. That would keep them down for a time.
“How many at the bottom?” he asked Phraig.
Skelan and Dynd looked down the shaft.
“Uh, another two, at least,” Phraig said. “And …”
Riven heard the hesitation in the boy’s tone and knew Phraig had not told them everything. He stalked over to Phraig and held the punch dagger before his face.
“Speak it, boy.”
“I may have … misspoken when I said there were only thirty guards.”
Riven’s eye narrowed. “How many?”
“Twice that,” Phraig said, and winced as if he expected a blow.
Riven almost gave it to him. Instead, he looked to Shadem, Vyrhas, Dynd, and Skelan. None of them looked concerned. They were in it all the way. He liked them more and more.
Riven turned back to Phraig. “Sixty men? Even at this hour?”
“At all hours,” Phraig answered. “The Nessarch is well paid to ensure that no one escapes. This duty pays the guards double their usual draw. We choose lots to see who’ll get it each month. I’m lucky to have the work.”
Riven’s anger rose and he could not keep it from his face. Phraig blanched.
“You feel good about being part of this, boy?” Riven said. “Enslaving these men? Working them until they die?”
Phraig’s eyes looked everywhere but Riven’s face. “Slaves? No. I am … I mean, I’m just doing my job.”
Riven sneered and pricked Phraig’s cheek with the dagger. The boy recoiled, bleeding. “Me, too. Is this lift the only way in or out?”
The boy nodded, dabbing at his cheek. “There used to be others, but they were sealed off.”
Riven said, “Guards at the bottom, what else?”
Phraig answered so fast Riven knew he was not lying. “The barracks, mess, and supply rooms are in the large, finished tunnel to the right. The cells are to the left. They will not be guarded at this hour. The prisoners are chained within them. The rest of the tunnels are for mining.”
“How many prisoners?” Riven asked.
“A dozen, maybe,” Phraig said. “They don’t last long. Every tenday some new ones walk in and some old ones are carried out.”
Riven glared at him. “Just doing your job, right?”
Phraig looked away and made no answer.
Riven considered having his team scale the shaft but felt it unwise to put his whole team at risk for a fall. He said to Dynd and Skelan, “We need the lift.”
The two shadowwalkers nodded in understanding. Both stepped atop the low wall, leaped out to take hold of the ropes, and shinnied down. Vyrhas and Shadem stepped up and looked over the edge of the platform. Riven and Phraig joined them.
Dynd and Skelan slid rapidly, silently, little more than black smears in the darkness.
Dim light from the bottom showed that the shaft descended perhaps two bowshots straight down. Riven had no idea how the original miners had sunk such a shaft. The ropes fell like plumb lines to a winch inset into the wooden lift that sat at the shaft’s bottom.
About three-quarters of the way down, Dynd and Skelan swung toward the wall, released the rope, and fell. Phraig gasped. Riven cursed. But both used their hands and feet against the wall to control their otherwise precipitous descent. They landed atop the platform with a hollow thump.
Riven heard a curse from below and the two shadowwalkers bounded out of sight.
A shout of alarm was cut short and the light trickling up the shaft flickered as men fought in the torchlight. The dull thud of fists and elbows finding flesh and the chink of armor sounded up the shaft.
Silence.
Vyrhas and Shadem shared a look and started over the edge of the shaft, but Dynd reappeared on the lift. He examined the winch for a moment and started to crank. The mechanism clinked with every turn of the crank arm. Riven winced at the sound.
It seemed to take a lifetime before Dynd got the lift up the shaft. The winch cylinder was geared to allow even a single man to lift a heavily loaded platform.
“Well done,” Riven said to Dynd. “Skelan?”
“Below. He lives,” answered Dynd.
Riven, Phraig, and the three shadowwalkers climbed onto the lift and Dynd cranked them downward. When they reached the bottom, they found Skelan crouched over three guards. He was bleeding from a wound on his arm and a scratch on his face. The guards’ helms and blades lay scattered on the ground. From the angles of their necks, Riven knew the guards were dead. Skelan held a finger to his lips for silence and pointed past them down the tunnel.
Riven turned to see a long, wide corridor, well lit with torches, extending into the distance. He could hear snatches of conversation coming from down the hall. He leaned in close to Phraig and said, “Even a croak I don’t like and you die. Take me to Endren.”
The guard nodded, fearful, and led them down the damp, cramped corridor. There was no light, so Riven removed a bronze sunrod from his pack and struck it on the ground. Its tip, treated with an alchemical substance, burst into light as bright as a candle.
The damp air got in his lungs and tickled his throat but he held down the cough. “Same as above,” he said to the shadowwalkers. “Get on the walls ahead of us. Move, boy.”
The shadowwalkers vanished as they hustled through low, timber-reinforced passages that stank of loam, stagnant water, and some pungent indefinable odor. Phraig led them first left, then right. They reached a corridor that looked newer and less meticulous than the rest of the mine.
A score or more wooden doors with small barred windows dotted the corridor. The stink of vomit, piss, waste, and rot hung in the air.
Two hulking half-orcs with axes lunged from a side corridor with a snarl. They wore leather jacks and skullcaps.
Riven shoved Phraig to the ground, sidestepped a downward chop that would have severed his arm at the shoulder, and slashed open the half-orc’s throat. Blood sprayed but the creature kept his feet and swung backhand at Riven’s head. He ducked under the blow and stabbed the half-orc through the chest with his saber. The creature expired on his blade, snorting blood. Riven drove his punch dagger into the creature’s temple, just to be sure.
Meanwhile, Dynd, Vyrhas, and Skelan emerged from the darkness a
nd unleashed a flurry of kicks, elbows, fists, and throws that disarmed the half-orc, broke his jaw, shattered a rib, and finally crushed his windpipe.
Riven grabbed Phraig by the scruff of his neck and jerked him to his feet.
“I don’t give second chances, boy,” he said, and raised the punch dagger.
“No! I didn’t know! The half-orcs are jailors. I assumed they stayed with the guards at night, not near the cells. I didn’t know.”
Riven gritted his teeth and controlled his desire to kill the boy. None of his team had been hurt. He let Phraig go.
Coughs sounded from behind the cell doors, and a few moans.
“Which is Endren’s?” Riven asked.
Phraig pointed at a door about halfway down the corridor.
“Get the keys off those,” Riven said to Vyrhas, pointing at the dead half-orcs, each of whom bore a large ring of keys at his belt.
They hurried to Endren’s cell, tried a few keys until they found the right one, and opened the door.
Endren Corrinthal looked up at them, bleary-eyed, blinking in the light of Riven’s sunrod. Filth covered him. He wore only a frayed tunic and leather breeches. Sores and bruises covered his exposed skin. Circles shadowed his eyes. An unkempt gray beard sprouted from his cheeks. A rusty iron manacle ringed his left wrist and a thick chain attached the manacle to a ring in the wall. A tin plate lay near his feet. A puddle of rancid water was near enough that he could drink from it.
“Who are you?” he croaked, and the question ended in a fit of coughing. Endren couldn’t have been in the Hole more than a few days and already looked near death.
“We’re taking you out of here,” said Riven.
“Out? Out?” Endren leaned forward, the chain rattling. “Did my son send you?”
“No. Shadem, Vyrhas, get him free.” To Endren, Riven said, “Be still and quiet.”
Shadem and Vyrhas hurried into the small cell and examined Endren’s manacle. The half-orcs’ keys didn’t work. They pulled a pouch of pries, pliers, files, and picks from their pockets and set to the lock.
“Me, too,” moaned a voice from across the hall. “Me, too.”
“Silence,” Riven barked, but it did no good.
Another voice joined the first, and another. Soon voices in every cell were pleading to be rescued, coughing and moaning.
“There is no more time,” Riven said to Shadem. “Can you get it?”
Shadem looked back at Riven and shook his head.
A shout sounded from somewhere down the hall, then a cry of alarm. Someone must have found the guards at the bottom of the lift.
Riven cursed.
“Cut it,” Endren said.
“What?”
“Cut it,” the old man repeated. “I would have done it myself if I’d had a blade. Cut the damned thing off.”
Riven did not hesitate. “Tear me off some cloth to use as a tourniquet.”
Shadem ripped strips from his cloak. Together, they tied off Endren’s forearm as best they could.
“Prepare yourself,” Riven said.
Endren laid his wrist over the block and stared into Riven’s eye, unflinching.
“Do it.”
Riven chopped downward and severed Endren’s hand at the wrist. The old man gritted his teeth and grunted. Blood spurted from the stump. Skelan stanched it with a piece of his cloak.
Riven and Skelan lifted Endren to his feet. The old man was already a shade paler. Riven did not know how long he would last.
“We go.”
The shouts in the hall were joined by the tramp of booted feet, the chink of armor. The prisoners continued to moan and plead.
Riven, Phraig, Endren, and the shadowwalkers emerged from the cell and hurried down the corridor. From the direction of the lift, they heard the sound of voices, the tramp of boots, the ring of armor. A whistle sounded, ringing off the walls.
“Shadem, check it.”
The shadowwalker disappeared into the darkness toward the voices. Riven and the rest of the team waited a twenty count and Shadem reappeared.
“Two score armed men,” he said. “They stand between us and the lift. They are moving methodically and quickly, with a lot of light. There is no way to hide from them.”
Riven knew they could not fight their way through, not with Endren.
“Where else?” he said to Phraig.
The young guardsman shook his head. “There is nowhere else. The rest of it is work tunnels for the prisoners. None of them lead out.”
“Where do they lead?”
“Nowhere. Most of them are dead ends. The Nessarch doesn’t care if the prisoners produce any ore. They’re just here to work until they die.”
“Most of them are dead ends? What are the rest?”
“What?”
“You said most of them lead nowhere. If I die here, boy, you’ll go with me. Think!”
Phraig must have heard the truth in Riven’s words, for his eyes showed fear. The shouts from the approaching guards were drawing closer.
“Now, boy!”
“There’s a shaft at the end of the northwest work tunnel. It’s old. No one knows how deep it is.”
“We go,” Riven said. He would figure something out when they got there.
A shout from behind them said, “Here they are! Here!”
Riven whirled to see a half-elf in the tabard of a Watchblade pointing at them and shouting over his shoulder. He bore a blade but no torch.
Riven flung his punch dagger—awkwardly, since the weapon was not balanced for throwing—and struck the half-elf in the thigh. The guard grunted and turned to run, but Skelan ran him down, knocked him over, and while the man shouted to his comrades, broke his neck with a hard twist.
But the damage was done. Riven could hear the guards approaching. The light from their lanterns fell on the walls.
“Move!” Riven said.
“He is unconscious,” Vyrhas said.
Riven cursed and checked the old man’s body. He was alive but there was no way they would escape carrying his unconscious form.
“You cannot make it out,” Phraig said.
Riven’s glare shut the boy up. “We need time,” Riven said to the shadowwalkers.
They understood. Skelan said, “I will give you some. Go.”
The shadowwalker took a position at the intersection of the tunnels and melded with the darkness. He had not even frowned at the idea of sacrificing himself.
Riven did not like it, but there was little else to do.
“Lead us, boy,” he said to Phraig, and drew his other saber. “Fast.”
Vyrhas bore Endren. Riven and his team rushed through the corridors. His saber kept Phraig at a run. They darted down corridors, Riven’s light leading the way. The remaining shadowwalkers moved in front of them and behind.
After a few moments, they heard shouts and the sound of combat behind them. Riven froze, turned. The chink of steel, the shout of men. He almost ordered his whole team back to rescue Skelan, but thought better of it.
“Keep moving,” he said. He did not intend for the sacrifice to be in vain.
They reached a rough-hewn work tunnel. The sounds of combat had faded but the shouts and bootstomps had not. The guards were still after them.
A few mining tools lay scattered about and loose rock dotted the floor. At the end of the corridor, a hole in the floor opened like a mouth. They approached it cautiously, gasping, sweating.
Riven pointed his sunrod down the shaft. No bottom was visible. He dropped the rod and it fell and fell. After a time, its light vanished.
“They say the miners found it when they constructed the mine,” Phraig said. “They say it leads to the Underdark.”
Riven ignored the boy. “Can you climb with him?” he asked Vyrhas, the largest and strongest of the shadowwalkers.
“Yes,” Vyrhas said. “But not fast.”
Riven knew the guards would not follow them down the shaft. They would follow it to the bottom and
find a way out from there. Perhaps magic would function farther down in the mine, making escape easy.
“Start downward,” he said to his team. To Phraig, he said, “This is where it ends for you, boy.”
The young guardsman held up his hands. “No. I did what you asked.”
“Just doing my job,” Riven said, and brandished his saber. Phraig would have run but Dynd blocked his retreat. “Don’t!” the boy gasped.
Riven held his saber before the young man’s face. “Those words are scant comfort when you’re on the wrong end of them, aren’t they?”
Before Phraig could reply, Riven slammed his pommel into Phraig’s cheek. The boy fell like a sack of turnips. Riven hoped the boy would rethink his course when he awakened. He did not mind killing or worse, but he despised anyone who purported to do so only because it was their job.
Shouts sounded from down the corridor. Light bobbed from lanterns. He lowered himself over the edge of the shaft and started down after the shadowwalkers.
Cale materialized atop a two-story building. The entire first floor was flooded. The kraken’s body filled his vision, filled the harbor, filled the city. It shrieked and the sound nearly knocked him flat. More fire and lightning fell from the wizards flying overhead.
Cale spotted a woman and two adolescent children, a boy and a girl, perched atop the steep roof of a three-story shop. Cale could not save everything, but he could save something, and would. He stepped through the shadows and materialized in their midst.
The woman screamed and the children recoiled.
“There is nothing to fear,” Cale said as the kraken shrieked and destroyed a building across the street. Shouts from all around, screams. The kraken shrieked again.
Cale stepped near the family, pulled the shadows about them, and stepped through the darkness to the uppermost tier of the city.
Before the stunned woman and her children could do anything more than marvel, he shadowstepped back to the building on which he had found the family and looked about for others trapped by the kraken’s rampage. A block away, one of the kraken’s tentacles wrapped around a spire, flexed, and pulled it down.
Cale spotted an elderly man struggling in the churning water. He walked the darkness to him. The man grabbed at him in a panic, taking them both under. Cale pushed him away, surfaced, and used the shadows to move them both to safety.
