ramp. With one last glance at the dolphins swimming around her, Vixa walked into the pool. The chilly water closed over her head.
Sleep time in the grotto was always punctuated by the coughing and moans of the prisoners. The cold and damp constantly sapped their strength. Many were already sick with ague and consumption. The others were only waiting to get sick. The Dargonesti didn’t know (or didn’t care) that their land-dwelling captives needed warmth to survive.
Armantaro had slept curled up on his pile of bedding, teeth chattering all night. His first day as a slave had been more difficult than he would admit. The backbreaking labor on the wall combined with his constant anxiety over the welfare of Vixa Ambrodel gave him a very difficult time. His dreams this night were filled with visions of his tower room in Qualinost: book-lined, with a high ceiling and tall, narrow windows he left open on summer nights. His family always complained that the room was too drafty. In memory, it seemed like paradise.
The vision of home was interrupted by a tantalizing smell. A wonderful, mouth-watering aroma invaded his sleep and finally woke him. He opened his eyes, expecting the smell to vanish with his dreams; instead it grew stronger. It was the unmistakable odor of frying fish!
Flickering light cast grotesque shadows on the cave walls. Armantaro sat up, looking for Harmanutis and Vanthanoris. Their pallets were empty. He walked to the great heap of rubbish that divided the inhabited section of the grotto from the dark depths. On the other side were his companions. They were gathered around a campfire!
Vanthanoris was holding a plank to the flame. Pegged to the plank was a white fillet of fish. Harmanutis noticed the old colonel and greeted him.
“Where did the fire come from?” Armantaro demanded, hurrying to the welcoming light.
“Gundabyr did it,” said Vanthanoris. “But it’s not like any fire I ever saw.”
Armantaro knelt and held his hands out to the heat. The dwarf had piled loose stones into a rough hearth. In the midst of the stones sat a seething cauldron of yellow liquid. It gave off only a little smoke, but a great deal of warmth. Armantaro noticed there was no wood or flame beneath the pot. The yellow liquid boiled on its own.
“What is that?”
“Gnomefire,” replied Vanthanoris. “Gundabyr explained it to us, but all I got was the name.”
Beyond the circle of light the dwarf appeared, his arms laden with old clay pots. Harmanutis helped him unload his burden. Gundabyr’s clothes were dusted with ores of various colors. He looked as if he’d fallen in some lunatic flour mill.
Armantaro asked about the bubbling pot. Dusting off his hands, Gundabyr said, “Gnomefire is a compound often used by the folk of Sancrist Isle. There isn’t much wood on the slopes of Mt. Nevermind, so some gnome invented this mixture, which burns without need for wood. I learned to make it in my younger days, when I traveled often to gnome country. Garnath used to say nothing useful ever came from a gnome’s mind, but this stuff just might make the difference between living and dying down here.”
“Gnomefire,” Vanthanoris murmured. “Can you imagine the failures its inventor had before he hit on the right formula?” The gnomes of Sancrist Isle were known throughout Ansalon for their weird (and nearly always useless) experiments and inventions.
“It’s wonderful. What’s it made of?” Armantaro wanted to know.
“Sulfur and quicklime and bitumen and niter, plus a pinch of this and a scrap of that. I’d thought about making it before, but hadn’t found enough bitumen until last night. By Reorx, there’s tons of the stuff in the lower galleries!”
“How did you ignite it? None of us has a flint.”
The dwarf’s blue eyes gleamed. “That’s the special secret. All it takes-”
Vanthanoris jumped to his feet. “We have company,” he warned.
Scores of prisoners had awakened to the smell of cooking. Bearded, haggard faces stared with longing at the flickering bowl of light. The sight of the steaming fish caused mouths to drop open and tongues to move over cracked lips. So intent were they upon the fire and food, the prisoners overcame their habitual lethargy and crowded round the elves.
“Is there enough for all?” Armantaro asked Gundabyr.
“There’s enough for the whole Daewar clan.”
“Wait. Won’t a lot of fires exhaust our air?” Harmanutis cautioned.
The dwarf shook his head. “Nope, I don’t think so. There’s over three hundred people in this cave, but unless I’m wrong, the blueskins are supplying us with fresh air somehow.”
Even so, it was decided to limit the number of fires to five, just to be safe. Eager men clawed rocks from the floor and walls and built hasty firepits. Gundabyr went from one to the next, mixing powders into pots in just the right proportions, then stirring in thick bitumen to bind the ingredients together. Finally, he asked for water from the pool. As soon as the water was dribbled onto the black-and-yellow paste, a plume of smoke hissed upward. The mixture burst into flame with a soft
On first seeing this, one of the humans exclaimed, “You’re a wizard!”
“I’m a forgemaster of Thorbardin, which is better,” Gundabyr shot back.
Soon Nissia Grotto was warmer and lighter than it had ever been. Men crowded around the fires, warming stiff limbs and cooking their fish rations. They praised Gundabyr’s brilliance. For the first time, Armantaro heard laughter.
Vanthanoris voiced a worry. “What will the Dargonesti say?” he wondered.
“I doubt they’ll object too much,” Armantaro replied. “After all, warmth and cooked food can only keep their slaves alive longer, right?”
The elves sat back to watch their fellow prisoners enjoy Gundabyr’s gnomefire. They conversed softly about the battle of the day before.
“The chilkit bungled their attack yesterday,” stated Harmanutis. “Had they scaled the wall in more than one place, the Dargonesti could not have stopped them.”
“Let us be grateful you weren’t leading them,” Vanthanoris said dryly.
“Coryphene is no tactician, that’s certain,” put in Armantaro. “He simply met force with force. He didn’t maneuver his warriors at all. His greatest advantage lies in his store of captured metal weapons.” The old colonel frowned, etching deep lines in his thin face. “One of which is my own dagger.”
“Have the blueskins no metal of their own?” asked Harmanutis.
“None but some gold and silver trinkets. Oh, and some copper buttons.”
Gundabyr returned from his fire-starting and dropped heavily to the floor. “Phew! That’s work! Any of that baked cod left, Van?”
“I saved you the best cut.”
“Ah, many thanks, friend elf.” The dwarf tore into the fish with gusto.
“Should we rouse your brother?”
“No indeed. Let him sleep. He groused so much about working a double shift, I don’t want to hear him grumble about being disturbed again, even if it is for hot food.”
While Gundabyr ate, Armantaro asked him why the Dargonesti set such store by the iron and steel blades they found.
“Because they’ve got no forges, that’s why. You can’t smelt iron underwater.”
“But they do have gold and copper.”
“Huh! You can work them with no more than a candle flame.” More thoughtfully, he added, “Those volcanic vents would smelt soft metals, I bet. Maybe the blueskins use them.”
Armantaro ran a hand over the hard black surface of the wall behind him. “Didn’t you say this tunnel was part of an old volcano?” Gundabyr nodded, his mouth full of cod. “Well, that might be our way out!”
“How so, my lord?” Harmanutis inquired.
“Volcanoes by their nature tend to rise to the surface of the sea. If we can find a vent that goes all the way up-”
“Sorry, Colonel, but it ain’t likely,” interrupted the dwarf. “The blueskins wouldn’t make it that easy. You can be sure they’ve checked this cave. It has only one opening, and
