Why do dwarves dig so deep?

It was a bit of a tired cliche. But today Merrick couldn’t help thinking about it. He was surveying his mining expedition hurrying around like a hive of orderly ants as they prepared for today’s delve, and felt the pit in his stomach deepen.

Today was the day. Nobody else knew it—nobody else could be allowed to know it, but today they would finally reach their goal. Today he would finally… Merrick glanced at the rose-crested ring he wore on his right index finger, and felt at the pull in his mind. Closer, closer, almost there, it whispered to him.

Yes, today was the day. He would do what had to be done. But first—he ran his eyes through the encampment, the many hastily-built shacks which dotted the mountainside, until he spotted a stout figure with an ash-grey beard leading a group of the younger dwarves.

“Oy! Lad! Get over here!” Merrick shouted.

The boy, no, the young man looked up, spoke a few words to the men he was organizing, then began hurrying towards his father. “What is it?”

His son was certainly not a boy any longer, but Merrick still wasn’t quite used to it. The lad had run off six years ago to become an adventurer, then returned only last month, with glory and scars. “Thors the adventurer” they now called him—and he certainly looked the part. His shoulders had gotten broader, his arms firmer, and he now wore an enchanted breastplate on his chest, the axe at his back gleaming with runes.

But Merrick’s eyes always went to the hands, each missing the pinkie. Adventuring had left its mark on the boy. The old dwarf sighed and leaned back against the cool wood of the supply wagon. He didn’t like the distance that he had developed with his son as they struggled to find the new relationship they were supposed to have.

So instead of getting to business, he found himself asking the question that had come to him.

“Why do dwarves dig so deep?”

A ripple of disbelief went through his son’s face. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

Merrick frowned. “Something wrong with the question?”

Thors sighed and took a step back, turning to look at the mountain valley beyond. His eyes seemed to settle on the river gently flowing along the center. “I guess you wouldn’t know, not having travelled so much in other lands, but that question… it really gets on my nerves. They just never stop with it! Especially the elves. Damned elves.”

Thors turned back, forehead crunched up. “Imagine every time you’re meeting new people, some smug prick with nettle up their ass walks up and asks that question, thinking they’re so damn clever.”

A smile tugged at Merrick’s lip—he had rarely seen his son this animated. “I expect you have a well rehearsed answer then.”

Thors actually laughed at that and gave Merrick’s shoulder a light jab. “Hah! Fine. This one always shuts them up.” He pulled off his glove and brought up his hand, revealing the stump where his pinkie should be. “Do you want to know how I lost this finger?”

Merrick grimaced back a bit. “That’s your answer?”

Thors waggled the stump and grinned. “I’m getting there—play along. See, it’s about greed and guts. I chopped this finger off myself. The other one too.”

“You’ve told me the story before,” Merrick said.

“I know, I know, but it’s a metaphor. Or something like that. I’m getting to it.” Thors coughed theatrically, then held up a different finger, his middle one, which had a gleaming silver ring on it.

“See, rings are one of the easiest things to enchant, so adventurers tend to find lots of them. But which ones are cursed? You need to hire some snooty mage to check it, but if you give one of them a ring that’s actually worth something, you aren’t getting it back. So… there are easier ways to check.”

He motioned at the axe on his back. “Just put the ring on… and if it starts to get nasty—pop! Chop it right off.”

“So your answer is that you’re a damned fool with rocks for brains?”

“No—I’m being serious,” Thors answered, and for a moment the joking tone was gone.. “Most people can’t do it. You can’t hesitate for even one moment, you have to instantly chop off your finger, in that one moment when your instincts first scream danger. Greed and guts—that’s what us dwarves have. We can walk the fine line between risk and reward much further than anyone else. Elves live too long and humans too little. And that—”

Thors took a step back and made a mock bow. “—is my answer as to why dwarves dig so deep.”

Merrick chuckled. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think you were actually going somewhere with that answer. They really asked you that all the time, didn’t they? I bet the pointy-ears always loved the bit where you say they don’t have guts.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed my answer,” Thors said with a smile. “Now, did you actually have some business for me, or did you call me here to waste my time with idle chitchat?”

Merrick rolled his shoulders, getting any kinks out. Yes—it was time for business. Today was the day. “Tell the youngsters that they can take the day off. Open up a barrel of ale and gather energy for tomorrow’s final push. Today I’ll only take the old guard down.”

“Really? Will that be fine?” Thors asked, surprised.

Merrick glanced toward the mine entrance which stood like a raw wound against the cliffside. He nodded. “Us old ones need some time without youngsters yapping about too. Now go tell the others—fast—before I change my mind.”

Thors needed no encouragement and rushed off to the other young miners, an easygoing grin forming on his face. Merrick sighed as he watched him go. The boy had given a surprisingly good answer, but it was a different one from Merrick’s own.

He glanced at the rose-crested ring on his index, and again felt its pull. Toward that mine shaft, into the center of the mountain. Merrick too knew a lot about sacrifices given for magical rings.

And he was willing to give a lot more than a pinkie.

“Men! Form up!”

—

There was a primal satisfaction in digging. In gradually chipping away at rock, in shovelling away the smashed earth, in seeing the incremental progress grow minute-by-minute, day by day, month by month. It was almost hypnotic.

Perhaps that was the reason some dwarves dug so deep—they just enjoyed the act too much to ever think of stopping. But that wasn’t Merrick’s answer. He couldn’t enjoy the digging today, but still he went on, thinking over his son’s words. True, he had sometimes heard the other races laughing at the foolish dwarves who dug too deep in every story, and unleashed some ancient horror.

But the dwarves knew the stories better than anyone else—they were the ones who told them in the first place. But they also remembered the stories of glory. So—when mining, dwarves did not do it silently. They sang.

“My pa was called ol’ iron-arm,

In his young days he wrote this song!”

“Haul away the stones!

There’s iron in me bones!”

Oh no, dwarves did not dig quietly. Clack, Clack, went the pickaxes in a steady rhythm, as all the miners hammered at the stone in sync, playing a drumbeat for dwarves, for miners.

Merrick should have been leading the song, but today he couldn’t. The pull on the ring was still getting stronger and stronger. He alone was digging silently, just focusing on bringing his copper pickaxe back and forth. But the cave around him echoed.

“We got trapped when the mine caved in,

Throats ran dry and the air got thin!”

“Haul away the stones!

There’s iron in—”

“Silence!” Merrick shouted, and the song cut off in an instant.

Pickaxes paused and concerned gazes turned to the older dwarf, who was leaning against the wall of the mineshaft, a hand at his forehead. Merrick was sweating, and not because of the heat.

“Merrick?” one of the men asked, approaching hesitantly. “Something’s the matter?”

“I’m fine,” Merrick replied, waving away the concern. “It’s just...” He hesitated for a moment, eyeing his men, then nodded to himself. “We’re getting close.”

Excitement bloomed and spread from face to face, but before the cheer could take hold, Merrick threw up a hand.

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A susurration went through the remaining miners. Palt stepped closer, an excited gleam in his eye. “How close? Even... today?” He asked.

“Start digging and find out,” Merrick calmly answered, in a tone that revealed nothing but implied everything.

The effect was immediate. A glow of excitement and energy spread from dwarf to dwarf, as they imagined the promised treasure waiting within pickaxe’s reach. They seemed to get younger by decades in a moment, and Merrick calmly nodded—confirmed of his own answer to the question that had been plaguing his mind all day.

Why do dwarves dig so deep?

Because dwarves dream. More and bigger than any other race, they grasp for that fabled castle in the sky, far out of their reach. Glory and riches.

The old-timers needed no further encouragement. Without another word, they rushed back to work. Up and down went the pickaxes, cleaving the stone like executioner’s blades. There was no longer any enjoyment or leisure in it, just a feverish rush to the finish line.

The final dig went in silence—no dwarf sang.

—

Merrick wasn’t sure how long they dug for. It seemed like one single moment stretching on forever, sweating bodies rushing in a dim tunnel, until that final glorious sound broke the spell.

Crack.

A different sound rang through the mineshaft. The orderly rhythm of mining broke, replaced with the chaos of discovery.

“—hit something—”

“—where’s did we—?”

“—right over here—”

Merrick let the half-dozen disorderly voices wash over him, then stomped with his foot and roared.

“Order!”

The chaos calmed, and then six grizzled faces were facing the old dwarf, lit by their dim magelight. Merrick let the silence hang for a moment, then spoke.

“Dwarves, remember, this isn’t a vein of tin we’re going for, but a ruin.” He pointed at the crack in the shaft, where the unmistakable sight of brick was veiled behind the stone. “According to my knowledge, it should be safe from monsters, but we must excavate with care lest the old masonry collapses.”

The reality of the situation began to set in, and one of the miners took a step back, raising a hesitant voice. “Shouldn’t we get the others then? If there’s monsters and such?”

Merrick turned away from him and regarded the crack in the stone. He stepped closer and poked at the revealed brick, which seemed almost caked in dry blood from its color. His heart was thumping. This was real, and he had no choice. Too much had already been sacrificed.

“No,” he answered, voice tight. “Do you really think the youngsters will manage something like this with appropriate care? Even adventurers know that exploring ruins isn’t done with an army. Seven of us will already be tight for some of the corridors I expect. We will proceed inside and do an initial survey. Now help me dismantle this wall,” he said, and began carefully chipping at the stone.

A few uneasy looks were shared, but the men trusted in his experience and joined him in the work. Six veteran dwarven miners working on making a passable entrance? It was quick work, and soon Merrick was eyeing a passable entryway into the ruin, unease growing in his stomach.

It felt like the proper moment to give a speech, the time right before delving into darkness, but he had none to give. After an overlong silence, Merrick turned to give the old miners one last look. His voice was gravelly. “Dwarves, you do not know it yet, but this matters. You will be remembered.”

It was all he could promise.

Then he stepped through into the ruins and began walking, the men rushing to follow him. The others were eyeing the room nervously, scanning the empty walls and the dark entrances while keeping their pickaxes at the ready, but Merrick just walked on without hesitation, barely paying any attention to the eerie walls or crumbling brick.

The ring knew where to go. It was pulling him almost as if an invisible string was tied to his finger, and all Merrick had to do was follow. The rose-crest on it was beginning to glow. Merrick was beginning to feel feverish, so he bit his lip, drawing blood, and then he could hear the others again—for a moment. They had been shouting at him.

“Merrick!”

“Where are you going?”

Then Merrick stepped through to a new room, and suddenly the pressure was gone, and he could stop and breathe. The others were still catching up to his mad advance, cursing, but Merrick didn’t turn back to them yet. For the first time since stepping inside the ruin, Merrick took in his surroundings.

He had come to a wide circular room with a domed ceiling. Five hallways were set into the walls at even distances, each a straight path pointing towards the centre, where Merrick’s magelight revealed a circular diagram set into the floor. He could recognize the patterns on it.

The light that had begun to glow on his ring had gone dark once again, but Merrick felt the ring wasn’t sleeping anymore. Now—it was waiting. His dream was close at hand, the old dwarf could feel it. The golden castle promised to his kin. Eternity

A hand took hold of his shoulder. “Merrick, what’s gotten into you? Is the ring acting up? You were not listening to us? This is insane!” Palt said, doing his best to hide the nerves in his voice.

Merrick turned and looked him in the eye. Palt flinched back. Something was beginning to shine through in Merrick’s eyes. A facade was breaking.

“Can you feel it?” He said suddenly, gesturing at the room. “The waves. The echoes. Destiny and inheritance, lying in wait for a hundred generations! The destination of our fates!”

The other dwarves got closer, sharing uneasy glances. They were all standing inside the circular diagram now. Palt put a hand on Merrick’s shoulder, and asked a simple question. “Merrick, what in steelblight are you talking about?”

The hand felt too real. Merrick flinched, taking a step back and the other dwarves came closer, eyeing the ring on his hand warily. Perhaps it was coincidence, destiny, or some basic instinct of living creatures, but they had all aligned perfectly with the pattern on the floor.

A star with one dwarf at its center, and five more at each of its points.

The ring began glowing. A flash of crimson light blinded all the dwarves, and for a moment, Merrick hesitated, seeing the sudden fear in their faces.

But he had done worse before. The other sacrifices could not be for naught. Before anyone could break the pattern, he bent down, and touched the ring against the floor.

The light from the ring disappeared, then the pattern on the ground shimmered with blood-red energy. Suddenly, a terrible crunching sound filled the cavern, as countless spikes lanced out of the pattern’s outer ring, piercing through each dwarf standing on top. There were no cries of pain—it was too fast, right through the head.

Only splashes of blood. Much of it landed on Merrick, kneeling at the center of it all. He did not flinch. His eyes were cold, harsh and utterly merciless. Gone was Merrick the Ashen, who had spoken with his son earlier in the morning.

This was Merrick the Diabolist.

The extended spikes stayed in place, then slowly began to pulse like veins. They were not constructs of stone or metal, but something organic. Merrick watched as the corpses around him slowly grew more and more pale as their blood was drained out and pulled through the pattern towards his ring.

He could feel the power in it growing. Pulse by pulse. Drop by drop.

Until the corpses around him were husks of skin and bones, and the spikes retreated back to the ground. The bodies collapsed to the ground lifelessly. Merrick breathed deep. “It is done.”

Years of preparation, research and sacrifice. Years of bearing the humiliation. Of knowing the kingdom he was owed. And now—an awaiting kingdom and eternity to conquer it.

Heart calming down, the reality of the situation settling in, Merrick began to stand up—

But he noticed he couldn’t.

He stared at the ground in confusion. “What?”

The ring was still connected to the pattern on the ground, with a force as strong as a mountain. Merrick couldn’t pull it off. Suddenly, he felt a dark premonition.

He felt a sting as suddenly, a spike burst out of the ring’s inside, into his finger. Blood began to flow. Fear struck Merrick’s heart.

“What? No! No no no!”

He pulled and pulled, trying first to get the ring off the ground, then the ring off his finger, but it was futile. Nothing could budge it. And the bloodflow kept accelerating.

“No no no! Why? Not like this! Not like—”

Merrick’s increasingly desperate shouts were interrupted as someone behind him began clapping slowly. A rich baritone laugh filled the chamber. Footsteps from right behind him began approaching even closer.

“An amusing play is it not, ringbearer? The turnaround, right before the reward. Magnificent!”

The dwarf had frozen in place. He tried to turn back and look at what had appeared behind him, but he couldn’t. He was stuck in place, ring glued to the ground.

Suddenly, Merrick remembered his son’s story, and grabbed for his knife in a desperate gambit. With a final, frantic burst of energy and hope, he drove the knife towards his finger.

It was too late. His hand had lost too much blood, and was too weak to pierce the bone. His blade only bit into skin. The voice behind him laughed again, and Merrick collapsed from his knees to the ground, his last bit of strength gone.

“What is this? Who are you?” Merrick asked, trembling with cold and fear.

The voice in the darkness took one final step. Merrick could sense the presence, inches behind him.

“I think you know exactly what this is—young diabolist. Why do your kin always believe that they alone will be spared from sacrifice? I am merely an... interested party.”

Merrick felt cold. Cold and empty. He stared listlessly at the ground and his voice was only a whisper. “This isn’t... what was promised. This isn’t... how it was supposed to end...”

“The end?” The voice asked. “Oh, this is far from the end.”

Something bent over him, reaching towards the ring, and the last thing Merrick saw was that terrible face.

—

Thors had decided to start drinking early, for ale was best enjoyed while the sun still shone. He was seated in their gathering hall, a sturdy building made from good logs to fit their whole expedition at a time. Friends sat all around him, and the last song had just ended.

So he stood up from his seat, lifted a tankard into the air and raised his voice. “To tomorrow’s success! Everyone, with m—”

The mountain rumbled under him. Thors almost lost his footing, but he caught himself, dropped to the table, and instantly fell into focus. His eyes ran to the door as his mind raced. That came from the mines—father!

“Mark, take the others and get geared up, rouse the guard and—”

Thors fell silent as he saw the room around him.

Nobody was moving. Everyone was frozen to their places, not moving one inch. Items the quake had thrown off the table had frozen in mid-air. Even the fire that had been roaring in the firepit was stuck in position like an uncanny painting. Thors’ heart ran cold as he struggled to make sense of things, but nothing was making sense.

For everyone but him, time had stopped.

A magic like this…

But then he heard footsteps. From outside the door, from the direction of the mine. An ominous presence approaching.

Thors did not speak a word—he knew that whatever came through that door, it could not be good. Face grim, he reached for his battleaxe and fell into a practiced fighting pose, ready to react.

He was not ready.

The door slammed open, revealing a creature. It was humanoid, tall and thin, but had wrinkled milky skin, which folded over itself in unwieldy clumps. A face that was too dwarf-like but with no eyes or beard. It smiled revealing rows and rows of rotten sawteeth. It held a ring in its hand.

“Delivery,” it said, in a far too normal voice.

Thors recognized the ring. Cool anger filling him, he tried to move, to bring his axe forward and attack, but only found himself paralyzed under the creature’s gaze.

Thors did not see it move.

One moment, it was by the door, and then the next, it was right in front of him, reaching forward. Thors felt a ring slot neatly onto his index, as if it had been perfectly molded for it. Then there was a red glow and a voice whispered inside his head.

“Ringbearer.”

Memories filled Thors’ mind.

—

Thors was Merrick Ashbeard, a 4-year-old Dwarf listening to forgotten tales from his father.

Thors was Merrick Ashbeard, a 14-year-old Dwarf swinging a pickaxe even as starvation slowed every swing.

Thors was Merrick Ashbeard, a 21-year-old Dwarf, face darkened by coal, pushing endless carts away from the capital’s mines.

Thors was Merrick Ashbeard, a 40-year-old Dwarf, staring with hate at the high king from the crowd of a crowning ceremony.

Thors was Merrick Ashbeard, a 76-year-old Dwarf, finding his son’s room emptied out, a note waiting on the table.

A seemingly endless tide of memories. Hard times and harder times. Bitterness, along with spots of happiness. An eternal hunger, always gnawing at the back of the mind.

Until the end.

Thors was Merrick Ashbeard, an 82-year-old Dwarf, sacrificing dwarves in a gruesome blood ritual. Blood and darkness. A demon with pale skin. Oddly, it was that question from the morning that came to him last.

“Why do dwarves dig so deep?”, his father asked.

The pain in his mind flared. Thors stared the answer in the face and screamed.

Madness.