The Swordsheath Scroll

2

In the near darkness of a nighttime cell, where tbe only ligbt was dim reflection from the low wick of the guard's lamp beyond the grate, Derkin raised himself carefully from the stone floor and turned his head this way and that, listening. For more than an hour now, there had been no sounds of movement in the wide cavern. Only the breathing and occasional snores of hundreds of sleeping dwarves broke the silence.

There had been no sign of the crazy old one-arm, and Derkin half suspected that the old dwarf had either been having a joke at his expense or, more likely, had forgotten all about his promise to help him escape. Probably, he thought, the oldster was as addled as he seemed. Long years in service to humans as a mine slave might well have robbed him of his senses. And just because the old dwarf knew his name, and the identity of his father, it did not mean that he knew some secret way out of these pits.

Still, some of what the old slave had said troubled Derkin. He had sensed for some time that others among the slaves were watching him carefully. He had seen their glances in his direction as they huddled among themselves.

The old dwarf had said that other slaves knew he planned to escape, and that they intended to try to go with him. He sensed the truth of that, and it troubled him. His "plan" was hardly a plan at all. He had sabotaged the shackles on his legs-had cut the heads from their rivets so that only the curve of their iron held them in place-and now he was simply waiting for an opportunity, a moment of confusion such as the arrival of mine inspectors, to slip away from his work gang and either steal away unnoticed or, at worst, make a dash for the ramp and take his chances. Not much of a plan, he admitted, but it was the only plan he had. One dwarf, alone, just might make it to freedom in such a way. But if others tried to follow him, they would certainly be pursued, caught, and thrown back into the pits. And he would be branded as their leader.

In the near darkness he grimaced, seeing the shadows of all the other slaves who shared the cell. He wished them no harm, but neither did they mean anything to him. They were as capable of escape as he was. If they wanted to try it, let them try it alone, as he intended. But he didn't want them messing up his chances.

The old dwarf had convinced him of one thing. Hecould no longer wait for an opportune time. He had to try it now, before he found himself encumbered by throngs of "followers."

For long moments, he listened to the sleeping sounds around him. Then with a sigh of aggravation he sat upright, grasped one of his ankle cuffs with strong hands, and pried at it, his wide shoulders bulging at the effort, short, thick forearms rippling like heavy cable. For a long second, the cuff did not respond. Then, with a tiny pop, the beheaded rivet gave way, and the seam spread an inch, then another and another.

When the gap was wide enough he slipped the shackle from his ankle, moving carefully so that the attached chain would make no sound. Then he went to work on the other cuff. Vaguely, it occurred to him that he was lucky these bonds had been fashioned by humans. It would never occur to a human that a circlet of half-inch iron could be pried apart with bare hands. Few humans were strong enough to do that, and it was the nature of humans to see dwarves as inferior to themselves.

The second cuff popped quietly, then slowly opened as stubby hands nearly as hard as the iron they grasped pried its ends apart.

Breathing carefully, making no sound, Derkin got to his knees, lifted his tunic around his shoulders, and slowly, carefully wrapped the eight-foot length of chain around his waist. Its length encircled him three times, forming a cold, heavy belt of links, with enough spare to loop the shackle ends in a clumsy half-knot. With his tunic lowered, the chain was hidden.

The heavy chain and his worn chisel were the only things he had that might serve as weapons or tools, and he did not intend to leave them behind.

Standing then, he took a deep, slow breath and turned toward the closed grate at the entrance to the cell. The crossed bars of the wooden portal were silhouetted by the dim glow of a guard's light beyond. There were no guards in sight, but he knew there were at least two just beyond the grate-burly humans armed with clubs and whips, and with swords that were never out of reach. Beyond was the narrow corridor out to the open pits. There would be other guards there, but he must think of the nearest ones first. With any luck, there would be no more than two humans beyond the grate, and they might be dozing at this hour.

With his chisel in his hand, he started for the portal, moving as quietly as he could. His only idea was to somehow slip the bar that held the grated gates, get past the opening, and then, somehow, with only his hands and a worn-down chisel, silence the guards there before they could raise an alarm.

With a grunt of anger, he glanced back into the sleeping cell. Rust take you people, he thought. Why couldn't you all just leave me alone? Because of you, I must do this the hard way.

As though the air had read his mind, a quiet whisper sounded at his shoulder. "It isn't their fault," the voice murmured. "They want out just as much as you do." At the slight sound, DerVin started, peering a\›out "I'm right here beside you," the voice continued. "I told you I'd come."

It was the voice of the old, one-armed dwarf who called himself Calan. Derkin squinted in the gloom, straining to see.

"Don't worry," the voice said. "You can't see me, but I'm here. Look."

The empty air seemed to shift slightly, and a shadowy face came into view.

"How do you do that?" Derkin hissed.

"I don't exactly know," Calan admitted. "It's magic, of course. It's a sort of robe that fools the eye. I have one for you, too. How do you intend to get us out of here?"

"I thought you said you knew the way," Derkin growled.

"Oh, I do, once we're past that gate."

"Where's my… my magic robe?" He held out his free hand.

There was a faint rustling, and the old dwarf's shadowy features seemed to come and go. "Right here," the specter said, and Derkin felt something in his hand. He couldn't see it, but it felt like very soft fabric. Feeling foolish, he unfolded the invisible thing and draped it around himself.

"Pretty good," the voice said. "Be sure to cover your head, too. It only hides the parts it covers."

He pulled the fabric over his head, forming a cowl, and found a two-button catch with his fumbling fingers. When it was in place, he raised his arms beneath it and looked down. Indeed, it was as though he had disappeared. He could see nothing of himself.

"Your face will show, of course," the old voice whispered, "so keep your head turned away from anybody you don't want to see you. Now, lef s get going."

At the grated portal, Derkin peered out. The guards were not in view, but he suspected where they were. A few yards to the left of the portal was a plank table with betvcVves, *w\vexe warders v*orV.ed in tt\e day\igVit rxouxs, keeping enscrolled logs for the master of the pits. The guards would be there now, probably asleep. At least, he hoped they were asleep.

Bracing himself against the heavy grating of the door, Derkin reached through and grasped the hardwood bolt with both hands. The bolt was a length of sturdy, hewn post that ran through iron hasps on each side of the double grating. Slowly, flexing his shoulders, the dwarf eased the lock aside a few inches, then took new holds and eased it again. The wood made a slight, shuffling sound as it moved through its hasps, and the unseen dwarf beside Derkin whispered, "Shhh!"

Beyond the portal, someone snorted, coughed, and stirred. Derkin pulled back his hands, which were plainly visible beyond the edge of the unseen cloak. There was silence for a moment, then a chorus of snores came through the grating.

Derkin returned to the task of sliding the bar aside. As the heavy timber cleared its first hasp, it tilted, its free end falling toward the floor. But Derkin had expected that. As the bar moved he thrust his chisel through an opening, wedging the timber against the door. Beside him, Calan expelled a nervous breath and a spectral hand appeared, to wipe sweat from a ghostly face that seemed to float, unattached, in the shadows.

Derkin eased the free half of the gate open and stepped through, sensing the movement as old Calan slipped through after him. At the warders' table, a single candle guttered low in a rough holder, dimly lighting the forms of two large men asleep on the benches.

Carefully, and as soundlessly as possible, Derkin closed the gate, retrieved his chisel, and eased the bar back into its hasps. Then he turned as a snore turned to a rattling gasp. Beside the table, old Calan's head and hand seemed to float in midair. In the hand was a dagger, dripping blood. One guard lay dead, blood flowing from beneath his beard. Before Derkin could object, the old dwarf hurried around the table and cut the second guard's throat. The hand and dagger disappeared, and the old head turned, grinning. "Why did you lock the gate?" he whispered.

For a moment, Derkin merely stared at him. Then slowly, he said, "I thought maybe nobody would notice that there's been an escape. I guess they'll notice now, though."

"What difference does it make, once we're gone?" Calan rasped.

Shaking his head, Derkin pointed toward the enclosed cell. Then, realizing that Calan couldn't see his hand, he lifted the robe and pointed again. "Because of them," he said. "They'll all be punished for this, you know. For the dead guards."

"I thought you didn't care about the rest," Calan muttered, relieving one of the dead guards of his club. "Come on, lef s get out of here." He raised the cowl of his robe and disappeared from sight. "Follow me."

"How can I follow you if I can't see you?" Derkin hissed.

"Oh, rust! Here." Derkin felt a strong, cloaked hand grasp his wrist. "Here, put your hand on my shoulder, and don't lose me."

As the old dwarf led the way, Derkin pulled up his own cowl and followed. "There will be more guards up ahead," he whispered. "Do you plan to kill all of them, too?"

"Not unless I get the chance," Calan said casually.

"Reorx," Derkin muttered, still hot with anger. He couldn't think of any reason why the old dwarf should have killed those sleeping guards. The act was worse than unnecessary, it was stupid. Still, he had the impression that, whatever else Calan Silvertoe might be, he was not stupid.

The corridor turned, and ahead was its end, with the floor of the mine pit beyond. Several armed humans were at the entrance, three of them kneeling on a tattered blanket, playing bones, while others dozed or slept nearby.

"Keep your face covered," Calan whispered, slowing. On silent feet, they crept past the guards and out into the torchlit pit. The big hole was quieter than its normal daytime bedlam, but still there was activity. Ore carts still rolled from the various shafts, and small groups of slaves, watched over by human guards, worked at sorting heaps. Derkin gazed across at the steep ramp that was the only exit from the place and cursed quietly. Halfway up the ramp, a small fire had been built, and a dozen or more humans sat around it. The ramp was blocked.

"We'll never slip past that bunch," the Hylar whispered, pulling Calan to a halt. "There isn't enough room to pass."

"We're not going there," the old dwarf's voice came back. "I told you, I know a way out. A better way."

Clinging to Calan's invisible shoulder, Derkin found himself being led diagonally across the pit, toward a stone wall marked only by a hanging scrap basket beside an outcropping of rock. As they approached, though, a human guard sauntered past them, paused beside the basket, turned, and looked around, then yawned and leaned back against the outcrop.

Calan halted. "Rust!" he muttered.

"What?" Derkin asked.

"That man is in our way," the unseen voice said. "That's where we're going. There's a hole behind that thrust of stone." He paused, then said, "You wait here, Derkin. I'll draw the man away. As soon as he moves, you go to that hole and wait. I'll be right behind you." He pulled loose from Derkin's grip and was gone.

With nothing else to do, Derkin stood still, waiting. A minute passed, then another, and suddenly a howl of pain echoed around the pit. He turned in time to see a human pitch forward onto the ground, screaming. Then another fell a few feet away, and another, their screams joining the first as if in chorus. Other humans hurried toward them, and Derkin saw a wooden club materialize beside one man and lash out at him. The man fell, as the others had.

By the stone outcrop, the lounging guard stood erect, gawking at the melee out in the pit, then drew his club and hurried toward it. Keeping his invisible cloak tight around him, Derkin raced to the wall, found the shadowed hole behind the stone, and stepped into it, then stopped. "Hole?" he muttered. "There is no hole here. It's a dead end." He turned, started out of the shallow trap, and collided with something solid and invisible. Thrashing legs appeared as Calan fell backward, then disappeared again. "Watch where you're going!" his angry voice demanded. "I told you to wait here, didn't I?" A cal-lused hand appeared and pushed Derkin back into the shadows.

"You said there was a hole here, a way to escape," Derkin rasped.

"There is!" Calan spat. "Just be quiet and hold on to my shoulder."

It was only two steps from the opening to the back of the concavity, but as they approached it, the rough stone receded, and the opening became a lengthening tunnel. "Magic!" Derkin rumbled.

"Of course it's magic," Calan said, ahead of him. "Shut up and come on. I don't like magic any more than you do."

"Then why are you using it?"

"Stop complaining. It's the only way. Come on."

The tunnel lengthened ahead of them, dim and curving, seeming totally dark, yet somehow lighted faintly by a slight, greenish glow that came from nowhere.

"I thought you weren't going to kill any more guards back there," Derkin snapped, still peeved at the seemingly senseless killings of the leeping guards outside the cell.

"I didn't kill these," Calan snapped. "I just broke some kneecaps to make them yell. It worked. They yelled."

"How did you find this tunnel?"

"A friend showed it to me. Will you stop yammering and hurry? All this magic makes me nervous."

A few steps farther on, the tunnel widened, ending in a small cave deep within the mountain stone. The same slight, greenish glow provided just enough light to see. Calan stopped, shook free of Derkin's hand, and became visible from the feet up as he pulled off his unseen cloak. "We won't need these now," he said. "From here on there will be no one to see us."

Derkin pulled off his concealing garb and breathed deeply. As with most dwarves, the very presence of magic was offensive to him. He tossed the cloak aside, then immediately wished he had not. It might take an hour of crawling around to find the thing by touch, and, magic or not, such a thing might prove useful again.

As though reading his mind, the old Daewar rasped, "Forget about the cloaks. I told you, we won't need them anymore."

The only feature of the place was a shallow, dark bowl resting on the stone floor, and Calan approached it. Derkin followed Calan, stooping once to pick up the unseen cloak he had dropped. He could not see it, but his fingers found it. Quickly, he rolled it, thrust it under his tunic, and secured it beneath the chain wound around his waist.

The darkwood bowl contained an inch of milky liquid. Calan squatted beside it, staring into its silent, mysterious depths. Derkin glanced at the bowl, then went on past, to the back wall of the cave. With spread hands, he started exploring its surface, wondering where the next tunnel would appear.

Behind him, he heard Calan say, "Despaxas? We are here."

Derkin turned, but there was no one there except the old dwarf squatting beside the dark bowl. With a shrug, he turned back to the wall. "Where is the next tunnel?" he asked. "I can't find any…"

Abruptly, the stone seemed to swim before him. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, and disoriented. He closed his eyes, opened them again, blinked, and fell on his back. Overhead, stars glittered in a vast sky, and the light of a rising red moon silhouetted the branches of a tree. Not far away, precipitous slopes rose on both sides, great walls of stone climbing away toward the sky. He struggled upright, feeling slightly sick to his stomach. A few feet away, old Calan squatted on stony ground, bracing himself with his one arm and shaking his head. "Rust, but I hate that," he growled.

"What… what happened?" Derkin gasped. "Where are we?"

"Away from the mines," Calan said. "I told you I knew a way out." Still shaking his head, the old dwarf got to shaky feet and rubbed his belly with a gnarled hand. "What happened was a transport spell. Magicians use them sometimes."

"You're a magician?" Derkin glared at him.

"You mind your mouth," Calan snapped. "I certainly am not a magician! But Despaxas is."

"Who is Despaxas?"

Calan turned, pointing. "He is," he said.

From the shadows of a grove of conifers, a lean, cowled figure appeared. Derkin could see nothing of him but his stature and form as he strode forward. But one thing was clear: he was no dwarf.

The figure approached, lithe and graceful even in the muffling of his full robe, and Derkin squinted, trying to discern his features. Then the newcomer spoke, and his voice was rich and clear, musical as few human voices and no dwarven voices were. "Welcome to freedom, Derkin Winterseed," he said. "I am Despaxas."

"Where are we?" the Hylar demanded.

"About four miles from where you were," the hooded one said quietly. "This is Tharkas Pass. The mines of Klanath are back that way, to the north. And south of here, through the pass, lie the dwarven lands… or what used to be dwarven lands."

Derkin looked where the figure had pointed, then swung back. "What do you mean, 'used to be'?" he demanded.

"You think you were the only one captured by slavers in these past years?" Calan rasped. "Well, you weren't. The human emperor's soldiers hold the dwarven mines now, and the lands all the way to Sky's End. And all the miners who worked those mines are now slaves in them, just as you have been a slave in Klanath."

"I never made it that far," Derkin said grimly. "We were attacked on the road south of the Tharkas mines by human raiders. My escorts were all killed. Only one survived with me, and he died of his wounds before they got us to Klanath."

"Those were no raiders," the hooded one said. "Those were scouts for the assault force that invaded Kal-Thax and took over the Tharkas mines. Only a very few dwarves survived that assault, got away, and made it to Thorbar-din."

"Then the alarm was spread?"

"It was," the cowled one said sadly. "But no one came. The tribes were at war again within Thorbardin, and no one thought it important to defend the mines outside the undermountain realm."

"Gods," Derkin whispered, realizing the enormity of what he had just heard. Since his capture, Kal-Thax had been invaded by humans. And now the humans ruled the northern ranges. "And what of Thorbardin now?" he asked.

"It stands," the figure assured him. "There are reports that some order has been restored, at least temporarily. But still there is no help for these northern realms."

Again Derkin squinted, peering into the shadows of the cowl. "Who are you?" he demanded. "What do you want of me, and how do you know all this?"

With an eloquent shrug, Despaxas reached up and pulled back his cowl, dropping it to his shoulders. Rising moonlight revealed a chiseled, serious face with long, lustrous hair and no beard. It was a faintly ironic face, but the smile on it was as innocent as a child's. It was a face almost-but not exactly-human.

"You're an elf!" Derkin said.

"Of course I am," Despaxas admitted. "My mother was a good friend of an ancestor of yours. She admired him, in a way. Look here." The elf knelt and brushed back gravel and dust with a graceful hand. Beneath was a glint of iron. "This is a claim spike, Derkin. A long time ago, it was driven here to mark the boundary of the dwarven lands.

My mother was here when that was done. The person who set the spike was named Cale Greeneye. His sister was your great-great… well, several greats, grandmother."

"And your mother was alive then?"

"Yes. She still is. Her name is Eloeth. It was her idea, frankly, that I should come and find you."

"Why?" Derkin frowned up at the innocent, ironic face. His frown became a startled stare as his eyes shifted. Behind the elf, only a few feet away, something was watching… something he could barely see. As he stared, the creature seemed to unwrap itself, unfurling wide, shadowy appendages that seemed to ripple in the shadows. Undulating gracefully, it rose silently, then turned and glided away, disappearing from sight.

Derkin stared after it. "What in the name of corrosion was that?" he hissed.

"I call him Zephyr," Despaxas said. "He's a verger."

"A what?"

"Verger," the elf repeated. "It means he doesn't exactly exist in this world, but he isn't exactly out of it, either."

"If s Despaxas's pet shadow," Calan Silvertoe rumbled. "It follows him around. Ugly, isn't it? I mean, what you can see of it."

"Zephyr doesn't see you any better than you see him, Calan," the elf said softly. "He probably doesn't see your body at all. What he does see, though, is your soul."

Derkin stared at the elf, then at the empty night where the almost-creature had gone. "That thing looks at souls?" he growled. "Why?"

"So he can tell me what he sees there," the elf said. "Zephyr is my friend."

Derkin shook his head in amazement. There was something he had meant to ask these odd people-something about his escape from the mines-but for the life of him he couldn't remember what it was.