The force of the impact knocked him off his feet, throwing him hard against the wall. For a long time, Khardun just lay there, his heart pounding against his ribs. Slowly he slid his hands under him, wincing as his skinned palms scraped against grit, and pushed himself up. A fine grey dust of pulverized rock hung in the freezing air and in his beard. He rubbed his eyes.
Then he heard a new sound, a low, wet gurgling. “Ganlí?”
“Ganlí?”
There was no answer. The gurgling noise stopped. He sat in the darkness, helpless, listening to the faint drip of water keeping time with his racing heart.
The supports must have collapsed at last. They were too few, owing to a lack of timber. It had to be brought to the mine at great effort and the pieces were stored on a damp stone shelf. When they were brought out to be used, they were discovered to be warped and covered in a blue mold–an early sign of decay. They were unsuitable, those punky planks, but what choice did they have? For months, the reassuring throb of his machinery echoed through the vast mine. Then, the tremors began.
Rhoshira waited at the tunnel mouth. “What that noise?” she demanded.
“A cave-in off the main hoist shaft. I must see to the dewatering pumps. Ganlí is dead. You must find Brêlthi. Tell him to bring –”
She glared at him and growled through her teeth, “That not my job.”
He flashed a look of pure disgust, turned for the pumps, and immediately whirled back. “We’re wasting time! If we don’t get the pumps working, the mine will flood, and all my work will be ruined!” It was useless to talk sense to such an obdurate cow.
She crossed her arms in sullen defiance. “I no go. Dragon.”
“Now, Rhoshira, we talked about this before. There is no dragon!”
What began months ago as a barely noticeable tremor underfoot had steadily grown more frequent. The dwarves muttered that there was a monstrous creature stirring in the depths of the earth: delve too deeply, and they would awaken it. The digging slowed with each passing tremor, but the work ground relentlessly on. Posts were abandoned; tools thrown aside. The Dourhands’ numbers began to dwindle. Khardun did not know where they went. “Eaten by dragon,” Rhoshira insisted, though he knew it was her own negligence that let them slip away.
Indifferent to his timetable, Rhoshira did exactly as she pleased. But despite her lazy demeanor, she was savagely adept at keeping the mineworkers at their labor, as is often the way of people who do not have to do the work themselves. She was as quick as a cat, raining down quick, punishing strikes that sent them scattering in an instant, all the while screaming imprecations at them in that booming, headache-inducing voice of hers. A beast of fire and fang had nothing on Rhoshira.
That was months ago. The pumps were working properly again. Everything was running smoothly now, just in time for the King’s visit.
“I am still getting my bearings. It is more challenging underground,” Commander Naraal said, neck strained as he looked up. High above, colossal iron teeth bit into one another, sending the giant gears into a slow, grinding rotation.
“I have not grown used to it, myself, sir.” Khardun looked down at his boots, caked all over with grime and rock dust.
“I must admit, these Dwarves know how to build.”
“They followed my specifications exactly–but we must keep an eye on them,” he replied. As a Dourhand stumped past, he offered a polite nod. The dwarf stuck his tongue out in return—a petty insult Naraal fortunately missed.
“I know only one dwarf,” the sea-captain said. “And I do not trust him.” In his mind, he saw Duzir the Black-Dwarf, servant to the Sorceress Zairaphel.
They continued walking through the central vault. Huddled on a landing was a circle of dwarves drinking from a keg. Several of them made no effort at all to hide their flagons behind their backs. They should be working—where was the woman? “As you can see, we are well-stocked here,” Khardun told Naraal, “and that includes all the ale you and your men can drink.”
“Ale? I have no thirst for ale.”
“Would you prefer wine?”
“Only if it is a good wine, not the vinegar-swill these northerners drink. I want wine made from vines grown in the rich, sun-filled valleys of the southlands.” He smiled. “I suppose we are each used to what we know.”
“I would have to have the stockrooms searched, Commander, but I would estimate little in the way of pleasantries here.” He looked at Naraal from the corner of his uncovered eye. The man's cordiality felt strange. After years among cutthroats, genuine politeness only bred suspicion.
He took a deep breath and asked the question he had been waiting to ask for many months. “Perhaps, since the water-chains are assembled and in good working order, my services here are no longer required?”
“Do you hope to depart?”
“I wish to return to my workroom in Umbar to finish my plans.” Just this once, he let someone else glimpse his dream. “I will irrigate the desert until it blooms into a paradise.”
“You rise in my esteem. Who in their right mind would want to remain here?”
“Would it be possible if I could–speak to him about it?”
Naraal held his gaze. The Easterling had nerve, making a request like that. “We’ll see what he has to say about that,” he answered. “If he has no further use for you here—why would he object? You might even return with us aboard the Shakagimil. I shall mention it. He is fair, but very single-minded: if you have served him well, he may agree.”
Khardun bowed.“I grow bored, Commander.” In truth, he despised everything about this place—the suffocating air of the mine, the surly stubbornness of the dwarves, the biting, incessant cold outside, and, most of all, the infuriating presence of loud-mouthed, lackadaisical Rhoshira. He missed his cozy workroom in faraway Umbar, where he could craft in peace. The Kalembêl was a demanding king, but he was the only one who recognized his genius. The only one who understood.
Naraal laughed. “I’d be bored too after a couple of days. The caves might be an architect’s dream, but I’m no builder. My First Mate Magan might like it here, though. You’ll meet him if he’s back in the city.”
“I hope to meet the Shipmaster of the King’s fleet, one day.”
Naraal scratched the stubble on his chin. “Be careful what you say. The Kindred of Coins are growing in power.”
“You mean those self-styled leaders of Umbar?”
“King Azrazôr will do away with them. Now, is there anything more to show me before I make my report?”
“Oh, yes. I have saved the best for last.”
“Impress me that I may give good news to our King.”
“Right this way, Lord Commander.” Khardun guided him across the great cavern to a massive stack of crates. Picking up a nearby crowbar, he popped one open and proudly stood aside. “Here you see mined ore, mithril-flecked rock. “It was sealed far below the earth, under many tons of rock and water. It must be heated and extracted, of course.”
Naraal weighed a sparkling, fist-sized fragment in his hand. “When do you reach the vein?”
“Soon, if we dig a little deeper.”
“I know enough about mithril to say it yields itself up rarely.” The rock glittered in his hand as if he grasped the tail of a comet.
“It took almost a year to extract this ore. There was–a cave-in…only a minor inconvenience…”
“The seam was lost?”
“We cleared the blockage. At this very moment, many Dwarves toil to reinforce the main shaft.”
“Good. Better to have Dwarves than our men at this task; they are made for this sort of thing, digging in the dark.”
“A few perished. Once the bodies were removed, and we allowed them time to grieve–” Khardun looked around, then whispered that if they did not allow it the dwarves would have rioted, “—we could bring in the pumps to remove the water that had seeped into the shaft. More timbers were brought in to repair and reinforce the struts. All of it took time, Commander. We might have had a larger yield, if not for this…mishap.”
Very pleasantly Naraal said, “You do not strike me as an incompetent man. I believe that you did the best you could, but our King may wonder why it was not foreseen?”
“Because these Dwarves are superstitious fools. They believe the mine is haunted. You could promise them all the gold in the world, and none would set foot in the 600-level drift. They knew perfectly well that without immediate shoring, the surrounding rock mass was unstable–”
“Haunted?”
Khardun avoided the Commander's eyes. “There’s a ridiculous rumour going around about a ghost drake prowling the deep shafts.”
“One of the ice wurms?” Naraal had heard of them in tales, but had never seen one.
“Commander, there is no drake here. It was but a tremor of the earth that caused the cave-in, a settling of the rock." If he complained about the rotting timbers it would sound like he was making excuses. "The foolish dwarves even say the drake was rolling over in its slumber—why would a ghostly drake need sleep?”
“You must know the tales of great drakes, or hounds, or fire demons that always seem to guard massive treasures, stories spun by greedy dwarves to keep away treasure hunters."
Khardun peeled off his old leather eyepatch to stare fully at Naraal. The uncovered iris had a cracked-glass appearance.
“Why do you wear that patch for show?”
“It is that desert woman, Rhoshira. She does not like my eye; she says it will bring ill-luck upon us. I wore it so much that I forgot about it.”
“As long as it does not worsen your sight.”
“It does not, sir.”
“Then do as you will,” Naraal replied, wondering if the man ever sought the services of a good healer.
“There is more I would show you, Commander.” Khardun walked over to a lockbox studded with rows of heavy, dome-headed rivets, and unlocked it with a jagged iron key that hung from a keychain on his belt. Inside the box were several round and smooth stones, each as big as an ostrich egg. “We also found these. Amethyst and emerald in their rough form are inside these strange rocks, which the dwarves crack open like coconuts.” Then he pointed at a few chunks of yellow-veined quartz. “We discovered some gold, too. Everything is being readied to pack aboard the Shakagimil. And that is not all. There are great quantities of copper, very useful it is, so malleable, and melts quite readily to be shaped into fine tubing and—.” Khardun caught Naraal’s eye and abruptly cut himself off, realizing he was blathering. With an embarrassed cough to clear his throat, he quickly concluded, “It is my fervent wish that the King is pleased.”
“I shall not mention these run-of-the-mill finds to him. Unless you have unearthed something really outstanding, it is beneath his notice.”
Khardun pointed at a second lockbox. “Inside that one, Commander, are rough diamonds and rubies, pink and red, and yellow corundum.”
The Corsair’s expression remained unchanged. “The King cares about order and economy, but he demands mithril. I tell you this as a warning: he wants it above all else, and he will have it.”
“Every one of these empty crates will be packed with mithril, Lord Commander.” Throwing back his head, Khardun yelled into the cavern, “Linger no longer! To the workbenches! We need more crates built!” Beneath them, the dwarves continued drinking ale, utterly deaf to his grandstanding.
Naraal’s smile remained perfectly pleasant. “Fine work, Master Ingeniator. I’ll ensure a massive contingent of dwarves is transferred here. I might even grant them better rations.”
They left the vault, winding up the steep, switchback stairs toward the upper levels. Here, the stone floors were even, polished to a dull luster. Naraal led the way with long and deliberate strides, casually tracing his fingers along the dark masonry. He stopped abruptly before a low-slung door hidden in a dark corner. Khardun, lagging behind, stared at it with a mixture of curiosity and foreboding. Naraal glanced back, eyeing the engineer's hesitation. “You seem unfamiliar with this place.”
“This sector belongs to Rhoshira,” Khardun replied, doing his best to sound indifferent. “My work is elsewhere. It’s just a storage room, I believe.”
“I wish to see what is inside.”
“Yes, Commander.” Khardul hastened forward, his heavy keyring clinking as he inserted key after key into the lock. “Rhoshira must have the key, sir,” he began to say, just as he felt the bolt slide back. The heavy door swung inward. Inside, the air was warmer, less damp. Plush, thick-woven carpets muffled their bootheels, and woolen cushions lay scattered around the space. At the room's center stood a long table. Atop it, a filigreed bowl held a pile of fresh apples—a rare luxury deep underground.
Khardun lowered his keyring as he took in the illicit opulence of the chamber. At the back of the room sat a heavy artisan's workbench, illuminated by the steady, warm glow of an oil lantern. Atop the scarred wood rested a glass-paned display case. The two men approached it, their eyes locking onto the treasures housed behind glass.
Resting on a bed of black velvet were two identical necklaces, forged with the unmistakable skill of the Dwarves. The chains were thin, crafted from brilliant mithril, and hanging from each were massive, flawlessly cut ruby pendants.
“Do they hide the best gems here?” Naraal said, his face darkening. “They certainly hide their best food. These dwarves live in comfort, after all! Our king must know of this.”
Thinking fast Khardun said, “They hold their jewelers and metalsmiths in such esteem that they give them separate accommodations, but where are they now? Surely this place of comfort has been set aside in preparation for the King’s visit.”
Naraal sank his teeth into an apple, the crunch loud in the quiet room. “For their sake, I hope so,” he said, wiping juice off his chin. “If they think to keep this for themselves, they’ll soon find out how easily they can be replaced.”
“The Dourhands must have crafted these necklaces as tribute for the King—and his Queen. Oh yes, Commander, we have heard talk of a Queen…every king must have his queen…” Khardun wiped his sweaty palms flat against his leather apron, his smile fixed.
“The Lady of Gondor, you mean?”
“Is that where she is from?”
“Yes. I do not know when he plans to wed her. She is shy, a quiet lady.”
“Shall I ready these necklaces to be taken away?”
“I would not want to ruin the surprise of the dwarves, but as these are surely intended for the King, do it.”
Khardun pulled the necklaces from the glass box. “Star rubies,” he breathed. “Two of a kind.”
“They are exquisite. King Azrazôr will be pleased.”
“These Dwarves are ever secretive.” He folded the necklaces in a soft cloth. “Rhoshira keeps entirely too much to herself. She should have told me about this place.”
Damn the woman! Where was she hiding?
Naraal offered a pleasant, empty smile. “When I meet her, I will certainly ask why. You can’t be expected to be everywhere in such a vast place. You were, naturally, where the work was being done–not here, easing yourself by the fire.”
Khardun’s shoulders dropped in profound relief. He offered a deep, genuinely grateful bow as Naraal munched his apple.
