The Dragon God (Book 2) (23 page)

The heroes slowed their pace as they entered in awe. Mammoth sized furs of numerous species littered the floor of the fifty-foot chamber.

Dulgin gasped and let out two distinct, high pitched yelps. His comrades’ eyes looked the direction he was staring, and locked on the brilliant Dwarven full-plate armor set on display upon a wood mannequin. Its adamantine metal gleamed like a beacon for any lost dwarf looking for protection. Like an entranced dwarf gazing upon a mound of gold, he took his fateful steps closer and closer.

“Finally, Dulgin. Now you can replace that ugly armor of yours,” Spilf called out.

The Dwarf’s plate mail had been an eye-sore for years, and with each combat encounter, it became worse. It was more of a liability for those in the vicinity with its sharp rusty protrusions of peeled metal from the open gashes, slashes and holes punctured into it. Bridazak, Spilf, and Abawken watched together as their burly friend was almost upon the much needed new suit of armor. They looked forward to the forthcoming improved Dulgin Hammergold.

Dulgin began to stretch out his arms and clopped along faster with each step as his stiffened legs mechanically moved toward the item. The faces of his adventuring comrades suddenly shifted, however, when he stumbled right past the magical armor and locked his muscled arms around the keg just beyond. He positioned himself to take a mouthful of the mythical substance that had diminished over the centuries within the human communities that flourished across Ruauck-El—his beloved dwarven ale. He released the corked bottom and was rewarded with the high alcohol content filling his mouth, sloshing over the sides, dribbling through his red-beard, and cascading down the front of his dented armor.

“Unbelievable,” said Spilf.

“Yep,” Bridazak groaned.

Abawken stepped forward. “Come on, we will need Master Dulgin’s senses about him for what lies ahead of us.”

They hurried to Dulgin’s side and pushed the cork back into the keg, cutting off the dwarf’s freely streaming ale. Dulgin stood and pulled forth his waterskin, where he proceeded to squeeze the fresh water from the container, emptying it completely. The others folded their arms across their chests and waited as Dulgin filled his waterskin with the alcohol. When he finished, he smiled and lifted his red bushy eyebrows in victory.

“Are you ready?” Bridazak spryly asked.

“Do any of you want your waterskin filled?”

“We prefer our water,” Spilf retorted.

“Fine, suit yer self. Let’s go,” Dulgin turned to the cask of ale, gave it a hearty pat and said, “I will be back for you later.”

“What about the armor, Master Dulgin?”

“What about it? It’s ugly. Something my brother would wear, not me. C’mon, we have your family to rescue and King Manasseh to deal with,
again
.”

The band of heroes made their way down the circular stairway, noticing the ambient temperature becoming warmer the lower they descended. The chrysalis-like finish lessened and the smoothly worked stone turned rough, raw, and jagged. The pure, cold air gradually shifted to a grimy and humid draft, with the dust of chipped stone and a sulfurous odor assailing their nostrils.

“Well, at least we are going down this time,” Spilf gripped Abawken’s backpack to keep from falling with dizziness, not used to the excessive elevations rise and falls they had recently travelled.

“Yer heavy breathing will alert anyone we’re coming, that’s for sure,” Dulgin retorted.

Bridazak suddenly stopped. Spilf said, “Oh good, a break.”

“No, listen.”

They all did as instructed. Spilf focused his labored breaths and cocked his head slightly to make out what the sound was, but deep down he was thankful for the rest as he leaned against the wall. Distant clanking of metal into rock echoed up the stairway.

“Someone is doing a bit of mining,” Dulgin said. “C’mon, lets have a looksee.”

Once they reached the bottom, Dulgin, using his natural ability to see through the darkness, led the way. The passages, although not completely dark, were difficult enough that the others could not navigate effectively without bumping into a corner of a wall or possibly stepping into an open chasm in the floor.

The dwarven tunnels, engineered long ago, were well structured and interconnected, lacing the lower levels to harbor and convey the many dwarven brethren, though all the passageways were now creepily empty. Strong, reinforced wooden doors with metal banding were held open by pitons. They cautiously walked further through the halls until finally finding a strange opening that did not match the dwarven engineering. The sound of hammers striking rock echoed strongly. An abhorrent odor assaulted them from the visible break in the wall along with a strange red aura casting an eerie glow.

“That is rank,” Spilf said.

“Goblin. A smell every dwarf is warned about at an early age.”

“We have encountered this race above ground, but never smelled anything like this before,” Bridazak stated.

“Gock-Turnin and his foul breed are the underdwellers of the goblins. They give off a fine mixture of feces, sweat, and death, something us dwarves like to call
fengle
.”

“Is there anything we should be aware of when we encounter them, Master Dulgin?”

“Yeah, don’t let them breathe on you. I have seen them put down the mightiest of dwarves with that alone. Other than that, they bleed, and they die. We will find small groupings patrolling their tunnels, and one is required to escape to alert the horde while the others keep us occupied. Their strength is in their numbers and we cannot afford to alert the horde. Bridazak and Spilf will focus on the
goffen
, the runner, while Abawken and I will take the others. Don’t worry about the noise as they don’t hear well, but their sight is uncanny.”

“What about their sense of smell?” Bridazak asked.

“Bah, with that bad breath of theirs they ain’t be smellin nothin but their arses.”

They looked down the crumbly-edged passage. Floor pedestaled braziers contained heated stones that rested inside the cast iron, giving a
crimson glow. A magical source of lighting produced eerie shadows, and gave the sense of lava flowing nearby. The smell intensified, and the ordakians and human had to cover their noses with their hands at times. A maze of chaotic mining tunnels engulfed them as they slinked beyond the frost dwarf lair. Precision was not a necessity for the goblins. These passages had been developed in haste and with poor care. In some cases rudimentary beams appeared to be more decoration rather than structurally sound. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the passageways—more like aimless carvings in the earth, resembling the paths made by worms in search of food. When they came to another intersection of the woven tunnel, the sharp sounds of metal on hardened rock pierced more predominantly. Dulgin peered around the corner first, and then quickly retreated with his back against the wall, and the others, hastily following his lead, did the same.

He whispered, “Mining slaves and a group of rovers passing by. Get ready.”

The heroes could barely make out the trodding footsteps of the goblinoid party, except to note that the barefoot creatures of the underground realm marched right by them, apparently not concerned with their passageway in the slightest. The range of rusty red to dull green skin was the only difference to discern one from the next. Their eyes were a milky-white, loose skin sagged on their cheeks, no discernible outer ears, but instead sunken clefts where ears would have been, and misshaped bald heads rounded out the four-foot-tall foul race. A slender goblin, surrounded by his sword and spear-wielding kin, appeared jittery and held no weapon.

The heroes exhaled, relieved their first encounter would not be a fight. Dulgin waved them to follow. They turned the corner and walked only a few paces before discovering the source of the mining noises. A few frost dwarves slogged away at the tunnel wall with archaic picks, along with two humans, and an ordakian. Each miner focused on their task and mechanically swung away, as if in a trance. Spilf rushed to the dak and spun him around face to face. The frail male’s face was blackened with the soot of mining, hair greasy and matted, and his eyes were a reflective purple.

“We are here to save you,” Spilf said, but the expressionless face wanted to continue on with the meaningless job set before him. Spilf let him go and the ordakian carried on as if no interruption had occurred. Abawken and Dulgin approached the other slaves, who also had the same eye coloration.

“They are spellbound,” Abawken announced.

“It must be the power of this Shiell-Zonn demon and the Sky Diamond,” Bridazak surmised.

Suddenly, a different squad of goblins shuffled into the corridor further ahead of them, and instantly spotted the adventurers. A loud screech echoed from the reddish-green band as they charged. The weaker member of the clan sprinted back the way it came.

Dulgin shouted, “Get the goffen!”

Bridazak cried, “The what?”

“The runner, get the runner!”

B
ridazak, his bow at the ready, quickly drew an arrow from his quiver, notched it, and let it fly. The cold steel point pierced through the left calf of the fleeing goffen. Immediately, the runner’s protectors charged the heroes, as the wounded goblin hobbled from sight to alert another group, working to create a chain reaction that would rally the entire horde. The clank of steel on steel echoed in the tunnels as Abawken and Dulgin, weapons in hand, engaged the six foul creatures. The dark dwellers swung recklessly, with the ferocity of madmen, while the fighter from Zoar had an elegance and skill unmatched by any in this region. The dwarf angrily met the group head on with overpowering strength behind every swing, shattering the first goblin’s spear and then disemboweling the next, spilling its guts on the ground.

To bypass the melee, Spilf and Bridazak scooted along the wall, making it to the other side and entered a new tunnel. They followed a trail of blood that guided them through the twisting passage and soon came upon the wounded goblin, crawling and clawing away. His labored breathing created a reverberating whine. Bridazak readied another arrow, but Spilf unsheathed his dagger, and turned the goffen over to face him, straddling him to keep him pinned.

The goblin, in its scratchy voice and broken common language, threatened, “Horde come. Horde kill.”

“What are you doing with all of these slaves?” Spilf demanded, grabbing the leather strap across its chest and shoulder, and lifting him up to his face to intimidate him. Spilf was suddenly overcome by the smell and stumbled away. The creature pulled out a hidden knife, and shakily aimed it at Spilf, but an arrow slammed into its abdomen and the creature gurgled its final breath.

Dulgin and Abawken finished off the remaining goblins and then trotted down the tunnelway to find Bridazak and Spilf.

Dulgin chuckled, “Looks like you found Fengle Breath.”

Spilf looked at him as he gagged. He leaned against the rock wall.

Dulgin said, “Just smell your pit. It will settle your stomach.”

Spilf didn’t argue and did as instructed, taking big whiffs of his sweaty armpit, then he relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief. Bridazak was by his side.

“I wasn’t kidding about that smell.”

They dragged the goffen corpse back to the group where Abawken and Dulgin had easily finished off the small band. Spilf used powdered rock dust to cover the blood trail and caught the dwarf eyeing him. Spilf said, “Learned this trick in my early days as a thief covering up a killing in Baron’s Hall.”

Dulgin nodded, “Nice trick.”

The others carried the dead enemies back into the dwarven keep and piled them inside one of the many barren rooms. They had their first encounter of roving goblins and the goffen and felt ready to move deeper into Gock-Turnin’s lair.

Bridazak and Spilf made their way ahead of Dulgin and Abawken, hiding in shadows cast by the glowing braziers stationed throughout, and then informing the others to follow once it was clear. The maze of tunnels continued without end. They came upon hundreds of mindless slaves hacking away at the walls. They stopped several times, but discovered it was nearly impossible to discern if Spilf’s parents were amongst the many ordakians, because of the heavy layers of dirt covering their faces. Some of the entranced souls had died and lay along the passage; the smell of death intermingled with the goblin stench.