The Night Voice

Chapter Six

Evening settled over the little port below Chemarré, “Sea-Side,” the western settlement of Dhredze Seatt, home of the dwarven people across the bay from Calm Seatt, Malourné.

Chane descended the whaling vessel’s ramp, carrying the chest for the orb of Water with Chap close behind him. Two sailors followed, one struggling with the chest for the orb of Fire and the other hauling the third empty chest and Chane’s two packs. All four made their way down the dock to the waterfront, where the sailors relinquished their loads and returned to the ship.

With no business at the seatt, the whaling captain had stopped only for his two passengers. Of the three other ships in port, two were stout dwarven vessels with names painted in Dwarvish, while the third was a three-masted, Numan merchant vessel called the Kestrel.

The small port below the sheer mountainside had not changed since the last time Chane had seen it. Other than a few small warehouses, the buildings were squat, sparse, and deeply weathered, and there was only one inn. The shoreline beyond could never be called a beach; even in calm wind, small waves pounded and sprayed the jagged rocks.

At the sound of snuffling, Chane looked down.

Chap raised his head, his eyes peering up—and up—the cliffs. From down here, close to the base of the peninsula’s peak, it was impossible to see much, especially at night.

“We will take a rolling lift up,” Chane said. “Then you will see the outer ... lesser part of Chemarré.”

Glancing down at the three chests, he felt at a loss. There was still a long journey to their final destination. While some called Dhredze Seatt kingdomlike or the “city” of the dwarves, each of its settlements with its many underlevels could easily rival any small to medium city throughout the Numan lands. Dhredze Seatt was the last known living place of the Rughìr’thai’âch or Rughìr, the “Earth-born” or the dwarves.

Chap stepped in, nosed one of the chests, and looked up as if to say, “How?”

Chane’s thoughts raced for how to carry all three chests where they were going ... to the mountain’s far side in Cheku’ûn, or “Sea-Side.” Even that would not be the last stop, and hiring bearers for every leg of the journey was not wise. Eventually someone would be curious about a man with this much luggage traveling alone with a dog.

Dropping to one knee, he faced Chap. “We have to hide the orbs here.”

At first, Chap did not react, and then he snarled and huffed twice for “no.”

Chane bit back a sharp retort and tried to explain himself. “After the lift, we must take a tram through the mountain, arriving in a station deep behind the largest market cavern in the whole seatt. Then we make our way outside and up to the temple of Bedzâ’kenge—‘Feather-Tongue’—in the Bay-Side settlement. That is where we seek Mallet, head shirvêsh of the temple, who knows me and is my contact with Ore-Locks in the underworld of stonewalkers.”

Chap had ceased snarling but still glowered at him.

“I cannot carry all of this myself, nor do I think we should hire help. The dwarves are a curious people. But there is a safe place here near the port. Only stonewalkers know of it besides Wynn and me ... and she would agree with me.”

Chap’s left jowl curled at that last comment.

“We can move more quickly this way,” Chane rushed on, “and have fewer concerns. When we again take to the sea, sailing south to Soráno, the chests will be close at hand aboard a ship, but we must hide them for now.”

Chap was silent and still for a long moment, then turned his head and tilted his nose toward Chane’s first pack. Chane retrieved the talking hide and rolled it out, and Chap began pawing it.

Where?

“I will show you. It is where Wynn, Shade, and I first breached the underworld.” At another rumble from Chap, he added, “It is not easy to find for those who do not know it exists. I swear the orbs will be safe.”

When Chap did not argue or respond, Chane slung both packs over his shoulders. He stacked the chests with the orbs of Fire and Water and attempted to heft them both. At first he struggled to even stand.

Together, they were almost too heavy even for him. Once standing, he could barely see over the top chest but thought he could at least get far enough down shore to be out of sight of the port.

“Leave the empty chest here. It will be easy enough to carry with us.”

Without waiting for agreement, Chane made his way through the port to the shoreline.

Salt water crashing on the rocks soon enough sprayed his boots and then his pants as he carefully worked his way north, blindly but carefully traversing the uneven rocks underfoot. He did not—could not—look back to see how Chap fared. Instead, he looked for the familiar landmark: a long rock backbone hiding an inlet below the mountain’s sheer side.

Finally, he spotted it.

Setting down the chests, he slipped and dropped hard on one knee. After a moment to clench away the pain, he pivoted to see a not quite thoroughly soaked majay-hì.

“Wait here with the orbs,” he said.

At best, Chap might have sighed, though the surf’s noise drowned this out.

Chane needed to make certain the tunnel was still there. For all he knew, the stonewalkers might have sealed it after it had been breached by an undead, a precocious sage, and a black majay-hì. After climbing up the rock backbone and down its other side, he reached into his pocket for the cold-lamp crystal Wynn had given him. When he rubbed it against his cloak, the friction ignited its soft glow, illuminating the inlet’s overhang but not the dark space beyond it.

He worked his way along the cliff wall and under the overhang. Nothing he did now could be seen from the shore. Soon, he found the round opening at the back of the overhang, no more than a shadow in the rock until he stepped directly in front of it. He had to duck to step inside.

The curved floor inside was smoother than the inlet’s bottom, for the tunnel was fully round like a great stone pipe piercing the mountain’s base. It had been excavated long ago, and algae and remains of other dried growths spread halfway up its curved sides.

He could stand upright, though his head brushed the tunnel’s top, and the path widened farther in until he could touch either side with outstretched hands. The gradual incline increased imperceptibly, until he no longer walked in shallow water, and then he saw a grate—or rather a gate.

Vertical bars filled the tunnel from top to bottom, their frame mounted in the circumference by massive rivets. The last time he came here, he had bent several bars to gain access; now those were straightened with no sign they had ever been otherwise. Regardless of safeguards restored, all that mattered was that the tunnel’s mouth had not been sealed and the chests could be placed high enough to remain above the high tide.

Chane returned to the shore and found Chap still waiting ... and still glowering.

“It is as I remembered, except for some repairs,” Chane said. “We can store the orbs within the tunnel, out of sight, as no one comes here.”

Though he sounded confident, something else troubled him. The tunnel had originally served as a passage to the locked chamber of a half-mad prince, both protected and imprisoned by the stonewalkers.

Now though, the stonewalkers had no reason to come out to the tunnel’s mouth. Chane pushed these concerns from his thoughts.

“Wait a little longer, and I will show you,” he said to Chap.

Holding the cold crystal in his teeth, he hefted the chest with the orb of Fire and returned to the tunnel’s first gate. There he placed the chest and hurried back to Chap for the chest containing the orb of Water.

“Come,” he said.

Chap followed, and by the time they reached the gate, the dog was fully soaked. He approached the bars, cocking his head in sniffing, and even bit on one, as if to test it. Then he peered between the bars up the tunnel.

As Chane set down the second chest, he found Chap watching him and rumbling softly—clearly not liking this arrangement.

“If you have thought of something better,” Chane replied, “then say so.”

He already knew the answer.

Chap huffed twice for “no.”

“You could stay here and guard them yourself ... while I go on alone.”

Chap only growled.

Chane turned back to leave the tunnel. He had taken only three steps when he heard the matching click of Chap’s clawed strides.

Chap followed Chane back down the rocky shore to the port. His instincts tried to pull him around to go back after the orbs, not that he could have without Chane. And he was not letting that undead go after the third without him.

It took little time to reach the port now that Chane was unburdened. The vampire stopped long enough to retrieve the third chest and then continued through the port to the far end. He turned a corner inland, and as Chap followed, Chane was already climbing a ramp up to a gate.

As Chap approached, a wild-haired dwarf in a knee-length, black-furred vest strutted out of a nearby booth. In truth, Chap had little experience with dwarves. Contrary to tales on the eastern continent, they were not diminutive. Though shorter than humans, they look almost twice as wide. This full, black-bearded one’s head reached the middle of Chane’s chest.

He appeared undaunted by the tall, pale human before him and grunted in Numanese, “How far?”

“To the top,” Chane answered.

Confused, Chap looked upward, for he saw no other choices in the dark. He did not like facing the unknown in any dealings with Chane, who seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

The vampire set down the chest, pulled out a faded pouch, and opened it. He removed two large, thick rounds of iron with holes in the center. There might have been some form of engraving or stamp on them, but Chane dropped the pieces into the attendant’s broad hand.

The attendant’s bushy eyebrows lifted. He quickly stowed the coins in a pocket Chap hadn’t seen in the thickly furred vest and then stepped rather lively to the “lift” gate and pulled it open. Chane picked up the empty chest again, balancing it on his left shoulder in order to keep his right hand free.

“Nonstop to the top, sir,” the dwarf said with a quick bow of his head.

Chap’s ears pricked. He did not see how bits of iron warranted such a change of demeanor, let alone bypassing any supposed stops on the way up.

“Thank you,” Chane replied, stepping to the lift’s gate, turning around, and waiting as he eyed Chap without emotion.

Chap’s irritation got the better of him again. No, he would never admit openly that Chane was ... useful. He stepped up under the gaze of the attendant and onto a thick wooden platform framed by huge wheels. And as soon as he was on the floor’s thick timbers, he heard the gate shut ...

“Brace yourself,” Chane rasped as he grabbed hold of the rear railing with his free hand.

The lift lurched upward, and Chap quickly spread all fours. He did not wonder how the attendant had signaled whatever machinery above raised the lift. He wanted to snarl at Chane for not warning him better as the lift gained speed—and more speed—and crags and gashes of the mountain rushed by.

After that, all that Chap could do, besides brace himself, was try to swallow his stomach back down ... again and again. He wanted to close his eyes but dared not as he needed to see what was happening around him. A loud racket rose louder and louder under the platform from the immense wheels on the lift’s two sides.

He barely noticed any of the small settlements bypassed along the way. The vibrations alone threatened to empty his stomach and ... and something else he had not lost control of since he was a puppy.

“Not far now,” Chane rasped.

The last thing Chap wanted was assurances from that thing.

The lift finally approached the top and began to slow, but at the roll over the lip of the mountain shelf, the lift suddenly rocked.

Chap lost control.

When the tram finally stopped, Chane was staring at him. The undead cleared his throat uncomfortably while looking away and then hurried to open the front gate himself as a rotund attendant arrived.

Chap just stood there, shaking in sickness ... and shame.

He shook off each back foot with every step as he left a puddle behind.

The rotund and somewhat grimy lift master snarled at him, “You filthy mongrel.”

Chap hung his head and hunched his shoulders. He wobbled down the ramp, still trying to shake off his rear paws, and did not look back toward what the lift master would have to clean up.

Chane stood ahead on the immense landing of Chemarré, looking the other way toward a large opening into the mountain. All around them, the roads appeared to flow in steep runs between sharp turns. All ways were bordered by various buildings of stone built with thin-line fitted blocks or carved from the mountain’s native rock.

Chap hesitantly looked around the landing and spotted the lift’s crank house and a huge enclosed turnstile driven by mules. He did not see how the lift had achieved such speed, and he looked again to the enormous open arch in the mountainside.

Orange-yellow light glowed from within.

“We’re at Chemarré’s way station,” Chane said, heading for the arch.

Feeling even more at a loss, Chap followed. The entryway was not as large as he had first thought, but it was still immense. Ahead was a vast tunnel with central stone columns so big that two, or even three, people could have hidden behind one. On the right was another opening to another space.

There were numerous people about, heading this way or that. Most were dwarves in various attire, some in armor and a few with huge dogs that sniffed in his direction. There were some humans among them, and most of these were dressed as prosperous merchants, vessel captains, or other traders a little more wild and rough looking.

Chane headed for the central tunnel and into that other side archway. As Chap followed, he stopped at what filled his sight.

Two tunnels, each the width of three roads, ran directly into the mountain. Triple sets of twined steel-lined ruts in the granite floor ran into each of these.

At the near ends of the ruts stood platforms of stout wood planks and timbers, like the docks of a harbor. One platform was crowded with dwarves and humans jostling to board and find seats in a string of open-sided cars. A half-empty string of the same stretched out beside the other platform.

“Trams,” Chane said quietly, “to get through the whole mountain to the other two settlements.”

Those trams of connected cars, constructed of solid wood painted in tawny and jade tones, rode on steel and iron undercarriages. Their wheels were shod with steel. Rows of benches faced ahead inside each car, separated by a narrow walkway down the center. Passengers were protected on the outside by waist-high rail walls. Each car was roofed, but only their fronts contained a full wall and a door, probably to break rushing winds once the tram gained speed.

The very thought made Chap grow queasy again.

“Apparently, majay-hì have difficulty with dwarven travel,” Chane said. “Though not quite father like daughter.”

This time, Chap did snarl.

A wide, bearded dwarf in a plain leather hauberk stepped to the nearer platform’s edge and cupped his mouth with large, sinewy hands.

“Maksag Chekiuní-da!” he boomed, and then, in Numanese, “Leaving for Point-Side!”

After this, he trundled along the platform, shooing lingering passengers into the cars.

“Not ours,” Chane commented.

No sooner had the last passenger settled than a cloud of steam billowed around the tram’s lead car, making it impossible to see clearly. Chap barely made out its front, which seemed to end in a point.

The steam lit up with a bright glow from within. Its front point burned like one of the massive pylon crystals along the main tunnel. Whatever crystal rode on the tram engine’s front had to be so much larger. And its light pulsed in a slow rhythm.

A sharp explosion of steam belched from the lead car’s undercarriage, and the glow brightened to a steady, hot yellow.

The tram’s whole chain of cars inched forward with a metallic scrape of wheels along the ruts. In moments, it picked up the speed of a trotting horse. As it bore into the tunnel, the sharp glow in the lead lit the way, and Chap heard its wheels’ rhythm building steadily. Within a few breaths, it vanished from sight.

Chane stood watching after it as well.

“Crystal power ... some kind of arcane engine,” he whispered, and then pointed to the other platform. “That will be ours.”

Chane stepped ahead, but Chap lingered. This was going to be worse than the lift up the mountainside. Reluctantly, he followed.

Another stationmaster, a female, walked the platform and herded passengers into the cars. The Cheku’ûn, “Bay-Side,” tram filled quickly.

“Here,” Chane said, entering a car and dropping onto the nearest empty bench.

Chap crept in, resisting the urge to growl at other passengers. The female dwarf—still directing people—glanced at him.

“How long to Cheku’ûn?” Chane asked her.

“No stops on this run,” she answered in a deep voice, “so by Night-Summer’s end.”

She went off to the next car in the line, and Chap was left wondering what that time frame meant. He glanced up at Chane.

“The trip will take about a quarter night,” Chane explained.

Chap grew even sicker. He had hoped to finish their task here and be gone with the third orb by dawn. That was not going to happen, and he sank onto the tram’s floor as Chane piled his packs and the chest on the empty side of his bench.

The car lurched, and Chap could not hold back a whimper.

Chane would never admit it, but by the journey’s end, he felt sorry for Chap. As the tram pulled into Cheku’ûn station, Chap was still flattened upon the floor with drool dripping from his jowls. Shade had also grown ill to the point of vomiting during her first tram ride.

However, she had never urinated all over a lift.

“It will pass soon,” Chane said shortly, slinging both his packs and then balancing the chest again. “Your daughter suffered worse on these vehicles, but she never left Wynn’s side.”

Chap looked up in a mix of wariness and puzzlement.

Chane could not suppress another flash of pity for the majay-hì, but without further comment, he rose and followed other passengers off the tram into another way-station cavern. When he glanced back, Chap was trying to wobble around the thick legs of dwarves hurriedly disembarking. Chane waited.

Once Chap stumbled down the platform’s ramp, Chane led the way through an arch in the right stone wall, down several crowded passages, and out into the almost impossibly enormous market cavern of the Cheku’ûn. When he paused to check on his companion, Chap’s ears flattened as he stared all around the place.

A thinned forest of sculpted columns the size of small keep towers rose to the high domed roof of this smoothly chiseled cavern. Even at night, the chaos of vendors, hawkers, peddlers, and travelers echoed as the dome caught all noise and rained it down on everyone.

All forms of goods were being carted to and from and traded at stalls and makeshift tents. Dwarves and humans of varied shapes and sizes, and perhaps a Lhoin’na quickly lost in the crowd, bartered for everything from meat pies and tea to small casks of ale and sacks of honey-coated nuts.

In the avenues between columns, large glowing crystals steamed atop stone pylons. Smoke from portable braziers and steam escaping around crystals filled the great cavern with a hazy orange-yellow glow. Directly across the vast place was another opening so tall one could see it clearly over the crowd.

“There,” Chane said, lifting his chin. “Let us leave this chaos.”

He stepped off to break through the crowd with an occasional glance back to see that Chap followed. He towered over nearly everyone, even the human merchants and travelers, and more than a few people glanced their way as they passed. Chane ignored them and strode straight for the archway. Once outside in the cool night air, he heard Chap take a deep breath and release it.

Here, they had a full view of the stone city built on a mountainside. The main road snaked tightly upward between buildings of stone and scant timber. Moonlight barely revealed slate, tile, stone, and a few shakes or plank roofs. Only short and steep side streets aimed directly upward, and most were built of wide stone steps and multiple landings. All of it was behemoth-like—rather like the dwarves themselves.

Dwellings and inns, smithies and tanneries, and other shops spread out, around and above them in a muddled maze.

“It can be daunting at first,” Chane said. “I remember my first time.”

As soon as the words escaped his mouth, he would have flushed with embarrassment if he had had warm, pumping blood to do so.

Why should he care if the majay-hì was daunted?

Chane strode up the street’s gradual slant, deeper and higher into Bay-Side and to one of the few places where he was known and welcomed. That in itself was strange for him.

He was rarely welcomed anywhere but the temple of Bedzâ’kenge—“Feather-Tongue.”

Dwarves practiced a unique form of ancestor worship. They revered those of their own who attained notable status in life, akin to a human hero or saint or rather both. Any who became known for virtuous accomplishments, by feat and/or service to the people, might one day become a thänæ—one of the honored. Though similar to human knighthood or noble entitlement, it was not a position of rulership or authority. After death, a thänæ who had achieved renown among the people through continued retelling of their exploits over decades or centuries, might one day be elevated to Bäynæ—one of the dwarven Eternals.

These were dwarves’ spiritual immortals, the honored ancestors of their people as a whole.

Feather-Tongue, their paragon of orators and historians, was the patron of wisdom and heritage through story, song, and poem. From what Chane understood, for as long as any history remembered, the dwarves kept to oral tradition rather than the literary ways of humankind. In that, at least he saw Feather-Tongue as the paragon of paragons.

Chane paused briefly at an intersection. Looking up a stone staircase, he spotted a tan banner hanging above a wide oak door. The banner depicted a map, and the shop was a landmark he remembered.

“Nearly there,” he said.

They climbed past the mapmaker’s shop and several others, all the way to the main street’s next switchback. At the next intersecting stairway, Chane turned upward again but stopped halfway to let Chap catch his breath on a landing with a sculpted miniature fir tree in a large black marble urn. He pressed on to the next switchback of the main street.

Across the way was a familiar structure emerging from the mountainside.

Its white marble double doors were set back beneath a high overhang supported by columns carved like living trees. He peered up the steps rising to the temple, where its frontage emerged from the mountainside and twin granite columns carved like large tree trunks framed the landing’s front end. Even so, the structure hardly seemed large enough to house its shirvêsh, but he knew this to be an illusion.

A heavy oblong arc of polished brass hung between the front columns like a gateway. Suspended from the roof’s front by intricate harnesses of leather, its open ends dangled a shin’s length above the landing’s floor. Its metal was formed from a hollowed tube and not a solid bar.

Chane stepped up to it, grasped a short brass rod from a bracket on the left column, and struck it against the great brass arc. Though he knew what to expect, his whole body clenched as a baritone clang assaulted his ears. He rang twice more as Chap flinched beside him. As the third tone faded, one of the doors began to open.

A solid, white-haired dwarf leaned out and peered at the duo upon the landing, his face rather flat and wrinkled like a half-dried white grape. Wavy hair flowed down and broke over his wide shoulders, becoming one with his thick beard in front, though no mustache sprouted below his broad nose. He was dressed in brown breeches and typical heavy dwarven boots, and his muslin shirt was overlaid with a hip-long felt vestment of fiery burnt-orange.

Recognition dawned in the old one’s widening eyes. “Chane Andraso?”

Chane bowed his head slightly. “Forgive me, Shirvêsh Mallet. I know it is late, but may we enter?”

“We?” Mallet muttered, glancing at Chap before ushering them both inside. “Where are Journeyor Hygeorht and her charcoal companion?”

Chane did not know how to answer; the truth would take too long if he dared speak of it at all.

“She is well but overly occupied,” he answered, hoping it was true as he entered with Chap. “She has sent me here in her place for something important.”

Glancing down, he found Chap studying the entryway’s mosaic floor. Colored thumbnail tiles created the image of a stout, dark-haired, and bearded dwarf bearing a tall, char-gray or black staff. He wore a burnt-orange vestment like the elder shirvêsh and appeared to step straight out of the floor from the open road leading away from a hazy violet mountain range. This was Feather-Tongue.

When Chane looked up, he found Shirvêsh Mallet studying him.

“And why did the young miss send you?” the dwarf asked.

Time was short, and Chane took the straightforward approach. “I need to speak with Ore-Locks. Would you please send for him?”

From anyone else, this would have been a shocking request, but Ore-Locks himself had made this arrangement.

Shirvêsh Mallet blinked twice, frowned, and sighed. “Come to the meal hall. At this time, it is the most private place in the temple.”

Chap grew anxious over lost time after Shirvêsh Mallet finally left them alone in the meal hall. It was nearing the mid of night, and Chap wasn’t certain what to expect next. As Chane dropped his packs, Chap went over and pawed at the one containing the talking hide. Chane knelt to dig and roll it out. Chap began pawing words and letters, but his questions took a while even with the skipping of unnecessary words.

If stonewalkers in underworld, how long till O comes?

“A little while,” Chane answered. “I do not know how contact is made, but Ore-Locks will hurry in, knowing I am waiting. He has several ... ways to do so.”

Chap pawed again.

Ways?

Chane shook his head. “It is easier to wait and see.”

Growling, Chap was about to argue and changed his mind. Since he had learned to use memory-words to speak to Magiere, Leesil, and some others, the talking hide now felt slow and clumsy.

Chane rolled up the hide and put it away, and they waited in silence.

Chap had no way to gauge the creep of time. It seemed quite long before he heard heavy booted footsteps echoing in from the outer passage. He barely got up, watching the way in, when three dwarves entered.

The first was Shirvêsh Mallet.

The second was a dour stranger. Though his head would only reach Chane’s shoulder, he was nearly twice as wide and three times Chane’s bulk.

Wild, dark-streaked locks hung to his shoulders, framing the hard line of his mouth within steely bristles of a beard. Over his char-gray breeches and wool shirt, he wore a short-sleeved hauberk of black leather scales, each scale’s tip sheathed in ornately engraved and polished steel. Two war daggers in like-adorned black sheaths were tucked slantwise in his thick belt.

Then the third dwarf stepped into plain sight.

Chap had briefly met Ore-Locks Iron-Braid in Calm Seatt before everyone had split up in search of the last two orbs. The stonewalker wore his long red hair tied with a leather thong into a tail hanging over his collar. Unlike most male dwarves, he was clean-shaven. Though he appeared much younger than the dark juggernaut, he too wore the black-scaled armor and two daggers of his caste.

“I will leave you now,” Shirvêsh Mallet said politely. “I can see you have much to discuss.” With that, he left.

Chane turned to the elder dwarf in visible surprise and perhaps some anger. “Master Cinder-Shard, I did not send for you.”

“No,” the dwarf answered. “And yet I am here.”

Chap was instantly on guard. He’d expected some resistance from Ore-Locks about turning over the orb, but the presence of this other man was completely unexpected.

Chane tensed all over, and then Ore-Locks stepped around Master Cinder-Shard to approach.

“It is good to see you,” he said, “though I know you would not have come nor called for me without a serious reason.”

Chane’s tension eased slightly. By shared trials and battles, the young stonewalker had become something close to a friend. And Chane did not have many friends.

“It is good to see you as well,” he answered, “and I—”

“Enough niceties!” Cinder-Shard barked. “Why has a ... Why have you returned here, and how does one of your kind hold influence with a head shirvêsh?”

His gaze flicked toward Chap, and his eyes widened a little.

Chane followed his gaze. Did Cinder-Shard recognize a majay-hì?

That stood to reason, considering the master stonewalker was friends with Chuillyon, the white-robed sage of the Lhoin’na ... and a notorious liar.

Cinder-Shard’s focus shifted to Ore-Locks. “I hope you had nothing to do with this.”

Ore-Locks hesitated and then straightened. “Yes, I did.”

Cinder-Shard’s face tinged red.

Chane saw no way to be diplomatic. “I need the orb of Earth,” he said bluntly. “And there is good reason.”

At this, Cinder-Shard’s reddish tinge went gray, and even Ore-Locks was silenced in wary shock.

Chane had not expected to deal with the master of the stonewalkers, and he felt somewhat blindsided. He had to regain control quickly and raised a hand to forestall outrage or arguments.

“I will not explain here,” he said, and nodded to Chap. “This majay-hì and I traveled a great distance, and we fear minions of the Enemy could have followed. We need a place they cannot go ... or hear ... before anything more is said.”

Expressing such concerns was risky, and it might simply cause Cinder-Shard to retreat beyond reach and order Ore-Locks to follow. The last time Chane had been here, he, Wynn, and Shade had been followed by the wraith, Sau’ilahk.

In hunting them and an orb, Sau’ilahk had infiltrated the underworld.

Although this was not Chane, Wynn, or Shade’s fault, their own actions had led to the havoc and loss caused by the wraith. In the aftermath, further safeguards had been implemented below. The underworld of the dwarves’ most honored dead was still the most secure place in the seatt. It had to be.

Cinder-Shard’s expression was flat. He shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, and then his left shifted back a few inches and planted. His large right hand rose to settle around the hilt of a battle dagger.

“You ... among the honored dead ... again?” he said. “Your kind ... with an anchor of creation?”

Chane almost reached for his own sword, anticipating an attack. And if possible, he chilled slightly at this particular opponent.

“Master,” Ore-Locks said, turning quickly. “No matter what else he may be, he is no liar. And he was there to help in retrieving the orb.”

Still, Cinder-Shard fixed only on Chane.

“And in the end, the orb is still my charge,” Ore-Locks added.

At that, Cinder-Shard’s gaze shifted to the youngest stonewalker.

“I know all of us, with you, are jointly responsible for the orb,” Ore-Locks went on, “but I am its inheritor, so named by its all-eater guardians.”

Chane remained watchful but remembered what had happened. In Bäalâle Seatt, the forgotten resting place of this orb, there had been all-eaters—dragons.

They had guarded the orb through generations since the seatt’s fall at the end the Great War. One of Ore-Locks’s ancestors, and brother of Feather-Tongue now among the Bäynæ, had been the one to collapse the seatt with the aid of those dragons’ ancestor. That act had blocked the Enemy’s forces from using Bäalâle as a way to easily flood into the north.

The few who escaped the cataclysm, including Feather-Tongue, did not know this truth.

They knew only that one of their own—assumed a “fallen” stonewalker—had seemingly aided the Enemy.

Feather-Tongue’s brother, Byûnduní, “Deep-Root,” was forgotten. In his place, only the false legend of Thallûhearag, the “Lord of Slaughter,” was remembered by the dwarves. And Deep-Root was now among the Lhärgnæ, or “Fallen Ones,” who were the malevolent counterpart to the dwarves’ Bäynæ.

Ore-Locks and his family were the descendants of both brothers.

Chane grew uncomfortable as well as fearful. Though the connection of Ore-Locks’s family to Thallûhearag was known by very few, they had still lived for generations in a poor state devoid of honor among their people. The orb of Earth was perhaps the only, smallest evidence of the truth for one day to come ... which Chane now needed to take away.

Ore-Locks spoke quietly. “Master, I vouch for Chane Andraso’s word and honor. Please hear him out.”

Cinder-Shard did not answer at first. His dark eyes lowered to rest for a moment on Chap. Then he spun, headed for the exit, and barked only one word.

“Follow!”

Chap felt swept along on a journey that he did not fully understand. Through Wynn, he did know some of the story of finding the orb of Earth. It appeared that the aftermath was more complicated. And it wasn’t until after a short but harrowing lift ride ended with a swift walk through the peak’s top settlement that his puzzlement became irritation.

Why were they going up in order to go down into some “underworld”?

The four of them finally entered an empty but immense open-air theater, and Cinder-Shard had not said a word along the way.

The elder stonewalker turned at the first side passage.

They made their way down corridors behind the theater’s stage, turning at intersections, descending ramps and stairs, and twisting and winding so much that Chap worried he would never find his way out. They finally rounded a corner that aimed straight at a deep archway blocked by tall iron doors ... without handles.

Chap saw no other opening along the corridor to where it ended in a left turn.

He peered around one side of Ore-Locks, studying the iron doors. He did not see even a keyhole or empty brackets for a bar. How would the stonewalkers open these?

Master Cinder-Shard barely paused and then walked through the stone wall beside the arch.

Chap hunched and retreated with a snarl. Chane did not react at all, but Chap was once again becoming fed up with surprises.

“Wait a moment,” Chane said without even looking down.

Standing frozen and lost—and angry again—Chap heard grinding from somewhere. The iron doors split along their center seam, and they were thicker than any Chap had encountered. In sliding away into the walls of the arch, they revealed a second set, which also split and slid, and then a third set.

It was a bit much for even Chap’s paranoia, and as the last set separated ...

Master Cinder-Shard stood on the other side, no less dour than before.

The aging master had passed through the wall and somehow opened the doors from the other side. It appeared “stonewalker” had a very literal meaning, and Chane must have already known by his apparent disinterest in the sight. Wynn might have been considerate enough to mention this.

Upon entering the next room, Chap wondered how the triple doors were controlled from within. All he noticed was a three-by-four grid of what appeared to be square iron rods on a ledge. Behind this were small round and possibly metal vertical struts inside an opening in the inner wall.

Master Cinder-Shard strode toward the chamber’s center, leaving no chance for further inquiry. And any such questions vanished from Chap’s thoughts.

Embedded in the chamber floor’s center was a perfectly round mirror big enough to hold a wagon. But that mirror was made of metal ... white metal, rather than glass. How did the stonewalkers, let alone any dwarves, know and use the white metal of the Chein’âs, who made Anmaglâhk weapons and tools?

More and more questions mounted, with no chance to seek answers to any of them.

There was another hair-thin seam dividing that great disk in the floor. No bars, locks, latches, or handles of any kind could be seen.

Chap almost invaded Cinder-Shard’s thoughts and memories to learn more. He held back for fear of disrupting the elder stonewalker’s reluctant agreement so far. But he would certainly question Chane at length later.

“Ore-Locks ... ring!” Cinder-Shard barked.

Chap’s ears pricked up, but before he could wonder, Ore-Locks crossed the chamber to grip a rope and unwind it from an iron tie-mount on the wall. He heaved on it with all his weight, and the chamber resonated with one deep tone, as from a bell.

Ore-Locks released the rope, and a now-familiar grinding grew in the chamber.

Chap crept to the white metal portal’s edge. His ears flattened, and he backed away as the floor portal’s center hairline split. Its halves slid smoothly away beneath the chamber’s floor, and then a stone platform rose to fill the opening. It stopped at floor level.

Cinder-Shard, Ore-Locks, and Chane stepped onto the platform. Chap watched them and gave a low growl.

“Chap,” Chane said.

Still growling, Chap inched forward—he was sick of these dwarven contraptions—literally sick. Touching the platform with his paw, he tested it and then stepped on it.

He clenched all over, waiting for the inevitable. Two breaths later, the platform began to drop, slowly at first and then picking up enough speed. He could feel his fur lightly rustled by rushing air.

He felt as if he were falling down the perfectly round shaft, and he could not help closing his eyes. That did not help his stomach, and the sense of falling went on and on.

A sudden lurch almost made him vomit. Fortunately, he had not eaten yet. The platform began to slow—and slow—until he cracked one eye open. He quickly shut it again on seeing the shaft’s stone wall passing upward. And the sudden thump of hitting bottom was worse.

He heard two heavy steps of boots and still could not open his eyes. He would have faced feral vampires in a bloodbath rather than another night like this one.

“Chap?” Chane rasped.

When Chap finally opened his eyes, Ore-Locks had paused in a stone passage ahead to look back. Cinder-Shard strode onward, and Chane still stood waiting on the lift.

Chap wobbled out into the passage and heard Chane follow as Ore-Locks headed onward. Worse, from what Chap saw, they would have to take that lift out again soon. Much of the night had to be gone by now.

Down the way, the passage split in three directions. Ahead, it appeared to lead into a cavern with a low ceiling. Phosphorescence flooded out of there, providing some light, and they must be deep below the mountain for that to occur. In spite of his sickness, Chap’s curiosity was piqued.

Cinder-Shard stopped short of the cavern opening ahead.

Peering toward the greenish phosphorescent glow, Chap tried to see into that cavern. He made out stalactites and stalagmites joined together in concave, lumpy columns. However, Cinder-Shard stepped in front of him like a wall and looked beyond him. Chap glanced back along the dark one’s gaze at Chane.

“This is as far as you go,” Cinder-Shard warned. “Now ... why are you after the anchor of Earth?”

It puzzled Chap that the master of stonewalkers knew and used the term “anchor” rather than “orb.”

After a pause, Chane began to explain their reasons for coming. He spoke of retrieving the orb of Spirit, how he learned that Water and Fire had been hidden in the northern wastes, and then traveled to the Suman Empire for the recovery of Air. He told them of rumors of the Ancient Enemy’s servants gathering in the great desert’s east. And finally, he warned that this last could be a forewarning of the Ancient Enemy’s reawakening.

The orbs were needed as the only possible protection for the world—the only weapon against their creator.

Chane did not mention that he and Chap had already recovered Water and Fire from the wastes.

Master Cinder-Shard listened in silence.

“The orb of Earth is now needed,” Chane finished. “Without it to complete the five, there is no potential weapon to use against the Enemy.”

There was one other detail that Chane had not mentioned.

None of them actually knew how to use the orbs as yet.

When Chap looked up, Ore-Locks was watching his master’s face intently, but Cinder-Shard still had not spoken.

Ore-Locks became visibly anxious. “Master, I—”

“I will guard the anchor on this journey,” Cinder-Shard cut in. “You will remain here.”

“No,” Ore-Locks answered, and this one word echoed off the stone walls.

Cinder-Shard turned his coal black eyes on his subordinate. “You have wandered enough for a lifetime.”

“I will be the one to go,” Ore-Locks insisted.

Cinder-Shard’s expression shifted to fury. “It is enough that you left to follow the misbegotten little human sage who brought that thing”—he pointed to Chane—“out into the realm. This is too important ... too dangerous ... for your recklessness.”

Ore-Locks stalled. Perhaps he had never argued with his superior before, though he had gone behind the elders’ backs in some things, Chap knew.

“I was entrusted with the orb at Bäalâle Seatt.” The young stonewalker’s voice carried an edge. “I am its sole keeper, its inheritor, and without Chane, that might not have happened. Do not think you can usurp me in this, in disregard of the all-eaters ... Master.”

Chap had not even considered the possibility of a stonewalker accompanying them, and he did not care for the idea now.

Cinder-Shard appeared about to retort when Chane interrupted.

“Ore-Locks speaks the truth, and as much as I respect you, Master Cinder-Shard, this is ultimately his decision, and I will follow his wishes.”

“I will not be countered!” Cinder-Shard barked. “Not by something like you.”

Chap sensed a crisis building. What if Cinder-Shard refused to release the orb? Could Ore-Locks get to it himself? Or was it hidden where only Cinder-Shard knew?

There could be no chance of losing it now, and Chap locked his eyes on the dark, grizzled dwarf. He was uncertain if memory-words would even work with a stonewalker, but he had to try. Cinder-Shard’s contention with Ore-Locks had already evoked conscious memories of past arguments.

—Give the anchor ... to Ore-Locks ... and ... send him ... with us—

The master stonewalker jerked out one blade in a back step, but he eyed Chane. Chap heard Chane draw a blade as well. Ore-Locks immediately stepped between them, blocking Chap’s sight line to the elder stonewalker.

“Enough!” Ore-Locks shouted, unaware of the cause. “Both of you, put your blades away. Chane ... now!”

Chap glanced back once with a snarl and a huff for “yes.”

Chane glanced down once, eyes narrowing in suspicion—then widening in realization. He slipped his shorter blade back into its sheath.

Chap pushed around Ore-Locks’s legs before the young stonewalker realized. He focused on Cinder-Shard with another snarl and clack of teeth.

—Look ... down ... not ... to Chane—

Cinder-Shard did so, and his brow furrowed with confusion.

—I am majay-hì ... and ... more— ... —I ... protect ... the anchors—

He paused to let the realization sink in as to who actually spoke.

Cinder-Shard’s confusion melted into visible shock.

—Give ... the anchor of Earth ... to Chane ... and send Ore-Locks ... with us—

Cinder-Shard still stood his ground with blade in hand, and his scowl returned. He slowly looked from Chap to Chane. Shock plus doubt returned when he met Chap’s eyes once more.

“You travel with him?” He pointed the dagger toward Chane. “Knowing what he is?”

—He is ... useful ... and ... another guardian ... for ... the anchors—

Cinder-Shard’s frown deepened again. He finally looked up and waved Ore-Locks out of his way. With hesitation, he slipped the broad-based dagger back into its sheath.

“This majay-hì somehow speaks in thoughts, in voices, from my past,” he said directly to Chane, though Chane said nothing. “He expects me to do as suggested, and he claims that he protects the anchors ... as in more than one.”

Yes, Chap had made that slip in desperation and anger, and he still saw it as necessary. Both sides here needed a show of trust to end this conflict, and he had chosen to be the first. How could stonewalkers trust them—trust him—if he did not trust in them?

Chap huffed once at Chane to confirm Cinder-Shard’s words.

With a slow nod, Chane turned to Ore-Locks. “We have already traveled to the wastes and recovered the orbs of Water and Fire. We have hidden them nearby and will carry them south ... with yours.”

“Here?” Cinder-Shard demanded, as if nearing patience’s end. “Where?”

“At the mouth of the old tunnel that once led to the prince’s cell.”

Cinder-Shard’s gaze wandered in an expression of open panic.

“You must let me do this, Master,” Ore-Locks said.

Long moments of silence followed.

“How will you travel?” Cinder-Shard finally demanded of Chane.

“First by sea, though we have yet to find outbound passage,” Chane answered cautiously. “We only need to go as far as Soráno, and then by land.”

The master stonewalker hesitated again, and then spoke directly to Ore-Locks. “The Kestrel is in the harbor. I will make certain the captain gives you passage.”

Ore-Locks released a sigh of relief, and Cinder-Shard leaned down toward Chap with a wrinkled brow.

“Considering the topic at hand,” he said, “I can only guess sending the two of you together is another twisted jest by Chuillyon.”

Chap had no idea what that meant, and when he looked to Chane, the undead’s jaw clenched. Whoever this Chuillyon might be, Chane knew of him or her.

“Take these two out the aqueduct tunnel,” Cinder-Shard instructed Ore-Locks. “Retrieve their anchors and take them to the ship. I will have dealt with the captain by then ... and I will arrange to have the anchor of Earth stowed in cargo.”

Before Chap could even wonder how the master stonewalker could accomplish all of this so quickly, Ore-Locks heaved another sigh of relief.

“Yes, Master,” he said, “and thank you.”

Chap did not care to leave this place without the third orb. But so far, regardless of a temper and a quite sensible hatred of the undead, it seemed unlikely that the master stonewalker would break his word.

“Give me the chest,” Cinder-Shard commanded.

Chane did so, along with the third lock and key.

What mattered most to Chap was that he had succeeded here—even though Chane’s presence had been both a help and a hindrance. And the other problems, such as passage, had been solved. There was one more minor relief as well.

Chap would not face another cursed lift or tram to leave this place.