Our armored wedge, Fjalar its tip, smashes through the cracked doors. They shatter and fall to the sides, yet the sound of their collapse vanishes in the darkness. Once more I am plunged into a sightless, soundless, touchless hell, yet the lack of sensation is not so extreme as the last time I was engulfed.
I swing up and out with my mace. It leaves a trail of shivering air and a slight white blur that I can see through my eyelids. We’re still charging outwards at full speed and the other dwarves are swinging madly too, each strike beating the darkness away. It reforms above us to plunge into the middle of our formation. The injured dwarves there cry out and defend as best they can.
Three in the center seem to disappear. The light of my mace reaches its zenith—I blink to check this and am nearly blinded—so I shove my way forward and give the column of soundlessness a mighty blow. It wavers and the injured dwarves break free.
All the while, we’re still charging, sprinting, Fjalar in the lead faster than most. Is he trying to get away from us? It’s possible. I increase my own pace so he doesn’t outstrip me. The darkness comes again, sweeping at our flank this time, and a coordinated strike from the dwarves there throws it back.
It's definitely weakened. Maybe we really could have defeated it, if Belthur hadn’t shown up. We’ll never know.
“Keep going!” Fjalar screams. “Hurry, hurry, hurry!”
“We are!” one of the injured shouts back.
Our sprint continues; driven by terror we dare not falter. Stride by long stride we move, and the darkness is falling away from us, its tendrils failing to grasp us. The buildings seem to waver as the echoes of our armored footsteps beat against them, blurring their edges and the etchings wrought around them. The damage to my runic ears makes the effect more extreme, and several times the floor seems to pitch alarmingly beneath my feet, dizzying me and nearly making me fall. The grip of my boots saves me.
We’re going straight forward, with no mind to the direction. We have no way of knowing which is the right way, after all. I look around, trying to see if any of the corridors come to an end that may be the outer wall.
“There!” someone shouts. “Listen, I think that’s the wall!”
We turn to look and our sprint slows. I think he’s right: the corridor ends, the buildings either side melding into the blank cave wall, like the one we came through did. Fjalar makes the decision to wheel round and start for it; we follow with no complaint.
So far, there’s no sign he’s planning to attack me. Yet now that he’s taken the lead, shown his courage, the others are even more likely to support him.
We make it to the end of the corridor with no trouble. I glance back and see that although the darkness is pursuing us, it’s slowed considerably. Regaining its strength, probably, for one last rush. I don’t believe for a second that it’s given up.
“Which way do we go?” asks Hirthik between pants. “Left or right? I think right is most likely. Can’t say why. Fjalar?”
Fjalar shrugs. “I say right as well. It’s as good a guess as any, though if any of you think left is best I suppose I can’t stop you.”
No one wants to leave the main group, so we turn and walk to the right. I stay at the back, mace at the ready to meet any attack. The darkness continues to bide its time. Our ragged breathing fills the silence in the city—or prison camp, or whatever this place was. There’s no point in speculating; Jaemes can guess at the secrets if we make it up.
If Fjalar is dealt with. I watch him; he seems to be speeding up, little by little. Eager to leave, which is understandable. A worrying thought strikes me—suppose he gets on the lift before me, and starts the mechanism while I’m still in the tunnel? If the darkness is close enough, he’d have a plausible excuse, and even if the other dwarves question his decision, well, they’re less of a threat than I am.
Nthazes remains just beside him though. He’ll stop Fjalar—if Fjalar doesn’t put him out of action first. I fear for my friend; I want to shout a warning to him, but no, he doesn’t need one. I trust he won’t be taken by surprise so easily.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Our trek begins to feel like it’s taking a very long time. The curvature of the outer wall is not so sharp, hinting that the city is quite large. How many miles until we reach the exit? Assuming that the exit is even here—what if the city has multiple levels, and we’re on the wrong one? I shake my head vigorously. No point in worrying about things beyond my control.
The darkness is far behind now. I dig into my pack and sip some water, then bring out a strip of jerky to chew. I need to keep up my strength. More hours pass, and no sign of the crumbled doorway to the tunnel. A few dwarves in the middle whisper to each other: they have the same worry I did, about us being on the wrong level.
“No point fretting about what we can’t control,” Nthazes reminds them. “More walking, less thinking. We’ll reach the exit eventually.”
“There’s no guarantee of that,” someone says.
“We just have to believe.”
In blind faith, we continue to walk. I glance back intermittently, and hear that the darkness has sped up to match our pace. Is that the only darkness, though? It’s a cloud that can split, after all. Maybe it’s waiting for us at the tunnel, or has gone up the Shaft already.
Only time will tell, and I’m getting sick of time. How many hours has it been? My legs are beginning to ache, and a drowsiness is starting to set in behind my eyes. The adrenaline from my argument with Fjalar has dissipated entirely. I take a sip of ale to keep me going.
I take another sip, about what I guess is an hour later. Then another, and another. The drowsiness is strong now. I spent ten years like this—surely I can survive a few hours! Yet back then I was not being chased.
“That building looks promising,” says Melkor, pointing with his long-handled mace. “It’s about the right shape, and the door seems wide.”
Being at the back, I can’t hear past the dwarves ahead of me. Some of them murmur agreement, while others are not so sure.
“My ears are too damaged to tell,” Fjalar says. “At any rate we’ll know when we get to it. If it isn’t, we’ll have a short rest, then restart immediately.”
I glance back. The darkness is maintaining its distance, staying about three hundred feet from us. That’s not so far, so it’ll have to be a very short rest. I think it’s growing in strength, for it seems denser than the last time it attacked us. The sorcerer must be recovering from its exertions.
We pass one building, then another. I peek round the side of our loose column and see the building Melkor pointed out, coming up fast now. It does indeed look promising—yes, I think the doors are smashed open, and the only broken doors so far have been ones downed by dwarven hand.
“This is it,” says Melkor. “I’m sure now. I think I recognize the etchings.”
“Yes,” Fjalar says. “I think you’re right.”
Nthazes looks back and calls to me: “Zathar, is the darkness speeding up any?”
I turn back to confirm. “No,” I say. “Still the same speed. It’s stronger now though. It’s been recovering.”
“Let’s hurry then,” Fjalar says. “Increase the pace.”
We double the rate of our march. I glance back and hear that the darkness is matching our speed. My fingers tighten around my mace: I think we took it by surprise when we rushed it out the building, but now it’s the one with the initiative. I get the sinking feeling that more dwarves are going to die before this disaster reaches its conclusion.
A sharp right turn, and we’re stepping over the remains of the great stone door Runethane Yurok smashed. The hall beyond feels horribly empty, even more so than the city outside did. Two images come into my mind—of two hundred dwarves walking one way through here, and of barely thirty walking out the other way.
I glance back. The darkness has quickened slightly and is now gaining on us.
“We should hurry!” I shout. “The darkness is getting faster.”
“Up the pace!” Nthazes shouts, before Fjalar has a chance to.
Through the hall we jog. The echoes of our armor clanking are loud, and outline the hall clearly, and then the back of the hall seems to vanish suddenly as the darkness pours through, thick and cold. We begin to run. The mounds of dust either side of us shiver and disintegrate, blurring the sides of the hall as well.
Only the front is clear—I think; I can’t hear past the others, am unable to know how long it is until we’re into the tunnel proper.
“In, in, in!” Fjalar yells, and he jumps up the step into the tunnel, which seems tighter than I remember, the path barely ten feet in width. All follow suit—then one of the injured trips, slowing us.
“Stand up!” Hirthik yells.
The two behind him drag him to his feet. I glance back, and the darkness is growing faster. We’re nearly in its grasp.
“Hurry!” Hirthik screams.
The dwarf who fell manages to pick up the pace; we dash through after him, me last. On we sprint, and I have the horrible realization that because the injured cannot run as fast as Fjalar, and because I’m stuck behind them, he’s building up a lead.