MAPS, SPEECHES, AND STOWRON
Brother Bertold led the way down the stairwell to the monastery’s underhalls. Frem and the Pointmen followed closely behind him. Their job, to secure the entrance to the tunnels while the rest of the expedition prepared their gear and hauled down the supplies. Wall sconces lit their way, supplemented by lanterns carried by Bertold and several of the Pointmen. The stairs were wide and solid, though uneven from age and wear. The steps and the walls were stone, bluish gray in color, and here and there streaked with white or black. The stone had a dull, natural finish, easy on the eyes, though the dark color made the place all the gloomier.
Unless the black elves decided to raid the underhalls while they waited, the Pointmen had landed the easy duty for once, and that was fine with Frem and his men. They’d had it hard for the whole mission and deserved a breather.
It was a full thirty feet down from the monastery’s main level to the first underhall. The next underhall was twenty-five feet farther down than the first. Each deeper level had a lower ceiling, so the stair runs got shorter. Even so, it was a long way down to the seventh underhall, the bottommost level of the monastery.
As he trudged down the steps, Frem’s mind drifted to that stair far beneath the city of Tragoss Mor — the one that led down toward the Keeper’s abode. They’d lost men on that stair (a treacherous, narrow, slick thing), and a lot more at the bottom. Gargoyles, or some such, made of stone, came out of the walls and decimated their troop. Frem lost several friends that day. In truth, the monastery stair was nothing like that other one, but going down all that way, in the dark —— try as he might, Frem couldn’t keep those terrible memories at bay.
“Nothing much down here except the crypts, a bit of cold storage, and the entrance to Svartleheim,” said Bertold as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “That’s what we call the tunnels. It means, land of the black elves. Oh, and this is Brother Rennis,” he said as he pointed to a lanky young monk that sat at a table adjacent to the base of the stair, a cudgel that looked too big for him to wield leaned against the wall beside him. A bell hung from the ceiling; its pull chord next to the monk’s head. Rennis had a reading lamp, a pile of books, a barrel of water, a mug, and not much else. A watch station of sorts.
“Watch your heads,” said Bertold. “There are some low clearances down here. Rennis, anything to report?””
“All quiet, brother,” said Rennis. “Have the tunnel guards been checking in on schedule?”
“Yes, brother.”
“That’s a good lad,” said Bertold. “Keep your ears open, but keep up with your studies.”
A couple of turns and a trek of about two hundred feet from Rennis’s post put them in a large bare hall with an ironbound wooden door at its back. Two monks in armor, sword, and shield, stood the watch, another big bell at their watch station.
“Beyond that door, my friends,” said Bertold, “lies Svartleheim and the shortcut of which we spoke.”” Bertold unfolded a map and laid it on the guards’ table. Frem leaned over the table and closely examined the map as Bertold spoke. The monk went over the route in detail, pointing out various landmarks and places to avoid. Frem and his officers paid close attention and asked numerous questions. The rest of the Pointmen lounged about, happy for a bit of rest. They didn’t pay attention to the discussion, trusting to their officers to handle such things.
“Much of what I’ve told you comes down via the oral tradition,” said Bertold. “Besides these maps, we’ve little in writing about the tunnels. I’ve only been in there twice myself, and never past the Eye of Gladden.”
“What’s that?” said Putnam.
“Stone carvings; can’t miss them. Once past the eye, keep to the main passage for three days and that should put you here,” he said pointing to a side tunnel on the map. “Follow the map, do not stray from the path I’ve shown you, and if Wotan smiles upon you, five days from now, you’ll see the light of day on the other side.”
“How many elves are in there?” said Putnam. “Tell us true. What can we expect?”
“No idea,” said Bertold. “You may not encounter any. The first time I went in to scout the place, I wandered about the tunnels for hours, exploring and verifying the maps, even adding a bit to them. That entire time, I saw and heard nothing of the elves. No sign or trace. But I was in the upper tunnels, going no farther than about two hundred feet down from this spot.”
“The second time we went in, we headed straight down the main passage. Five hundred feet below where we stand and a couple of miles in, we reached the Eye of Gladden. It was there that we found bones and artifacts. Before we could examine them, we thought we heard the elves coming, so we hightailed it out. Might have been nothing, might have been them; I don’’t know. We played it safe and we got out. I haven’t been back there since. I’m darned curious, but I don’t want to get dead. Then again, the brothers of old that made these maps went the whole way through the tunnels and back again, so we know it’s not impassable.”
“Have some others not made it?” said Putnam.
“I’m afraid so,” said Bertold. “The most recent was twelve years ago, three years before my first trip in. A dozen men down from one of the big port cities wanted to go on safari to hunt big game, but they had no time or interest in braving the bog. Old Brother Hordin, he was the keeper of maps before me, thought it a good opportunity for exploring the tunnels, so he agreed to guide them through. Five other brothers went with him. None of the foreigners and only one brother came back, and he has since passed. He told how the elves jumped them two days in. Seems the foreigners made a racket and insisted on building a fire. It attracted more attention than they could handle. You’ll have to watch yourselves in there. Especially when you’re in deep.””
“What of the incursions that Brother Abraxon mentioned?” said Frem.
“The elves got past our door a few times in recent years and caused some mischief. That’s why I haven’t ventured back in. I know they’’re in there, lurking, and I don’t want to chance running into them. It seems as time goes on, they’ve been getting bolder. What they’re hoping to find up here, we’ve no idea. Maybe they’re just exploring. Or maybe looking for food — there can’’t be much down there. Who knows? Anyway, that's why we set these guard posts.”
“You man them day and night?” said Frem.
“Have to,” said Bertold. “We can never tell when the elves will come calling.”
“Is there any other way into the tunnels?” said Frem. “Besides this door?”
Bertold hesitated a moment before responding and looked down as he spoke. “We know there is. There has to be, because we’ve seen the elves outside in the night on several occasions and the people of Jutenheim have seen them too, going back generations. Try as I might, I’ve never been able to find their secret exit, and Wotan knows, I’ve tried. They must keep it well hidden. If you’ve no more questions, I need to find your commander. I have a twin of this map to give him, so you’ll have two in case one gets lost or damaged. Good luck to you,” he said, still looking down; he made no offer of a handshake.
As Bertold made his exit, Frem looked down at the thick layer of dust his fingers picked up from the tabletop.
Frem and Putnam sat on the far side of the hall facing the door to Svartleheim. As big as it was, the room was beginning to get crowded with packs, gear, and men. Half the company must have been there by that time. The other men chatted, but Frem was silent, lost in thought.
“Are you starting to brood now too?” said Putnam to Frem. “Bad enough that Sevare hasn't been himself since last night. I don't need you going all funny too.”
“Sevare hasn’t been himself for a long time. And last night, he almost got dead, so cut him some slack. That black elf spell hit him square in the chest.”
“Bah, nothing could kill that bugger,” said Putnam. “But he’s not in proper form, I’ll admit, and that’s no good, especially since he’s the only first-rate wizard the company has left. Ezer will have to staff up good after this mission is done.”
“A bit of optimism from you after all, sergeant?” said Frem.
“What do you mean?”
“Ezer can only staff up if he and some of us are still alive.”
“You think we won’t be?” said Putnam. “You think it's going to be that bad?”
“Not sure,” he said, shaking his head. “It has been pretty bad so far, this trip has, but I don’’t know.” Frem took a drink from one of his canteens and then refastened it to his belt. “I was just thinking that I’ll miss Little Storrl on this one. His cheerfulness always makes the dark times a bit easier, and it’s going to be awful dark in there.”
“At least the lad is alive,” said Putnam. “I’ll miss Maldin more. He’s a bruiser that one; a good man to have at your side in a tight scrape, but he’ll not see action for quite a time, if he recovers at all.”
“I didn’t think he was going to make it back to the ship,” said Frem. “A tough man.”
“We’re all tough men,” said Putnam. “This life makes us that way, or else we wouldn’t last long in this business. Don’t look now — here comes the toughest of the bunch.””
Ezerhauten arrived with the latest load of supplies. Frem got his attention and they moved to a private spot to speak.
“I’m thinking that we should tell the wizards about our run-in with the black elves,” said Frem.
“I already did,” said Ezerhauten. “Before the meeting with the monks.”
Frem looked surprised. “The elves will make a connection between us invading their territory and the loss of their men. They’ll assume we took out their boys and come at us hard.”
“That’s exactly what I told the wizards,” said Ezerhauten.
“What did they say?” said Putnam.
“Ginalli nearly shit himself. In fact, I think he did,” said Ezerhauten, scrunching up his nose “Thorn said svarts were of no concern to him. He said that he had ways to deal with them. And that was that; end of discussion.”
“What about Korrgonn?” said Frem. “Had he no opinion?”
“I haven’t seen him in days,” said Ezerhauten. “He’s gone hermit. Why, I’ve no idea.”
“So we’re going in,” said Frem. “Like it or not?”
“We are,” said Ezerhauten. “Believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do; I’ve always hated caves and tunnels, long before Tragoss Mor. But we’re stuck with it, so we’ll go in and we’’ll do our jobs, just as we always do.”
“Fine,” said Frem. “But do you smell anything fishy?”
“You mean besides whatever Thorn has up his sleeve about dealing with the elves?”
“That stink is ripe,” said Frem. “I’m talking about the monks.”
Ezerhauten took his time answering, his wheels spinning. “They seem decent enough to me. Ginalli paid them good, and they’re doing their part.” But then, Ezerhauten narrowed his eyes and looked all around, the way he did when he got suspicious of things. “That isn’t much of a barrier,” said Ezerhauten of the door to the tunnels. “You’d think they’d seal it up proper, or at least barricade it or brace it with timbers or iron. I don’’t see any of that down here. It’s just a stout door with a crossbar. Yeah, that strikes me odd, and it’s starting to smell. That what you were getting at?””
“Aye,” said Frem. “And there’s more. The monk told me that they man this room day and night; have been for a goodly time, maybe years, but the guards’ table is covered in dust — a thick layer of it. They’d eat on that table, don’t you think? They’d game on it. They’d nap with their heads on it. It might be dirty, stained, and such, but it would never have a thick layer of dust. And the room is too bare, like it’s not really used.”
Ezerhauten nodded. “I noticed that the guard post at the base of the stairs was bare too; not lived in like you’d expect.”
“They do have the essentials that they’d need,” said Putnam. “Even the bells for warning. And they have their story down straight, smooth as syrup.”
“That they do,” said Ezerhauten. “But that may just mean they’re smart, and that enables the worst kind of stink. Frem, you figure that they set up these guard stations just for us? Just for show?”
“I’d bet on,” said Frem. “I bet that door stands wide open most of the time.”
“The black elves happening by for tea and crumpets whenever they like?” said Ezerhauten. “I’’m having trouble getting my arms around that one, but maybe it’s so. Maybe they’ve got some alliance with the little buggers, or some common cause. There’’s more to this than we can see.”
“We could be walking into a trap,” said Frem.
“Or maybe their table broke,” said Putnam, “And they just pulled this one out of storage today or yesterday. Maybe it’’s been sitting in some storage closet for years and that’s why it’s all full of dust.”
Ezerhauten bobbed his head from side to side. “Well, that could to true too. Sometimes the simple answer is the true one. Sometimes it’s not.” He looked at his men for some moments. “Either way, and no matter what Thorn has up his sleeve, this one is going to be difficult. I can feel it in my bones. Maybe the worst yet. Stick close together in there and watch your backs.”
“We always do, Commander,” said Putnam. “And we’ll watch yours too.”
“I’m counting on it,” said Ezerhauten.
A short while later, when preparations were nearly complete, Ezerhauten recalled Frem and the other squadron captains topside. Putnam went along out of curiosity, even though he didn’t enjoy the stairs.
They had Thorn’s coach pulled up in front of the monastery’s main doors. Par Keld was cursing every monk in sight, demanding that they open the doors and stand aside. He wanted to drive the coach into the main hall. Teek sat stoically beside him munching on a cigar, the horses’ reigns in his hands. It didn’t look like the monks were going to comply. Things were close to getting ugly when Brother Abraxon showed up and directed that the doors be opened.
Keld parked the coach inside the hall, then jumped down and raced to the side of the coach to open the door. It seemed he wanted to make certain no one had that honor but him. The Leaguers were there: the wizards and the lugron: Par Brackta, Par Rhund, Par Weldin, and Stev Keevis. Mason was there too. Out of the coach stepped Ginalli, then Thorn and his gnome apprentice, and then Gallis Korrgonn himself. Frem hadn’t seen the Nifleheim lord since the meeting where Thorn killed Captain Rascelon. The wizards all bowed as Korrgonn greeted them. Then Mort Zag began to squeeze his bulk through the coach door. The monks gasped in surprise at his appearance and drew back from the coach.
“Be not alarmed,” said Ginalli to the monks. “Our dear friend, Mort Zag, is one of the red giants of the far northern mountains. A peaceful and thoughtful people, despite their brutish appearance. You have nothing to fear from him.”
It took the giant, or demon, or whatever he truly was, a full minute to squeeze himself through the door. No one dared laugh. But Frem really wanted to.
Ginalli never missed an opportunity to make a speech, so Frem wasn’t the least bit surprised when he stepped forward to do so. “Beloved faithful of Azathoth,” he said, arms extended, palms outward, “let us thank our newfound friends, the honorable monks of Ivald, for their generous aid and support in our holy quest. The faithful of Azathoth will be forever in their debt. Let the hand of friendship always be warmly felt and freely given between us and all adherents of our respective faiths.”” He smiled, turned, and warmly embraced Brother Abraxon, who seemed surprised by the gesture, but embraced him back, smiling, the requisite three manly pats on the back. The other wizards turned, and shook hands with and thanked those monks nearest to them. The lugron seemed confused by the speech. When Ginalli spoke fast, as he often did, his accent confounded them. Some stood there doing nothing. Most shook hands with each other. A few understood the intent and shook hands with the monks near them.
“We set off now on the final leg of our quest,” said Ginalli. “Once we pass into the tunnels below this sacred place, there will be no going back. There will be little rest, no place of comfort or ease. And no help. We will be fully committed. And there will be hardships, perhaps even more than we have already faced, and those have been all too many, as you all well know. We must ready ourselves for those trials, mentally, physically, and spiritually. We must keep in mind that every step of the way, our lord is with us, looking down at us from the heavens, supporting our quest with his love and his blessings. And we must rejoice that he has sent us his own son to face these trials by our side. Together, through strength and faith, we will persevere and we will succeed in our quest. After all we’ve been through, all that we’ve lost, all that we’ve sacrificed, we cannot fail. We must not fail. And we will not, so long as we keep our faith and never, ever give up, no matter the hardships. I believe in you, and I’m counting on you. On each and every one of you, to hold strong to your beliefs, to your faith, and to see us through these trials on behalf of our lord.”
“Let us bow our heads in prayer,” said Ginalli with a respectful nod toward Korrgonn.
Korrgonn made the sign of Azathoth across his breast and then spoke a prayer in some olden tongue unknown to Frem. The words he spoke echoed strangely in the air. Frem felt a pressure, an unseen force, an eldritch energy about him as those lost words vibrated through the air. There was magic to them. Olden magic of Azathoth from the days of yore. Magic of a bygone age perhaps best forgotten. Of its nature or purpose, Frem could only guess. A blessing for their journey? A binding to hold them to their course? Or something else? Something darker? Something sinister? Frem did not know. He didn’t understand Korrgonn. He didn’t bother to try. But Ginalli was a different story. He wondered if anyone else saw Ginalli for what he was. Or were they all too dense, as Frem pretended to be. Did they recognize that every word that Ginalli spoke was carefully chosen and designed for one purpose only — to achieve his ends, to further his cause, the truth be damned? In the end, it didn’t matter. Frem knew what his duty was and he would do it, even if it meant he’d never return home. Even if it meant that he’d never see Coriana again. Frem was a good soldier. No one could deny that.
Ginalli stepped forward, still not done. “By now, we’ve all heard about the black elves that lurk in the tunnels. With Lord Ezerhauten’s company at our side, we’re well equipped to handle such threats, but Master Thorn has brought us additional allies that will further safeguard the faithful during the remainder of our quest.
“What’s this?” muttered Ezerhauten from Frem’s side.
“These friends are called the stowron,” said Ginalli. “They are among Azathoth’s faithful. You may trust them as you trust each other.”
As if on cue, Par Keld opened the coach door again, and out stepped some odd looking characters. They were short and stooped and wore black robes with cowls that completely covered their faces. Each carried a wooden staff capped with bone, their hands deathly pale. They stood straight up, but walked a bit hunched over in an odd side-to-side gait, vaguely reminiscent of that of an ape. Six stepped out. The last two each led a blindfolded man that had his hands bound before him. One was Jude Eotrus. Frem didn’t recognize the second man, but he was older, and was missing one of his arms below the elbow. The monks didn’t react to the prisoners since Ginalli had already spun his tale about captured criminals.
“Are we ready to set out?” set Ginalli.
“Aye,” said the gathered group.
“Nord,” said Thorn to one of the stowron, “bring forth your brethren and waste no time about it. We need to get moving.””
“Brethren?” muttered Frem.
Nord climbed back onto the coach, which stood empty. He closed the door and then immediately opened it again. More stowron now crowded within the coach, having appeared out of nowhere. Two, four, ten of them, and they kept coming. They lined up in the hall in a column of twos.
“Oh boy,” said Ezerhauten. “I didn’t expect this.”
“We go,” said Thorn after about twenty stowron had disembarked from the coach. More were still coming out. The wizard turned and headed for the underhalls, everyone else following.
Ezerhauten scrambled to catch up to Ginalli, Frem on his heels. He wanted to hear what they said firsthand. “Who are these men?” said Ezerhauten.
“The stowron, as I said — allies of Master Thorn’s. Quite reliable. They live in caverns; did you know that? They have for generations. They’’re probably as comfortable there as are the elves.”
“Can they fight?” said Ezerhauten.
“Quite competently,” said Ginalli.
“Why was I not informed about this?” said Ezerhauten. “I’m in charge of the military aspects of this mission. It’s essential that I know what our assets are, and what their capabilities are. Otherwise, I can’t—”
“You’re in charge of your company, Commander, nothing more. Master Thorn is in charge of the stowron. You’re a hired hand here, Commander. A valued one, but still just a hired hand. Don’t forget that. You do as we tell you. Understood?”
Ezerhauten’s teeth clamped together. A few breaths later he said, “Understood.”