by Barb Hendee
Chane started to speak, but Wynn held up a hand to stop him. Ore-Locks wasn’t looking at either of them, as if he’d forgotten their existence. For once, his guard was down as he absorbed the mysteries here. She wanted to hear more from him.
“They must have excavated deeply between levels,” he went on. “So deep that the stone between them helped shield the lowest levels. The peaks on either side may have dispersed some of the downward force.” His voice became almost too quiet to hear. “But whatever happened shook the entire mountain.”
Wynn began to feel ill. None of his speculations changed anything. Pushing away the horrors of a forgotten time, she focused on her purpose in coming here. There was an orb to be found, but where would it be hidden in a place of this size?
As far down as they were, she believed the orb would have been placed even deeper—at the lowest place possible. How were they to find a way down in this much destruction?
Chane had crouched, examining the skeleton with the ax and the thôrhk; it was an odd, morbid sight watching his passive and silent study. Before she could call him away, he whispered to himself.
“The ends are not spiked . . . this was not a thänæ under one of the warrior Eternals.”
His eyes turned to the ax, and his brow wrinkled. For a moment, Wynn was startled that he even pondered such things, but her own curiosity was piqued.
“Are there marks on its end knobs?” she asked. “If so, can you make them out?”
Chane looked back to the heavy thôrhk’s two open ends. “They are too blemished, tarnished. But it does have end knobs, rather than being plain and unadorned.”
Wynn looked at him in surprise. Only one type of thôrhk for one of the Bäynæ, the Eternals, had no end knobs of any kind. It was the one given to those honored under Bedzâ’kenge—Feather-Tongue. Although she knew of this practice, she had never seen a thänæ who wore such in her few visits to Dhredze Seatt. How had Chane ever learned such a thing?
Wynn started slightly when she realized Ore-Locks was watching her.
Straightening, she said, “We need to go lower.”
He glanced away, and then he nodded and took the lead, heading south. “In Old Seatt, for my own people, the underways have tunnels out of places like this. Those headed north led to upward connections, while those to the south led to downward ones.”
Wynn blinked. She’d never heard nor read such a thing. Then again, she’d seen nothing of Old Seatt besides its surface atop the mountain that held all of Dhredze Seatt. The newer settlements, like Bay-Side and Sea-Side, had spiral tunnels at the end of all mainways leading both up and down.
Motioning to Chane and Shade, Wynn hurried after Ore-Locks. For once, the dwarf might be truly useful. It bothered her that she was forced to follow someone with his hidden agenda, who could walk through stone and was a potential puppet of some traitorous ancestral spirit.
But it didn’t bother her enough to stop her. It didn’t even slow her down. She had to find the orb.
Ore-Locks headed into a large tunnel in the center of the south wall.
“You think this is the best tunnel?” she asked.
He half turned. “It leads down.”
“Wait,” Chane called, and began pulling blankets, canvas bags, and water skins from his back to pile them on the floor.
“What are you doing?” Wynn asked. “Those are all our supplies.”
“I will bring some food and one water skin,” he replied. “But I need to be able to move more freely, for whatever we encounter. We can retrieve all of this on our way out.”
She was tempted to argue, but realized he was right. He kept both his own packs, but their weight was nothing to him. Ore-Locks waited and watched until Chane was ready, and then he headed onward.
Without hesitation, Wynn followed into the broad tunnel.
Still crouched behind the crumbled stairwell, Ghassan had watched Wynn and her companions enter the cavern. Even from a distance, the sight of her surprised him. She looked different, almost beyond travel worn. Her oval face was thinner than when he had last seen her, and she moved so surely, easily scrambling over loose debris. Not once did she accept assistance offered from Chane.
Ghassan remembered Chane and Shade well. In spite of himself, he had some respect for Wynn’s choice of protectors. Ghassan had fought beside the undead and the dog. They were both formidable. The presence of the dwarf, however, made little sense.
Had Wynn hired him as a guide? That seemed unlikely, as this place was well more than a thousand years old.
As the four came closer and passed by, Ghassan studied the dwarf, thinking he bore a resemblance to Domin High-Tower. But where High-Tower was visibly aged, even for a dwarf, the one leading Wynn looked much younger, not as thick, and was clean-shaven . . . or at least had been before this journey.
Too many unknown variables convinced Ghassan that he should remain hidden, follow behind, and yet still shield Wynn from the wraith. At present, he did not believe the black spirit would harm her if it had followed her this far.
Soon he lost sight of Wynn’s group as they entered a southern archway. He was forced to creep after, staying out of their awareness. But he struggled with indecision. He could not expose himself to the wraith, so he couldn’t follow Wynn yet and let that creature come behind him. And still, he had no desire to lose track of her now that she had finally arrived.
The wraith drifted out from its hiding place.
The folds of its immaterial black robe shifted in the still air, even as it lingered near the passage Wynn had entered. It waited a long while before suddenly vanishing into the same wide and tall opening.
With the choice made for him, Ghassan quietly followed.
Wynn held her staff in one hand and a cold lamp crystal in the other as she followed Ore-Locks down . . . and down.
Chane and Shade brought up the rear, with Chane carrying the second crystal. To Wynn’s relief, neither of them openly argued with her plan to go lower. They were tense and overly watchful, and Chane continually looked behind.
Wynn, as well, wondered if they were still being followed and by whom. She hadn’t forgotten Ore-Locks’s warning when they’d been halted by the cave-in.
The wide tunnel made a slow, curving spiral downward with main exits leading off to various levels, but along the descending way, many other smaller openings and stairways led up or down. Yet Ore-Locks always kept to the curving mainway.
Wynn hoped he had some notion of what he was doing. He was certainly succeeding in taking them to the lower levels, but beyond that, she was at a loss. They continued to step over more decayed remains along the way, and she steeled herself against being lost in sorrow or pity. Beyond taking care not to disturb the bones, she did not look right at them.
Her crystal’s light suddenly exposed a black patch on the wall, and she instinctively flinched and swerved away from it. Chane’s hand settled on her shoulder as Ore-Locks stopped and turned.
His gaze fixed on the black spot as Wynn finally saw what it was.
“Charred,” she said quietly, “like it was burned.”
“Look here,” Chane said.
She spun about and found him on one knee beside a skeleton. Its bones were too long and narrow for a dwarf.
“Human?” she whispered.
Shade whined, and Wynn glanced over to see the dog nosing another set of remains. Wynn could see something covering its rib cage. Chane moved over to crouch beside Shade, and he frowned.
“This one’s leather armor is almost intact.” He looked up at Ore-Locks. “These remains are not nearly as old as the others, but there is char just the same. We are not the first to find this place, but these others never made it out. They only got this far.... And what killed them?”
Ore-Locks’s black irises seemed to swallow any light from the crystals. “Perhaps they argued and killed each other,” he said quietly. “Is that not the way of greed among humans?”
“With their weapons sheathed?
” Chane rasped. “And they somehow burned the entire wall first?”
“We don’t have time for this,” Wynn said. “Since we don’t know how they died, we should get moving again . . . with our eyes open.”
In spite of her confident words, she pondered Chane’s questions. Ore-Locks turned away and continued onward. Wynn stroked her fingers over Shade’s head.
“We’re close,” she whispered. “We have to keep going.”
To her relief, as she stepped onward, Chane and Shade followed without argument. But she was well aware that Chane was near the breaking point in his zealous overprotection. Perhaps he’d never expected her to get this far, and she had no idea what might happen when he snapped.
The tunnel soon stopped at a wall, with a sharp turn to the right leading down. At the bottom of a stone ramp, they exited into a larger, open tunnel.
“Is this it?” Wynn asked in alarm. “We’ve reached the bottom?”
She could see only one archway ahead and hadn’t expected their descent to simply stop like this.
Ore-Locks moved quickly toward the archway, looking up. She followed with Shade at her heels. There was something carved over the archway in its topmost frame stones. Holding her crystal high, Wynn spotted the remnants of symbols made of complex strokes.
“Are those vubrí?” she asked.
Certain Dwarvish words weren’t always written in separate letters. The sages’ own Begaine syllabary used symbols for whole syllables and word parts, and might have once been inspired by such symbols. The harsh strokes of Dwarvish letters could be combined into a vubrí, a patterned shape. These emblems were used only for important concepts or the noteworthy among people, places, or things.
Ore-Locks’s eyes narrowed as he tried to see marks that were higher than Wynn’s light would reach.
“Chane, hold your light as high as you can,” she said.
He did as she asked, and she squinted up once more. The symbols were worn and faded.
“I think that one is Wisdom,” she said, pointing. “And that one might be Virtue, but I’m only guessing. The strokes are different from the vubrí I know.”
Ore-Locks appeared to be chewing the inside of his cheek as he started forward again, walking through the archway. Now curious, Wynn didn’t try to call him back, and stepped through.
She’d barely taken three steps inside when Chane rasped, “More.”
They were in a small tunnel now, wide enough for two to walk abreast. Chane held his crystal toward the left wall.
Dwarvish characters and more vubrí filled the wall in multiple columns, just like in the room of “stone words” Wynn had seen in the temple of Bedzâ’kenge—Feather-Tongue—at Dhredze Seatt. Those engravings had chronicled exploits of that saintly dwarven Eternal of history, tradition, and wisdom.
A sense of hope began growing within Wynn. Had they found a temple deep in the bowels of the mountain? If so, what did it mean?
Every few paces, she or Ore-Locks stopped to try to read the symbols, but many of them were too etched by grime and age to make out. Then she spotted one small, clear section and almost gasped.
“Stálghlên . . . Pure-Steel!” she whispered. “And look there . . . that has to be for Arhniká—Gilt-Repast.”
“Bäynæ?” Chane said. “References to the Eternals? On the walls?”
Wynn’s thoughts raced over the implications. Dwarves practiced a unique form of ancestor worship. They revered those of their own who attained notable status in life, akin to the human concept of a hero or saint. Any who became known for virtuous accomplishments, by feat or service, might be graced with a thôrhk and become one of the Thänæ—the honored ones. Though similar to human knighthood or noble entitlement, it wasn’t a position of rulership or authority.
After death, any thänæ who’d achieved renown among the people over decades and centuries, through continued retelling of their exploits, might one day be elevated to the Bäynæ—one of the dwarven Eternals. These were the dwarves’ spiritual immortals, held as honored ancestors of their people as a whole.
“Is Feather-Tongue mentioned anywhere?” Chane asked.
At that, Wynn almost stopped trying to decipher more symbols. Why would Chane ask that?
“No, but give me a moment on this next one.” She couldn’t make it out. “Ore-Locks, can you see any reference to . . . ?”
He was already heading down the tunnel at a fast pace.
“Where are you . . . ? Wait!” she called. “Chane, Shade, hurry.”
With no choice, they trotted after.
By the time they caught up, Wynn found herself standing before a huge set of doors at the tunnel’s end, but they were knocked outward into the tunnel. Each was one piece that must have been hewn from an immense tree trunk. Both had to be over three yards high. But both were broken like twigs by whatever had shattered the mountain peak above.
She stepped through to see Ore-Locks’s expression no longer so impassive. His eyes shifted rapidly.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, but he didn’t answer.
They’d entered the center point of a great hall that ran lengthwise, left and right. It had taken some damage in the catastrophe, but was surprisingly whole. Chane and Shade came in behind Wynn, and the sight gave them all pause.
Six effigies stood in the hall, three lining each longest wall, but as with much of this seatt, Wynn was struck first by their sheer size. All of them were at least twice the height of Feather-Tongue’s effigy at Dhredze Seatt. Even with her crystal, she could barely make out their heads high above in the dark.
She glanced at a large breach in the hall’s right end, but then turned back to staring at the titanic stone statues. She and Ore-Locks both walked farther into the hall’s center for a better look.
“The hall of Eternals,” Wynn whispered.
“And these are all in one place,” Ore-Locks added hoarsely.
In Dhredze Seatt, each Bäynæ had its own temple, except for the three warrior Eternals, who shared one temple.
“The main tunnel down connected directly to the passage leading here,” Wynn noted. “This hall must have been open to the entire seatt.” Then something else occurred to her. “Only six here?” she wondered aloud. “There are nine in Dhredze.”
Ore-Locks appeared as perplexed as she was.
“I will start seeking an exit,” he said.
Again, he turned away, as if the effigies suddenly no longer mattered. He walked over to stand between the nearest two.
Wynn felt Shade press against her thigh, but she watched Ore-Locks. For the first time, it dawned on her that he’d led them directly down here, and yet he’d never been here before. He was doing everything she asked, but always leading them. Was it her purpose that brought them here or his?
Ore-Locks rounded an effigy’s base that was taller than his head and disappeared along the far wall. Wynn turned to quietly tell Chane her concerns, but he wasn’t there.
Chane stood back by the broken doors, studying them, and Wynn hurried to join him.
Upon entering the hall of immense statues, Chane had looked for one without even thinking. Among the six present, none looked like the figure of Feather-Tongue that he knew. Perhaps that dwarven Eternal had been born after the war, lived in the aftermath, and was unknown among either Thänæ or Bäynæ in earlier times.
From what Chane fathomed, Feather-Tongue had been a scholar of the world rather than choosing to stay in any one place to teach. Perhaps he had gone among the scattered dwarves who had escaped Bäalâle, offering his tales and lessons. Somehow, he had proven himself worthy enough to be remembered and been elevated to Bäynæ.
Chane put that puzzle aside, for he had greater concerns. Control over Wynn’s safety seemed to be slipping away with every step. While she studied the effigies, he went to the hall’s far right end, looking into the wall’s great gash.
A raw shaft went straight down, too dark and deep for his crystal’s light to reveal the bottom. It may hav
e always been there inside the stone and was only exposed when the wall had collapsed inward. But though rough surfaced, it seemed too round to be a natural rift. Why would dwarves excavate a vertical passage of such size, leave it unfinished and unusable, only to be exposed by the breach?
Chane turned next to studying the entrance doors. The hall was reasonably intact, so what had broken them? One leaned against the archway’s edge, while the other had been knocked outward into the tunnel, its great hinges ripped from the frame stones. The remains of a rotating iron bar, nearly as thick as his thigh, was still bolted to the door. Clearly, this entrance had been sealed from the inside.
Half the bar was gone, shorn off near the center spin point. Glancing around, Chane spotted the missing half tucked in against the outer tunnel’s wall base. His brows knitted.
The cataclysm might have caused some damage here, but judging by the doors’ inner hinges and that bar, they would have more likely fallen inward. Yet there was the sheared bar lying in the outer tunnel, as if the hinges had been ripped from the stone as the door was forced outward.
“Chane.”
He looked back to find Wynn hurrying over, with Shade trailing her.
“Where is Ore-Locks?” he asked.
She pointed. “He headed off behind that statue, looking for a way onward.” Then she leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Does it feel like he led us here, like he knew where he was going?”
Wynn watched him expectantly.
“That is not possible,” he answered, though doubt crept in. The dwarf had brought them directly to this hall.
“Is he leading us where he wants to go?” Wynn asked, not letting the notion drop. “Does he know more than he’s told us . . . perhaps even about the orb?”
Chane had never truly cared what Ore-Locks wanted here. It had sometimes seemed the dwarf simply wished to know if the seatt was just a myth or if anything could be learned of his long-dead ancestor. It had not occurred to Chane that Ore-Locks might also be seeking the orb.
