The Delving

by Aaron Bunce

  “If you let him die…your relics, your treasure, will be worthless!” Thorben yelled, managing to find his voice.

  “Whaa?” Renlo asked and abruptly stopped walking, his grip loosening a bit.

  Thorben seized his moment and broke out of the man’s arms, took a lumbering step towards Gor, almost fell, and just managed to catch his balance.

  “Oh yeah? Is that a threat? Are you refusing to do yer part now?” Gor asked, his wide face turning slowly towards Thorben. A glint in the big man’s dark eyes sent a shiver up his spine, his already weak knees going spongy. He looked for the big man’s coin, dreading the gleam off the small but powerful piece of copper.

  Thorben became immediately aware that everyone in the dark chamber was staring at him. Hun’s spear leveled toward him, the torchlight glinting off the blood-smeared tip.

  You wanted their attention…now be brave, you fool, he thought, and forced in a deep breath. In a fast series of coin flips they’d lost control of the situation, all leverage sliding towards Gor and Hun.

  “No…worthless. They’ll be less than worthless,” Thorben said, the large man taking a slow step in his direction. His thoughts raced, pausing on what he knew, moving quickly over what he’d been able to observe and overhear, and finally to what he didn’t. Unfortunately, he didn’t know much.

  “You can collect every interesting and rare leftover in this crypt, shove them all in a sack and cart them home, but you can’t just set up at a market stand and sell them. The Council banned delving and relics long ago. Hells, you’d probably have more luck selling them to a smith for scrap,” Thorben said, the argument taking shape in his mind as he spoke.

  Gor cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, the muscles bunching up under his thick, hide jacket. He rubbed the copper coin between his thumb and forefinger. The message was clear. Get to the point.

  “The wealthy all seek their own collections of relics and artifacts, but not just that, to build collections grander than those of their society peers. These people understand the risk, and will only buy from brokers and delvers they trust. The Council doesn’t punish for owning relics, just obtaining them. The risk is all in the sale, or in a delver’s case, the delving.”

  “So we will find another broker.” Gor’s response was immediate, and startlingly devoid of emotion.

  Thorben swallowed hard, considering his response. To creatures like Gor, a person’s life hung on the flip of a coin. The idea made him sick, and he had to tread carefully.

  “Yes…if you can find one,” Thorben countered, his gaze dropping to Iona. The small man lay on his side, an expanding blood stain darkening his pant leg. His face was slack and turning pale. Thorben was running out of time. He took a tentative step towards Iona, his hands lifted defensively before him. Renlo’s boots scraped against the stone behind him, but Gor didn’t move.

  “The mines are full of men who tried selling relics…most imprisoned for selling fake artifacts to Council agents posing as buyers. Most never even find the real thing, and yet they suffer with the rest. Trust me; I toiled next to many of them, heard their stories, and shared lashes from the same whips. The irony was, most were imprisoned and never actually set foot in a tomb,” Thorben said, and pulled his shirtsleeve up and let the torchlight flicker over his brand. “Most had never actually delved.”

  Gor looked down, the hard lines around his eyes softening just a bit. Emboldened by this small sign, Thorben took a larger step and slid by the hulking guildsman. Iona was only steps away now.

  “The best brokers don’t just have the ear of the wealthiest patrons, you see. But they do…they know who has coin, and who is most adamantly seeking what. A good broker does far more than that, Gor. A good broker can take a chunk of discarded, rusty metal and give it a story, a legend – say a mask, left in the dust of a single, unmarked tomb. He can take that piece to the right man, spin a tale of a dalan champion struck down at the moment of a tide-turning victory, and in the end parlay for ten…no, a hundredfold what any reasonable man ought pay.” Thorben saw the look on the big man’s face a heartbeat before it actually formed. He knew the type well enough – the kind that thought peddling illicit goods was as simple as acquiring it and dumping it into someone’s hands for a pile of gold. It wasn’t determined by the flip of his coin, so the concept was beyond him.

  “Hundredfold?” Gor echoed, and Thorben made his move. Grabbing the collar of his jacket, he pulled. The heavy fabric resisted for a moment, but ripped loudly and tore down the length.

  “Stop!” Hun growled and moved to flank him, his spear tip leading.

  Thorben awkwardly dropped to the ground and pulled the ruined jacket off, then found a worn spot in the fabric and tore it again.

  “I told ye to stop!” Hun bellowed, his breath whistling through his crooked, and thanks to Iona, blood-crusted nose.

  “Any broker can try to sell your relics. That is true,” Thorben said, and looped the length of fabric under the trembling man’s thigh, just above the stab wound and pulled it tight. “But what if they can’t…?”

  Iona grimaced and shifted, just as something hard and sharp came to rest against Thorben’s neck. Without looking up, he tore another strip out of the ruined jacked and started to loop it under Iona’s leg. He tried to bring the two ends together and tie them, but the spear dug in, breaking his skin and bending him forward.

  “I told ye to stop, fool…or I’ll bore a hole straight through yer back!” Hun hissed, his stubble-covered lips brushing up against Thorben’s ear.

  “…or, hells forbidden, you pick the wrong broker and…” Thorben grunted, fighting against the spear’s painful pressure. He grasped the second bandage, his hands weaving together and forming a simple knot, and pulled hard. Iona shifted and wheezed, his eyes snapping open wide. An arm curled around his neck and Hun wrenched Thorben back violently.

  “I’ll bleed you too, then,” Hun hissed and shoved him hard. Thorben toppled forward onto Iona, the smaller man’s breath rushing out under his weight. Thorben fought and clawed his way free and turned, just as the mule brought the spear to bear. He didn’t back away, however. He was tired of shying away from stronger men, from dropping his eyes and conceding arguments. He didn’t delude himself. He wasn’t honorable, heroic, or even particularly honest, but he was no killer. If the mule was going to wound him, then he would have to do it face to face.

  “…or you pick the wrong broker, and instead of gold rushing through your doorway, you have sword carrying men of the Silver Guard kick it down instead. They kill some of you, slap the rest of you in chains, and before you know it, you’re battered, branded, and smashing rocks with a pickaxe in a mine somewhere, sleeping on moldy straw and eating rancid porridge. Kill me, and you might get lucky and not find any traps or locked doors ahead of you. Let Iona die and you can whittle that treasure you’re expecting down to a commoner’s pittance…and spend the measly pile of copper for grisly meat and cheap ale, for that’s all it will buy you.”

  Thorben waited for the blow to fall, the spear point to plunge into his chest and pierce his heart. A single bead of sweat ran down his neck, but then he realized it wasn’t sweat, but blood. He didn’t care. He’d give more if it meant Hun and his like didn’t get to hurt anyone else.

  Gor took a measured step towards him, his eyes unreadable in the dancing torchlight. Iona’s hand squeezed his arm suddenly, the trembling man’s fingers almost as cool as the stone beneath them. His grip felt weak, but he was still alive. That accounted for something. It had to.

  “Is this all true, Owl?” Gor asked, his voice breaking the silence, unexpectedly. “Iona told us that you know the treasures we seek better than any other, that you are crafty like a fox, a tinkerer, a watcher, and a problem solver. You were not his first choice as owl, and yet it was you that opened the gate, when none other could. That bit earns my appreciation, but now you tell me that we need him, too, when his death would strengthen your own standing,” Gor stopped, and gestured t
o Iona with a wide palm. “You claim that only he can take our treasures and turn them into gold and silver. How am I to know the truth of it…if you are as crafty as they say? How am I to know that you aren’t simply slipping me honey words to save both your lives?”

  Thorben swallowed, the lump in his throat finally loosening.

  “You have all the leverage here, sir, that is the truth of the matter,” Thorben said, glancing quickly to Iona. “You and your men are obviously larger and stronger than we, and have all the weapons. Iona is crippled, and I a branded man, with no wealth, no prospects, and only the promise of tomorrow to guide me. I simply want to return home to see my wife and children.”

  “And what do we do with ye when your task is done?” Gor asked.

  Thorben looked at the large man, his broad forehead casting his small eyes in shadow, like glimmering bits of coal. The question didn’t need to be asked, but he understood why the guildsman voiced it. He also understood the unspoken threat. Once he unlocked the crypt’s secrets there was nothing stopping them from simply killing him and leaving his body behind.

  “I simply want to return home, to hold my wife and children again. To see them grow,” Thorben said, understanding the sensitivity of their exchange.

  “Return home, with no share?” Gor asked. The big man studied him, his demeanor disturbingly calm.

  “No, Thorben. Think of your family…you cannot,” Iona said, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand dropped to the broker’s leg and gave it a gentle squeeze. He still trembled slightly, but a bit of color returned to his face and his eyes weren’t quite so glossy.

  “A man able to return home and hold his children again would likely feel rich enough,” he said, the words biting at his throat.

  A twitch pulled at Gor’s face, the coin rolling over in his hand, but then his mouth curved up in a wide smile and he leaned forward and extended an arm. Thorben searched his face for a moment, but reluctantly reached up and accepted. Gor lifted him off the ground, his massive, meaty fingers enveloping his hand up to the wrist. A sick pang spiked in his gut, the sour reality already festering.

  “You are as wise as Iona promised, Owl. We have an accord. Iona lives, and we’ll make sure you get home safe and sound, as long as you find me my due,” the man said, and turned to Renlo and Hun. “The gate is open…let’s go find our treasure.” The two mules smiled broadly, rubbing their hands together, Hun immediately moving towards the wounded broker.

  “Stay away from him!” Jez hissed and pushed between them to protect her father. She hooked Iona’s arm over her shoulder and helped him off the ground. The two teetered together, but after a moment, Jez seemed to find her balance.

  Thorben flinched forward, his throat tightening as his gaze snapped to the spears hanging at the men’s side.

  “RAH!” Hun yelled, lurching forward, but burst into laughter as Jez jumped back, her father’s weight almost tumbling her to the ground. Gor shared in the laughter, but turned to Thorben, the residual smile not reaching his eyes. A malice lived there, colder than any ice.

  “All right, Owl, it’s time. You lead the way.” The large man held out a torch.

  Thorben accepted the light, trying not to meet the man’s gaze, and took a surprisingly unsteady step towards the open gate. He gained a bit of strength with each subsequent stride, until he hovered just before the mouth of the dark crypt.

  The space before him was dark, a constant, cool breeze blowing against his face. The air smelled odd, an aroma drifting on the currents of air. It was almost sweet one moment, turning sour the next. Thorben searched his memories, but couldn’t remember it from any of his other delves. He was about to step foot in a place forgotten by time, a place built up in legend. A shiver raced up his spine as Gor urged him forward, the haft of the spear tapping almost lovingly against his buttocks.

  Mani, keep me in your light, Thorben silently prayed, and stepped forward into the realm of the dead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Sea Before Me

  The darkness surrounded him, the flickering warmth of his torch seemingly lost in the heavy, damp air. Thorben sucked in a quick breath, spit it out, and gasped again, trying to fight back the panic. He fought to stay calm, but it felt darker and colder than any place he could remember.

  “You’ve stepped into the same darkness before, parted the same shadows. They didn’t harm you before, and they won’t now. You’re just an older man now. It will come back,” he whispered, slowly pushing out a captured breath.

  Thorben took a step forward and then another. He leaned into the darkness and swiped the torch before him, letting the light reveal the ground. It was smooth stone, the pits and cracks of the cavern behind them now gone.

  “Is it always this dark? I can’t see…nothing,” Gor stammered, his voice rumbling with something Thorben hadn’t heard from the large man before – fear.

  “Most…yes,” he managed in response, then swallowed and took a deep breath. The panic was already subsiding, the crushing weight of the darkness loosening its grip on him. “It is worst at first…your eyes will adjust, just keep breathing and don’t stare directly at your torch.”

  Spend enough time in the dark, and you’ll forget what the light of day looks like, he added silently, wishing he could steal their torches and leave them to blunder, alone and hopeless, in the dark.

  Thorben moved off to his right, until the light revealed a wall. He ran a hand along the stone, marveling at how smooth it was. In fact, when he leaned in, he realized he couldn’t see or feel any chisel marks. Strange.

  He followed the wall forward until it came to an end, continuing around a corner to the left. A pile of tools lay against the floor, the crate previously supporting them reduced to powdery wood and rusted brackets. His hand hovered in the air over the pile of corroded, time-ravaged implements. The light glimmered off something shiny trapped in the rubble.

  Gor was behind him, the light from the big man’s torch adding to his own. The mule’s hot breath fell over Thorben’s neck, the taint of eggs and cabbage burning his nose. He fished the small rock hammer from his belt, the metal still wet from his plunge in the river. He tapped at the pile, the ancient metal fused together long ago. The metal broke apart, and he was able to fish out a small piece. It took another couple of moments, strategically breaking the rubble apart, but finally, Thorben was able to pull a large piece of crumbling strata away. The shiny head of a tool appeared.

  “What is it? A bit of treasure?” Gor asked, the excitement tightening his voice. Thorben breathed through his mouth.

  “I’m…not sure,” he grunted, wiggling it free, but something stuck. He took up his rock hammer and started breaking the rusted metal apart again, until finally, it crumbled and his hand pulled free.

  Standing, Thorben lifted the relic up in the light. It was a hammer, the like he had never seen before. It sported a square, flat face and sizable peen on the opposite side. The cheek melded almost seamlessly to a dark-wood handle, a thin vein of silver inlaid down both sides. The tool seemed to vibrate in his hand, the metal ringing as if just struck against hard stone.

  Thorben wiped the metal clean on the tattered remains of his jacket, turning it over and inspecting its every surface in the light. How had it survived, when time had reduced every tool around it to scrap? Its metal should have corroded, the wood handle crumbling to dust like the crate that housed it.

  “What is that?” Gor asked, reaching in to pull the hammer from his hands.

  “A stoneworker’s hammer, perhaps,” he guessed, although didn’t doubt that it would make an effective weapon in the right hands.

  Gor hefted the hammer, smacked the head against his palm, and nodded, a smile forming on his face. Thorben noticed a series of symbols etched into the hammer’s handle. They seemed to dance in the torchlight. Was it a trick of the fire? Or were they actually moving?

  “The first of our treasure…a battle hammer that felled many foes,” the big man said, whipping i
t through the air. “Yes, some wealthy fool will pay handsomely for this.” The big man gestured for Jez and Iona to continue, but leaned in as the broker limped past.

  “Maybe I have the makings of a broker, too, heh? I can make up stories and lie to rich men. Think of that…by the time we leave this place, we might not need you anymore, Iona,” he said, and dropped the amazing tool into his belt.

  Thorben stared into the darkness, not letting on that he heard, but his insides broiled.

  “Owl, continue, we have bags that need filling!” Gor proclaimed, and gestured him forward with his torch.

  Thorben dropped the small rock hammer back to his belt, his eye lingering on the magnificent relic hanging on the big man’s belt. Oh, how he longed to pull it free and swing it into his face.

  He flexed his hand and moved into the darkness, remembering the lively tingle that pulsed into his fingers when they touched the metal. He couldn’t fully rationalize the sensation, but for some reason it felt like the hammer was waiting for something. Was that even possible? No, he told himself. It was just a hammer, a piece of metal and wood.

  Using his torch, Thorben followed the wall until he came to a small, arched doorway. He passed through into a narrow tunnel, the rock crowding in on all sides. The ground dropped away a dozen paces ahead, a narrow stair leading down and into the gloom.

  The air lost a bit of its chill as he descended, but grew heavier, the damp running down the walls around him and dripping off the stone above. He climbed down the stairs for a great while, conscious and alert to the scuffling sounds of those behind him. Iona and Jez made the most noise, the broker dragging his injured leg down every other step.

  Thorben wasn’t a violent man, but struggled with the urge to push Hun down the stairs, relishing the sound his head would make bouncing off each and every step.

  New emotion bubbled forth as he moved down, the stairs seemingly stretching forever. He felt excitement and doubt, but mostly fear. The largest tombs had only ever had three or four chambers, connected by small passages. The path before him was massive and well-constructed, like they were walking into a city.