The caravan slows and stops. I wait, tense, wondering what kind of realm Vanerak has carved out for himself. I somehow doubt it will have any place like the glittering pillars of Allabrast, overflowing with drink and music; I can only hope it is a little brighter than the dark passages of the fortress, and I fervently desire it to be a little less war-torn than the dueling realms of Runethanes Thanerzak and Broderick, for I am sick of death and destruction.
It has a character like none of these. Each realm I have resided in until now was an old place, inhabited for centuries at the least, a dozen millennia at the most.
After a short walk from the caravan station—which is itself newly carved out—we emerge into a city in the throes of mining and masonry. Miners are hacking apart walls of stalagmites, throwing down shards and spilling choking dust into the air; the light of torches glares through the gray clouds. Short-beard masons sand and smooth the floors, while their seniors carve into the walls reliefs depicting great battles and beast-slayings. The city is being extended past this place too—at the far side is a wide tunnel, from which I can hear the loud rumble of picks striking stone. The whole cavern is shaking slightly from this, and all the other numerous activities. There is also an occasional cry of pain. Runeknight overseers watch over the work of their lessers. In their hands are whips.
One of them, overseeing the demolition of a row of black hexagonal pillars, spots us standing in the dust and shouts for his miners to cease work and prostrate themselves. One is too slow, and catches a lash across his back. Further screamed orders and the cracks of whips cross the cavern as the overseers of other groups notice our arrival. Once all the commoners are on their knees, bowing their heads to the floor, the overseers and guards yell out in greeting:
“All hail Runethane Vanerak! All hail guildmaster of the Reconquerors!”
“All hail!” scream the commoners. “All hail the Runethane!”
Vanerak gives the slightest nod to acknowledge them. The cracks of many whips echo once again, and the miners return to their frantic work. The masons get back to sanding and carving, though they are fortunate enough to enjoy the privilege of not being struck.
“Halax,” says Vanerak. “You are to go ahead and inform my stewards that there is to be a grand meeting held in two short-hours. Let it be known that I have two pieces of very great news to share. All runeknights of the Reconquerors, and all runeknights of other guilds also must attend, bar those on guard duty.”
“Yes, my Runethane. Your wish shall be carried out with utmost haste.”
He rushes away and we continue our journey.
This first cavern, a full hundred meters or so in length and half that in width, proves to be but the merest of those we pass through. The next is a curve two hundred meters in length, with chambers at the sides being hollowed out for dwelling-holes. The doorways are thin and close together—accommodation for the lower commoners. We pass tall scaffolds also, which reach into the ceiling. Rock chips rain down from these upward-growing ventilation shafts. On the floor, masons are carving a pattern of interlocking dragons.
The next space is a vast natural cavern, nearly a mile in diameter to my eyes. Its roof is high and marred with many slim holes where bats have made their nests. The stains of their blood discolor the dark rock. Some houses of stone blocks are being built up, but there's less activity than I would expect for such a grand place, and there are many runeknights here. Clearly some of the holes above are still inhabited.
Vanerak stops to speak to one of the senior runeknights:
“Why have the beasts not yet been exterminated?”
The runeknight, a third degree by the looks of him, bows very low. “My Runethane! I apologize most profusely.”
“Did I not say that they were to be cleared by the time I returned?”
“You did, my Runethane, you did. But the smaller dranag have proven elusive, and they are the most deadly, with the more potent venom.”
“How have you been hunting them?”
“We have been trying to smoke them out. To no avail.”
“To no avail indeed. Dranak inhabit more noxious caves than this one. Equip yourselves in fine chain and climb into their burrows.”
The runeknight pauses for a second, as if he's about to remark on the extreme danger of such an undertaking, but thinks better of it.
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“Yes, my Runethane. We will begin work at once.”
The next two caves we pass through are similar to the previous, long tunnels with cramped doorways lining the walls. The one after these is the same, except the doorways have doors in them, of copper sheets with an impression of salamanders beaten in. Masons are detailing the stone between the doorways with simple geometric figures.
Vanerak addresses the old dwarf in charge of this effort:
“Mason. What are your short-beards doing?”
“My Runethane! I did not expect you back so early. We are overjoyed to see you!”
“Answer my question.”
“We are, as you may see if you be so inclined as to look upon our meager work, detailing the stone with reliefs of decahedrons, and concave-edged diamonds.”
“The floor should be a greater priority.”
“I thought to give the shortbeards some practice before letting them undergo that more impressive carving you have asked for.”
“If you wish your shortbeards to have practice, they may practice on the caverns west and east and above of here. This is a throughfare from the caravan station. Its carvings must impress.”
“Cease work!” the mason screams at his apprentices. “I apologize most profusely, my Runethane!” He has gone white in the face.
“Apology accepted, barely. Do not make a similar mistake again, or I will be most displeased.”
The mason's face goes even whiter, then we move on. I glance back when we're at the exit to the hall, and see that he's leaning back against the stones breathing heavily, with a stupefied look on his face.
The next cave is another one for accommodation, although, judging from the spacing and size of the doors, one for slightly better-off dwarves—lower degree runeknights and higher class commoners. The one after that is a thin corridor which bends at sharp angles. There are small enclaves in the sides where guards could stand, and holes in the roof through which noxious substances or perhaps even magma could be poured.
It is the line of defense before the main cave, which, when we enter, astounds me. It is a great black cavern struck through by veins of glittering quartz of pale cyan. Each vein encircles the cavern like a band, and even the merest of them is as thick as a dwarf is wide, and the widest are the width of caravan tracks.
The shape of the cavern is like that of a quarter of a sphere. One flat side is the floor, and the other flat side the wall facing us. Into this wall Vanerak has carved his palace—a portcullis gapes like a fanged open mouth—its under-points are the shape of dragon's teeth. Above in many rows are arched windows through which smoky red light shines. Leading to it a road has been carved. It cuts through the quartz bands and is a masterwork of the craft of masonry: each stripe is a different scene of battle, the quartz ones victories, and the dark ones terrible defeats.
Runeknights pour out the open portcullis to line the road.
“Hail to Runethane Vanerak!” they chant. “Hail to guildmaster of the Reconquerors. Hail to Runethane Vanerak! Hail to...”
The chant continues all the way down the road, yet I barely hear it. The carvings on the floor are engrossing me: the figures in them are fine as if made by the strokes of a brush, not those of a chisel. Never have I seen such stonework; the beauty and realism has caught my eyes like fishes in a net. Dwarves battle hordes of trolls, frothing tides of water-beasts, fight in single combat against elvish and human champions. The hated armies of Runeking Uthrarzak are depicted also, in the dark panels at first, their shield-walls impregnable. The rise of Runeking Ulrike comes next: dwarves solemnly watch on as his predecessor throws himself onto his own sword, shamed by how utterly his rival has defeated him in a contest of crafting. In the next cyan-white panel, Runeking Ulrike's forces fall upon Uthrarzak's dwarves from hidden tunnels and unknown places, and tear the rigid formations asunder.
A while later, Runethane Thanerzak's conquest of the dragons of the stalagmite forest is depicted. Beside him in several sections is a dwarf wielding a pollaxe that might be Vanerak, though his face is always hidden by a helmet of some design.
There are more victories and defeats, single-combats and battles, great natural disasters and contests of crafting also. History is laid out before me, shaped by master craftsdwarves with power and skill I can but dream of.
Then, when I reach the penultimate streak, I draw a sharp breath. Carved into the rock as black as night is the destruction of the city of Thanerzak and Broderick. Dwarves of the warring sides are depicted as paused mid-combat, staring up in horror as the black dragon blasts its way up through the mountain in a fountain of fire.
And at the very bottom left corner of the scene, I spot a figure sprinting through a tunnel away from the battle. His beard has been carved from a speck of rock darker than black, and for his visible eye there is a tiny bead of blue agate.
I stop dead. I stare at his face, which is twisted into a cruel sneer. Nazak shoves me harshly between the shoulders. I stumble forward a little then fall to one knee, still staring at the figure.
“Did your Runethane call a halt, traitor?” spits Nazak. “Ah, you've spotted yourself, I see. It would have been remiss of the master mason to omit such a pivotal figure, disgusted though he was when Vanerak ordered that he carve your likeness.”
I feel cold all of a sudden. I look up at the runeknights lining the road. They are glaring at me. They know well who I am. I stand.
“The black dragon is dead!” I shout. My voice sounds shrill, panicked, desperate. “And I had a hand in slaying it! If the Runeking's justice proved nothing to you, then perhaps that will!”
“Come along now, Zathar,” Vanerak says quietly.
I freeze, then bow low. “Yes, my Runethane. I am sorry for my insolence.”
He lowers his voice to a whisper, “If your hand in slaying the black dragon will not redeem you in their eyes, be pleased that you have the power to make up things many times over in the coming centuries you will abide here. When they witness the glories made by you and I, unequalled by any dwarf before us, they may, in some small part, come to forgive you.”
“I hope so, my Runethane.”
We move past the last dark band and onto the last white-cyan one. It has been left blank, but I can imagine what will be carved into it—the slaying of the black dragon by Vanerak. Disgust fills me as we pass under the portcullis, almost overwhelming my fear, though not quite.