The Howling Delve - Jaleigh Johnson

"Go," he said simply.

The dwarf did not look up from his book as Kall approached, and Kall wondered if he'd fallen asleep. Then a plume of smoke rose from Garavin's pipe, and his eyes followed. He nodded at the withered bit of stump, and Kall sat.

"Well? What do ye think of my diggers, Kall?"

It wasn't the question Kall had expected, so he said the first thing that came to mind. "They're not like you."

Garavin smiled. "Well, let's suppose ye and I were to mark a map of Faer?n with the birthplaces and travels of all those lads and lasses ye saw today. Ye'd still be about it when winter came, and it would take a lifetime and more to walk in their footsteps."

"They came all that way, just to end up here—to dig?" Kall asked in disbelief.

"Not by intent," Garavin said. "They came because they had nowhere else to go—much like ye, which is why I thought we should be talking."

"I have a home," Kall said. "I never wanted to end up here."

"I understand, and I can send ye back to Amn quick enough," said Garavin, "but that way leads to a quick death, or am I mistaken?"

Kall shook his head. "But I will go back someday," he said, meeting Garavin's eyes.

"I do not doubt ye," Garavin said, acknowledging the vow solemnly. "What I mean to do is offer ye a course for the intervening time. My diggers have been following a generally westward path since Nightal last," he said. "Out work in Mir and the surrounding area will take a pair of years, perhaps more, but once we reach the Shining Sea, I intend to run north for a bit. I could offer ye a place with us now, and give ye the option of leaving us when ye choose. Understand, I'm not in the habit of making this gesture to everyone. I need to keep a certain number of diggers in the company at a time. If I have too many, food will run short. Too few and we're weak on defense. But this way, ye could remain near the place ye're most wanting to be, and learn my trade in the meantime."

"I already know how to dig," Kall said, but he listened.

"This is different," Garavin said. "The first tenday will break yer back. Ye'll hate it, curse it. . . and me, come to think. The second tenday ye won't be able to keep yer eyes open, so ye won't have time to be thinking or cursing about anything—not the past, nor the future beyond putting one boot in front of the other. After that, as ye adjust, ye'll be having nothing but time. That is precious time—to consider yer place in the world and what ye intend to do with it."

Kall didn't need to consider either of those things. He pictured Balram, secure in his father's house, as night fell in the Forest of Mir. He replaced the image with one of himself, plunging his father's sword deep into the guard captain, feeling whatever magic the blade contained slide out, into his enemy. His father would be free—Aazen would be free—and Kall's life could return to what it once had been. Nothing else mattered.

"Why do you dig?" Kall looked at the dwarf, and a glint of green winking from a gap in his beard drew Kall's eyes downward. "What is that?" he asked.

Garavin lifted the object—a pendant—by its chain. Kall recognized the components first: smooth carnelian worked into the shape of a mountain; nestled within it, a faceted emerald shone like a doorway.

"Dugmaren Brightmantle is why I dig," Garavin said. He pointed to the swaying pendant. "Dumathoin guides the shovel."

"Dumathoin." Kall touched the seam, the joining of emerald to mountain, and felt the scratch of electricity run through his fingers.

"I serve the gleam in the eye and the keeper of secrets," Garavin continued, "because in addition to having an awful curiosity, I've dug far enough into the earth to uncover things that should—and shouldn't—be made known to greater Toril. Dumathoin helps me with the sorting out of which is which."

"You hunt knowledge," Kall said, remembering what Garavin had told him in the forest.

"Yes—and secrets. I can find them, and I can keep them. Ye should remember that, if ever ye're needing someone to talk to." He puffed unconcernedly on his pipe as Kall looked away. "If ye do stay, Laerin could teach ye things—they all could, I'm knowing that. But first ye'd learn to dig. That rule never changes."

The sound of raucous laughter at some unheard jest drifted out to them from the camp.

"They're gods, then," Kall said, listening to the forest stir with nighttime sounds. "Dugmaren and Dumathoin."

"Of the dwarf folk," Garavin nodded. "Most of my band is of Dugmaren's mind. They are discoverers—explorers. Dwarf or human, they fit nowhere else, so Dugmaren takes them all."

"Why should a dwarf care what happens to me?" Kall said without thinking, and felt heat rush up his neck. He plunged on. "I don't want to be an explorer. I've got nothing to offer Dugmaren."

"Ye have two hands, and an active mind, as I've already noted," Garavin said. "Even if Dugmaren wasn't interested, I'd still take ye."

Kall refused to meet the dwarf's eyes. "Why?"

"Because at one time or another, we all get trapped in the place ye are now." Garavin leaned forward, his grave face filling Kall's vision. "Do ye know what we do about it?"

Kall started to shake his head, but stopped when he saw Garavin's eyes twinkling with humor. He caught on and said, in perfect unison with the dwarf, "We dig ourselves out." Kall snorted—not quite a laugh, but something lighter than what had been in his mind. His voice only shook slightly when he said, "I'm going to need a large shovel."

"There ye go." Garavin chuckled, jostling the pipe and sending ashes flying. "Ye'll be fine, Kall."

* * * * *

He slept in the map room the first night. That's what Garavin called the curtained off loft at the rear of the hut. The tiny room was jam-packed with maps, drawings, and rolls of parchment filled to the edges with scrawled notes. In one corner, a cot and blankets were wedged under the eaves, almost as an afterthought.

Kall lay on his back, his nose inches from a ceiling beam, wide awake. For lack of anything to do, he circled the room with his eyes again and again—past Garavin's pipe, left lying on a table next to a comfortable-looking chair, then to the oval cut-out window, with Sel?ne's pale glow filtering through, then back to the beam.

By the fourteenth pass, he was up and at the window, watching the forest. His sword lay on a bench beneath the window, nearly translucent in the moon's glow. The other dirt-encrusted package and his borrowed sword sat in shadow as if in awe of the bright sword.

If anything should happen to me, Kall...

That had been his father's commandment. If anything happened, what was between the graves belonged to Kall. The only bit of magic Dhairr Morel would permit in his life, buried deep in the earth.

Kall touched the sword with his knuckle, a light touch, enough to cool his skin on the steel. He felt nothing, certainly not the gentle jolt he'd gotten from Garavin's holy relic. What, then, could the sword possibly contain?

The distant sound of chimes drew Kall from his reverie. The haunting, beautiful echo seemed incongruous when wrapped around the normal forest noise. Was it a call to worship from some hidden temple? Kall wondered. He'd already witnessed so many things he'd never thought to see. Who knew what this latest mystery might portend?

The chimes came again, closer, and then Kall saw the herd.

The mist stags came into the clearing between the hut and the forest, weaving among the trees like stealthy phantoms. They were the size of spry colts, their pelts steely gray but sprinkled liberally with silver. The bucks' antlers curved inward in conical shapes, and the stags had a wisp of beard at their chins. They ran in graceful, springing motions, as if their feet trod air instead of grass.

A spear tip caught the moonlight as it came out of the trees. Kall sucked in a breath, fearing a hunter stalked the beautiful creatures. He heard the chimes again and realized the sound wasn't coming from the animals, but from their shepherd.

The druid stepped into the clearing, shepherding the bucks. Her gaze lifted to his window, and she stared at him through the dark triangle of her hooded cloak. She couldn't have been much older than he, Kall thought.

The mist stags flowed around her, making small sounds that sounded like alarm. The girl angled her head to listen.

The trees behind her exploded in a fireball.

Heat blasted Kall in the face. He dived below the level of the window, instinctively clawing at his face to feel if he was burned. His skin was warm and slick, but unmarked.

Lurching to his feet, Kall returned to the window, scanning the trees for some sign of the girl, but there was nothing, only the panicked herd scattering in every direction. A tree was ablaze, and there came frantic shouts from inside and outside the perimeter of the camp. The small hut quivered with the pounding of feet on floorboards and ladders.

Kall grabbed his sword and tossed it out of the window. He slung a leg over the curved sill and eased himself out, scraping his belly over the wood. He lowered himself until he hung by his fingertips, then dropped.

Retrieving his sword, he trotted quickly away from the hut, into the chaos of the forest.

She couldn't have gotten far, Kall reasoned as he ducked into the trees. He was so absorbed in trying to pick out her hooded form in the darkness that he didn't see the goblins until they were almost on top of him.

Dark, mottled shapes poked swords out of the smoke. Kall froze, hoping his frantic movements hadn't given him away. There were five of them arranged in a hunting party, torches flickering at its rear. In the flickering light, Kall glimpsed a cracked, filth-encrusted gauntlet wrapped around an equally grimy arm. He dropped into the shadows of one of the huge old oaks and watched the gauntlet pass by.

At the edge of the clearing, the party halted. The lead goblin pointed to Garavin's hut, and the others nodded, shaking their weapons and grunting like two-legged swine. They moved in a haphazard line, with no real leader keeping them in check.

Kall thought he was safe, but the last goblin in line suddenly thrust his torch in Kall's direction, spilling light on his face. An exuberant cry went up, and the goblin broke away from the pack to charge at him. The creature swung the torch playfully, as if batting at an insect.

Kall sidestepped, and felt the heat kiss his ear. He'd never liked fire. He would rather face a thousand deaths by drowning than be burned. When he was seven, he'd tripped and fallen in a dying campfire. The blisters on his hands and arms had been agonizing, and though the scars were mostly healed, he'd lost many of the sensitive nerves in his hands. He would never be a painter or a sculptor, but he could still wield a sword.

He raised his father's blade, backed into the tree, and twisted, putting the trunk between himself and the goblin. He knew he had to run. If he didn't lose them in the trees, they'd simply ring him in until they wore him down.

Kall's toe caught an exposed root. He fell and felt the wind whoosh out of his lungs. The goblin's torch came around the tree, but the creature's laughter was drowned out by pounding feet and harsh breathing that passed close to Kall's face. Their owner smelled of blood.

Panicking, Kall rolled blindly away, and saw Borl leap over him. The jump carried the huge mastiff into the goblin's chest.

The creature put its arms around the dog, clawing, and both went crashing into the underbrush. Borl snarled viciously as the goblin screamed and thrashed. Its torch went out, plunging the immediate area into darkness. The goblins scattered in the direction of the burning trees, confused and terrified by the screams of their comrade.

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