The Quest for the Trilogy: Boneslicer; Seaspray; Deathwhisper (18 page)

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Authors: Mel Odom

BOOK: The Quest for the Trilogy: Boneslicer; Seaspray; Deathwhisper
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“A little, is it?”
Wick waited, heart beating frantically.
“Okay,” Rohoh said, “so the halfer can read. A little. You can teach a monkey to wear clothes. Doesn't mean it suits him.”
“Goblinkin kills them what can read,” Drinnick said. He added his glare to Bulokk's. “They hate readin' an' writin'.”
“It's not like the goblinkin aren't already after us to kill us,” Rohoh said.
Wick glanced at the skink and wished he would shut up.
“Is that how ye come to know all them stories ye told us?” Adranis asked.
“Yes,” Wick said. “The wizard that sent me has a few books. He taught me to read.” Guilt stung him as he lied. Grandmagister Ludaan had given him the gift of reading, as the Grandmagister had done for hundreds of other dwellers who were brought into service to the Vault of All Known Knowledge. But he didn't want to reveal anything about the Library.
Adranis turned to the other dwarves. “Think about all them stories he's done went an' told us over the last few days. Stories
we
didn't know, or only halfway misremembered.” His voice thickened. “He give us a gift is what he done. Without him, we wouldn't know where to even start lookin' for Master Oskarr's battle-axe.”
“Master Oskarr's battle-axe?” Rassun echoed. “That's what the goblinkin are here lookin' for.”
Bulokk wheeled on the onetime slave. “What?”
“The goblinkin,” Rassun said. “They've been a-lookin' fer Master Oskarr's axe, too. That's why they've had us a-rootin' around in these caves.”
“Maybe we could be moving while we're talking,” Rohoh suggested sarcastically. “Or does standing around waiting for the goblinkin to catch up to us work for you?”
Wick raised his torch and studied the engravings made into the stones again.
“Do they tell ye anythin'?” Adranis asked. His voice was softer than normal.
Unconsciously, Wick raked dust and earth from the lines of the etchings. “These engravings,” he said, “tell me that we're near Master Oskarr's forge. It also tells me some of the history that the town faced while they were here. This was part of the town's history wall, a place where travelers could visit and see much of what had taken place here.”
Adranis pointed toward a block showing a goblinkin and ships out in the harbor. “Was this attack part of the Cataclysm?”
Wick rubbed the inscription across the top and translated the words with ease. “No. This was from hundreds of years before that. A goblinkin slaver raid that followed on the heels of a storm.”
“An' did the goblinkin succeed?” Adranis asked.
Shaking his head, Wick grinned. Happiness filled him. “No. I recognize this story. This was Farrad's Stand.”
“Farrad was Master Oskarr's da,” Adranis said.
“He was,” Wick agreed. “But he was also Master Blacksmith during his time. The goblinkin slavers came in greater numbers that year than ever before. There was some talk that the storm that ravaged the coastline was summoned by a wizard so the goblinkin would have an easier time of it.”
The next block showed dwarven warriors standing on a bridge above two massive stone gates. Since Wick hadn't seen those gates when they'd sailed in, he assumed that they'd been lost during the Cataclysm.
“Master Farrad stood with his warriors above the gates to Hammer Cove.”
Wick indicated an oval of islands and reefs that included the dwarven forge. “Hammer Cove was held together by the Treaty of Vovaln, which was made when the Master Blacksmiths all acknowledged Master Sarant—one of Master Oskarr's ancestors—as the greatest among them. In exchange, Master Sarant taught those blacksmiths and their sons all the secrets of his forge. That was when the Cinder Clouds Islands armor became prominent among warriors.”
“I didn't know that,” Adranis said.
“There's a lot you don't know,” Rohoh said. “Like where Master Oskarr's axe is. Come on!” He marched to the end of Wick's shoulder and halfway down his biceps like it was a bridge.
Wick shifted his attention back to the previous stone. “Master Farrad and his warriors triumphed against the goblinkin slavers. In fact, the beating the goblinkin received was so vicious that no slavers ever again tried their luck in the Cinder Clouds Islands.”
“Not until the Cataclysm,” Adranis said in a low voice.
“The goblinkin didn't try to enslave dwarves then,” Wick said. “They came only to finish the destruction of the forges.”
“They've been enslavin' ever since. An' now they're here to steal Master Oskarr's axe.”
“Running,” Rohoh said. “Us. Going to go get that axe. Does that sound familiar?”
Ignoring the skink, Wick turned his attention to Rassun. “How long have the goblinkin been here looking for Master Oskarr's axe?”
“Three, mayhap four, years,” Rassun answered. “I been here the last five months. Been right hard work we been doin'.”
“Why are they looking for the axe?”
“Them thieves hired 'em to.”
“What thieves?” Bulokk asked.
“Them in the black ship.”
“They're thieves?” Wick asked.
“Aye. What did ye take 'em fer?”
“Slavers.”
Rassun spat and shook his shaggy head. “They're thieves. Part of some guild down to Wharf Rat's Warren.”
Wick had only heard rumors of Wharf Rat's Warren. Located far into the Deep Frozen North, the port city provided a haven for the murderers and cutthroats that profited from robbery and death. Filled with pirates, thieves, and assassins, Wharf Rat's Warren was a lawless place of superstition, avarice, and double-cross.
“Why would a thieves' guild be interested in Master Oskarr's battle-axe?” Wick asked.
Rohoh marched back up Wick's arm. “Because they want Craugh to keep from finding out the truth of what happened at the Battle of Fell's Keep!”
“What good would that do?” Wick asked.
“If Craugh can find out what truly happened during that battle,” the skink replied, “he might be able to engineer a peace treaty along the mainland that can start to rebuild the Unity.”
The Unity.
The words struck a chord deep within Wick. Was this what it was truly all about? This mission that Craugh had sent him on? If that was what the stakes had been, why hadn't Craugh told him?
Because you'd have gotten scared
, Wick told himself.
Just the way you're doing now
.
He was a Librarian, not part of a diplomatic corps. He wasn't trained to deal in the fates of nations. Well, now that there weren't truly any nations left, he supposed he couldn't be afraid of that, but he couldn't be responsible for the fates of towns or even small villages. Give him a book and he could translate or copy it (provided it was written in one of the many languages he knew and read), or ask him to give reports about any number of subjects and he could do that.
“If 'n the goblinkin find Master Oskarr's axe,” Bulokk asked, “what are they gonna do with it?”
“I don't know,” Rassun said. “But I'm guessin' they're gonna destroy it. Get rid of it once an' fer all.”
Goblinkin yells echoed within the mineshaft, some of them near and some of them far. It was so confusing it was hard to tell where they were.
“They'll have split up to look for us,” Rassun said. “It'll make for smaller search parties, but once they find us they'll come a-runnin'. Ain't no way back out of the mineshaft 'cept through the entrance. Ye can wager they'll put guards over that.”
“Escape is all about the timin',” Adranis said. “We'll worry 'bout that
after
we get Master Oskarr's battle-axe.”
“That ain't gonna be easy,” Rassun said. “The goblinkin got creatures what helps 'em with the diggin'.”
“What creatures?” Bulokk demanded.
Master Oskarr's Forge
“
T
hey call them Burrowers,” Rassun said as they ran.
“They look like giant worms. If worms had mouths big enough to swallow boulders the size of cows.”
“How do they help the goblinkin with the diggin'?” Bulokk asked.
Rassun waved at the mineshaft. “Burrowers dug this mineshaft.”
Wick glanced around at the mineshaft, which was at least eight feet in diameter. For the first time he saw how smooth the walls were. They hadn't been made by pickaxes. There were no tool marks. He thought back to the bestiaries and ecologies he'd read while at the Vault of All Known Knowledge.
Since he'd begun his journeys along the mainland, Wick had increasingly read more about flora and fauna and animals he'd found and would probably find there. Several of them he hoped he'd never meet, but there were others he looked forward to seeing.
But a Burrower? He'd never heard of a Burrower. At least not as the name of a species.
“When the goblinkin were first set to this task,” Rassun said, “the thieves were unhappy with the amount of progress they were makin'. They brought over the first Burrower, then they brought over three more.”
“What do they do?” Bulokk asked.
“They eat through the rock,” Rassun said. “Faster than a pickaxe. 'Course, ye gotta clean up after 'em. They digest what minerals they want outta them rocks, then the rest passes on through.”
“Ye mean ye're a-shoveling worm—”
“Aye,” Rassun said. “But it ain't as grim as ye'd believe. They break the big rocks into little rocks. Most of 'em ain't no bigger than yer fist when they pass through.”
“Does it stink?” Drinnick asked.
Wick couldn't believe they were running for their lives and the dwarven warrior thought to ask such a question.
“No,” Rassun answered. “Ain't no foulness to it.” Torchlight played across his emaciated face and showed the grimace carved there. “Leastways, ain't no foulness to it when them Burrowers just eats rocks. They eat a dwarf or an elf, it's a whole different tale I have to tell ye.”
“Burrowers eat people?” Wick asked. Now that, he believed, was an important question to ask.
“Aye,” Rassun said. “Burrowers eats flesh an' blood people like they was gingersnaps. One gulp an' a body's gone afore he even knows he's been et.”
With all the wonders of the world, Wick wondered again why so many of the large ones seemed intent merely to eat everything else out there.
“What passes through a Burrower, the leavin's of a man or a beast,” Rassun said, “why there ain't enough to fill a hat, there ain't. Bone chips. There's something in a person or an animal that don't quite agree with them. An' once they get the taste of blood, why Burrowers becomes a danger to the goblinkin for days. They have to keep 'em penned up till they forget they ever had the taste of flesh an' blood. 'Course, Burrowers, they ain't exactly long on memory.”
“Left,” Rohoh announced when they came upon another choice of three tunnels.
Bulokk took the lead, thrusting his torch into the opening and following it down. Wick's attention was divided as he saw still more stones that had once been part of Master Oskarr's town. The little Librarian's heart ached to pass up all the treasures from the past without even taking time to make rubbings of the stones.
“Where did they get the Burrowers?” Wick asked.
“Ain't exactly sure,” Rassun answered. “There's a rumor that some wizard magicked 'em up fer the thieves' guild.”
So they might not even be natural creatures
, Wick thought. He immediately felt better about his lack of knowledge about the Burrowers. He had friends among the elven warders on Greydawn Moors and often talked with them about their creatures and others they'd seen or heard of in their own craft.
“How much farther?” Bulokk asked.
Clinging to Wick's shoulder and hair, Rohoh said, “Not much. We're almost there.”
The band kept running through the darkness.
All the while, Wick wondered if the other escapees had made it over the ridge and if the dwarves Bulokk had posted there were canny enough to hold what they had. Even then, they'd have to have a lot of luck to take one of the goblinkin ships without getting killed.
Wick fretted over how things would eventually turn out. Then he realized he might not even live long enough to find out.
 
 
Long minutes later, the mineshaft Rohoh directed them to opened up into a large chamber. Given that they'd been running steadily downhill for nearly the whole time, Wick knew they were well below sea level. He didn't like thinking about that.
But his fears quickly evaporated as Bulokk held his torch high and revealed the surroundings. The torchlight didn't reach far enough to reveal the rest of the chamber, but if it was anything like what Wick saw before him it would have been an impressive sight.
Elegantly made buildings, homes as well as shops, stood out from the cave walls. The dwarven structures had been carved from quarried rock that was bluish-white and no match at all for the reddish-alabaster of the native stone.
“They used different stone to make the city,” Bulokk said in awe.
“They did,” Wick agreed. “I'd forgotten.” Holding his torch high, he walked to the nearest building and ran his hand along the smooth sides of the stone. “Back when Hammer Cove's homestone was laid—”
“Homestone?” Rassun asked.
Wick looked at the dwarf in disbelief. How could a dwarf not know his roots? Then the little Librarian realized how much had truly been lost in the Cataclysm.
“A homestone,” Adranis said in a voice filled with quiet reverence, “was the first stone laid of the first building built in a true dwarven city. A lot of thinking went into it, into the making of it, because it carried the hopes and dreams of the dwarves who built it. They carved images of history, legend, and aspirations on all six sides of the homestone and imbued it with all their love.”
Adranis's voice carried throughout the empty space, indicating just how large it was.
“Then,” Bulokk said, “the homestone was laid as cornerstone of the first building an' the city began.”
“That's correct,” Wick said. “As I was saying, back when Hammer Cove's homestone was laid, the builders decided to choose a rock not overly natural to the area. They wanted stone that could be found wherever there were dwarves. So they chose this.” He tapped the rock and it made a hollow sound. “Limestone. Wherever there is a dwarven city, there is generally limestone. Even here in the Cinder Clouds Islands.”
“But ye don't find much of it here in the islands,” Adranis said.
Wick nodded. “Still, they quarried some of it. For the rest, though, they took in donations. Together, they built a city for all dwarves who wanted to learn to forge in the heart of a volcano.”
“Volcano?” Rohoh piped up. “I suppose that's why I feel so hot.”
For the first time, Wick noticed the heat as well. He'd been too overcome with worry and fear to be aware of it earlier.
“We're sitting on top of a volcano, aren't we?” the skink demanded.
“Aye,” Bulokk said. He raked a massive arm across his sweating brow. “It is gettin' a mite heated in here.”
“It's the forge,” Rassun said. “It's still operational.”
“Master Oskarr's forge?” Bulokk whispered.
“Aye.” Rassun smiled grimly. “I been a miner all me life. Wasn't one to ever be overly interested in the makin' of things. I prefer findin' them in the earth. Give me a rich vein of gold or a gem mine, an' I'm happy as can be. But I ain't no blacksmith. Nor did I ever wish to be.”
Following Rohoh's directions, the group of dwarves and Wick walked through the center of Hammer Cove. The buildings were three and four stories tall, straight and square. Many of them showed signs of stress fractures that ran through the stone, but nearly all of them were whole. But there were obvious places where others had once stood.
Since there were no pieces of buildings in the main walkways or in the buildings, Wick assumed that the goblinkin had ordered the area cleaned. He hated thinking about all the things that had been thrown away. Much about the past could always be told through everyday utensils in addition to books and records.
“I helped clear some of this area,” Rassun said. “When I was first brought here. The goblinkin had most of it done by that time. It took a long time. When the goblinkin found out there were buildings here, an' they was likely to be them what held Master Oskarr's forge, they didn't want anything damaged. They kept the Burrowers out then, 'cause the Burrowers woulda et everything in sight.”
“This was all cleared by hand?” Wick asked.
“Way I heard it,” Rassun said, “this area was kept pretty much like this. Like a big bubble formed over most of it an' kept it mostly from harm durin' the Cataclysm, an' fer a while when it was under the sea.”
“A bubble?” Bulokk repeated.
“Aye,” Rassun said.
“It could have been caused by the heat of the forge,” Wick mused. “If the volcano that fed the forge didn't erupt, that might explain it.”
“I was also told Master Oskarr's forge was protected by magic,” Bulokk said. “I heard that a wizard put a protective glamour over the forge.”
“I don't know about that,” Wick said. “Dwarves, as a general rule, don't hold with magic.”
“But we're inspired by luck at times,” Bulokk said. “I could see a dwarf wantin' a bit of good luck for his forge, especially with his family's fortunes an' wellbeing tied to it.”
 
 
Only a short distance farther on, with Rohoh growing more excited with every step, Wick and the dwarves found themselves standing in front of an arched doorway that stood ten feet tall, an impressive height to a dwarf, though not so much to a human.
Engravings and writing stood out on the beautiful stonework. The engravings showed images of war and weapons, of brave warriors locked in battles where
they'd just cut down enemies and ferocious beasts while dressed in beautiful armor and carrying splendid weapons.
The writing over the doorway simply bore the legend:
Welcome to Master Oskarr's Forge. If you're a friend, you have nothing to fear. If you're an enemy, may you die on one of our finely crafted weapons
. Baldly stated, but there it was.
Inspired by their good fortune, the dwarves took fresh grips on their weapons and strode through the forge entrance. It was smaller than Wick thought it would be. From the descriptions of the forge, he'd believed it would be huge, a vast series of anvils, one after the other. It was said that Master Oskarr had an anvil for every piece of armor that he made. Of course, Wick had mistrusted that piece of information because dwarves learned how to make everything they ever wanted to primarily on one anvil.
Without the ringing of dwarven hammers against metal, the forge seemed surreal, unfinished. Cracks ran the length of the floor, testifying to the elemental forces that had ripped through the city as lava covered it. Despite the goblinkin's orders to clean the area, gray ash still collected on most surfaces.
At the far side of the room, a pit of molten lava burned red-gold behind a cracked stone wall. The heat rolled over Wick and covered him in sweat at once. The lava stirred restlessly, like a baker's bread dough, constantly folding into itself as the top cooled and the hotter liquid rock below bubbled up to take its place.
Anvils lay tumbled from the specially carved stone tables. Engravings decorated each of the tables, making each unique.
As if under some spell, the dwarves slowly made their way through the forge, touching each anvil and each stone table in awe. Mesmerized as well, Wick followed them. His quick hands darted over the engravings.
Unable to help himself, he took out his journal and began taking quick sketchings, but only of images that he didn't recognize or couldn't tie into one of the dwarven stories he'd been told. None of the dwarves even took an interest in him.
“We were sent here to get Master Oskarr's battle-axe,” Rohoh said.
“I know,” Wick said. “But—but—
this
is
history
.” Journal in one hand and charcoal in the other, he gestured at the forge. “Can you even imagine the armor and weapons that came from this place? The blacksmiths that toiled here? Can you imagine what their lives were like? The hardships they had to endure?”
“Getting attacked by Lord Kharrion was probably pretty bad,” the skink mused. “Probably even worse than if the goblinkin and those thieves catch the lot of us down here in this forge.”

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