The Delving

by Aaron Bunce

  “They were craftsmen, artisans, and stoneworkers. Is there anything folk like that value more than their hands?” he asked.

  “They’re just dust now, and no good to anyone. Dead fingers don’t amount to gold in my pocket. Let’s be on our way. My due, now that has value to someone. To me,” Gor said, eyeing Thorben indirectly.

  Thorben rushed forward to help Iona off the ground, only to see him push off and stand on his own. Gor sniggered, and shooed them both forward with the point of his spear.

  “I’m all right, Owl…but thank you for your concern,” the broker said, favoring his injured leg before straightening. He took a step forward, and leaned into Thorben unexpectedly. “Keep your eyes open…watch for our moment. Watch for it, Thorben. They have eyes all over the boroughs. They’re probably watching your home at this very moment. We need to be smart.”

  “But your leg…I can help you,” Thorben said, looking back down to Jez, who still sat on the ground. He looked up to meet the broker’s gaze. His cheeks didn’t look quite so hollow, or his eyes sunken. Even a splash of color had returned to his cheeks.

  “Watch for it,” he whispered again, and then moved past.

  Jez grunted and struggled to her feet, Hun pulling Thorben away when he moved to help her stand. The girl looked exhausted, her mouth pulled tight as she gasped for breath.

  “Ain’t gonna be finding our treasure helping girls off the ground, Owl…on with ya. You lead, now!” Hun grunted, and pushed him forward. Thorben set off down the path, the broker’s words tumbling awkwardly in his head.

  “Watch for our moment,” he mouthed, troubling over their meaning. Did Iona intend for them to fight back…or to escape? Thorben considered the flaws in either possibility. They had no weapons, and one of their numbers was lame. Gor looked strong enough to fight all three of them off at once, and if they ran, how far would they get?

  The darkness lifted ever so slightly as they reached the bottom, the narrow beams of light splashing against the stone in bright pools. The light diffused from there, the dark, damp air greedily clinging to shadow. He reached the bottom of the valley, the pathway opening up into a wide square.

  Thorben didn’t find more bodies, however, but what looked like a village of no more than a dozen small buildings. He passed the first stone structure, the building roughly mortared together with unevenly shaped dark stone. The small collection of structures looked oddly like the shantytowns he’d seen outside the mines in Darimar, where poor laborers and servants lived – the unfortunates that kept prisoners like him fed and alive, if barely. He leaned in tentatively to find the ancient wood door hanging halfway open.

  “Wait!” Gor growled, and pulled him back, “let me check it out.”

  The mule stooped and kicked, his foot punching clean through the door, the wood crumbling almost on contact. He staggered, smacking his forehead on the low doorway.

  Cursing, Gor pirouetted and dropped his spear as he fell. The weapon landed with a loud clang, the metal blade slapping the stone hard. Thorben’s eyes flashed from the spear, to Gor, and finally to Iona. The broker’s eyes dropped to the spear, as if to say pick it up…use it.

  Watch for our moment.

  Thorben was closest. He took a half step forward, his hand extending for the weapon, but froze. Hun stood between Jez, her father and Gor. Indecision held him in place, his gaze suddenly flitting to the sword hanging casually from the mule’s waist. Thorben wasn’t a fighter, and would be no more at home with a spear in his hand than a fish would be wearing boots. Could he pick up the spear and bring it to bear before Hun pulled his sword? He carried ample hate for the man, but could he kill him – cut him…bleed him? Nothing was stopping the guildsman from pulling his blade and cutting Jez and Iona down before Thorben could close the distance.

  Gor shook his head and cursed loudly, the big man pushing up to a knee. Thorben hastily pulled his hand to his body and turned away from the weapon, immediately cursing himself for inaction. Relief flooded into him a heartbeat later, however, as Renlo appeared from the other side of the building. He’d been behind him the whole time. Watching. Waiting. If he’d picked up the spear and tried to use it, the man’s spear would have found his back before he took a single step forward.

  “D’ya see that? Bout bashed in me brains,” Gor said, scooping the spear off the ground and shaking his head. He turned towards Thorben, a large goose egg already forming on his forehead, while a small trickle of blood ran down his right temple.

  “At least we know there ain’t nobody about. If there t’was, that racket definitely would have brought them forth,” Hun bellowed, his harsh laugh ending in a phlegmy cough. The commotion echoed all throughout the wide cavern, bouncing distantly, before returning as if from an entirely different group of fools.

  Gor swiped a palm across his face, clearing off the blood, and punched Hun. The shorter guildsman hit him back, the two men grunting and laughing.

  The big man turned back a moment later, the laughter dying almost as fast as it started. He leaned on the spear, wiping the blood on his pants, and gestured to Thorben, and then the door.

  “Owl…this is your part. See if there are any of those precious relics inside. Renlo, you’re smallish, go in with him.”

  Thorben moved for the door, the dark-haired mule moving in behind him. He stooped and pulled himself through the doorway, the door now a pile of papery debris at his feet.

  The building looked even smaller on the inside, the black stone and lack of windows creating a dark, claustrophobic space. Once inside, Thorben was able to stand, the low ceiling just barely clearing his head. He moved the torch from left to right, stepping over what looked like it had once been a chair.

  Renlo grunted and wheezed, struggling to pull his broad shoulders and deep chest through the door. He staggered through a moment later and fell against the far wall.

  “Wait…I need to make sure nothing is gonna–” the mule said, pushing off the wall.

  “It’s of no need, Renlo,” Thorben said, interrupting him and waving the torch out in the middle of the space. “I don’t think these dweorg have any fight left in them…not for a long time, from the looks of it.”

  “Dweorg?” Renlo muttered, and moved in beside him, adding his own torchlight to the space.

  Four small bunks filled the rest of the small structure, their posts and beams so small he could have almost mistaken them as his children’s beds. They weren’t empty either; a short, yet stoutly constructed figure lay in each.

  “My people live in the boroughs now, but we moved there from the lakes…driven away by the tyrant King Djaron. My grandfather was a trader and a lumberman. He traded regularly with the dwarves of Braakdel. They called themselves ‘the dweorg’ which means ‘understone’ in their tongue. My family has referred to them thus ever since,” Thorben said, the times sitting at his grandfather’s feet and listening to stories immediately coming back.

  The dwarves lay preserved in position as if they had all just laid down for a sleep. Dust coated blankets covered them from toe to neck, the woven fabric inlaid with colorful threads, forming interwoven patterns. Long, white, stringy bears clung to their skulls; a heavy nightcap still snuggly in place.

  Thorben hovered between the beds, afraid that if he stepped too heavily, or accidentally bumped them they would crumple to dust, just as the door. A table sat against the far wall, stone bowls strewn about – any food left within them long ago rotten or eaten by vermin. A pair of blunted chisels sat next to a ruined platter, a heavy hammer resting next to it.

  “You best check ‘em. Like I said, relics are what he wants and if ye want to return home, ye best give him what he wants,” Renlo said, clearing his throat.

  Ducking down, Thorben checked under the small beds, under the table, and in a small cabinet on the far wall. Finding nothing, he moved back to the beds and hovered over the dead dweorg.

  “Please forgive me,” he whispered, peeling the ancient blankets back from the first
dwarf. The small figure wore a heavy nightshirt. The fabric was stained and covered in holes, draped over the boney remains like old winter snow.

  Thorben moved from one bed to the next, and so on, checking each with as much care and respect as possible. They wore no jewelry, and their pockets held nothing of value.

  “There is nothing here…they appeared to die as paupers…” he said, but glanced back to the first dweorg. There was something wrong with the small figure’s hands that he hadn’t noticed before. Thorben turned to the others, and then Renlo.

  “They don’t have any thumbs.”

  “They what?” Renlo asked, taking a half step forward.

  “Look at their hands,” Thorben directed, “their thumbs, they have all been cut away.” The mule leaned in, holding his torch close, but pulled away, his mouth opening in a shocked and horrified grimace. It was evident now – the missing digit, the surrounding bone marred and gouged as if by a blade.

  “Now we know where the offerings came from,” Renlo said, after the silence stretched between them.

  Gor waited for him outside, his expectant smile fading as his eyes dropped to Thorben’s empty hands. The mule shooed him back out to the lane, guiding him to the next closest building as if he was an unruly goat.

  It went on for a while. Thorben and Renlo squeezed their way into the small buildings, only to find eerily similar scenes – ancient-looking dweorg craftsmen, sprawled out on their beds as if death came for them while they slept, their hands mangled. They found moldering hammers, blunted chisels, and decomposing dishes, but no valuables.

  Thorben pulled his body free of another building, his back sore from having to stoop over. Gor met him immediately, his hot breath falling on his face.

  “Ain’t nothing inside worth taking? I can’t fathom it…there has ta be something…some relic with ‘em…coins, jewelry…a damned hammer!”

  Thorben shook his head, truly sobered. He felt like he understood a little more of this place’s story, and it wasn’t what he’d expected.

  “These dweorg. They built this place…laid all these dead to rest. Or maybe they didn’t lay all of them to rest…maybe they are the sons, or grandsons of the stoneworkers that first opened this tomb. What I mean to say is, they were the last ones to work here…perhaps spending their entire lives tending to the dead and honoring them proper to their kinds’ beliefs. Then, they sealed the entrances, and died. The only thing they left behind was their blunted tools, their worn out bodies, and knife-mangled hands. It’s a tragic story…one that cuts like a blade in the telling. All of the death and loss, the horrific side of war we’ve only spun in story up till now. Think of what we could learn from this place…what the Denil scholars could learn.”

  Gor’s mouth drew tight as he listened, and Thorben knew why. He’d expected a treasure room filled with piles of gold and silver, just like in the popular legends, not a somber tomb of fallen dwarf soldiers and their selfless caretakers. It wasn’t what Iona had promised.

  “Monks and scribes are welcome, after I get…” and the guildsman lifted an empty bag, shaking it to accentuate its emptiness. Thorben understood the expectation. He nodded, and set off towards the only remaining unsearched building.

  Thorben stopped outside the last building, this structure the smallest of the lot. The almost sheer wall of the valley sat not a dozen paces beyond them, the shaped stone jutting up into the darkness above. A twist of anxiety hit his guts as he turned to consider the basin. What would Gor do if this building didn’t yield any potential treasure? Would he demand that they continue looking, or was this the end of his road? Would he be content with ruined hammers, blunted chisels, and severed dweorg thumbs? They were valuable to him, for their story, the dedication, care, and love, but they weren’t the kind of relics wealthy men paid for.

  Watch for our moment, Iona’s words bubbled up into his thoughts once again, and he couldn’t help but think it had already passed. Renlo silently passed by, and they considered the solemn structure together. Thorben hadn’t seized his moment, and so far hadn’t given Gor what he wanted most.

  Please...just let me see my family again!

  The entrance to this building was closed, unlike the others, its door banded with iron, not the typically rickety and rotted portal. Renlo sucked in a breath and came forward, driving his boot into the door. His foot struck with a surprisingly solid thud, the large man staggering back from the unexpected resistance. The guildsman gathered up his bulk and came forward again, kicking the door with a loud grunt. Again he staggered back.

  “What’s this?” Gor asked, and pulled Renlo out of the way. The big man roared and surged in, driving his heavy boot in with a vicious kick. The collision resounded like a mighty drum, the sound echoing from inside the structure and off the valley behind them. The mule raged and kicked again and again, the door taking his abuse without a creak or groan.

  Thorben shied away, Gor’s rising fury a terrifying sight. He jumped back when the big man fell back from another failed attempt, but he wasn’t snarling, or grimacing…but smiling.

  “Owl…you see this? The best treasure can be found behind the stoutest of doors, heh?” he asked, chest heaving from the effort. “We just need to…just need to break this down. Can you smell it on the air? There is treasure in there!”

  Caught off guard by the man’s question, it took Thorben a moment to understand. Hun leaned in stupidly and sniffed the air, his nose squeaking loudly.

  “Truly! I can smells it, too!” Hun said, and smacked him forward with his spear haft.

  Thorben pulled the small rock hammer from his belt and slowly approached the door. He ran his hand along the stone, inspecting the frame with his torch. The rock felt cool, the mortared joints tight and precise. He tapped against the stone in a dozen places – the rock felt hard, just like the gate at the entrance. A closer look revealed a rune etched at the very top of the doorway. He found another, the small engravings blending in with the stone’s porous surface.

  “Perhaps we can leverage the door open,” Thorben said, afraid to share his finding with the others. He didn’t want to consider that there might be another set of keys somewhere, with a magical, soul-crushing podium waiting for him.

  Gor came forward and stuck the spear into the space between door and frame, where Thorben indicated. The weapon bent, the handle groaning from the strain. Gor pulled it free and jammed it back in, this time finding better purchase between stone and wood. The wood groaned again, the handle bending severely. Thorben jumped back just as Gor staggered to the side, the oak shaft splintering loudly.

  Straightening slowly, Gor lifted the two broken halves of his spear, and then promptly threw them into the darkness. The mule stood deathly still for a moment, his shoulders bobbing in time with his gasping breath, and then he exploded into motion. Gor kicked the door, again and again, before throwing his fists into the wood, flesh and bone smacking against wood with sickly cracks and snaps.

  Thorben slowly gravitated towards Iona and Jez. Even Renlo and Hun appeared visibly shaken by the big man’s outburst. He reached the broker and his daughter just as Gor pulled back from the door, and reached for the sword on his belt. The big man broke the blade free but stopped. His head dropped.

  He’ll turn the blade on us!

  The mule released his grip on the sword suddenly and wrenched the gleaming hammer free instead. Thorben reached for Jez, desperate to push her towards the exit, to make her run and save herself. He saw the hammer snap back and swing forward.

  We need to run…now! Thorben thought, confident the man’s wrath would turn their way. But before he could move, a bright flash and loud crack filled the air, a wave of heat and sound knocking him to a knee. Dust and debris pelted his face and arms.

  He coughed and shielded his eyes, the concussive noise echoing into the distant corners of the valley. Thorben wiped his face, and braved a glance after a moment, to find the air before him filled with a haze of dust and, he sniffed, smoke. Jez a
nd Iona lay on the ground next to him, the girl coughing and rubbing her eyes.

  “What…what was that?” Hun stammered. The guildsman hovered somewhere before Thorben, swaying on wobbly knees, but remained upright nonetheless.

  Pushing off the ground, Thorben reached out and first helped Jez, and then Iona to stand. They moved through the dusty haze together, Hun and Renlo just ahead of them.

  My Goddess, did he set off a trap of some sort? he wondered, and moved forward cautiously, silently hoping they would find Gor’s body, broken and bleeding on the ground.

  Gor materialized out of the dust, the hulking man very much alive, standing before the small structure, the gleaming hammer still in hand. Thorben pushed around Renlo, his eyes playing tricks on him in the dust-tainted air. He tried to step closer, but his boot struck a chunk of stone and sent it rattling away.

  Thorben’s toe throbbed, but he swallowed the pain and lifted his torch and inched in. Gor’s hammer strike hadn’t simply knocked open the door. No. It had shattered half the rocky doorway, tumbling part of the wall in. The doorframe looked as if it had been struck by a battering ram.

  “Truly a relic! This ain’t no normal hammer,” Gor mumbled, and turned away from the building. His face was covered with dust, a line of tears running down each cheek. “Would it…do that if I hit a person with it?” the big man asked, suddenly, lifting the shiny hammer up in the torchlight.

  Thorben jumped back, a horrible and haunting grin pulling the big man’s mouth tight. He looked from the ruined wall, to Gor’s face, and back to Iona. For their sake, he hoped they never found out.

  “Alright, Owl, in with ya,” Renlo muttered and pulled him forward.

  “Wait…I,” he argued, but strength won out, and he was guided to the building. Thorben shoved his torch through the jagged hole in the building first, then lifted his leg through and twisted the rest of his body inside. It was a tight fit, and he silently thanked the kids’ voracious appetites. Too many second portions and he likely would never fit.