Firehorn: A Dwarf Fortress Story - Part One Read online

Morul opened the hatch and inhaled the rich earthy smell of the first cavern layer, the air as thick and potent as steam from a kettle of stew. It was the scent of minerals and tilled soil and fresh water, and smelling the sudden onrush of that natural freshness (as opposed to the stuffy air of the rest of the fortress) was often one of the highlights of his day.

  But today it seemed laced with something bitter and acrid, some distant corruption barely detectable but disturbing all the same. Morul inhaled again, but it was still there. Perhaps the engineers were up to something. Sometimes there machinations brought about odd smells.

  Or more likely, it was just his failing senses.

  Morul went about the task of climbing down the long southern staircase that coiled ever downward for the entire length of the fortress. It was still quite early and Morul found that he must have been the first to come down that way, for the torches along the wall were yet unlit. He was glad for that, actually. It gave him an excuse to stop every few moments and gather his breath as he lit them with his own.

  Already he could feel his knees aching. The parts of his grizzled body that had so long served him and contributed to his life-long good health had finally begun to falter. He sometimes lost his thoughts in mid-sentence and his partners in conversation often had to remind him of what topic they were speaking. They’d pat him gently on the shoulder and tell him it was alright and that such things were to be expected, but he could see the look in their eyes. They thought he was becoming feeble.

  He felt a draft come forth out of the darkness, creeping its tendrils up and under his clothes. His muscles tightened and he felt his flesh prickle. The mind was a fragile thing, a delicate machine that if not properly tended and oiled would grind its stony gears until all alignment was lost and there was only the clatter of broken levers, mechanisms, and chaos. He would often lie awake at night thinking of such things, but now those doubts had begun to creep in at all hours.

  Save those thoughts for the sleepless nights, he told himself.

  He continued on his path, his knees barking all the way. When his old bones first started to fail him, he’d gone to see the doctor thinking that perhaps he’d been lacking something in his diet. Instead, the chief medical Dwarf had surprised him with another diagnosis.

  You’re getting old.

  Blast him, Morul thought. That Bomrek is as blunt as a hammer.

  But he was also right. An officious little bookkeeper had approached him last year and seemed to take an obscene delight in telling Morul that he was now the oldest Dwarf in the fortress. Unfortunately, that didn’t afford him any additional privileges, other than an excuse not to do as much hauling. But there wasn’t much of that to do anyway now that the minecart system was installed. A marvel of engineering that was, and made Morul think of the old fable about a clever Dwarf who had taught stone to haul itself. What was his name?

  Morul couldn’t remember. He hated that sensation, that feeling of knowing but not being able to recall, like some shadow playing only in the edges of one’s vision. Curse it all, what was his name?

  To blazes with it. It was a foolish story anyway.

  He carried an old cane fishing pole along with the torch, and in his pocket a small leather pouch with a few spare hooks. His first real profession had been as a fisherdwarf in his youth and in an effort to save himself some trouble climbing up and down the stairs, he’d decided a few weeks ago to go back to his roots. Now he could spend all day by the lake, fishing and relaxing. The others here used nets to catch the half-blind cave lobsters and glowing top-feeders that swam around in the seemingly infinite underground lakes, but he was trying for quality rather than volume.

  As a child he’d first learned to fish with an old cane pole much like the one he now carried. He’d spend hours sitting on the bank of the stream that ran by the old fortress of Oak Helm where he grew up. If he caught something his mother would pat him on the head and gut it outside and he would watch so he would know how when he got old enough. She’d fry it in a pan and he would be asked share with his sisters.

  Still now he often dreamt of the modest mudstone room they all shared back then; he’d technically spent more years of his life in Marblespire, but oddly, he rarely dreamt of the capital. He’d dream of his two sisters, Minkot and Onol, and his mother and father and the old scuffed wooden dining table where they had shared their meals. He’d dream of them all sitting there talking about some goings-on in the fort, often the strange and fanciful events that sprung forth from the deeper stages of sleep. They were nice dreams. Peaceful.

  His father died in a mining accident. Onol was killed in Oak Helm’s third Goblin incursion. Minkot died in the fourth. His mother was drafted into the militia in the fifth and was killed during the siege. After that Oak Helm wasn’t much but rubble and ghosts. The Final Torment took it the following winter, changing the name and spearing the heads of the dead along the stream where Morul used to sit and fish and wait for his mother to help him gut his catch.

  He’d been too young to fight so the sieges were merely blurs of fear and fire. He recalled only a few clear images of the troubles; Minkot praying at the foot of their father’s coffin, a filthy and scraggly and shockingly thin Dwarf digging through old barrels for food scraps, Onol looking fierce but too young as she wore her iron breastplate, his mother and he hiding in some rough corner of the fortress chopping bits of their old dinner table for firewood and young Morul asking but where will we eat, mother? It was only by the grace of the gods that Morul had survived all that.

  Morul gave a humorless smile. Survive. What a word.

  After a great deal of trudging along in the near-dark, he finally reached the bottom of the staircase and the first cavern layer. At its highest, the galena ceilings were roughly eighty feet above him, but they were mostly occluded by the darkness. The entirety of the first layer was explored save for the areas where the ceiling dropped to just a few feet above Hot Lake, and only the mining and engineering teams had been all the way back there. When Morul had first moved to Firehorn roughly twelve years back he’d been utterly abashed at the decadence of having a magma-heated lake. But like any Dwarf he’d been intrigued as well, and he’d made a point early on to take a tour with a mechanic friend through the tiny interlacing hallways that made up the maintenance levels. They were filled with countless unlabeled levers and gauges and switches and nozzles, and Morul had wondered how the mechanics and engineers were able to keep up with them all.

  Hot Lake’s water had become cloudy due to the heat and, predictably, nearly all of the fish had been killed. Most of the Dwarves simply chalked that up to progress, but Morul couldn’t help but think that it was something of a tragedy.

  Still, his old aching bones couldn’t argue with the warm bubbling water that was the fruit of their labors. The chief medical Dwarf had insisted that he take a bath there as often as possible and Morul hadn’t argued. The relief he got from those mineral-imbued waters was now as integral to his daily routine as his food and ale.

  But he still had a long day of work ahead of him before he could go for a soak. His destination was Cold Lake, located on the opposite side of the cave from its counterpart. Slow-burning torches were kept about the walking paths even at night in case Dwarves wished to come down for a bath or drink, so his path was already lit. Down here the earth was soft and springy and the vaguely putrid stench that lingered at the edge of his detection seemed lessened somewhat.

  He made his way through a three-Dwarf-wide road of galena blocks that interlinked through and around the various farm plots. As far as he could see (which was not far both due to his failing eyesight and the darkness of the cavern) were fields of plump helmets, pig tails, cave wheat, and quarry bushes. This was where the bulk of Firehorn’s crops were grown, and during the day (when the rest of the fortress was awake) these fields contained as many planters and harvesters and potash-spreaders as there were tradesdwarves in both upper and lo
wer markets combined. A comparatively small portion of these fields were devoted to dimple cups for the production of dye. Though it was used frequently amongst fortress denizens, it was only a modest trading commodity, for the Dwarves of White Hills seemed to prefer plain leather and undyed wools.

  Beyond the fields were pens filled with livestock: Chickens, geese, ducks, turkeys, guinea fowl, pigs, sheep, and reindeer. They fed on the myriad of cave fungi that grew like rainbow carpeting on the cavern floor. There were hundreds of each animal, so many in fact that they were considering splitting the stock and putting half of them down on the lesser-used second layer.

  But they’d have to secure it first. Only a comparatively tiny area of land had been declared safe, and wild things still roamed beyond those walls. It was even rumored that a tree cutter had found an ancient arrowhead and a tablet of what appeared to be writing buried in the soil there, and the implications of such a discovery sent shivers up Morul’s back as he thought of it.

  He passed by a handful of Dwarves, mostly farmers, taking their breakfast in the dining area near the lumber yard. He waved and they waved back. He joined them for breakfast every now and again, but mostly he stuck with the fisherdwarves and engineers. He didn’t understand half of what the engineers said but he liked to hear them say it anyway.

  Beyond the eatery were the fungiwood and tower-cap farms. They were arranged in neat symmetrical shapes with the galena road weaving in and out and around so that the harvesters could wheel their loads toward their destinations. There was a perpetual wood shortage which kept it at a premium price, but that was not by design. It simply took a long time for the planted saplings to come to their full harvestable size, and the needs of two thousand Dwarves were such that there was always more demand than supply. When the weather was favorable the duke (or the mayor, whichever you believed) would order hunting and foraging expeditions to the more temperate areas in the southwest. There they would harvest as many trees as they could (and hopefully capture a few bears) before returning.

  There was a lift here as well, and it was pulled up toward the lower market area several dozen times a day carrying wood and crops and whatever other raw materials. Most Dwarves chose to fabricate their goods in the market itself since there was a certain joy patrons got from seeing an object go from the raw materials to the finished product as they watched.

  As Morul approached he could smell the familiar clean mineral scent of the water. Since Cold Lake was further away than its heated counterpart, few Dwarves came this way except those odd fanatics that demanded a cold bath. The mosses and fungi there were yellow and turquoise and felt like thick luxurious carpeting underfoot. The muddy banks were devoid of Dwarves this early, even the other fisherdwarves, but that would not last long. Many of them swore that the fish were easier to catch in the early morning hours and they would surely arrive in droves after having their morning ale.

  The water was still and possessed the perfect clarity that only underground reservoirs had. Morul could see a small group of cave lobster on the stony floor of the lake and watched as they scuttled away at the sight of a larger fish. He bent and dug through the moss with his crundle knife, looking for bait. It didn’t take him long to find some, and he fit the little squirmer on his hook. He found his favorite spot, a natural indentation in the galena that was as comfortable as any chair, cast his line, and settled in.

  He closed his eyes. Oftentimes he’d fall asleep right there and not wake up until he got a tug on his line. Those little naps made the day pass quickly and he was grateful for them, for he found he could no longer sleep in his own bed, no matter how tired he felt.

  It was plain simple dread that kept him awake at night. It was dread that made him pace about his bedroom in the wee hours, and it was dread that had caused him to lose so much weight over the past few weeks. The cause of his fear was not complicated, but was nonetheless impossible to defeat.

  He did not want to be alone.

  His wife had died nigh-on fifteen years past. In truth, it did not seem that long ago. She’d gone quietly in the night; unexpectedly, but quietly. The doctors had always told her she was in good health, but Morul knew she suffered. Grief plagued her like a disease. They had seen five of their seven children pass before them, and each one had taken a piece of her as they went. Catten was just six years old when a pox came through Marblespire’s lower hold and took her from them. Erush fell from the back of a wagon and suffered a head wound that killed him before his fourteenth year. Kogan, still an unwed bachelor, was struck down by Goblins in a meaningless frontier skirmish. Likot went off adventuring and was rumored to have been killed by a giant. Cerol, their eldest with a husband and three children of her own, was killed along with her family when the Final Torment seized her village.

  The death of Morul’s wife had at least spared her further grief. Their sixth child, Risen, and his wife Onul had passed nine years ago when an especially harsh winter entombed them in their village just outside the mountainhomes.

  It was then that Morul and Vucar, his last remaining son, aged sixty, decided to leave for Firehorn. Vucar had a quiet wife named Rith and three children, two of whom had left to go adventuring and had never returned. The other was a boy named Sodel, aged three.

  Sodel was killed by a nightcreature during the trek north.

  Rith died in a cave-in two winters ago.

  And now Vucar, his last remaining heir and only surviving family member, was lying in a hospital bed clinging to life. He was in the militia and had suffered a wound at the hands of a nightcreature, and the infection that came from it was now so advanced that he would not wake.

  Morul knew that the others whispered about him and his family line. They fancied that he was cursed by the gods, perhaps from some long-forgotten insult made in his youth. Morul knew that wasn’t the case and that his family’s poor luck had been just that; luck. He wanted to rage at them, those whisperers, to tell them they had no right to say that or even think it, and for them to even breathe the idea and give it life was a horrible slight to him.

  But he didn’t. He knew it to be untrue, but he couldn’t bear to correct them. Had he not wondered the same thing aloud in the desperate hours of the night? Had he not prayed at the altars of every known god asking them the very same question? Could he really blame them for thinking such a thing?

  Firehorn was supposed to be a new start for their family. Vucar was ambitious and wanted to make a name for himself. He’d been just another fighter amongst the legions of Marblespire, but at Firehorn he’d been given opportunities to show his mettle. He’d even expressed interest at perhaps marrying again.

  All for naught. All for naught…

  Morul felt his line tug, and he pulled it straight out. It was a small half-blind cave carp, just large enough to be worth eating. Morul held it up and watched as it wriggled, its mouth trying desperately to find water so it could breathe.

  Were all things meant to suffer so?

  “Good morning.”

  Morul turned. It was Datan, the militia captain. She wore the undyed gray military cloth of the militia. Some thought it was a bit gauche that she wouldn’t wear the uniform of captain of the guard, but Morul found it oddly endearing. They had not spoken often, the two of them, but their conversations had been pleasant.

  Still, Morul has not pleased to see her.

  Morul put the fish aside and baited his hook again. “Good morning.”

  “Are they biting?”

  “Always. Cave fish always bite. They don’t know any better.”

  “Hmm. I didn’t know.”

  Morul tossed his line in the water again. He found his heart was pounding. “They aren’t used to being fished yet. Right now they’d bite your finger if you stuck it in there.”

  “I imagine that makes your job easier.”

  Morul’s breath seemed taken from him. “Have you had your ale yet?” He offered his flas
k.

  “I have, but thank you.”

  Morul tried to think of something else to say, anything to delay the moment. He couldn’t.

  “I’m sorry, Morul.”

  The dread crashed through him like a wave, cresting, then filling every corner of his mind with fear.

  “It happened less than an hour ago. Bomrek tried to find you in your room.”

  He had tunnel-vision. His mouth was stone dry. “I didn’t want to be there.”

  Datan nodded like she understood.

  Morul took a deep breath and gathered himself. “He hadn’t spoken in days. There was nothing left to see.”

  “He never woke. Bomrek said it happened quickly. I’m sorry.”

  Morul took a drink from his flask, if only to wet his dry lips. “I cleaned his armor last night,” he found himself saying. “I thought…I thought he should wear it in the tomb.”

  “With your permission, I’ll recommend Vucar for a procession. Everyone should have an opportunity to honor him. Unless of course, you’d prefer something private?”

  “No. A procession would be nice.” Morul thought of everyone seeing his son wearing his gleaming bronze armor, the set he’d been so proud of. He thought of the crowds of tradesdwarves putting trinkets of metal and stone on his tomb. It would be a stately thing, almost like he was nobility. “Vucar would have liked that.”

  “I’ll have it done, then.”

  A long moment passed, and the only sound was of Morul’s heartbeat (finally slowing) and the distant drips of water trickling down the cavern walls. The fish beside him flopped and gasped on the stone.

  “I know how it feels,” Datan said. Her voice was low and quiet, and her eyes narrowed as she stared off into the dark depths of the cavern. “My daughter was taken at eight when the thrall cloud came. She was in the owlery and didn’t make it inside in time.”

  Morul hadn’t known that. He’d always wondered why a woman like Datan was alone, but had never asked anyone.

  “…Her father?”

  “Melancholy. After.”

  “You carry it well.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “As do you.”

  Morul dried his wet hands on his pants. He found that they were shaking. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t think he carried it well at all, that for a long time he thought his grief would be the death of him like it had for his wife. But he didn’t want to give others any more reason to think he was feeble, even though Datan probably wouldn’t tell anyone.

  “The militia will miss his spear,” Datan said. “He was skilled.”

  And just as she said that, Morul became completely and utterly sure of something. When he gave it voice, it felt as natural as anything he’d ever said.

  “I’ll take his place.”

  To her credit, if Datan looked surprised, she didn’t show it. For a moment she said nothing, only watched him.

  “Have you any experience?”

  “No.”

  “Armor?”

  “No.”

  Datan considered. “I’m certain I could find a spot for you in the reserves. The crossbow platoons accommodate anyone who wishes to train.”

  Morul couldn’t quite explain why that wasn’t satisfactory. It would certainly be easier on someone his age, though still by no means easy. It just…wasn’t right. His son never wielded a crossbow. He was a speardwarf, and when he faced an enemy he saw them within arm’s reach. He looked the evil in the eye when he slew them, and when he took his mortal wound, he saw…

  Morul shivered. “No. I want to be with the spears.” Morul stared her down, waiting for an argument. She would say he was too old, far too old and not nearly strong enough to endure their training. If he couldn’t climb the stairs, how could he expect to drill out in the bitter cold while wearing half his weight in armor?

  Finally, Datan gave a kindly smile. It was on odd thing to see on a face so stoic.

  “Very well. Be at North Gate at dawn.”

  She gave him a nod and left. Morul watched her go, and couldn’t help but be a little awestruck.

  She understands, he thought. Maybe she was the only one alive who did, but…at least there was someone.

  The fish was no longer floundering beside him. Its gasps had slowed, but still its mouth pursed open and closed, desperately searching for a breath.

  Morul tossed it back in the lake. It sank to the bottom. Then, after a moment, it righted itself and slowly began to swim.

  Morul’s hands shook. He stared at them a moment. Blue veined and brown with spots. He told himself it was just the cold.

  It’s just the cold.

  LOR