Jean Rabe - The Lake of Death

“Odd tattoo for an elf,” Grannaluured mused, “but then, you’re not in the forest, and you’re keeping company with a sivak…one with no wings. I think it fits the likes of you. I think I’ll just have a few more swigs before I start. Funny, I do my best work when I’m drinking just a bit.”

Feldspar chuckled. “She does her best mining then, too.”

“Loosens up my fingers.”

Feril clamped her teeth together as Grannaluured went to work with her dyes and needles. While the dwarf prepared, the Kagonesti told her about the jay feather and the lightning bolt tattoos she used to have emblazoned on her face.

“What color do you want the dragon to be?”

Feril almost said “black,” but Dhamon wasn’t really a black dragon. “Doesn’t matter, Needle,” she said matter-of-factly. “Whatever color suits your fancy. I’ll trust to the artist.”

Grannaluured smiled, reaching for her vial of red dye. “I like lots of color,” she said. “I’ll put a bit of blue in it, too. I think I’ve just the shade to match your eyes. Perhaps not very realistic, as far as dragons go, but more colorful. Nice to be able to put some of my work on display—on someone else. My friends here don’t care for tattoos, but I figure I’ll wear them down eventually. I’d like to put some flames on Campfire’s arms.”

Feril felt the first sting of pain and let her jaw unclench. “So you haven’t been with them long?”

“Not terribly. Only a few months. I fell in with them by accident. They weren’t keen on sharing their mining camp, but they were hungry for some good food. You think I’m good with tattoos? I’m even better with a skillet. Wait ’til you see what I do with the cured venison in my pack.”

The sun had started to set. Feril had drifted away from the dwarves to the other side of the pool below the hill with the dwarven tunnels. She looked across the water and watched the dwarves talking freely to Ragh, who had moved closer. He was regaling them with some tale of a time when he studied under a Red Robed sorcerer a century ago. They were setting up a campfire and preparing for dinner.

Dhamon’s shadow was attached to the sivak, Feril saw. The Kagonesti guessed Dhamon was curious about the dwarves; being the suspicious sort, he was probably also concerned that the dwarves might prove hostile to Ragh and was, therefore, staying close to the draconian in order to protect him, if need be.

“Obelia, help me find the scale again,” Feril whispered.

None of the dwarves noticed as she released the spirit from the flask and knelt over the pool, watching an image of the mountain come quickly into view, a sky-high view, as if she were a bird circling above. The ability to scry was coming easier to Feril, and she was quick to move the image around, focusing on different areas. She channeled the energy deeper into the pool, as if burrowing through the stone.

“There,” she said, seeing her goal after long minutes of searching. “The scale is there.”

“Buried deep, it is,” Obelia said. “Real deep, because of the quake, and it looks like it might be damaged, cracked maybe. It won’t do you any good if it’s broken. The magic in it won’t be strong enough, but it seems to be nearby, and if it isn’t too much bother, it might be worth some digging to take a look.”

Feril leaned closer, her eyes hopeful. “I don’t see any damage, Obelia. The crevice is so dark, we can’t see clearly enough to tell for sure. We are too close to give up on it. I told Dhamon I won’t give up.” After several more minutes of scrying, Feril was able to better pinpoint the location of the scale.

All of a sudden, realizing that the scale might be closer than she thought, she stood up, her heart beating fast. “Obelia. I might be able to get to the scale from here, coming up under it instead of burrowing down from the mountain top.”

“My elf-fish, I see what you mean. That indeed looks to be a possibility.” The spectral face seemed to share her excitement.

Then the ghost disappeared into the flask as Grannaluured looked in Feril’s direction. The Kagonesti returned the flask to her satchel, strapping the satchel on her back and heading toward the old wall. She glanced up at the slash in the stonework. There were footfalls behind her. Feldspar was approaching.

“I see what you’re thinking, but don’t dare go into our tunnel,” he said. He held up a small lantern and coaxed the flame in it. “It’ll be too dark soon.”

“Don’t fear. I’m not going to steal any of your ore.”

“Ain’t worried about that,” he returned. “Worried about you. Mountains trembled some today. Rocks comin’ down inside. Still ain’t safe, Dawnspringer.”

Feril didn’t correct him on her name. He was likely getting it wrong on purpose as a jab. It was just as Ragh said: some dwarves didn’t get along with elves, and this one seemed to regard her with some suspicion. The Kagonesti continued to gaze up at the tunnel entrance. It would be a steep climb.

“Scaling that wall isn’t how we get into our tunnels anyway,” Feldspar scoffed. “We’re not spiders, you know. There’s a path. Well, there was a path. Some of it’s still there. Used it to climb down, and it wasn’t easy going. It’s around and up the other side. Connects up with the main trail farther back. We’re going to have to clean it off some tomorrow.” He rubbed at a spot on the glass of the lantern. “I don’t see why you’re so darn interested.”

“I’m not interested in your ore at all,” Feril repeated. Then, before he could say anything or stop her, she had moved up to the wall and was wedging her fingers into cracks in the stonework, using the wall as a ladder. The mortar between the stones was old and she could force her fingers and toes into it. The pale, smooth granite— like some she’d seen on the Isle of Cristyne—made for good footing.

As she pressed against the wall, she heard something, and looking over her shoulder, she saw Feldspar, with the lantern handle in his teeth, climbing up behind her. Despite his thick fingers, he was climbing without much trouble. Feril opened her mouth to warn him away, but she decided arguing with a stubborn dwarf was pointless and so climbed the rest of the way up, silently followed by Feldspar.

There was a narrow stretch of dirt just outside the opening, and despite the failing light, Feril could see all the dwarves’ bootprints leading inside. The tracks led up a thin trail that looked like it hooked over the top of the hill. The trail might provide an easier way down—but she could make that decision afterwards.

Feldspar was only halfway up, still following her. Feril ducked inside. If she waited for him, he might try to dissuade her, and she didn’t want to argue with the dwarf. He would probably just follow her inside anyway.

The tunnel was dwarf-sized—short and only a few feet wide; it forked after several yards, one branch twisting up into the darkness and the other, newer branch angling to the north and sloping down. There was polished stonework on the northern wall, indicating the castle ruins had reached this high and deeper into the hill. The left wall was earthen and might have concealed more stonework. It could have been built centuries ago. At a glance, she could tell that this passage had been dug by picks and shovels; it wasn’t naturally formed, and the quake must have brought tons of dirt down from the ceiling. The scale, she thought, was higher up in the mountain, so Feril took the tunnel branch leading higher.

“Dawnspringer…”

“I appreciate the concern you are showing for a stranger,” she said, turning to spot Feldspar behind her in the entrance. He was holding his lantern up, revealing pieces of stonework along the bottom of the left-hand wall, including one brick engraved with strange runes. “I’m not worried that there will be more tremors. Everything seems to have settled down.” Her jaw was set.