by Dragon Lance
The bowl-watcher did not look up. “He is the one,” the soft voice said. “Zephyr has observed him, as I asked. The Hylar has the soul of a leader. I believe he is Harl Thrustweight’s son.”
“So is the time at hand, then?”
“He intends to wait for the inspection,” the hooded figure murmured. “But if he does, the others will be ready to go with him … or to try.”
“Will they mess things up?”
“They might, but the Hylar must act now. You must help him, old one.”
“Should I tell him of the others?”
“Tell him what you must,” the hooded one said. “Let him know of his situation. Then get him free of these mines. As we have discussed.”
“Should I tell him his destiny, Despaxas?”
The hood moved then, and the shadowed face within its folds turned toward Calan. “No person really accepts another’s words regarding destiny,” the low voice said. “No, he must see it for himself as time passes. But let him understand about the other slaves, that they know of his plan, and that they may endanger him.”
Calan looked away, thinking he had heard sounds in the tunnel. The dim light from beyond the tunnel seemed to flutter, as if shadows were dancing in it, and there was a faint, eerie sighing. His hackles rising, the old dwarf scurried aside as something appeared in the tunnel’s mouth – something that could not be seen clearly. It was a large thing, but insubstantial. It neither walked nor flew, but seemed to undulate in the air, as though swimming. It came to rest at the entrance to the cavern, settled soundlessly, and shrank as it wrapped itself in wide, transparent flaps that were more like bat-fish fins than wings.
Calan had never gotten used to the “pet shadow” that Despaxas called Zephyr. The creature appeared to have no substance at all, only a random texture of shadows that fooled the eye. It was nearly invisible, and Calan had often suspected that if he were to touch it – which he never had – he would find that there was nothing there at all. Yet, at the same time, Zephyr emanated a sense of great strength, and Calan often had the impression of long, narrow, needle-sharp teeth beneath slitted, slanted eyes.
“I wish you’d leave that thing outside when we meet,” the dwarf growled. “I have nightmares for a week every time it shows up.” He shook his head, grimacing, and turned toward Despaxas. But there was no one there. He turned back, and found that he was alone. Both Despaxas and his weird creature had disappeared.
“Despaxas?” the dwarf whispered, then shuddered. Few dwarves ever became comfortable with the presence of magic, and the old Daewar was no exception. “Rust,” he muttered, “I wish he’d quit doing that. I don’t know which is worse, his pet shadow or his vanishings.”
Back at the pit, old Calan paused for a moment in the shadows, in what was once again only a shallow hole behind an outcrop, then slipped out and retrieved his slops pail. Filling his pail at the steaming caldron where sullen human slaves worked to make food from whatever scraps and leavings the guards allotted, he returned to the cells below the ore shafts and wandered among the slaves there, pausing here and there to ladle slops into bowls for those just returning from the pits. He saved the last bit of stew for the young Hylar squatting in his shadowy corner, and when he arrived there he set down his pail and made a pretense of filling the wooden bowl.
But he whispered as he lifted the ladle, “Are your shackles weakened, young Derkin? If you intend to escape, the time is now.”
The Hylar glanced up, startled. “What?”
“Unless you make your escape now, tonight, many others will try to go with you. They know you intend to escape. They have decided to make you their leader and follow you. But a plan for one will fail for many.”
“You speak in riddles, old one,” Derkin growled. “What do you want of me?”
“I want to go with you when you leave here,” the old dwarf whispered. “Just me, and no one else.”
“Were I planning to leave here, I’d take no one with me.”
“Oh, but you will, or never leave at all. You need me, Derkin. I can help you.”
“Help me? What can you do for me?”
The old dwarf squatted beside him, tilting his pail as though to scrape out the last bit of contents. “I can help you escape. Have you seen what is beyond these pits? The defenses there? I expect you to try to slip up the ramp and escape, but you’ll never make it that way.”
“I don’t need your help,” the Hylar hissed.
“Stubborn.” Calan smiled faintly. “Would you rather succeed in escaping from this place, with my help, or find yourself the leader of a failed mass escape by all the rest of these slaves? You will be followed, Derkin, whether you intend to be followed or not. There is little choice in such matters.”
“Riddles,” Derkin growled.
“I’ve heard it said that wisdom is in letting those help you who want to help you,” the oldster said. “Accept friends, and they will serve you. Reject them, and they will use you.”
Derkin glanced around, his eyes bright with sudden curiosity. “I’ve heard those words before. Who are you, old one?”
“I’m just an old dwarf.” Calan shrugged. “But you’re right. The words are not mine. I heard your father use those words, many times. So did you, I warrant.”
“You knew my father?”
“I knew him, and I know you. Will you hear what I have to say, Derkin Winterseed?”
“How do you know my name?” Derkin hissed.
“I know much more than that. Will you listen?”
“I’m listening,” Derkin said grudgingly.
“Then believe what I say,” the old dwarf urged. “Tonight, when you are returned here, I will come to you. Be ready to leave then. I know the way past the pits.”
“If you know a way out, why are you still here?”
“I’ve been waiting for you,” the old slave said.
“Why? What do you want from me?”
“You ask too many questions for someone with no choice in the matter, Derkin Winterseed. Be ready tonight. I know a way out.”
Chapter 2
ESCAPE FROM KLANATH
In the near darkness of a nighttime cell, where the only light was dim reflection from the low wick of the guard’s lamp beyond the grate, Derkin raised himself carefully from the stone floor and turned his head this way and that, listening. For more than an hour now, there had been no sounds of movement in the wide cavern. Only the breathing and occasional snores of hundreds of sleeping dwarves broke the silence.
There had been no sign of the crazy old one-arm, and Derkin half suspected that the old dwarf had either been having a joke at his expense or, more likely, had forgotten all about his promise to help him escape. Probably, he thought, the oldster was as addled as he seemed. Long years in service to humans as a mine slave might well have robbed him of his senses. And just because the old dwarf knew his name, and the identity of his father, it did not mean that he knew some secret way out of these pits.
Still, some of what the old slave had said troubled Derkin. He had sensed for some time that others among the slaves were watching him carefully. He had seen their glances in his direction as they huddled among themselves.
The old dwarf had said that other slaves knew he planned to escape, and that they intended to try to go with him. He sensed the truth of that, and it troubled him. His “plan” was hardly a plan at all. He had sabotaged the shackles on his legs – had cut the heads from their rivets so that only the curve of their iron held them in place – and now he was simply waiting for an opportunity, a moment of confusion such as the arrival of mine inspectors, to slip away from his work gang and either steal away unnoticed or, at worst, make a dash for the ramp and take his chances.
Not much of a plan, he admitted, but it was the only plan he had. One dwarf, alone, just might make it to freedom in such a way. But if others tried to follow him, they would certainly be pursued, caught, and thrown back into the pits. And he would be branded as their leader.
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In the near darkness he grimaced, seeing the shadows of all the other slaves who shared the cell. He wished them no harm, but neither did they mean anything to him. They were as capable of escape as he was. If they wanted to try it, let them try it alone, as he intended. But he didn’t want them messing up his chances.
The old dwarf had convinced him of one thing. He could no longer wait for an opportune time. He had to try it now, before he found himself encumbered by throngs of “followers.”
For long moments, he listened to the sleeping sounds around him. Then with a sigh of aggravation he sat upright, grasped one of his ankle cuffs with strong hands, and pried at it, his wide shoulders bulging at the effort, short, thick forearms rippling like heavy cable. For a long second, the cuff did not respond. Then, with a tiny pop, the beheaded rivet gave way, and the seam spread an inch, then another and another.
When the gap was wide enough he slipped the shackle from his ankle, moving carefully so that the attached chain would make no sound. Then he went to work on the other cuff. Vaguely, it occurred to him that he was lucky these bonds had been fashioned by humans. It would never occur to a human that a circlet of half-inch iron could be pried apart with bare hands. Few humans were strong enough to do that, and it was the nature of humans to see dwarves as inferior to themselves.
The second cuff popped quietly, then slowly opened as stubby hands nearly as hard as the iron they grasped pried its ends apart.
Breathing carefully, making no sound, Derkin got to his knees, lifted his tunic around his shoulders, and slowly, carefully wrapped the eight-foot length of chain around his waist. Its length encircled him three times, forming a cold, heavy belt of links, with enough spare to loop the shackle ends in a clumsy half-knot. With his tunic lowered, the chain was hidden.
The heavy chain and his worn chisel were the only things he had that might serve as weapons or tools, and he did not intend to leave them behind.
Standing then, he took a deep, slow breath and turned toward the closed grate at the entrance to the cell. The crossed bars of the wooden portal were silhouetted by the dim glow of a guard’s light beyond. There were no guards in sight, but he knew there were at least two just beyond the grate – burly humans armed with clubs and whips, and with swords that were never out of reach. Beyond was the narrow corridor out to the open pits. There would be other guards there, but he must think of the nearest ones first. With any luck, there would be no more than two humans beyond the grate, and they might be dozing at this hour.
With his chisel in his hand, he started for the portal, moving as quietly as he could. His only idea was to somehow slip the bar that held the grated gates, get past the opening, and then, somehow, with only his hands and a worn-down chisel, silence the guards there before they could raise an alarm.
With a grunt of anger, he glanced back into the sleeping cell. Rust take you people, he thought. Why couldn’t you all just leave me alone? Because of you, I must do this the hard way.
As though the air had read his mind, a quiet whisper sounded at his shoulder. “It isn’t their fault,” the voice murmured. “They want out just as much as you do.”
At the slight sound, Derkin started, peering about.
“I’m right here beside you,” the voice continued. “I told you I’d come.”
It was the voice of the old, one-armed dwarf who called himself Calan. Derkin squinted in the gloom, straining to see.
“Don’t worry,” the voice said. “You can’t see me, but I’m here. Look.”
The empty air seemed to shift slightly, and a shadowy face came into view.
“How do you do that?” Derkin hissed.
“I don’t exactly know,” Calan admitted. “It’s magic, of course. It’s a sort of robe that fools the eye. I have one for you, too. How do you intend to get us out of here?”
“I thought you said you knew the way,” Derkin growled.
“Oh, I do, once we’re past that gate.”
“Where’s my … my magic robe?” He held out his free hand.
There was a faint rustling, and the old dwarf’s shadowy features seemed to come and go. “Right here,” the specter said, and Derkin felt something in his hand. He couldn’t see it, but it felt like very soft fabric. Feeling foolish, he unfolded the invisible thing and draped it around himself.
“Pretty good,” the voice said. “Be sure to cover your head, too. It only hides the parts it covers.”
He pulled the fabric over his head, forming a cowl, and found a two-button catch with his fumbling fingers. When it was in place, he raised his arms beneath it and looked down. Indeed, it was as though he had disappeared. He could see nothing of himself.
“Your face will show, of course,” the old voice whispered, “so keep your head turned away from anybody you don’t want to see you. Now, let’s get going.”
At the grated portal, Derkin peered out. The guards were not in view, but he suspected where they were. A few yards to the left of the portal was a plank table with benches, where warders worked in the daylight hours, keeping enscrolled logs for the master of the pits. The guards would be there now, probably asleep. At least, he hoped they were asleep.
Bracing himself against the heavy grating of the door, Derkin reached through and grasped the hardwood bolt with both hands. The bolt was a length of sturdy, hewn post that ran through iron hasps on each side of the double grating. Slowly, flexing his shoulders, the dwarf eased the lock aside a few inches, then took new holds and eased it again. The wood made a slight, shuffling sound as it moved through its hasps, and the unseen dwarf beside Derkin whispered, “Shhh!”
Beyond the portal, someone snorted, coughed, and stirred. Derkin pulled back his hands, which were plainly visible beyond the edge of the unseen cloak. There was silence for a moment, then a chorus of snores came through the grating.
Derkin returned to the task of sliding the bar aside. As the heavy timber cleared its first hasp, it tilted, its free end falling toward the floor. But Derkin had expected that. As the bar moved he thrust his chisel through an opening, wedging the timber against the door. Beside him, Calan expelled a nervous breath and a spectral hand appeared, to wipe sweat from a ghostly face that seemed to float, unattached, in the shadows.
Derkin eased the free half of the gate open and stepped through, sensing the movement as old Calan slipped through after him. At the warders’ table, a single candle guttered low in a rough holder, dimly lighting the forms of two large men asleep on the benches.
Carefully, and as soundlessly as possible, Derkin closed the gate, retrieved his chisel, and eased the bar back into its hasps. Then he turned as a snore turned to a rattling gasp. Beside the table, old Calan’s head and hand seemed to float in midair. In the hand was a dagger, dripping blood. One guard lay dead, blood flowing from beneath his beard. Before Derkin could object, the old dwarf hurried around the table and cut the second guard’s throat. The hand and dagger disappeared, and the old head turned, grinning. “Why did you lock the gate?” he whispered.
For a moment, Derkin merely stared at him. Then, slowly, he said, “I thought maybe nobody would notice that there’s been an escape. I guess they’ll notice now, though.”
“What difference does it make, once we’re gone?” Calan rasped.
Shaking his head, Derkin pointed toward the enclosed cell. Then, realizing that Calan couldn’t see his hand, he lifted the robe and pointed again. “Because of them,” he said. “They’ll all be punished for this, you know. For the dead guards.”
“I thought you didn’t care about the rest,” Calan muttered, relieving one of the dead guards of his club. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He raised the cowl of his robe and disappeared from sight. “Follow me.”
“How can I follow you if I can’t see you?” Derkin hissed.
“Oh, rust! Here.” Derkin felt a strong, cloaked hand grasp his wrist. “Here, put your hand on my shoulder, and don’t lose me.”
As the old dwarf led the way, Derkin pu
lled up his own cowl and followed. “There will be more guards up ahead,” he whispered. “Do you plan to kill all of them, too?”
“Not unless I get the chance,” Calan said casually.
“Reorx,” Derkin muttered, still hot with anger. He couldn’t think of any reason why the old dwarf should have killed those sleeping guards. The act was worse than unnecessary, it was stupid. Still, he had the impression that, whatever else Calan Silvertoe might be, he was not stupid.
The corridor turned, and ahead was its end, with the floor of the mine pit beyond. Several armed humans were at the entrance, three of them kneeling on a tattered blanket, playing bones, while others dozed or slept nearby.
“Keep your face covered,” Calan whispered, slowing. On silent feet, they crept past the guards and out into the torchlit pit. The big hole was quieter than its normal daytime bedlam, but still there was activity. Ore carts still rolled from the various shafts, and small groups of slaves, watched over by human guards, worked at sorting heaps. Derkin gazed across at the steep ramp that was the only exit from the place and cursed quietly. Halfway up the ramp, a small fire had been built, and a dozen or more humans sat around it. The ramp was blocked.
“We’ll never slip past that bunch,” the Hylar whispered, pulling Calan to a halt. “There isn’t enough room to pass.”
“We’re not going there,” the old dwarf’s voice came back. “I told you, I know a way out. A better way.”
Clinging to Calan’s invisible shoulder, Derkin found himself being led diagonally across the pit, toward a stone wall marked only by a hanging scrap basket beside an outcropping of rock. As they approached, though, a human guard sauntered past them, paused beside the basket, turned, and looked around, then yawned and leaned back against the outcrop.
Calan halted. “Rust!” he muttered.
“What?” Derkin asked.
“That man is in our way,” the unseen voice said. “That’s where we’re going. There’s a hole behind that thrust of stone.” He paused, then said, “You wait here, Derkin. I’ll draw the man away. As soon as he moves, you go to that hole and wait. I’ll be right behind you.” He pulled loose from Derkin’s grip and was gone.