Nearly a mile above the fortress, ten runeknights stalk a gelthob as it circles the stem of the great petrified mushroom stabbing up through the layers of caverns. It makes a slurping, squelching noise as it sucks up the massive quantity of nutrients it needs to power the rippling of its gelatinous body.
The dwarves move as cautiously as they can, making sure that the light of their torches does not illuminate the gelthob too brightly. The gelthob will not notice, but several predators down here still have rudimentary sensory organs that can tell light from dark and cold from heat.
The nose of one of the dwarves twitches involuntarily. He stops to sniff the air. There is a faint trace of an odd smell, one that seems familiar, though he can’t quite put his finger on just what it might be, or where he has smelled it before.
It seems to be coming from above.
“Why have you stopped?” whispers one of his comrades. “Hirthik, what’s going on?”
“Smelled something funny.”
“There’s a lot of funny smells up here. Keep on moving, yeah?”
“It’s not a usual smell. It’s not something I’ve ever smelled up here before.”
“Probably just some dead thing.”
“No... No, it’s not a dead smell.”
“Some plant then. Come on! We’re already at the back, and if something is tracking us...”
“Wait, it’s gone.”
“Come on then.”
He sniffs. “It’s back again.”
“Who cares? There might be a dithyok on our trail, for goodness sake. Hurry up!”
Hirthik ignores his comrade and takes a deeper breath. “Wait, I know where I’ve smelled this before. In the forges.”
His comrade freezes. “Smoke? Fire?”
“No. It’s that stuff the senior runeknights use... That reagent...”
“The dangerous one?”
“Yes, that one. Almergris.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes I think so. Yes, it has to be. Have you ever known my nose to be wrong?”
The yeelthek-robous, the white-jelly, is a massive beast which squeezes its way through the deeper caverns of the world, endlessly consuming whatever life has the misfortune of stumbling into its path. The discovery of one is a joyous event for any dwarves able to take part in its hunt, for such a great beast yields copious rewards: tough leather, delicate and flavorful flesh, blubber that burns slowly and nearly as hot as magma, and, in its bile-ducts, almergris, one of the rarest and most potent reagents known to dwarfkind.
Until now none have ever been detected even remotely near the fort. The dwarves decide that Runethane Yurok must be informed immediately, and call off their hunt to hurry down and deliver the good news.
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I flex my fingers in the semi-darkness, practicing the gripping motion I will use to apprehend the killer. This is the fifth time Nthazes and I have set our trap, and though we have not yet been able to spring it, I am confident that tonight is the night, as it were. There is no logical basis for this feeling, yet it is there all the same: I sense violence brewing.
So far, though, nothing. Just the usual faint sounds of settling dust, shifting air, and of course the low roar of my torch tied to the shelf next to me. Nthazes’ mace shines brightly alongside it—we couldn’t find a cloth thick enough to obscure all of its light, so we decided it would be best used as extra bait and illumination. Nthazes himself is crouching a few turns of the shelf-corridors away, wielding a small and unlit lead mace he made for practice some time ago.
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I wield Heartseeker lightly in one hand. If I get good warning of the killer approaching, I’ll use it to fend him off, however if I’m taken by surprise at close range I can drop it and grab the killer’s wrist.
Hopefully I manage that in time. I shiver as I recall the yellowed skin stretched over the bones of the last four victims. Drained of blood... What runes could the killer have used? Some kind of reverse blood-seeking, maybe a complex poem with a variation of halat on it? Yes, my first weapon drew out blood as well. How the weapon draws out the blood is not the mystery here: the mystery is what happens to the blood. I find the popular idea that the shadow dwarf drinks it hard to believe—how could he consume two whole gallons of the stuff?
I chuckle darkly. Maybe we should’ve been checking to see who’s been using the latrines most often.
The slight sense of amusement my black joke brought fades quickly. I try to eliminate all thought from my mind and focus my attention solely upon the sounds around me. The air currents are shifting where Nthazes breathes, and shivering above my torch. Across the room where the door is, they are blowing inward and outward very slightly, buffeted by the movement of dwarves elsewhere in the fort.
After a long while, that movement changes; the interference of something entering shifts the air. I still my breathing to listen better, and Nthazes does the same. He’s noticed the change too—it’s not my imagination. Very faintly I hear metal plates scraping against each other. The sound has a subdued tone to it, suggesting they’ve been well oiled for stealth.
The intruder walks slowly and cautiously through the maze of shelves. His boots make no sound, as if their soles have been padded with felt. I can see nothing but darkness from where he is, and that confirms my suspicions. This must be the killer.
The creak of his armor grows a little distant, then closer, further away again, then closer still. He’s approaching the beacon we have set for him. It looks like I’ll have advance warning of him after all, so I grasp Heartseeker with both hands and position myself in fighting stance, ready to stab down at his thighs or feet.
Immobilize him, then get the truth from him.
Abruptly he stops. I listen to him breathing—it changes rhythm, like he’s become suddenly cautious, deciding whether to proceed or not. Has he sniffed out our trap? If he runs now, he’s far enough away that we might not catch him.
I reach into the shelves and shuffle my fingers around the metal rods as if I’m searching for one the right thickness, pretending to be totally unaware of him. The jangling echoes through the storeroom. The intruder’s breathing stops still, then resumes. It’s a little more heavy, as if he’s bracing himself for the bloodshed to come.
Like a predator that’s just committed itself to the kill.
He rounds the corner into the light and I give him no chance to react. I spring forward with Heartseeker outstretched toward his knee—yet his armor gives him speed and power that more than matches mine. He dodges my blow, collides with the shelves with a heavy clang, and pushes off them toward me swinging a steel short-sword down wildly.
I drop Heartseeker and reach for him. My speed shocks even me: my gauntlets are gold and silver blurs in the light. I grasp at the killer’s forearm and my fingers close down with such violence that I feel the titanium armor bend beneath them.
“You!” roars the killer, and he knees me violently under my left ribs. The force of the blow dents the steel plate and winds me, but I don’t dare let go of his arm. He tries to knee me again, same side, and I shift away, dragging his arm with me, trying to find some way to bend it, maybe dislocate his shoulder.
“You!” Nthazes shouts in shock and he barrels toward the killer from behind.
He wasn’t expecting this dwarf, it seems—though I can’t tell who he is with his helmet on.
“Two?” shouts the killer in horror.
He attempts to twist around and meet Nthazes head on. I wrench his sword arm back at the same time I kick out his ankle and he crashes to the floor. I go down with him. He punches me in the face, ringing my helmet like a bell. The sound reverberates in my runic ears and for a moment I’m deafened and disorientated.
He has his sword held above me. He stabs down at my neck and I grab the blade. Pale yellow sparks fly from my chainmail and there is a terrible screeching noise. The point stops a single millimeter from my neck, and then Nthazes strikes the back of his head. The old lead mace shatters on the killer's helmet. The killer roars. Nthazes curses and tackles him down.
They roll across the stone, bellowing in fury, lashing with fist and sword and splintered mace-haft and foot. I leap to my feet and pull Nthazes’ proper mace from the shelf, lob it at the killer, who’s managed to get Nthazes on his back. The bright-glowing steel smashes into the back of his helmet, stunning him for an instant and allowing Nthazes to push him off.
I charge, not letting the killer any time to recover while Nthazes grabs his mace. With a fist that looks more like a blur than anything corporeal, I hammer the top of the killer’s twice-dented helmet. I cry out as pain shoots through my wrist, but I’ve done more damage to my enemy than I’ve done to myself.
With a groan he slumps forward, weakly clutching at the top of his head. Nthazes mace lashes in an upward swing and sends the killer’s short sword spinning through the air. It makes a high whistling sound before clattering down in the distance.
“Pin him down!” I shout. “I’ll grab the weapon.”