Tales of Mantica

by Rospond, Brandon; Waugh, Duncan; Werner, CL

  He splashed into… water that was about ankle deep. With his eyes still adjusted to the noon sun, he couldn’t see a thing for a moment, but then others with torches joined him and he could see a few dozen feet in either direction. Paddy had no suggestion on which way would be best to go, but to follow the flow of the water would only take him to the river a few hundred feet away, so he chose the opposite direction.

  “Gods! Human crap sure does stink!” someone hissed behind him.

  “Quiet,” he hissed back. “Noise carries down here!” His people shut up, but there was a steady series of splashes as more joined them in the sewer. Dunstan moved forward, scanning the walls for openings.

  He didn’t look down, he looked up. If the ratkin had dug a connecting tunnel into the sewer (or more likely out of the sewer) they would have made it as high as possible so that water flowing through the sewer didn’t end up in their tunnel. They moved several hundred feet through the stinking passage, now silent as only halflings could be, but found nothing. Dunstan was growing edgy; they needed to do this quickly, before the ratkin could respond.

  He nearly missed it. An irregular patch in the stonework only caught his eye when he was almost past it. He stopped and looked closer. Yes, there was something here. He reached up and ran his fingers along the edges, wiping away the sludge and ooze. “There’s a hidden hatch here. Give me that pry-bar,” he whispered. It was handed to him and he stuck the point of it in a gap between the stones. He gave a pull and there was crunching sound, and then a whole piece of wall popped loose and splashed into the water. A black hole, about two feet square, gaped behind where the piece had been.

  One of the boys gave him a boost, and Dunstan held a torch up to the hole and looked in. A narrow tunnel, little bigger than the hatch, led away into the dark. It was empty, but he could see the paw prints of ratkin in the dirt. He took a deep breath. There was nothing for it but to go on. He scrambled up into the hole. It was just high enough that he could go on hands and knees.

  Sword in one hand and the torch in the other, he shuffled forward slowly, to allow his boys time to follow. If he met a ratkin in such close quarters, he’d be at a disadvantage; the miserable creatures went on all fours as often as they ran upright. But he met no one, and after about fifty feet, he came to what he first thought was a dead end. Then he saw that the tunnel went straight up for about three feet before continuing on in the original direction. A water-stop. They’d built it this way in case the sewer ever became completely filled and the water seeped through their hatch. This would keep the water from getting down into their tunnels.

  He crawled up into the higher passage, but it only went on a few feet before dropping down again, and now the roof was actually high enough for him to stand upright. He advanced a few yards and then paused, listening for any sound other than his own people following along, but there was nothing except for the trickle of water. He was already dripping with sweat beneath his leather jerkin and cap.

  Unless there were hidden side-tunnels, there was no obvious place from which an ambush could come except straight ahead. Would there be traps? Hidden pits with poisoned stakes? He found himself quivering.

  This was no good, they had to keep moving. Every moment of delay put them in greater peril. The ratkin would soon know they were here—if they didn’t already—and would not take long to attack. He moved forward again, the tunnel sloping gently downward now. He searched the walls for any hint of solid rock, but while there was stonework and rubble as well as plain dirt, it was all loose and clearly not part of the bedrock.

  Then they reached an intersection. A new tunnel crossed the path of the one they were in, and just ahead, there was a shaft leading down with a wooden ladder in it. All right, this seemed promising. “Caldin,” Dunstan said, turning to one of his older troops, “take five of the boys and hold here. The rest of us are going down. Hope we won’t be long.”

  “Right,” said the halfling, pulling five others aside.

  Dunstan started down the ladder. He could not tell how far down it went or what might be waiting below. After about thirty rungs, he reached the bottom. It was in a larger chamber, maybe ten paces square. There were boxes and bags and piles of refuse scattered about, but no ratkin. Two tunnels led off in opposite directions.

  Holding up the torch, he quickly examined the walls. Was there any solid rock here? No… no… there! A slight discoloration in the surface of the dirt led him to a spot on the far wall. He brushed at it with his hand and then dug out dirt from around it with his fingers. It was rock, but was it bedrock?

  “Help me dig,” he whispered. “See how far this piece extends.”

  Several others came up beside him and clawed away the dirt and loose gravel, and bit by bit, the rock was exposed. Soon they had an expanse four or five feet wide and extending down below the level of the floor. “Can’t tell if it’s bedrock,” breathed someone, “but it’s one big chunk of stone.” Would this do? Dunstan did not want to have to come down here again!

  “Dunstan! I hear something!” one of the others hissed. He looked and saw one of the boys guarding a passageway gesturing toward it. “Something’s coming!”

  “All right, this will have to do! Knock a piece off and we’ll get out of here. The rest of you, stand ready!” The ones with the tools came forward; the others took up defensive positions near the passageways. The spearmen were in front with archers ready to fire past them, swordsmen in reserve to plug any holes.

  One fellow held the chisel up against the rock and two with hammers stood on either side and swung them. The noise they made was shockingly loud in the enclosed space. Well, that’s torn it! Every ratkin within a half mile will hear that! The chisel slowly penetrated into the rock, but no conveniently large pieces broke off.

  A shout from his right drew Dunstan’s attention away from the work. The spearmen were poised and ready. An archer loosed off an arrow into the dark and an instant later was rewarded by a snarling shriek. He’d hit something.

  “Hurry up!” He snapped over his shoulder as he moved to bolster the fighting line. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the torches, he peered down the tunnel. He couldn’t see anything distinct, but there was movement. “Keep shooting, even if you can’t see anything.”

  The archers obliged and a steady stream of arrows shot away. There were a few answering grunts and groans, but no more screams. Had they driven them off?

  He looked back at the hammer and chisel men, but another commotion at the line spun him around again. The spearmen were fighting; thrusting spears at enemies Dunstan couldn’t see. The archers were firing and everyone seemed to be shouting at the top of their lungs. Dunstan started forward, but just then a dark gray shape flew over the heads of the spearmen and landed on an archer, knocking him to the ground. The ratkin had a club in one claw, but it was using its teeth against the hapless archer.

  Dunstan sprang forward and slashed the awful beast across the back of its neck. It stiffened for a moment and then collapsed. He dragged the carcass off the archer and winced when he saw the halfling’s face covered in blood. “Tend to him!” he shouted, turning back to the fight. But the attack seemed to have been driven off. Dark shapes were piled at the feet of the spearmen, and the archers had their bows knocked but weren’t firing.

  “Dunstan!” cried one of the ones helping the wounded archer. “He’s hurt pretty bad, but he’ll live if we get him to a healer!”

  “Then get him out of here!” He motioned back the way they had come.

  “Dunstan! I think there are more coming from this way!” shouted a boy at the other passageway.

  “How many do you…”

  “Dunstan!”

  “What?!”

  One of the hammer men stood there with two large rocks in his hands. He flinched back at Dunstan’s shout. “Uh, will these do?”

  “Yes!” he cried in joy. “You take one and let me have the other. All right! Let’s get out of here!” He stuffed the rock into a ba
g hanging from his belt. As he did so, his hand brushed against the little ‘toy’ Paddy had given him. He might need that soon.

  The wounded halfling was being hauled up the shaft with a rope. Dunstan pulled everyone else back to form a ring around the base of the ladder. They stood there, breathing heavily and listening to the growing noise down both passageways.

  “We’re clear,” came a shout from above. “You can come up!”

  “Toolmen first,” commanded Dunstan. “Archers next, swordsmen next, and spearmen last. Go.” He could hear his people scrambling up the ladder, but he didn’t look back. His eyes were locked on the passageways.

  The swordsmen were just starting up when the attack came.

  A grey-black wave erupted from both passageways at once, moving with that terrible quickness the ratkin possessed. In an eyeblink, they were on them, hideous shapes in the torchlight. Not quite rats, not quite people, they were an obscene mix of oily fur, red eyes, grasping claws, and snapping fangs. The spearmen skewered several, but they would have been overwhelmed in moments if the sword-carrying halflings hadn’t immediately come to their aid. Dunstan was in the middle of it, hacking and slashing and parrying the blows of the enemy. Most of the ratkin appeared to be carrying weapons—clubs, knives, spears—but there were also some of the smaller ones with nothing but claws and teeth. One of them, darting between the legs of their larger kin, tried to sink its fangs into Dunstan’s foot, but he managed to kick it away.

  They beat off the first attack and the enemy retreated, leaving a dozen dead and wounded.

  “Half of you get up the ladder! The rest of us will hold them!”

  They crowded into a dense clump around the ladder, some going up, others facing outward. The ratkin began edging out of the two passageways, and realizing that all the archers had gone up, became bolder. Some began throwing things, rocks, mostly, a few of which found their targets.

  A spearman stumbled back, clutching his head. Dunstan shoved him toward the ladder and took his place in the line. He had his sword in one hand and a torch in the other. The ratkin got up the nerve to make another rush, and there was a moment of savage fighting around the base of the ladder before they drew off again.

  He kept sending his boys up, but every one that went up was one less to hold the line. The last one up was going to have a hell of a time making it…

  Another rush and another repulse, and two more wounded halflings. Both could still climb on their own, fortunately, but there were only four of them left at the bottom now. The ratkin were massing in the room, watching for their chance.

  “Last one up use the rope,” came a call from above. Dunstan dared to glance behind him and he saw a rope had been thrown down with a loop in the end of it.

  “All right,” he said, “the rest of you get going.”

  “But, Dunstan,” protested one.

  “Go!” He stuck his sword under his left arm and dug into his bag with his right hand, being careful not to grab the precious rock. He pulled out Paddy’s ‘toy’. It was a clay pot with a wick-like fuse sticking out of it. He stuck the wick into the flame of his torch and it sputtered to life.

  The ratkin were coming forward again, and he tossed the pot to the ground right in front of them. They flinched back and he turned away as a dazzlingly bright light filled the chamber, accompanied by a loud hissing.

  “Go! Go on!” He pushed the others up the ladder and then turned. The light was obscured a bit by the cloud of smoke quickly filling the chamber, but it was still lit up like day. The ratkin were squeaking and snarling. A shape emerged from the cloud right in front of him, and Dunstan slashed at it and it fell back squalling. One with a spear appeared and its thrust was turned by Dunstan’s leather jerkin. He shoved the torch into its face and its fur caught fire.

  “Dunstan! Come on!”

  The others were gone. He threw the torch into the smoke, grabbed the rope with his free hand, stuck his foot into the loop, and shouted: “Pull!”

  There must have been a dozen boys on the other end of the rope, because he shot up the shaft so fast, he actually flew in the air at the top for a moment before landing on the floor. He scrambled to his feet and saw that most of his troops had already retreated back along the tunnel. He got the rest moving and brought up the rear, patting the bag to make sure the rock was still there.

  Back along the tunnel, up over the water-stop, and then crawling through the low tunnel back to the sewer. Every moment he expected to hear the sounds of pursuit—or the grip of a clawed hand on his legs—but there was nothing. He half-fell out of the hole, but even the stench of the sewer was a welcome thing.

  He organized a rear-guard and then they fell back to where they had started. A shaft of light came down through the opening, beckoning to them. Moments later, they were all back up on the street, and the iron grate was shoved back in place. Barri Lubbin was there with his troops, keeping back a small crowd of curious humans.

  “Get what you wanted?” Lubbin asked.

  “Yeah, I hope so,” replied Dunstan. “But what I want right now is a bath!”

  * * * * *

  “Will they do?” asked Dunstan.

  “Oh, aye, aye, these are splendid,” said Paddy, fingering the rocks. He clutched one in both hands and closed his eyes. “Yes, yes, it remembers.”

  Dunstan sighed and leaned against the tent post, the afternoon light streaming past him. He was freshly bathed but tired and sore in a dozen places. All six forays had been successful. The four by the townsmen had been as easy as they’d hoped. They found some bedrock right there in the sewers, gotten their rocks, and gotten away with nothing worse than frayed nerves. Lurry Bevrige and his boys had to go deep, but they had been lucky and only encountered a small group of ratkin before finding their rock. Only Dunstan’s group had met real trouble.

  But they’d gotten off lightly; none killed and the wounded would survive to fight another day. He was grateful for the human healers. Ratkin often poisoned their weapons, and they were such filthy things; even unpoisoned wounds could fester.

  “So you can work your magic? When?”

  “Oh, right now, Dunstan, right now. There’s not a moment to lose.”

  “All right, I’ll leave you to it.” He was looking forward to an early night.

  “No, you can stay. I’ll need your help with this.”

  Dunstan straightened up in surprise. Paddy rarely let anyone see him work and had no patience with people looking over his shoulder. “What… what do you want me to do?”

  “Oh, it’s nothin’ hard, and nothin’ uncanny, so don’t worry.” Paddy was spreading out a blanket on the ground inside the tent. He had the plan of Norwood, and he put it in the center. Then he set the six stones he had chosen near the edges of the blanket. Dunstan realized that they were arranged in the same pattern as the locations they’d come from on the map. Finally, he put a stack of large, blank sheets of parchment to the side with his ink pots and quills and then sat down on the blanket.

  “Sit across from me. I’m gonna do a bit o’ drawin’ here. When I fill up a sheet, take it away and give me a fresh one. If I run low on ink, refill the pot. If I break a quill give me a new one. I… I won’t be able to talk to you while I’m doin’ this, but I think you’ll know what t’do.” He took a blank sheet of parchment and laid it on top of the map right in front of him.

  “Drawing?” Dunstan asked, sitting down as directed. “But what do the rocks have to do with that?”

  “Oh, but the rocks remember, you see. They remember where they were, what was near ‘em. Right, left, above, below, they remember. At least for a while. Once they’re broken loose from the whole, they start to forget. That’s why loose stones won’t do. But they remember for a while.”

  “And they talk to you?”

  Paddy laughed. “In a manner o’ speakin’ they do. If y’know the language. If y’know how to tickle ‘em into talkin’. Some rocks can be mighty close-mouthed, but I think these here are just dyin�
�� to tell their tale!” The engineer was grinning.

  “How long will it take?”

  “Won’t know until I see how much they have to tell. I hope not too long. Just a couple o’ hours if we’re lucky. All right, get ready, I’m gonna start.”

  Paddy took one last look around and then closed his eyes. He began to hum and then to softly sing, and Dunstan realized it was the same song he’d heard from outside the tent the other day. He could make out words but did not recognize what language they were. This went on for quite a while. From time to time, Paddy reached out his hands to touch the stones, his movements unerring despite having his eyes closed. He would touch one and then another in no pattern Dunstan could see.

  Perhaps half an hour went by like this until Paddy became completely still. Then he picked up a quill and dipped it in the ink. With his eyes still closed, he began to draw on the parchment. Somehow the engineer could ‘see’ what he was doing. The lines were precise and he knew when to dip the quill again. The drawing that took shape was as clean and clear as if it had been drawn by a master scribe at his workbench! Dunstan looked on in fascination as Paddy worked.

  When the sheet was nearly filled, Paddy froze in place, and Dunstan realized that he wanted a new sheet. Carefully sliding the full sheet out, he put a new one in its place, trying to get it in exactly the same spot. Paddy immediately went back to work. Dunstan leaned forward to make sure there was still ink in the pot.

  The second sheet was filled and then the third. It was starting to get dark inside the tent. He put the fourth sheet in place and then dared to slowly light some candles. Maybe Paddy could work in the dark, but he couldn’t. The ‘couple of hours’ were long past, and Paddy kept working. Dunstan’s stomach was growling, but when one of his boys pulled the tent flap open a bit and held up a plate, he waved him away. Five sheets, six. He refilled the inkpot. Twice. It was fully dark outside and the stack of filled parchments was now higher than the pile of blank ones. How long was this going to go on? His earlier fascination was fading and his fatigue was growing. He could barely keep his eyes open now.