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  From the Tapestry of the Worldweaver

  Lore of the Underworld

  It was Karkald’s job to see that the watchlights kept burning. Ten times each cycle he inspected the wicks of coolfyre, measured the flamestone, ensuring that the six beacons of his station blazed through the sunless Underworld in proud, bright testament of the Seer Dwarves realm.

  And now he was ready, even eager to start on that routine… but first he would savor one more look. He struck a spark to the wick of a lamp and held the soft flame above the bed. The sight of Darann’s soft curls, so light in color they seemed almost golden as they framed her sleep-gentled face, moved him almost to tears. He leaned over, touched her lips with a blunt finger, and then slowly kissed the soft down on the cheek so close beside her ear, glad that she would sleep.

  As to himself, he was vibrant, eager to move, ready to work out the boisterous delight singing within him. Still holding the lamp, he clumped through the living chamber of their den, down the long, curving entry tunnel leading to the portico. Near the entrance, he stopped to strap on the tools stored neatly on a wall rack, murmuring softly as he dropped each of the eight items into its strap, belt loop, or sheath.

  “Hammer, chisel, hatchet, file. Knife, pick, rope, spear.”

  Content and whole, he blew out the wick on the lamp and strode onto the portico, coming into the cool wash of illumination from the nearest of the watch-station beacons. That great lantern was posted a hundred feet over his head, while to the right and left he could see the swaths of light from the nearest of the additional lamps. He trusted that the three beacons on the other side of the island were burning as well, but he wouldn’t take that for granted until he walked over there and saw for himself.

  Looking across the inky waters of the Undersea, Karkald clearly saw the corona of light that marked Axial, the great center of dwarven culture. Some fifty miles away across the deep, eternally still waters, there were the smithies and forges, the alchemists and scholars, who had gathered all the knowledge of the last tens of thousands of intervals. There, too, were the inns and taverns, the schools and arenas of the greatest city in all the First Circle. In Axial, gold was jangling through countless transactions, while Seer Dwarf drums pulsed a steady cadence of vitality.

  And Karkald couldn’t help but chuckle as he realized that he didn’t miss the place at all.

  Indeed, there was no place in the Underworld that he would rather be than here-and it had been so since Darann had come to stay with him. The watch station was a pillar of rock that rose from the black, unplumbed depths of the sea. Above, far out of Karkald’s sight, the stony column merged with the cavernous ceiling of the Underworld to form the lightless, solid sky of the First Circle. Far below the portico, extending like a rickety spur from the base of the pillar, a lone wharf jutted into the sea, nearly invisible in the thick shadows beneath the glare of the great lanterns. Two hundred steeply pitched stone stairs connected that dock to the portico and the den.

  With an easy cadence of footsteps, Karkald marched steadily up the steep trail to the first beacon. At the lamp he climbed up the ladder from the trail, peering into the top of the great fyre-lens. He checked the level of powdered flamestone in the steel hopper, making sure that the automatic feeder would keep the beacon burning. As always, the coolfyre within the great globe of glass was fascinating, though too bright to look at directly. Yet he placed his hands against that lens, inevitably wondering that the surface was barely warm to his touch.

  From the platform above the beacon he also looked out to sea, seeking any sign of movement on the still waters that lay within the broad cone of illumination. Not surprisingly, he saw nothing but darkness. Yet he never forgot that, far beyond the reach of his light, the Underworld teemed with savage Delvers, blind and utterly wicked killers who sought to capture, torture, and slay their seeing cousins.

  The Blind Ones were the reason for this watch station, the threat that made life for the Seer Dwarves an ever-perilous undertaking in the First Circle. Cruel and ingenious, always eager to take prisoners for their vicious rites, the Delvers had waged merciless warfare against Seer Dwarves for thousands of cycles. It was only a dozen generations ago, after the Seers were trapped in a small corner of the First Circle and threatened with utter annihilation, that a Seer alchemist had made the discovery that changed the Underworld. He had mixed flamestone, water, and gold to make a fuel that burned for a long time, cast a pure white light, and didn’t generate the searing heat that was the liability of most brilliant fires. With the development of coolfyre, Karkald’s ancestors had been able to hold the Delvers at bay and, eventually, to prosper.

  Even so, the threat remained, requiring constant vigilance on the part of the Seers. Karkald remembered a dwarven corpse that had floated up the dock three or four intervals ago. Half the hapless Seer’s skin had been flayed away, and both eyes had been gouged out by Delver torture. Yet when Karkald pulled the body onto the shore, water ran out of the lungs. Even after all that punishment, the victim had lived long enough to suffer death by drowning!

  For a moment he felt a wistful sadness, a melancholy awareness of the violent dangers that formed a threat to his world. He knew that far above them, through miles of solid bedrock-the foundation of worlds-was a land reputed to be a place of beauty and eternal peace. Elves and other peoples lived there, in the Fourth Circle called Nayve. Supposedly, they frolicked like happy children, unaware of danger, ignorant of violence. Dwarven explorers had visited that place, generations and generations ago. They had reported that Nayve was illuminated by a great “sun,” and that all the peoples of that world had a plenitude of food and bountiful lands, free of deadly threats, on which to make their homes. The elves themselves had been described as capricious and trite people, with little grasp of the serious realities of life.

  He wondered if that kind of place might not be a terrible land in which to live. Of course, in the Underworld there was never enough food. And even beyond Delvers, there were terrible beasts-fish and serpents in the Undersea, fierce and carnivorous wyslets that stalked the remote caves and even crawled about on the ceiling of the world. But the First Circle was a world that made its people strong, and strength was the attribute Karkald valued above all others.

  Sauntering along the narrow trail, with the steep plunge to the sea on his right side, Karkald tried to banish memory of the gruesome corpse. He said the words again as his hands went to the tools fixed to different parts of his person.

  “Hammer, chisel, hatchet, file. Knife, pick, rope, spear. Hammer chisel hatchet file. Knife pick rope spear.” He matched the cadence of his words to the beat of his footsteps. As always, the litany brought a sense of comfort, reminded him that he was prepared to face any eventuality. With those eight tools, any one of which could be in his hand a fraction of a heartbeat after he wanted it, he knew there was no task, no challenge, that could possibly daunt him.

  The high trail followed the curve around the steep cliffs of the precipitous outpost, the stone pillar that rose into the great, natural buttress so far overhead and eventually swept outward to merge into the cavern roof. The path was rugged, broken by many stretches of stairs and ladders, but Karkald didn’t mind the steepness. And because of the beacons posted at six equal intervals around the pillar’s circumference the whole route was well-lighted.

  On the side of the pillar opposite the den he stopped for a very long time, looking out to sea, listening for some sound from that infinite darkness. He tried to picture the threat of Delver attack, which he had heard described but never seen. Their boats were fast and silent, he had been told, and they could be out there anywhere. He pictured the foe, imagined the terrifying thrill of imminent attack, and strained to observe any sign of danger. Only after he was certain that there was nothing to see did he move on.

  Three-quarters of the way around the island Karkald reached his favorite vantage. From here he could again clearly see Axial glowing across the inky waters. Also, this was the
battery platform, and he never ceased to admire the great weapon, to cherish this part of his inspection and maintenance chores.

  A little sense of guilt tugged at him, for he was acutely conscious of the fact that his enthusiasm for the weapon was the one aspect of his life he didn’t share with Darann. Discussion or even sight of the battery never failed to make her uneasy, and after several startlingly angry responses he had learned not to mention the thing. Of course, there had been a number of arguments over other matters in the last few intervals-sometimes it seemed as though Darann was fiercely resisting his best efforts to make her happy. Yet none of those spats had been as intense as the ones relating to his admiration for this great weapon.

  Now he enthusiastically turned his attention toward the mass of gray stone and black metal. In time of war the battery would be manned by a full crew of dwarves, sixty sturdy gunners filling the breech and cranking back the mighty spring. The arc of fire crossed the approach to the distant city, and from here a lethal spray of shot could be cast over this part of the sea. Now, of course, the crew was absent, but the weapon was loaded and Karkald knew that should the Delvers appear, he would have the honor of taking the first shot.

  The battery rested on a wide, flat platform, a shoulder of rock jutting from the side of the stone pillar from which the weapon had traverse over nearly half of the island’s circumference. Squatting above the highest beacon of the watch station, the gun consisted of a vast chute of metal extending from a powerful granite frame. The spring that powered the weapon was bolted to that block of stone, and overhead stretched a framework of piping and storage bins that, under the guidance of many skilled hands, could be manipulated to reload the weapon. There was even a governor of Karkald’s own design, a control to ensure that the lethal shot wasn’t overly shaken during the loading process.

  First he checked to see that the massive spring, a single leaf nearly thirty feet long, was fully distended, poised to swiftly release its force following one precise hammer blow to the trigger. A small chock of stone held the powerful strip of metal in check, and the gunner had to strike that chip just perfectly to knock it instantaneously free. If he failed, the weapon would misfire, dumping the expensive shot onto the shore of the island-and the stuttering spring might catch his hammer, or even his hand, with crushing force.

  As Karkald looked out to sea, he suddenly stiffened with excitement, knowing that the cycles of waiting and watching had finally yielded results: A silver-hulled longboat sliced through the water near the periphery of the beacons’ ring of brightness. Twenty oars propelled the low hull with impressive speed, and while the Delver crew was invisible at this range, Karkald knew that several dozen of the Unmirrored Dwarves no doubt crouched in the hull, probably hoping to raid Axial or attack one of the lumbering Seer barges that traversed the sea. Glimmering in the beacon’s light was a white wake frothing behind the swiftly gliding boat.

  It took a moment for his mind to process the truth: The Delvers were here! A tremor of nervousness shivered in Karkald’s fingers, but he forced himself to breathe deeply and, in a moment, was calm.

  “How many boats?”

  He asked the question aloud, then sprinted to the edge of the battery platform. His eyes probed the darkness, sweeping the sea around the Delver craft, but he saw no indication of another metal hull or white, foaming wake.

  Returning to the battery, he peered through the sight and followed the path of the longboat, which at its current speed and course would shortly be out of range. With quick, sure movements he turned the crank that raised the elevation of the long steel barrel. Next, he pushed hard on a stout capstan, slowly grinding the battery through a gradual traverse. He dashed back to the sight, made a minute adjustment to elevation-taking into consideration the Delver vessel’s movement-and then took up his hammer.

  Instantly he tapped a sharp blow that sent the chockstone pinging across the platform. With a shuddering whine the spring whipped free, hurling the breech and its cargo of shot up the slightly inclined barrel. The breech slammed into the stop bar, but the shiny casings flew far out over the black water, reflecting and sparkling for a moment as they danced eerily in the light of the beacon. With stately majesty the spheres finally tumbled downward, falling away from the light to scatter with a series of splashes into the sea-though Karkald was satisfied to hear a loud clang as at least one of the metallic globes found the target.

  He rushed to the edge of the battery platform, anxious to see what would happen next. He knew that within each ball a glass vial had shattered, mingling caustic acid with a powder of phosphorus. Several of the metal spheres became visible as they slowly bobbed to the surface. First they glowed red, then white, finally bursting into clouds of froth and steam as the casings cracked and melted from the pressure of contained fire.

  More significantly, Karkald saw a crimson glow rising from within the hull of the Delver boat, near the bow. In that steadily brightening illumination he saw the frantic Blind Ones scrambling about as they heard and felt and smelled the sensations of doom. The hissing sphere finally melted, spilling hot, liquid fire into the midst of the vessel. The hull, unable to withstand such heat, was quickly holed.

  After that, the ship and its Delver crew vanished in the space of a few heartbeats, leaving the white glow of burning phosphorus to linger on the eerily still sea. Karkald allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, though he remained watchful. Squinting, he stared across the expanse of water, and saw no sign of another Delver craft. As far as the light extended, the vast sweep of sea was utterly black, still, and lifeless.

  Until he looked toward his own shore in the shadows below. Then his stomach lurched to the sight of boats, more than he could count, clustering in the darkness at the base of the watch station pillar. The closest of the vessels teemed with metal-clad Delvers and was just drawing up to the dock. Another craft was already beached beside the small wharf.

  That silver hull was empty, and Karkald nearly sobbed aloud as he saw movement on the steeply pitched stairway above the dock.

  There were the Unmirrored, a column of deadly warriors moving stealthily upward. They climbed toward the portico, toward the den…

  Toward Darann.

  S he lay with her eyes closed, too tired-or too bored-to move. She knew what awaited when she finally crawled out of bed: the dark, empty den. Karkald would be busy on his rounds for hours, and until his return there would be nothing, absolutely nothing, for her to do.

  So instead she stayed in bed, longing for Axial, remembering the life she had left behind in order to come to this forlorn outpost. Her family was there in the city, her parents and her sisters, and her elder brother and all his stalwart companions of the Royal Guard. She thought fondly of the great balls, the pounding of ritual drums, the frantic dancing that would last for the duration of a full interval or longer.

  It was not that she didn’t love Karkald-she did, very much. Hadn’t she loved him enough to come here, to leave all that she knew to spend her cycles with this sturdy, quiet watchman? He was strong and wise, and tender in ways that she had never known. Of course she loved him.

  But even so, it was quiet here, and so dark, and there were times like this, when boredom and loneliness seemed to form a morass from which she could never escape. In the city she could have broken this mood in one of the huge libraries, reading the histories of the First Circle. Or perhaps she would have lost herself in some of the fantastic tales of the early dwarven explorers, those who had visited Nayve to return with tales of exotic elves, a bright “sun,” and the Worldweaver’s Loom rising at the Center of Everything.

  It had been a long time since dwarves ventured so far from home, of course-since the discovery of coolfyre, Axial had offered anything that the Seers could desire. Now Darann wondered if perhaps it was the lights of the city that she missed the most. It was ironic to think of it, but here, on a watch station with six massive beacons of coolfyre, her life was spent in shadow and solitude. The great lamps cast
their beams over the Darksea, but spilled little of their cheery illumination onto the shores of the island. In Axial, conversely, there were small lamps every twoscore paces along the city streets, and more light would spill from the windows of inns and shops. Rivers of brightness marked the paths up the steep pillars that rose here and there in the city, the great columns that supported the roof of the Underworld. From those cliffs one could view great stretches of the fyre-brightened city. Dens carved into the walls of these pillars were considered prime real estate in Axial, and indeed, Darann’s family lived in such a multi-room penthouse more than a quarter-mile above the city floor.

  This must be what life was like for the elves of the Fourth Circle, she thought. No purpose, nothing to compel one out of bed on awakening. She felt a flash of sympathy for those simple people, but by the time she had drawn another sighing breath her attentions had become more localized. She was feeling sorrow only for herself.

  She drew a deeper sigh and pulled the blanket up to her chin. Opening her eyes, she blinked against the utter darkness of the sleeping chamber. She thought about firing the lamp, but didn’t have the energy for that much work. Instead, she decided that she would get up and go out to the portico to wait for Karkald. While she was out there, she could at least look across the water at the lights of Axial-though she knew that might only make her more homesick.

  Before she could kick her legs over the side of the bed she heard a sound from elsewhere in the den. She frowned, knowing it was too soon for Karkald to be returning. Or had she slept longer than she thought?

  Again the sound was repeated, a long, snuffling inhalation of breath. Whoever breathed was trying to be quiet, Darann sensed. Still, there was an alertness, an urgency to that sniffing noise that suggested someone was trying to study his surroundings by smell.

  Delver! The notion brought with it a sick sense of fear. Her eyes were wide open now, and she cursed herself for not lighting the lamp a few minutes earlier. As quietly as possible she lifted the covers off and slipped her feet onto the cold, stone floor. Soundlessly she sniffed the air, trying to smell anything different… Perhaps she was wrong, and it was only Karkald she’d heard, coming back. Maybe he had caught a cold, and his breathing was congested…