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was content to let the derro make the first move-at least for now.
A thin white hand and a small but thick gray one quietly lifted each other's
weapon from the ground.
Each creature looked over his partner's blade, then carefully sheathed it and
checked the fit. The deed was done, for whatever it was worth.
"We must leave now," said Wykar.
Seventeen years and a hundred twelve days passed under the golden lights of
Raurogh's Hall, far above the gnome and derro, and peace was at an end. A
fisher dwarf mending a net by the riverside heard the first crack of rock
shifting and splitting.
She froze in her work, startled, then dropped her net and lay flat, placing
her ear to the ground as she held her breath. Even through the roaring of the
falls and the tremor the cascade sent through the earth, random clicks and
pops could be heard in the stone. And the air above the rock had a new smell,
a broken-stone and lightning odor that the fisher dwarf had never before
sensed but had often heard tell of in old legends of horror. She clumsily got
to her feet and ran to seize an iron-headed gaff beside a metal pot.
The other dwarves of Raurogh's Hall had ceased their work to look about
uncertainly for the source of the sharp crack they heard come from all
directions around them. A moment later, a high, rhythmic clanging of metal
against metal was heard. Some dwarves recognized the ancient signal and
shouted the alarm. The others heard and as one flung down their tools in
rising panic, quickly awakening those who were still abed. Without delay,
the hundred dwarves packed themselves into sheltered corners or
beneath narrow doorways, their backs pressed tight to the stone and teeth
clenched in preparation. The broken-rock odor was everywhere now, disaster was
certain. The dwarves' lips moved in prayer to their ancient gods. Mere seconds
later, the earthquake struck.
The garden of glowing fungi had come to Wykar's mind when he had asked Geppo
to meet with him later, after their unexpected escape from the drow. The
fungus garden was reasonably close to the
Sea of Ghosts, where the gold, the egg, and their former masters now lay, and
the garden could be reached only through a high narrow tunnel that could
not be seen from the main cavern passage known as the Old River Path. Wykar
grimaced as he remembered that he had been captured only a mile down the great
corridor while on his way to see the garden again, which he had discovered in
his youth. The silent dark elves had then taken him to a small drow enclave
about three sleepings away by fast march. It was unlikely the drow had known
of the garden, they had never mentioned it.
Wykar now descended the rough cave wall down from the tunnel to the garden,
rappeling quickly by rope. When he again set foot on the sandy floor of the
Old River Path, Wykar stepped back and scanned his surroundings for danger. No
new smells, sounds, or sights-excellent. Luminescent fungi on the ceiling cast
a faint green light over all. The wide hall had held a river many thousands of
sleepings ago, but some race had rechanneled the water miles back to form the
Sea of Ghosts. Many kingdoms, wars, and slaughters later, someone else had
channeled the water away from the great sea, and the sea had slowly drained
ever since then through cracks in its bed or walls. At some point many
sleepings in the future, the Sea of Ghosts would itself be a ghost, a
monstrous dry chamber miles and miles across, where albino fish and uglier
things had stirred its black surface. It would be interesting then to see how
many bones-and whose- the sea had hidden over the long years.
Once the derro had descended from the fungus garden and the rope was flipped
loose and put away, Wykar took the lead toward their destination. Geppo
agreeably followed a dozen paces behind, saying nothing and studiously
ignoring the lethal advantage his position gave him over the gnome. Instead,
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he tested the heft of the gnome's blade and practiced a few shallow swings
with it, then slid it back in his ragged sheath and prepared his crossbow
instead. That done, he watched the walls and ceiling for possible
targets as he walked. The gnome noticed this and gave himself a mental pat on
the back. Maybe
Geppo would adhere to the contract after all. He was certainly an odd fellow.
Wykar walked on with confidence, not particularly worried about being shot or
stabbed in the back.
He had long ago prepared for that in other circumstances, and he did not
question his current defenses.
Still, he would be disappointed if Geppo turned traitor just now. He would
hate having to kill Geppo, even if he was just a derro.
The gnome's mind wandered as they walked. In the time they had been slaves,
Geppo had said nothing about his past or how he had come to be held by the
drow for what was likely many thousands of sleepings. He sometimes mentioned
his father, but always as a powerful figure, always in the past tense, and
always in a way that rang a little oddly to Wykar. Wykar had eventually asked
about Geppo's father, but his questions were met with sudden silence, a
cryptic shrug, or a change of subject.
It was getting dark again, no glowing fungi clung to the walls in this part of
the tunnel. The deep gnome opened his vest wider to have a clear grab at the
crystal-nosed darts stuck through loops on the outside of his leather armor.
As soon as the weak light from the high fungi had faded, he carefully pulled a
flexible left-hand glove from his belt, put it on, and plucked a hotstone from
inside a thick side pouch. He held the hotstone aloft, testing it. The heat
radiation from the magical stone reflected brightly from the surrounding
rocks, well past the distance that Wykar could throw a war dart. The gnome's
ultrasensitive eyes easily caught the infrared light, it was as good as a
torch, but any creature lacking heat-sensitive vision would see only darkness.
Wykar glanced back and saw Geppo squinting around but making good headway over
the sand and stones nonetheless. The eyes of derros, Wykar had heard, were
poorly adapted to seeing heat, their visual range for that was as far as a
child could pitch a pebble. Hardly tragic, considering their other flaws.
Wykar's mind spun on as they made their trek to the Sea of Ghosts. If Geppo
had been a true person, another svirfneblin, Wykar thought, we would have
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