by Ember Lane
The sorrowful tree seemed to wilt even more as they dug a pit around it. In the distance, down the valley, Lincoln could see the makings of the vine bridge. It now spanned the two faces either side, though he couldn’t see the center. His own work was progressing slowly because the elves were not suited to manual labor. Lincoln could have kissed Echo when he finally floated into the settlement with at least fifty bots.
“The vine bridge now spans the valley. I have left sufficient bots there to complete it soon. I have also cut the hole in the forest’s canopy above the river, and have prepared the necessary ropes to pull the tree up from the river. Now, what have we here?” he asked.
Lincoln took a step back. It felt like he’d just been demoted, and if he was honest with himself, he wasn’t that unhappy about it. Echo directed all the elves to stop digging and replaced them with the bots. The hole deepened quickly. More bots dribbled in, their tasks on the bridge or ropes completed. Soon, the hole turned into an excavation. Ladders were made and clad its sides, and ropes and pulleys soon pulled buckets of earth up.
Until the whole thing collapsed.
It started as a rumble, and then the tree started shivering, swaying from side to side, and then plunging down a few feet before bobbing back up again. Lincoln looked down in horror as the pit surrounding the tree bubbled, boiled, and burped, and then its bottom cracked and slid into a brown, roiling soup. The bots were swallowed and sucked into the aquifer. The water swirled around, and the tree nearly toppled, and then everything calmed. Muddy water settled to a clear sapphire color, speckled black as the tree shed mud from its root ball. Lincoln, horrified to have lost so many bots, turned to Echo, but Echo was nowhere to be seen. And he knew he must have been sucked down into the maelstrom. Slumping on the ground, Lincoln held his head in his hands, despair filling him to his brim. Finally, he swallowed a lungful of air, tried to rally his resolve, and looked up just as the ground before him started to change.
Then Echo just rose from the ground as if some vast hand was pushing him up, and around him, the bots sprouted one by one.
“It is as you thought,” Echo said. “The water in the aquifer is heavy with iron. It seems the ridge is a good place to build a mine.”
A grin, so wide it barely fit between his cheeks, spread on Lincoln’s face, and he launched himself at Echo and hugged his guide until his own stomach had settled back, and his unsteady legs stopped shaking.
“Yer forgot t’take the cutting,” Edward growled from his barrow.
A new problem now presented itself. The tree had sunk some ten feet down, and now they would need to raise it up before they could transport it down to the lake. Lincoln scratched his head, trying to imagine ways to do it.
“Now,” said Edward. “Ya need t’attach four ropes t’the trunk and keep ‘em taut, that’ll keep t’tree upright. Then ya need to thread a load of ropes under it, that’ll raise the thing when ya pull them tight. Then ya need to tip it, but hold it high enough not t’damage the roots an’ what’s left of the branches. Ya need great big catapult-shaped things that the trunk can sit on.”
Lincoln imagined it all, replacing the catapults for H-frames with cross timbers for handles. “Possible?” he said to Echo.
“All the bots are now available to you. I will get them working on it.”
“And while they’re doing that,” Edward said. “You need t’be getting the boats ready. Somethin’s gotta keep it upright in the river.”
Lincoln looked at the old man and wondered what he’d have done without him. He wished he’d had more time with him, wished he’d been able to use the man’s brain more.
“Death is death,” the old man said, appearing to read Lincoln’s mind. “He don’t care who knocks on his door. Oh, and you need to clear a way through the village.”
It took them most of the afternoon to do just that and also sort out the boats ready for the bots to move the tree. They had attached the vines and made the large H-frames to rest the trunk on. Lincoln watched nervously as the trunk was raised from the pit. He watched in awe at the way the bots all knew exactly what to do, when to pull, and when to ease off. Slowly, as if the tree was made of fragile crystal, they lowered it onto the frames, and then picked it up as though it weighed nothing, carrying it through the village. Scores of elves that had been lurking on the margins of the action cheered and threw their hats in air, following the tree as it made their way through the blighted village.
Once by the lake, the bots walked straight into the water, then dropped the lower part of the tree until it bobbed upright. The elves then surrounded it with their boats, wedging it upright and lashing the restraining vines to them, and they began their painfully slow row toward the river, toward the rope bridge.
Lincoln took a boat with Forgarth, Edward, Crags, Aezal, and Elleren. Watching the tree float down the river was nothing short of miraculous. When they arrived under the rope bridge, they saw the bots had built a pontoon across the river to stop the tree floating away.
The vine bridge looked too feeble to take the weight, but equally, the tree looked a fraction of its original self now that the muddy root ball had been completely washed away by the river. The bots heaved, and the elves grabbed at any spare vines and pulled too. Lincoln stood in the boat and watched the tree rise, watched as the bots on the bridge took its weight on twenty-odd yokes, and then when the tree was clear of the forest’s canopy, just marched away with it.
Aezal wheeled Edward through the trees; the old man had gone limp, his head lolling to one side. Forgarth held one of his hands, Elleren the other. Unintelligible words dribbled from Edward’s mouth; drool dripped down his sleeve. A look from Elleren told Lincoln the old man’s time was close. Aezal’s forehead was drenched in sweat by the time they made it through to the clearing.
In the center, the bots were working furiously fast, digging out and clearing a hole. The elves looked up, their mouths agape as the tree hovered above them. Bit by bit, the bots on the bridge unwound their yokes, bit by bit the tree descended. As it hovered just above the hole, Edward suddenly jerked upright and lunged forward. He dove toward the tree, crashing down the sides of the vast pit, coming to a halt on his back, looking up at the descending tree.
Lincoln rushed forward, shaking off Elleren’s grasping hands and dove after the old man. He crashed into the tree’s roots, and then slid, feet first under the tree. Scrambling around, he reached for the old man, but Edward inched away from him.
“Stay back,” the old man spat, and his body jerked, his eyes widened, and a smile carved itself on his face. Edward’s body became limp as his life left him. Lincoln felt immense sorrow as his strength fled his own body, and he felt himself being dragged out from under the tree.
Sitting on the pit’s edge, Lincoln watched the elves carefully packing soil around the old man’s corpse, then the roots surrounding it, little by little until there was just a few feet to go. Lincoln reached into his sack and took out a few of the speed-ups he’d brought from Spillwhistle, sprinkling them over a few of the final, exposed roots and then letting the elves finish off burying it and tamping down the ground. The bots finally released the retaining vines, and they all held their breaths, hoping the tree wouldn’t topple.
Congratulations! You have completed the quest; Save the One Tree. You are granted dominion over this valley, but must unlock its secrets in the correct order.
“Eh?” Lincoln thought, and dismissed it from his mind. He was too tired for riddles, and decided to come back to it later. It was then that he realized that night had fallen, and though he was satisfied the task was done, he took no pleasure in it, and just walked away. Crags was on one side, Aezal on the other, and they left the valley and made their way home.
“He got what he wanted,” Crags said, and they were the only words spoken until they were back in Joan’s Creek.
19
The Stone Cutting Dwarves
Glenwyth was watching over him when he woke. She looked concerned.
“You can’t worry about everyone.”
Lincoln didn’t answer at first. His mind was foggy. Light spilled in from under his cottage door. “Where’s Aezal?”
“I sent him away. You need to rest, to have some time to yourself.”
“But I haven’t assigned tasks to Bethe, nor Echo.”
“I’ll allow you that, but that alone, and then you’re taking the day off.”
“No,” Lincoln said, sitting up, but Glenwyth just pushed him back down.
“You’ll be no good to any of them if you’re dead. You like brewing; I’ll let you brew. Your tavern is built, I’ll let you set that up, but no more.”
Lincoln looked into her eyes, tried to see behind, to eke out her damaged mind, but realized his was just as fractured. He’d forged ahead, suddenly released to fulfill Joan’s dream, and yes, Glenwyth was right, he’d gone at it without stopping. It’d do good to take stock.
“If you’ll talk to me,” he finally said. “Do you know how the tree is doing?”
“Elleren has messaged me. It lives, but is still sick. She sent this.”
Glenwyth held up a small pot, a tiny twig with two little leaves growing on it poking out of rich, black soil.
“A cutting,” he whispered.
“She said to say Edward got his way, said you’d understand. It’s from Forgarth, his way of saying thanks.”
Lincoln swung his feet off the bed and ruffled his scruffy hair. “Agreed,” he said. “Day off.” The minute the words were out of his mouth, he felt the relief run through his veins.
“Bethe?”
Bethe appeared in the cottage.
“Yes, Lincoln.”
Lincoln pulled up his menus and analyzed them. “Recourses,” he muttered.
“Tell Echo that I want him to upgrade four cottages to level 2, three sawmills to level 2, build two level 1 quarries and three level 1 mines. Tell him that’s all he can afford today. We’ll get going soon. If Forgarth wants to move anyone into the cottages, that’s fine, but it’ll cost the settlement food, so I’d prefer if he left it a day or two.”
“I have relayed that.”
“Joan’s Creek,” Lincoln said, under his breath. “Five mines to level 2, two quarries to level 2, one to 3, and build two more to level 1.” He stood up. “There, that should keep you occupied along with the ridge. Need to increase that production.”
“You have an academy now,” Bethe pointed out. “Though it is only level 1, you could research Lumbering, that would give you ten percent extra production. and you could research Farming. Farming would give the same, but it would cost you two thousand two hundred gold, and some food and lumber.”
“But I don’t have anywhere near that amount of gold.”
“You do. You have your town hall, and that has five thousand gold, a deposit marked Alliance Formation Rewards. You can access it now that you have a town hall.”
“But I’ll need to trade to get more gold to research higher levels.”
“You will. You will need a marketplace.”
“I’ll need spare resources, and I can increase—”
“Enough!” Glenwyth said. “It’s your day off. You may go to the academy to study those two things—I take it at level 1 it’s quick—and then that’s definitely it.”
Lincoln looked sheepishly back at her. “Swim first,” he said. Glenwyth nodded, and Bethe vanished.
Bethe had built the academy away from the settlement just on the edge of a small wood. It suited the natural flavor of the building well. Its walls were made out of a wood that reminded Lincoln of bamboo and had leaves sprouting along their length. The roof appeared to still be living—tangles of tightly knotted foliage and thick moss covering its pitch. As he looked around it became apparent that the whole structure was alive—a living, breathing entity. It was a partly open plan, a view of the woods filling up the entire back half, thicker trunks holding up the natural roof. Lincoln immediately felt peace there, and Glenwyth skipped around the place as though she was truly content to be inside. A low, rectangular table sat in the center of its reed-strewn floor. Lincoln saw two folded sheets of paper there.
Sitting by the table, he picked up the first. It was a diagram of a hand plough. “Got it,” Lincoln said and then the paper disintegrated.
Congratulations! You have researched Agriculture level 1. Your farm output is now boosted by ten percent. You have been awarded two thousand gold as a progress bonus.
“We appear to have more gold,” he told Glenwyth, and then he picked up the other sheet.
It showed a simple two-man saw, and Lincoln studied it, memorizing its every detail.
Congratulations! You have researched Lumbering level 1. Your sawmill output is now boosted by ten percent. You have been awarded two thousand four hundred gold as a progress bonus.
“More gold,” Lincoln said, smiling, but looking more than a little bemused. “And my day’s work is done. To the tavern.”
Bethe appeared. “Tavern?”
“The tavern,” Lincoln said. “And now for my day off. I take there’s something preventing me from researching more, Bethe?”
“A number of things,” she replied.
“Thought there would be,” he said, taking Glenwyth’s hand, and they walked out of the building.
They strolled toward the lake and along its bulrush-lined shore. It was a cool morning, clouds drifting lazily across the sky, a flurry of ripples disturbing the lake’s surface as a bird of some sort took flight. He felt his stomach rumble and realized it was a fair while since he’d eaten.
“You know, we’ve both got to start looking after ourselves,” he said, but she gave him no answer. “Me? You’re right, I have to get into some kind of regimented timetable. I have to work when I’m supposed to and relax when I’m done. We all do. The night should be filled with laughter, not the groans of the sore or the snores of the exhausted.”
“It is early days,” Glenwyth finally said.
“What better days to set the rules? How fortunate are we that we have all those workers—the bots? In theory we could just build cottages and create the workers and do nothing, but what kind of life is a life without honest work?”
“So, the day for toil, the night for laughter. That sounds nice.”
“What about you?” Lincoln asked.
“Me?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Elleren thinks you should go and see Forgarth’s brother.”
“The dark elf? Maybe. What do you think?”
Lincoln scoffed. “What do I think? I think I know nothing of dark elves, but he said you felt a certain kind of power, and that now you hanker for it. I say dark elf, light elf, any shade of elf, so what? We all hanker for a little power.”
“It is not the way of elves.”
“Meh.” Lincoln shrugged. “So, don’t hang around with elves when you feel like that.” He grinned and pulled her closer, putting his arm around her, and they walked by the first of their cottages. Aezal, Grimble, Crags, and Ozmic were huddled around the fire pit deep in conversation. Standing about twenty feet away from them was a stocky-looking dwarf with a shock of ginger hair and a beard to match, that nearly came down to his knees. Though Lincoln had never seen a dwarf in full battledress, this one appeared to be. He had his arms crossed, and a vast hammer stood on the ground by his side. Lincoln shivered as he remembered the troll hammer.
“He doesn’t look happy,” Lincoln whispered.
“Stone dwarf, they’re rarely happy. More so with what’s going on here,” Glenwyth told him.
“Why?”
“They quarry for a living. You’ve got quarries, and you aren’t using them. I’d imagine they aren’t too taken with your bots.”
“Ooh…” Lincoln muttered, trying to use his perception, but failing to get anything back. “This could be tricky. Do you know his name?”
“I can see his proper name, but have no chance of pronouncing it.”
Lincoln grunted, and
then walked right up to the dwarf. “Lincoln,” he said, offering his hand.
“You can call me Dunaric.”
“Well, Dunaric, have you come far?”
“Mountain. Other side.” He shifted on his great big feet.
“You thirsty?” Lincoln asked.
“For what?”
“By my reckoning, my first batch of ale should be ready.”
Dunaric pursed his lips. “Always thirsty for ale.”
“What are they talking about?” Lincoln asked, pointing at Ozmic and the others.
“How to get rid of me, but I’m not going until those copper beasts stop mining.”
“Right and all,” agreed Lincoln. “Mining’s for dwarves and dwarves only.”
“And quarrying,” Dunaric added, and picked up his hammer. “Stone dwarves mine, quarry, and squash heads. That’s what we do. Never forget the heads.”
“Never,” Lincoln said sheepishly, and he guided Dunaric to the new tavern.
Aezal, Ozmic, Crags, and Grimble hadn’t even looked up.
“Say,” Lincoln said as they reached the tavern’s stoop. “Have you ever heard of scarletite?”
“Of course. There’s some in that mountain, but it’s near a cursed one.”
“Yeah, I got that vibe.”
They entered the tavern, and Lincoln was pleasantly surprised. He’d expected it to be smaller, just because of its level, but it had a reasonably long bar that stretched its entire width, and at least a dozen bench-type tables. It needed a bit of work, a bit of homing up, but was cozy enough with its split-log look that was all the rage in his settlement. A few essentials probably wouldn’t go amiss either, like mugs, ale, and perhaps food. All in good time, Lincoln thought.
“You got your own mug?” he asked Dunaric, as Glenwyth took a seat at one of the benches.
“Ne’er go anywhere without,” the dwarf confirmed, as he dumped himself next to Glenwyth and nudged her. “He fer real?”
