They journey down takes longer than the journey up. We have to lower the injured using nets and long lengths of rope, extremely carefully so that no wounds reopen, all the while guarding off attacks from the surviving monsters and the few stragglers who did not make it to the fight. We also transport the heavy bodies of the dead.
Even with reinforcements bringing our total to nearly forty dwarves, the going is difficult. The whipper beast on the eighth level, which had wandered away in time for the other squads to make their journeys safely but wanders back just in time to threaten ours, has to be dealt with—we end up smashing a wall into chunks of stone and throwing them into its maw. Too stupid to flee, it stands there until it collapses under the weight. Soon after, its mighty lash sags and flops onto the ground.
We make it to the lower levels, but I cannot relax. Galar is with us, he knows I’m investigating, and so I always make sure to rest and eat far away from him. If he turns out to be the killer, maybe I’m the next target. Same goes for if he knows his brother is the killer and wants to protect him, or if they’re both the killers, or if they’re helping some third figure—although this last possibility seems unlikely now.
At one point, I find myself ordered to help him carry Fjalar, me at the back of the stretcher and he at the front.
“No one saw anything at all?” I ask, whispering in a purposefully nervous tone. “Surely at least one dwarf was looking at the wounded.”
He shakes his head. “We were looking out for predators.”
“Heard something, then.”
He shakes his head again. “The darkness is silence, remember?”
“A silence you notice because it eats up all other sound, I’ve been told.”
“Maybe. I’m still working on my trident of light.”
Could some conversation about forging get him to open up, relax his guard?
“Was it going well? Before all this.”
“So-so.”
“Is the almergris that hard to work with?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t got to the runes yet.”
“The titanium giving you trouble?”
“A bit.”
He’s not opening up. Maybe I should try a more direct question. I lower my voice: “Who do you think the shadow dwarf is?”
He turns back to look at me. His face is concealed by his helmet of course, but I don’t need to see to know there’s a deep frown on it. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“I mean the rumors going around. You’ve heard them, and I know you’ve talked about them. That the killer’s a dwarf taken by the shadow.”
“You shouldn’t talk about such things.”
“Everyone is. Who do you think it is, Galar?”
He turns away, shaking his head. “It was the shadow that took Utlock. That’s the end of it.”
Of course, I never expected him to give me a name, I wanted to see if there was anything suspicious in the way he answered. There wasn’t; he answered like anyone would surrounded by others you don’t know you can trust. Asking that question was a stupid idea, and I kick myself for it.
If I’m ever going to get something out of him I‘m going to have to be more clever than that.
After the several day’s worth of time spent marching slowly through the forests, exhausted and aching all over, we are finally on the first, peaceful level, then into the refreshingly dry tunnel leading to the fort. There are too many wounded for all of them to recuperate in the infirmary chamber, so only the worst are laid down there, and the rest have a section of the meal hall set aside for them.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
They’re cheered as we enter. Barock thanks me as I deliver him to some of his friends, who toast him with mugs of beer and present him with a hot and hearty stew of mushrooms mixed with expensive medicinal herbs, and then I am greeted by Jaemes.
“Thank the Gods you’re alive, Zathar. I was told you were, but didn't quite believe it.”
“I barely believe it myself.”
“What a nightmare. What a debacle.”
“Careful there. You don’t want to be heard criticizing the Runethane.”
“I’m not the only one criticizing. Most seems to be directed at Cathez, though.”
This irritates me. “He did as good a job he could.”
“Maybe, maybe. And... I heard about the killing.” He whispers, “We need to discuss it.”
“Not right now. I’ve got to clean myself off before the Runethane calls us all down. He will soon, I’m sure. We’ll talk later though, with Nthazes.”
Jaemes nods. “Obviously. Somewhere private. Be on your guard until then.”
“Always.” I blink heavily. “I’m sorry if I don’t sound that enthusiastic to see you. I’m just exhausted, that’s all.”
“I know. Don’t worry about it.”
In storeroom eight, the one with the most space, large buckets filled with soapy water occupy one section, and buckets of vinegar and sand another. Stains on the floor show that the other squads have already made good use of them, but everything’s been refilled to full for us, though they rapidly start to empty as me and the other returnees begin to strip off and scrub both ourselves and our armor.
I smell sweat and suds as I clean, combing dust, sweat, and rotten fungi out of my dark hair and beard. My body is blotched purple and red all over from bruising, and my cut jaw is swollen and tender. I scrub and scratch the wound out very thoroughly. According to Jaemes us dwarves are more resistant to disease than most, but we are not immune.
Once I’ve washed and dried myself and put on some clean clothes, I splash away the worst of the mud and dust from my armor and bring it over to the vinegar and sand buckets. Some very bright torches have been set up—they have a bluish glow; I’m guessing they’re newly imported—and under their light I inspect the damage to my armor.
I already have a good idea of where the worst damage is, of course, but this is my first opportunity to get a proper look to determine what can be repaired and what needs to be replaced. With a cloth dipped in vinegar I wipe it down hard, trying to get into every crevice I can. I sprinkle the more stubborn and scratched areas with sand to polish them as smooth as possible, and for the gaps between plates where the cloth won’t quite reach, I use a thickly-bristled brush.
This is an activity I’ve done many times, one all runeknights do regularly, yet I cannot remember my armor ever being this dirty. Nor can I remember the cleaning process ever being this depressing. Usually, although it’s certainly a chore, it comes with some level of satisfaction as the armor and runes start to shine again. This time, with each layer of dirt I scrape away the dents and rents become more obvious.
My newer pieces are thankfully mostly unscathed. The gauntlets, being mostly flexible chainmail, did not take much damage, and although the tops of my boots are dented, there are no breaks. I should be able to hammer them back into shape easily enough, though I'm also definitely going to have to alter the runes, which might be tricky.
The rest, the patchy steel and iron of my several times repaired ten year old plate, has not fared so well. My helmet and the plates on my arms and legs might be made serviceable with a good deal of hammering out and some welds, and my pauldrons too, but my breastplate is beyond saving. There are several big tears in it, and the runic harmonics of the salamander scale poems are now completely discordant. Most of the plates around my waist will have to be replaced also.
On top of this, Heartseeker’s shaft will have to be remade, my crumpled runic ears reforged, and I still am yet to begin work on my amulet. And once the almergris is ready to be used, I have a feeling that I’m going to be ordered to create a new weapon also.
----------------------------------------
After we are cleaned off, we help with cleaning the wounded and their armor and, once this is done and every dwarf in the fort is in a fit state for presentation, everyone—bar those standing vigil at the Shaft—is called down to the Runethane.
The atmosphere is even more solemn than on our last meetings with him. The dead we managed to recover lie in a line in front, and in place of those who still lie buried under many stones, or who were dissolved in the whipper beast’s maw, are grave-markers of stainless steel.
“A terrible cost,” says the Runethane. “Though in these dark times we must all be prepared to lose what we love, and I know you, my brave dwarves, went up prepared to lose your lives for the greater cause, this is still a sorry blow to us. Thirty-one dead—the fort reduced to less than one-hundred ninety. A very sorry blow. It pains my heart.”
He sounds more subdued than before. He is certainly sorrowful, but I suspect that he does not feel guilty.
“Yet it was a necessary loss,” he continues. “We succeeded, and that is what truly counts in this dark hour. Utilizing the precious almergris the deaths of our brothers has won, we will soon be able to strike back against the darkness—never again will it reach into the fort, nor beyond. We will cull its power. It will not dare to test its luck against one-hundred eighty-one weapons of most brilliant light.”
A murmur of alarm runs through our ranks.
“This is no time to be fearful,” Runethane Yurok says sternly. “You will rise to this challenge as you did this last one. Have faith in your ears and almergris poses no more threat to you than does any other reagent.”