by Ben Marshall
Laying him out upon the warmed earth, dispelling the blazing wall in favour of a smaller blaze, Lonariel reached into his pack and withdrew a set of vials. Each one contained a strange, coloured fluid, and two were selected before the rest were replaced within the protective pouch inside a small compartment on the front of the bag. Mixing the two in a small, chipped clay bowl that had been with the set, the Elf eventually had in the vessel a strange, faintly red concoction.
“Drink this, it will ease the pain and help the wound from within,” he told his companion softly; while he removed the leather tunic Daruil wore to reveal the wounds. Washing the blood away using some of the water taken from the spring that had flowed beside the camp five days ago, Lonariel drew out a colourless liquid from his pack and poured a little over each claw mark. Steam softly began to rise from the injuries, and the Dwarf couldn’t hide the wince that crept onto his earth-coloured face.
“We’ll have to go slowly for a while, anything else might open the wounds and cause them to bleed again,” he continued as he bound the area in strips of bandages. Daruil waved away the advice and looked at Farim before speaking in a halting and barely audible voice.
“Did you…see them?”
“See who?” the Elf had a confused look as Farim responded.
“The other Dwarves.”
“No, my mind was occupied with trying to dodge the attacks. What happened?”
They told him, Farim starting with the account of the slaying of the Orc that had brandished the club, with Daruil filling in the ending.
“They must have…been…Kuhiar,” he whispered hoarsely to the Elf, who appeared as if he didn’t know whether they were joking or not.
“We…we’d better get moving. It’s dangerous to remain here lest more patrolling enemies should chance upon us,” he replied, choosing not to respond in reference to the possible arrival of Kuhiar. The Dwarf was injured and might have been delirious with pain, but Farim wasn’t showing much discomfort, although he rubbed his ribs gingerly every few minutes.
Using the small fire to set a torch alight, Lonariel held it aloft as the Lebrusktan mercenary helped Daruil to get to his feet. Their pace less than half that of the previous miles they had walked through the gloom, the trio turned down the side tunnel and away from the faint snarls of other sabre panthers further along the passage they had been upon. Notably, Farim realised, the three of them were heading along the tunnel that the mysterious Dwarves had disappeared into after their swift passing.
This new route was labyrinthine, with corners and intersecting tunnels every few kilometres, and soon Lonariel, who had been uneasy even in the well-lit and mainly linear layout of Brietrin’s city many leagues to the south-west, grew fearful of the leaping shadows conjured by the dancing flames held over his head. So it was that he was in two minds when he saw the tell-tale signs of a widening, possibly into a chamber, and saw a bright glow of light at the coming corner. While this was heartening news, for it appeared they had finally reached their goal, the cacophony of bellows and unintelligible shouts, made by clearly large and savage creatures within the chamber, were a source of great dread to all three of them as they inched closer to the light, and the unknown dangers that awaited them.
Indomitable Spirit
September 5th, 1190
As the last corner of the tunnel came upon them, it was impossible for any of the trio to feel anything except the sheer vulnerability of their position. Shadows leapt across the wall, the makers clearly of monstrous proportions, and there was nowhere that could provide cover if they entered the narrow channel. As they paused at the threshold of the light that played upon the passage wall the bellows became distinguishable as some form of language, though not one of the three travellers knew its identity. They did recognise, however, the guttural cry that issued from a far more diminutive being.
“Get yer stinkin’ arms off me, ye overgrown orcs!” The rousing laughter from the “overgrown orcs” seemed to only anger the captive further, and the three companions barely had time to peer into the chamber before he twisted himself and bit fiercely into one of the hairy and badly blemished hands that grasped his own puny arms. The act proved only to earn him a resounding blow across his face from the stricken captor, the strike forcing his head to jerk violently backwards. Grunting with pain, the strike simply brought another outburst.
“Try it again and I’ll skin ye like the scum ye are!” Another strike was prepared, but was prevented by the leader of the monsters raising his own hand and speaking in the most basic rendition of the Common Speech that had ever been heard by the listening Loremasters.
“You are fool, puny dwarf, to challenge the might of Zoren! Zoren be Chief of the Fire Giants, and this be my home now! Your kind would be wise to-”
“My kind?! Ye durned oaf! We were here afore ye were even born, an’ we’ll be here long after ye’re crushed to dust!”
“Silence!” The bellow shook the walls of stone that surrounded them all, but the Dwarf was unfazed.
“I am Agner Swift-Axe of the Kuhiar clan Dark-Forge! While me king lives, ye shall never be rid of us! We shall take back our lands whether ye kill me or not!” The spirit of the captured rebel brought a smile to the face of Daruil.
“You go my lad.”
He whispered hoarsely as he watched the dreadful scene before him. Fully a hundred Giants were gathered in the chamber, which had naturally formed with two tiers. The topmost was level with the tunnel Lonariel, Daruil and Farim were watching from, with the lower height fully five metres below them and ringed with both stalactites and stalagmites. In many places the formations had joined entirely, giving the impression of a dragon-sized cage. Zoren, as far as the three could distinguish, was at least a metre taller than his brethren, and was built as solidly as the mountain they now dwelled in, while the pointed plate armour upon his chest and shoulders made him all the more imposing a sight to the onlookers. Two sabre panthers sat curled by the Chieftain’s feet, though it seemed to the three of them as if the two beasts had turned their golden eyes in their direction rather than watching Agner’s heroics.
The roaring laughter of the Giants was deafening as Zoren brought his mighty fist against Agner’s chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and causing him to gasp. During the moment, Daruil motioned that they should move, for all the Giants were watching the display which took place within the centre of the “cage”.
“Our path lies beyond this place.”
The statement was whispered, yet each had been thinking the same: the previous fight will have brought more patrols to the area, so great had been the volume of battle, notwithstanding the fire’s glare, which must have been visible at any number of miles along the first tunnel. Cautiously, for each member of the trio could feel the piercing stare of the bristling panthers, they crawled on their bellies to hide behind a small rise where two stalagmites had begun to unite with the stalactites overhead. Raising their heads again, they were transfixed by the sight of the Giant horde. Each one suited in thick plate armour save for their faces and hands, which were hairy and, in the case of the heads, rather hog-like in appearance, they were indeed imposing sights as they stared down at the bound Kuhiar. Stripped to his waist and prostrate upon a small wooden table, clothed only in leggings of tough hide, he seemed far less ferocious than his manner suggested.
“If ye’re gonna make me have ter look at ye, ye could at least have washed!” he bellowed at Zoren, writhing against his bonds with a frenzy of fury.
“You stop yelling and tell Zoren where your King is!” came the responding bellow, the Chieftain growing weary of the ceaseless taunts; though it was doubtful they could be fully comprehended through the Dwarf’s thick accent.
“Go and boil yer head! I’ll not betray me King ter anyone, let alone a smelly and overgrown orc like yerself!” Agner received another resounding beating for his loyalty to the clan, yet Zoren was smiling as he bent over the prone figure. Though fury burnt within his coal-black eye
s he held a leer upon his face as he spoke again, each syllable showing many yellowed and broken teeth.
“It good you no speak. Now Zoren have some fun!” Somehow no one thought he meant a leisurely pursuit, but the Kuhiar was undaunted, and spat into the Giant’s face with disdain.
“Ye don’t scare me! I can take anything ye dish out!” The energy and fearlessness of Agner was now becoming more stupidity than courage, a fact made all the clearer when several crude curved knives were brought into view. The dried blood from countless victims was still visible upon the instruments as they were waved tauntingly in front of him, but his expression was unchanged.
“If you no talk, then you not have your hand!” Zoren cried, more for the sake of the bloodthirsty audience than to frighten his victim. Raising the largest of the blades, he brought it down with a high-pitched whistle rising as the knife cut through the still air. The thud as it struck the wood of the table Agner was bound to was soon followed by a bellow as searing pain rushed through the Dwarf’s crippled limb, and he shouted a curse as he blinked back tears he would never reveal to any living being.
“I’ll enjoy seein’ me King cleave yer body into slices ye…!” his hoarse roar was cut by a great cry as the pain doubled, and his other hand was severed from his tank-like torso.
The sight of a fellow Dwarf subjected to such torture, the watching Giants laughing and jeering all the while, brought a haze of red fury over Daruil, and it was all Lonariel and Farim could manage to hold him in place and keep him from yelling at Zoren. Blanching as they saw the panthers grab the hands of Agner in their dripping jaws, seeing them savour the warmth of the fresh blood that poured from the sliced arteries, the two pulled the Dwarven Loremaster from the scene as Zoren held a lit torch against the wrists, sealing the wounds so that his victim wouldn’t die…yet.
The screams and curses of the brave Kuhiar, resolute that he wouldn’t tell the Chieftain of the Fire Giants what he wanted, followed the three companions as they ran along a new tunnel. Desperate to escape the cries they moved further along their enclosed path, hoping they were heading towards the exit and not closer to dangers that could result in their suffering the same fate as Agner Swift-Axe.
Trying to focus on anything but the echoes issuing from the chamber where Zoren held Agner’s broken body, Lonariel soon noticed that the passage was a deal more linear than the one that had led them to the Giants. Though it was less spacious he began to breathe a little easier, and was pleasantly surprised by the crisp freshness of the air flowing into his lungs.
“Certainly less of a stench here without those filth-coated Giants,” Farim commented wryly, trying to break the furious glare that was sculpted upon the earth-coloured face of Daruil, his coal-black eyes seeming to be lit with cold rage.
“There was nothing you could have done without throwing away your life, and then who would have brought the news to King Brietrin’s attention?”
Lonariel’s words were full of sympathy and, though he didn’t show it, it was clear his sentiments were close to the Dwarf’s. I say it was clear, but Daruil seemed to miss the reasoning, and his glare turned to hurt confusion as he looked at the Elf.
“Why wouldn’t ye warn me clan?”
“Because we’d be fighting and getting captured by your side. We wouldn’t abandon you to such a fate as that Kuhiar suffered,” answered Farim, putting his hand upon the hunched shoulder of the grieving Loremaster and squeezing his companion’s shoulder. The smile that flickered onto Daruil’s weather-beaten face was short-lived as the tunnel suddenly branched in two, though the news was not all bad. Though the guiding draught of cool mountain air flowed from both passages, the right-hand fork held a faint glimmer of light that could only have come from outside, for such an easy and welcoming glow could only have come from the sun. Without a second thought the trio took the turning, and were soon facing a gradually increasing incline as the path led to the exit from this unwelcome realm. Though light from the upper edge of the rising, or was it sinking, globe of light was washing along the passage, the seemingly high-domed exit was still a full day’s hike from the travellers’ position.
They made camp a few hours later, too exhausted to continue. They didn’t have a fire because it was far too risky with so many giants within the passages of this underground land, not to mention the orcs and panthers that doubtless patrolled the area, considering their proximity to the opening into the outside world. Their sleep was fitful, memories of the scene within the forest and the fate of the Kuhiar rebel playing across the backs of their eyelids. They were jerked from the attempt at restful slumber while the moon was still high upon its path through the unseen sky, by the silver glow being blocked by several large silhouettes. Unmistakably dangerous, the trio were hastily on the defensive though they knew that they couldn’t mount any efforts to repel the oncoming beings.
An Artefact’s Aura
September 6th, 1190
The strangers came on slowly, apparently either as yet unaware of their revealed state or content in the knowledge that their intended victims were trapped within the area. Since fighting was clearly futile, for there were just too many shapes heading their way, the three explorers started to backtrack, and hoped that they would find the fork both unguarded and before the oncoming creatures caught up to them. As they hastily retraced their steps, Lonariel cast a tentative glance to see that they were still losing ground; the red eyes of the stalkers becoming more and more defined with each passing second spent within the passage. Now the Elf understood why Daruil had said in the previous bout that the fire hadn’t been a factor in their discovery; the beings were sensing the Loremasters’ body heat.
Quickening their pace to a fast trot, as fast as the Dwarf could manage with his shorter limbs, Farim couldn’t help but think of what strain the recent wounds were under. His chest was already aching from the tension he was putting his bruised ribs under, but he saw no indication of his companion faltering as a result of the torn flesh that would have barely begun to mend. The eyes continued to follow, but the owners were maintaining an easy, unhurried pace that displayed their deep confidence in the looming kills. Seemingly toying with the trio, the thoughts that their pursuers didn’t see the necessity of keeping pace spurred the explorers on and barely an hour had passed before the fork was reached. Drenched in sweat, and desperate for a brief reprieve from the ceaseless escape, the three pushed their fatigue-filled bodies along, hoping an opportunity would present itself for them to move out of the narrow confines of the tunnel that was so like all the others that infested the mountain’s interior.
Continuing along this new path, knowing only that it didn’t lead to either the outside or their ravenous hunters, even Farim’s weak human hearing could detect the growls of disgust and fury as the patrol reached the fork. He knew it was only the fact that each route contained their scent that was causing the confusion. It was true that this new passage had already contained several turns within its gouged body, but such a fact would not have helped them had they already come this way. Faint echoes travelled to them as the Orcish guards argued in their guttural and incomprehensible tongue before the party separated to follow both possible trails, and the chase was on again.
The second hour of ceaseless retreat reached its conclusion with all three of the hunted people barely able to go on, their reserves of energy fully spent by lack of sleep and the ordeal they had just subjected their bodies to. Daruil kept muttering, as much to himself as the others, that it would all be over “just a little further” along the tunnel. Neither of his companions held any real belief in his words, but they each hoped that he was proved correct.
Rounding a bend ten minutes later, every inch of their flesh burning from the exertion, they saw a soft, almost reflected glow issuing from a side chamber. Only silence accompanied the multi-hued light, and further oddity was supplied by the presence of a door. Barely the size of a human, it was clear that the room wasn’t going to be occupied by any of the Fire Gia
nts; the first bit of welcome news for many an endured hour.
Crossing the threshold, they found themselves within a vast chamber that had clearly been worked by Dwarven miners and architects. Every wall had been smoothed, and the room was topped with a high dome. Pausing to look back to the door, which appeared to be crafted of a black metal, they saw that the sides of the passage had also been worked by Dwarven hands, because they gleamed as the light from the chamber revealed the thin lines of precious ore that were set into the rock. Apparently the travellers had entered into the main region of the old Kuhiar kingdom, and everywhere the soft and flowing way that all Kuhiar-wrought artefacts were formed could be seen. Their eyes all continued to take in the seemingly polished boundary of the chamber, before they finally realised what was causing the glow that had drawn them in originally. Riches, a verifiable hoard of priceless artefacts, lay in piles across the wide floor beneath them; from sculptures of bronze, silver and gold to weapons that had precious metals and the occasional gem along with their blades of polished black. From intricate armour through delicate jewellery and solid coins within vast caskets, every conceivable item of materialistic value lay about the trio. No wonder the giants had been tempted to seize the kingdom, with countless bounty just stored within this treasury, and there had been rumours that every Kuhiar clan had at least two such chambers within their hall. Daruil supposed, as he stared at wealth contained inside this room alone, that it had been the cause for the rift that had developed over time between the Kuhiar and the slightly larger “proper” Dwarves. The Kuhiar, an originally half-breed mix between the Dwarves and the Halflings that had once roamed the lands of Naturien, had named themselves by their title, meaning “Gem Workers” in their tongue. Though the race had reverted back to their Dwarven heritage many traditions had remained in use, as was shown by the smoothing of their passages and their working with precious minerals and ores to forge their wares.