The Delving

by Aaron Bunce

  “We attack while they are feeding and distracted. If we all fight together, we will drive them back, claim my relics, and then we will leave and seal them inside.” The big man held the sword out, blood-smeared handle first.

  Thorben stood, edging away from the weapon, and moved to put Gor between him and the throng. Gor turned, watching him, and lifted the spear towards Iona.

  Behind the guildsman, a dreygur fell away from Hun’s grisly remains. It rolled in the ivy before standing smoothly, clicking, croaking, and twitching. Its body changed right before his eyes, the wrinkled, desiccated flesh bubbling and smoothing, shrunken, decomposing muscle growing and filling out. The dreygur hopped away from them, moving towards one of the larger, more horrific statues. Its body snapped and popped, bones shifting and rearranging. The creature’s neck snapped sideways, and then popped back up, as if bending on a joint.

  “As you say, they are ‘your’ relics,” Thorben said, and pushed off his knees and edged around the big man. Iona and Jez were already moving away, through the large doors and into the dark tunnel, watching the sword held between them. He gestured for them to go, to move faster, and to get to safety. His skin crawled and itched, his legs twitching…he needed to run. Run fast.

  Gor looked back to Hun’s body once, and Thorben moved quickly, taking advantage of the distraction to duck through the doorway. He made it under the arch before a meaty hand wrapped around his neck and wrenched him around.

  Thorben was looking down the dark passage and the slope leading up to Myrddin’s hut one moment, and at the big man’s rotten teeth in the next. Gor pushed him up against the wall and pressed the sword sidelong against his chest.

  “Take it and do as I say!” the guildsman snarled, the blade’s sharp edge resting against Thorben’s throat.

  “No.” More of the dreygur were moving away from Hun’s masticated body, his entrails pulled out and looped over the dark ivy. He could smell the man’s blood on the air, hear the creatures moving, the snapping and popping of their bones, but also a strange, chirping noise. It sounded eerily like birds.

  “Take it in your hand, or in your guts. I’ll bleed you and feed you to those things, use you as bait…meat to get my treasure.” Gor reached down and grabbed his hand, fumbling the handle into his palm. The gem in the ring pulsed green, the light illuminating the side of Thorben’s face.

  “What’s this?” Gor stammered, twisting his hand around and looking at the ring.

  Thorben shook his head and tried to pull away.

  “You found this in here, didn’t you? I would have seen it before. It’s…it’s…part of my treasure.”

  Thorben tried to pull away, but the big man slid his fingers over the ring and tried to wrench it off.

  “Death and dust,” Thorben cursed as his knuckle popped, his finger almost pulling off with the pressure. He managed to close his hand and push away, the big man staggering back a step.

  “Like I said earlier, I get your death. I’ll pull it off your dead body,” Gor snarled and tapped his shiny coin against his lips. The big man flipped the sword around, letting the blade roll lengthwise over his hand, before deftly snatching it by the handle. He dropped his right foot, pulled the sword back, and smiled.

  Thorben cringed, waiting for the blade to cut, but refused to look away. He’d lived as a coward, dammit; he would at least die on his feet, with some dignity.

  Gor’s sword twitched forward, just as an arm hooked inside his elbow. The big man’s eyes went wide, just as Renlo dropped his hip and swung him around. Gor pirouetted, half-spinning and half-tumbling across the passage, before crashing loudly into the wall on the other side.

  The big man roared, tapped the sword against the wall, and came back at him. Renlo jumped between them, throwing a shoulder into the bigger man’s midsection. They careened off to the side, a mass of muscle, wrenching arms, and swinging knees.

  Thorben took several loping steps up the passage but turned. The commotion had attracted attention. The dreygur were hopping about, slowly moving their way, their bodies all shifting and changing, their joints snapping and bending to angles unnatural for any man or woman. They were coming.

  Gor pushed Renlo back and came at Thorben, murder written plainly on his face, but the smaller guildsman swung in hard, catching him in the chin and knocking him sideways.

  Renlo looked back, met his gaze, and mouthed, “Go!”

  “Come with me,” Thorben said, gesturing him desperately down the hall.

  Renlo’s small, dark eyes met his, his mouth and forehead scrunched up in a severe frown. He shook his head and pointed towards the exit. “Go, now!” he yelled, and turned back just as Gor’s massive frame bowled him over.

  Thorben smacked the small hammer against his thigh, took a halting step forward, and cursed. The dreygur were in the passage, tentatively watching the two men fight. The closest cocked its head to one side, and then the other, its eyes now large and dark, its neck long and grotesquely slender. Then it leapt onto Gor’s back, its mouth wide, exposing jagged, sharp and broken teeth.

  “Thorben…go,” Renlo yelled, and knocked the beast free, another jumping in to take its place. Gor pushed up to his feet, and swung his sword in a violent arc, catching the closest dreygur across the chest, the blade hitting Renlo in the process.

  Thorben turned and ran.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ascent from Hell

  Thorben hit the slope leading out of the passage at a full sprint, the change in grade buckling his knees and sending him sprawling face-first into the ivy. He kicked, clawed, and pulled his way forward. His face was numb, the sticky dew now covering his lips, nose and mouth.

  He surged over the top edge, his frantic momentum almost carrying him right into the far wall. Thorben straightened, gasping for breath, and found Myrddin standing just a few paces away, his outline pulsing with a gentle glow. He approached to find the dweorg standing over the seated remains, the bauble-laden necklaces glimmering in the ghostly light.

  Myrddin spoke without looking up, his hand reaching out and passing through the necklaces, as if trying to lift them free.

  “I remember now, Thorben long legs. I remember all of it – cuttin’ my workers’ hands, watching them die, and then sitting right here and waiting for mine own end. I-I-I remember dying. I do. I remember walking this place for a long time after…for so long I started to forget, then it was all fog and darkness. Until you, that is. That was me that opened the crypt doors, somehow. And later, the arch. I could hear you…your thoughts, wishing for safety and a barrier between ye and the violent men. The magic goes deeper here, I can feel it now.”

  “I can’t stay…Myrddin. They…well, the dead. They are alive…they killed Hun, probably Gor and Renlo, too. They ate him. They’re coming. I have to get out of here,” Thorben said, and loped forward into a run.

  “Wait…please,” the dweorg called, his voice softer and, somehow, more distant. “I am bound to this place, and to that ring. I remember now. The dalan gave it to us, its magic like a key to seal this place once their dead were laid to rest. I fell into despair at the end, and didn’t want to destroy it like they told me to do. I wanted to see my Lynheid again and knew it was my key to get out. I swallowed it, thinking to hide it till later, but the ring’s magic. It trapped me…”

  The sound of scuffle echoed from the passage mouth, louder and closer than before. A blade sang, splitting flesh, a pained, horrible cry ringing out a heartbeat later.

  “Myrddin, I’m sorry. I have to get out of here. I don’t want to die. I want to see my children again,” Thorben said, a pang of guilt stabbing into his insides.

  “I know. Please…carry something for me. You’ve already got the ring, but please, I’m not for knowing if I can leave here. If…when…well, if you make it past the gate. I know I can go that far, and I know I can seal the gate again to give you a chance. But I’m beggin’ ye, take the tokens from my Lynheid with ye. Take them to Braakdell, so she knows th
at her pa loved her more than anything, and always will.”

  Thorben swallowed, looked to the shack door, back to the passage entrance, but made for the chair instead. The dweorg pointed desperately at the skeleton’s neck, and the mass of tangled necklaces.

  “The horse charm. The horse charm,” Myrddin whispered.

  Thorben fumbled awkwardly with the clinking mass, his fingers shaking and breath catching, but he couldn’t make out any individual shape. He pulled them closer, but the shack was dark, save for Myrddin’s greenish glow.

  The dweorg said something just as Thorben lifted the mass as one and pulled it free of the skeleton’s head and wispy hair. He lifted it over his head and dropped it around his neck, quickly moving to leave.

  “Wait…wait,” Myrddin said, “and just inside the shirt. Something else. Please.”

  Thorben ran back, glancing to the slope leading down to the passage and the distant crypt. The ivy was moving. Something was coming out of the hole!

  He reached down into the thin garment, the fabric crumbling almost on contact. His fingers brushed against ribs and then hit something solid. Thorben ripped it free, knocking Myrddin’s skeleton from the chair, the bones rattling noisily to the ground.

  Turning, Thorben sprinted for the door just as something appeared from the hole. He caught a glimpse of pale flesh, splattered with dark blood, the green glow catching on glassy, wide eyes.

  His boots slid on the fine dust and debris of the shattered doorway. He stumbled only once and jumped out through the hole in the wall, and into the open, fresh air of the maker’s shanty.

  Thorben sprinted between buildings, the wide chamber and open air a blissful reprieve from the claustrophobic tunnels of the dalan crypt. He followed the curving road out of the dwarven village, stuffing the token from Myrddin’s corpse into his bag. Jez and Iona appeared on the path ahead, the girl laboring to help her father forward.

  “He’ll not make it moving like that,” Myrddin said, his glowing form appearing at Thorben’s side. He easily matched the pace, his short legs and large boots moving with no sound.

  The tunnel stretched ahead and up, the grade for their ascent far steeper than he remembered on the way down. Then again, he wasn’t running for his life from flesh eating corpses and murderous guildsman.

  His legs were already growing heavy and his lungs burning from the exertion. He approached Iona and Jez, the two passing from the fading cavern’s light into the narrowed tunnel, the ceiling sloping down and draping them in shadow. The two were there one moment and gone the next.

  “Myrddin, it’s so dark, can you…” Thorben said, huffing to catch his breath.

  The dweorg nodded and waved his hand. Braziers on either side of the walkway sparked to life, warm, yellow flame filling the shiny bowls all the way into the distance. The light splashed up the walls, flickering off the dwarven skeletons and their armor gleaming, revealing the cavern ceiling far overhead. The space was larger and more elaborate than he ever would have guessed. The walls weren’t rough stone as he’d previously thought, but murals, carved on every available flat surface.

  Thorben slumped against his knees and looked back down the road. Something tumbled out the door of the furthest building, several following close behind. He stood straighter as more followed, spilling out of the small structure. He counted five, six, no eight, at least, moving fast and low to the ground, like animals.

  Run.

  They scaled the side of the buildings, moving onto the roofs, running up the stone with frightening ease, moving with speed Thorben never thought possible. The dreygur, if that was what they still were, scattered between the buildings, disappearing and reappearing in flashes, streaking and moving together like a pack of hunting wolves.

  Run.

  A lone figure stumbled from the building after the others, noticeably larger – a man, wide-bodied and muscular. He could see that much, even in the dim light. Is it Renlo? Did he survive? The man’s shirt and hair were dark. It looked like…Thorben squinted against the gloom, his confidence growing by the heartbeat.

  “It’s Renlo…he made it out. He is coming!” Thorben shouted back up to Iona and Jez.

  The big man ran through the buildings, limping, falling, and getting back up. He moved onto the path, running directly towards him, his gait irregular, every other stride shorter and quicker.

  Come on! Faster, he silently urged the guildsman on, and took off towards him to help.

  “He’s of blood, for blood. Ye best away, and quick about it,” Myrddin said, matching his gaze down the path.

  A strangled, angry bellow echoed up the path, as if in response to the dwarf’s words, the sound both animal and human at the same time. The man ran up the path and passed by a set of burning braziers. The light glinted off something metal and shiny in his hand – a bloody sword. Thorben skidded to a halt. The light…his hair. They weren’t black at all. Renlo had short, messy dark hair and a dark blue stitched shirt. This man, he was covered in…it was blood, covering him almost from head to toe.

  “Death and dust,” Thorben cursed, his voice going weak.

  Gor used the long spear like a cane, smashing the haft into the ground to propel his bulk forward. His gasping, unintelligible words finally snapped Thorben out of his daze. He turned, pushing into a stiff-legged run up the path.

  “Ye cannot fight him…he’s too strong. You’ll have to outrun him to gate. If ye can, then I’ll seal it behind ye,” Myrddin said, matching his pace, and showing no sign of strain either.

  “Thank…you…for that,” he sputtered irritably, the enormity of the “if” more than he wanted to wrestle with.

  Thorben clutched to a cramp in his side and gulped down air, pumping his legs and arms as fast as they would go. The distance shrunk between him and the broker, the path beyond a seemingly never-ending slope up and away. Jez turned as he approached, Thorben staggering into them and wrenching the smaller man’s arm over his shoulder.

  “We have to…go…faster,” he gasped and wrenched them both forward.

  They hobbled, stumbled, and ran up the path, Iona bouncing awkwardly between them. Jez grunted and strained, but Iona’s breathing became labored – a horrible, strangled wheeze. The smaller man barely had the strength to hold his head up.

  “I…can’t…do it…anymore,” Iona gasped, slumping heavily between them.

  “You have to.” Thorben clenched his jaw and redirected them to the right, Jez almost falling under her father’s weight. The girl turned as they limped through an intersection and cried out. He could hear Gor moving up the path somewhere behind them, his massive frame and boots sounding more like a rampaging monster than a man. Then the tap tap tap of the spear haft sounded and Thorben pulled Iona forward a little faster. The image of the bladed spear filled his head, the sharp tri-bladed tip stabbing into Iona’s leg. That would be his belly, or chest.

  Myrddin moved next to him, more shiny braziers bursting to life as soon as the dweorg got close. The side passage led into a wide, long chamber, broken up by row after row of chest-high walls.

  They pushed past the first several rows, Iona’s boots moving but doing little to help them along. Thorben pulled them off to the left and down a row. Narrow shelves had been chiseled into the short wall, perfectly preserved flowers, knickknacks, and offerings covering the flat surface.

  “The walls of tears,” Myrddin whispered, looking around sadly. “An entire generation of my people, those of them left alive, came through here to bid their loved ones fair journey to the afterforge.”

  He managed to drag Iona a little further; Jez slumped down on his other side, now barely able to pull her own weight along. They came to the end of the wall, another cutting off to the right and moving perpendicular. Thorben staggered a few paces in and let Iona slump to the ground, the broker crumpling into a pile and clutching to his wounded leg. Collapsing next to Iona, Thorben pulled Jez down and pushed her against the wall, smashing a finger against his lips as a boot scra
ped loudly against stone not far away.

  Iona bit his lip, wheezing quietly as he tried to catch his breath. His face was pale, pinched, and horribly drawn. Thorben looked down to find his injured leg quivering violently, the ragged bandage wet with fresh blood.

  “Owl…I know you’re in here, Owl?” Gor hissed, his voice filling the space like a swarm of angry snakes, the sound bouncing eerily off the half-walls.

  “I know…I know…I know…Owl…Owl…Owl,” the echoes bounced off stone for several moments.

  Thorben sucked in a quiet breath, but even that sounded impossibly loud in the still air. He moved sideways, putting a hand on Jez’s shoulder to calm her, and dropped to his hands and knees, managing only a single, crawling step. The mass of necklaces shifted, jingling, the brassy metal and innumerable charms clinking and jingling together. He froze and cursed under his breath.

  “Owl…why are you hiding? Are you afraid? Are you? Does a branded man feel fear? Is he hardened for it? Or does it make him weak and timid?” Gor’s boots tromped somewhere nearby, the spear tapping loudly against the stone. Thorben bent down, wiped his forehead on the tattered sleeve of his shirt, and drew in a deep, quiet breath. He pressed the necklaces to his chest and slowly lifted his head, his legs shaking and burning as he hovered just beneath the lip of the wall.

  Mani, help me get clear of this and I will dedicate the rest of my life to helping everyone, as you teach. I will raise my children in your light, be selfless, and give to those less fortunate.

  Tap…Tap, the spear rapped against stone again and Gor laughed, a low, phlegmy sound.

  Thorben peaked up and over the wall. The guildsman was barely a dozen paces away, moving slowly down one of the adjacent rows, his large head swiveling away from him. His shirt was ripped and torn, jagged, meaty wounds visible all over his shoulders, arms, and neck. But there was too much blood for it all to be his. It couldn’t be, or he would be dead.