Black Wolf, Silver Fox

Chapter Five "Duinn"-1

Chapter Five

"Duinn"T

he mountain was home to dwarves, who mined and lived there like ants in a rocky anthill. Their city, tunneled miles within the mountain, was a network of roads and rooms all lit by torch or magic. There were chambers within so old, they were all but forgotten, and new ones begun daily. Dwarves loved to build, so it was told, and many lords sought the dwarves’ industry.

Where there were dwarves, there was a forge where the hammering sounded. The musical sound of hammers rang throughout the mountain constantly. There was a language within that steady beat; thrums of warning or echoes of reassurance. Old ones called it the mountain's heartbeat. It lulled babies to sleep, comforted the heartbroken, and kept time for many songs. To the dwarf smiths, no sound was sweeter.

Duinn was accustomed to the hammers. How could he not be, raised with them as he was? There was something in them that bothered him; something incorporeal or absent. It rang a half-note in his soul when he stopped to listen. So, to forget his melancholy, he joined the music with a hammer of his own, pounding metal in his tiny forge near his home.

He brought his hammer down with a ringing blow. The shapeless lump of metal held between his tongs would have become a sword, if the mood struck at the critical time. Right now it was Duinn's outlet for frustration. Each ringing blow distorted it further, and he had only begun to beat it. He could always recycle it later, if the bar became ruined, by remelting it with the rest of the ore it came from. For now, the rhythm of hammer to metal filled his time.

Several blows later, Duinn realized he was being watched and had been for some time. Straightening his back, feeling his bones c***k, he turned and saw two elves. Wrapped deep in their cloaks, their faces peered out from within the enshrouded hoods. At least they showed proper respect, dwarf fashion, by letting him turn in his own time. A smith could be wounded if interrupted at the wrong time. In turn, an intruder could be hurt more, depending on the infraction.

These elves knew their manners, and good for them. Still, elves meant business, usually trouble. The sight disturbed him.

"I'm not supposing you want a sword made?" Duinn asked with fading hope. The hourglass marks on the elves' cheeks leapt from the shadows, as if screaming an advertisement.

Smiling, the elves shook their heads. The younger of the two stepped forward and bowed deeply. Duinn scowled with recognition. A business call indeed.

"Master Duinn," the elf said. "A pleasure, as always."

"Yes, Aes," Duinn snapped impatiently. "Enough formality. What is it this time?"

"’Formality,’ he calls it,” the young one laughed. “How like him. I’ll be brief, then. Duinn, Moirfenn has called your comrades to Nebhirrlos." He laughed again.

"What in Éire and Fion could be found in Nebhirrlos?" the dwarf demanded incredulously. He scratched his beard, realized he still held the tongs, and lay them on a nearby anvil.

"There is a matter of the new king," the other elf said quietly from the doorway.

"What care I for kings?" Duinn asked with a grunt. "The tribes rule themselves with or without a king, even in the palace to the north. If MacKegan is worried, he shouldn’t be. No one recognized the royal line anymore, no more than I do. It would take something more than a claim to kingship to get them to do so." Dismissing the matter, Duinn turned back to his anvil and the cooling piece of metal.

"You would be wise to remember," Aes said sharply, "your required services. You were not released."

"Aye, I know it," Duinn said. He returned the metal to the fire in disgust. There it would melt, and he would reclaim it later. "The way I see it, I have done more than my share for Moirfenn. Let a younger spirit break his back this time."

The elves exchanged a glance. "Leahr?" Aes asked with a rising eyebrow. The other stepped toward Duinn, paused, and slowly raised his hand.

The dwarf could ignore it at first. The pain emanating from the Mark on his shoulder merely pulsed. He turned to choose another bar. The pulsation became a pounding throb. His breath grew shallow.

"Enough!" Duinn gasped. The pain stopped suddenly. He was on the floor with no memory of when, or how, he fell. Irritation blackened his brow, but his mind he kept to himself. He was too weak to do more than lay there, like a beaten mongrel.

"Nebhirrlos," Aes said. "Don't forget. Meet them at the Sanctuary."

Duinn nodded weakly. He did not bother getting up again. A black boot came down by his hands. "And do not fail this time," the voice of Leahr said. "We can do worse if need be. Get up and listen while I explain.”

***

He traveled light, down into the bowels of the mountain. Underground highways that had been built for generations crisscrossed not only his mountain, but miles around the area and even into other mountains. It was like a giant ant mound, dwarves often said proudly if called upon to talk about their homes to strangers. He walked them, making good time. Before long he came to the deepest areas that were mostly deserted.

These places had once been bustling mines, but the ores were mostly gone. Whispers of dark things that lurked in the shadows, waiting for a good supper, sometimes were told around family dinners and gatherings. Duinn paid them no head as he continued.

He turned into an old mine shaft where the darkness was very deep. He required no torch, being a creature of the dark, but still he stumbled occasionally over scattered debris. At one point, he tripped on a fallen timber and fell face first up against a skull. Pausing long enough to pay quiet respects (and apologize to any spirit that might be listening), he sighed and moved on. Perhaps he could return to give the remains better honor later.

The darkness went on forever. He stopped only to eat and rest, sleeping with his back against the wall and his halberd across his knees. Two days, according to his senses, passed in this manner before reaching the end. The mine's exit was a small c***k in the mountain side with a boulder half blocking the way.

One thing more dwarves shared with ants was their strength. If Duinn chose to, he could push a boulder out of the way easily. He pushed against this one, but it was stuck tight against the mountainside. Undaunted, Duinn dug his way out, using his hands to clear away rubble and push at the boulder until it went crashing down loudly. Duinn crawled outside, not even winded.

It had been years since he had been above ground. He almost did not recognize the place. The exit had let Duinn out in the foothills with the mountain a lurking beast behind him. In the distance, a worn ring of stones stood on a barren hilltop. They marked a ley line, if Duinn’s memory was correct, and promised an easy avenue to his destination. Hoisting his pack on one shoulder, he walked to it. This did not promise to be a pleasant task, but there was no other option. Duinn did not know enough about the terrain to make his way by foot, nor did he care to learn the hard way.

The stones were weathered and cracked in various places, but this was hardly a testimony to their performance. Duinn's magical senses were very weak, but he thought he felt some power within them. In his opinion, elven magic was unreliable at the best of times. He could invoke the ley line in the traditional manner, elf magic, or his own. He stood a moment, plotting which choice might be the most effective.

Touching each stone, he stepped around the circle in the prescribed matter. Elves liked their circles, and much of their magic was based on intricate knot works and various themes involving round dimensions. It was all silly nonsense to the dwarf, who preferred straight lines and clean angles. He walked the circle five times, then two more. There was a flicker of light, the only reaction. The stones were almost dead.

Duinn had suspected he would have to resort to dwarven magic. If dwarves built the ley lines - which they did not but if they had - the stones would still work. He was willing to bet they’d even work as if finished just an hour ago. Elves were a silly lot. They built the ancient roads in a frenzy of enterprise and, once they were done, almost forgot about them. To be sure, there was probably some clan of elves somewhere who still knew how to make and repair these structures. Duinn knew not where and held no interest in finding them.

He settled in the middle of the circle with his pack still in hand, making himself comfortable and even pausing to groom his beard with a quick rake of the fingers. Once settled, he closed his eyes and, slipping into a light meditative state, began to mutter. The words came slow and haltingly at first, but as he gained confidence his memory improved. He shouted the final word, and the stones began to vibrate.

Pure light sliced into his brain, split his nerves wide open, and carried him into the sky. How can the elves stand this? he thought. Opening his eyes only brought misery, but he forced himself to look.

He was standing in the ley line. It glowed under his feet (funny how he could not remember standing up), looking like a bright ribbon tapering off in the distance. It forked up ahead with each turning a subtle difference in color to mark where they went. Like a sleeper in a dream, he knew the way he had to go. He started to walk.

A gentle hand reached out of the light and touched his shoulder. Duinn froze in dread. He had been expecting this, true, but he still felt nervous.

She emerged from the light, smiling. Thankfully, she withdrew her hand and backed a couple of steps away. Her pointed chin, those blossom cheeks – they were all as Duinn remembered, if a bit whitened by the illumination around them.

She had not aged, but specters did not know time the way physical folk did. Not that any of the Six, Duinn’s age-old companions, knew old age first hand. They all remained young, as was their choice. Duinn never regretted it.

"I thought I was forgotten," the ghost said.

"I could not," Duinn said, letting a touch of regret tinge his voice. "Perhaps the others, but they cannot help what they are."

"I know," the specter said miserably. "Raori would not have forgotten, though."

Duinn privately reasoned that any elf with a memory of stone would be utterly miserable. "What have you seen?" he asked past the urge to run away from her, for all she had been once a dear friend. "Does no one pass through the lines these days?"

"Oh," she waved a hand. It was a familiar gesture, but made eerie by the trails her hand left in the air. "A sorcerer or two will pass occasionally. I do not bother them."

"No one else," Duinn mused to himself. "Where do they go?"

"Some to Moirfenn. Most to Tech Danaan. The traffic grows less and less these days."

Duinn digested the information calmly. The ones going to Moirfenn were not important. Moirfenn naturally got a lot of traffic as lords sent envoys to pay Moirfenn’s tribute or, to their folly, ask a boon. And Tech Danaan, the isle of the land’s most holy temple, served hundreds of pilgrims every season. There was nothing unusual in that.

"Duinn," the specter said in a quailing voice. She edged forward a pace, then stopped at the dwarf's look of warning. "Do you think that maybe you could find a way to set me free?"

He gave the ghost an appraising glance. Her eyes were full of hope, as if he were some savior sent by the gods. It was an effort not to agree. "I'm truly sorry, " he said. "If I do find a way, I will help you. You have my word."

Anger flashed across her features. Her hands balled into fists and shook. Looking down, she said, "If that is what I must take as payment for my help, then so be it."