The Gates of Thelgrim

by Robbie MacNiven

  He had panicked, back at the upper dungeon, and he was ashamed of it. He’d known it was possible he would encounter his father when he’d accepted the offer Cayfern had laid out in Frostgate, but somehow he hadn’t imagined it would be this bad. He cursed himself for not picking up on the real risks. One last payoff, he’d told himself, knowing there was really no such thing in his line of work.

  A part of him had wanted to see home, he now realized. To discover what had changed, drawn deeper by the mystery of the city’s silence. He had behaved like a beardless youngling on his first contract, and this was where it had gotten him, shut up with two outsiders above the workshop of some radical tinkerer. He never wanted to see Thelgrim’s gemstone-encrusted streets and arching cavern walls again.

  “Anything out there?” Astarra asked, joining him at the window. He looked up at her and huffed.

  “Nothing that can help us,” he said, before leaving her to gaze down onto the street. He moved across the room, trying to work the ache from his limbs and shoulders. His body was stiff and sore, so he could only imagine how she felt. Dunwarr didn’t tire easily, and hunger and fatigue were usually strangers to their hardy constitution. Deep elves, in their own way, needed little of either food or sleep – he’d heard it said that they could draw directly on the etheric energies their people were instinctively attuned to, using it to revitalize themselves in times of need. He didn’t know how much of that was true, but Shiver seemed to have been able to match him so far. Astarra, however, looked bone-weary. Even the light of her staff had burned down to a dull, faint glow.

  “We should rest,” Raythen said, choosing a spot on the straw-scattered floor and picking up one of the blanket rolls Mavarin had left them. “Sleep. We can decide what to do about… all of this, tomorrow.”

  “Should one of us keep watch?” Astarra asked, turning away from the window. “I don’t trust that Dunwarr. He could have anything planned for us.”

  “I’ll stay up first,” Raythen said, grunting as he lowered himself to the floor. “Then Shiver, then you.”

  He glanced over at the deep elf for his assent, and was surprised to see him sat with his back propped against several stacks of books, slumped slightly to one side, eyes shut and mouth open. He was making a faint rasping noise which, after a moment, Raythen realized was snoring.

  He caught Astarra’s eye and couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “Looks like even cursed deep elves need their rest,” he said. “I’ll wake you when the time comes, runewitch.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Show me this device,” Raythen said.

  “F- Fine, fine,” Mavarin exclaimed, delving into the rucksack he’d hefted up onto the table.

  Shiver was only half listening. He’d picked up one of the pieces of erstwhile scrap lying on the floor around them. At first glance it was a large, dented copper pot with a closed lid, but closer inspection revealed something metallic coiled in its bottom. He sniffed at it and turned it over carefully in his long, pale fingers, trying to sense its purpose.

  “I call it the tuner. You turn it like this, and it gives you a reading,” Mavarin was saying. He’d produced a small, metallic box attached to what appeared to be a repurposed axe haft. Raythen was peering at the series of dials and switches on its face, clearly nonplussed.

  “If this is supposed to be able to show us to runeshards, it should be sensing hers,” he said, pointing to Astarra, who was sitting across the table from them eating a wedge of Dunwarr gritbread and goat’s cheese.

  “It is,” Mavarin said, tapping one of the twitching dials. “See? It’s telling us this room has high dormant readings for the Turning. It’s a sure indicator of runebound shards. A Star of Timmoran will be off the scale. That’s how I was able to locate its presence from the edge of the city.”

  “It makes no sense to me,” Raythen grumbled. “What happens if you’re killed out there in the tunnels? How’re we supposed to find the exact location of the Hydra without understanding this ticking metal box?”

  “Well, the e- easiest solution would be to make sure I don’t get killed,” Mavarin said with a smile.

  He smiled a lot. Shiver had noticed that. It was not the sort of false expression he had sometimes seen humans or dwarfs use to mask lies and hostility, but it was not warm and genuine either. It was a mask to cover what Shiver felt was uncertainty. To the elf, the supposed inventor seemed perpetually on the cusp of surging emotions, and few of them positive.

  He placed the copper coil-pot gently back down on the floor where he’d found it.

  “How far do you think the Hydra is then?” Astarra asked, washing down the last of the gritbread with a gulp of ale. She had recovered much of her spirit after the night’s rest. The reserve that had wavered before the baleful power of the Null Stone was back in place, the fire beneath it rekindled. To Shiver’s own surprise, it saddened him. He had found himself wondering what it was that drove the runewitch, what had really made her take up this task in the first place. Certainly, there was more to it than the simple desire for strength and power she had spoken of before.

  “No more than half a day’s journey into the deeps,” Mavarin said, in answer to Astarra’s question.

  “More importantly, in which direction?” Raythen asked.

  “Beyond the western cavern wall,” Mavarin said, beginning to pack away the device he claimed would help them pinpoint the Hydra.

  “Along the Running Deep, or up and into the old tin mine?” Raythen asked, clearly unimpressed with the incomplete answer.

  “The latter,” Mavarin said, settling his goggles on his head. “Then down, through the Wailing Gap and into the prospector tunnels beyond.”

  “I thought those tunnels had been sealed off?” Raythen said.

  “The barriers are long broken down,” Mavarin responded. “By who or what, I have no idea. All that matters is that’s where I picked up traces of the Hydra.”

  Raythen said nothing more, though Shiver could sense his discomfort. They’d spoken that morning about the possibility of getting out, of abandoning both Mavarin and his self-centered quest. Shiver had concluded that there were no better options than their current course. None of them had any idea how to pilot the strange burrowing device, and that left only the northern and southern entrances to Thelgrim. The latter included the chasm bridge and its fortress, a riddle which even Raythen couldn’t solve, while the former consisted of another fortress and, beyond it, a warren of tunnels called the Northern Deeps that were presumably as heavily patrolled by both Dunwarr and deep elves as the Hearth Road. Besides, that way would only take them deeper into the Dunwarrs.

  They’d decided to follow Mavarin, for now. Shiver could read the discontent that option caused in his companions. For his own part, he was considering departing when they reached the tunnels. It was clear Mavarin had lied about having more locks for him. He had little reason to stay, beyond the fact that he was curious about the activities of the local deep elf clans. He kept remembering the ambush on the Hearth Road, not only the death of the one who had come for him, but also the strange sense of connection he had felt with them all. It was almost akin to recognition, as though he’d known them before. It was an uncomfortable realization, but not one that was wholly alien to him. Many times, some buried part of his consciousness latched onto something that had been driven from his memories. Not everything had been cast out by the purging of his mind on the day he’d been freed.

  He feared that, despite having no memory of it, he’d been here before.

  Raythen was still pressing Mavarin.

  “How are you intending to get to the western wall anyway?” he demanded. “We’re still in the middle of Thelgrim. The streets are practically deserted, except for the Warriors’ Guild. My father will have everyone out looking for us. I doubt it’ll take them long to track us here.”

  “Simple, really,” M
avarin said, casting a mischievous glance at Astarra. “We’re leaving the same way we got in.”

  •••

  It almost took physical force to convince Astarra to get back into the burrower. In the end, she had called up a meditative trance she hadn’t utilized since studying at Greyhaven. It just about made the crushing, shuddering, suffocating experience bearable.

  This time, when she stumbled from the hatch, she wasn’t sick. The stale air of the old mining tunnel they’d broken into could have been the freshness of her homestead’s orchard as far as she was concerned.

  “You’ll get u- used to it,” Mavarin said with his ready grin.

  She didn’t respond. A part of her hated the strange Dunwarr. She forced herself not to snap back as he drew his tuning device from his bag and started to consult it.

  Raythen had lit a torch, and was now crouching by the burrower, priming his hand bow. Shiver stood, apparently as serene as ever, gazing at the mud-caked machine, as though trying to discern the mechanisms that gave it power and motion. Astarra made a point of not looking at it, instead lowering her staff and carefully unfixing the volcanic rock from its tip. She removed it and slipped it into her waist satchel, plucking out the Ignis after it. It was hot to the touch, and she almost shuddered as she freed it – it had been in there for too long. She found that if she used a single rune shard over an extended period – especially the Ignis – its essence began to seep into her soul. It was exactly the sort of risk her teachers had warned her about at Greyhaven. Contact with the Turning via it was a two-way process. After a while, the Ignis Shard would leave her feeling burned-out and hostile, her soul blackened and scorched like the rock shard that helped channel it, her throat parched, skin dry, soul blistered and angry.

  Down here it was tempting to stick with the shard, to rely on the light it cast on the strange, dark realm she had found herself in. She knew she’d been relying on it for too long though. She had to break free. She needed the change, the regeneration, that her other runes offered her.

  She pulled the Viridis Seed from the satchel. The size and shape of a small, smooth pebble, it was inscribed with a spiral marking. As soon as she slipped it into her palm, she felt its power, like the rush of a warm, summer breeze sweeping through the dank tunnel. It reminded her of home.

  She slotted it into her staff, seeing how the inscribed tusker bone had become blackened and cracked from the constant heat of the Ignis. It would reknit and heal over time, just like the blackened edges of her soul.

  She followed the Viridis with the small knot of heartoak root she kept in the satchel. It fitted above the pebble, slotting into the head of the staff. The warm wind blew again, invisible to her companions. She could breathe once more.

  If the power of the runebound shard showed on Mavarin’s tuning device, he didn’t give any indication of it. He had paced a little way up the tunnel, bent over the metal box.

  “Set?” Raythen asked, glancing up at Astarra. She nodded, even smiled.

  “Being in that burrowing engine makes me appreciate open tunnels more,” she said. Raythen chuckled and stood, throwing his cloak back over his shoulder and picking up his torch.

  “What about you?” he asked, looking at Shiver. The elf said nothing, but inclined his head, his expression as serious as ever.

  “I’m picking up strong readings,” Mavarin called back down the tunnel, waving them forward. “We’ve b- broken through in the right place!”

  “Well, that’s a start,” Astarra heard Raythen mutter under his breath. She hefted her staff, feeling the life energies flowing through her, and followed the Dunwarr as he tramped after his erstwhile kin, torch held high.

  The tunnel the burrower had penetrated seemed to be an artery route for what Raythen had described as the western extent of Thelgrim’s past mining activities. It was narrow, but just high enough for Astarra to walk straight, and Shiver if he maintained his slight, natural stoop. The walls were bare dirt, held in check by timber hoardings and occasional iron girders. It was musty and stale, as though it had been closed up for a long time. Cobwebs hung heavy from the struts that ribbed the ceiling, ghostly white in the torchlight. It was certainly a far cry from the splendor of the great cavern city they’d left behind, or the spacious, well-lit route of the Hearth Road. For the first time since leaving the crevasses that had brought them in from the valley, Astarra felt as though she was truly underground.

  They traveled along the tunnel as it sloped, first up, then down. The sounds of their footfalls and their breathing felt unnaturally loud and intrusive. She found herself recalling the time she’d hunted for a Null Stone in the ancient ruins of Sudanya. It had been a city once, but at the time it had felt more like a tomb.

  “Do you sense anything?” she found herself hissing back at Shiver. Just days ago, sharing the dilapidated tunnel with the gaunt elf sorcerer would have made her skin crawl. She still felt a twinge of discomfort with him following directly behind her, but the aura of darkness he seemed to have exuded when they’d first met no longer weighed quite as heavily. She supposed it was because she had seen him exposed, seen him vulnerable before the Null Stone. They’d shared that same trauma, an assault not only on their souls but upon their connection to the magics of Mennara, different though they may be. He was no longer quite the black-eyed, raggedy ghast she had seen before.

  “There is something nearby, yes,” the elf said, his voice a soft susurration in the passageway. “In the subsidiary tunnels, nearby.”

  “Something?” Raythen echoed. “What sort of something?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Shiver responded.

  They carried on. Mavarin would pause every so often and peer at the tuner. Astarra had been thinking about it since he’d showed it to them. As far as she was concerned the Dunwarr was insane, but despite the fact that his workshop appeared full of hundreds of useless, failed experiments, there was evidence he could craft strange wonders. The burrower, though horrifying, stifling and seemingly temperamental, was proof of success, as were the strange little orbs that lit his property’s interior. If he really had invented a device that let him hunt down runestones, even unbound shards, then the possibilities were boundless. She’d been thinking of ways to acquire the device since he’d explained it to them.

  “How close are we?” Raythen asked the inventor as he paused once more.

  “Close,” was all he said. They’d just passed several side-tunnels. Astarra had tapped into the power of the Viridis, the rune of growth making it seem as though the energy of every ancient, powerful forest in Mennara was transfusing her, making her senses keener, her reflexes sharper. She half expected death to come leaping from the shadows of those openings once more, daggers drawn and flesh pale in the torchlight.

  “There’s a crossroads up ahead,” Mavarin said, setting off once more. “The Hydra Shard lies just b- beyond it.”

  The tunnel reached an end, branching out into a confluence of four. The passages to the left and the right were smaller than the one they had come through, only large enough for a crouched dwarf to easily navigate. The third, however, was much larger and included a set of rail lines that terminated at the crossroads. Astarra assumed it would once have been used to haul carts filled with ore up from one of the primary work shafts. It was nearly as wide as the Hearth Road, but its construction was as basic as the other tunnels around it.

  They followed Mavarin to the center of the crossroads. He turned in a circle, looking down at his device, then seemed to decide on a direction. Astarra watched with guarded interest as he strode up to what appeared to be a solid wall.

  “It’s on the other side of this,” he said, finally lowering the tuner and looking up at them.

  “What, you mean buried?” Astarra asked. As tantalizing as the possibility of recovering a Shard of Timmoran was, she didn’t much fancy going back for shovels and picks. “You think someone hid it he
re to retrieve it later?”

  “Perhaps,” Mavarin said evasively, placing his free hand on the bare earthen wall. “I think there’s some sort of cavern or space beyond here.”

  He threw a questioning look back at Raythen, who joined him. Like Mavarin, he placed a hand against the rough wall, then leaned forward and pressed one ear against it.

  “I think you’re right,” he murmured.

  “How can you tell?” Astarra asked, feeling excluded.

  “We’re Dunwarr,” Mavarin said.

  “You’re not miners though,” Astarra went on, struggling to grasp just how innate their understanding of the rock and soil of the mountain was. She supposed it was built into their very being, the way old mister Dellin, who had collected apples from her family’s orchard when she had been a child, had been able to predict the exact day the first southwing flocks would be sighted or when the glade­blossoms would flower.

  “Miners are just Dunwarr who were never good at any real crafts,” Raythen said. Mavarin chuckled, as though they’d just shared some sort of private dwarven jest.

  “We need to split this open,” the inventor declared, pulling off his pack and bending forward to rummage in it. Astarra watched as he drew out a trio of fist-sized orbs made from black metal. Each had a small hole at the top, through which Mavarin poured a strange, black powder from the nozzle of what Astarra had taken to be a drinking horn.

  “What sort of mad devices are those?” she asked. Mavarin looked at her askance for a moment, then smiled.

  “Oh, these aren’t my inventions, sadly,” he said, continuing to fill the black orbs. “They’re blasting charges.”