by Ember Lane
“That’s the trouble with you humans,” Ozmic called to him. “You don’t like walking anywhere.”
Lincoln stopped, draped over his staff, spinning around to see the dwarves strolling cheerfully along. Sweat blurred his vision, the heat rising from the damp scree in waves of misted swirls. “You call this walking?”
Just to add insult to injury, a twenty-strong herd of goats ran by, clearly spooked by something. “It’s not that much farther,” Bethe pointed out, and so Lincoln let out a huge sigh and pushed himself on. “Of course, I was planning on making our first batches of ale tonight, but if I’m too tired…”
He heard the dwarves rush up beside him.
“You need carrying?” Ozmic asked.
“We could definitely carry you,” Grimble affirmed. Grinning, Lincoln turned down their offers, forcing his way on, the final few hundred yards now in sight.
The cave’s entrance was quite the disappointment to Lincoln. It was no fine arch, no column-edged towering door covered in ornate, dwarven runes. There was no need for a wizard to wrap on its door, nor cast elemental magic around. It was but a horizontal hole, about three feet high and seven long, and was probably the true origin of the term a cave’s mouth. One by one, they rolled between its rocky lips. Ozmic went first, torch in hand, Grimble second. Lincoln rolled his eyes, then rolled his body, and trusted in his friends.
Ozmic extinguished his torch when Bethe appeared by them, her whole body spraying copper-colored light around. The cave itself was as disappointing as its mouth, with just enough room to stand. It was no more than a fracture in the mountain. Lincoln stumbled on its uneven floor, and scraped his hands on its random, rocky shelves. Bethe led, picking her way deeper into the mountain. Eventually, the crack opened up, and Lincoln followed Bethe into a small chamber. A pool of soapy-feeling water was in its center, a constant drip from above counting time.
“The first of a network of caves,” Bethe explained. “They run right through the mountain, though I myself can’t travel much farther—I have nearly reached the end of my influence.”
“You gonna do your thing?” Grimble asked Lincoln.
“Thing?”
“That thing Aezal said you can do,” Ozmic added. “That thing where you look through the ground.”
“Divination, and I suppose so, it’s what we came for.” With all the struggling, he’d just been hoping it’d all be over soon. Lincoln was hankering for the fire pit and idle chatter.
Sighing, he sat, crossed his legs and closed his eyes, seeking out the peace he needed to pierce the rock with his consciousness. Staring down at the gray, slimy rock, he tried to see past its surface. At first, he could get no farther than its crust, then, once through those saturated minerals, he looked into the rocks themselves, and then his senses plunged down.
He dove through hard rock—dense, thick, heavy—and then through a layer of weaker stone, pocked, soaked like a sponge. He felt it being sloughed away by the constant migration of the water as it fled the bowels of the earth. Then he hit a seam of ore so hard, his probing mind nearly bounced back at him. The word scarletite formed in his mind, and he saw a crimson metal—beaten, hard, shimmering like a flame. Then his consciousness fell, as though the rock had fallen away, and he realized his awareness was in another cave.
It crashed into more rock, through it, and into a living, breathing thing. He nearly screamed inside his mind. Whatever it was, Lincoln understood that it was trapped in the stone. He felt its sorrow, its immense regret. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it being part of the mountain, but at the same time, not. It was like the rock had traveled into the thing. And then he felt its anger, and he heard it bellow; yet it was no normal cry. Its anguish was more intense that any feeling Lincoln had ever known. It was the despair of someone who wanted to end their life, their suffering, but couldn’t. The mountain began to tremble as if it was going to split in two.
Lincoln’s mind was pushed back, shoved away, back through the scarletite, through the sandstone, and then the hard rock just below him. He jerked back to full consciousness to see the cavern they were in trembling, rocks falling from its ceiling, and gravel dancing on its floor. Ozmic pulled him up, urging him back. The crash of rock deafened him.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Grimble shouted.
“Really?” Ozmic cried, pulling Lincoln along in his wake.
Heads down, they forged toward the cave’s mouth, rolling out into the still blistering sun. There, Lincoln looked up at the clear, blue sky wondering what the hell had just happened.
“I woke something,” he said.
“Really?” Ozmic said. “Is it say the obvious time for you too? What? Now that’s the question that could do with answering.”
“It felt like a stone man, but it was part of the rock, as if he had been buried there and then imbued with rock.” Lincoln shivered at the thought.
“Anything else?” Grimble asked.
“There is a vein of scarletite about fifty feet down,” Bethe said.
Lincoln looked up at her. “You jumped on board?”
“I can sense what you’re sensing after a period of assimilation.”
“Scarletite?” Grimble whistled. “We’ve got to get us some of that.”
“It’s near that thing,” Lincoln pointed out.
“I believe I can arrange the mine so that it won’t disturb whatever bane lies in the mountain,” Bethe told them.
“But…” Lincoln added.
“But there’s a risk. In theory, we could excavate the sodden sandstone and then scrape the scarletite off; though you wouldn’t be able to do anything with it until you had a level 8 forge.”
“Is it worth the risk?” Lincoln asked.
“Oh yes,” Grimble said, pulling Lincoln up. “Yes indeed.”
“And the thing under it?” Lincoln asked.
Grimble shrugged. “Banes, monsters, demons…who really knows? It’s part of the fun. You should try being a deep-down dwarf; they get to play with them all.”
“I’ll think on it,” Lincoln muttered, as they started back down the slope. His spine shivered and shuffled at the thought of the continued suffering below that mountain.
What he didn’t tell anyone was that he’d touched the thing’s mind. The rage that had spilled from it as a growl, a scream, a tremor, had nothing on the true anger the being felt. It was an anger born of frustration, frustration that had been trapped under the mountain for an age, frustration at not being able to kill itself. He hoped Bethe was right. He’d hate to accidentally set the beast free. Then again, he really wanted the scarletite even though he wasn’t overly sure what it was. The dwarves had made it sound good though. He really wanted a level 8 forge too. Sighing, he realized he really wanted everything—and now.
Once back in the foothills, they took a break, sitting in a circle by a stream. Ozmic broke out some dried crawfish and Grimble passed around his water bottle. Lincoln asked Bethe how much it would cost for a scarletite mine. Yet again, he was denied on a technicality.
“Apart from the fact that it is useless until you have a level 8 forge, you will also need to research mining to a level 5 standard. I have all the information available, but you would need to build an academy in order for me to be able to learn it. For me to use such technology, you must unlock it.”
“And for an academy, I need to build…” Lincoln let his question hang.
“A town hall,” Bethe said.
Lincoln nodded, wishing he had chosen a warrior, paladin, or mage, anything apart from builder. “Then, let’s get to it,” he said, and jumped up.
“I thought you’d done all you could today,” Ozmic said. “You know, allocated all the workers and stuff.”
“Need more population, Ozmic. If my guess is right, more will be drawn here the higher the morale of the place, and what makes for a happier settlement?” He spun around, his eyes wide. “Ale, Mr. Ozmic, ale will grease the wheels of this place. Ale will make them come.”
“Ale!” Grimble shouted. “If in doubt, get them drunk!”
As they walked past the last of the lake, Lincoln stopped in his tracks. The table around the fire pit was full again. This time, Aezal was standing back, scratching his head. Crags was dishing out what looked like fruit, and Glenwyth was going from one to the other, checking the new arrival’s foreheads for temperature, and then noting down something on a pad. Aezal caught sight of them, and hurried over.
“Twenty-one of them,” he said. “They came through today. Reckon they were drawn here. Not one of them in good shape, though Glenwyth seems to be on top of it all.”
“So, we’ve got twenty-five settlers in all,” Lincoln said, smiling. “We’ll get them fit in no time.”
“How was the mountain?” Aezal asked.
“Got a vein of scarletite,” Grimble told him, and Lincoln could see that the warrior was impressed.
“I’m gonna look mighty fine in that armor,” Aezal beamed.
Glenwyth joined them. She looked flustered and concerned.
“They are all sick, but not so sick that they can’t work.”
“We don’t need them to work,” Lincoln pointed out, but Glenwyth shook her head.
“They need to work,” she insisted. “They must get the damp out of their lungs and the malaise out of their veins. Elleren is bringing me herbs and roots from the valley. I will cook up a healing potion tonight.”
“Great, so it’s all under control.”
“I have assigned 6 groups of four to work the level 2 farms and left Robert’s grandfather just to do as he sees fit.”
“Sounds good,” Lincoln looked up at Aezal. “And what did you do?”
“Same as Crags,” he replied. “Looked uncomfortable, felt uncomfortable and acted like it too. I can’t stand sick people.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Crags, bounding up. “That Gillian woman wants to have a word with you.”
“Where is she?” Lincoln asked.
“Over by the bridge.”
Lincoln ambled over, greeting those who caught his eye, though most turned away, appearing ashamed. They were a ragtag bunch, and clearly together. He assumed they’d deserted their community in the hope of a better life. Then again, he’d assumed folks would just come, but where from, he hadn’t bothered considering. This lot barely had rags for clothes. He hoped they still had some spirit burning away inside them, just waiting for dry kindling to turn it back into a fire of desire.
He hoped he wouldn’t have to make a rousing speech to get it aflame.
Gillian was sitting on the bridge, her legs dangling over. Lincoln sat next to her. At first there was a comfortable silence between them, one which Lincoln sensed she wanted him to break.
“I hear you’re looking for me.”
“No,” she replied, meekly, squeaking like a mouse. “Not looking, just asked Crags for a word.” Her gaze didn’t stray from the water flowing under them, as if she were picking her next words from its ripples. He heard her take a deep breath, and then she looked up, over the lake. “Robert’s grandfather will die soon. He has the gray, the dusty skin that tells his death is near, and the boatman rows his way. Crags told him about the elven…” She wrung her hands together. “No, I shouldn’t ask—it’s too much trouble.”
“Ask away,” Lincoln whispered.
She was already looking better. Whatever Glenwyth was doing, it had brought color back to Gillian’s cheeks, but not her fight—not yet.
“Crags says you are returning to the elven village tomorrow. Take him with you. He wants to see its beauty before he dies.”
“I’m sure he won’t—”
Gillian grabbed Lincoln’s hand. “Yes, yes he will, but it was his dream to see it. It’s why we left our village in the first place. You should have seen his face when he saw Glenwyth.”
“But what about the boy, won’t he want to say goodbye to his grandfather?”
“Better he say goodbye to him while he breathes. There are no advantages to kissing a corpse.”
“Then he can come.”
“In return—” Gillian made to say, but Lincoln stopped her.
“Nothing,” he whispered.
“No. I must do it. Robert’s father is up and around. The two of them can look after the farm.” Then she looked up and stared into Lincoln’s eyes. It was that instant her fight came back. “The rest of our village—nearly eighty folks—I want to go to them, bring them here, if they’ll come.”
“On your own?”
“Yes, on my own. It will be quicker,” she said, and pushed herself up. “Thank you, Lincoln. You’re a good man.” She wandered back, over the bridge and toward her farm. Lincoln’s gaze lingered. She reminded him of a younger Joan.
“Ale!” Grimble's bark rang out behind him. “You said we could start brewing up some ale. It’s best to get to it. I can see the morale of this place plummeting without ale—plummeting.”
Lincoln jumped up. “Now, it wouldn’t be that you want it to sate your own thirst, would it?”
Grimble pulled him along to the hop farm. “How’s my day supposed to get better if it doesn’t start off terrible?” Lincoln couldn’t argue with that.
As instructed, Bethe had built a fire pit in Lincoln’s farm’s backyard. A large iron pot sat over it. Ozmic placed a smaller pot inside the larger empty one and filled it with water while Grimble lit a fire in the pit. Lincoln opened the farm’s storage shed and scooped up enough hops and malt. He sat and waited for the water to boil and then added the malt grains, stirring and quickly taking the pot away from the heat after a while
“What next?” Ozmic asked.
“Next, we smoke some leaf,” Lincoln replied, and sauntered back to his store. Bethe was more than just a city guide; she’d even had the leaf hung. He plucked one down and rejoined his little group.
“When did you plant the leaf?” Grimble asked, grabbing a pinch.
“Why do you think I wanted my own farm?” Lincoln had a little glint in his eye. “Not only do I have the ale, I have the leaf. Why not get your own?”
Ozmic puffed out a cloud of smoke. “Because I’ve got yours.”
After an hour, Lincoln asked the dwarves to fill the large pot with water, and while they were doing it, he strained the prepared wort into it, adding the hops and then reaching into his sack for the ingredients that Pete had brought for him all that time ago in Brokenford. He added all, bar the yeast, and let the mixture come to a boil.
“What now?” Ozmic asked.
“We wait,” Lincoln told him. “We wait and relax.” But relaxation wasn’t ready for him, yet. He pulled up his city stats, now dusk had come and gone, and the day was truly done. One more task left.
Settlement name: Joan’s Creek.
Population: 25. Population capacity: 220
Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)
Politics: (12, 0), Culture: (0, 0), Defense: (0, 0)
Build speed: +12%, Learning advancement: N/A, Defense bonus: N/A
Buildings: Amount - levels
Cottages: 12 – 2,2,2,2,2,2,2,2,2,2,1,1. Warehouse 1 – 1.
Production
Farms: 11 – 2,2,2,2,2,2,2,2,2,2,2. Sawmills: 3 – 2,2,2.
Quarries: 2 – 2,2. Mines: 2 – 1,1.
Resources (Amount, Production rate, Consumption-food only)
Food: (54,150, 3300/ph, -250p/h), Wood: (22,050, 900/ph), Stone: (7,450, 600/ph), Ore: (2250, 200/ph).
Settlement name: Sanctuary.
Population: 0. Population capacity: 120
Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)
Politics: (12, 0), Culture: (0, 0), Defense: (0, 0)
Build speed: +12%, Learning advancement: N/A, Defense bonus: N/A
Buildings: Amount - levels
Cottages: 12 – 1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1. Warehouse 1 – 1.
Production
Farms: 8 – 1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1. Sawmills: 1 – 1.
Quarries: 2 – 1,1. Mines: 1 – 1.
Resourc
es (Amount, Production rate, Consumption-food only)
Food: (18,430, 800/ph, -0p/h), Wood: (500, 400/ph), Stone: (950, 200/ph), Ore: (1500, 100/ph)
“Bethe,” he called, but she was beside him before the word was out. “Tell Echo to complete his builds as discussed and then hold the settlement building. We have enough food to keep the workers going, some ore, lumber, and stone. Tomorrow we start moving the tree.”
“Done.”
“Here, though, we should build the following: tavern, town hall and academy. Set aside all the food, lumber and iron for the ridgework, and divert any spare bots there. Then, I think we have enough to build two level 1 quarries and three level 1 mines. Tell me—”
“Yes, Lincoln.”
“How do marketplaces work here?”
“You buy, you sell… I don’t follow.”
“How does the trade appear?”
“In the marketplace, by cart,” she said. “Are you ill, Lincoln? These are rather stupid questions.”
“I’m fine,” Lincoln said stiffly; his train of thought nearly broken. “Can you load the carts anywhere in the zone of the settlement’s influence?”
“Yes.”
“What if the zones overlap?”
“I don’t follow,” Bethe said.
“Could you theoretically dump a trade from one city in that zone, and then pick it up from another and have it appear back in the relevant marketplace?”
“That would theoretically happen, but who’d build cities with overlapping zones?” And then Bethe started nodding. “They overlap? That would explain how I could speak to Echo. Is this a cheat, rather like the doors?”
“It would save building another railway.”
“About that,” said Bethe.
“What about it?” Lincoln asked.
“It didn’t work. You need to research logistics and have a level 6 barracks.”