Dan Parkinson: The Swordsheath Scroll

Beyond was a shallow, dark niche, no more than a wind-scoured hole in the porous stone, but as he hurried into the opening, it seemed to extend ahead of him, becoming a narrow tunnel. A few yards into the stone, the tunnel widened, and there was faint light from a high crevice above. A person sat cross-legged on the floor there, staring into a shallow, dark stone vessel where cloudy liquid reflected the faint light. In the dimness, it was impossible to see more of the person than the outline of the loose-fitting garment that covered him from head to toe. He could have been human, or elf, or any of a dozen other races of Ansalon. It was obvious only-in the length of his back and his shrouded arms-that he was not a dwarf.

"You have seen and heard?" Calan asked the shadowy figure.

"I have been watching," the quiet answer came.

"Do you think he is the one, then? The Hylar, I mean? Is he the destined one?"

The bowl-watcher did not look up. "He is the one," the soft voice said. "Zephyr has observed him, as I asked. The Hylar has the soul of a leader. I believe he is Harl Thrust-weight's son."

"So is the time at hand, then?"

"He intends to wait for the inspection," the hooded figure murmured. "But if he does, the others will be ready to go with him… or to try."

"Will they mess things up?"

"They might, but the Hylar must act now. You must help him, old one."

"Should I tell him of the others?"

"Tell him what you must," the hooded one said. "Let him know of his situation. Then get him free of these mines. As we have discussed."

"Should I tell him his destiny, Despaxas?"

The hood moved then, and the shadowed face within its folds turned toward Calan. "No person really accepts another's words regarding destiny," the low voice said. "No, he must see it for himself as time passes. But let him understand about the other slaves, that they know of his plan, and that they may endanger him."

Calan looked away, thinking he had heard sounds in the tunnel. The dim light from beyond the tunnel seemed to flutter, as if shadows were dancing in it, and there was a faint, eerie sighing. His hackles rising, the old dwarf scurried aside as something appeared in the tunnel's mouth-something that could not be seen clearly. It was a large thing, but insubstantial. It neither walked nor flew, but seemed to undulate in the air, as though swimming. It came to rest at the entrance to the cavern, settled soundlessly, and shrank as it wrapped itself in wide, transparent flaps that were more like bat-fish fins than wings.

Calan had never gotten used to the "pet shadow" that Despaxas called Zephyr. The creature appeared to have no substance at all, only a random texture of shadows that fooled the eye. It was nearly invisible, and Calan had often suspected that if he were to touch it-which he never had — he would find that there was nothing there at all. Yet, at the same time, Zephyr emanated a sense of great strength, and Calan often had the impression of long, narrow, needle-sharp teeth beneath slitted, slanted eyes.

"I wish you'd leave that thing outside when we meet," the dwarf growled. "I have nightmares for a week every time it shows up." He shook his head, grimacing, and turned toward Despaxas. But there was no one there. He turned back, and found that he was alone. Both Despaxas and his weird creature had disappeared.

"Despaxas?" the dwarf whispered, then shuddered. Few dwarves ever became comfortable with the presence of magic, and the old Daewar was no exception. "Rust," he muttered, "I wish he'd quit doing that. I don't know which is worse, his pet shadow or his vanishings." ›

Back at the pit, old Calan paused for a moment in the ;shadows, in what was once again only a shallow hole | behind an outcrop, then slipped out and retrieved his slops pail. Filling his pail at the steaming caldron where sullen human slaves worked to make food from whatever scraps and leavings the guards allotted, he returned to the cells below the ore shafts and wandered among the slaves there, pausing here and there to ladle slops into bowls for those just returning from the pits. He saved the last bit of stew for the young Hylar squatting in his shadowy corner, and when he arrived there he set down his pail and made a pretense of filling the wooden bowl.

But he whispered as he lifted the ladle, "Are your shackles weakened, young Derkin? If you intend to escape, the time is now."

The Hylar glanced up, startled. "What?"

"Unless you make your escape now, tonight, many others will try to go with you. They know you intend to escape. They have decided to make you their leader and follow you. But a plan for one will fail for many."

"You speak in riddles, old one," Derkin growled. "What do you want of me?"

"I want to go with you when you leave here," the old dwarf whispered. "Just me, and no one else."

"Were I planning to leave here, I'd take no one with me."

"Oh, but you will, or never leave at all. You need me, Derkin. I can help you."

"Help me? What can you do for me?"

The old dwarf squatted beside him, tilting his pail as though to scrape out the last bit of contents. "I can help you escape. Have you seen what is beyond these pits? The defenses there? I expect you to try to slip up the ramp and escape, but you'll never make it that way."

"I don't need your help," the Hylar hissed.

"Stubborn." Calan smiled faintly. "Would you rather succeed in escaping from this place, with my help, or find yourself the leader of a failed mass escape by all the rest of these slaves? You will be followed, Derkin, whether you intend to be followed or not. There is little choice in such matters."

"Riddles," Derkin growled.

"I've heard it said that wisdom is in letting those help you who want to help you," the oldster said. "Accept friends, and they will serve you. Reject them, and they will use you."

Derkin glanced around, his eyes bright with sudden curiosity. "I've heard those words before. Who are you,

old one?"

"I'm just an old dwarf." Calan shrugged. "But you're right. The words are not mine. I heard your father use those words, many times. So did you, I warrant."

"You knew my father?"

"I knew him, and I know you. Will you hear what I have to say, Derkin Winterseed?"

"How do you know my name?" Derkin hissed.

"I know much more than that. Will you listen?"

"I'm listening," Derkin said grudgingly.

"Then believe what I say," the old dwarf urged. 'Tonight, when you are returned here, I will come to you. Be ready to leave then. I know the way past the pits."

"If you know a way out, why are you still here?"

"I've been waiting for you," the old slave said.

"Why? What do you want from me?"

"You ask too many questions for someone with no choice in the matter, Derkin Winterseed. Be ready tonight. I know a way out."

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.