Descending Dragon - Chapter three

It wasn’t just Rosco missing with the dawn. I flopped from the dirty sheets I should have washed and tried to blink myself awake. The inn was dead quiet and light spilled from the windows with far more pluck than it should have.

“Are they gone?” I called when I saw father still awake, still drinking at a table.

“Course they’re gone,” he slurred. “They were off early, and it’s damn near halfway to noon. When did you get so lazy?”

I stumbled down to the bar still bleary eyed. The sun was up far past rising, I could see, and somehow the chickens had crowed their song and I’d slept right through.

I let my father’s comment slide right off. Wasn’t no point in arguing with a man in his cups, especially a broken one, and if you tried it said more about you than him. “Did the rubes both go? Was there a man who…left early?”

“How the hell should I know? Been here, haven’t I?” Pa slopped some drink across the bar to emphasize, not that he needed to.

I fingered the charm in my pocket to make sure it was still there. It already felt familiar somehow, comforting—which was a hell of a thing since I’d just taken it yesterday.

I walked out into the day and damn near choked at the brightness. A bell rang between my ears like it was the inside of a church, and seemed to send the sound about as far.

“Getting more like your old man every day, eh Sammy? Let’s you drink with him now does he?”

I squinted and looked up past the sun.

Dealing with Harmon Pliney the smith was hard on a good day, and I sure as hell didn’t have the time to do it now. He was about as serious as the iron he worked with, the size of a small shed, and brooked not a moment of nonsense from anyone.

“Have you seen Garet?” I asked, and the older man’s grey eyes narrowed.

“Why should I have?” His tone implied the question was stupid, but then he called back to his wives with volume that’d wake the dead. “Any of you useless women seen Garet?”

They squawked back and forth without any point for a time, so I started to walk on.

“Hey, boy,” Harmon called to my back. “Why you ask? What do you know? And I heard about your little fight, you trying to make trouble?”

Questions of a personal nature were not well trusted in Tristwood. Most folk weren’t the same at night as they were in the day, and preferred the actions and reputations of one were not transposed to the other. But since I hadn’t tried to make trouble in my whole life, I’d have liked to punch his big, fat nose. Instead I just walked on.

Both the rubes’ horses were gone. They might have high-tailed it out of town, or they might have taken them down to the Delve. I don’t know why but I was getting a raw feeling in my gut, like I’d eaten stew on the cusp of rot. Suzie wouldn’t have gone down into the Delve, no matter what she said. She was a practical girl. No damn fool boy could have made her do such a thing. I was sure of it.

I went straight to the river to find Willy and Leg. It was the worst time to fish so I knew they’d be there.

Except they weren’t. My gut flipped and I swallowed down a bit more than saliva. My forehead was dripping and I stopped at the last fishing hole to cough something fierce into my arm, then I walked back to town and asked everyone I found.

“You see Willy? Leg? Suzie?”

Nobody much liked the questions or my hurried tone. They all said no in any case and soon enough the butcher added: “And where the hell are Franker’s boys? They’re supposed to be taking my scraps to the outskirts.”

The heat of the day vanished and ice swallowed me whole. I walked straight back to Harmon as fast as I could and found him shirtless and working, steam and fire spurting in gouts from his forge as he pumped the bellows.

“I think they went down,” I yelled over the din. “Into the mine.”

The mountain of a man squinted as he looked at me and frowned.

“Course they did, boy. That’s Franker’s problem.”

“Not the rubes,” I said, angrier than I should have. “Some of Franker’s boys. Some of yours. Maybe Willy and Leg, er William and Rory, and who the hell knows who else. I think they’re trying to steal a bit before Franker goes down.”

The bellows stopped as Harmon stared. He looked at me real careful, just like Rosco the night before. Then he shrugged, and kept on hammering.

“If so, they’re gone,” he said, just like that.

The iron clanged against itself, the sound echoing ‘round us as the man kept on hammering, like nothing in the world had changed.

In another life I think Harmon was meant to be a good man. You see he and the other founders of Tristwood had left the North King’s capital when they were taxed three times in one year. They’d taken as many friends and neighbors who wanted to go, loaded up their lives into carts and wagons, and gone East with little more than hope and pride.

When they finally settled, Harmon had built damn near half the town. It was his strength and spirit that sustained folk when times were dangerous, his tools and weapons they traded when times were lean. But over the years his grey eyes went hard as his steel. In Tristwood or maybe the frontier I think a man became the worst thing he was, and Harmon Pliney could be cruel and callous as a Northern wind.

“Give me a sword,” I said, knowing I couldn’t change his mind. “I’ll go get them.”

Harmon looked at me, and for a moment I thought he was impressed and might even come along—like maybe he saw a thing he wished he still had, or was, and admired it.

“Sweet on that girl, are you boy? Don’t be a fool. Go back to your Pa. Enjoy whatever time you’ve got left. You got no idea what’s down there.”

Metal rang as his hammer fell and dented another piece of iron, and I looked at the old power in his aging arms and wished he and his would be coming down beside me, knowing now they never would.

“I’ll bring back your sons,” I told him, “or I’ll die trying.”

Then I walked back to the inn and took a big, leather pack from the closet. Pa was laid out snoring on the bar now and I was glad for that. I stuffed the bag with lamb jerky, a few cans of water and pots and pans.

There was a length of rope but it was bloody long and heavy and though I considered it for a time I left it alone. I told myself it could be my friends weren’t down there at all, that they’d just gone off as the young often do and were settled somewhere with a few stolen drinks.

But I knew it could be otherwise. I could be down there longer than I expected, and if so I figured it was best to be prepared.

Closest thing I had to a weapon was an old axe made for chopping wood, so I took that and sharpened the edge on a whetstone. Then I put on the hardest leather boots and pants I had before I covered my chest with wool. We had some gambeson somewhere once but damn me if I could find it.

I looked at myself in our only mirror, and grit my teeth at the first thing that came to mind: I looked just like a rube. A broke, stupid one.

A coughing fit seized me, then I was out the side door and past the stables, Harry the Horse bleating when he heard me. I wouldn’t bring him down to the Delve, though, not poor old Harry. A mine like that was no place for a donkey. No place for anything, really.

My pot jangled with my pan as I walked, and I clutched the old axe in one hand, Rosco’s charm in the other. Soon enough a few townsfolk noticed me. Diana stared from her window. The baker scrunched up his face like he didn’t quite know what he was looking at.

“That you, Sammy? You coming for the last batch for tonight? Where were you this morning?”

“Not today,” I told him. Then, considering I’d likely die: “And don’t expect me tomorrow, either.”

He frowned but didn’t ask any questions as I walked on. It wasn’t far to the Delve, at least not counted by steps. Few minutes walk and the road from town sloped like a miner’s back, the few gardens and ill-tended fields of Tristwood giving way to rock and weed; the gravel fading to dirt and lumps of wheel-breaking stone, then a sharp few drops like natural steps.

Soon enough it was just the old, rotten double door, not strong enough to hold you back but somehow always closed enough you had to open it.

When you went down to the Delve, you see, you had to choose. It was never an accident. You didn’t just wander in unaware. You opened the door.

I reached but stopped my hand halfway.

“Where are the horses?” I muttered, thinking on the rube who was supposed to have gone down that morning. Either he’d turned back, or someone had taken his animals. “Willy?” I called, and heard the echo of my voice ring from the high hills. “Leggy? Suzie?”

Nothing. Not even the birds. I knew if Willy were close by he’d shout and let me know. He hadn’t told me his plans because he knew what I’d say, but whether or not the youth of Tristwood had gone down or just wandered nearby, Willy would have called to me if he heard.

The handle felt no different than any door in Tristwood. I gripped the smooth teak and pulled, but nothing moved except some dust. I pulled a bit harder. Then I pushed in and the doors slid a little before they rattled against the lock or beam that held them closed. I’d never heard of the Delve being locked.

I put my axe in both hands and swung it like I was chopping wood, straight down at the flat surface to make a hole. The head flew off and almost caught me in the chin.

“Shit.”

I stared at the now curved stick in my hands, then the iron axe-blade settled in the dirt. If Willy’d been here he’d have said we were doomed and this the worst kind of omen, he and many others giving luck and chance more credit than they deserved.

I knew the axe was just old. I’d swung it strange and maybe harder on account of the fear, so here I was, axeless and stuck outside a door I hadn’t even considered.

I grabbed the handles with both grips and pulled, and when that failed I stepped up and tossed a shoulder into the task. When that failed too I wondered if maybe I should go get Harry and some rope after all, but to hell with it. I went back a few paces, and charged.

The doors burst open so easy it was like they hadn’t been stuck.

I tripped and went down without much fuss, glancing about as I dusted off and inspected. I couldn’t find any sign of a beam or a lock. As I searched I realized I’d tripped over a metal stick, and knelt down to pick it up.

“Well, hello,” I said out loud, realizing the ‘stick’ was really more like a mace. The shaft had flecks of rust but it was solid, and the round head wasn’t a separate piece like my axe but forged from the same iron mold.

“The gods giveth.” I tossed away the axe handle, and stood up with my new weapon, staring down into the gloom. My eyes adjusted from the brightness of the day to the darkness of the ‘mine’, and I stared for any sign of movement or life.

There was only a long, descending corridor that everyone in Tristwood knew led to a larger cavern. It was still maybe the case my friends weren’t down here. Or maybe if they were they’d only gone a little ways, hoping to strip the rubes.

“Willy?” I called. “Leggy?”

Still no answer. I took a deep breath, which just made me cough. The Delve was safest in the day, that was known, so I could go on a little ways and if I saw trouble I could run. I did everything in Tristwood but I never helped the men loot the corpses. That was the one thing I wouldn’t do.

I buried the bodies if they were found, sometimes by myself. I took the coin from townsfolk who paid for drinks at the inn, and that was bad enough. But I sure as hell didn’t loot those corpses.

Now I wished maybe I had. Maybe then I’d know this damn place a little better, and I wouldn’t be standing here with my hands trembling on a piece of jewelry, and a rusty mace I’d just picked up from the dirt. But wishes weren’t much good for anything. And it was just a little ways. I coughed in the floating dust until my lungs settled, then took the next step.

For my friends, and for Suzie. I could go a little further. It didn’t take long to find the blood.

A trail started up just past the entrance, and I froze when I realized what it was. It was the prospector, I told myself, the rube. Or maybe some kind of animal that got dragged inside for a meal.

I looked around for the cause but saw nothing. My steps were more careful now—there were traps down here in the dark. I knew that. Things that could spring from the floors or the walls, formed fresh without human hands to set them. I didn’t see any holes or spikes or anything, but still, I took my time.

A man had plenty of ways to die in the delve. I followed the blood down the corridor until a shape emerged in the gloom and I almost swung my stupid mace at the air. It was a wagon, I realized, just up ahead. Likely the rube had brought it thinking he’d be burdened down with treasure. The damn fool. Ain’t nobody ever came out of the delve with treasure save for Lester Franker, and that was only what was brought in.

I found a boy’s head by the wagon wheel.

It was just laying there, staring up at me, mouth slack and hung. I froze at the sight. It was the youngest Franker, still bruised from where I’d punched it.

It made me think when he and I had been together in the town square some odd five years before. We were at the only public execution ever seen in Tristwood, when one of Franker’s girls had been raped, and Harmon had cut Old Man Iver’s head off with an axe.

As it had plopped to the dirt some idiot boy had called his name, and we were ready to make fun. But sure as hell, the old man’s eyes looked at us like he was annoyed we’d disturbed him for a good ten heartbeats before they closed.

“Franker?” I said, though I’m not rightly sure why. I let out a breath when the boy’s eyes didn’t move.

I walked on, fresh water in my bowels, and I suppose I should have run. I figured the others would be just up ahead. Whatever happened had happened, I told myself, and it was over now.

I stopped again when I heard something…eating.

Light and shadows danced like lovers, flickering maybe from a torch. I clutched my rusty mace like a holy charm, Rosco’s disc in the other. Iron courage in hand I forced my feet closer until they rounded the first corner.

Light hung on a wall, a proper lantern in a big glass case. On the floor beneath it I saw dead faces. Body parts lay at angles and in directions that weren’t possible, corpses heaped like trash in a pile. I saw horse bodies too, legs missing, bodies ripped open and hollowed out.

All around, little things were stooped down and chewing. The creatures all turned and looked at me.

Beady red eyes shone like embers from the dark. I knew I should run. I would have, but next to the light, clutched by a long, thin hand with almost delicate claws, was Suzie.

She looked at me. The torchlight glowed in her pale green eyes, wild with terror. I knew the look on her face and the sound of her voice that followed would haunt me till the end of my days.

“Sammy! Help me!”

All the fear blasted away, and I did the dumbest thing you might imagine a kid with a rusty old mace might have done. I tried to help.