The Howling Delve
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Garavin lifted the object—a pendant—by its chain. Kall recognized the components first: smooth carnelian worked into the shape of a mountain; nestled within it, a faceted emerald shone like a doorway.
"Dugmaren Brightmantle is why I dig," Garavin said. He pointed to the swaying pendant. "Dumathoin guides the shovel."
"Dumathoin." Kall touched the seam, the joining of emerald to mountain, and felt the scratch of electricity run through his fingers.
"I serve the gleam in the eye and the keeper of secrets," Garavin continued, "because in addition to having an awful curiosity, I've dug far enough into the earth to uncover things that should—and shouldn't—be made known to greater Toril. Dumathoin helps me with the sorting out of which is which."
"You hunt knowledge," Kall said, remembering what Garavin had told him in the forest.
"Yes—and secrets. I can find them, and I can keep them. Ye should remember that, if ever ye're needing someone to talk to." He puffed unconcernedly on his pipe as Kall looked away. "If ye do stay, Laerin could teach ye things—they all could, I'm knowing that. But first ye'd learn to dig. That rule never changes."
The sound of raucous laughter at some unheard jest drifted out to them from the camp.
"They're gods, then," Kall said, listening to the forest stir with nighttime sounds. "Dugmaren and Dumathoin."
"Of the dwarf folk," Garavin nodded. "Most of my band is of Dugmaren's mind. They are discoverers—explorers. Dwarf or human, they fit nowhere else, so Dugmaren takes them all."
"Why should a dwarf care what happens to me?" Kall said without thinking, and felt heat rush up his neck. He plunged on. "I don't want to be an explorer. I've got nothing to offer Dugmaren."
"Ye have two hands, and an active mind, as I've already noted," Garavin said. "Even if Dugmaren wasn't interested, I'd still take ye."
Kall refused to meet the dwarf's eyes. "Why?"
"Because at one time or another, we all get trapped in the place ye are now." Garavin leaned forward, his grave face filling Kall's vision. "Do ye know what we do about it?"
Kall started to shake his head, but stopped when he saw Garavin's eyes twinkling with humor. He caught on and said, in perfect unison with the dwarf, "We dig ourselves out." Kall snorted—not quite a laugh, but something lighter than what had been in his mind. His voice only shook slightly when he said, "I'm going to need a large shovel."
"There ye go." Garavin chuckled, jostling the pipe and sending ashes flying. "Ye'll be fine, Kall."
* * * * *
He slept in the map room the first night. That's what Garavin called the curtained off loft at the rear of the hut. The tiny room was jam-packed with maps, drawings, and rolls of parchment filled to the edges with scrawled notes. In one corner, a cot and blankets were wedged under the eaves, almost as an afterthought.
Kall lay on his back, his nose inches from a ceiling beam, wide awake. For lack of anything to do, he circled the room with his eyes again and again—past Garavin's pipe, left lying on a table next to a comfortable-looking chair, then to the oval cut-out window, with Sel?ne's pale glow filtering through, then back to the beam.
By the fourteenth pass, he was up and at the window, watching the forest. His sword lay on a bench beneath the window, nearly translucent in the moon's glow. The other dirt-encrusted package and his borrowed sword sat in shadow as if in awe of the bright sword.
If anything should happen to me, Kall...
That had been his father's commandment. If anything happened, what was between the graves belonged to Kall. The only bit of magic Dhairr Morel would permit in his life, buried deep in the earth.
Kall touched the sword with his knuckle, a light touch, enough to cool his skin on the steel. He felt nothing, certainly not the gentle jolt he'd gotten from Garavin's holy relic. What, then, could the sword possibly contain?
The distant sound of chimes drew Kall from his reverie. The haunting, beautiful echo seemed incongruous when wrapped around the normal forest noise. Was it a call to worship from some hidden temple? Kall wondered. He'd already witnessed so many things he'd never thought to see. Who knew what this latest mystery might portend?
The chimes came again, closer, and then Kall saw the herd.
The mist stags came into the clearing between the hut and the forest, weaving among the trees like stealthy phantoms. They were the size of spry colts, their pelts steely gray but sprinkled liberally with silver. The bucks' antlers curved inward in conical shapes, and the stags had a wisp of beard at their chins. They ran in graceful, springing motions, as if their feet trod air instead of grass.
A spear tip caught the moonlight as it came out of the trees. Kall sucked in a breath, fearing a hunter stalked the beautiful creatures. He heard the chimes again and realized the sound wasn't coming from the animals, but from their shepherd.
The druid stepped into the clearing, shepherding the bucks. Her gaze lifted to his window, and she stared at him through the dark triangle of her hooded cloak. She couldn't have been much older than he, Kall thought.
The mist stags flowed around her, making small sounds that sounded like alarm. The girl angled her head to listen.
The trees behind her exploded in a fireball.
Heat blasted Kall in the face. He dived below the level of the window, instinctively clawing at his face to feel if he was burned. His skin was warm and slick, but unmarked.
Lurching to his feet, Kall returned to the window, scanning the trees for some sign of the girl, but there was nothing, only the panicked herd scattering in every direction. A tree was ablaze, and there came frantic shouts from inside and outside the perimeter of the camp. The small hut quivered with the pounding of feet on floorboards and ladders.
Kall grabbed his sword and tossed it out of the window. He slung a leg over the curved sill and eased himself out, scraping his belly over the wood. He lowered himself until he hung by his fingertips, then dropped.