The Legacy Builder (The Chronicles Of Lincoln Hart Book 1)

by Ember Lane

  “Oh, thank God for that,” Lincoln said, lighting his already primed pipe. “I thought I was going to have to split myself in two. What would I do without you?”

  “That’s quite all right. I see you have leveled again. Would you like to allocate your points? Bear in mind that each building and progression now increases your XP. You should increase your level regularly.”

  “Politics, all in politics. I want that build speed-up for now.”

  “Very wise. With twelve points, your build will be twelve percent faster. It is done. Just so you know, you get ten XP for each level 1 building, then an additional twenty for a level 2, thirty for 3, and so on.”

  “Good to know. So how are we doing?”

  “If you pull up your city menu, you’ll see both settlements are on the same page.”

  “Sanctuary?” Lincoln asked, sure he’d only thought of the name and not named the place.

  “It seemed to fit… My lord…”

  Lincoln laughed at that. “Have you developed a sense of humor?”

  “I am supposed to evolve to become more like you so that I can take your place when you are away. I must learn from you every day.”

  “Sanctuary it is, and don’t call me lord.”

  “Some of the workers are becoming idle. They will complete the tasks ahead of schedule because of the accelerated build speed and the number of them. Have you any further instructions?”

  “Echo has his.”

  “I am aware. Sanctuary is stifled by resources at the minute.”

  “For this place… I’m thinking four level 2 cottages, six level 2 farms; upgrade the two quarries and the mine. Iron will be our limiting factor tomorrow, so establish another mine with the last of it.”

  “And the spare labor?”

  “Can they make a start on the fissure without the iron?”

  “You have enough iron left for the tools, barrows, carts, and chutes. We could divert the spare workers to the fissure as they become free. However, currently, fifty workers are tied up making sure the resources keep working. You need more population.”

  Lincoln knew it, and he’d lose another sixteen once tomorrow’s upgrades were done, but he couldn’t keep building cottages…could he? He decided to keep that option in reserve. Food would be plentiful, lumber would keep piling up, and with the upgrades to the mine and establishing the new one, that bottleneck would be solved for now.

  “Stick to the plan, Lincoln,” he told himself. “Go see the mountain tomorrow, and get back in time to brew some ale.”

  “Would you like me to accompany you tomorrow?” Bethe asked.

  “Why not?” Lincoln said, and he tapped his pipe out, and made his way back to his cottage. “The cottage upgrades—do four of the ones across the river, and then move the family into one. We’ll all be okay in ours.”

  “As you wish,” Bethe said, and she held the door open for him. Once again, he was asleep before he’d hit the bed.

  This time, it was a faint knocking that woke him, followed by the quiet creak of a door being opened.

  “Lincoln?” he heard Glenwyth’s soft voice, and then her footsteps padded up to the bed.

  “Glenwyth? What is it?” But she didn’t answer at first. She lay next to him, pulling his arm around her, and then her whole body shuddered as she started to sob.

  “I’m scared,” she finally said.

  “Scared of what,” Lincoln asked.

  “The dark,” she said, and somehow Lincoln knew it wasn’t the dark of the night.

  17

  Caverns And Caves

  The mountain loomed large and imposing, though it cast no shadow their way. Escarpments littered with gray scree battered feeble foothills with their waste, and streams gnawed at their very roots. Wind whipped up specters of dancing dust, that weaved, loomed close, and then petered out. Grit coated his skin, lined his mouth and leached into his lungs. It was grim and inhospitable but part of his land and so precious to him. Lincoln trod on.

  Above all the chaos, the mount sat resplendent, immune from the anarchy below, peering down from its lofty heights like an elder to a child. Snow capped its top, rock faces dropped, filled with crags that stared out with dark and dead eyes, and Lincoln couldn’t help but wonder if the mountain wasn’t alive. He regretted leaving Aezal behind for the second day running, fearing the warrior might feel left out, but this was dwarf territory through and through, no doubt about it. They had grins plastered all over their fat faces.

  Glenwyth had left his bed shortly before Aezal had roused him for their training. She’d slept in his arms all night, as if the comfort of his embrace was enough to ward off the creeping darkness in her heart, though she’d said no more about her fears. More than anything, Lincoln wanted to talk to Elleren and find out exactly what was afflicting Glenwyth, but that conversation would have to wait until tomorrow. He had to force thoughts of her from his mind.

  “So, where are our quarries?” Lincoln asked Bethe.

  “Do you wish to see one?”

  “Lead the way.”

  “This should be interesting,” Grimble muttered. “A quarry run by copper things.”

  “Robots,” Lincoln told him.

  “What?” Ozmic asked.

  “Nothing,” Lincoln decided it was a conversation better avoided. “We need a name for them. How about…bots, meaning…children of the settlement,” he said quickly.

  “It’s got a ring,” Grimble admitted.

  “Would you like me to refer to the workers as bots?” Bethe asked.

  “Please, now, the quarries.”

  Bethe led them through the final foothills and up a ravine before cresting its sharp ridge, and there she waited for them all. Lincoln clambered up in front of the two dwarves, who seemed content to watch him struggle.

  “Yer not built fer climbing,” Ozmic shouted, but Lincoln was already doubled over, holding his sides.

  “Ya think?” he shouted back down and then turned and looked over toward the next ridge.

  There were piles upon piles of hewn gray-and-white rock—his settlement’s reserve of stone. Vertical faces had already eaten into the mountain’s foundation, though only the size of baby teeth in a giant’s head, and Lincoln felt happier knowing that their best efforts wouldn’t be any more than a scratch on its surface. A track was being laid, straight iron rails running down the valley, and trucks were being built to roll on it.

  “I took the design from your thoughts,” Bethe explained. “It will make the mine a level 2 without too much work. If the stone can be cleared faster, it can be carved faster, thus the output is raised—the sole prerequisite for a jump from level to level. It will be complete before the day is out.”

  “It that our iron mine?” Ozmic said, pointing up at a hole in the ridge’s side.

  “It is the beginnings of the new one. There are only two bots working on it at the moment, more will come once the first cottage is upgraded. I thought you’d want to move the family as soon as possible. A level 2 cottage has a stone hearth. A fire should aid their recovery.”

  Lincoln was taken aback by her forethought, and hoped she’d picked up that caring side from him. “It looks like you have everything under control.”

  “Would you like to go into the mountain? There is a cave nearby. What minerals do you seek?” Bethe asked.

  “Gold would be nice. With gold we could establish a marketplace and trade with other cities,” Lincoln told her.

  “Through Thickwick?” Grimble asked.

  “Or along the river. We could travel down the river and say we’re from Thickwick, or Atremeny, anywhere. Once we’re out of the forest, there’s no need to tell anyone where we’re from.”

  “But it’s still risky,” Ozmic pointed out.

  “If folks find out Sanctuary exists, then so be it. Joan’s Creek remains cut off though. Both remaining a secret would be better for now.”

  “For now?” Grimble asked.

  “Until we’ve got defenses:
until we’ve got an army,” Lincoln said grimly. “And until we’ve got a hero.”

  “A hero?” Ozmic scratched his Mohican.

  Lincoln winked. “Just wait and see. To the nearby cave?”

  “To the cave!” both dwarves cried, clearly anxious to see the mountain’s innards.

  Nearby was actually an hour of traversing up a scree-laden slope—an hour the sun chose as a good time to start burning brightly down. Halfway along, Lincoln took out his staff, leaning on it with every hard stride.

  “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 no
dded, 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.”