Runethane Yurok’s voice booms through his dark hall:
“This will be the greatest hunt we have ever undertaken! With the fruit of the yeelthek-robous we shall be able to defend our fortress and all the realms above from the deep darkness more securely than ever before!”
His voice is rich with fervor. The artificial darkness swirls around his arms as he walks back and forth in front of his throne gesticulating wildly.
“This is our chance to strike back! For too long we have barely been holding on to our positions. With each incursion more dwarves fall, and there are too few from up above willing to replace them. They know not the danger they are in, or we would have been given a boundless supply of almergris long ago. Yet now we need not depend upon Runeking Ulrike’s favor. All we need to beat back the darkness now sits above us.”
He pauses and looks over us sternly.
“This does not mean it will be easy to gain. The white jelly is a fearsome beast by any dwarf’s reckoning. It is half a mile long, and its mouth is many feet wide, filled with grinding stones to shred anything that has the misfortune to wander into its path. It wipes whole tunnels dry, leaving only excrement behind. I know this, because I have studied such matters, as is my duty as Runethane.”
He turns and takes up his great mace from its position beside his throne. He raises it above his head and it flares into brightness—it is brighter than the sun, nearly an equal to dragonfire. It turns the artificial darkness into paltry gray motes.
“But study will only take one so far! Doing is the true test of ability, and I have full faith that you, my beloved runeknights, my family of stalwart defenders, my brave sons who are willing to take on a burden no other dwarves can... I know that you can do this! I know that we can retrieve the white jelly’s bounty, and use it to make sure the darkness cannot ever gain entry to our fortress again!”
We cheer. Under the white rays shining from his mace, the Runethane looks like no coward hiding in the darkness from forces beyond his control, but a hero ready to lead the charge to victory. The script upon his runed armor looks in this moment like thin ripples on a pool lit by the glow of ten thousand fireflies, and I understand that he deserves his title well.
He lowers his mace. It fades as he leans it back against his throne, which he slumps into. “Commander Cathez will give you your orders,” he says.
Cathez steps up onto the dias: “This hunt must succeed that the future of the fort be ensured. Due to the white jelly’s massive size, which our scout squad has just confirmed, ninety runeknights will be required, both for slaying the beast and for protecting those doing the slaying, as well as for labor to carry down the fruits of our victory. Runeknights of both lower and higher degrees are to join the hunting party—even though such an important mission would ordinarily be carried out by on the strongest, many of the strongest must remain here to carry out their vigil.”
He goes on to list the dwarves who will be part of the expedition and their roles. I, likely in light of my past victory over the dithyok with Galar, am assigned to one of the squads that will protect the white jelly’s slayers.
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Preparations for the hunt begin immediately. I am sent on kitchen duty to help cook the rations we will consume to fuel our journey up, and hopefully down too. We half clear out the stores in our rush to fulfill the quota Cathez has set.
We grind up dry mushrooms, grain, and chitin to make flour for the hard tack, and set the oven-furnaces as high as they can go for the jerky—real dwarven jerky, all moisture evaporated from it by as much heat the heavily salted meat can take without burning black. We work for hours, sweating like boars, coughing on the steam. Hirthik, leading our efforts, is praised as a hero:
“How did you know it was above?”
“Oh, well, that was just where the scent was coming from. I reckon there was a hole directly below it—the upper cavern layers are full of holes, as you know. Its bile-glands or something must have passed over, and there I was, in perfect position to sniff out its majesty.”
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“Lucky it was you there. I wouldn’t have been able to tell what it was.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Hirthik proclaims grandly. “It was a tendril of scent sent by fate. It’s the rope of savior we’ve been sent to pull us out of the mess we’re in. Fate led me there for that reason.”
So much for being a quiet one, I think to myself. He’s taking on the role of hero rather easily. No one’s going to begrudge him stealing food now.
I’m having reservations about this new mission of ours. Maybe it’s just because it’s so sudden, and yes, opportunities like this must be seized quickly, but the whole idea reeks of desperation on the part of the Runethane.
First, very few hunting parties venture up to the highest layer of the Mushroom Basket—the name I’ve since learned refers to the whole network of caves—for good reason: as a great, swampy cavern with moisture aplenty, it is teeming with large predators.
Second, we are not equipped to kill the white jelly. I have never fought any kind of slime-beast, but I read about them in the guild library, and axes and swords are the best tools to damage their glutinous flesh with, not spears and maces.
Finally, even if we do succeed in bringing down the beast and extracting its almergris, the two commanders already raised serious doubts about our ability to use it after the second killings. It is simply too dangerous for most runeknights to be able to forge with, more perilous to manipulate by far than any of the eight major reagents. The Runethane seems to be forgetting this fact, or else is ignoring it on purpose.
“Doesn’t matter if it was fate or luck,” says another dwarf. “Your nose might just have saved us all.”
“Just imagine!” enthuses a tenth degree. “Each and every one of us wielding a mace of light. We’ll march right down the Shaft and wipe it out at its source!”
“I’ll just be glad if the killings stop,” Hirthik says. “And I think they will. No shadow will dare challenge us once we have our prize!”
None of the other dwarves seem to share in my misgivings. I wonder how long that will last once we’re underway with dithyoks and worse at our heels. And what if the killer is mixed in with us? The blackness and roaring chaos of battle could provide him the perfect opportunity to strike again.
Surely others have thought of this possibility; it’s an easy conclusion to draw. Maybe they do share my misgivings, but are just so desperate for hope that they push them to the backs of their minds. Yes, that seems likely.
Once an appropriately large quantity of meat has been converted into dark, leathery, hideously over-salted jerky, and a stack of an even greater amount of nearly metal-hard hard tack towers beside it, we pack everything into sacks being brought down from upstairs.
Another group of dwarves has been steadily turning the fort’s stockpiles of leather into packs, skins, bags and sacks. The ones sent down here are only a small fraction of the total—most are to be carried up empty and filled with almergris once the beast is slain.
As soon as we are done packing in the food, we are ordered to prepare waterskins and beerskins. Eyes bleary from lack of sleep, hands aching from the hard work of cutting meat and grinding flour, and hair and beard heavy with sweat, I go about the task mechanically. Soon I lose count of just how many skins I’ve filled.
Once this task is finished, we are ordered to sleep. I had half a mind to try and discuss this sudden turn of events with Jaemes, but my stamina is drained and all I can do is collapse into my blankets. I have one of those bad sleeps where you shut your eyes, then open them what feels like an instant later with only a fraction of your fatigue relieved. I shut them again, hoping it isn’t time yet.
“I said it’s time to move!” Cathez bellows. “Equip yourselves and get into your squads! Hurry now—the white jelly won’t wait for us! Move, move, move!”
Groaning, I fix my runic ears to my helmet and place it over my head. My diminished vision brings the need for sleep down heavier upon me; I shake my head to clear away the feeling. The clank of armor and chatter of anticipation fills the hall, making clear to me the shape of the air currents which are shifting every which way, dragged by the marching of the hunters as they hurry to where the leaders of each squad are calling us.
“Squad four, with me!”
I light my torch and make my way across the hall to our leader. Jaemes locks eyes with me, and his are dark with worry. I imagine that he’s reached the same conclusion I did in the kitchen and which is now turning my stomach to a roiling, nauseous cauldron of fear: the chaos of battle will be the best time for the killer to strike once more.
If I could turn back, I would, but I am being dragged along, without agency, my life in the hands of the Runethane, my comrades, and perhaps the killer. All I can do is try to keep my head above the tides of blood.
“Our task is to protect our friends attacking the white jelly,” says our leader, a third degree called Barock, equipped in titanium plate and carrying a mace whose blades burn lines of light into my eyes. “Once we are up, we will position ourselves--”
“Move out!” Cathez orders. “By decree of the Runethane, we are to go immediately!” It might be my imagination, but I detect a hint of apprehension in his voice. “No dallying! Leaders, instruct your squads on the march. Move!”
The stones shiver as ninety runeknights march out of the hall, weighed down with sacks both full and empty, weapons, and bright warm torches perfect for attracting the myriad of flesh-eating beasts swarming the swamp-cavern that is the topmost layer of the Mushroom Basket.
An innocuous name for what I fear will become the grave of many of us.