The Delving

by Aaron Bunce

  You devoted husband, Thorben

  Thorben read the note out loud, and before he could second-guess the decision, pushed away from the desk and strode back into the kitchen. He set the letter down on the table where he knew she would see it.

  He carried the lantern over to the far wall, dropped to a knee, and pried up a loose floorboard. A small cotton pouch sat in the void beyond, the sparse collection of coins jingling together as he lifted it free.

  Thorben opened the bag and dumped the contents into his palm – half a dozen dull, silver tributes and double that in copper. Hardly the fortune he’d expected after breaking his back almost all hot season, but honest men won’t pay an honest wage to a branded man. Dennica accepted him, why couldn’t they?

  “I’m sorry, my love. I’ll make this right. I promise,” he said, dumping half the coins back into the bag, and stuffed it into his pocket. He dropped the remaining coin on top of the note and left the kitchen, his gaze lingering. A guilty man leaves in the night, he thought, struggling with his parting deception, and that he wouldn’t be able to hug or kiss them goodbye.

  Moving as quietly as he could, Thorben moved upstairs. Dennica slumbered quietly in their bed, the sound of her breathing almost lost amidst the noise of the increasing wind. A storm was building outside.

  He gathered up a satchel, stuffing a change of clothes, a traveling cloak, and a handful of candles inside. A flash of lightning flared outside, the sudden burst of light filling the room. His wife grunted and shifted. Thorben’s breath caught and he froze, but a moment later Dennica rolled over, pulling the lion’s share of the blankets with her. Had he been in bed, he would have likely woken and found himself uncovered and chilled. He wished to be in bed with her in that moment, her body warm against his.

  ”Sleep well, my love,” he whispered, and tiptoed out of the room.

  Thorben stopped by the first door to his left. Four beds were crammed against each wall, a boy slumbering soundly in each, random arms, legs, or blankets hanging precariously.

  His two eldest sons slept in the room across the hall, their door closed as usual. Paul, especially, was a stickler for privacy. He moved quietly to the bedroom at the end, stopping in the doorway.

  Dennah lay backwards on her bed, her feet propped up on her pillow, a cloth doll trapped in a stranglehold. Thorben moved forward quietly. He scooped the blanket off the floor and gently covered her, snugging the knitted bedspread right up to the girl’s chin.

  He skipped over the creaky stair pads, and around the soft spots in the floor, finally leaving the dark house behind. Thorben trekked out into the night, thick clouds sweeping in to cover the formerly clear skies. Lightning flashed overhead as he reached the end of the lane. He turned, bidding his family a final, silent farewell, just as the storm covered the last of the star-covered sky.

  A piercing cry sounded somewhere in the distance, the wind warping the eerie call in its blustery grasp. It was a rootstag, prowling for a mate. Thorben very much wanted to avoid the beast, so he set off at a determinedly fast walk.

  The rain threatened for a while, large, fat drops of water hitting the ground around him sporadically. He heard the storm hit, however, moving like a mountain of water through the forest ahead. Thorben barely had time to pull his traveling cloak free and pull it on before the rain and wind fell over him.

  Thorben slogged his way into town, resolutely marching forward, while second-guessing himself every other step. And yet, he continued forward. He had no other choice.

  He walked into Yarborough, the town shrouded in the dark fury of the storm. The only light came from the street lanterns, their wide, metal hats protecting the flame from the deluge. He found the River’s Mouth Inn after circling the town twice, having walked right by the two-story wooden structure without knowing it.

  The interior of the building was cold and dark. Thorben stood in the entryway, sizing up the space, the rainwater running off of his oiled traveling cloak and pooling by his feet. The innkeeper, Jarvis Gaslight, lay sprawled across the counter just inside the front door, his breathing ragged and loud. He knew him only by reputation – the kind that preceded a man and not for goodly reasons.

  Jarvis was a particularly unpleasant looking man, his narrow head capped with a wreath of greasy-looking dark hair, framed in by oversized ears, and punctuated by a crooked, pointed nose. He looked disagreeable, even in slumber, and Thorben couldn’t imagine him any more enjoyable awake.

  He watched the man sleep for a few moments, contemplating a jab in the ribs to rouse him. After all, it was bad form to enter a man’s home without announcement, but thought better of it and made his way quietly up the stairs.

  The stairwell was narrow and dark, leading him to equally dark and narrow hallways. The first door he came across was painted black, long, irregular cracks running through the wood. Bars and rivets bridged the breaks, where someone had clearly kicked the door in. Thorben passed a blue door, and then a red one. The end of the hallway stood in deep shadow, the lantern opposite the furthest door missing.

  “Still living in shadow, I see,” he whispered, and rapped lightly on the dark door.

  He held his breath as something moved in the space beyond. It was a quiet sound, muffled. Most wouldn’t have heard it, but Thorben had learned long ago to pay attention to the small things. An impatient person would have knocked again, but not Thorben. A second knock in a place like the River’s Mouth Inn could just as likely reward you with a blade in the gut.

  After a rather lengthy wait, the lock clicked, and the door swung in a fist-breadth. Half of Iona’s face appeared in the opening, light from the room glimmering off a short, but very sharp looking knife.

  “Step into the light, or be gone from my door,” he hissed, all of the previous warmth and compassion gone from his voice.

  The darkness reveals the real man, Thorben thought, and stepped forward into the light shining from the room. “I think maybe you should lower that knife and show me the map you spoke of…to the kongelig blöd mounds. But first, I want your word that your offer is on the level…that your healer can remove this,” Thorben said, and wrenched up his sleeve, exposing the heat-scarred skin of his brand.

  A smile spread on Iona’s face as he pulled open the door.

  “Welcome back, Owl. Here, please come in!” Iona said, sliding the knife into his vest and motioning him inside.

  Chapter Six

  Mules and a Mouse

  Iona was packed and they departed the River’s Mouth Inn before the rooster’s first crow. The rain thankfully stopped, but a thick fog moved in, blanketing the trees in a dense murk. It didn’t bother him; in fact, it felt preferable to walking openly out of town with Iona at his side, who appeared eager, almost desperate to put the boroughs behind him.

  They walked in silence until Yarborough was well behind them, passing hastily through the smaller Clivesborough, before stopping in Laneborough. Thorben bought a stuffed bread loaf from a street vendor. He savored each bite, the flavor triggering many memories of his younger days in the boroughs. Iona watched him as he licked the remnants from the paper after taking the last bite.

  “You still eat like a starving man. Is this woman, the one you took for a wife, not a good cook? The Thorben I remember spoke often about finding a woman who ‘has an appreciation for good food’.”

  Thorben crumbled up the parchment wrapper and stuffed it in his pocket, and stopped at another merchant’s wagon.

  “Dennica can work miracles with a knife and spoon…but we’ve seven hungry mouths to feed now. So…” he said, picking through the merchant’s wares. He set aside two bundles of rope, a pair of leather gloves, and a small stone hammer. Thorben hefted the hammer, testing its make and balance, before ensuring the bladed head was properly affixed to the handle. Finally satisfied, he dropped it onto the pile. He couldn’t afford to have his most important tool fall apart opening a cairn or trying to dislodge a door seal.

  “Seven children! Mani truly bless
ed your loins! ” Iona said, loudly. The merchant coughed uncomfortably and quickly glanced around. “That must make you jealous of the younger, unwed men, who fill their bellies with second and third and fourth portions.” His smaller counterpart bounced on his heels, his eyes flitting down the lane.

  Thorben gave the merchant an apologetic smile as he counted out the coin from their meager savings and dropped it into his outstretched hand. A pang of guilt stabbed into his gut as he stuffed the few remaining coins back into his pocket.

  Mani, tell me I am making the right decision!

  “…well!” he turned and laughed, his voice breaking in an effort to sound upbeat, “with the way my young ones eat, I am lucky to get a portion at all.”

  With his new gear stowed, Iona set off north out of Laneborough once again, Thorben struggling to keep pace. The late summer sun rose lazily, gilding the thick layer of fog, before finally burning it off close to midday. Thorben’s side burned a little as they walked, but it didn’t prove detrimental. In fact, the longer he walked the stronger he felt. Iona, however, struggled to keep his fast pace and began to labor, his stiff-legged movements and regular stops speaking of a man more suited to long-distance carriage travel.

  “I’ve not seen a man walk at such a pace…at least one not chasing a girl or a hot meal,” Thorben joked as Iona stopped and sagged against his knees, huffing to catch his breath.

  “I’m just eager…this could be the find that…changes things for us both, Thorben,” he said, and without another word, set off up the road.

  A sign appeared on the right side of the road a short time later. The post looked new, the horizontal crossbeam on top holding four arrows, two pointing north, one east, and another south. Hillborough and Klydesborough lay to the north, Darimar to the East, and home, to their backs.

  “And here is where we venture from the beaten path,” Iona said, and immediately moved into the field to the left.

  Thorben paused on the edge of the road, the long, reedy grass grown wild and almost up to his knees. A thick tree line sat a league ahead, the horizon lost in the rolling, covered hills. He stood on the threshold of the wilderness for the first time in many thaws – the first time leaving his family behind…the first time delving. His hands started to shake, and when he clutched them together, the shiver passed down his arms to the rest of his body.

  He gave a final glance at the road sign pointing towards Yarborough, and set off after Iona’s receding form. They trekked overland for a while before Thorben caught sight of smoke in the trees, the telltale scent of a campfire carrying on the wind. After cresting another few hills, a camp came into view.

  A fire sat in the middle of the clearing, round rocks laid out in a protective ring. Four simple tents sat clustered around the fire, their thick fabric bowing crude, stick frames. Three men stood around the fire, the two facing them looking up as they approached.

  “Iona, we were expecting you moons from now!” the shortest of the three men said, almost jumping over the fire in his haste to greet them. He fit the bill of every mule Thorben had ever worked with, short, stalky, and powerfully built.

  “We made far better time than I originally expected, and we’re all better for it,” Iona said, hesitantly slapping the short man on the shoulder.

  Iona hooked an arm around Thorben’s shoulder and pulled him forward to stand before the three men.

  “Thorben, these are three of my most trusted strongbacks – Renlo, Hun, and Gor,” Iona said, gesturing to the shortest man first, then a man of medium height with short-cropped hair, a severely crooked nose, and muddy brown eyes. The last man, Gor, was massive. His shoulders were wider than his hips, his chest broad with long and well-muscled arms, all supported by legs that looked more like tree trunks. Thorben eyed him up and down, instantly wondering if the man was too large. Tombs were so often confined spaces, and well, size was everything.

  “Aye, we’re strongbacks alright!” the small man, Renlo, said, and laughed loudly.

  “Fellows, this is Thorben. He and I go back ages, and is the most gifted delver I know. He singlehandedly retrieved some of the rarest artifacts I have ever seen–”

  “…and sold for a pretty profit!” Gor cut in, smiling broadly. More teeth were missing than were left in the man’s mouth, and his breath smelled of rotten cabbage.

  “You will follow his lead on this quest. Consider his word my word,” Iona said, ignoring Gor’s interruption, but as he spoke a fourth individual, almost child-sized, appeared from the far tent. Thorben turned his gaze to the young woman as she approached, a bit of unease turning his stomach.

  “Is that to mean you’re not delving with us?” she asked, joining the group.

  “Thorben this is Jez. She will be your mouse,” Iona offered, gesturing to the young woman. Iona dropped his gaze for a moment, his dark eyes clouding over as he refused to meet the young woman’s eyes. “And no. That is why I have an owl, like Thorben here. He knows his way around the crypts, and has an eye for valuable trinkets. Alas, my skills lie with parting wealthy men from coin and making them believe they cannot live without my goods. But I will make the march with you, and once we are within proximity of the mounds we will set up camp…and there I will await your return.”

  To watch the entrance of the tomb and safeguard your investment from walking away, Thorben wanted to add, but smartly kept his mouth shut. He’d learned his lesson at Lamtrop’s. Everything rode on this delving. The last thing he wanted to do now was offend Iona, especially after spending a goodly portion of their savings.

  Iona scattered the group then, the mules and their small, surprisingly young mouse breaking down camp and stowing their goods with evident familiarity and speed. Thorben watched Gor and his two bulky counterparts argue over who would stow and carry the heaviest of gear.

  “To chance, as with all things in life,” Gor declared loudly, and pulled out a large, flat, copper coin. He flipped the shiny coin between his fingers for a moment, the movements deft and obviously practiced, and then laid it flat on his large thumb. A flick sent the coin flipping high into the air, before dropping into his massive palm. Gor slapped it against the top of his other hand and held it out. “A ram’s head it is…better than a thatcher’s bundle. I win,” he said, his voice deep and guttural.

  Renlo went to work, but Hun groused, stopping to pick and then scratch his horribly crooked nose. Thorben turned as Hun’s gaze turned his way, and promptly walked away. He watched the mules finish packing from the edge of camp, keeping tabs on the sword belts, and long, boar spears they hoisted last. The bladed spear points caught the sunlight streaming in from the trees above. They looked freshly smithed and sharp.

  They were marching west again in short order, the three mules, with spear and sword, leading the way. Thorben followed Iona, while Jez drifted almost aimlessly behind. After a time, Thorben held up a bit, slowing his pace and letting Iona gain a bit of distance. Jez tromped by, ducking nimbly under a low-hanging tree branch before jumping and crawling over a fallen tree. He clambered over the tree, struggling to match the young woman’s grace, but managed to clear the sizable trunk without falling on his face.

  “How many times have you delved?” he asked, appraising the girl with a sidelong glance. Her black hair was cut short, sticking up in unkempt tufts. She had relatively close set, brown eyes, thin eyebrows, and a narrow nose. Although she was small, Thorben had difficulty guessing her age. Yes, she looked young, her features delicate and skin unblemished, but there was an age, a weathered quality about her that he couldn’t deny. She was either older than she looked, or was young, and had already lived some hard thaws. He could relate.

  “Never before,” Jez said, simply.

  Thorben continued forward in silence for a few long moments, unsure whether he should speed up, slow down, or kindle the conversation.

  “Jez, is that short for something?” he asked, finally making up his mind.

  “Yes,” the girl said and nodded in response, her e
yes never leaving the forest floor. Thorben waited for a follow up or an explanation, but it never came. The silence stretched between them, until he cleared his throat and cut sideways and gave her some distance.

  It troubled him that Jez was likely the same age as one of his middle sons. He couldn’t fathom ever allowing them to delve, and here she was, tromping through the same woods as him, prepared to violate the same Council edicts that earned him his brand, and with unsavory men, to boot.

  And I was younger than her when I first delved, and probably just a few thaws older when they caught and branded me, he thought, trying to justify her presence, and thus, comfort his disquiet. But it didn’t work. If anything, it made him more uncomfortable.

  Thorben pushed around a scraggly pine tree, the skirt of scratchy branches brown and dry, needles peppering the ground. He took a deep breath, fighting the urge to pull her aside and tell her his story, to beg her to turn and run away. What if she wouldn’t listen? Or what if she did?

  Gor and the other mules marched along ahead of them, making surprisingly little noise despite their size and burden. He didn’t doubt the keenness of their ears, either, nor where their loyalties lay. His gaze caught on their gleaming sword pommels and moved to the long spears held loosely at their sides. They weren’t so unlike Lamtrop’s thug, and Thorben didn’t suffer any delusions. If Iona wished it, the three men wouldn’t hesitate to turn those spears and swords on him.

  Thorben took a step forward, the ground slanting down and away from him into a large, sweeping valley, what looked like a creek at its center. The trees thinned out, the sprawling pines giving way to smaller spindly trees. A breeze blew up through the valley and over him, an earthy, ripe smell tainting the wind. But there was something there, beneath the odor of damp underbrush and silty creek bed, something the previous day’s rain had not washed away.

  Thorben stopped, smelled the air again, and finally recognized it. Rot. Something was rotting in the valley ahead. Although not an unusual thing in the forest, he knew better, his grandmother’s old singsong adage popping to mind – Run the lane, dance the field, but wary cross the stream.