The Howling Delve

Chapter Seven

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.

“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 Faerûn 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. “Our 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 were 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 Selûne’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 goblins 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.

Kall started to stand and found himself pulled back down by his shirt. He rolled onto his back to free himself and swiped the air, expecting an attack from above. A hand caught his wrist, and he found himself staring into the face of the young girl.

Up close, Kall saw that mottled brown and green paint streaked her face and hands, and her hair was tied back and buried in her hood. Trees and starlight haloed her; she blended into her surroundings like a wraith.

Kall opened his mouth, but she put a tense finger to his lips to keep him silent. He listened, picking up a second set of footsteps approaching fast in the wake of the first hunting party. More goblins, more fire, he thought.

“Are the diggers in the forest?” he whispered around her finger.

The girl nodded, lifting her gaze from him to the trees. Far off, a sound rose over the tramping of goblin feet, an echo like the chanting of a choir at temple. In its wake, a brilliant flash lit the night, casting the area into sharp, blue-white relief. Kall flinched under the power, the nearness of the lightning, but the girl paid it no attention. She stared straight ahead. Her lips moved, but Kall couldn’t hear what she said. The entire scene felt like a dream, except he could smell the smoke, the dirt, and the reek of goblin sweat.

The girl stopped speaking, and when she did, a frail mist began to build around them. At first Kall thought it was the fire, but the fog was cool and smelled of an herb he could not place. The mist thickened, drifting against the wind to veil their hiding place. It pushed into the ranks of the marching goblins, obscuring them from view. Panicked grunts drifted out of the cloud, and the druid smiled grimly.

From the underbrush she plucked her spear. It was lighter and sleeker than it had first appeared, with a wicked barbed point. Below the blade dangled a cluster of oak leaves and what looked like tiny silver bells on a cord. Raising her weapon to her shoulder, the girl cast it into the fog. A soft, singing chime echoed within the mist—the same sound Kall had heard from the hut—followed by a solid thud and a goblin scream.

The girl drew out another spear, turned to him, and mouthed something. Kall shook his head to show he did not understand. The girl spoke again, just as silently, and Kall stared at her. Tossing her hood back impatiently, she stood and crept around the tree, using the trunk to guide her steps.

She led him to a large boulder nestled between two more of the great oaks, like a stone in a giants sling. In the lee of the stone and the trees, they were much less exposed.

The girl wedged two fingers inside a pouch clipped to her belt. She pulled out two cream-colored stones.

Kall was not the expert in gems his father was, but he could tell immediately the stones had no value—they had likely been picked from a riverbed or the forest floor. But she held them as close as Kall had kept his sword. She took his hand, put one stone in his palm and kept the other for herself.

Put it in your pouch, she said. Her sudden voice in the dark startled him. I forget, sometimes, who bear the stones and who do not.

“What are they?” asked Kall.

The stones are enchanted to give me speech your ears can hear, the druid explained. It need not touch your flesh. Only keep it near you, and we can speak.

Kall slid the stone in his pouch. “Who are you?” he asked.

Cesira, the woman said. Or the Quiet One of Silvanus, as the Starwater Six—the druids—are fond of calling me.

Kall jumped, startled, as mist rose around him again, plucking at his waist. Then he saw the antlers and realized the herd had regrouped—and not just the males. The frail mist coalesced under his hand and became a gray-black doe. Without thinking, Kall reached out to touch its fur, but his hand passed right through the does lithe body. He pulled back in shock.

Around him, other females appeared from nowhere, some with tiny fawns, all as translucent as the one that stood beside him. Its large black eyes regarded him steadily.

“Are they ghosts?” Kall whispered.

Cesira shook her head. They are Quessilaren—nearly gone, but for small herds that dwell here and on distant Evermeet. The females run between this world and the Border Ethereal for protection, never belonging wholly to either.

“Are they dangerous?”

Not at all. They’ve befriended the wild elves and a handful of us. I and the other apprentices watch over them, when we can. Cesira held up her spear. When a buck is killed by the goblins, we burn the carcass, but for this. She let the spear point catch the moonlight. What Kall had at first taken for bells actually looked to be bits of hollowed-out antler.

The chimes they make are as sweet a music as any human will ever hear outside the elf courts, she said. Her expression hardened. We feel it fitting for the goblins to hear it before they die.

Kall said nothing, unsure how to react to the passion in the young girl’s eyes. Lightning split the sky, turning her skin silver.

Come. Cesira said. We should move—

“Look out!” Kall dived at her, crushing his shoulder into the dirt as a hand axe sailed over their entwined bodies.

A lone goblin crashed through the trees after its wild throw. It saw them, helpless in the underbrush, and charged.

Kall rolled off the druid, scrambling to get his sword. He braced the blade as Cesira wrenched the creature’s leg, sending it sprawling onto the swords point. The goblin crumpled as Kall pulled the weapon free, and the pair ran, retreating deeper into the forest.

Wait. Panting, Cesira pulled Kall up short.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded curtly, but her eyes were wide. You should wipe the blood from your weapon, she said.

Kall looked down at his sword. A red stain ran halfway up the blade. He drew it across the grass.

I didn’t see the axe, Cesira said.

“I know.”

She scowled. That doesn’t mean—

“I was just as scared,” he interrupted, and they gazed at each other in silence. “I want to go back,” Kall said. In his heart, he did not mean to Garavin’s hut.

She seemed to realize it, and softened. You cant. That path is closed.

Her voice was gentle, but the words felt like a slap. Kall’s anger returned. “You know nothing about me!” he snapped.

I know much of you, Kall.

“How do you know my name?”

Garavin, she said simply. Go back to him. Dig holes and make tunnels. It’s hardening work, work you’ll need. In a year or two you’ll be fighting goblins. Dig holes, make tunnels . . . She paused. And come to see me, at the boulder.

“Why?” Kall asked, confused. In the dark and the mist her profile wasn’t easy to discern, but he knew she was looking at him.

You helped me, she said. The words clearly came hard to her. I can help you.

They didn’t speak again. She took him back to the boulder between the trees, so he would know how to find it again.

They found Morgan and Laerin leaning against the rock, arguing.

“If he’d’ve been some frock-heavy, perfumed Waterdhavian snotling, you wouldn’t’ve thought twice about keeping them!” Morgan accused.

“Yet clearly he’s not,” came Laerin’s gentler reply. He noticed Kall and Cesira, and smiled. “Nor is he quite a boy, after what he’s been through. Well met, Kall.”

Kall nodded to the half-elf. Cesira climbed the boulder and sat cross-legged atop it.

You’re both late, she said.

“Our fault completely,” said Laerin. “We lost Kall’s trail thanks to your superior forest skills … and Morgan dropped the emeralds.”

“Found ’em again, didn’t I!” Morgan huffed. He reached inside a pouch and pulled something out in his fist. He hurled the object—a small, dirt-encrusted bundle of linen—at Kall.

Kall recognized it at once. It was the same bundle he’d unearthed with his father’s sword from the cemetery in Esmeltaran. One end was torn open. Kall could see twin points of green glittering against the white linen: two more emeralds—flawless stones matching the gem in his father’s sword.

“You stole them?” he asked incredulously.

Don’t let their doltish appearances fool you, said Cesira. These louts are well known—and wanted—burglars in the finer districts of Waterdeep, Arabel, and gods know where else.

“Those baubles would have kept us comfortable for several winters,” Morgan complained.

“He’s right,” Kall said, fingering the stones. He fought down his instinctive anger at Morgan’s theft and instead looked at Laerin. “Why didn’t you keep them?”

“Because you’re going to need them,” Laerin said. He nodded at Cesira. “They speak, much like your lady’s stones.”

Kall felt his neck grow warm, but he refused to be distracted by the half-elf’s teasing. “Show me.”

Laerin took one of the emeralds back, fisting it in the palm of his hand. “Morel,” he said aloud. He waited a beat, then raised the stone to his mouth and spoke a handful of words in Elvish. Kall did not understand any of them. A breath later, Kall looked down at his sword in surprise. The emerald in the hilt glowed, luminous against the platinum veins.

“Touch the stone in your sword and speak your family name,” Laerin instructed him.

Curious, Kall did as he said and felt the emerald grow warm. He heard Laerin’s Elvish speech coming from the stone, a perfect echo of what the half-elf had said. An instant later, the words repeated, this time in Common.

Friends in the dark.

Kall lowered his weapon. “I had no idea the stones were linked.”

“No matter the language, the gems will translate. They have another power,” Laerin said. He dropped the second emerald in Kall’s open hand. “Anyone who possesses one of the emeralds can locate the other two at any time, no matter the distance.”

“Been tracking you since you left the hut,” said Morgan.

“What does the message mean?” Kall asked, still watching the half-elf. “Friends in the dark?”

“Means diggers,” Laerin said. He winked at Kall.

“Nothing wrong with digging,” Morgan agreed.

Kall looked up at the boulder, but Cesira had gone.

“She’s rejoined the druids,” Laerin explained. “But she’ll be back.” He pushed off the rock. “We should go. Garavin will be waiting.”

Kall held the sparkling emeralds in his hand. The forest was eerily quiet, tense and uncertain in the wake of the goblin battle. In the distance, fires still burned.

It would take a long time, Kall thought, but eventually the forest would look as it had before. Maybe it would be stronger for all the damage it had suffered. Kall wondered if he would see the mist stags again.

Turning, he followed Morgan and Laerin back to Garavin’s hut.