The Legacy Builder (The Chronicles Of Lincoln Hart Book 1)

by Ember Lane

  “Chaos,” Crags said, simply. “How in Belved’s name would I know where the heck Diberts’ll be one moment t’the next?” He shrugged. “Yer stuck with me fer now, so yer might as well use me fer what yer will.”

  “Like what?” Ozmic growled.

  “I can squeeze inta gaps yous can’t, big man,” Crags said, and then skipped a few yards away. “I can track game, set traps. I can use certain aspects of chaos magic, and, most important…”

  “Yes,” they all said.

  “I can run through a monster’s legs and stab yer foes up the ass, so I can.”

  “Useful, Ozmic,” Grimble said.

  “Face it lads, yer need a little helper,” Crags pleaded. “Besides, I’ll only follow yer all at a safe distance. Anyways...” And he furrowed his brow. “I’m the only one in Lincoln’s clan, so it’s up to me 'n him who’ll come with us.” Crags crossed his arms, stepped beside Lincoln and nodded. “So, who shall we take with us, boss?”

  Aezal’s jaw dropped, and Ozmic looked at Grimble, who shrugged.

  Ozmic has altered his status from neutral to allied.

  Grimble has altered his status from neutral to allied.

  Aezal has altered his status from neutral to allied.

  Lincoln shrugged.

  You have altered your status to Ozmic from neutral to allied.

  You have altered your status to Grimble from neutral to allied.

  You have altered your status to Aezal from neutral to allied.

  “Now we’re truly a band of brothers,” Crags said, and went to hug Ozmic’s waist. The dwarf kicked him a few feet away.

  “Give it time to sink in, gnome.”

  “We need a name,” Aezal said.

  “For what?” Lincoln asked.

  “Our guild.”

  “Let’s get this tomb searched first, and we can think of a name over an ale or two.”

  They all nodded, a fragile truce in place. Grimble piled up the fire. Ozmic cut some more wood, and Aezal pulled a torch from his sack of holding and lit it. He led the way into the tomb. Lincoln grabbed his new pickax, Stonecrumbler, itching to do some manual labor and clear his head of the mayhem that had frazzled it all day.

  Like the entrance suggested, the inside of the tomb was a large, bricked archway, reminiscent of a man-made tunnel. The dwarves started clearing away the bones and leftovers of countless troll meals. Aezal walked carefully forward toward the altar.

  Through the flickering torchlight, Lincoln saw the tomb was around thirty feet in depth and ended, just as he’d seen in a plain stone wall. Cobwebs crackled as Aezal’s torch burned them out of the way, and though the troll stench was just about bearable now that Esmeralda was no more, the scorched webs made the whole place stink like burned hair. Lincoln and Aezal tiptoed toward the altar at the tomb’s end.

  It was made up of a stone pedestal—craggy, gray stone that looked like it had been fashioned in haste. Two black seams ran down either side, and cracks in the stone told them both that the altar’s base was made up of three slabs of stone, and not one. Atop, sat a thick slab of what resembled marble. It was a good six inches deep, white and gray, and the gray swirled like an artist’s brushstroke. It looked odd, out of place in this plainest of tombs; a sole indulgence in an otherwise nondescript place.

  “Seems wrong,” Aezal said, above the scraping and clatter of the bone clearing.

  “Why?” Lincoln asked, still unfamiliar with what was normal in this land and what wasn’t, but knowing in his heart of hearts that the slab was indeed, out of place.

  “That’s marble. Ain’t much of that in Irydia, and yet it hasn’t been looted. Grimble?” Aezal called.

  Grimble kicked out a couple more skulls and ambled over. “Sup?”

  “Can you see any way to steal that top?”

  The dwarf bent close to the altar, beckoning Aezal and his torch in. He studied each of the three joints between the marble top and its pedestal. He took a chisel and mallet out of his sack and gave it a few taps on one side, then the front, and finally the last side, testing each joint, but shaking his head all the while.

  “Nope,” he muttered, and jumped up onto the top, inspecting the seam between the altar’s top and the wall behind. “Nope,” he said again. “Lincoln, you got that pickax? The one from the troll guts. Let’s see if that’s the reason it was the loot.”

  Lincoln tossed it to him.

  “Nice balance,” Grimble said, catching it easily. He raised it in the air and brought it down onto the altar’s top with a crash. His powerful arms seemed to ring in tune with the pickax’s head as it failed to even scar the stone’s surface. “Nope,” Grimble said, once he un-gritted his teeth. He jumped back down. “That’s not marble. I know me stones an’ marble would have fractured. That there is glass or diamond, something like that, just dressed up as marble.”

  “Question is,” said Ozmic, over his shoulder. “Why? Seems an awful lot of trouble when a slab could’ve been dumped on top.”

  “Tis probably just fer chopping up folks and offering them up t’the Gods. Probably cleans up nice once its been covered in guts,” Crags said, a little too cheerily for Lincoln.

  They decided to concentrate on clearing the tomb completely before they went any farther. Crags went off in search of more wood for their fire, and the dwarves unpacked their cart and retrieved a half-dozen lanterns to fully illuminate its tunnel, securing them with iron spikes banged into the mortar beds of its stone walls.

  When done, all they were left with was a muddy floor, a long archway of bedded stone, and the mysterious altar against the end wall.

  “We could go in from the top,” Aezal suggested, pointing up at where Lincoln had set his respawn point, but Ozmic had already tested the stone archway’s walls with his best pick, and it had had little to no effect.

  “Nope,” he said. “The problem needs solving. That slab means something, and yer just can’t rob it.”

  “So…” said Lincoln.

  “So, we’ll have to do it the way these places are really looted—the boring way—bit by painstaking bit.”

  First, they inspected the bricks for any sign of a loose one, something that might be pressed in among them, or a concealed cubbyhole. Anything, anything at all that might give them a clue. Then, the five of them got down on their hands and knees and worked their way toward the altar inch by painstaking inch, just as Ozmic had said they would have to. Without consciously meaning to, Lincoln found himself using his divination. It was as if the skill had become an extension of him, and using it therefore as natural as breathing, or itching a scratch. At first, it just showed him the five feet of dirt underneath them, but then he noticed something odd.

  As they came to roughly the halfway mark of the tunnel, Lincoln felt an empty space under him. At first he discounted it as an animal’s burrow or some such thing, but then he studied it and saw it was too regular, too square, and no more than a foot or two wide and deep. It plunged down about five feet and then he saw that it angled away, and another tunnel led horizontally toward the altar.

  “I think I’ve found something,” he said, marking the spot, and he told them what he thought. He struck the first blow with the pick. Aezal scooped the loosened mud away with his hands, and Ozmic and Grimble formed a little chain, shoveling it out of the tomb. Crags leaned back against the tunnel’s wall and watched.

  “I’m not one fer diggin’,” he said. “Just not made that way.”

  “Made what way?” grumbled Grimble, but Crags appeared to prefer not to answer.

  Slowly, the hole deepened until Lincoln finally struck something hard. Grimble and Ozmic took over, carefully digging the last of the dirt away until it revealed a dull, iron square with a single slot in one end. Ozmic tried to lever it up with his shovel, with Lincoln’s pick, but it just wouldn’t budge. They all looked at each other and elected to take a break. Polishing off the last of his ale, Lincoln enjoyed his second pipe of the day. A leaf induced mellow bringing a buri
ed thought from the back of his mind. “I think I’ve got it,” he said, and fumbled in his sack, bringing out the bent key. “It’s like a cover to a sewer, and this is the lifting key.”

  They all looked at him like he was an idiot.

  Finishing up his pipe and putting down his mug, Lincoln took the key and marched back into the tomb. He slotted the key home, and lifted the lid up.

  “What did I say,” said Aezal, catching up with him and peering over his shoulder. “The man’s a talisman.” He lowered his torch into the little, perfectly square tunnel.

  8

  Tomb Raiders

  No, sir, no...no, thank you very much,” Crags said. “I’m not going down there, no, no sir, not something I signed up fer.”

  They were sitting back around the fire deciding what to do next. Lincoln couldn’t help but think that every single little event in the dwarves' lives was punctuated with a rest and a mug of ale, though they had ran out of his and were now tapping into the Thameerian wine.

  “Signed up for?” Lincoln asked.

  “Yer, when I joined yer guild—the guild with no name, I didn’t say, ‘Tell yer what, Lincoln, if yer ever in need of someone to dive down a two-foot hole and scurry along it like a ratty, I’m yer man.’ I never said that, so I didn’t.”

  “Nope,” agreed Lincoln, “but you did say: ‘I can squeeze inta gaps yous can’t, big man,’ when you were asking to ally, so…I think this qualifies.” Lincoln nodded his head, and brought his steely stare to bear. “Yep, definitely qualifies.”

  Crags turned to Ozmic. “Did I say that, eh?”

  Ozmic glared at the gnome. “Yep, an’ you’re going t’go down that hole, and you’re going to find out what’s at its end.”

  Crags turned to Grimble. “Did I—?”

  “Yes!” they all shouted.

  “Well, I’ll have to be getting set,” Crags said. “If I’m the one that’s going to have to risk me neck fer yous alls, then I have to get prepared.”

  Crags got up. He began to back away from the fire. As quick as a flash, Aezal was up and behind him. He grabbed the gnome’s green tunic and lifted the little fella up with one hand. Crags’ short legs started running in the air.

  “You can’t be dumping me in there, no yer can’t, I’m telling you.”

  Lincoln jumped up, as did Ozmic and Grimble. They grabbed their picks and axes and followed. Aezal carried the struggling gnome into the tomb and dropped him into the hole. The little man fell silent, a slight whimper eventually filtering up.

  “Wine…” he cried, and so Lincoln went and refilled his little mug and passed it down.

  “And a light for my little torch,” he asked, passing up a tiny torch. Aezal lit it on one of Grimble’s lanterns and passed it back down.

  “What can you see?” Lincoln asked.

  Crag’s burped, and his empty mug flew out of the hole. “I’m going in,” he muttered. “I can see a tunnel,” he called up. “I’m crawling along it now.”

  Lincoln looked down the hole. Crags was still sitting in its bottom. “Crags?”

  “All right, all right, I’m going.”

  Lincoln watched as the gnome crawled into the tunnel. He tried to imagine how far he’d progressed, his eyes following an imaginary trail to the altar. Looking at Aezal, the big man just shrugged.

  “You all right?” he shouted down the hole.

  Silence.

  Lincoln looked at the dwarves. They arched their eyebrows and raised their palms up.

  Looking along the path of the tunnel, Lincoln’s eyes were drawn to the altar. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought the slab atop it was…glowing. He walked up to it, crouched and looked along it.

  “Ozmic,” he whispered. “Is this?”

  “Glowing, it’s definitely glowing.”

  As they peered at the glass-like surface, so it began to radiate a soft light all around.

  “Is he inside the altar?” Aezal asked.

  “Look up there,” Grimble gasped. Lincoln followed the direction of the dwarf’s pointing finger.

  Above the altar’s now luminous surface, some faint words had been etched into the wall behind.

  Those who can open the way may feast on one treasure and one alone. Two, and you will get none. What appears none, may get you two.

  “Doesn’t help us get the slab up.”

  A muffled sound came from the altar.

  “I think the little fella’s trying to tell us something,” Aezal whispered.

  The light dimmed. They waited.

  “Oi!” Crag’s shout came from the hole behind. “I need that there key of yers, I think. Either that, or I get to loot the tomb on me own.”

  Lincoln spun around and marched over to the hole. Crags was looking up, even filthier than before. “What?” Lincoln asked.

  “There are two holes in the front slab, I think yer key thing opens it up. Then you lot can crawl through under the slab.”

  “Cool,” Lincoln muttered under his breath and threw down the discarded key.

  “Stand back,” said Crags, and he vanished back up the tunnel.

  Lincoln crept back to the altar. He crouched by it, running his fingers along the cracks. Aezal followed his lead, and Grimble and Ozmic backed away a bit. Only their breaths could be heard. A grinding sound like a dry scream broke the silence. Lincoln waited for something to happen but the front of the altar didn’t budge. Another grinding noise, same as before, set Lincoln’s teeth on edge and made him take a step back. It was followed by muffled curses emanating from inside, and then a dull thud, and another, and another.

  “He’s kicking it,” Lincoln muttered.

  “It’s shifting,” whispered Ozmic, and he grabbed Lincoln’s troll pick, swiping it at the joint in the altar’s side. The pick’s chisel-end bit, and Ozmic tried to lever the crack wider.

  Thump! The front of the altar swung out by an inch. Ozmic took another swipe at it and the pick bit again. Grimble joined him, pushing against the handle. Thump! Another kick. Ozmic and Grimble stumbled forward, the pick forcing the slab part open. Aezal and Lincoln grabbed hold of its exposed edge and began yanking it.

  “One, two, three, heave!” Aezal shouted.

  Lincoln tugged on the stone. “Not heave,” he said, through gritted teeth.

  “What,” said Aezal, as he tugged again.

  “Don’t shout heave. Bad memories of heave.”

  “Got it,” said Aezal.

  “One, two, three, tug!” said Lincoln, and they tugged. The slab moved another couple of inches.

  “Tug doesn’t work as well,” Aezal pointed out.

  “Definitely not,” said Ozmic, joining in.

  “Gotta be heave,” Grimble agreed.

  Lincoln pursed his lips and shook his head. “Heave it is,” he reluctantly agreed.

  “One, two, three, heave!” shouted Aezal.

  They all pulled on the stone slab, and it swung open, scraping on the mud floor. As one, they fell back and sat as Crags poked his head around the stone. “Reckon it would’a swung out easier if we’d dug an inch off the ground in front.” A fan shape in the mud made it clear the gnome was right. “Are yer all going to have a look an see what we’ve got?”

  “Another wine first?” Grimble suggested.

  “Indeed,” said Ozmic.

  “One of the beautiful things about being a freelance warrior.” Aezal’s smile burst out from his ebony skin. “I can do what pleases me.”

  One by one, they had a quick peek into the altar, nodded, and retreated back to the fire. Once settled, and each with a primed pipe, Lincoln asked about dungeon etiquette.

  “But it’s not a dungeon,” Aezal pointed out. “There are no new dungeons, not in this land.”

  “No new dungeons?” Lincoln had never known a land where new dungeons didn’t spawn regularly.

  “Ha!” shouted Crags, the wine clearly going to the little gnome’s head. “They wove the wrong spell and turned themselves to gravelings.” He was beam
ing from ear to ear, almost a fully bloated gloat.

  “Who?” Lincoln asked.

  “The shaman of old,” Ozmic explained. “The shaman created the dungeons. They made the stone live and then bound demons into them, who then created the traps. No shaman, no new dungeons.”

  “Yep, got too big for their boots,” Grimble mumbled.

  “What happened to them?” Lincoln asked. “What are gravelings?”

  “Demons happened,” Aezal said, his eyes wide. “They say a demon tricked a shaman into trying to create the ultimate dungeon. A dungeon so big you could house a town in it. A dungeon so deep, a volcano’s roots’d heat it. It is said that the wager grew and grew until one of the five great demons, Quazede, and his hoard, and all of the shaman gathered in Kobane. There the shamans fell foul of some dastardly trick, and their magic was reflected back on to them, and they became living stone—gravelings. Now they walk the land, vast hulks of raging rock, and they smite any in their way.”

  “So, no new dungeons,” Lincoln summarized.

  “Nope, and nearly all the known dungeons are looted, conquered and bare. A few remain, in the bowels of Castle Zybond, for instance, but not many. Nope, this isn’t a dungeon, just a tomb.” Ozmic took a breath and a puff on his pipe. “Doesn’t mean it’s not without its problems, though. Take the threat written on the wall. What did it say?”

  “Those who can open the way may feast on one treasure and one alone. Two, and you will get none. What appears none, may get you two,” Lincoln repeated. “Not so much a threat, more an instruction.”

  “More a threat,” Crags said. “Aint no way we’re leavin’ any loot behind. So it’s a threat.”

  “We’ll not know until we get down there,” Aezal said, but he was scowling at the gnome. “You best take the scribing of the dead seriously unless you want to join them.”