Cho batted away a spear with his large shield and swatted away another one with his mace. He caught a hard jab in the head, and his scalp split in a rush of blood. Bite marks and dents began to mark his armor. Eventually, one troll ripped his shield off his arm, and he had nothing left but his weapon and a suit of armor that was now falling apart. He remembered his cuirass holding up better in his younger years. Back then, it was fresh off the forge; the steel was strong and the leather strapping that held it together new. No matter.
Cho looked to the dead guard, the last to stand with him, and smiled. “I’m going to shove this mace up your asses!” he screamed.
He charged into the waiting arms of three large mountain trolls. He managed to draw blood, but the trolls beat him to the ground in only a matter of minutes. He stared at the clear sky above.
“At least I died in the open air,” he said through labored breaths. “So many of my brothers have died under the earth. This is a better way to go.”
Chapter 24
SORBEN PHURNAN WALKED TO THE entrance of the mine.
“Damn,” he yelled. “Stupid animals. Now we cannot enter the mine.”
He slapped one of his trolls with the broad side of his sword, and it recoiled back in fear. He pulled his purple cloak closer around him as he walked through the camp. Blood soiled the ground, and he stepped around the bigger puddles, trying not to dirty his sandals.
“Stupid animals or incompetent leader?” a voice behind him said.
Sorben spun, sword ready to strike down whoever spoke those words, but saw Bu standing there.
“Several weeks ago, I would’ve had your head for saying such things,” Sorben said.
“And several weeks ago,” Bu replied with a smile, “I would not have said it.”
“What are you doing here?” Sorben Phurnan asked.
“Checking up on you,” Lieutenant Bu replied.
“On whose orders?” Lieutenant Phurnan asked.
“The General’s, of course.” Bu smiled again. “I am also to bring any prisoners to him.”
“We have these three. That is all,” Sorben Phurnan said. “One of them is a nobleman. House of Gházjûka.”
“This is a good prisoner to have,” Bu said.
“It is a lesser house,” Lieutenant Sorben Phurnan said. “I was going to feed him to the trolls.”
“But you said . . .” the nobleman said. That was all the prisoner was able to say before Bu’s gauntleted fist struck him across the face and sent him reeling to the ground.
“You will speak when asked to speak,” Bu commanded. “He will not be food for the trolls. Nor will these other two. Give them horses. They will come with me.”
Sorben Phurnan clenched his fists and ground his teeth.
“My lord, we have two more,” a purple-cloaked soldier said, pushing a richly-robed bald man with lazy eyes and pulling an elderly man with gray, wispy hair and a slender, if not almost emaciated, frame.
“Who are you?” Bu asked before Sorben could do the same.
Who does he think he is? Sorben Phurnan thought. He wanted to punch Bu or command his trolls to eat him.
“Li. Master Cho’s seneschal,” the lazy-eyed man replied.
“He is no master,” Sorben cursed, but Bu put his hand up to silence him.
“Do you wish to live?” Bu asked.
“Oh, very much so,” the seneschal Li responded.
“And what of you?” Bu asked the thin, gray-haired man.
Sorben thought he was going to answer the Lieutenant, but as soon as he saw the dead body of Cho, he began to weep uncontrollably. Sorben Phurnan saw Bu shake his head, and the guard dragging the man brought his blade down hard along the back of the man’s neck.
“I will take this seneschal with me as well.” Bu turned around and looked at Sorben with hard eyes. His eyes trailed down to the Lieutenant’s hand, the one grasping the handle of his sword. Bu smiled.
Bu did as General Patûk Al’Banan commanded and he left, prisoners in tow. As the small party moved away, Sorben Phurnan walked to Cho’s body, spat on it, and kicked it as hard as he could.
“That will be your body one day, Bu.”
Chapter 25
WHEN ERIK FIRST ENTERED THE mountain, the air was thick, warm, and constricting, but now it had cooled and become a more constant temperature, reminding him of a cool summer night back home. He asked Turk about it.
“Natural vents,” Turk said. “As the air outside heats and cools, the air in these tunnels moves as well, replacing old air with new air.”
Running off the main tunnel were dark and seemingly unused side tunnels, all sheared with the same oak beams. Even though they looked safe, the dwarves encouraged a speedy trek down the main shaft of the mine until the tunnel eventually forked. Two lanterns hung from iron hooks screwed into one of the wooden shore beams running along the ceiling, illuminating the tunnel to the left, a wide tunnel with a heavy cart sitting at its entrance. As they looked down the tunnel, which took a slightly steeper grade than the one they were on, they saw at every twenty paces another two lanterns hanging from iron hooks on either side of the wall. Erik wondered who had lit them but didn’t voice the question.
Almost perfectly in between each set of lanterns were more vertical shoring beams holding the tunnel to form, and at least as far as they could see, horizontal wooden shoring beams supported the ceiling by running with the tunnel in the ceiling’s corner, with cross beams every two or three feet. A thick rope lay coiled next to the cart and another rope pulled taut at chest level ran from a wheel pulley, firmly attached to the mountain wall by an iron plate and four iron screws, down into the steep tunnel. A simple hook anchored its end to the floor.
“Must be attached to another cart down there somewhere,” Turk said.
The right side also boasted heavy timber braces and two lanterns illuminating and supporting the entrance, but that was it. The walls were narrow, and it looked sparsely used.
“Which one do we go down?” Vander Bim asked in a whisper.
Everyone looked to the dwarves.
As Turk started to answer, Demik hushed him and held up his hand, signaling the others to be quiet as well.
Erik leaned forward and closed his eyes as if that would help. He heard the ring of iron picks against stone. Then, he heard voices carry from somewhere beyond, somewhere deep in the lit tunnel, echoing off the walls. That was who lit the lanterns.
“Damn it,” one said, voice amplified by the hollow tunnel, “that damned Cho said he would have us relieved by now.”
“They’re always late,” said another voice amidst the clanging and chittering of pickaxes and shovels and hammer, “Osl’s crew is.”
“Aye, and yet, Cho’s favorite,” said the first voice.
“Piss on him I say,” said yet a third voice. “He can stuff his damned cursing and damned barked orders and his damned grunts of disapproval, and his damned ugly face for that matter.”
“Ole Osl,” continued the third voice, “is supposed to break through that other tunnel. Ten weeks crews have been trying to break through that damned rock, and he thinks he’s going to do it in one shot. Piss on that I say. He says there’s Dwarf ’s Iron in that tunnel, that’s why the wall’s so hard. Piss on that, too.”
“What are they talking about?” Erik asked in as hushed a whisper as possible.
Turk put his finger to his lips. The littlest sound in these tunnels could sound like war drums reverberating against the walls.
“What was that?” the first voice said. Their picking stopped.
Switch turned on Erik, fist clenched, jaws tight and flexed.
“It’s nothing,” said the second. The sound of iron against stone said they had gone back to working.
“Well,” the third man’s voice elevated as he spoke, “if someone is here and it’s Osl, he’d better hurry up.”
“I heard Osl say once,” echoed the first voice, “that dwarves used to use these tunnels all the tim
e. He said old Cho just stumbled across them, unrefined cave tunnels full of iron ore and copper, and turned it into a mining camp. Old Osl said dwarves used to spy on us from here. Supposedly, Cho even ran into a couple of tunnel rats once—lopped their heads right off according to his manservant, Anton. Kept their beards as trophies.”
“Hush you fool,” the third voice reprimanded. “You don’t talk about dwarves in these mines. It’s bad luck.”
Erik saw Demik’s hand tighten around the handle of his broadsword and Turk catch his wrist. Turk nodded down the right passage, the dark one that was narrower. They had barely walked a few moments past the edge of the torches’ light when the tunnel dead ended.
“Oh great, tunnel digger,” Switch said. “Fine job you did of leading us.”
Turk ignored the thief and ran his hands all around the walls and the rock face that ended the tunnel. It looked uneven and rough, not refined and smoothed like the walls and ceiling. Dust and pieces of stone and rock lay at its feet. The holes from miners’ attempts to chip away the rock dotted its surface. Turk continued to search the crude wall, getting down on his hands and knees. After a moment, he grunted and chuckled.
“When I heard them say,” Turk said, still on his knees, “Cho found these tunnels and that they used to belong to dwarves, I knew we had found the entrance.”
“The entrance to what?” Erik asked.
“I probably shouldn’t say the entrance, but an entrance—to our lands in Drüum Balmdüukr. Dwarf tunnels normally have openings not so evident to the naked eye, especially gates into our lands.”
He stopped talking as he reached about the bottom of the wall now, feeling about, grunting as he did so.
“One of the things we pride ourselves on,” he said with a last grunt, “is secret doors made of what those men called Dwarf ’s Iron and made to look like cavern walls.”
A quick click sprung up from the floor, and a hissing sound like steam escaping a geyser, echoed through the tunnel. The door creaked and scraped, stone against stone, and Turk turned around to his companions and gave a broad smile, making sure Switch was the first to see.
“So,” Switch said.
Turk turned back around and pushed on the wall. It slid backwards a pace or so, producing a small opening, and as it did, a sudden gust of wind howled through the tunnels, almost extinguishing the party’s torches.
“That ought to frighten those fools plenty well,” Vander Bim said.
Turk slid through the opening, the rest following suit. Erik and Demik were the last to go through. The young man looked back at his dwarf companion, eyes wide, sweat building along his brow.
“Go,” Demik insisted.
Erik didn’t move.
“It will be all right.” Demik’s tone was a little softer. “Go.”
The other side of the secret door was much different from the areas the miners had touched. The walls looked rough and ancient, curving with the natural motion of the mountain. They became narrow then wide and then narrow again. The ceiling was rounded instead of squared, allowing the formation of small stalactites. The ground, as well, remained uneven, dotted by clusters of stalagmites here and there.
“This is so different,” Erik said. “It looks as if no one has been here for a while.”
“Oh,” Turk explained, “dwarves have probably been here more recently than you think.”
“We pick naturally formed tunnels,” Demik said. “We allow the earth and mountain to tell us where to go. We do little to our tunnels, as little as possible. You can see we rounded the ceiling, that’s about it.”
Nafer rubbed his hand along the wall, and his fingertips brushed the edge of the ceiling, just low enough for him to reach. Erik could see a smile creep across his face in the dim light. The dwarf grabbed the young man’s wrist of his torch hand and pulled it close to the wall. There, Erik could see etchings, runic carvings. Nafer said something to Turk in his native language.
“They are simple directions,” Turk said, a smile also on his face. “This one tells traveling dwarves to keep this door closed.”
Turk and Demik pushed the door closed, as the directions said. It made a loud yet dull banging sound like that of a bass drum. They continued, their pace quickening with the excitement of the dwarves.
“Ah,” Turk sighed, “we will be at the entrance to my people’s kingdom soon.”
“How long?” Wrothgard asked.
“One week,” he replied. “I know it seems like a while, but our pace will be less than half that of surface travel. We’ll be lucky to walk three leagues a day, and most of that will be up and down as the tunnel shifts.”
“Will we have enough food? Water?” Erik asked.
“Oh, yes,” Turk replied. “We will have to be careful, but after our resupply in Aga Min, we should have enough.”
“Your cities really are not that far from the lands of men,” Befel said.
The dwarf chuckled a bit. “No, we keep well hidden from men and other things. You just need to know which turns to make, which rocks are not so real. As you can see, my people have watched these miners for some time now, hiding by cover of secrets and shadows.”
“Kind of like a thief. Eh, tunnel digger,” Switch said.
Turk grunted, “No, I think not so much like a thief.”
Switch giggled at his pestering.
“They will eventually get too close, though,” Demik said, “mining farther into the mountain. It will be war.”
“War?” Erik’s voice cracked at the word.
“Demik,” said Turk, his tone disapproving, “that’s enough. Men and dwarves have not been friendly with one another for many years—and many inequities have been done on both sides—but there have been serious hostilities.”
The dwarves seemed to argue for several minutes when Erik heard a throat-clearing cough from Wrothgard. Turk and Demik stopped and looked to the soldier.
“Perhaps we should be moving,” Wrothgard suggested.
Turk nodded and led the party deeper into the mountain.
“What was that?” the young miner asked.
A howl echoed through the tunnels and a gust of wind, as if a storm brewed within the confines of the mountain, hit his face.
“Hush,” Saba, the senior miner for this group, commanded. His eyesight was almost gone, but his other senses took its place. He listened intently, rough hands cupping around his ears, and the gray hair that surrounded them stood on end. He took one hand away and wiped sweat from the tip of his nose. Another roar rattled through the tunnel.
“Piss on this,” Saba said, “we’re getting out of here, Osl or no Osl.”
He and two other men, the young miner and an older easterner ran to the entrance of the tunnel they mined, gripping their picks just in case they had to use them as weapons. They stopped at the tunnel’s fork, and Saba stared down the right passageway, hearing something that sounded like the sliding of stone. He continued towards the surface, heart pounding and feet faster than before. Each causeway they passed, some with lit entrances, and some shrouded in the blackness of the mountain, Saba would stop and call down to the men who worked that part of the mine. Only moments after the call at each tunnel, three or four men came rushing up to Saba and his two companions, lanterns in hands, and picks, hammers, or shovels gripped tightly.
As they neared the entrance, fifteen men in all, they didn’t see the normal brightness they yearned for after a week underground. In fact, the tunnel grew darker—and then they saw it, the fear of every miner. A mess of boulder, rock, and wood blocked the entrance. Two dead men, miners from Osl’s crew, lay in front of the rubble, and an arm, cut and bloodied, protruded from the wreckage, the rest of another body imprisoned.
“Come on!” cried Saba, his voice commanding. “We need to clear this out.”
“Ryce, Ven,” he called to the two men who worked with him. “Go back and get some wood braces so the ceiling doesn’t cave in again as we clear the entrance.
They ra
n back, and as they did, the rest of them put their shoulders and backs to clearing away the entrance of the mine.
Chapter 26
A DAY’S HIKE, A NIGHT, and then half a day brought them to a change in the cave. The channel they walked through slowly opened into a large cavern, with ceilings so high the torchlight didn’t reach it. A small fissure appeared on the floor, which eventually widened into a larger crack and split the cavern in half. Turk instructed them to walk on the right side, and it was a good thing. That crack became a chasm wide enough that the other side grew invisible, as did the chasm’s bottom. The floor turned into a ledge wide enough for single file marching, almost a catwalk along the dark gorge. Erik wanted to look over the edge, curiosity eating at him, but he remembered what Rory had said, “Curiosity skinned the gnome,” and elected to stay where he was, his shoulder almost brushing against the cavern wall.
Erik looked up every once in a while, even though he could see nothing. He wondered how the ceiling kept from falling on them, and how this great chasm in the center of the mountain came to be. It was so wide and open, and yet he felt as if he sat in a jail. He could only move but a few feet to his left before he would be tumbling to his death in the blackness.
“I am surprised at how comfortable the air is in here,” Erik said. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. The air in the cavern was certainly damper.
“Aye,” Wrothgard agreed, “although the moisture in the air is going to make my breastplate rust if I don’t get some oil on it soon.”
“A good set of dwarf armor could last months in this climate without rusting,” Demik said with a disapproving grunt.
“And what climate makes you shut up about good ole dwarvish this and good ole dwarvish that?” asked Switch. “What it would be like to be a tunnel digger? Life would be just bloody grand.”
Demik groaned loudly, and Erik chuckled silently, although he refused to show the dwarf he thought Switch’s comments funny.
Turk bent over the edge of the walkway, steadying himself with his left hand and pointing at a dull, wide, silvery line that contrasted against the black slab that made up the mountain cavern. He rubbed his rough, dwarf hands over the cool, smooth rock.
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