Midnight Bounties 4 - Chapter 15

Ancient dwarven letters were chiseled into the obsidian rock of the Redmaw’s entrance. They read ‘Redmaw’ for some reason. Curious. It wasn’t like anyone could mistake the largest black mountain of the region that caused a cataclysmic shift in our history for something else.

Even more curious were the letters below written in the common tongue. “The only hole deeper than your mother’s twat,” I read and grinned.

Beneath those and a bit to the side it said ‘Threelegs was here’ and written over that in red paint it claimed that this Threelegs was a scoundrel who owed George three goats and quarter of grain.

I looked up at the monstrous ender of worlds that rumbled endlessly, spewing hot dust and ash across the landscape then back at its massive, rocky entrance and sighed.

“Fucking Garret and his mercenary crew,” I muttered to Wolf.

The deviltail nodded as if he understood my words. I brought up my torch, lit it, then used that to fire up my cigar and finally walked inside while holding Wolf’s reins.

What a depressing, dark shithole that place turned out to be. I could taste the eons of death and decay that hung in the heavy hair. 

Even a mile in, the cavern walls were painted with more of Threelegs’ and George’s wisdom along with others who had visited the place perhaps for shelter, or perhaps for loot that had long been snatched or destroyed. Decades or even centuries of graverobbers had left their mark on this place.

I came upon rusty pieces of armor, broken weapons, rotting wooden carts, and animal bones. Some seemed barely a few years old, others as ancient as the mountain’s malevolent history itself. Generations of researchers and wisemen studied these black caverns, generations of robbers and murderers had waited in ambush for them. What was lost in the centuries of carnage was picked clean by the next generation.

And so it went year in year out until they dug through the corpse of this civilization’s demise, leaving nothing behind but the instruments of their greed.

“I should write that down,” I muttered, somewhat proud of my own thoughts.

This relaxed me somewhat. I came in expecting the worst from the get-go, never considering that the Redmaw was a curiosity for centuries and that many a man had trodden those black cavernous tunnels.

As I went deeper inside and sporadic earthquakes came ever more frequently, I began to feel the weight of the mountain above me and the weight of the task beneath. My mood had soured even more when I realized that it was slowly becoming warmer and darker the closer I got to the real entrance.

Nobody really explained which way I should go either, but I figured if the other Spellmongers made it to Hell and died there, I would too. A double-edged thought, truly.

About three or four miles in, the random writings on the walls had disappeared and the tunnel became just a little narrower. I realized I had passed a kind of threshold separating those who had come there to loot and those who truly wanted to look deeper. I tightened my grip on the torch and took Mercy in the other hand while shifting my cigar from one side of my mouth to the other. Things were turning serious, and I wanted to be ready for whatever bullshit would come my way begging to lose their heads.

My suspicion proved only partly right when a loud tearing sound coming from behind made me swing the black blade blindly and drop my torch.

“The fuck!” The familiar demonic voice rang through the empty cavern.

“Nasthran?”

“The one and only! Missed me? I’ve missed you, warlock!”

The little black imp hobbled his way to my side, but Wolf was quicker. He bit down on the demon’s head and as he did it splattered into black mist in his maw. The headless body disappeared into a puff of black smoke,and the deviltail shook his head in confusion.

“Easy,” I said, stroking his side.

A moment later another tear in reality appeared, and the imp jumped out, looking just a tad bit angrier than before.

“That thing needs to be put down.”

“You look fine,” I said.

“I know, but it still hurts.”

He stretched his hips, arms, and legs, then looked up at me.

“Took you long enough to get here.”

I picked the torch off the floor. It was extinguished. Just as I’d wrapped my hand around it, I realized I could see just fine in the darkness. I flung it at the little demon, but he side-stepped it casually.

“Forgot you can see in the dark? Hee-hee!”

“What do you want now?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He sighed shaking his head. “Dark God, why this guy? He’s got the smarts of a dull rock. Eh, well, here you are. Took you long enough, didn’t it? What was all that meditating crap? You know if you had taken…say two hundred heads? Boy, you’d have all the power you needed instead you sat in that temple like some sweaty statue—.”

“Get to the point, imp.”

“I’m not an imp, Frank.” I locked eyes with him and tapped the blade of my sword.

“Yeah right, now you’re threatening violence all of a sudden. Where has all that killer instinct been for the last few months? Some of the generals thought you were a lost cause.”

“Wish I was,” I said and spat out the bud of my cigar. “Now get to it. Are you supposed to be my guide down here? Get me to the gates of Hell or whatever it is?”

“He does have a brain!” the imp said and clapped his hands. My eye twitched and I swung my sword at his head and severed it from his thin black neck. It rolled away for a few feet then disappeared in a puff of black smoke together with his body. I stood there waiting for a moment until another portal opened and yet another fresh Nashtran walked through, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Will the two of you fucking stop? I told you it hurts!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Alright, let’s get to it then.”

Good, I thought. At least he learned quickly.

“Lead the way,” I said and almost kicked him just out of annoyance.

“We need to venture deeper down this path. It will start branching out and you’ll probably get lost and die of hunger without me, you know? So pay attention and no more beheadings or I won’t be back to help you.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” I said.

He was bound to me by demons of a higher cast and had to obey. Taking his head would be a cakewalk compared to the suffering his superiors would offer. He slouched his shoulders and pointed onwards.

“This way,” he said with a sigh.

Just as the annoying little imp announced, about another mile deeper in, the tunnels began to branch out into several different directions. Some into tight claustrophobic corridors, others into wide open spaces. I saw plenty of bones sticking out the ash and dust, the remains of lost travelers and probably those who hunted them. Nasthran kept us on track as we meandered through the obsidian black labyrinth beneath the Redmaw.

The heat was becoming an issue after a while. I was drenched in sweat and considered dropping my armor but that seemed like a dangerous idea. Steam came off cracks in the cavern walls and the rumbling of the mountain above almost became like a pulse, regular and without breaks. The Redmaw never slept, unlike the thousands of dwarves it buried within its bowels.

We finally came to the first signs of civilization about two hours in. The imp had brought me to an intersection that had columns carved into the stone with ancient dwarven text written all over. Much of it was barely readable because time had taken its toll on the runes, but I could make out some of it.

“Toolanor,” I said.

“Oh, excuse me, professor. I didn’t know I was in the presence of a scholar.”

“Tighten your lips, imp,” I said, tapping my blade. “I don’t mind beheading you. It keeps my mind sharp and my wrist warm.”

Nasthran swallowed then pointed to the right corridor.

“Anyway, we’re not going to Toolanor. The dwarven city is now nothing but ruins and hollow rock swarming with Redmaw critters.”

“What’s to the left?”

“Kathaan, the duergar city.”

“Duergar? In the Redmaw? No way. The dwarves­ would bring the whole fucking mountain down if they knew duergar had infested it.”

“Hah! Dwarves! What can they do about it? Come, I’ll show you.”

Toolanor was a holy site for the dwarves of Steelheart. Not that they had a pilgrimage or anything because the ruins were as the imp said very deadly, but if they knew duergar had set up camp in the Redmaw? Boy, that would bring an army of the angry bearded fuckers down there.

I was somewhat unnerved by the whole thing. I couldn’t even imagine what the story behind it all was. As we made our way deeper into the mountain, Nasthran explained that the duergar had built Kathaan a few decades after the Redmaw’s eruption and the Great Dwarven Exile. It all sounded unbelievable because someone would have noticed a whole city of those black-skinned little fanatics throughout the centuries, but I kept my mouth shut, waiting for the explanation to reveal itself.

The cavern walls slowly became wider, filled with ever more columns and flattened rock walls inscribed by the occasional ancient dwarven runes. Then, about another mile in, we came upon a dead end. Massive rocks blocked the way onward and I sighed, looking to my little demonic guide.

“Now what, genius?”

The imp looked up at me with a devilish grin.

“Now you stand in front of the rocks and look up.”

I sighed but did as he said. I was growing tired of the heat and the never-ending dark tunnels and was hoping for a change of scenery.

Aa strange green curtain of light washed over me and the entire cavern began to shake. I braced for the worst, looking over my shoulder at Nasthran who only offered me a jagged grin.

The giant rocks rumbled as white fumes hissed between the crevices. With a loud crack, the boulders suddenly fell into openings in the cavern walls, revealing a giant stone gate. It was massive and heavy, inscribed with duergar runes that glowed a feint red. I gripped Mercy hard, unsure of what to expect.

A moment later, the gate rumbled too, dust and fine black sand cascading down like a waterfall as it began to open.

“It recognized you, Spellmonger. Pretty neat, isn’t it?”

A company of duergar in heavy black armor met me on the other side as if they had been waiting for there the entire time. They were all kneeling with their heads bowed low. I just stood there with a raised eyebrow, curious to see what the hell was going on.

One of the duergar straightened out, removed his helmet, and cradled it at his hip. He approached me with a steady step, his eyes seething red and his white beard hanging down to his knees.

“Master Spellmonger, the Order of Kathaan greets you.” He bowed his head respectfully then looked me over. There was a hint of a grin as he scanned my armor. I was, after all, clad in a lot of duergar gear.

“Me name’s Captain Resh Ur’bin. It’s an honor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Please, follow me. We’ve made all the preparations for yer arrival.”

“I’m sure you have,” I said flatly.

I followed the captain through the ranks of bowing duergar and up a wide flight of stairs. Wolf sniffed some of the dark dwarfkin, which visibly made them nervous. No wonder, he could probably swallow some of the smaller soldiers whole.

 Torches of blue light flickered on the grey-white stone walls carved into the mountain rock. As we reached the top, I swallowed unprepared for the sight before me.

Kathaan was almost half the size of Sankta Varath. Set within the largest cavern I had ever seen, the black city spurted endless streets of obsidian buildings standing between several streams of burning hot magma. There must have been tens of thousands of duergar roaming the tight alleys, working in hundreds of forges and giant scaffolds built to reach the mushroom farms growing along the cavern walls. A veil of white smog lay over the city like a formation of clouds as the different workshops pumped their steam into the cavern.

“How?” I blurted out, unable to come up with anything smarter. The captain pointed down a meandering stairway that led deeper into the bowels of the city.

“We have been hard at work, Master Spellmonger.”

“But…the duergar in the Black…are they even aware of what you have built here?”

“We are the duergar of the Black,” the captain said, shooting me a grin over his shoulder. “We’re deep enough to connect to our homeland. Come, we have gifts for you. The Oversmith awaits.”

There wasn’t a single duergar who didn’t drop to his knees as we passed by. I couldn’t say I wasn’t surprised by the whole thing, but then again I had already been in a similar situation once back in the Ambermine. Except that Kathaan was several orders of magnitude greater than anything there. Morgefah had truly taken the duergar under his wing like no other race.

Captain Ur’bin led us through a great avenue split by a row of tall obsidian obelisks and surrounded by buildings dotted with precious stones and intricate carvings. At the end of it was a large structure that seemed to be carved from a single massive rock resembling two serpents embraced and snaking upwards. Their heads faced each other and a grand brazier burned in blue between them.

What struck me the most, however, was the absolutely humongous statue of Morgefah hanging suspended by giant chains above it. It was the same faceless demon with Allfah’s spear in his chest that I had seen numerous times in different temples, except that this one was more the size of the temples themselves. The most disturbing thing about it, and by a mile, were the cages bolted to the statue and filled with slaves of different races. Some were dead and bleeding through the gutters onto the obsidian skin of the Dark God, others were wailing and crying as they awaited the same fate. A gruesome sight that made me sick to the stomach. Yet, I wasn’t there to teach the duergar basic civility, so I simply looked away.

A good hundred or so soldiers knelt at the steps leading into the entrance. Banners hung heavy and unmoving in their ranks showing the colors of the different duergar houses of the Black.

“The Oversmith’s Auditorium, Spellmonger,” the captain said, pointing at the entrance. “I’m yet forbidden to enter.”

I nodded and walked through the iron gates, making my way inside. The Oversmith stood, his hands wrapped around the handle of a great two-handed warhammer. Around him dozens of duergar toiled at the forges and anvils. Chains rattled, steel clanked, and steam hissed in a cacophony of war preparations. The air was wet and heavy with burnt metal.

Upon seeing me enter, the boss of the place or whatever he was, swung the warhammer through the air, bringing it down with both hands against a large anvil at his side. All the other smiths stopped whatever they were doing and turned to face him. He pointed the hammer at me.

“He’s here.”

“I’m here,” I muttered, feeling as if I just walked into a story that was coming alive before me.

The smiths dropped their tools and fell to their knees. I twitched as the clank of a dozen hammers, pliers and lumps of iron echoed through the auditorium. I was slowly getting used to the sight of duergar kneeling in front of me. Not that it felt right, but it didn’t make me uncomfortable anymore.

“Prepare the Spellmonger!” the Oversmith roared.

Like a wasps’ nest under attack, the duergar picked up their tools again and began hurrying around the place as the big boss approached me slowly. He bowed his head only slightly then took me in.

The fucker was large for a duergar, and came almost up to my shoulders. Weirder still, he was as broad as a fautar. His face looked ancient, white and wrinkly and dotted with runes. He seemed a bit twitchy, a bit nervous even.

“It is our great—” He fell into a coughing fit, his shoulders and chest heaving. “Our great…excuse me.” He grabbed onto his chest and coughed harder, blood splattering onto the polished floor. He wiped his face and shook his head.

“These fucking forges all day.”

“I thought duergar were immune to the fumes.”

“Bah,” he said, leaning on his knees and coughing. He looked up at me, straining to pronounce the words. “We’re addicted is what we are. Never immune.”

I saw some of the looks the other smiths shared among them as their boss spoke nearly heretical words. The duergar’s greatest pride was their connection to the earth and their forges. I never heard a duergar, or a dwarf for that matter, admit the consequences. None of his underlings dared to speak, of course. Despite his health, the Oversmith looked more than capable with that warhammer of his.

“We’ve prepared everything for your descent,” he said, gathering himself somewhat.

He snapped his fingers and two of his workers ran up to me and began fiddling with the clasps of my armor. I almost elbowed the right one, but the Oversmith held up a hand to calm me.

“It will be quick. We’ll modify yer armor. Ye mind showing me that sword o’ yers?” he said, holding out a hand.

I raised an eyebrow.

“No funny business,” I said, slowly unsheathing it.

The Oversmith coughed again, harder this time. Tears appeared at the corners of his eyes. He wiped the blood off his white beard and held the hand up again. I gave him Mercy, growing a little concerned by the act. The other smiths were unclasping my leg armor in the meantime and I couldn’t say I was feeling comfortable.

The Oversmith looked the sword over, tapping the blade, holding it up, and scanning the workings. He finally handed it back.

“A good weapon. Fine work. Not duergar-fine, but fine.”

He snapped his fingers again and a comparatively tiny duergar appeared, carrying a rectangle steel box with no markings. He handed it to the Oversmith.

“Yer sword, Mercy is it?” he asked. It didn’t surprise me he knew the name. “It will serve you well in Hell, but consider this too, Spellmonger.”

The great smith opened the box and grinned faintly. A wave of heat washed over me followed by a blinding red light. I covered my eyes for a moment before they adjusted to the sight. I was looking at a long sword the kind I had never seen before. The handle resembled the skin of a demon, rugged, twisted, and full of black protrusions sticking from the skin. It reached up to the blade which was broad, thin, and gleaned brightly with red runes set into the metal. The thing felt alive.

“Forty years ago Rabka came to us from the Dhozen Fires,” the Oversmith began, “A demon baron who found a way to escape Morgefah’s domain for good. As ye may be aware, a demon’s time in our realm be borrowed, but Rabka, hah. That big red bastard struck a deal with some mage from Shan’tar to exchange souls or some arcane shit—” He fell into another coughing fit and I had to grab the box from the Oversmith before he dropped it.

“Anyway,” he said. “Rabka had to go through Kathaan which was fine with us. But he was a greedy little bitch. Started giving out orders, making demands. Now we worship Morgefah ‘ere, but his demons? We don’t always care for ‘em. One thing led to another and a few dead duergar later, we killed the hellspawn. And usually a demon never truly dies, but since he was under a contract with a mortal, it was lights out for Rabka.”

“Fuck Rabka!” one of the smiths yelled, hammering at his anvil.

“Aye! Fuck him good!” more yelled.

“’Tis sword, the Traitor, Me fashioned it meself from the demon’s skin. A rarity like no other, Spellmonger. There’s none like it in this realm. Demons skin, Spellmonger, the rarest of materials for the handle. And the blade? Demon bones and duergar steel.” He looked lovingly at the sword. I worked two whole years on it and it’s yours. Take it.” I eyed the thing for a moment. I couldn’t say I wasn’t impressed but there was something else on my mind.

“Will it speak to me?”

The Oversmith frowned in confusion.

“Why would it speak to ya?”

“It sounds like one of those swords with a soul or something. One of the chatty ones. I’ve got plenty of voices in my head, Oversmith. Don’t really need another.”

“Ah, fair point,” he said. “But no, Rabka is dead for good. His bones don’t speak. This hammer, though?” he said, nudging his head toward the weapon he was leaning on. “A dozen drow souls in it. They used to keep me up at night, but I was so proud of my work I wouldn’t let go. That was decades ago, I barely even hear their desperate cries anymore.”

“Uh-huh.”

“One of ‘em taught me to cook, would you believe it?”

“Great.”

“Take it,” he said again and I curled my fingers around the rough handle, feeling a pang of power course through my hand.

[NAME: Traitor]

[DESCRIPTION: Rabka’s treachery didn’t go unpunished. The demon baron’s corpse was turned into a long sword by Loktar Ur’gan the Oversmith.]

[PROPERTIES: +5 to Long Swords, +10 strength, +10 agility, +10 stamina]

[MAGICAL PROPERTIES: Increases damage against demons by 100%. Critical attacks have a chance to instantly and brutally kill your enemy if they’re within a 10 level range. Causes DREADFIRE on attack.]

[DREADFIRE: Engulfs the insides of your target with demonic fires causing 50% of damage done by your initial attack for ten seconds, every second.]

“Holy fuck,” I muttered, looking the sword over. “What does it mean that it brutally kills your enemy when it critically hits?”

The Oversmith grinned.

“You’ll have to see it, Spellmonger.”

“Aye,” I said scanning the blade.

“Now, bring your mount in. Your deviltail is about to get a treatment too. Can’t have that nice mount’e yers die that easily.”