I rounded the final corner, eager to squeeze my way to the petrified men and carve out those last few steps, only to be startled by a pair of huge, glowing eyes shining through the darkness.I let out an undignified yelp and scrambled backward, opening my lantern wide to flood the passage with light.The creature standing between me and the crescent-shaped gap merely winced as protective membranes slipped over his bulging eyeballs.
“Crespash,” I said disdainfully."What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing, human.”
“I’m looking for the crypt, just like everyone else.”
“And exactly how far had you planned to explore?Far enough to require a meal?”His oversized eyes flicked to the bulge beneath the cloak.“Severalmeals?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“I’d be remiss to fail to notice you’re drowning in sweat from that heavy cloak.Such delicate things, humans.Always hungry or tired, hot or cold—how you survive with such fussy constitutions, I’ll never know.Dwarves, on the other hand….”He fanned the stumps of his fingers for emphasis.“Now, there’s a sturdy people.”
I’d known a dwarf, back in Wildwood.Saucy little thing, and her company fetched a fine price.But the scenarios her customers dreamed up for her were disturbing, to say the least.
“What?”the goblin prompted.“You don’t believe in dwarves?”
“Of course I do.”
“I’m not talking about the occasional human runt, but the folk those stunted humans are named for.True dwarves.The ones who wrote this.”He plucked something out of his leathers and held it up for my inspection: a tightly rolled scroll.
“I gave that to Droko.”
“And he tossed it aside.To him, no doubt, it looked like a bunch of random ticks and dings.Dwarves have their own way of setting down words.”
“Which you just so happen to know how to read.”
“Of course I do.Dwarven Burrowers are highly sought after by those of us who live underground.They can carve a rock thin enough to see the glow of a candle through it.They know exactly where to dig to keep the ceiling from coming down on their heads.And they can blend a trap into a cave wall so cunning that even a goblin wouldn’t see it till their innards were pooling around their feet.
“Dwarvish contracts are notoriously thorough.It behooves a goblin to know what they’re getting into if they sign one.
“Though not all dwarvish writing is purely practical.They’re especially fond of penning their own histories, for instance—though those tales are infamously long-winded and dull.But once in a while, if you’re lucky, you’ll run across some very bawdy dwarvish poetry.”
“Is that what you’re wasting my time over?”I asked, with way more bravado than I actually felt.“Poetry?”
“Sadly, no.But since the dwarf didn’t have enough room to go into excruciating detail here, we’re left with a telling that made for a surprisingly good read.”When I shifted uneasily, the membranes on his eyes peeled open and he looked me up and down.“What’s wrong, human…got somewhere to be?”
“We should be looking for the crypt.Not dallying over some random curiosity.”
“Ah, but here’s the thing.This wee bit of random curiosity might be more valuable than you think.”
Obviously, now I had to know.“Fine.What does it say?”
The goblin unrolled the tight cylinder of parchment with his finger-stumps, and read.
Two moons have passed since our labor was finished—and two of my comrades have passed as well.As our reward for crafting the tomb of their heathen shamans, our orcish captors have sealed us up to die in the very caves we helped them shape.
We were fools to think a slave of the orcs could ever earn his freedom.The shaman promised us our lives, and orcs have a reputation for being true to their word.But then, the shaman was laid to rest.Along with him, so went the promises he’d made.
If we had our equipment, we could drill our way out.But once the tomb was complete, their blacksmith melted our picks and hammers to slag.We have no tools, no food, and no water, save for the trickle of condensation we can capture from the walls.
The only thing of value the orcs didn’t take from us was Dreadforge.
Crespash glanced up from the scroll.“Dwarves name their sacred weapons, you see.When the blades are pulled from the smithy’s flames, they’re quenched in the guts of a living enemy to imbue the metal with the poor sod’s very soul.If you believe in that kind of thing…which, apparently, the orcs did, if they didn’t confiscate the sword along with all their other tools.”
Dreadforge.I’d spent hours with the heavy sword carving my way to freedom.It was like learning one of your favorite paying men was caught with a dead whore in his bed…and realizing that could’ve easily been you.Creepy.But if the dwarves considered the blade sacred, that did explain why they didn’t use it to cut their own path out.
Crespash was watching for my reaction, but I gave him my blankest stare.He turned back to the scroll and read some more.
