The Howling Delve - Jaleigh Johnson

"What if it rains?" Kall asked curiously.

The dwarf chuckled. "Ye've an active mind. The portal is sunk beneath the grass blades, so it cannot easily be seen. The rest we leave to luck and hope that no one will be walking about in a cemetery during a storm or crying atop the grave. Ye have the unfortunate honor of beating our odds this time."

Kall crouched outside the circle. From a distance, the stones appeared to be ordinary rocks, but up close, he recognized the same symbol he'd seen carved next to Alinore's name. "Who put the portal here?" he asked. "You?"

Garavin shook his head. "No, lad. I haven't the Art, either. I only drew the map. That's what I do. I make maps and scout tunnels and hunt up knowledge—for myself, and those who need it done."

Kall looked in the direction Morgan and the half-elf had gone. Garavin followed his gaze. "When I need them to, my diggers—those two, and others ye haven't seen—dig. We're always needing more tunnels, it seems." He gave a mock wince. "At times, they dig in the wrong places, but no one's perfect."

"If the portal's a secret, why are you telling me about it?" Kall asked, suspicious again.

"Because yer eyes are asking, and yer mouth will follow once I get ye to the camp for morningfeast, so I thought I should get a head start on the day." Garavin turned, his wide, muscled body rolling like a loaded wagon. "If ye've enemies out searching, it's not wise—for either of us—to send ye through the portal just now. Eat with us, and we'll talk some more."

Kall wasn't sure. He watched the dwarf and the huge dog, which was sniffing around the packages Kall had unearthed in the cemetery.

Garavin whistled, and the dog's head came up. It fell into step beside its master. The dwarf set an unhurried pace through the trees, as if appreciating both the forest and his place in it.

Kall opened his mouth to ask another question, but Garavin, anticipating him again, tossed back over his shoulder, "The forest is named Mir. Ye're breathing Calishite air now."

* * * * *

Kall smelled the camp before they reached the site. The scent of cooking sausages and the sharp, starchy tang of potatoes made his stomach burn.

They broke through a tree line, where the land dipped into a wide-lipped oval bowl of tamped down grass. At the bottom swirled half a dozen people, dwarves and humans in equal number, with more spilling out of a square, two-story hut. The trees curved up in tense green spires around the scene.

"How many are there?" Kall asked as they descended. There were more figures coming out of the hut than seemed possible for it to hold.

Garavin didn't answer but guided him through the crowd. Some of the diggers looked Kall over curiously as Garavin and he passed them by, but most congregated at four large water barrels under the hut's eaves, or took seats on the grass with bowls of sausage and potatoes. All gave way or nodded respectfully to Garavin when they saw him.

The door to the hut was propped open with a large piece of shimmering quartz. Inside, it was dark and humid, and smelled strongly of earth. Ahead of them, Kall could see two ladders poking up into a second-floor loft, which was curtained off. A table and four rickety-looking chairs sat to his left. To the right there was a gaping hole in the ground. More ladders rested against its insides like exposed ribs, descending at least fifteen feet into the ground.

Kall watched as torch- and candlelight bobbed in the darkness at the bottom: more diggers. "What are they doing?" he asked.

Garavin glanced up from the table, where he'd spread out a map. "Forging an outpost, of sorts. Goblins are stirring to the south and east of here, and with Myth Unnohyr hanging above our heads in the north, I—and certain other interested parties—would like to see a wall put between them."

He looked up as a squat, crooked-nosed dwarf appeared at the door. The newcomer's beard was as fair as Garavin's was dark.

Garavin tucked his spectacles away and nodded at Kall. "Take the lad out and get him a bowl, Aln." To Kall, he said, "I won't be long."

Aln jerked a thumb toward the door, and Kall reluctantly followed him out into the yard.

" 'Ere." The fair-bearded dwarf thrust a bowl and a mug of water under Kall's nose. "Eat. We'll be 'ere a while. Fool elf brought down the wrong trees—think an elf'd know better, but ye'd be wrong. Garavin'll be a while patching things up."

Kall nodded, tearing the end off his sausage with his teeth. The meat scorched his tongue, but he barely noticed. He'd had nothing to eat since the previous morning.

Aln eyed Kall as he wolfed down the food. "What of yerself? Are ye staying, then?"

Kall shook his head, though in truth he had no idea where he intended to go. With the immediate threat of pursuit lifted, he had time to think, but he had no gold, no food, and now no horse to carry him. All he had were the items he'd dug up in the cemetery, and he wasn't desperate enough to try to sell them. Not yet.

A shadow fell on either side of Aln as Laerin and Morgan joined them on the grass.

"We were just talking about ye," Aln said darkly.

Laerin gave a good-natured wince. "Feeling better?" he asked Kall.

Kall started to nod, then yelped, "Stop!"

But Morgan had already unfolded the wrappings on the largest of his packages. "Whatever you've got in here's going to rot under these moldy things. . . ." He caught his breath. "Abbathor's hoard," he murmured, drawing out a length of blade.

"Don't speak that name here!" Aln hissed, holding his bowl high as Kall practically crawled over the dwarf's lap to get at Morgan.

"Put that down," Kall snarled, but by now the whole group could see the sword.

The blade was unremarkable, in need of polish and sharpening. But the hilt—veins of platinum ran in swirling designs like a wild river across the guard. The largest Morel emerald lay embedded in the pommel.

"Flawless," Morgan said as Kall tore the weapon from his reluctant hands.

"Are you sure?" Laerin asked, leaning forward curiously.

"Boy probably stole it," Aln muttered.

" 'Course I'm sure," insisted Morgan. "I've appraised more gems than this lot has fingers and toes. Look here, no imperfections." He reached for the sword again, but Kall reacted without thinking, slapping Morgan's knuckles with the flat of the blade.

"Hey, watch it, you!" Morgan half-rose, and Kall scuttled away, raising the blade to chest level. The bigger man immediately took a step back, lifting his hands.

"Stay away." Kall's arms trembled with the effort of holding aloft the big sword. He swung it clumsily between Morgan, who still glared angrily at him, and Aln, who simply looked bored. Some of the camp turned to watch, but most had gone back to their own conversations.

"It's all right, Kall." Laerin stood, and as Kall swung to face him, caught the dull blade in his bare palm. "No one here is going to hurt you, or attempt to take what is yours." He shot a meaningful glance at Morgan. The big man threw up his hands and sat back down, muttering to himself.

"A fine sword," the half-elf said, apparently heedless of the dot of blood that welled between his flesh and the blade. He gave Kall a level look. "Yours?"

"My father's," Kall said carefully. "Now mine."

"Too heavy for you now," Laerin said. When Kall only stared at him mulishly, Laerin casually released the blade. The point thudded to the dirt.

Aln snorted with laughter.

"You need a lighter weapon," Laerin said, ignoring him. "Morgan"—he flicked a hand—"give me your fairer blade."

Morgan looked up from his meal, scowling. "Don't call it that. And if you think I'm giving anything to that little piece of—"

"You owe him," Laerin cut in. "You put your hands where they didn't belong."

"Your self-righteous arse does the same thing whenever it's given half a chance!"

"Fine, then. Shall I tell the boy how Garavin's prying into your own past was rewarded, when we first came here?"

For whatever reason, that shut the man up. He stood, glared at Laerin, and unsheathed a short sword from his belt. He tossed it at the half-elf, who caught it easily, this time by the hilt.

"My thanks. Now." He offered the weapon to Kall, wiping his bloodied hand on his breeches.

Cautiously, Kall placed the priceless sword lengthwise between them. He grasped the hilt of the offered blade and raised it with one hand.

"When you are older," Laerin said, "you will be as tall and as broad as I am. My father was of your blood—thick in the chest and arms. People will think you're a brawler, but you'll be able to wield that"—he pointed a toe at the sword lying in the dirt—"with grace and ease."

Kall nodded, then noticed Garavin silhouetted in the hut's doorway.

"Laerin is correct about yer abilities," said the dwarf. He came forward, lifting Kall's sword from the dirt. "Ye should be taking care of such a precious thing." His eyes closed briefly, as if he were absorbing some invisible resonance from the blade. "It will serve ye more than well. . . but not today," he said, addressing the last part to Laerin.

The half-elf nodded solemnly. Then he bowed briefly to the dwarf, winked at Kall, and left them.

Kall watched him move gracefully around the camp, giving instructions, until he realized Garavin still held his sword. Awkwardly, he took the blade, letting it rest beside him.

"I'm afraid we must put off our talk a bit longer, lad," Garavin said, his brow furrowing apologetically.

Kall nodded, though he couldn't imagine what the two of them had to discuss. Just before the dwarf disappeared inside the hut, Kall said, "I'm not staying here."

Garavin paused and gave a nod. "Then it looks to be a very short conversation."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Forest of Mir, Calimshan

13 Eleasias, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR)

Garavin's diggers worked in shifts of six, with two torch-bearers standing nearby to offer additional light and water when needed. Every few candles the shift would change, but the resting group would stay together in its own cluster, eating, talking, and occasionally shooting glances Kall's way. He ignored them, preferring to spend the time resting and watching.

As night fell, Morgan brought out tin buckets filled with tallow and arranged them in circles throughout the camp. When lit, the bucket candles gave off a peaceful glow like grazing fireflies. The evening meal came next: seasoned bread chunks and ham sliced off the bone by the same man who had served breakfast. The diggers, drawn by the smell of food, gathered again in the clearing, and Garavin joined them, the great dog Borl trailing behind him.

The dwarf chewed a short-stem pipe and had a book wedged beneath one arm. He bypassed the food line, instead heading for one of the few trees in the bowl-shaped clearing.

Large silver-sheened leaves hung around a trunk that looked as if it had been split, long ago, by weight or perhaps by a lightning strike. One half had died, but the other portion thrived. Garavin sat in the space between the living and the dead halves. With his dark, weathered skin, he looked almost a part of the tree, a face staring out of the bark. He smoked, read, and watched the activities of the camp, while the mastiff slept at his feet.

Kall ate with Laerin and Morgan again, listening to them discuss the day's progress, but his eyes kept straying to Garavin. Finally, Laerin nudged him.

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