lightless caverns under the world.
Brandon gradually became aware of a consuming, pounding pain in his skull, and it was that agony that finally told him he was still alive. He lay still for a very long time and gradually reconstructed the events that had brought him to that place. Groaning as he remembered his brother, stricken in the corridor a few dozen feet overhead, he tried at last to move and cried out as a searing pain stabbed through his shoulder.
Gritting his teeth, cursing his attackers, pleading for strength from the great god Reorx, he pushed himself up to his hands and knees. He tried to open his eyes, but they would not respond, and he was terrified at the thought that he had been blinded. It was only when he had finally pushed himself to a sitting position, freeing his hands, that he was able to touch his face and find that his forehead was crusted with dried blood. That sticky fluid had dribbled over his eyes, and his lids were sealed shut.
Each scrape was agony, each probing finger brought renewed stabs through his skull, but he slowly clawed the dried blood away until he could open his eyes. Though it was pitch dark in the deep delving, he tried looking around in the murk and was almost pathetically relieved to see the blurry silver glow of his axe blade-the weapon that had once been Balric Bluestone’s axe. He pounced on it and picked it up, ignoring the pain provoked by the sudden movement, and he began to feel a little better.
He felt better, at least, in that anger was beginning to supplant grief in his churning emotions. He slung the axe onto his back and stood, shakily at first but with growing strength. The chimney was full of rocks, blocking his escape, but he set to work pulling them away. Dragging and clawing until his fingers were raw, he cleared away the blockage, aided by gravity as the last of the stones finally rolled free into the deep cavern. Hand by hand, his boots jamming against the walls for traction, he pulled himself upward, finally emerging into the upper corridor, the ancient connection to the Zhaban Delving.
As his head reached the floor level, he found himself staring directly into Nailer’s lifeless eyes. He groaned a choking cry of grief. Pulling himself out of the shaft, he collapsed on his brother’s body, cradling Nailer’s motionless form and sobbing uncontrollably. The lamp still flickered, and he angrily knocked it away, as if the darkness could block him from acknowledging the stark truth of his brother’s death…
The truth that the Bluestone luck remained as bad as ever.
Only after several minutes of grieving did he start to consider the potential danger to himself. Belatedly, he looked around, but there was no sign of the mysterious assassins. He remembered the arm he had severed, but even that limb was gone, the wound marked by only a smear of dried blood on the floor. Also removed was the body of the slain attacker.
Brandon slowly rose to his feet, resolute and grimly determined. He reached down and hoisted his brother’s body into his strong arms. Staggering under the weight, gritting his teeth against the pain that still wracked his body, he began to walk home.
For many long hours, he trudged through the abandoned passages, making his way ever upward. He had to stop frequently to rest, and in these intervals he thought of his mother and father, his heart nearly breaking at the thought of their grief when they heard his news. All of their hopes, the whole future of the clan, had been vested in the two brothers and their bold exploration.
Remembering the goal of their mission while he caught his breath, Brandon wondered if that vein of gold, somehow, had led to his attack. He didn’t see how it was possible. But then, who had killed his brother and why? He growled deep in his chest as he pondered the question and vowed that, when he had the answer, that person would die a miserable death. Then he hoisted his brother’s body in his arms and once more started trudging upward.
Eventually he came to a rail tram used for hauling ore out of the still-working parts of the delving and two kindly miners allowed him to place Nailer’s body on top of their cargo of ore. Brandon trotted along beside the cart, still moving upward, until they reached the large smelting plant at the summit of the extensive Zhaban Delving. There were a number of dwarves around, and several who were just getting off work offered to help him cart his brother’s body toward Bluestone Manor, on one of Garnet Thax’s midlevels.
“Thanks, friends. I’ll do it myself,” Brandon said. He did gratefully accept the loan of a two-wheeled wagon, and with that simple machine bearing Nailer’s corpse, he began the last long climb.
Stairways linked the city’s levels for foot traffic, but several wide, spiraling ramps facilitated the ascent, or descent, for wheeled vehicles. It was as Brandon trudged up the first of those, a road that climbed through all ten of the deep-levels, that he looked up to see one of his father’s friends hurriedly approaching, his bearded face marked by an expression of grave concern.
Harn Poleaxe was a foreigner, a Neidar hill dwarf who had been a long-time visitor to the mountain dwarf city. That in itself was not unusual-there were clans of Neidar in several parts of the Garnet range-but Poleaxe was also a dwarf from south of the Newsea. In fact, he was a Neidar who hailed from the hills around great Thorbardin itself. Brandon didn’t know him well, but the visitor was a regular guest at his father’s house, and the son knew Poleaxe and his father had been discussing business dealings for more than a year. Poleaxe was an inherently likable fellow, always quick with a story or to flip a coin to the bartender to buy the next round.
As he hurried toward Brandon, however, his face was gray, and he blanched as he saw the bloody bundle in Brandon’s cart.
“Word was spreading through the bazaar just a half hour ago. I came down as soon as I heard.” Poleaxe was a big, handsome dwarf. His breath, as he leaned close, was sweet with the aroma of dwarf spirits, which was no surprise to Brandon as Poleaxe and his father were both fond of the strong drink.
The Neidar didn’t seem the least bit drink-addled right then, however. Instead, he was stern and commanding, planting his hands on his hips and glaring about at the nearby dwarves-mostly gritty miners climbing from the delvings to their inns and living quarters-as if he expected to locate Nailer’s murderer among them. “How did it-?” He grimaced. “Never mind, there’ll be time enough for the tale. You!”
He pointed at a sturdy blacksmith who was watching them curiously. “Take word to Garren Bluestone! Tell him his eldest son is slain, and we are bearing his body home!”
Brandon was impressed by the visiting hill dwarf’s sense of command and so, apparently, was the blacksmith. “Yes, sir!” he declared, hastening off at a sprint.
“Now let me give you a hand with that sad burden,” declared Poleaxe. Brandon finally felt his weariness and allowed the Neidar to help him pull on the yoke. He barely noticed as the burly dwarf took more and more of the weight, and the young Bluestone was left to stumble along beside the wagon, numbed by a mixture of grief and exhaustion.
Others were taking note, and a small crowd began to collect, trailing along with them on the curving section of ramp. Brandon didn’t even notice when one dwarf then another offered him a shoulder, but soon he was assisted along by the pair of sturdy helpers. Before he knew it, they had climbed to the fifth midlevel, the section of the city where the current Bluestone manor was.
“Thanks, all,” said Poleaxe with obvious sincerity, addressing the dozen or so dwarves who had formed their small procession. “Now let’s give the family their privacy, eh?”
“Right you are, Harn,” said one of the dwarves who’d been supporting Brandon. “You take care, lad,” he added as the numb Hylar nodded his thanks. The group quickly dispersed, leaving the Neidar and Brandon to haul the cart down the narrow street toward the stone door of the house.
Garren Bluestone himself opened the front door, and from the stricken look on his father’s face, Brandon knew that word of the vile murder had already reached the house. For some reason, the stern visage of the family patriarch steeled the young dwarf’s soul, and he suppressed the tears that felt like they wanted to burst forth.
“They killed him, Father. Five dwarves, assassins, came out of the darkness.”
“Bring him in.” The elder’s dwarf’s face was a stony mask, utterly devoid of emotion. He stared at Brandon, and suddenly his eyes showed their deep pain, a window of grief. “Are you hurt?” he asked hoarsely, his eyes going to his surviving son’s arm.
Brandon looked down and was surprised to see the dried blood crusted there-he had all but forgotten the slice of the assassin’s sword. But then the pain flared anew, together with the throbbing in his head and back, where the boulders had rained down on him. “I–I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe a little. It’s nothing.”
He looked at his brother’s body and couldn’t suppress a sob.
“Your sons were in the delvings,” Harn Poleaxe offered softly. “Brandon carried Nailer up to the deep-levels, and from there word spread through the stalls in the bazaar. I met him on the ramp.”
“I thank you for your help,” Garren declared, his voice choking as he clasped Poleaxe’s arm. Only for a
