by Ember Lane
“Makes perfect sense,” said Ozmic. “I can understand it. It tells you exactly where each path, branch of path, and branch of branch of path goes.” He pointed to the other door. “That one is a list of cities and the way to get to them. We dwarves are forgetful so-and-sos, so we put it all in plain sight.”
“So why can’t I read it, then?”
Zenith moved closer to the doors. “Look, this part says, Way paces left down-face one sheer pointy thing next.” Then his fingers blurred. “But this word belongs next to this, and this one down here, this one up here, and so on, and so forth. Once you get them in the right order, you know where you’re going. It’s a code.”
“Yup, you can’t rely on Tongues of Time anymore. Every Bumble, Drungle, and Pimble’s got that talent. You’ve just gotta go that extra pick stroke to keep it all secret.”
“But you can decipher it?” Lincoln asked Zenith.
“I was chained up under Starellion, down where the old dwarves used to dwell. For years on end, I had little else to do except sit and read their babble just to keep me halfway sane. Then one day, I began to figure it all out. Once you understand the trick, it’s quite fun to read. Quite the sense of humor and quite the hatred for goblins too.”
“And gnomes, never ferget we hates the gnome,” Ozmic proclaimed with his arms aloft.
“Apart from Crags, little fella’s all right,” Grimble added.
“Yeah, and Thadius seems okay—likes an ale or two.”
Grimble nodded. “Yep, apart from them two, we hate gnomes.”
Ozmic leaned forward, studying the engravings. “Now, where do we want to go?”
“Forest of Ledges,” Flip said.
“North or south?”
“North.”
“Nope, can’t get you north.” Ozmic sighed, his finger roamed over the door’s scribing. “Or south—must be unstable. Locally, we’ve got Estorelll, Lakevale Pass, or Texacolpo.”
Estorelll, Lincoln was tempted, but not that tempted. That quest to wake it would have to wait—his plate was more than full at the moment, but… Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have a look around? He saw that Zenith was studying the door frantically, his hands roaming over it, darting from one word to the next.
“It can’t be,” he said. “Not possible. All the rocks, the demons, the goblins told me it was destroyed—gone. That as soon as the shaman fell, so the spawn of Ruse rose up and toppled our temples, desecrated their hallowed hall, smashed the effigies of our gods.”
Ozmic nodded. “What I heard too, but it’s still listed and no one’s chiseled it out, so, something must be there, at the very least a way into the forest’s eastern flank.”
“Texacolpo,” Zenith said, and stabbed his finger straight at its carving.
Flip shrugged, as was his way—the prince rarely argued. Lincoln had decided that as long as any decision got Flip headed in his direction of choice, he remained happy. Both dwarves were clearly indifferent and Ozmic shouted, “Texacolpo it is then.” His hand traced an invisible line around the arch. The doors ground inward revealing a downward passageway wide enough for two to march abreast. Lincoln blinked, trying to see farther than the spill of the morning light. Ozmic ambled in first as if he were merely out for a stroll. Flip followed, and Zenith stayed abreast of Lincoln. Grimble entered last, muttered some words, and the doors began to close. Lincoln wrung his last glimpses from the narrowing light until utter darkness engulfed him.
His night vision adapted nearly right away, but only lit up a ten-foot circle around him, and that was mere shades of dirty green.
“Torch?” he queried. “Anyone think to bring a torch?”
“No torches. You must adapt up here so you can see down there,” Ozmic said, ominously.
Lincoln inwardly groaned, but at the same time, he felt too good to worry too much. The extra kick to his health from a new ring always did that to him. He began to focus on all the features he could see, concentrate hard, and get his vision up a couple of notches before they got too deep.
The path narrowed, and Lincoln found himself following the shaman. He differed from Krakus in much the same way that Jin and Forgarth did. Zenith was more of a warrior, though Lincoln had seen no evidence that he bore any weapons at all. Even in the murky light of his night vision, he noticed that the shaman’s shoulders, biceps, and forearms had bulked up in a day as if his body was expanding now that it was out of its stone shell. He walked like a prizefighter about to climb into the ring. He had the swagger, the surety of one who knew he would win.
In fairness, with his own armored coat and boots on, Lincoln understood that feeling. Was he strutting too? he wondered and then became conscious of it. He started walking differently, trying to keep his own swagger down, but something about his getup, his recent elevation to emperor, his council of seven, something about something kept letting that arrogant sway back into his steps.
The path became steeper, forked, and Ozmic veered down one way, discounting the seemingly identical other. Soon another fork, then a side turning, and a set of downward steps. They trod on and on, deeper and deeper, the tunnels endless, the steps ever present. He now had to take those two at a time just to keep up, as though there was suddenly a need to hurry. They fell and fell and fell. Lincoln kept checking his energy in case it had dropped too far, such was Ozmic’s speed.
“What’s the hurry?” he shouted, his breaths heavy.
“You’ll see,” Grimble muttered from behind.
Lincoln’s energy started to plunge, though not just from the exertion of keeping up. It was like the air had no oxygen. He smelled smoke—pipe smoke, and then he understood. Dwarves rarely hurried for anything, but one thing always quickened their stride: ale.
Zenith started to slow, appearing to guess the source of Ozmic’s haste. Strands of gruff conversation floated up. Lincoln smelled food.
“Tavern,” he said. “Are we stopping already?” But before an answer came, the steps widened and ended with Ozmic standing in their middle.
“We’ve been traveling for quite a while—you lose your sense of time down here.”
In the gloom, Lincoln saw around half a dozen six-foot tables, all but one packed with filthy-looking dwarves, and every single one looking up at him. He didn’t know what to expect, but he certainly didn’t expect them to all burst out laughing, turn away, and start talking and pointing at him.
“What?” he said.
Ozmic made his way to the empty table and sat. They all followed suit, and soon a short, fat dwarf served them an ale each. “Is this one of mine?” Lincoln asked, tasting it.
“Dunaric,” Ozmic replied, as if that explained everything. “He arranged to exchange barrels fer some more unique metals. This group is mining titanium fer yer.”
“So, how come they’re laughing at me?” Lincoln said, a little indignantly.
“You’re kinda gleaming pink in yer new getup. Yer stand out like a giant glimp.”
“Glimp?”
Flip roared, nearly falling off the bench. “A glimp—he does look like a glimp.”
Lincoln noticed Zenith was trying his best not to grin too, but he just ended up with a dirty smirk on his face.
“What’s a glimp?” Lincoln asked again.
“A glimp!” the fat, serving dwarf cried. “Our emperor wants to know what a glimp is, and why he looks like one of the wee things!”
“Hail Emperor! Hail Lincoln!” they all crowed.
“This, my king, is a glimp,” said the serving dwarf, kneeling at the head of the table, pulling a cloth from over a lantern and lighting up the whole place.
Lincoln held it up, seeing the little drinking area for what it was, a hollowed-out hole and nothing more, now bathed in a soft, pink light. The lantern had a flat bottom, five sides made of glass, and a little pitched roof that had a small iron eye on the top. A short length of rope attached it to a wooden pole.
“I thought you dwarves didn’t need torches?”
Grimble shrug
ged. “Yer need some light to see something. The glimp here spreads her light along the walls, around corners, up funnels—everywhere. One glimp is enough to light a whole network of tunnels and caverns.”
“Her light?”
“Look closer,” Grimble said.
Lincoln leaned in. A tiny, three-inch high…glimp…stood inside. She had small, pink wings, a slim body—a little like an elf’s—with a tiny, pointed face, and she was pouting, clearly unhappy. “Glimp?”
“Glowing imp,” Flip said. “You rarely see them on the surface, and they’re hard to catch, but they’re cheap to feed and spread their light without smoke. Had one once, but gave it away for certain favors.”
Lincoln passed it back to the dwarf, but he shook his head, indicated the ale and said; “Your eyes aren’t so good, and you can used her in the deep-down. Take her; I can catch another.”
Lincoln made to refuse, but Grimble kicked him.
“Thank you,” Lincoln said instead and set the lantern down in front of him. The little room erupted in another round of salutations to Emperor Lincoln, then settled back to the low grumble it had been when they’d entered.
Lincoln stared at the tiny imp. She glared back at him, backing away and sitting in the corner of the lantern. He mouthed “Hello” at her, and she waved one of her fingers at him, spitting on the floor of the lantern.
“Feisty thing, isn’t she?” Zenith said, leaning in. He untied one of the pouches from his belt and loosened its drawstring, taking a pinch of its powder from inside. He pushed back a tiny hatch in the lantern’s roof and sprinkled the powder in. It immediately began to spark and crackle, the imp swiping at it, grabbing the little grains and stuffing them in her mouth. Once she’d gotten all of them, she knelt at the very front of the lantern begging the shaman for more. Zenith handed Lincoln the pouch. “Two pinches a day—no more, no less—and she will serve you well.”
“Trapped in there?” Lincoln wasn’t sure he liked that idea.
Zenith shrugged. “Give it a few days—two pinches—and you can set her free. She won’t stray far but keep the lantern in your sack for when she wants to sleep.”
“Should I name her?”
“Why? Is her existing name not good enough?”
“Go on.”
“Dink.”
“Her name’s Dink?”
“Certainly the version you could pronounce.”
26
The Shinshin
Dink’s light spread softly before them as their path alternated between downward trails and downward steps. Like Lincoln had been told, it was a strange kind of light that crawled along the walls, almost sticking to them, flowing around curves and down holes. It was, he decided, light with attitude, a little like the imp who emitted it.
They passed through vast caverns, over bottomless chasms, and squeezed down narrow fissures. The underground felt dead, empty, and yet creepy, even foreboding. One minute the air would chill Lincoln’s bones, his breath misting in the soft, pink glow, and the next, a burst of hot air would swirl around them like an unseen wraith and sweat would blister his brow. Sometimes it was deathly quiet, each gently placed footstep ringing around like a battle bell, and others, the roar of a geyser, the tumble of a fall, would fill their ears with thunder.
Even though helped by Dink’s light, Lincoln’s night vision leveled up, and it did so just in time to see a marvel. A set of steps led them out onto a thin ledge that in turn took them to a narrow, rocky bridge. Ozmic marched onto it without a care, the others followed, but Lincoln hesitated, looking over it, and seeing another vast, dwarven entrance.
Like the mountain gates, a gothic arch hemmed in two stone doors, though these were already open. Beyond them, vast columns reached upward. He shuffled over the narrow bridge, unsure it would last the distance. Sneaking a glance over its side, he saw a thin, lava river far, far away.
Looking toward the bridge’s end, he noticed his companions had stopped, fanning out into a semicircle around the entrance. A bitter taste leeched into his mouth, the taste of sweat and steel and something fetid. He saw Flip draw his sword, Grimble pull a hammer out of his sack, and Ozmic draw a fearsome ax. Zenith started stretching, loosening himself. He beckoned Lincoln forward, then pointed to something that Lincoln couldn’t see.
Jogging the last stretch of the bridge, he’d just caught up with them when Flip turned and shouted, “Hobgoblins.”
“We defend from the center!” Ozmic barked, and rushed in.
Lincoln burst after them into a rectangular, columned-lined hallway. He glared around like a cornered rat, trying to spy the enemy. Ahead, an altar stood on a central dais, blocking their way. Lincoln saw Flip jump onto it, his sword in his hand. Ozmic was soon alongside him, his ax raised and ready. Lincoln sprinted down the stone aisle, Zenith at his side, and leapt onto the dais.
The hall was actually a cross, four doors at the end of four corridors—all wide open. The smell grew heavier. Then a groan screamed out from the direction they’d just come from, and Lincoln saw that the entrance doors were being pushed shut by a dozen or more gray-clad things. And gray they were, from head to toe, skin, armor, and all. The hobgoblins were around twice the size of the goblins he’d fought in the banner room. They wore heavy armor and grimaces to match. Long, pointed ears, hairless heads, and glowering gray eyes, these beasts were fearsome, and Lincoln drew his new sword, more than a little conscious of its pink glow.
A clatter rang out to his right and saw twenty or more hobgoblins marching forward. Another eruption of noise to his left told him more were coming. The shout of “Death!” from behind signaled another attack was on its way. Zenith was jumping up and down, and loosening his neck like Shrimp did. A sharp bark, a scream, and a bellow, and his arms spun in a circle, a stream of orange magic bursting out. A ring of fire surrounded them instantly.
“Put the imp away,” Flip shouted at Lincoln. “Its light might have attracted them in the first place.”
Lincoln unhooked her from the carrying pole and shoved her in his sack. The hobgoblins all crowded at the fire’s edge. One first ran through, screaming merry hell, a mace swinging over his head. But the fire engulfed him and he fell, the weapon clattering to the floor. For a second, Lincoln had some hope.
Another burst through, instantly engulfed in scorching flame, but more streamed through the gap in his wake, escaping the flames, and then they all surged. The first in line died a fearsome, fiery death or were crushed by their onrushing comrades. The surges were powerful, and three ranks of hobgoblins crashed into the dais.
Lincoln slashed at them, unable to miss as they pressed forward. He dodged out of the way of their stabs and strikes, easily. With agility, dodge, and his acrobat skill, he worked his way through one hobgoblin after another, clearing himself a space on the dais, then jumping down from the altar, falling into an easy rhythm of slash, thrust, and stab. The hobgoblins were relentless, more joining their gruesome tide.
Bring it on! He cried in his mind. I’m indestructible!
He didn’t even see the bolt of ice-blue magic coming toward him until it was too late. It smashed into his stomach sending him crashing back against the stone altar. His body shivered as the magic riddled him with its crawling force.
Damage! Inistikill has cast an ice-death on you for 75 damage. Your movements will be frozen for 30 seconds and slowed for five minutes until normal again. Damage reduced by 15% + 25% imbued items.
Damage! Hobgoblin level 16 stabs you for 55 damage. Damage reduced by 15% + 25% imbued items.
Lincoln snapped out of it just as another sword stabbed out at him, but his movements were desperately slow. Flip jumped in front of him, and Lincoln felt Grimble’s powerful arms pull him back up onto the altar’s top. He searched out the hobgoblin sorcerer, and saw him lurking by the entrance doors, peeking out from a stone column. He was taller than the others, and clearly hatching another spell—a bowl of green light bubbling in his palms, Inistikill looked up, his gray lips turning
up into a smile.
Flip battled furiously, but even his masterful sword strokes were being beaten back by the savage press. Lincoln pushed himself up slowly, far too slowly. He tried to raise his sword, but it didn’t budge. Zenith touched his shoulder, and the shaman’s warmth flowed through Lincoln, his bleeding side healing, and his movement returning. Finally, he raised his sword and joined the battle again, just in time for an emerald spear of hobgoblin magic to come flying toward him.
Zenith spun around, golden magic spurting from his hands, clashing with Inistikill’s emerald death as it lanced toward them. The shaman’s magic took hold and morphed into a dome around them, the green bolt of light shattering on it. Zenith cocked his arm back, screamed the words, “Ga farag a’tweeth!” His hand shot forward again, a stream of gold bursting from it. It hit the hobgoblin wizard squarely in the gut, and the wizard exploded into a hail of crisped chunks of rancid meat.
A cry went up, but it wasn’t the cry of Lincoln’s victory. It came from all four aisles, and like a swarm, hundreds more dire hobgoblins flooded it.
Lincoln glanced at his grim-faced companions, as one, they accepted their fates. Zenith poured his magic onto the advancing hordes, frazzling countless creatures—their screams filling the vaulted halls. Flip had his bow in his hands and was firing magic-imbued arrows, one after the other. Ozmic’s ax was a blur of silver steel, Grimble’s hammer falling like a metronome. Lincoln’s energy began to wane, chop after chop taking toll, a pile of corpses at his feet. But still more came, a relentless tide of death. He could see no way out. All hope was lost.
A new sound rang out, a piercing battle cry, high pitched among the deep-throated growls all around him. He glanced around in desperation, but couldn’t see where it came from, even chancing a desperate look of forlorn hope at the doorways. A new color joined the ranks of gray. He saw blonds, browns and shimmers of gold.
