Dark Winds

by Christopher Patterson

  “Ah, look at this,” he said. “Bring the light closer.”

  Erik obliged by carefully tiptoeing up to the edge and putting his torch’s flame next to Turk’s face.

  “Closer,” Turk said, and Erik slowly got down on his knees and put his light next to the rock to which Turk pointed. The lighter rock reflected the torch light and a bright radiance, almost like a small star in this black place, sparkled through the darkness. In an instant, it reflected against another strand of the rock, curving like a thin silver hair through the cavern wall across from the company. That light then caught another band, which caught another and then another. Within moments, the mountain lit up like a wave of sunlight, released from dark clouds to crash against a black sanded shore. Now the company no longer needed their torches to see.

  “The gods must’ve hidden some of heaven’s stars right here,” Wrothgard said, “for I have never seen something so magnificent.”

  “A dawning sun on a cool spring morn coming over the calm horizon of the sea cannot match this,” Vander Bim gasped.

  Turk simply smiled. He could see for hundreds of yards in every direction and still could not see the ceiling or the floor of the cavern. The intricacies of the walls, the crags and rocks, the lone ledges and small caves lay bare in the silver light.

  “This is Dwarf ’s Iron,” Turk said. “It is most sought after by miners and smiths alike.”

  Turk continued to inspect the strand of metal, smiling as he did so.

  “Years ago,” he explained, “when men first started delving into the mountains, started realizing the treasures the earth had to offer, well, it wasn’t too long until they found us dwarves—or we found them, whichever way you look at it. I think most people think us a suspicious lot, but we had watched men in secret for many years, and when they stumbled into our mountains, we just figured it was the Creator telling us to help the men. We helped them understand the treasures the earth could offer, how to work with earth and stone, how to mine, how to extract ore from rock. We showed where to find kûhther and siber—copper and silver.”

  He saw Erik mouth the words as he spoke them.

  “We showed you where gold was and how to extract iron. We even showed you how to forge iron into stahl, which you would eventually call steel. But the mountains hold one secret we would not show you. We would not show you how to find Rhimstan, also called Hildenstahl in our northern dialect. Of course, your ancestors eventually found it, but still we dwarves would not give up its secrets, and even then, we did not reveal how to smelt it and forge it.”

  “I have heard of this stone, or metal,” Wrothgard stated. “What makes it so special?”

  “It is so strong, stronger than any other iron or steel men can forge. Even stronger than legendary elf steel,” Demik replied. “A blade made from Hildenstahl can bend farther than any other blade and not break, and yet, it will come back true. To have a dwarf forge you anything from this metal is a treasure you would never receive in ten lifetimes.”

  “No wonder the secret door guards this tunnel,” Turk said, “and no wonder dwarves have been here recently. This is a find that is uncommon, especially in Drüum Balmdüukr. Rhimstan is common in the north, but not here. If those men could get to this, within days, a thousand miners would be here taking it back to Fen-Stévock. It seems Osl was correct.”

  Turk looked at Erik, still kneeling in awe, his torch next to the original strand of Dwarf ’s Iron Turk found.

  “Take your torch away now, young Erik,” Turk said. “The dwarves patrol this area often, I am sure, but there are always things in the deeps of mountains to both be respected and feared.”

  Erik took his torch away and stood. The light slowly dimmed as a wave of darkness took control of the cavern again.

  “How many thousands of years has this cavern sat here, dark and black?” Erik asked.

  Turk smiled. “Many, my young friend. Many. It is good to be home.”

  As they continued, Turk wondered if it really was good to be home. Were there still people in Thorakest who thought him an upright dwarf? They would’ve thought more of him than he thought of himself, even if Nafer constantly admonished him for thinking such things. But he still could not set aside his guilt—guilt for leaving his father to die alone, guilt for leaving his homeland, guilt for selling his skills as a warrior to the highest bidder. His shame seemed unbearable, and he knew there would be those from his city that would not so readily welcome him with open arms.

  Saba saw a single ray of dimming sun poke through a thin hole in the rubble.

  “Put your backs into it, boys,” he cried. “We’re almost there.”

  The ringing of hammers and picks hitting rock quickened as men close to exhaustion pushed themselves past fatigue, sensing open air, sensing freedom.

  Then Saba knew something was wrong. He did not hear the sounds of men working on the other side. No one called to them to see if they could get an answer.

  Rock and rubble began to fall away, and Ryce threw down his pick, digging at a larger pinhole of light with his hands. He pulled off stone, pushed away splinters of wooden beams, anything he could do to get out. Other men followed, ripping away debris now that it seemed loosened.

  “Watch it men!” Saba yelled. “We don’t know how stable the mountain is. Watch it. We might just bring on another cave-in.”

  His miners ignored him, anxious to be free.

  “I said watch it, you fools,” he yelled again. “You might get us killed in here and ...”

  A sharp yell from Ryce cut him off as the wreckage below Ryce gave way, and he tumbled over rock and stone to the outside. The remains of the entrance followed him and covered him with dust and small rocks.

  “Ryce,” Saba called. No answer. He called him again, still with no answer. “Damn it. I told you idiots what might happen if we didn’t do this slow and right.”

  They all worked to remove the rest of the debris, more carefully this time, and within moments, a narrow path was made so the miners could climb through. They all shouted with joy as the waning sun hit their faces and they caught a breath of fresh air, but then their cheers died. They saw Ryce, kneeling and staring, tears streaming down his face.

  Horror. Saba looked to Ryce, then to the camp. So many dead, eaten, torn, ripped apart. They lay in the dying sun, rotting, food for ravens and buzzards. Saba heard the distant calls of wild dogs. The smell of death and rot and blood carried far.

  “What by the bloody Shadow,” Ven muttered, his voice trembling so badly with terror his words barely escaped his lips.

  Saba looked down amidst the entrance rubble and saw Osl’s dead body. He saw Cho’s body, in the distance, lying alone. The miner did not have the heart to walk over to his master and see what happened.

  “We have to leave.”

  “But some of these men had, have families here,” Ryce pleaded.

  “Then if they want to stay, they can,” Saba said loudly so all could hear. “If they are still alive, they have surely escaped north and east, back to Golgolithul, or Nordeth, or Gol-Durathna. If not, then I am sorry, but I am not waiting here.”

  Saba spotted a good-sized brown gelding—white stripes running between its eyes to the end of its nose—still tied in the camp’s stables. The animal seemed skittish as the man neared it, but seeing that he was not a troll, neighed and pushed its nose into Saba’s outstretched hand.

  “Will you flee with me, my friend?”

  The neigh and bobbing head were enough affirmation for the miner. He mounted the horse. Behind him, he heard other horses. He looked over his shoulder. Van and Ryce had also found horses. They followed, along with several others. Some men searched the rubble, searched the dead. One cried. Saba looked to his left. One of his men threw himself onto a broken spear, jutting upwards from the ground. His family must’ve been dead. He must’ve had nothing left to live for. Saba felt sadness, pity, but he wasn’t waiting around to mourn. He fled north, some of his miners following, away from Aga
Min, away from death.

  They had walked perhaps half a day’s travel, it was so hard to tell in the mountain, when Turk stopped the party and knelt, feeling the tiled ground. Bryon sighed with relief, rubbing his legs.

  “This road has seen little use recently,” Turk said.

  “Does that worry you, dwarf?” Wrothgard asked.

  “I don’t know,” Turk replied, “yet.”

  A dwarf worried in a dwarvish tunnel. Bryon didn’t like the sound of that. The whole point of joining up with the dwarves was the very fact that they could navigate these tunnels and get them to the lost dwarvish city without incident. Just then, Bryon heard a sound. It might have been dripping water in the distance—simple wetness collecting on the ceiling before plummeting to the ground—or a loose rock tumbling from the wall. Whatever it was, Bryon’s hand went to his sword, drawing it from its scabbard.

  Bryon would’ve run away from himself if he could. Certainly, everyone else in his party stepped several paces back from the young man. A purple glow, bright and brilliant, reflected along the farmer’s face, shining on his wide eyes. Scared eyes.

  “Blood and guts and magic wands,” Switch said. “I can’t believe I missed that.”

  “What is it?” Befel asked.

  Bryon just shook his head.

  “Magic.” Turk moved closer to Bryon. “What kind, I do not know, but definitely magic.”

  “Did you know about this?” Befel looked at his own sword, the one Bryon had confiscated for him. He pulled it halfway from its leather scabbard, and it clearly didn’t glow with any magical brilliance, but, he looked nervous.

  Bryon shook his head again.

  “A magic dagger and now a magic sword…I don’t like it,” Vander Bim said, glancing furtively at Erik.

  “There are worse things to worry about,” Wrothgard said. He didn’t seem remotely concerned.

  “Let us move,” Turk commanded. Bryon, looking almost ashamed, began to sheath his sword. “Bryon, keep your sword unsheathed. I am sure the extra light will be welcome.”

  They did indeed come across intersections and other passageways, but they did as the Dwarvish directions said and continued straight. It seemed that they had walked for days in this road hewn from the mountain rock when Turk finally stopped the party at an area of the road that widened and created an intersection of five other roads.

  “We will camp here.”

  Chapter 27

  A FIRM SHAKE WOKE BRYON, and he found himself looking up at Demik’s face.

  Bryon sat up to see Turk standing in the middle of the companion’s small encampment.

  “I will be continuing from here with just Nafer,” he said. “Demik will stay with you until we return.”

  “I don’t know,” Vander Bim said. “I don’t like the thought of splitting up.”

  “Dwarves are not above setting traps,” Turk explained. “It will be easier to spot them with just two dwarves.”

  “One of us should go with you,” Vander Bim said.

  “One of you men, you mean,” Demik said.

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Turk,” Vander Bim said, “but I think it only appropriate.”

  “I don’t trust you,” Switch muttered. It sounded as if he meant for everyone to hear him, even though he kept his voice low. “Why should I?”

  “I do trust you, master dwarf,” Wrothgard said, “but I agree with Vander Bim. One of us should go with you. I will go.”

  “No,” Turk replied. “You need to stay. You are the most seasoned warrior besides Demik.”

  Turk looked around to his companions. His eyes stopped on Bryon.

  “I will take Bryon with us,” he said.

  Bryon’s heart stopped. It hadn’t been uncomfortable in the tunnel, but suddenly sweat pooled around his neck, his face grew hot.

  “Good choice,” Wrothgard said. Vander Bim nodded his head in agreement.

  “Don’t I have a say in this?” Bryon asked.

  “You don’t want to go with us?” Turk asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bryon said with a shrug. “I don’t know what good I will be. Why not take Vander Bim?”

  “We have a limited number of torches,” Turk said. “We can take Nafer’s torch and then use your sword for light.”

  Bryon nodded reluctantly, stepping forward and unsheathing his sword. The purplish hew seemed stronger than before.

  They walked briskly for more than an hour when Turk abruptly stopped, Bryon almost tripping into him. Turk looked at the mountain wall to his right, almost sticking his nose against it. Bryon brought his sword close, illuminating a myriad of markings that looked oddly different from the directions etched into the tunnel walls up to this point.

  “They look . . . different.” Bryon poked his face closer, almost next to Turk’s face. “What are they?”

  “Runes.” Turk brushed his hand along the writing. “These are commands, written in our old tongue, a runic tongue. It’s a language most southern dwarves do not know. I only know it because of my pilgrimage north. I am almost certain I have walked this road before, and I have never seen these here.”

  “Maybe you just missed them,” Bryon said.

  “No, I would not have missed these,” Turk said. “Nafer, have you seen these before?”

  The other dwarf just shook his head.

  “Is that bad?” Bryon asked.

  Turk shrugged. “It’s a warning. It could be bad for those who don’t heed the warning.”

  “Warning for whom?” Bryon asked.

  “For anyone who is not a dwarf,” Turk replied.

  “Do men read Dwarvish runes?” Bryon asked.

  “This is not here for men, my friend,” Turk replied, shaking his head. “This is here for . . .”

  He stopped again, falling silent. A moment later, he said something to Nafer in Dwarvish, and Nafer’s reply sounded anxious and angry.

  “It is a trap.” Turk took a quick step back, holding one hand out to Nafer and placing the other one in the center of Bryon’s chest. “A magical trap.”

  “I thought dwarves didn’t like magic,” Bryon said.

  “Just because we don’t like something doesn’t mean we don’t recognize its benefits,” Turk replied.

  Turk motioned for his two companions to follow him. They walked slowly, inspecting every stone in the mountainside. They could not have walked more than a hundred paces when Turk stopped again. He, again, inspected the mountainside and found more runes—the same, more warnings, more signs of a trap. Then, they started walking again, slower than before.

  “This is ridiculous,” Bryon whispered. He felt constricted, like the darkness—despite the light from the torch and the purplish glow of his sword—was weighing in on him.

  After a long while, the tunnel became a wide hall with carved stones visibly marking two sides of a street. Statues adorned both walls, crafted and placed into small alcoves. All of them were of stout dwarf warriors armed with battle armor and holding a mighty axe or sword or hammer.

  “The artistry here is . . .” Bryon said, voice trailing as he gazed at the expertly carved statues.

  Turk suddenly stopped Bryon and Nafer, shoving his rugged hand into Bryon’s chest. The torch Nafer held and Bryon’s sword glimmered off something lying on the floor. Turk inched towards whatever it was and eventually knelt down. Bryon heard him give a loud chuckle and then say something again to Nafer. Nafer replied with quiet laughter of his own. Turk motioned for Bryon, and he slowly walked to the dwarf and found him kneeling next to a large lizard. Its skin was dark-gray, like mountain rock, and its body the size of a large dog. Its head was gone.

  “What, by the Shadow, would hunt this?” he muttered.

  Nafer snapped at Bryon in his native language, and Bryon stepped back.

  “Do not invoke the Shadow down here,” Turk said. “Things that live for and serve the Shadow live down here. Now, about this thing. Lizards are common in these areas of the mountain, although they seldom
come close to dwarf settlements.”

  “I thought you said we were safe camping in the dark,” Bryon said.

  “Oh, these creatures will not come near any man or dwarf,” Turk reassured. “Though, they could hurt, if not kill, a single dwarf. Look at it claws.”

  Bryon stared at the lizard’s feet, bearing five toes ending in curved, long, black, claws.

  “Some dwarves domesticate these creatures,” Turk explained. “They aren’t as easy to train as bears, dogs, or wolves—but when they are set to something, like protecting what they see as their family, they can be vicious foes.”

  “Was this a domestic lizard?” Bryon asked.

  “No,” Turk replied. “It would have a collar bearing its clan’s name if it was.”

  Bryon saw the severed head, and it was fresh, its spilt blood still wet. Bryon saw the nearest stone statue—a dwarf with a long beard, an impressive breastplate, and a long-handled battle-axe clutched between both hands. The stone blade of the axe looked . . . wet.

  “It is fortunate that you have dwarves with you, no?” Turk asked with a smile.

  “And why is that?” Bryon asked.

  “This poor creature seemed to walk into a trap meant for something . . . or someone else,” Turk replied.

  Bryon gave him an odd look. Turk stood up and walked over to the nearest statue. He placed his hands together as if he were going to pray and closed his eyes. He then opened up his eyes. He took a silver coin from his belt purse and placed the coin at the foot of the statue. Then he grabbed his knife from its sheath and sliced a small cut in his left palm. He squeezed his hand over the silver coin, causing a few drops to drip onto the money. Nafer followed Turk, repeating the same steps.

  Both dwarves, together, recited something in their own language. The wall that held the statue shook, and gray smoke, a barely visible mist, surrounded the stone carving. A blue light filled the stone dwarf ’s eyes, and its head began to move so it could look at Turk. It slowly turned its head to Nafer, then to Bryon, and then back to Turk.