The Delving

by Aaron Bunce

  How? There is no way it could have covered the distance…not that fast.

  Jez pulled him again. He moved to follow her into the cave, struggling to tear his gaze away from the specter. His foot caught, and he tripped, stumbling forward. He turned, catching sight of Jez ducking into the darkness, a jagged stalactite hanging between them. He felt his face hit the stone, an explosion of color washing over his vision, and then everything went black.

  * * * *

  Bang – crack. Crack – bang. Somewhere nearby, a hammer struck a chisel. Thorben felt his gut tighten at the sound. It was strange, he could feel it, the revulsion, but couldn’t see his own body.

  Bang – bang. Bang – crack. Boom. A flicker of light blossomed to life not far ahead, the darkness parting like a thick curtain.

  The light grew stronger, a foul smell filling his nose. Thorben straightened and coughed, throwing his hands out to either side. He caught both sides of the claustrophobic tunnel and pushed, struggling and straining, fighting against an almost instantaneous stab of panic.

  It was the Council’s mine. The same damn mine, the tunnels crowding in around him, their weeping stone and stinking tunnels a burden he’d never forget. He was back. How was he back? His arms gave out, and he fell to his knees, the porous stone jagged and unforgiving.

  Thorben lifted his right arm, the sleeve of his filthy, tattered shirt falling down past his elbow. That damn shirt. The only one he’d been able to wear for six long thaws. Pink, angry flesh appeared in the tunnel’s dim light, his brand so fresh it almost glowed.

  “No…no…no,” he moaned and slapped his hands over his face. How was this possible? How…?

  Bang – crack. The stone shook as men pounded with hammer and chisel, extracting ore from the rock, smashing chisel and flesh in equal measure. The smell grew closer, more intimate. It wasn’t just the unwashed bodies and sweat, but the sour pang of fear and despair, mixed with rock dust and blood. The smell is death.

  His stomach rumbled hollowly. It was a hunger unlike any other, a bottomless need that tainted every thought and movement. It was a hunger that followed a man the rest of his life – a hunger more intense and intimate than any pleasure he had, or ever would, experience.

  A man howled somewhere ahead, his cries of pain and anguish reverberating off the close walls. Thorben willed him to be silent. Noise only brought on the guards, and their lashes bit deep, regularly flaying flesh from bone. His pain was their pleasure.

  He pulled his hands away and glanced down at his other arm. He numbly picked at a scar on his forearm, remembering the whip’s sting clearly enough.

  “I don’t under…stand,” Thorben muttered, a sob working its way up from his belly. “How am I…here? Did I just dream it all? Is my family just a dream? Was none of it real?”

  The thought gripped him with a crippling wave of despair, the stinking stone reaching up to grab him. Tears ran freely, covering his cheeks and falling to the stone. Thorben pushed himself up and wiped his face. He heard it. He definitely heard it.

  “H-h-hello!” he croaked weakly. Damn his voice. Damn him for sounding so weak.

  Thorben crawled to his feet and ambled forward. The mine tunnel curved to his right, a man coming into view, his back and shoulders heavily stooped, his body splayed out, legs and arms twisted in painful looking knots. His back was to Thorben, the skin pocked and scarred from disease and the whip.

  “Ugghh.” The scratchy voice echoed out of the tunnel ahead, the prone man shifting slightly.

  He tried to crawl around the prone man, but there wasn’t room in the tight tunnel. If the guards showed up while he was trying to help him, they were just as likely to flay Thorben as well. He looked up and down the tunnel, struggling to remember the layout, and then turned just as the elderly prisoner moaned softly, the words muffled and unintelligible. His ribs showed with every wheezing breath.

  “What? I can’t hear you,” he whispered. The old man mumbled again, but like before, he could not make out the words.

  Thorben cursed and crouched down, carefully untangling the old man’s legs, vigilantly avoiding the open sores. Snotty corruption seeped out of the boils, leaving bloody trails across his pale flesh. Pocks killed more men in the mines than starvation or guards, and Thorben was eager to stay clear. He hooked a hand around one shoulder and rolled him over, while lifting to help him to sit. The old man’s head rolled around, his thick, white beard gathered up in a single tie, bits of food and rock still trapped in the unkempt mess.

  “Zoocah Meaguel,” Thorben whispered, remembering the old man’s name. He was a particularly withered old crone, even when he first arrived at the mines in Darimar. He’d spent so much time under the ground that his healthy, sun-kissed Ishmandi skin was paler than even Thorben’s, his black hair white as freshly fallen snow. The mines hadn’t just broken him, but consumed him, body and soul.

  But Zoocah died the thaw before I was released. I remember it plain as day. A tunnel collapsed and the rock crushed his legs. He lay in that dark tunnel, moaning and crying for help, but beyond our reach for days before finally passing.

  “Nooaahhh. Muuuusssttah, nooot…” the old man moaned, his mouth stretching wide, his scabby, black tongue jabbing at the air. Thorben tried to pull away, but the old man’s hands clamped onto his arms, his grip impossibly strong for someone who looked so fragile.

  “Let me go!” Thorben tried to break free, but the old man’s fingers dug in, crushing his arms. He teetered for a moment and then staggered forward.

  Zoocah twisted Thorben’s right hand closer, the air shimmering around the old man’s face. The middle finger on his hand started to burn, right before a green flash split the gloom. A silver ring appeared on his finger, almost melting out of thin air.

  Zoocah started to shake beneath him, his face scrunching up and contorting, his arms and hands shrinking and widening. Thorben watched in horror as the pocked, diseased and broken old man shifted into someone else entirely. A heartbeat later, a much shorter figure writhed beneath him, bauble-laden necklaces and gemmed facial studs sparkling in the dim light.

  The tunnel faded quickly, the rock shifting and vibrating, the dripping limestone bleeding color until a more porous, gray stone surrounded them. The air became colder around him – stuffier, closer, and older.

  “Ee gristuda. Ee gunta reesa!” the dweorg growled, but flinched at the sound of his own voice.

  Thorben flinched, too, as the short figure abruptly lurched upwards, pushing him off the ground. He tried to push away and run, but the dwarf moved in the same direction at the same time. They bounced off one another, tried to push free and only managed to tangle up their arms and legs.

  They spun, staggered, and wrestled, both grunting and cursing in their own tongues. The tunnel dissolved again, and they broke apart, staggering away. Thorben caught his balance and turned, taking in a much larger space.

  “Papa. No!” It was a girl’s voice, distant and small. He spun, the dwarf almost perfectly copying his movement. They were in a round chamber, wood scaffolding built up all around the walls. A thick section of wood platform was constructed in the middle, three gleaming metal rods sticking out of a hole in the ground.

  “No, papa, please come home. I don’t want you to stay. Please come home…please, please, please,” the girl shouted. Thorben spotted a dwarf woman in a flowing red and gold dress standing by a short, wide doorway. She struggled, her arms hooked around a young girl who fought to break free. The dweorg from the tunnel appeared next to him, taking several steps forward as the little girl finally broke free. She ran straight into his arms, her small hands clasping desperately at his wispy robe.

  The woman appeared, pulling her back, but the girl lifted a necklace free and held it out. The dweorg dropped to a knee and allowed her to drop it over his head. She kissed his cheek and then disappeared, her voice echoing distantly.

  “Lynheid…me little girl. Me little girl! It can’t be. Ee was… Ee was locked away for so long
… Ee never thought ee would see ye again, except in me dreams.” The dweorg pulled the necklace free from the others, a number of shiny, horse-shaped charms catching the light. He closed his eyes and whispered her name over again and again.

  Thorben watched the dwarf open his eyes and stumble forward, searching the darkness for the girl. He spun back as loud grunting voices sounded behind him. He watched a troop of stout, strong-legged dweorg carry a slab of rock into the chamber, carefully line a hole in its base, and drop it over top of the shiny rods sticking out of the ground.

  It cannot be, Thorben thought, starting to put the pieces together. Another group of dwarves carried a pedestal into the chamber, three barrel-shaped wooden keys gleaming in the light.

  “Lynheid!” the dweorg cried, holding the necklace to his face, but the air around them grew dark, heavier yet. A host of dwarves pounded and chiseled, hollowing out the gray stone, while others carted away pushcarts full of rubble and debris. Thorben could smell them and feel the fragments of stone against his skin as hammer smashed against rock.

  Thorben turned, cursing quietly as a line of shrouded bodies appeared on the ground, stretching as far up the tunnel as he could see. Dweorg craftsman gently laid them into wall hollows, the rest pounding and shaping the stone with a speed and determination he’d never seen before. Carts rolled down the underground path, adding to the queue of dead faster than the workers could lay them to rest.

  They moved down the tunnel, Thorben unaware that his legs or feet were moving, and yet they moved nonetheless. The tunnel widened, sloping down, the walls growing and branching off, the numbers of hollows increasing substantially, bodies filling them, appearing as if from thin air.

  They reached the bottom of the valley, the small buildings rising up around them. Thorben watched the craftsmen lovingly lay their fellows into new hollows beside their warrior brethren. The stoneworkers barely numbered a dozen now, haggard and stooped, broken by time and their labors. They looked older, weathered, and worn down, their beards grayed with age. If they stood still long enough, he had difficulty telling them apart from the stone, as if they were slowly returning to the rock.

  They left the maker’s shantytown behind, the strange black doors appearing ahead. The space felt different than he remembered – brighter, the air not yet tainted by so much death.

  The dwarves hunched close to the archways of a dozen identical rooms, tapping lightly with hammers, fingers, and palms against the stone. The air filled with their voices, quiet at first, but growing in unison. Thorben watched as the rock started to move – sharp edges, hard lines, and porous surfaces flowing into graceful curves.

  The dweorg stumbled forward, ignoring his stooped counterparts as the magnificent statues slowly appeared out of the rock. A number of tall figures appeared from the darkness behind them, their long, lean bodies so out of place amongst the short and powerfully built dwarves. A woman walked at the head of their procession, her white-blond hair pulled into a tight, elaborate braid. She wore a flowing blue dress, the hem lined with a number of long, brightly covered feathers. And yet it was her eyes that Thorben found so mesmerizing. They were large and colorless, like eerie mirrors.

  She is dalan. Mani alive, she has to be. They are dalan.

  “Hullo, Matrona,” the dwarves said, their voices seemingly echoing out of the stone. The tall woman bowed lightly and her mouth moved, but he couldn’t hear her words. They were in the round chamber then, the worn-down dwarves dropping a stone box into place.

  The dalan, tall and almost noiseless in movement, approached, a withered body held lovingly between them. They lowered the figure into the sarcophagus, a mass of tangled, branching roots woven into and around its flesh. The dalan came forward in turn, depositing fantastic relics and treasures into the box – a shining helm, a mirror lined with gems, and a short dagger set in a gleaming, black scabbard.

  He recognized the horrible plant, its greasy chutes already working its way out from the hole in the side of the stone box, smaller shoots growing and worming their way up and over the lid.

  “Let them rest for evermore, evermore and onto the end of time,” the dalan said in unison.

  The dweorg bowed their heads, their skin pale and heavily wrinkled, and their hair wispy and colorless tufts.

  “Keepers of the dead…may the honored find rest here, and may your ancestors honor your sacrifice. Let us hope that the blood shed by those in this place be the last this land has to suffer. May Gruteo himself welcome you at the gates of the Forgefather, and allow you to rest, once and for all,” the tall, magnificent dalan woman said, but her people were leaving, fading into the misty darkness.

  “Seal the door. Seal away our dead. Destroy it when your work is done. You must destroy it,” the dalan’s voice echoed distantly. A heavy grating noise filled the air, and Thorben turned in time to see the remaining dweorg slide a heavy slab into place over the crypt.

  Thorben was standing in the maze next, the hollows of dweorg dead rising up all around him. A grim-faced dwarf sat at a small table, a knife clutched tightly in one hand, and a pitcher in the other. The stooped, broken craftsmen formed a line before the table. One old man shuffled up, dropped his battered hammer into a bucket, took a gulp from the pitcher, and dropped his hands onto the table. The seated dwarf dropped the knife down quickly, rocked it forward and then back, severing the workman’s thumb.

  Thorben grimaced and covered his mouth as the dwarf promptly sawed through the other workman’s thumb, scooped the two severed fingers into a little bag, and handed them to him.

  “So the dead may rest. Blood to dust,” the dwarf behind the table said.

  “Blood to dust,” the workman echoed, wrapping a bandage around his left hand and then awkwardly shambled away. Thorben watched the old dwarf carry the bag to the base of the massive statue, the goddess looming high overhead, and dropped the offering onto a hook in the stone.

  He watched the small troop come forward, one by one, without argument or anger, without sniffle or tear, and allow the dwarf to mangle their hands – a craftsman’s truest and most valuable tool.

  The old dwarves shuffled off, one by one, retiring to their small, dark homes, where they crawled into bed, and closed their eyes. The old dweorg with the clinking mass of trinkets around his neck rubbed the horse-charm necklace between his gnarled middle and pointer fingers. He walked beneath the strange monstrous statues, the plants sprouting from the stone sarcophagi already rooting beyond their chambers, sprouting like trees, branching over the walls and ground like ivy. A heavy mist seeped from the plant, drifting along the ground and flowing off the vines on the walls.

  The dweorg lifted his left hand into the air, the gem set in his ring glowing brightly. Thorben felt the band on his own finger hum in response. The strange, insect-shaped lanterns in the antechamber immediately went dark, their metal carapaces sliding shut. The massive, black doors swung in noiselessly, closing with a resounding boom, sealing the crypts shut.

  The old dweorg limped up the tunnel, pain and exhaustion crying out from every movement. Alone now, except for Thorben, whom he didn’t seem to see or hear, he slumped into a chair at the tunnel mouth, pulled the ring from his finger, and slapped it onto the table. Gnarled, mangled hands scrabbled for a hammer, lifting it awkwardly without thumbs, and hoisted it up high.

  “What are you doing?” Thorben asked, but his voice felt muted and dead. The withered old figure gave no indication he heard or could see him. He could feel it – the dwarf’s longing and despair, his loneliness like a shadow that followed the worn-down man’s every move. The ring was a key, and not just to the crypts, but the whole underground. He could feel it, somehow, someway, the power living in the stone connecting them on a level too deep to understand.

  The dweorg sniffled, baring his teeth as tears flooded his eyes. He exhaled violently and brought the hammer down, the blunted face smacking hard against the pitted table. He sobbed a name quietly, and then threw the hammer, the tool rattli
ng loudly somewhere in the dark structure.

  “Lynheid, my girl. What has happened to you? To your mother, me love? Ee can’t…ee can’t see you anymore. What of Granjmor, and the rest? Did ye find a suitor, continue our line? Ee will die and never know…just die here, alone, amongst the dust and bones,” the dweorg cried, scooping the ring off the table. He held it up before squinting, tear-filled eyes, and then choking down sobs, stuffed it into his mouth and swallowed.

  “No, not alone. Ee will not die down here.” The short, weathered old dwarf swiped at his tear-stained face, and then slapped the table with surprising vigor. He nodded his head, and pushed off to stand, a determined glint shining in his tired eyes.

  A pain stabbed into Thorben’s hand as a green light flared from inside the dweorg’s body, shining out through his thin garments and wispy robes. The old man rocked backwards and fell into the chair, his feet flopping wildly against the ground, mangled hands clutching desperately at his throat.

  Thorben crumbled to his knees, the ring wedged onto his middle finger growing both hotter and heavier. He ripped and twisted, fighting in vain to pull it fee. The dweorg flopped again, a green light burning from his eyes, nose, and mouth, and then he went horribly rigid.

  The ring pulsed and then some force…some invisible entity lifted his hand above his head. Thorben cried out and tried to pull it back down, but something unbelievably strong held it in place. He was jerked upright, and then he was standing in the darkness, a horrible, throbbing pain reverberating in his head.

  Thorben gasped and opened his eyes. His hand hung out before him, four glowing fingers intertwined with his, the jeweled ring burning brightly between them. He pulled free, the glowing dweorg staggering back at the same time. His fingers…his hand…the spirit, he could feel him, as if he were flesh and blood, just like him.