Homeward (Ch. 31)
[Serial] The party goes underground, Ryld toasts to brotherhood, and Abaddon gives it a whirl.
Table of Contents
Part 1: The Grove’s Bounty: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11
Part 2: A Mayor’s Ransom: Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 22, Chapter 23, Chapter 24
Part 3: Armageddon: Chapter 25, Chapter 26, Chapter 27, Chapter 28, Chapter 29, Chapter 30
Previously, the boys, along with Doreff and the Orcs, descended underground into the Dwarven tunnels. They hoped to lure Tobias Grimtooth out of town while the mayor sought aid to rescue the villagers from bandit captivity. Now, they await Grimtooth’s arrival while trying to avoid the dangers already lurking beneath the earth.
The dark stretched forever as Ryld marched through the Dwarven tunnels. He’d expected a sense of claustrophobia delving so deep underground, but found the complete opposite sensation. One of walking along the bottom of the ocean, their lantern offering a mere bubble of shelter against the fathomless depths.
Even with his dark vision, the tunnel’s end remained forever out of sight. That wasn’t terribly surprising, given these subterranean roads once connected Dwarven settlements across the continent. Yet here, even the tunnel’s roof escaped his long-reaching gaze.
Worse than the space was the silence. A place this vast shouldn’t have been this quiet. Even the deepest forests and tallest mountains chattered with life, but everything here was as dead as the stone surrounding them.
It made the sounds of his comrades even more deafening. Every footstep an assault to his keen ears. Every breath. Every yawn. Every inane conversation.
“Hey, Mr. Claw, can I ask you something?” Abaddon said, tugging on the Orc’s sleeve. “If you’re Hrothgar’s rum brother and Hrothgar is Ryld’s rum brother now, does that make you and Ryld rum brothers, too?”
“Definitely not,” Bruteclaw replied sagely. “It makes us second rum brothers.”
“Oh. Then, since I’m Ryld’s brother, what does that make you and me?”
“Second rum brothers once-removed.”
Ryld swung back into the lantern light. “Would you two keep it down? In case you forgot, Grimtooth is chasing us.”
“But…I thought we wanted him to chase us,” Abaddon said.
“Exactly. Which is why if he hears you two hashing out your Orcish family tree, he’ll suspect we’re luring him into a trap. Our voices carry a whole mile down here. Which probably means yours carries for two.”
Abaddon scratched his nose. “Geez, sorry for knowing how to enunciate.”
“Uhm—since we’re talking now anyway—would someone mind taking a turn carrying the lantern?” Aust asked. “I can’t feel my arm anymore.”
“Mayhap it’s time for a rest,” Doreff said. “Me stone sense is getting blurry bein’ awake so long.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Hrothgar said. “Besides, Brother Ryld and I still need to do our rum-brother ceremony.”
Abaddon stretched his arms with a yawn. “I didn’t want to say anything because Ryld would yell at me, but I ran out of magic after that last fight. I could use a rest, too.”
Ryld stomped his foot, halting their march. “An immortal psychopath bandit warlord is chasing us, and you all want to get drunk and take a nap? We need to lure Grimtooth as far down here as possible so he can’t get out.”
“And if ye expect us to get out, then consider affordin’ us an opportunity to restore our vigor,” Doreff said. “Best take advantage of our lead while we have it.”
Their escape was the one part of Ryld’s plan that remained hazy. Surely, if Grimtooth could follow their trail down here, he could follow their trail out. They’d need to restrain him or trap him a while, which meant a confrontation. Some rest would improve their odds of success, or at least lend time to devise a better strategy.
“Fine.” Ryld turned to the Dwarf. “But we should find somewhere more defensible than this open tunnel.”
“There’s a fueling station ahead. Should hide our camp nicely.” Doreff waved for the others to follow.
They turned down a sloped ramp and then climbed through an access tunnel. Then four left turns in a row that somehow didn’t dump them back where they started.
The Dwarven tunnels’ navigational hazards were no product of design. To the contrary, the ancient engineers had methodically laid out the pathways, buttressed with detours and tributaries, and marked with rune-inscribed road signs. An architectural wonder that surpassed even the Imperial roads.
But now, boulders blocked paths, tunnels had collapsed, and mechanical gates lost their power. Not to mention the streetlights had long ago died. Without a Dwarf’s stone sense, travelers could walk for miles in the dark only to confront a dead end.
It lent the ancient Dwarves an unfair reputation among surface folk as mad maze-makers. Yet this maze was not built by mortal hands, but the inexorable march of time itself.
Finally, they arrived at the fueling station. A brass husk of pillars and poles marked spaces where marvelous machines once stopped for fuel. The complex was larger than Oslo’s Grove’s town square, but Ryld was glad to have walls around him he could see.
“Is that what I think it is?” Abaddon snatched the lantern and broke away with a giddy skip toward one of the fueling bays.
The light revealed an abandoned vehicle turned on its side. It resembled a carriage, but with ski treads instead of wheels. Slender blades crowned the chassis, not unlike those adorning a windmill.
“A whirleycopter!” Abaddon shouted. “I saw one at a fair once. Mr. Dwarf, can you get it to fly again?”
Doreff crossed his arms. “Do I look like a Gnome to ye, boy?”
“I didn’t realize Gnomes had used these tunnels,” Aust said, examining the strange machine.
“We only call them the Dwarven tunnels because they were built at the behest of Dwarven emperors. But back in the day, many deep folk used them. Dwarves, Gnomes, and even goblins.”
“What about Orcs?” Abaddon asked, eyeing their Orcish comrades.
“Aye.” Doreff’s expression hardened. “Ye might even say Orcs built these tunnels.”
“Come on, we’re here to rest,” Ryld said. “Let’s make camp before our lantern runs out of oil.”
Ryld built the fire while Aust and Doreff set up the bedrolls. The Dwarf had brought provisions from his carriage—aged cheeses and sausages, all hard as stone. They’d have lasted him alone the entirety of his trip to the coast, but would offer a meager dinner for the six of them.
Meanwhile, the Orcs erected a meager barricade from surrounding scrap metal. Not enough to keep out intruders, but it would create a chokepoint if their camp fell under attack.
While the others worked diligently, Abaddon lounged in the whirleycopter’s seat. He divided his time between fiddling with the buttons and spinning the rotor with his mage hand.
“I thought you ran out of magic,” Ryld said flatly.
Abaddon shrugged. “Well, I had a little left.”
The blare of a war horn silenced their bickering. Bruteclaw marched to the center of camp, straightening his back with the solemnity of a Gold’s priest. “We will now begin the ceremony of rum brotherhood.”
“Goodie!” Hrothgar removed the bottle of fine Dwarven ale from his bandolier and gingerly held it over the fire.
Doreff’s eyes bulged so wide, they nearly popped from his skull. “Are ye roastin’ me ale!?”
“Erm—yeah. It got kinda frozen.”
“Such blasphemy,” Doreff muttered. “In the very roads of me ancestors, no less.”
Once the ale melted, Hrothgar poured a cup for himself and Ryld. The latter accepted the drink without protest, but hardly matched the enthusiasm of his soon-to-be rum brother. Bruteclaw interlocked their arms, and they tipped the drinks into their mouths at the same time.
Ryld relaxed as the drink slid down his parched throat. It was like taking a hobgoblin warhammer to the forehead. A second of pain followed by the sweet numbness of oblivion. He surely needed it after all he’d endured that day.
Hrothgar swept him into his arms and spun him around. “Brother Ryld! Welcome to the family!”
“Err…thanks.” Ryld struggled to hold the rarified drink in his stomach, assaulted by a double hit of nausea—one inertial and another malodorous. Orcs, it seemed, did not treat their bathing habits as fastidiously as their drinking ones.
“I’ve attended a few rum-brother christenings in me day,” Doreff said, clearing his throat. “Is it not customary to share libations following the ceremony?”
“Oh yeah, it’s a big party.” Bruteclaw poured himself a round and raised his cup. “To the boss!”
“To Brother Ryld!” Hrothgar added, pouring himself another.
Doreff indulged in a healthy pour. “Suppose I deserve a taste, given the fortune I paid for this.”
Abaddon swigged his drink with a cough. “Uhm, do you have anything sweeter?”
Aust refused the bottle when it came around. “I’ll just celebrate with some water, thanks.”
“What!?” Doreff barked. “Who do ye think ye are, turnin’ yer nose at Deep City’s finest ale?”
“I mean no offense. It’s just that drinking violates the Pact.”
“Violates the--?” Doreff screwed up his eyebrows. “Listen, boy, there ain’t no folk in this world more pious than the Dwarves, and I’ve never heard nothin’ about the dragons frownin’ on liquor.”
“Well, the Empire’s under prohibition, and the Pact says we have to follow the law.”
“Bah! That’s southern religion for ye. All rules and rituals. Ye think the saints never got roarin’ drunk a time or two? They must’ve been, goin’ ‘round and makin’ deals with dragons.”
“But the scriptures say nothing of that.”
“‘course not! When ye send yer wife a postcard, do ye write about the brothels ye visited!?”
Aust swallowed, aghast. “Definitely not.”
“Use that wee brain o’ yers. Stop worryin’ so much about what the rules say and instead worry about why they were written.”
“It’s different for me, Sir. See, I’m a cleric at a silver dragon’s temple. If I break the Pact, then I could lose my healing channel.”
“Ah, so it’s fear that keeps ye in line. Not an inspiring foundation for faith, but to each his own. Follow yer silly little rules, if ye must.”
“If I couldn’t heal, I’d be of no use use to anyone.” Aust passed the bottle on with a frown. “Speaking of which, I should check on your shoulder, Abaddon.”
Quiet fell across the campfire as the sorcerer removed his shirt and the cleric channeled the healing magic through the scarred tissue. Hrothgar and Bruteclaw were wrestling over the dregs of their ale while Ryld fletched some arrows.
“So tell me,” Doreff said, leaning back on his hands. “How’d ye get involved with Tobias Grimtooth anyhow? I’d have bolted fer the hills the moment his dragon flew into town.”
“He rounded up everyone while looking for that crystal,” Ryld said. “And now it’s personal. He killed the inn—I mean, our father. Or one of his cronies did. That Half-Elf. He’s the next one I’m paying a visit once we get out of here.”
“I can respect a grudge,” Doreff said solemnly. “Just make sure the price doesn’t exceed than yer satisfaction.”
“That’s what I keep telling him,” Abaddon said with a mouth full of hardened cheese. “He almost got himself killed dueling Grimtooth to the death.”
Doreff’s belly shook with laughter. “What a mad bunch I’ve fallen in with. Dueling Tobias Grimtooth to the death. That’s the one thing everyone knows about him. Immortality’s that brute’s middle name.”
Abaddon scratched his nose. “I thought Grim was his middle name.”
“Well, we’ve tested his claims,” Ryld said. “Now, we know what we’re dealing with.”
“That reminds me.” Aust finished tending the scar tissue on Abaddon’s back. “I should look at your knee, Ryld.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. It’s already healed.”
“But…I definitely heard it break. People can’t just walk that off.”
The Dark Elf shoved his last arrow back in the quiver. “Guess I’m just tougher than most people.”
“Even so,” Doreff said. “I hope ye’ve got a better plan than a duel for the next time Grimtooth shows up.”
“Yeah…” Ryld shut his eyes and leaned back into his bedroll. “I’m working on it.”
~
Ryld woke with a dry throat and pounding head. Drinking around the campfire had been just as terrible an idea as he’d expected. Yet he seemed incapable of talking this group out of their poor decisions. The rest barely provided him respite. Sleeping off a wound always gave him nightmares.
In a departure from routine, he wasn’t the first awake. Abaddon’s bedroll sat empty and unmade, while the sorcerer had dug himself was waist deep in the whirleycopter’s innards.
“Please tell me you didn’t stay up all night trying to fix that thing.”
Abaddon shrugged. “Just half the night.”
“The whole point of stopping here was so you could get your magic back!”
Aust sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Guys?”
“Don’t start with me,” Ryld barked. “Grimtooth’s gaining on us. We don’t have time to be nice.”
“No, it’s the Orcs…” The cleric pointed to two empty bedrolls at the edge of their camp. “They’re gone.”
Furrowing his brow, Ryld investigated. No signs of struggle. By all indications, they’d simply walked off during their watch. He picked up the bottle of ale, left empty and discarded on the floor.
“Figures,” he muttered. “Thicker than blood, my arse.”
“Oi!” Doreff threw off his bedroll, back stiffening. “Somethin’s comin’ this way.”
The Dwarf’s stone sense reached farther than Ryld’s keen ears, but not by much. Soon, he too heard the encroaching sounds. Something rhythmic, like a heartbeat. Or footsteps. Or…
“Drums…?” he whispered.
Looming shadows emerged at the fueling station’s edge. They were tall as Orcs, and stout as them too, but definitely not as loud as them. They marched in complete silence, every footstep timed precisely to be masked by the drumbeat.
“Mr. Hrothgar? Mr. Bruteclaw?” Aust asked, reaching for the lantern.
The light revealed Orcs shambling toward them, but their faces did not belong to the party’s lost comrades. One was missing the lower half of its jaw. Worms writhed inside another’s eye sockets. A third aired its mushy brains through the holes of a trepanned skull.
Aust gasped. “Z-zombies!”
“Quick,” Abaddon shouted. “Get to the whirleycopter!”
“We’re not going to the whirleycopter,” Ryld replied.
But his comrades had already retreated toward the broken machine, lulled by his confidence in the face of danger. Evidently, they still needed to learn the hard way how often the sorcerer’s bright ideas backfired.
The Orcs did not rush to pursue, but continued their steady march. Perhaps their movements were locked to the cadence of that mysterious drum. Or, maybe the chains around their feet—now visible in the lanternlight—slowed their gait.
“Come on, Come on,” Abaddon said, furiously tugging at some sort of drawstring within the whirleycopter’s engine.
“It’s not going to start,” Ryld said. “And even if it does, it’ll kill us a lot faster than those zombies do.”
Abaddon ignored his brother’s criticism, while Aust descended into prayer. The Half-Elf tugged on the drawstring again, this time with both hands. Then again giving the whirleycopter blades a spin with his mage hand.
Against all odds, the engine roared to life—but only for a moment.
The blades spun with mighty force, so fast they seemed to blend into a single disc. It caught the chains around the Orcs’ feet, hoisting them into the mechanical maelstrom.
Once the blades returned to rest, the chains were entangled within them. The Orcs were hung by their ankles, harmlessly out of reach.
“Wow, Abaddon, that was brilliant,” Aust said.
The sorcerer climbed from the cockpit, sheepishly scratching his head. “Yeah…that’s definitely what I was trying to do.”
Doreff planted his feet below the suspended Orcs, his mouth agape. “The Dread Princes’ thralls. It cannot be…”
Ryld cocked an eyebrow. “You know something about these guys?”
“After the Polar Wars, the Orcs offered ten thousand thralls to Deep City as tribute. The Dread Princes used them to build these very tunnels.”
“Thralls?” Aust asked. “That sounds a lot like slavery.”
“T’was the Orcs’ custom, not our own,” Doreff replied with some sharpness in his voice. “But aye, yer not wholly wrong.”
On the polar ice, thralldom was but a brief stay of execution. Enemy prisoners used as shock troops who rarely survived the next battle. But the Dread Princes exploited their prizes’ entire natural lifespans—and thereafter with cunning magics, exploited them beyond those lifespans.
“It shouldn’t be possible,” the old Dwarf whispered, tugging his beard. “The Dread Princes fell two millennia ago. Their necromancy should have long faded.”
“Seems to be a recurring problem around here,” Ryld said, recalling the Paleolithic skeletons they’d battled in the Elven ruins. “I assume those drums are controlling them somehow.”
“Aye, the drum master directs their movements. His song keeps them enslaved.”
“And is there any chance those enchantments could work on two living Orcs?”
“Not in the ordinary course of business,” Doreff replied. “But given how much ale our friends drank, there might not have been much difference between a living Orc and a dead one. Least as far as the magic was concerned.”
“That means Hrothgar and Bruteclaw could be in trouble,” Aust said. “We need to go after them.”
Ryld crossed his arms, grumbling. Every moment they waited was a moment that Grimtooth drew nearer. But the Orcs had proven reliable allies, and he’d rather face the bandit warlord with them at his side. As foolish as he found the Orcs’ customs, he’d accepted their ale at the ceremony. He couldn’t let his self-professed brother meet the same fate as his self-professed father.
“Guess we’re going on a detour. Any idea where this drum master is?”
“The signs spoke of Dread Prince’s tomb not far off. That must be where they came from.”
“Then lead the way.”
Doreff brought them back onto the main tunnel, trudging through cave-ins and the carapace of some great insect. Judging by the harnesses strapped to its back.
With each passing step, the distant drumbeat grew louder. Eventually, even the others heard it. At least when Abaddon stopped talking.
“A tomb’s kind of a weird choice for a roadside attraction.”
“The Dread Princes expected an eternal dynasty,” Doreff replied. “One with too many ancestors to fit in a city tomb and descendants spread across the continent. They wanted pilgrims to visit them in the afterlife for ages to come.”
“Doesn’t seem like that worked out,” Aust said.
“Aye. The Dread Princes gambled their eternal rest on the notion that these tunnels would expand forever. But already they’d tread farther than Dwarves were meant to go. Too many territorial humans and cursed Elven barrows in these parts. The entire enterprise collapsed not long after. Ultimately, our great tunnels lead to naught but dead ends.”
Doreff paused with a sentimental sniffle. None could say the Dwarf didn’t take pride in his people’s history. Even its darker chapters.
“Alright then, here we are.”
The path ended at a vault door with a turnstile handle. Light stung their eyes as they hoisted it open. Unlike the rest of the tunnels, the lanterns here were well-maintained.
The tomb stood three-stories tall, carved into hexagonal rings layered like Deep City in miniature. A bronze colossus of a Dread Prince pierced through all three levels, a scepter in one hand and a grimoire in another, his eyes hewn from sapphires the size of wagons.
Atop the statue, a decaying Orc slammed two femur bones across a set of hide drums. A song that had lasted millennia. Below, his thralls marched—an undead army one hundred Orcs strong.