Tides From the New Worlds

by Tobias S. Buckell

  “Yes, well,” he said. “There were people trapped behind the fall-in.”

  Kokran sucked his teeth.

  “And?”

  “We think they died,” Toop said. “We can’t hear them anymore.”

  “The rescue team?” Grigor asked.

  Pickit scrunched his face up and looked nervously over at Toop.

  “Well, we think they’re dead too,” he said. “So now we want the best group to go in. We have a number of deep diggers, all with multiple thousands of rotations experience. It is the best we can do here in Farrington. Certainly on such short notice.”

  Toop leaned in.

  “This is an important shaft,” he explained. “We hit a seam of gold. So far we’ve been mining lesser metals in Farrington, but we’re barely breaking even.”

  Now Pickit interjected again.

  “I know it sounds dangerous. We’ll compensate you.”

  Grigor and Kokran snorted. Compensation was hardly a thought. Those were friends and extended family already dead in the shaft, or maybe waiting quietly for rescue, saving their strength.

  The carriage slowed down, and the bright light streaming in between the seams of the dirty canvas flaps faded into a gloom. The whole carriage changed its pitch, aiming down into the earth.

  They had entered the Farrington mines, Grigor could tell by the slow dimming of the light around them, the slope of the carriage and the return of echoing hoof-taps. The carriage abruptly halted, jerking everyone forward.

  “Drop your weapons off,” a voice growled outside. The flaps opened, and a tunnel guard pulled himself up and peered in, suspicion writ across his face. He nodded at Grigor and Kokran, and then stared at the townies.

  Grigor waved his hands, but Kokran fumbled with the axe on his back. It was more for show than anything, when out in man towns. Any true dwarf could dispatch a foe with a pick axe. Or a shovel for that matter. Or rock callused knuckles.

  Grigor saw Picket draw his cloak aside and pull a dagger out. Such a man’s weapon. Non-functional (unless you used it to slice fruit and cheese or some-such), deceitful, and made with the intention of spilling blood.

  He preferred the rubbed smooth hilt of a good pick between his hands.

  • • •

  Things moved quickly now. Another half mile in, well under the earth, they stopped again. Diggers surrounded the carriage and helped them out. Grigor’s eyes adjusted to the looming shadows and dark figures just out of torchlight.

  His boots slapped the hard ground when he jumped out.

  A team of two diggers stood by the edge of the Maw, impatient. The twenty foot wide pit ran deep down into Mother Earth.

  “Grigor,” they called out, recognizing him. Grigor walked over.

  “Hiraethog,” the nearest digger in full gear introduced himself. A fifth-removed cousin that Grigor had met briefly once at an Ap Danfisk family banquet. “Michno,” the other said. Grigor didn’t recognize him, but it didn’t matter. The two diggers grabbed Grigor in a hug and kissed cheeks. “We have your gear,” Hiraethog said.

  A large canvas bag sat on the platform.

  Several groundling apprentices milled around by the large, geared crank, waiting to drop them down. Grigor slapped one on the shoulder roughly.

  “Don’t drop us.”

  The groundlings chuckled and closed the gate behind Grigor and the two diggers. The platform lurched, creaked, and then begin to slowly inch down the rock face as they released the guide-wires.

  Kokran stood forlorn by the edge of the Maw’s lip. He gave a half wave, and then disappeared as rock rose above the platform.

  Grigor began pulling on his leather overalls and buckling on his skull-cap. His mid-belt, tightened across his belly, held a pair of pick-axes on either side, and sticks of explosive in the inner lining.

  “Hard-and-deep,” he muttered, standing up with his chipped pick-axe in one hand, tool belt in the other.

  “Hard-n-deep,” they replied.

  Overhead the opening to the Maw had narrowed into a small, ragged, sphere of orange gloom. Grigor’s ears began to pop.

  Hiraethog grabbed Grigor’s arm and leaned over.

  “I told Michno, I’ll tell you: diggers heard explosives going off in the shaft.”

  “During rescue?”

  “Yah.”

  “Sabotage?”

  Hiraethog let go and shrugged. It didn’t tell them anything new about what had happened. But it did tell them this was no ordinary rescue.

  Which was why the company dwarves had called for the best diggers this time around.

  • • •

  It took several mining cars and tracks worth of travel to cut over to forty-five. When they arrived a steam-drill on wheels bit into rubble and rock, churning dirt into the air and forcing diggers to walk around with cloth rags over their mouths. The arm-like pistons mounted on the tubular chassis made it look like a demented, blackened-metal insect.

  Grigor’s eyes watered.

  The sound of the drill crunching rock made conversation almost impossible. Grigor signaled Michno and Hiraethog closer.

  “How long?” He shouted in their faces, beards almost touching.

  “Almost...” Hiraethog yelled.

  The steam-drill lurched, clutches ground and screeched, and the machine backed down the track.

  “As far as she’ll reach,” a mechanic said, walking over the rails. The whites of his eyes stared out at them from a face covered in dust.

  The mechanic slapped Michno’s shoulders.

  “Dig hard and deep. Safety.”

  “Safety. Thanks.”

  Grigor walked over with Hiraethog to the small hole the steam-drill had bored out. He got down on his back and wriggled in.

  He put a hand up to the rock. He could feel slight vibrations, heard pieces of rock falling ten feet in front of him.

  “Let’s start bracing,” he growled. “Hand me a two-fer and some rock wire.”

  The dirty work, the gauging and building of a stable route into the collapse, began. It took several hours, foot by braced foot, the rock-wire bulging over their heads as it collected pieces of rock and rained a mist of dust. As the heap above him settled the wooden braces groaned.

  Their lanterns cast precious little wavering light, but it was enough. That and sharp dwarven senses were what it took.

  It was gruntwork. He could speed up, knowing that lives depended on him, but too fast and carelessness would bury them.

  • • •

  At the last foot Grigor reached rubble blocking his way that the drill had been unable to reach. Pieces of track bit into his back as he maneuvered his pick-axe out and began that ancient task so associated with his kind: chipping at the obstruction in his way.

  He’d swap the pick for a small hand-shovel every few minutes, awkwardly fill up a bucket, and hand it back to Michno or Hiraethog by his feet.

  That took more minutes upon minutes, until the pick-axe broke through into stale air that rushed up to his nose.

  Grigor used the butt of the pick-axe to smash through, then clawed his way out into the chamber.

  He could barely breathe in the fetid atmosphere. He had to be careful. In many places the air itself could kill you, and you would never know, just feel tired and lay down for a rest...

  Michno and Hiraethog pulled themselves through and held up lanterns. They pulled a ballobreath behind them, a large leather sack heavy with compressed air, and a tiny skitter in a cage sitting on top, shaking its scales.

  Just in case the air went deadly they had the skitter to warn them. If the tiny critter went belly-up they’d have to make a run to the ballobreath and share the air as they tried to run back out.

  There was no guarantee, but at least it gave a rescuer a fighting chance against the more invisible deep-deaths.

  The shaft continued on beyond the collapse. No bodies, but they might all be in the rubble. Or further down. A quick glance at the other two diggers confirmed they were thinking th
e same.

  “We’re moving forward,” Hiraethog yelled back down through the newly carved tunnel.

  There were scores of diggers on the other side, but for now no one would come through. Already one team had been lost. No sense in losing a whole swathe all at once.

  Forty-five was a small tunnel, even more so than usual. The roof was never more than three feet high, and Grigor had to bend over to walk it. It was the way with most dwarven connecting tunnels to be rather small. It meant less spent on bracing, and the bracing was stronger at these sizes.

  Advantages dwarfs had over humans.

  The stale air seemed to clear up, and Grigor cautiously kept moving forward, tapping the butte of his pick-axe against the floor like a blind man’s cane.

  Quartz glittered back at them from the walls. Flecks of light in the expanse of dark. It bought the faintest tug of a smile to Grigor.

  There was gold in these walls, he thought as he carefully tapped his way along.

  Their surprise, though, wasn’t a hole in the ground, but a hole in the side of the tunnel where it flared out. There was enough room for track, a steam-drill, and a whole clutch of working diggers. But it was all silent, no bustle. The shaft ended in a wall, and still, no bodies.

  But the hole in the side shouldn’t have been there.

  “Looks like some digger broke through when chipping at the side,” Michno observed.

  “Yah,” Miraethog agreed.

  “Bet you a copper they’re in there,” Grigor said, pulling at his belt.

  “Gas?” Michno wondered.

  “Mebbe.” Grigor walked forward, took a full breath, then stepped forward. He poked around at the edges with his pick-axe, and rock crumbled down. He held the lantern up and looked in.

  Several fat lengths of log held a half-ton boulder in place above him. To the sides rock was strewn all over, but this was definitely a cavern.

  The lantern didn’t flicker, so Grigor let out his breath and carefully stepped through.

  Rock under his boots slid, and he had to crouch and walk down in. Air came in slow gasps as a heavy humidity seeped into his lungs. Were they near water? They shouldn’t be.

  “I don’t know,” Michno said. “Looks unstable.”

  “Whisper.” Hiraethog started walking up from behind them.

  Michno began picking his way quickly across the cavern, muttering to himself. He hugged the leather bladder, the skitter shaking even more furiously at the indignity of being canted at even more bizarre angles in its cage strapped to the side.

  Grigor looked around.

  The rock on the far wall had come down from explosives, he saw. Black stains from the blast stained the walls in dramatic splashes.

  In a smaller rock pile, shaken loose from the ceiling of the cavern, Grigor found his first digger. The dwarf’s gloved hand stuck out from under dusty rock, fingers drooping down towards the earth.

  Hiraethog padded up and helped Grigor uncover the body.

  “Gods below,” Hiraethog grunted.

  The digger’s face was contorted in pain, arms gripped around a pick-axe on his chest, his mouth open in a final scream.

  “Slow, painful death.” Grigor closed the dead dwarf’s bulging eyes.

  “Not the way I’d choose to get dug-under, trapped like that,” Hiraethog said. “Not at all.”

  Grigor agreed. This one was dead, but there might be a living dwarf under any one of the rock piles. Sometimes the timbers would fall and create a small living space in the collapse, one that they could dig a dwarf out of.

  Another reason dwarfs made better miners, Grigor thought. Better chance of survival with smaller, stockier bodies. Why humans bothered with the deeps he didn’t know.

  • • •

  The three dwarfs spread out, hoping for a sign of life. Any life.

  Several minutes in, over the grunting, sliding rock, and skitter chattering, Grigor heard something and held up a gloved hand. He stood next to a miniature hill of jumbled rock, one of many random piles in the cavern. Michno stood on the other side of it, skull cap glinting in the lantern-light, his body casting tall, thin shadows up the sides of the shaggy walls.

  He sniffed. His wide nose pulling in the gritty air. There was something dank in the air. Old. Like when he hit a peat bog deep under soft rock.

  Offal, and blood.

  Someone was alive. Maybe with a punctured stomach, bleeding his guts out onto rock.

  Grigor took off his glove and put a bare palm to the cold ground, closed his eyes, and felt for vibrations at the same time as he listened.

  He could hear his two companions breathing, but holding still. And he heard something else, the faint rattle of tiny rocks. He started to berate Michno, then realized the tiny rockslide came from higher than the pile of debris next to him. The pieces were bouncing as they hit the rock floor.

  Michno sucked in his breath. A chocking sound echoed, and Grigor’s eyes snapped open as he leaned his head back.

  It perched on a ledge of rock ten feet above the cavern floor at the far end. The scales glittered, tiny shards of diamond that fluoresced rainbow colors back at them. Drooped wings fluttered slightly, then rose into the air above the horned head.

  “Dragon!” Michno squeaked.

  The dragon reared back, opened its mouth, and spat.

  Grigor dropped into the rock and burrowed in. Large chunks of rock slammed into his spine, but he kept worming his way in. Like any groundling huddling for cover, he pulled his knees in after him.

  Bottomless pits, he swore to himself.

  Searing white flame licked at the rock over him, and Michno began screaming. He’d been standing right in front of the damn thing. Grigor flinched as he heard footsteps and scrabbling hands as Michno climbed over the top of the pile, clawing himself to cover.

  After a brief second another explosion of flame lit the cavern.

  Michno, his clothes burned and charred to the point they seemed to have melted into his skin, tumbled down the protected side of the rock pile. His body rolled over Grigor’s burrow and lolled to a stop. Michno’s charred face stared at Grigor’s feet.

  A faint moan leaked out from between the cracked lips.

  Grigor shivered and mewled, trying to blend in with the rock.

  “Explosives,” Hiraethog shouted. Grigor pushed rock carefully aside to see Hiraethog backing towards the large hole they’d come through.

  Hiraethog bit the cord off a gray stick, leaving only a nub, and whipped out a lighter. He held the two up and looked around the cavern.

  “Where is it? Grigor? Are you there still?”

  Grigor slowly pulled himself out from the cover of rock, looking warily around. He slipped his hand down and pulled out the pick-axe.

  “Huh...” he croaked. “Here.” His hands shook, but he held the pick-axe out in front of him like a sword. It would do nothing against the fire, but it was better than nothing.

  He ducked his way from boulder to boulder, popping up and looking around, or even listening for movement.

  “Don’t see it,” Grigor yelled.

  “Me either. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Grigor looked down at Michno’s charred body.

  “I think Michno is still alive.” Leave no dwarf unrescued.

  “He won’t live,” Hiraethog said. “Not like that.” He gestured with the explosive. “Let’s get out of here and blow this shut.” His eyes were wide, his voice cracking with nervousness.

  Grigor nodded and began to weave his way towards the opening.

  Safety.

  “It’s overhead, isn’t it?” Hiraethog said, his eyes opening wide. He fidgeted with the lighter.

  “No it ain’t!” Grigor hissed, shaking his head hard enough to make his steel skull cap wobble.

  Hiraethog screeched and lit the shortened fuse. With an impulsive jerk he threw the stick into the bracing.

  “What are you doing?” Grigor screamed. He froze, uncertain whether to duck or make a run for
the opening. Hiraethog realized his mistake, or changed his mind, because he leapt backwards as the explosion boomed throughout the cavern.

  Grigor’s head snapped back, his eyes spasmed, and his eardrums clapped with the impact. He fell to the ground and clutched at his face, feeling shards of rock sanding his cheeks.

  A cloud of dust washed over him.

  Hiraethog had killed himself. Michno would die any moment.

  Grigor was alone with a dragon.

  • • •

  Dazed, blood leaking from his ears and out of the corners of his eyes, Grigor started to crawl back towards his hastily improvised burrow.

  Look at the rock, mum would have said. Think about all the rock around you. Can you feel the rock? It flows in our veins, it does...

  You’re shaky ground, he told himself, thinking back to things like that. Dirt, rock. It was all he could focus on, his brain was so shaken.

  Still hardly able to see, expecting a wall of flame to envelop him at any second, he crawled back up over Michno’s body and saw something.

  Skin!

  For a brief second he’d seen a patch of Michno unburned.

  Grigor paused and looked back down at the slightly smoking husk of his companion. There was nothing unburnt, though.

  He was hallucinating, now.

  Grigor put a trembling finger out and pressed Michno. He felt leather. It was’t steaming hot, but merely warm. Still nervous, Grigor touched Michno’s skull cap.

  It was cold.

  Michno looked back at Grigor, his face normal again, full of beard and dust, and groaned slightly. The dwarf began to shudder violently, spitting and groaning, and then took one last deep breath.

  Grigor pushed past Michno’s still body, knocking Michno’s still working lantern out, and crawled into his crude shelter. He faced out of the small hole under the rocks.

  He started breathing faster and faster, until the giddy lightheadedness made him realize he might faint.

  What is going on? Was everything downside-up?

  His skull cap clinked slightly when he leaned back.

  “Help,” someone groaned. “Help me. Please. Grigor? Anyone?”

  Grigor took a slow deep breath and rubbed his face with the back of his torn up hands. It sounded like Hiraethog. But Hiraethog was dead. No one stood that close to explosive and lived.