by Krpoun, RW
Lying atop his saddle blanket on a cart tailgate, his blankets wrapped in a fully-encasing cocoon, Arian Thyben was sleeping as comfortably as could be expected in the field when someone kicked the bottom of his feet, jerking him instantly awake; from the soft cursing to his left, he knew that Trellan had been awakened as well. A tap to the foot was to wake a Badger for sentry duty or at dawn; a slap anywhere else was a call to arms.
Squirming deeper into his blankets, the former cult-hunter sighed and wished for another hour of sleep. The thought seeped in through the sleep-residue that today would not be another thirty miles spent in the saddle, which was very good news; on the other hand, it meant that they would be entering Gradrek Heleth, which was not. Initially they had planned to rest for a full day before going underground, but the increasingly cold weather had caused Durek to change the schedule.
Groaning in anticipated suffering, the monk sat up and wriggled free of his musty blankets, the warm metal of his broadsword (which he had slept with) serving to remind him of the coming day’s risks. His breath belched out in a white fog before him, and frost shone on his saddlebags and shield, stacked on the ground at the head of his ‘bed’. Starlight and a partial moon provided the only light at the moment, although the peaks above them were beginning to gray with dawn’s first hint. Soft mutterings, the occasional hissed curse, and the sounds of people moving about gave their little clearing a sense of life and familiarity to the mercenary. Kurt had had the last watch so the place to his right was empty; shuddering at the touch of the cold mountain air, Arian stood on his blankets to stretch and twist to get the kinks out, the sharp, clean morning air wiping away the last traces of sleep.
He had slept in an old undertunic and breeches, with soft camp shoes on his feet as it would not do to fight barefooted should the camp be attacked in the night. He had laid out his clothes, boots, and washing gear in a hide sack the night before to keep the frost off; sack in one hand, sheathed sword in the other, he made his way to the little stream that ran a few yards from the meadow they had camped in, cursing softly when frost covered grass found the bare skin between the end of his breeches and the tops of his shoes. Janna had designated wash areas for males and females and latrine placement the night before; after years in the field, the Badgers had refined night camps into a highly efficient undertaking.
Morning ablutions performed with water from a mountain stream on a frosty fall morning are done with speed and a keen eye to priorities; Arian skipped shaving, contenting himself with a hasty wash and a thorough scrub of his teeth. As usual, climbing into cold clothing and stiff boots on a chilly morning produced an experience that left him with a vague desire to sign a confession just to put an end to it.
Sparks were jumping out of the deep firepit and the aroma of food cooking brought to mind the fact that his last meal had been many hours in the past. His padded undertunic and stout wool trousers were absorbing and retaining his body heat nicely, making the graying day much easier to face. He was just turning to go check on his horse when Janna loomed out of nowhere in full battle gear, cheerfully punching him on the shoulder
“Go draw four day’s rations at the first cart, and stow the gear you’re leaving behind where Bridget says. Food, bedrolls, and full battle array, less your crossbow since you carry medical supplies. Durek says to take your smallest water container as water will be easy to find once we’re inside. Breakfast’ll be ready in half an hour or so, all you can eat. Briefing afterwards, and then we move.”
“Full belly before battle in the best of military traditions,” Arian grinned at her. The scarred woman’s green eyes fairly glowed in the darkness at the prospect of action. “You’ve been here before: what’re the odds we’ll get stuck into it near our entrance?”
“Not too likely as we come through in a pretty isolated spot, although you never can tell. In the past raids, though, our fighting was always inside the city proper, usually on ramps or stairways.” The Silver Eagle tossed him a casual salute and moved off to repeat her instructions.
Shaking out two of his blankets, Arian put his last two pairs of clean socks and a change of smallclothes in their center, following it with a oilskin bag containing his soap, tooth powder, tooth brush, foot powder, and his cleanest towel. Rolling the blankets into a long roll he bound it with four leather cords spaced at even intervals and then tied the two ends together, making a blanket roll that would ride over his left shoulder. He set out his mail tunic, steel helm, iron-bound round shield, a ration bag, a wood canteen, and his Healer’s kit to be donned later, packing away the rest of his gear and lugging it over to the indicated cart, falling in behind Kroh to receive rations.
When it came his turn he stepped up to Bridget, who laid out his rations on a blanket-covered chest: two hard sausages wrapped in wax paper, each as long as his forearm and three inches thick, a sealed pouch of waxed paper containing dried fruit, twenty-eight hard trail biscuits, a pound of hard cheese, a waxed paper pouch of oatmeal, and paper twists containing salt, brown sugar, and tea. In all, it was ample for four days. Of course, it might have to last a good deal longer.
“Put your gear in the back of the second cart,” the serjeant advised him, choking back a yawn. “Damn, I hate mornings.” The monk stowed his food in his ration bag and delivered his gear to the indicated cart, stacking it neatly on top of the other sacks and saddlebags. There was plenty of room: grain had made up the largest part of the cart’s cargo on the way up here as horses couldn’t travel thirty miles a day on mere grazing.
Someone whistled softly to signal that breakfast was ready; Arian drew his utensils and bowl from the pouch on the outside of his ration bag and headed to the fire, stomach rumbling. When he reached the fire Gabriella dumped a heaping ladleful of hot oatmeal into his shallow earthenware bowl, followed it with a couple thick strips of fried salt pork, and covered the whole with a layer of crusty hot dough made from flour and crushed trail biscuits. Kurt poured his wooden mug full of tea and gave him five shakes of the honey pot at the monk’s request.
Choosing a place on the tongue of a cart next to Trellan, Arian said grace and then stirred his tea vigorously before digging in to the mess in his bowl. He would have sent such a concoction back with a blistering refusal in any inn worthy of the name, but after days of a single hurried hot meal at the middle of a hard day’s ride, preceded and followed by cold rations, it seemed quite a feast.
“Want my pork?” Trellan asked, holding the stiff strips up on his fork.
“Yes, thank you,” Arian held his bowl so the sailor could drop them in. “That’s right, you never eat salt pork, and I’ve always meant to ask why.”
The Navian bobbed his head from side to side as he dealt with a mouthful of dough. “No matter how you clean the barrels and prepare the brine, on a long voyage its green and foul by the time you’re on the last leg. Cook’ll fry it, bake it, boil it in saltwater, but nothing kills that taste, nothing at all. I’ll never eat salt pork if there’s anything else available.”
Arian shook his head. “I’d never stand the life of a sailor, I’m afraid. Even our cold rations are better.”
“There’s that,” Trellan nodded. “You don’t eat good or sleep dry aboard a ship on the whole, that’s for certain.”
“Then why do so many choose that life? It is as dangerous as any profession, and far harder in terms of living conditions than nearly any.”
“The sea is a special place,” Trellan stirred his oatmeal absently. “It’ll kill you given the chance, or make you rich; coming back to port’s like being born again, and going out to sea is like riding out to do battle.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s something you have to experience.”
The monk nodded. “That I understand, although it would take a bolder man than I to try it.”
“Now that’s a strange attitude from a man who spent years hunting cults; a sailor can smell a storm coming and set the sails accordingly, but an assassin’s blade can come out of anywhere”
“Ah, but cults are a simpler thing than you might imagine. Once you learn what they are about, it is far easier to find them than you would expect. The Void draws the petty—minded, the grudge-bearers, and the wanton, none of whom are particularly adept at hiding their actions. As for assassins, they are usually puffed-up bully boys who are about as subtle as a brick. Only the Direthrell have professional killers, and they hardly bother with the hunters of cults.”
Both men refilled their bowls at the cook fire in the sure knowledge that leaner days lay ahead. The little meadow was growing lighter as they finished their meal, the darkness fading to a washed out grayness that thinned to near-normal light by the time the utensils and bowls were washed and stowed.
Although the frost was beginning to melt on the leaves and undisturbed grass in the clearing, Arian’s chainmail tunic was still cold enough to produce a series of gasps and muffled curses as he crawled into the heavy, cold garment. Settling its weight evenly, he buckled the wrist straps and the waist-cinch that held the flowing mail tight against his body so that the violent actions of combat wouldn’t cause the mail to shift, throwing him off balance. His wide leather belt went over the mail, which hung just past his groin, the belt supporting his sword, dagger, belt pouch (which hung below his belt over the dagger scabbard), and medical kit (on the back of his belt). His canteen and ration bag he tied to the back of his blanket roll, which he stacked next to the fire with his shield and helm.
He lent a hand getting the pack saddles onto the two war pig mounts, an effort which took the combined strength of seven Badgers. The war pigs, or komad as the Dwarves called them, stood three feet tall at the shoulder and weighed an average of five hundred pounds, huge, fearless beasts whose bristle-covered hide and subsurface fat was nearly as tough as chainmail. Raised by the Dwarves as war mounts, the komad were bred for size, toughness, courage, and intelligence, and finely trained both for riding and pack animals, above ground or below, in war or peace. These two animals, a massive, scarred female named Iron Tusk and a smaller male named Brown Axe, were prime examples of the breed, having served the Badgers loyally for many years. The struggle today was no failure of training, the obnoxious beasts were simply in the mood for a fight and spoiling for trouble. Iron Tusk in particular was an evil-minded creature, having attacked every Badger save her riders and Janna (Iron Tusk was intelligent even for a komad) and bullied every other beast owned by the Badgers over the years of her service.
When the pack saddles were in place, both komad placidly stood and allowed themselves to be loaded, the morning’s entertainment having been satisfactorily concluded in their eyes. While the goods were being loaded Durek gave each animal a bucket of ale brought for this very purpose, a treat which the creatures clearly enjoyed. The load strapped and tied onto each of the saddles was a heavy one: each beast carried seventy pounds of acorns (its rations for twelve days), five day’s rations for the raiders, a small brazier, and twenty pounds of charcoal. Additionally, split between the two were bundles of candles (both ordinary tallow candles for light, and marked wax time-candles to measure sentry-watches), grapnels and lengths of light chain, some tools, a number of coiled ropes, bundles of empty sacks, two pots, two skillets, and a box of additional medical supplies. Each animal was loaded to its fullest capacity, but travel within the Dwarven Hold would be easy for the most part, and their loads would steadily lighten as rations were consumed.
Durek called the Badgers together while Kurt and Gottri cleaned up after breakfast. “All right, this is the last time we go over this, so if you’ve got any questions, toss ‘em out before I’m through. We’re about to enter Gradrek Heleth, so I’ll cover the basics one more time. Keep a quart or so of water on you, but no more: we should have no problem finding fresh water, so there’s no point in weighing ourselves down. You each have four day’s rations; the next issue will be in four days, so don’t waste any. We’ll travel with the komad in the center of the group, half in front, half behind, and two scouts a hundred paces ahead, one being a Dwarf. Everyone keep alert.”
“As far as loot goes, we do no looting or searching unless by my command; we don’t have time or the portage capacity for serious gathering until we have recovered the books and are on our way out. To remind you newcomers, remember: anything found is Company property unless you find it on a solo scouting mission authorized by myself or unless you take it in single combat. Everything else goes into the Company coffers.”
“Now, as we’ve noted before, Gradrek Heleth sees a great deal of traffic, relatively speaking. There is an entire keiba of Cave Goblins, the Bronze Hydras, living in the Hold, as well as semi-permanent enclaves from the Direthrell, Dark Sun nation-cult, and others. Minions of the Void often travel here looking for loot and a chance to prove themselves, and the Orcs are known to mount raids. It is not impossible to run into other followers of the Eight, including Dwarves, raiding into the place as well. While this sounds like a great deal of traffic, remember that Gradrek Heleth consists of five cidhe, a argalt, a piseagan, and miles of mines, not to mention the under-deeps, so there is a huge volume of space for these wanderers or inhabitants; it is possible that we might even traverse the place to and from our goal without serious incident, although that isn’t something I would count on.”
“As for non-intelligent inhabitants, we can expect Titan spiders, the odd hydra, and anything that has wandered in from the raith; there are strange creatures indeed in the depths of the world. Any questions?”
“Yes, I have one,” Nuilia raised her hand. “What exactly are these tiles we’re getting before we look for the books?”
“They are called advarkel, or anvil tiles. Dwarves do not use metal anvils except in the initial stages of working raw metal; all the shaping and precision work is done on stone anvils covered with a specially-treated type of ceramic tile impregnated with metal dust; these advarkel are shaped and constructed for specific metal work at specific stages of the creative process, and grow harder and stronger with use, wearing out only after several centuries. Thus old tiles are much more valuable than new tiles, which is why we are going after these. Only a few hundred of the very best tiles were taken when Gradrek Heleth was evacuated; thousands more remain even after all this time.”
“You would think that they would have been looted long ago,” Arian commented.
“Not really, only Dwarves use them so there isn’t much of a market for them. Anything else? Then take a good look at the sun, for it’ll be a goodly number of days before you see it again.”
The entrance into Gradrek Heleth that the Badgers used would be hard to find if someone didn’t know it was there, and not much to look at even if they did. It was a small cave opening buried in a clump of stubby pine trees, a hole so low and narrow that the komad had to crawl on their bellies to get in with their pack saddles. Ten feet into the dank little opening the way angled sharply down into the mountain and expanded to about four feet wide and six tall, still an inconvenience for Janna and the taller men, but much more manageable.
To Bridget the tunnel looked natural, but Kroh assured her that it was a vent which had been widened. The lithe advocate was near the rear of the group as it worked its way along the pitch-black shaft, each Badger keeping a grip on the one in front of them, Durek leading, his Dwarven eyes able to pierce this darkness, at least to some degree.
She knew from previous raids that this lightless entry tunnel was only four hundred yards long, but it still seemed like they spent days creeping along in the darkness, the rock ceiling and walls pressing in with all the weight of the tons of stone the mountain possessed. The dark-haired priestess crept along, crouching unnecessarily, her left hand gripping Kroh’s blanket roll in front of her, her right clutching the enchanted amber and yellow topaz amulet that hung at her throat over the leather tunic she wore, the talisman encased in a leather pouch so that it would not strike the small metal plates sewn to her tunic and make noise. The amulet was part of a set, the rest being a matching bracel
et (on her left wrist) and belt, the set being attuned to her faith and a very potent augmenter of her spellcasting. The Badgers had recovered the items from a temple of the Void the year before.
The floor beneath her feet was slick, and she realized that the fall rains would drain down this shaft, while a west wind would push fresh air into the underground areas. In the Dwarven-worked areas, she knew, the entire layout of the hold would be centered around ventilation. She took a deep, shuddering breath and told herself that she must be strong, that they were surely past the halfway point and that each step reduced the duration of this experience. The logic did her no good.
The entrance tunnel terminated in a pile of broken rock that sloped upwards to a narrow crevice that opened into the larger caverns, and the party had to wait until Durek could carefully climb up the rubble to scout the way ahead. Finally the group began to move again, taking a few steps forward and then halting as the next Badger or komad scrambled up the slope. Finally it was Bridget’s turn, and she worked her way up the shifting slope with a glad heart, using the rope Durek had strung to aid her ascent. At the top she slipped through the crevice and stood to one side as the last Badgers climbed in.
She and the rest of the raiders were standing in a cleft in the mountain, a hollow fault that ran roughly north-south for the better part of a mile, averaging ten feet high and four wide, a diamond shape whose lower quarter was sufficiently filled with rubble as to make a fairly easy road. The darkness in the fault was far from complete: here and there dense clumps of peton moss grew, green-black lumps shot through with hollow tubes or veins filled with a faintly luminescent liquid. All underground dwellers cultivated the moss as a cheap and clean source of light, and released quantities of it into the wild areas for the same purposes. While the light put out by the small, random clumps was just enough so that Bridget could discern movement, it was a very welcome improvement over the pitch-darkness of the entry tunnel.
