Chapter 6 — Call to the Caverns

In a small office of a guild building adorned with a tidy desk, two occupied chairs, and cabinets aplenty, Gunnar quietly rapped his fingers on his knuckles. His magic mentor, Magnus, gingerly traced his fingers over a battleaxe with his eyes shut.

“That’s the feel of earth magic, all right.” Opening a drawer, he brought out a simple-looking metal rod and swiped it over the weapon, like a blind dwarf using his cane to make sure his path was obstacle-free. “Ah, I see. ‘Dig’ was the aspect you chose?”

“Yes, Mentor Magnus.” Gunnar followed the sentence with a hopeful look.

Magnus passed back the axe, fingerprints smudging its pristine condition and invoking Gunnar’s urge to wipe them off. “Interesting choice. Congratulations Gunnar, you’ve created the simplest of raised magic items.”

Gunnar exhaled, his mentor’s warm expression bringing him satisfaction. He did it. The axe was nothing special, looking like a commodity compared to many other enchanted objects the dwarves had, but that didn’t matter. He was learning, and the result had borne his first fruit: a weapon that could dig through and break up earth like putty.

Magnus took in Gunnar’s words of gratefulness with a chuckle. “Took plenty of time, didn’t it? Having to refine the magic and let the aspect you want manifest, applying it correctly to the object in question before stabilizing it — and this is for a basic raised magic tool, one without any chaos factors in play when you create something that requires multiple aspects.” A forced shudder went through his body.

“Still worth learning,” Gunnar said, his awe for magic overriding any fear he should have for what was to come.

“Yes, still worth learning.” Magnus’s gaze spaced out, as if reflecting on the magic objects he created over his years, before he leaned forward.

Something about that action made Gunnar sweat despite the chilled air of Granir seeping into the bricks. “Gunnar,” Magnus said, “I have a question. What made you choose this enchantment?”

Ah. Mentor Magnus asked him about that. Should he answer? What was that smell coming from the skin under his arms?

His mentor’s smile turned into a frothy grin. “Bills?”

Gunnar inwardly gasped, finding himself involuntarily affirming his mentor’s intuition. “I couldn’t help myself, Mentor Magnus. The thought of what could be going in those caverns, it’s been eating at me. Maybe Chief Herod or someone else in the Circle of Elders will need more men and can make use of this weapon. And if that does happen, I’d like to come too.”

By law, created magic items and artifacts automatically fell under governmental use unless an individual had the license to own a particular item. Gunnar effectively had to give up this battleaxe because of this — only for an authorized situation like what Bills was dealing with would he be allowed to lend it from containment. And of course, he had to meet standard safety protocols for magic use, something all coming-of-age dwarves took classes for.

But even if Bills is fine and I don’t go myself with the axe, surely someone will get to use it one day. That’s good enough for me. Knowing his contributions might have been of service to another was something Gunnar could be proud of, something worth his time and effort.

Magnus’s jaw shifted in an odd fashion as the door opened without warning, bringing in outside chatter. “Excuse me, I’m in the middle—” he began when the intruding dwarf called him over for an urgent situation. Gunnar sat perplexed as his mentor brought himself up, walking outside.

The door shut. What happened? Everyone knew Magnus’s peeve with people entering his office without warning nor consent. This had to be important.

A minute ticked by with Gunnar mulling over this until an obvious answer illuminated the depths of his mind, making him almost laugh with bittersweet emotion. Could it be? Was the situation in the underground tunnels worse than what the Circle of Elders thought, and more men and magic items were being called up? Was this his chance to learn the truth of the problem and help out himself?

Mentor Magnus returned, a letter in hand. “From my wife,” he chuckled, setting it on the corner of his desk. “Honestly, can’t she be patient enough for me to come home and say what’s gotten her fired up? Less worrying will do her heart some good, I’ll say.”

That wasn’t what Gunnar expected. I mean, this humorously counts as an urgent situation, he told himself, but surely there’s more to it. Mentor should tell me right about—

“Ah, sorry, that wasn’t the urgent situation.” A sheepish grin plastered onto Magnus’s face as Gunnar’s hopes reignited.

“Apparently my fellows needed to know where I misplaced the box of rods, the ones for reading what magic components and aspects make up a raised magic thingamabob.” Magnus failed to see Gunnar’s muddled, downcast expression. “Really should stop doing that, gets on everyone’s nerves and wastes more time than it’s worth. Well then, I’ll have someone send your weapon to our local Magic Containment Chamber—”

A pause. “Unless you want to answer Herod’s emergency call for a rescue party?” he added.

Light. Gunnar could’ve sworn his entire vision was light, engulfing him in ecstatic joy. There was news after all. “With all due respect, that was a low blow,” he called out on Magnus. “They need me?”

“Anyone that can hold themselves in battle, Gunnar, so obviously not me.” Magnus’s laugh came out as a series of coughs. “Take the axe. Your strong, hardy frame looks ideal for it.”

So the moment had come. Gunnar knew he shouldn’t be this happy when it was obvious things had turned for the worse — what if his brother was injured or even killed? — but he swept those negative thoughts away. The opportunity to serve had come.

“I’ll deal with the permissions for usage of raised magic and any concerns your family will have, they’ll understand.” Magnus had Gunnar rise. “No time to waste, my student, you’ve an expedition to go on and a brother in blood to help out. Come along.”

Gunnar nodded, leaving the room after his mentor. I’m coming, Bills, he thought.

“Gunnar, where’s the axe?”

The young dwarf quickly ran back to grab the battleaxe he left on his side of the desk. Oops.

The next half-hour had him contend with his family’s reservations (and tight hugs) before getting recruited with Magnus’s patronage. Soon Gunnar found himself eagerly waiting at the entrance of a grand mineshaft, large wood beams embedded into the dirt and stone. Shared by Granir and its nearby towns, this tunnel was the main entrance into the sprawl of dwarven-mined and preexisting caverns. In fact, it could easily house a golem or dragon — no, anything with twice the dimensions of those myiths, though such a large creature would have to hunch ever so slightly.

Dragons. The word numbed him. What were those twelve dragons in the corner doing here?

Looking around, a good group of dwarves had settled down, words like ‘magic’, ‘dangerous’, ‘dragons’ and more being tossed around. Of them, he was certain that everyone else was no younger than — well, twenty-three sounded right. He himself, having reached dwarven adulthood a few months ago, was sixteen.

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The other young adults were cowards, was all.

But more importantly, there were dragons. Six of them were ‘armored’ with forehead-protecting plates and metallic wristbands, dragon-tailored polearms in their claws. The other six were unarmed, two even appearing elderly, but seemed equally as dangerous. Why dragons were here in the first place, Gunnar couldn’t understand. Who told them about the cave situation?

And anyway, how did those armored dragons grip their weapons and walk around on their remaining three legs whatsoever? It was like a trembling butler serving more platters of food than should be possible to hold. Is this a skill they teach dragons? He wondered, feeling even more remorseful for the hooved unicorns who couldn’t even do that. The Purge of Anima all but broke them.

His eyes fixated to a giant red-pinkish dragon whose figure was probably nearing ten feet from the shoulder, never mind his horns. Thankfully it wasn’t like those stories he heard of, about worlds where the dragons could be the size of a two-story house, a colosseum — Gunnar pitied the characters having to deal with such ridiculously-sized beings. The dragon in front of him was already too large for comfort.

Suddenly, a strange sensation trickled throughout his skin. That dragon, there was something off about it. Almost as if — no, that couldn’t be!

Gunnar redoubled his gaze as if to pierce the dragon, and he felt it, the very substance he was getting accustomed to sensing. Mana.

An overload of it, with the warming element of fire.

But that’s impossible, he thought in bewilderment. Yes, all things contained some form of diluted, raw mana, but the Purge of Anima had long reduced that to negligible amounts! And yet here was a creature leaking the stuff. Either he had taken too deep a plunge into a raw pool of mana and survived, or—

A construct. They have a powerhouse of a construct, a freaking sentimental artifact beyond artifacts, an actual construct! Shocking clarity overwhelmed Gunnar. When did this happen? What actually happened in the mines? How intelligent was the thing in front of him?

Almost as if answering that last question, the draconic machination noticed him and turned its head over with a deadbeat expression. Oh. Oh no.

Gunnar should’ve turned away. He should’ve pretended to briefly look over before minding his business, just like everyone else. Instead? His gaze locked in place, an irrational fear of being attacked clouding his judgment. This seemed to amuse the behemoth, who whispered to a smaller, bulky-looking dragon whose pink shade looked corroded.

And now that dragon was staring. Gunnar knew the Purge of Anima made a dragon’s innate breath magic unusable (not that the construct counted as one), but he maintained his social distance in case the magic returned just to spite him.

The other dragon appeared to be female and didn’t leak mana in the slightest, maybe the assistant of that huge construct. The wry smile spreading on her face made her look young, hinting she could be near his own age. Gunnar forced back a smile before yanking his gaze over to a nearby, lovely stone wall as he let out his breath. Can we never again, you oaf? he chided himself, regretting every instance of this interaction.

“Good day, everyone.”

Gunnar’s nerves eased as Chief Herod of Granir showed up, only to liquify once more. On Herod’s person was a badge resembling a fanged slime with a crown, and in hand was Fracture Beam.

Fracture Beam! They brought the mana-dissembling weapon out, he quietly whimpered, recalling its deadly use in The Nightmarish Clash and calculating how bad things must have gotten belowground. Multiple prayers on Bills’s behalf went heavenward that day.

“By now, some of you must’ve noticed our dragon accomplices,” Herod continued, walking to the shadowed entrance of the mineshaft, “or maybe stole glances at the badge and specter I wield. For the unaware, they are called Fear Factor and Fracture Beam.” He freely showed both as gasps arose, allowing Gunnar to see the prismatic spike jutting out the flat end of the metal half-circle that tipped Fracture Beam. Yep, that was where the magic-ripping death beam came from.

“These are strong artifacts, the latter even having a former rank as a revered magic artifact, though I feel no need to explain their use. And another note, we are currently in the presence of both the dragon king and a formidable construct.” Gunnar’s heart dropped another beat as Herod stole a glance at the dragons in question while the dwarves whispered amongst themselves. “Yes, a construct. Let this information set in stone the seriousness of this situation.”

The king was here. That reddish-purple dragon over there was Brimir, king of the dragons. WHAT HAPPENED, Gunnar rhetorically asked himself, no longer sure if he wanted to know what threatened his brother.

“My gratitude goes to you all who’ve come at the request to aid our brethren below,” Herod continued. “Our dragons and their adjoining construct join us with dire news of a common threat amidst the passageways below. The purpose is, firstly, to find the party we sent ahead of us, and if fate permits us, to neutralize the unknown enemy squirming beneath our feet. Danger may be abound, so if you have last-minute reservations, then part ways now and take the cowardice we cannot tolerate in our ranks home.”

Even Herod wasn’t sure what was going on? Gunnar didn’t like that, but it oddly softened the screams coming from his heart. At this moment, he resolved to not be a coward. Bills needs me, he reminded himself.

“I will lead this expedition. Chiefs Timothy and Barin—” heads briefly turned to two dwarves in the back “—they will serve as co-leaders. The dragons are their own subgroup, under their king’s banner, but they have honored me with the right to command them if needed.”

“The pleasure is ours,” the king dragon said.

“Hm. I expect that if battles or other extreme circumstances erupt, you will organize yourselves and obey your assigned co-leaders. I will first assemble my party, then have my fellow chiefs take theirs.” He notioned a third of the dwarves at the forefront to come, Gunnar shuffling along as the dwarves behind him came to serve their commander.

Watching chiefs Timothy and Barin make their groups, Gunnar almost jumped as Herod himself put a palm upon his sturdy shoulder. “Blacksmith Carn’s youngest son, Gunnar, was it? Though Rookie or Junior also work for names, hah. I best pay attention to you lest the rest of your family has to come to the rescue and for my head, though I’m sure you’ll be more responsible than most lads eager to serve for matters like these.”

Gunnar only nodded in appreciation as Herod indulged in brief small talk with a few other dwarves. Nothing surprising, since the chief was known to interact with his community on a very personal scale despite governing one of the most prestigious mountain dwarf towns. Still, this doesn’t seem to be the best time for this, he thought, not understanding his intentions. At least it eased the pressure he felt.

Wait. Wasn’t that just it? Gunnar wished he was a better critical thinker.

It was then that the king dragon approached Herod with his crowd of dragons, the monstrous construct again laying his eyes on him. The corroded pink dragon beside him seemed bemused by this, showing poor Gunnar a swift look of sympathy.

“Fracture Beam,” the king dragon said with a chuckle. “I wasn’t aware that thing fell into your hands, Chief Herod.”

Herod shrugged. “Don’t get your hopes up, King Brimir. It’s not like how it was before the mana purge, we can only split apart magic artifacts into their components with it.”

“Ah. Disappointing, but not surprising.”

“But still useful.”

The huge construct had its head tilted, as if trying to wrap its mind around something. His assistant muttered something to him, sparking a terse conversation between the two. Huh, Gunnar couldn’t help but think. He doesn’t know of Fracture Beam? No, Chief Herod just explained, so then it has to be — he’s unaware of the Purge of Anima?

That made sense. The Nightmarish Clash and the purge happened eighty-six years ago, why would a construct know of it if he wasn’t told before? Maybe he was recently made.

The construct focused his gaze on him again, and Gunnar wondered if he could read his mind when the pink dragon decided to intervene. “Leave him alone, Ismat. With the sheer amount of mana you contain, people are bound to give you looks.”

Ismat, the huge dragon-construct, shook his head at her. “That’s not it,” he said, walking away.

The pink dragon snorted before turning to Gunnar, her soft smile giving him some breathing room. “Don’t mind him, he’s weird like that,” she said. “I’m Jakyra.”

The dwarf’s innate politeness kicked in as he put a hand to his chest and nodded. “Gunnar, pleasure to meet you.”

“Same.” The two awkwardly eyed each other before Jakyra shook herself, a low chuckle coming out her mouth, and rejoined her group. Gunnar chose not to watch, not interested in encountering those rigid eyes the Ismat-construct had.

A construct with a name. Not normal. At least he’s on our side, he thought as he longingly stared into the dark recesses of the mineshaft, pleading for Bills to be alive when he found him.