David Chandler - A thief in the night

Before Croy could stop him, the barbarian whirled around and tossed his torch far out over the face of the abyss. It fell rapidly away from them, letting them see a little more as it fluttered past.

The pit was illuminated only for a moment, but in that time Croy made out several interesting details. The opening in the floor was at least two hundred feet across. It was perfectly circular, and it was crossed only by three massive chains like the one Malden was investigating. The chains met in the center of the pit, where they anchored an enormous round globe of crystal, thirty feet across.

Croy could not begin to guess what purpose that globe served. He was far too busy, anyway, following the brand with his eyes as it fell into the depths. He could see the pit went down for hundreds of feet, maybe even a thousand. It was perfectly cylindrical in shape, and its walls were everywhere streaked and encrusted with the fungal growths. It was not, however, totally uniform. Around its circumference countless openings showed-some small and square, like windows, others very broad like galleries. The pit must be like a vast tower turned inside out, so that its various floors were on the outside of its wall. Floors was the correct word, he thought-from where he stood, he could look down on dozens of levels of the dwarven city. Every one of those galleries might open on whole suites of rooms, broad halls, winding tunnels-even other shafts like this one.

For the first time Croy had an inkling of the vast size of the Vincularium. He had seen what the dwarves called cities in the North, and was disappointed by how cramped and narrow they were. He had always imagined the Vincularium would be the same: a small village’s worth of homes and workshops built into a series of enlarged mine shafts.

This city, though, might be as big as the Free City of Ness, if all of its houses and churches and palaces and shops and manufactories were stacked neatly on top of each other, then buried under a mountain. The entirety of Helstrow could have been dropped into that central shaft and not filled its volume.

“By Sadu’s burning arsehole,” Malden swore aloud. After the prolonged silence, Croy felt the words like rocks raining down on his shoulders. He tried to shush the thief, but the others ignored him.

“Indeed,” Cythera said. “Slag, did you have any idea it could be so big?”

Even the dwarf looked awestruck. “Fuck no.”

It seemed to take hours for the torch to fall through the shaft, though it must only have been a few dozen seconds. It landed on something wet, but it went out so quickly and so far away that it was impossible to tell what it had struck.

Then the shaft was dark again, and its secrets were hid once more.

“There used to be more of us,” Slag said, when the shock of the Vincularium’s size had worn off a bit. “More dwarves. There had to be.”

“How many more?” Croy asked. It seemed the rule of silence was utterly broken. “I would imagine the entire population of the dwarven kingdom could live here, and not feel crowded.”

Slag nodded. “Surely. There are maybe ten thousand of us left.” His lips moved quickly, as if he were doing some calculation in his mind. “This place could have held millions. And just look at the design! Hmm. Interesting. Central shaft for ventilation and access. Stratified construction, probably with reinforcing spars on each level-of course, you’d need more at the bottom, to hold the weight of the upper levels, but then what keeps the mountain up? This is some very complex engineering.” He shook his head. “We’ve lost so much. My people couldn’t build one of these now if life depended on it.”

“Slag,” Cythera said, “that giant crystal ball hanging in the middle of the shaft-what is its purpose? Mother has one but it’s only the size of a cabbage. She uses it to scry with. Is this something similar?”

“No fucking clue,” Slag said. “But no. I can vouch for the fact no dwarf ever peered into a crystal ball.” He strode away from the edge and took his piece of charcoal out of his purse again. For a while he just wandered around, looking for somewhere to draw more figures.

Poor dwarf, Croy thought. He’s looked on the glory of his ancestors and now he needs to draw more magic charms to protect himself against sheer awe.

“All right,” Morget said. “Enough gawking. Let’s make camp.”

Croy stared at the barbarian in pure surprise. “Here? Now? When we know there’s someone out there, willing to do us harm?”

“I’m tired. I’m sure the rest of you are exhausted. So yes, here. Unless you wish to trek back to the barricade,” Morget told him. “This is the most defensible spot we have. The-The upside-down graves over there,” he said, gesturing behind him.

“Mausoleums,” Croy said.

“The dead dwarves will screen one flank. Anyone trying to get through there will be slowed down, at the very least. On the other flank we have the pit.”

“Something might come climbing out of it,” Malden suggested.

“The mountain could fall on our heads at any time,” Morget pointed out in return. “I’ll stand watch while you rest, little thief. Anything that comes out of the pit,” he said, and brandished his axe, “will find me waiting.”

They placed their lanterns together in poor imitation of a campfire and sat around them in a circle. Croy was not surprised to see that Malden fell asleep almost at once, or that Cythera lay down with her head against the thief’s shoulder. He was glad they could take some comfort from each other’s presence, his betrothed and his best friend. Slag sat unquiet, however, passing his piece of charcoal from one hand to the other. As for himself, Croy was unable to rest-he was too aware, always, of the vast quantity of darkness surrounding him. He must have been born on a sunny day, he thought. This impenetrable gloom frayed his nerves and made him jumpy. He would be all too glad when the demon was slain and they could leave again.

Admit it, he told himself. You’re frightened.

Like most boys of Skrae, Croy had grown up believing knights were supposed to be fearless, that they charged into danger without a second thought. That illusion lasted until he fought in his first real battle. He’d vomited while he waited for the enemy to arrive, and tried to cover up his shame by burying his sick. Sir Orne, a fellow Ancient Blade, had laughed at him but then told him the secret of being fearless.

“It’s an act. A mask you wear, to help frighten your enemies. Just as they pretend to be unafraid to frighten you. But honestly we’re all ready to run away, every time, run until we find our mothers and can weep into their skirts.”

“But how do you conquer the fear?” Croy had asked.

“That’s one fight you can’t win. All you can ever hope for is to keep your mask from slipping at the wrong time,” Sir Orne had told him.

He’d never forgotten that lesson.

To pass the time, he spoke in low tones with Morget and the dwarf.

“What can you tell us of this place?” he asked Slag. “You seemed as surprised as any of us to see how big it is.”

“Aye, lad. There’s little enough to tell, as even the most learned dwarves think of the Vincularium as a piece of the past, perhaps better forgotten. It was a grand city in the days before men came to this land, but ye knew that already. I know it had a different name back then, which was Thur-Karas.”

“What does that name mean?” Morget inquired.

Slag shrugged. “ ‘Place of the Long Shadows’ is the best translation I can make. Which means as fucking little to me as it must to you.”

“It sounds baleful,” Morget said, looking grim.

“Names are often meaningless, or chosen for reasons we cannot fathom,” Croy said. “My own, for instance, means nothing of value.”