by Aaron Bunce
He fell back against a wall as everything started to spin, the pain burning more keenly behind his eyes, and his stomach lurched viscously. Thorben reached up instinctively and found an angry, painful knot on his forehead just above his right eye. He pressed his eyes shut until everything stopped spinning, and slowly opened them again, first looking to his right and then left. The cavern was dark and he couldn’t immediately identify where he was, or how he’d gotten there.
Where is Jez? Where am I?
“Who are ye?”
Thorben stiffened at the sound, and turned to find the glowing dweorg standing just a few, short paces away, his dark eyes locked on him.
Chapter Eighteen
Connected
“W-w-who am I?” Thorben sputtered, his heart beating like a runaway horse in his chest. In response, the dweorg nodded, crossing his thick, short arms over his chest.
“My n-n-name is, well, I’m Thorben.”
“What are ye? Some sort of vision, an apparition, or maybe a projection? Why are you haunting me?” the dwarf asked.
“Do you mean a ‘spirit’?” Did he say “haunting me”?
Again the dweorg nodded, turning his head to look around the dark space. Thorben’s confusion deepened and he rubbed the aching spot on his head. Had he died…no, was he dead? He felt real enough. The pain throbbing in his head definitely felt real enough.
“No. Last I checked, I am still alive,” he said, pushing away from the wall and using his feet to feel his way along in the darkness. His answer seemed to confuse the dweorg, who looked around the chamber again, took a step in one direction, and promptly turned back around.
“I can hear you, but I don’t know who you are. I just sat down for a minute’s rest, to think about my…and I think I fell asleep. I thought about…them. And how I missed…her. Beyond that, I’m having a hard time…can’t seem to straighten my, recollections…” the dweorg trailed off, and Thorben watched as he lifted the horse-charm necklace away from the others and brushed it against his cheek.
Thorben considered him for a moment – he could hear him, but more, he could understand him. And yet, the dweorg didn’t seem to remember much beyond sitting down at the table. Was there something Thorben was missing? The vision, or memory, whatever it was, felt so real…vivid. Hells, he’d touched him. He couldn’t explain it…their hands had been connected when he’d roused from the strange vision, as if they were joined by the ring. A thought stabbed into Thorben’s mind, but the pain made things foggy. It was a name. Yes, a girl’s name.
“You said her name…‘Lynheid’. Is that your…your daughter?”
The dwarf stiffened, his eyes immediately narrowing. “How do you know that name? Who told you about her?”
So he couldn’t see me in the vision.
“I heard you…I mean, I saw her when you,” Thorben sputtered, and pushed back against the wall as the dweorg ran at him, covering the distance between them in just a few, silent steps. Now that he was close, Thorben could see that the dweorg didn’t look like the broken old man in the vision anymore, nor did he move like it, for that matter. He looked younger, more vital.
“Who told ye that name? Answer me.”
Thorben searched the ghostly dwarf’s face, trying to read his dark eyes but failed to grasp the best response. How does one respond to a ghost…dwarf?
“I heard you say her name,” Thorben finally said, deciding on a shade of the truth.
“Heard me say it? How is that possible…I ne’er seen you before in me life. I don’t know how you know about my Lynheid, but you best bite yer tongue. I’m not sure how much you know about understone folk, but we’re a protective lot, and that little one, she’s precious to me.”
“I’m telling you the truth. I heard you say her name. Honestly, on Mani’s grace…I would never hurt a child.”
“Again, I ain’t never seen ya, so have it your way, stranger. Just know that I’ll find out eventually, and if you mean her ill, you’ll have me and my hammer to deal with.”
Thorben nodded and dropped his hands, having not realized that he’d lifted them defensively.
“How in the Forgefather’s anvil did you get in here, stranger? You’re a longlegger, but not dalan kind. Who are you and what business do you have here? This place was sealed, hallowed…I know, as I sealed it myself, so speak quickly.”
“We found this place, and…” he started to say, but stopped. He couldn’t say it, not after all that he’d seen, all that the old dweorg and his people had sacrificed. How could he tell him that they’d broken in to defile the sacred place and plunder its wealth? “I came upon this,” he said, finally, and held his hand up, exposing the ring.
Part of Thorben hoped that the old dweorg would simply be able to pull it free, rid him of the burden. Then he could find Jez and Iona and leave the place behind. He’d never delve again…spend his time finding some other way to pay his way and support his family. Death and dust, he’d never even think about delving again.
“Gunta strike you down! Where did you find that? That…that ring was mine…entrusted to only me,” the dweorg cried. He lifted a mangled hand and pointed a stubby finger at Thorben’s hand. The short man spun, patted his robes, jingled his bauble-laden necklaces, and then lifted both hands up to his face.
“I didn’t steal it, honest. Like I said, I found it.”
The dweorg blew a loud raspberry and snorted. “You stole that. Ha! More likely that the stone becomes clouds and clouds stone, and Gunta turns the world upside down. That ring was mine…mine to hold. Mine alone! My burden, it is the…key, and it never leaves my person.” The dweorg seemed to swell with anger, his stubby pointer finger tapping accusingly into Thorben’s chest.
“I, well…I mean I found it,” Thorben started to say, but stopped, not entirely sure how to continue now that he’d brought it up. What would happen if he told the spirit the truth about where he found it? Would something horrible happen? Thorben’s thoughts spiraled down into Dennah and his boys’ ghost stories, the ever darker and nastier endings only coming alive in his imagination.
“Give it back, you thief!” The dweorg’s hand snapped out in a flash and wrapped around his wrist, thick fingers locking around the ring. He yanked Thorben down and pulled, his strength staggering. He felt the sharp pull on his finger, the knuckle popping in response, but the metal band would not slide free. Instead, the metal grew hot, the gem pulsing with a sudden and very bright surge of light.
“Let go of it! You must give it back to me. You don’t understand what it…you don’t understand why…” the dweorg wrestled with his hand, stammering, his cheeks puffing out animatedly.
“I can’t…get…it…off,” Thorben growled and managed to wrestle free.
“You listen to me, long legs. I don’t know how you got in here, but you do not belong. This place is for the dead, and the dead alone. I’ll give you this one chance. Hand over what you stole, and go. Or I’ll..I’ll.”
“I just told you, I can’t get it off. I found it in you…inside your corpse, in the chair, outside the black doors,” Thorben said, smashing his back up against the wall and preparing to fight him off again.
The dweorg cocked his head to the side and immediately went quiet. He looked at the ring, his eyes slowly crawling up Thorben’s dirty and tattered clothes until their eyes met.
“You took it from…my…what? Now you’re telling me jests,” the short man laughed, his baubles jingling. “Did the forge barons send ye? Do ye carry a message, a scroll perhaps? Who put you up to this? You don’t look like dwarf folk, but ye certainly sound like one. They sent ye, didn’t they? Ye found me sleeping and just lifted it, that’s it. I just laid down mine head, and you took the ring as a little jest. Now we’ve had a wee chuckle, and bellies are rosy, but you must hand it over.”
“Forge barons? No, no one sent me. And what do you mean, I sound like dwarf folk?”
“What do ya mean, what do I mean? Plain enough. Yer speaking to me, aren
’t ya? Your grasp of the khuzdul tongue is good, too, almost as good as dweorg-born, although your accent is odd. Yer lips aren’t quite strong enough for it.”
Khuzdul? And then it hit him. His grandfather spoke of the dweorg of the lakes speaking in their old tongue, “stone speak”, as he called it, because the words felt like “stones rattling around in one’s mouth”. The dweorg merchants in Braakdell would only barter in khuzdul. His grandfather never ceased to complain about it, but over the course of his many thaws bartering picked up a goodly portion of the language. He regularly complained about Thorben’s grandmother in the tongue, and she was never the wiser.
“Listen, I didn’t find you sleeping. I guess I don’t know how to…say it. I found you, your remains…your skeleton, on that chair. This ring,” he said, lifting up the hand, “was inside your body. I reached in and pulled it out. You were…are dead, for a good long time, I reckon.”
“Now that is not a funny jest…telling folk they’re dead, long legs,” the dweorg grunted, and promptly set off towards the back of the cavern.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“To show you that you’re just a jesting fool and prove you wrong. Then, I’ll take back my ring and remove you promptly from this place. Come with me.”
“I…I don’t think that is a good idea,” Thorben called out, and fumbled his way through the darkness to follow. Had Jez gone this far into the darkness by herself? She surely wouldn’t have gone back – not to the burial chamber, with the freezing mist and the closed archway.
No…she went forward. There was no way out back there…she knew that.
“And you think stumbling upon a sleeping dwarf and stealing from him is a good idea?”
Thorben considered the dwarf for a minute, sorting through the memories from the vision. Could he really not remember? Was any of it even real, for that matter?
“No, but please. You must listen to me. I want to leave this place…eagerly, actually, and as soon as is possible to get back to my family, but there are others here with me. I need to find Jez. She is a young woman, and her father. They are in danger,” Thorben said, his insides clenching up. The chamber led into a small, dark passage, the ground uneven beneath his feet.
The dweorg walked just ahead, his glowing form casting the otherwise lightless passage in a dim, green light. He skipped ahead, falling into step behind the small figure, his pace surprisingly fast considering his short legs.
“How can you see where you are going? It is so dark in here.”
“You haven’t the eyes of an understoner,” the dweorg laughed, his voice ringing against the stone. “And you are right, Thorben long-legs. This is a dangerous place, and the living have no business here.”
Thorben sucked in a breath but couldn’t immediately reply. The dweorg wasn’t wrong. In fact, Thorben agreed wholeheartedly. He wished that he’d never agreed to accompany Iona. Oh, how things would be different.
“Might I at least know your name? I feel a bit odd not knowing what to call you.” A bit odd doesn’t cover half of it. I’m following the spirit of a dead dwarf that may just be trapped in a ring that I was stupid enough to put in my damned pocket, through an ancient crypt full of thousands of dead warrior dweorg, thumb-less stoneworkers, crypt keepers, bleeding, stinking vines, freezing mist, and statues that move. Not to mention a disgraced, destitute illegal goods broker carting his young daughter into the dangerous wilds, all to satisfy a debt to a murderous gang of river guildsmen after his wife ran off with his fortune and son.
“I will have to redefine what ‘odd’ truly is if I make it out of here alive,” Thorben muttered.
“Myrddin. Me name is Myrddin Luck Hammer, First Stonesinger to the late king Gruteo Brave Hammer.”
“For what it’s worth, it is nice to meet you, Myrddin,” Thorben said, struggling to keep pace. The last thing he wanted was to be left alone in the dark passageway by himself, as the dwarf seemed to be the only source of light.
They followed the passage around another bend, the walls opening outward, an incredibly low, rumbling sound filling the air. Thorben felt and tasted the water on the air before he saw it. A massive shelf hung high up on the opposite wall, a wide, dark sheet of water spilling into a chasm just beyond his feet. The waterfall disappeared into the black, hitting bottom somewhere far below.
The path past the chasm was narrow – barely a pace wide at the base of the wall, the stone dripping wet and covered in spongy moss. Myrddin continued forward, his stout legs and small feet carrying him quickly along the treacherous path.
“Is there…another way…through?” Thorben shouted, trying to be heard above the spilling water.
Myrddin stopped on the narrow path, turned back, shook his head, waved him forward, and continued across. Thorben scooted his feet forward, the toes of his boots hovering just over the drop off. His gaze dropped to the wide cavern, the darkness yawning hungrily before him.
“I…d-d-don’t think I can do this,” he stammered and pulled back from the edge. Myrddin was already most of the way across and didn’t seem to hear him. Thorben’s heart started to hammer in his chest, his hands and knees already shaking.
He glanced to his left, where Myrddin’s fading light was leaving heavy shadows on the narrow path, and then back to his right, and the winding, branching tunnel that would lead him back to the burial chamber, only if he didn’t wander off in the wrong direction and get lost. The darkness was already closing in, swallowing the mouth of the tunnel and creeping his way.
He was back at the river again, the dark, seemingly bottomless water spanning before him. Misty water droplets sprayed on his face, spattering into his eyes and mouth. He didn’t have a spear at his back this time, but the darkness felt just as dangerous.
It’s just water, you coward. It’s just damned water…a really dark, deep hole in the ground. There was no way for him to know how far the pit dropped, or what was waiting for him at the bottom – a lake or underground river, or jagged unforgiving rocks.
Before he could stop himself, Thorben slid his back against the wet stone and took a single, shaking step along the narrow path. The moss was squelchy, shifting and squirming uncomfortably under his boots.
He shuffled sideways, working hard to keep his eyes up and away from the falling water, but more, the sprawling darkness. His left boot slid forward half a pace before connecting with solid stone.
One step at a time. One step at a time, he thought, sucking in a quick breath and trying to force his heart to slow. Myrddin reached the other side of the walkway and entered the tunnel, his light dropping dramatically. The waterfall almost instantly plunged into darkness, the sound of crashing water surrounding him.
“Wait…no, wait! I cannot see. Come back!” Thorben shouted, the cursed lump forming in his throat. The darkness deepened, the sound and drenching water crushing down around him.
Myrddin said something, his laugh just breaking through the waterfall’s din, but he was still moving away. Thorben panicked, sidestepped, and tried to take another quick step but his boot landed and promptly slid forward. His balance shifted as his foot slipped off the ledge. He fell straight down and dropped his left hand, his butt and palm hitting the wet ledge at the same time.
Thorben snapped his head back, banging it painfully on the stone, stars bursting forth in the darkness. His butt slid forward, but he managed to scoot his back against the stone. He hovered there for a terrifying moment, one leg hanging off in the open air, the other bent at an odd angle to the side, while his rear and left hand sank and slid deeper into the soft, cold moss.
“Well…this is…awkward,” he grunted and laughed. It wasn’t funny at all. In fact, besides his plunge into the river he’d never been more scared in his life.
The spraying water drenched his face, choking his nose and mouth, peppering his clothes. He turned his head to suck in a breath, but could feel his left hand sinking and sliding, the water soaking in around the broken, mashed moss, turning the ma
tter underneath to mud.
His butt slid and he moved his left hand for a better hold. His right hip and knee screamed in protest, the weight and angle all wrong for a man of his age. Thorben tried to push up to stand, but his hand slipped. He would need both hands, but his balance was tenuous and he dared not pull the other away from the wall.
“This is it, Thorben,” he muttered, choking back equal parts water and desperate sob. He forced his eyes open against the stinging water, his left arm shaking from the strain. He could just give up, tip forward and fall into the darkness. Give up.
“Earls and their tax collectors, merchants and their hired muscle, relic brokers and their daughters…” he grunted, trying to push himself up on the ledge again, his hand almost sliding out from under him this time. Even the ground worked against him. Of course, it did.
Thorben shook his head, trying to keep some of the water from running down into his eyes. He had to keep moving, find a way to get back onto his feet, otherwise…
“Come on…Thorben!” he said, urging himself on, but the chunk of moss broke free under his hand and slid into the darkness. He felt it move, felt it fall away. There was no more light. No more hope.
“…hungry children, hungry hedge rats, greedy guildsmen, ghostly dwarves, walls that move, underground pits and waterfalls…what next? Mani, what next? I’m not sure I can take more. My family? I’m not sure they can take more. I’m cold…I’m tired and hungry. It’s just too much, and I don’t see a way out of here. No exit…not when the darkness conspires against me! Am I to become a ghost, too?” he muttered, spitting out a mouthful of cold water. Everything was darker than dark now…devoid of warmth and hope. It was death and release, an end to all the battles.
He slid his left hand and found better purchase, locked his elbow, and pushed. His right foot slipped as he pushed off, but managed to get his butt off the soggy moss. His hand slid, only a frantic grab for another hold stopping him from tumbling into the darkness.
Why are you still fighting? Why are you still moving forward? It is hopeless. Hopeless.
