The quarry

Tracking the gorgons was not difficult. Even Greybeard, the blind old man, could have managed it. They carved a path of destruction towards the nearest mountain peak and, although the gorgons were out of sight, the sound they made echoed through the scrub for miles around. Following while also staying hidden, though, became more tricky as they continued on. The path became increasingly rocky as they slowly ascended into the foothills. The bush became more scarce, the trees thinned, the sky became more visible. Runt occasionally found a “dragon scale” and, just as Greybeard said, they were not scales at all but rather they were thin, flat sheets of dark grey rock.

The skies began to lighten with the pinks of dawn, now. Runt’s anxiety increased along with the increasing light. The scrub thinned to the point of vanishing. Their path was more like crushed rock rather than soil. The occasional weedy looking tree that struggled upwards would not offer much in the way of protection should someone appear suddenly.

And then, without warning, Runt found himself on the edge of another clearing. Not a fey-tree clearing, though. A clearing of the mountain side itself. The track, which unerringly sloped upwards suddenly flattened. The trees vanished. What stretched beyond was a vast flat wasteland of rock. Here and there he saw piles of rubble and the occasional puddle of water. If Runt could read, a sign nearby covered in large squiggles would have told him he was at the quarry. He figured it out for himself, though. The colour of the stones looked very similar to the bricks that made up most of the buildings in the city. In a way, this quarry was where the city had been born.

Further up ahead, looking more like ants than ever before, the gorgons inched across the bleak landscape. They were making for the far end of the quarry where the flat ground abruptly met the vertical wall of the mountain. The gorgons seemed to vanish when they reached this far end. The line must have halved in size and, as Runt watched, it continued to shrink to nothing.

It was a great risk. There was no cover apart from the occasional pile of rubble and stone but Runt suddenly, and desperately, wanted to know where these creatures were taking the trees. He climbed onto Stripes and they raced across the clearing. As they approached it became apparent that the gorgons were tramping into a hole that led deeper into the mountain. A cave! They were carrying the trees underground.

As they neared the cave entrance Runt dismounted from Stripes and they hid behind a pile of rock to watch. The gorgons heaved the final section of tree through the dark tunnel cut into the mountainside. Several of the hairy creatures let go of the trunk causing the others to grumble and swear but the pack continued into the dark, nonetheless. These last gorgons paused, wandered back outside, and looked around slowly. Runt ducked back behind the rocks. He heard an awful scraping sound of rock on rock and then silence. When he finally screwed up the courage to peek around the corner again the gorgons were gone, and the cave entrance had disappeared.

The sun continued to rise as Runt sat and waited. Stripes began snuffling around the pile of rubble. The sounds of the Wilds returned. The mountain wall remained unchanged. Runt approached the wall where, only a few minutes before, he had seen a tunnel disappear. The rock face along the wall was rough and bore the scars of quarry work. To a casual observer there was no obvious sign that one patch of wall was any different to the other. Runt knew better, though, and there were clues.

A few leaves were scattered here on the ground, and nowhere else. Fresh leaves, from a fey-tree, still green and waxy. The dirt and gravel at the base of the wall here showed scuffs of footmarks and the signs of branches being dragged. There were cracks in the rock, that, with enough imagination, made a roughly arch-shaped outline. The gorgons, Runt decided, used some kind of cleverly crafted stone doors that only opened from the inside. Doors of rock that were made to look just like the wall around it. He marvelled once again at the brute strength of the creatures that could heave such enormous chunks of rock around as if they were planks of wood. But he wondered also, at their intelligence, to be crafty enough to make such a secret entrance.

Stripes, meanwhile, decided his master was doing a boring thing and wandered off behind one of the many piles of rubble lying nearby. When Runt turned to look for the pup he saw only the tip of a wagging tail. He crept over silently, thinking to start the game of tag they sometimes played together. The game involved one of them stalking and pouncing on the other before swapping turns.

“Gotcha!” Runt laughed as he raced around the side of the rubble pile before skidding to a stop. Stripes was busy sniffing the wheels of a familiar looking cart. Only, the last time he saw it, this cart was filled with bottles of booze.

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“Well, it’s definitely Gunther’s cart,” Runt said, after circling the vehicle for the third time, “but what’s it doing here?”

The cart was mostly empty. He found a pile of sacks in the tray behind the driver’s seat but there was nothing in them. The clips under the seat where Gunther hid his sword were there, but the sword was gone. An uncorked bottle rolled around in the foot space of the driver’s area with a few dregs left in it. A tentative sniff confirmed that, indeed, they were dregs of booze. A pile of horse manure nearby looked fresh enough to assume that it was left there only a day or so ago.

The sun had risen properly, now, and Runt began to feel exposed. There were not enough shadows in the quarry, not enough places for a mouse to safely sneak amongst. He was about to hop down from the tray when something shiny caught his eye in the back of the cart. It was wedged in the gap between two planks. “Some kind of silver coin?” Runt wondered. It was fairly well stuck in the gap. Runt got on his hands and knees and tried to wriggle it out and gave a little cheer when it finally came unstuck. It was a dog tag.

Although Runt couldn’t read, he knew what these squiggles said. It was Shank’s tag.

“It must’ve come off in the big scrap with the wolves,” Runt thought, “so this is definitely the cart from the other day. But why did they leave the cart here? And where did all the booze go?”

His thoughts were interrupted by a terrible sound. From behind, he heard the scraping of rock on rock as the tunnel entrance opened once again. Runt was stranded in the cart.

“Run Stripes, run!” he hissed as he motioned to the rubble piles further off. Stripes paused, then ran away, thinking it was another game. Runt, meanwhile, dived under the sacks behind the driver’s seat.

A small gap in the planks of the cart allowed him to peek across to the entrance. Something like twenty of the gorgons emerged. One of them turned and signalled. The doors were rapidly crunched shut again. Most of the gorgons wandered out a few yards then slumped to the ground in untidy heaps. One or two leaned up against the nearest pile of rubble. Several more were carrying something and, Runt realised with a fright, they were crates of empty bottles, and they were coming this way.

Fortunately, the gorgons barely even looked in the back of the cart. They heaved the crates up and in with barely a thought for the bottles. It was a miracle none of them smashed. Runt began to itch and sweat under the heavy fabric. He could feel the gaze of one gorgon who paused and stared at the pile of sacks. Then, one of the others called out.

“Hey, wolf! Wolf there!”

The others all joined in the call. Their gravelly voices echoed harshly across the quarry.

“Wolf. Wolf there! Get ‘im!”

The gorgon at the cart turned and walked back to the others. They had spotted Stripes who stood about a hundred yards away, near one of the rubble piles. Runt could tell Stripes was torn between running, like he was told, and returning to his master.

One of the gorgons heaved itself off the ground and grabbed a fragment of rock.

“Watch. Watch me.” It grunted.

Runt assumed, from a hundred yards, that Stripes was fairly safe, so he nearly cried out loud when the gorgon wound back its arm and slung the rock. It fizzed across the quarry as fast an arrow and caught the ground only a few feet from where Stripes stood. The dog yipped, jumped, and turned. The other gorgons laughed at the miss. Another stood up.

“Me! Me!” grumbled the gorgon as it, too, found a fist sized rock to throw. This rock landed just in front of Stripes and caused some gravel to ricochet up into the dog’s flank. Stripes yelped and began running further off. This caused more of the gorgons to laugh. Most of the others stood up now and, to Runt’s horror, began slinging rock after rock in the direction of his pup. Some of the throws travelled close to two hundred yards. Eventually they gave up. Runt assumed Stripes made it to safety but, he realised with a sinking feeling, the gorgons forced his dog up into the mountains rather than allowing him into the relative safety of the Wilds.

The gorgons were obviously inspired by throwing rocks at Stripes because the game continued.

“Me. Me. Rock pile, there!” one grunted with its metal-on-stone voice, while pointing at a distant pile. The rock in its hand sizzled across the quarry and smashed into the heap. A few clapped, others swore in approval. Another gorgon stepped up.

“Me. Me. More far rock pile, there!” this one said, pointing away. It wound its arm back and heaved this rock in an arc. The rock blurred up and across the quarry, smashed down into the pile, and created a large cloud of dust and rock chips.

Runt’s heart sank. How long would they stay at the entrance for? Were they going to collect more wood? Was Stripes alright?

A new sound emerged and, immediately, the rocks fell from gorgon hands. Horse hooves echoed against the mountain wall. Off in the distance, two riders approached.