Arcanum - Of Steamwork and Magic Ch. 07

There, we began to search for the actual entrance to the Black Mountain Mines. Gilbert Bates had been sending adventurers out here for a great, long time, but those who had returned gave different coordinates for the actual mouth of the cave itself. This in part was due to the less advanced modes of cartographic data tracking in the earlier decades of the 19^th century, and in part due to the fact that as the pool of willing adventurers had dried up, the relative intelligence and competence of the teams that Mr. Bates sent out lowered precipitously.

Fortunately, this little party was not led by some common knuckle dragger!

I had spent my time traveling from Tarant to the Stonewall Mountains preparing my mind for this challenge, and so when we arrived, I began a systemic searching pattern, using landmarks and small flags (which everyone had complained about when I had purchased them - but their complaints dried up now that we were using them to ensure we did not end up going in circles) to explore the mountains. By crossing off potential places for the entrance of the mines off our list in this systemic pattern, I was able to reduce the searching from months to a mere three weeks! Thus, on the 16^th of March, our party came to the map coordinates of 1308 west by 754 south: A small valley, tucked between two mountains, which led straight to the mouth of the Black Mountain Mines.

"Now this is dwarven craftsmanship!" Maggie said, gesturing to the doorway. It was nearly fifteen paces high, ten paces wide, and the stone ringing the doorway was covered with the harsh, angular design of dwarven runes. Stern looking faces loomed at the top of the doorway, glaring down at us.

"Where's -hic- the door?" Sally asked.

We all looked down at the entrance itself - which loomed darkly. I frowned. There wasn't a door. I walked forward, pulling a torch from my backpack. Lightning it with a striker, I held the torch up. Several gleaming eyes flared in the light and I drew my revolver. But the eyes scampered away and I could hear the soft sound of padding paws. Then the wolves who had been within the doorway ran past us, darting around our legs. They were gone then, rushing off into the wilderness. I frowned. "Everyone stay alert," I said, walking forward into the Black Mountain Mines.

***

The grand foyer of the Black Mountain Mines was done in the grandiose dwarven style. Broad caverns, hammered flat and tiled in an intricate geometric pattern, while the walls were dominated by angular, stern faced dwarven patriarchs, carved to still be clad in their plate armor, to still hold their hammers and their axes in positions of parade rest. They glowered down at our party as we cast light from pitiful torches and from Virginia's illumination cantrip. The floor itself had once been pristine - but now, dung and bits of straw were scattered liberally by a string of squatters, mostly animal in nature from what I could tell.

We all remained silent as we headed down this foyer, coming at last to a series of doorways that themselves led into the mines proper. The first level we soon determined to be living quarters - and all were eerie and foreboding in their emptiness and sparseness. They had not been looted - in fact, there was no sign that anyone had disturbed the beds and the workshops. Rather, it looked as if they had been quietly packed away and left to rot. We checked a few chests to discover that they held little save for detritus that no one could want to take - sheet metal that hadn't been forged properly, bits of slag, a few cracked geodes, a single shattered hammer, and other similar bits of useless pieces of garbage.

Gillian put it best when we came to the main stairwell in the heart of the first level. Looking behind herself, then at the rest of us, she said: "It's like a house that's been mothballed - like my family's summer home during the winter."

Virginia nodded. "This place is empty, sir," she said. "Maybe we should return and tell Mr. Bates that?"

"We don't know for sure what happened here," I said, firmly.

"Yes, but the lower we get, the deeper into the earth we go, the harder it will be to get out," Virginia said, her voice soft. "I don't want to be the Panarii who let the reincarnation of Nasrudin get lost in some dwarven mine and starve to death."

I smiled, then rummaged in my pack, then drew forth some drafting paper - which had been cleverly printed in a grid pattern, to allow for easy marking of designs. I grinned at her. "Say, one square is on par with five paces?"

Virginia frowned, slightly.

Sally, though, was rubbing her chin. "Something smells funny here." She flared her nostrils.

"I can't smell anything except dust," I said.

"Hmm..." Sally was silent.

We all waited.

A loud rumble of flatus emerged from Sally.

"Good Gods!" Virginia cried out and Sally beamed at her.

"Tha's what that was!" She said, then slapped Virginia on the back - which provoked much histrionic gagging from Virginia. I laughed, then ushered us away from the area most impacted by the scent, and down the stairs. The second level of the Black Mountain Mines showed more sign of being mines, as opposed to the areas that had been turned into living quarters by the dwarves themselves. And here, we saw some signs of something else living within the mine: Rat corpses, strung up on old traps, dangling from their tails. Footprints in the dirt that may have been recent or decades old. Doors that had been hacked down by crude looking blades - and rooms that had been actively looted.

The third level was more a mine proper.

It was also when my foot caught a rope and only the quick reflexes of Maggie - closer to the ground, she had surely seen the rope before I - saved my life. She pushed me forward and the wall exploded with a flurry of crossbow bolts as several concealed weapons fired off their quarrels into the far wall. They thudded home and dust went flying. I coughed, then scrambled to my feet. "My thanks, Maggie," I said.

"Don't mention it," she said, frowning, then reaching up. She tugged the now revealed crossbow from the wall. It had been concealed into a cunningly carved niche, and the crossbow itself looked faintly rusted and worm-bitten. She adjusted the lever, frowning. "This is a dwarven crossbow."

"Someone left that recently," Gillian said, leaning forward. "The rust there can't be more than five years old."

I nodded. "All right, everyone," I said, drawing my pistol once more. "Everyone be most alert. Verge into outright paranoia if you will."

"Why weren't we already as alert as we could be?" Virginia hissed, drawing her magick blade.

I started to walk more carefully now, letting Sally hold both her torch and my torch, freeing a hand to hold my pocket watch. This proved to be a good precaution: The ticking of the second hand became quite erratic as we came to an intersection near the northern section of the third level - and there, Virginia divined a small magick trap, designed to infuse any who stepped upon it with cyanide-like toxins. We set it off with a ten foot pole held in leather gloves - the pole became soaked with the grayish toxin, and we hastily dropped it and kicked it into the corner of the corridor.

Thus, we made our way through trap after trap. Crushing traps designed to swing mace-heads on chain from the ceiling down into the face. Deliberately weakened beams threatened to drop entire corridors on our heads, forcing us to backtrack and find new routs. But more than the constant danger of traps, there was an omnipresent senses of being followed. Distant echoes behind us, clatters and clacks that we tried to track down several times...but always came up empty. We would stand still and listen hard whenever we thought we heard the sounds, but every time, the noise would cease. Every time we went to check, we found naught but a faint disturbance in the dust.

The creeping sense of foreboding grew more and more intense as we came to a corridor that was filled with traps. We picked our way past hidden crossbows, disarmed magickall traps that flung fireballs, and set off bear traps and finally got to the door at the end of the corridor. It was thick wood, and it bore a scrawled symbol upon it: A dwarven rune. I looked at Maggie, who stepped closer, holding up her torch. Her brow furrowed and she mumbled a few attempts at a translation, before finally saying: "I believe it's a name: Gudmund Ore Bender."

"Is that a Black Mountain name?" Virginia asked.

"Bugger me if I know," Maggie said, shrugging.

I stepped up to the door, then shoved at it. The door swung inwards and we saw the room beyond contained three corpses and a pillar. The corner of the room had a small bedroll and a small fire pit that looked well used. The other corner contained what was clearly a refuse pit, and it had been long used, though it was empty now. The three corpses, though, were what drew my attention most. There was one elf, who looked as if he had been shot in the chest with a crossbow and was sprawled against the wall next to the door itself. The other was a human, who had taken an ax to her face. She was curled up to the ground. Five feet away, with a long dried trail of blood smeared along the ground, was the body of a dwarf. Each of the bodies had dried out and rotted, filling the air with a fulsome reek.

I walked cautiously forward and rolled the dwarf over. In one hand he held an emptied crossbow. The other hand was empty. But his belly had been pierced by a stiletto blade.

"They're Molochian Hand," Virginia said, softly, having knelt beside the woman. "They have scrolls...huh..." She unfurled one, her brow furrowing. "It's a trap detection scroll, expended. This is...a...I don't know..." She said, looking at the other scroll. "Give me a moment to decipher it."

I nodded, then looked at Maggie, who was eyeing the dwarven body. "Is he from the Black Mountain Clan?"

"I can't tell," Maggie said, shaking her head.

I knelt beside the dead elf. Rummaging about in his pack, I found not only did he have the Molochian Hand amulet, but he also had a letter. Neatly folded and still legible, I was able to read it, even if I had to be careful with the sparks that scattered from my torch.

Search for the target in the abandoned mines of the Black Mountain Clan. Any failures, like those at Shrouded Hills, will be met with the most severe punishments.

It was signed with two initials: G. L. I frowned a bit, rolling up the paper and tucking it away. "They must have gotten here before us and killed this poor bugger." I nodded to the dwarf. "I think he attacked them the instant they entered the room, and he slew both, but they in turn, slew him." I frowned, then stepped over to the pillar. As I did so, I continued my thought: "I wager he was the one who set the traps - and that's why they're all still working, even so long after the Black Mountain Clan has..." I trailed off, eyeing the pillar.

To my shock, the pillar in the center of the room was covered with script. Not dwarven runes, as I had expected either. Rather, the words slowly circling around the pillar were in the common tongue used by humans of all kinds, from Tarant to Arland. I rubbed my chin, and started to read, holding up my torch to ensure that the light shone across as much as it could.

I am not proud as I set this down, but it must be known. I, Gudmund Ore Bender, have rejected the judgment of the Wheel Clan. The banishment of the Black Mountain Clan to the Isle of Despair for crimes against the dwarven world, namely the sharing of technology with the humans, is a more graven offense than that which it purports to avenge.

I commit to stone my judgment on Loghaire and his clan, blinded in their madness to the extent they would allow the elves to force their hand. The day the elves came, led by the warrior betrayers of the Wheel, was the day my destiny was writ upon the stone. Gudmund Ore Bender would never be banished by the hand of an elf, no matter what untrue judgment of guilt were handed down.

The voice of reason, usually so clearly heard by the dwarven kind, was shunned when it cried out to drive the human from our ancestral home. The Bates child sold the dwarven birthright to the world. As was he the charge of Stennar, so must be the guilt.

This day shall be remembered for all the days of the Ore Bender. When the proudest of our clans may be forced as sheep into a circle of banishment created by lowly elves, while warriors stand and do naught, the Ore Bender must reject all that his dwarven bones will him to do, as there must be one to stay and make a record of this, the most evil of days.

I scream for my brothers to fight the unfair judgment of the Clan of all Clans.

I scream at them still.

The room had fallen silent. I realized I had been reading aloud. I turned to look at the rest of them.

"The Wheel Clan?" Maggie whispered. "Elves? None of this makes any sense."

Sally frowned. "I've sailed past the Isle of Despair. Even from ten leagues, it was a hell-place if I'd ever seen one." She shook her head. "Ugly business, throwing prisoners there and lettin' 'em rot."

I looked at Virginia. Virginia was still studying the scroll she had not been able to identify. She glanced up at my cough. "What? Oh!" She blushed. "Sorry, what was all that about? I've been trying to read this." She tapped the scroll. "I almost recognize the script, but it's more complex than-"

I held up my hand. "Hold," I said, my voice soft.

We all fell silent.

Thum. Thum dhoom. Thum dhoom. Thum.

"What's that?" Gillian whispered.

"Drums," I said, quietly. The sounds echoed throughout the mines, ringing off the walls, filling the room even with their great distance. And with the thumping of the drums, I could hear a faint noise - growing louder and louder by the moment. The squeak and chitter of voices. Not humanoid voices. I stepped hurriedly to the door and looked out. There were two gleaming red eyes in the distance. I hurled my torch as hard as I could. It roared down the corridor, landing at the feet of dark figures. They were powerfully built, almost as tall as me, and covered in matted, brown and black fur. Their faces were long and ratlike, and they held crude spears, while bows were slung over their shoulders. They squealed, then surged away, drawing back, chittering. A closer drum started to rumble - a tattoo filling the air. I stepped back around the edge of the door mere moments before a pair of arrows zipped through the space I had stood in.

They skittered along the ground.

"Well, ladies," I said, looking at my comrades. "It seems this mine has a serious wererat infestation."

Maggie ran up and took up a position across from me at the door. "Sally," I said, nodding. "You and Gillian take up sides. You have weapons, and anyone gets past us, or if we need to reload, you deal with attackers. If we need to, we can throw the door shut and buy time with that. Virginia, do you think that scroll can assist us?"

"It's definitely from the school of conveyance!" she said, quickly.

"Like your little disarming cantrip?" I asked.

"More like a 'toss you through the ether and several miles away from the casting point," she said, nodding.

"Then decipher it!" I snapped as more chittering voices came from the corridor. I could hear footsteps - many of them. I looked at Maggie, then hissed. "Let fly!"

We both stepped out. Maggie pumped the action on the repeating rifle and fired, while I fanned the hammer on my revolver. I was not sure about werebeasts. I didn't know if the old wives tale about silver being required to slay them was true or only partially true. But I knew it would be better to know now, rather than later. And to my pleasure, the spear armed wererats charging towards us staggered as if they had run into a wall. Blood bloomed and their fur went flying as seven went down nearly instantly. Those behind them stepped backwards before our bullets struck them down. The first little war party was delt with nicely, but the drums were growing closer and closer.

I nodded. "Gillian!" I said. "I've been working on a blueprint. Could you take it from my backpack, you should find some supplies there. Follow the directions precisely, if you'd be so kind."

"Yes, sir!" she said.

The next wave of wererats came with shields and armor. The shields were clearly dwarven made, but the armor had been fashioned to fit their sloped, low bodies. They were led by a chanting figure carrying a censor that was fashioned in the likeness of Moorindal, the god of shadows. Smoke boiled from the skull-eyes on the censor and obscured the air as the priest chanted and incanted. I leveled my revolver and shot him in the head at the exact same moment he completed his summoning. A hideous demon charged down the corridor before literally winking out of existence, banished back to the plane it had been dragged from by the death of the caster.

The armed and armored wererats stepped backwards, holding their shields up. Maggie shot one in the knee, but I pushed her rifle down and shook my head before she fired again. "Let them draw back," I said, then ducked away as a flight of javelins went down the corridor. They slammed home into the ground, one glancing off so low that it skittered and nearly struck Virginia on her rump, causing the Panarri priestess to squeak and skitter further towards the corner of the room. By now, though, the drums were getting quite loud.

Chittering voices called out. When I peeked, I saw that the wererats were using spears to chivvy forward the familiar squat, ugly forms of kites. The small bodied, multicolored critters looked quite pitiful, armed only with stone knives. But as they were moved forward by their wererat handlers, I frowned. "They're going to try and soak up our ammo on the poor buggers."

"Do we shoot them?" Maggie whispered.

"Ever tried to fight a kite in a knife fight?" I asked, shaking my head. "We absolutely shoot them. This is why I purchased four hundred bullets before we left Tarant."

"Four hundred bullets!?" Gillian squeaked, looking up from where she had been threading some copper cable around a muffler that I had found in a trash bin. "Are you an adventurer, or the 101^st rifle brigade?"

"Yes," I said, then leaned around the corner as the kites charged forward in one squalling mass. I fired and fired and Maggie fired and fired. But the kites kept coming, charging over the bodies of their comrades, their knives waving in the air. My hammer clicked against a chamber full of a spent cartridge. I had enough time to flip my revolver around and hold it by the barrel, my palm stinging with the heat of the barrel, before the remaining kites rushed at the door. But it was here were Sally stepped past me and took up her position.

The immense half-ogress was holding the battle-ax that Ore Bender had left behind in the head of the Molochian assassin. She laid about herself with a cheerful whistle, kicking and hacking in an alternating pattern. A small blue body flew past my head and struck the wall with an ugly crunch, while a bisected torso hit the ground near my feet. Soon, Sally was standing in the midst of a pile of corpses, grinning broadly down at the ground.

Thock thock thock thock thock!

Five arrows sprouted from her chest. Sally glared down at them. "Ow," she said, then casually stepped back. She began to tug them free, grunting quietly, even as blood began to soak her chest.

"You all right, Mead Mug?" I asked.