Of Truth and Beasts

Upon entering the hall of immense statues, Chane had looked for one without even thinking. Among the six present, none looked like the figure of Feather-Tongue that he knew. Perhaps that dwarven Eternal had been born after the war, lived in the aftermath, and was unknown among either Thänæ or Bäynæ in earlier times.

From what Chane fathomed, Feather-Tongue had been a scholar of the world rather than choosing to stay in any one place to teach. Perhaps he had gone among the scattered dwarves who had escaped Bäalâle, offering his tales and lessons. Somehow, he had proven himself worthy enough to be remembered and been elevated to Bäynæ.

Chane put that puzzle aside, for he had greater concerns. Control over Wynn’s safety seemed to be slipping away with every step. While she studied the effigies, he went to the hall’s far right end, looking into the wall’s great gash.

A raw shaft went straight down, too dark and deep for his crystal’s light to reveal the bottom. It may have always been there inside the stone and was only exposed when the wall had collapsed inward. But though rough surfaced, it seemed too round to be a natural rift. Why would dwarves excavate a vertical passage of such size, leave it unfinished and unusable, only to be exposed by the breach?

Chane turned next to studying the entrance doors. The hall was reasonably intact, so what had broken them? One leaned against the archway’s edge, while the other had been knocked outward into the tunnel, its great hinges ripped from the frame stones. The remains of a rotating iron bar, nearly as thick as his thigh, was still bolted to the door. Clearly, this entrance had been sealed from the inside.

Half the bar was gone, shorn off near the center spin point. Glancing around, Chane spotted the missing half tucked in against the outer tunnel’s wall base. His brows knitted.

The cataclysm might have caused some damage here, but judging by the doors’ inner hinges and that bar, they would have more likely fallen inward. Yet there was the sheared bar lying in the outer tunnel, as if the hinges had been ripped from the stone as the door was forced outward.

“Chane.”

He looked back to find Wynn hurrying over, with Shade trailing her.

“Where is Ore-Locks?” he asked.

She pointed. “He headed off behind that statue, looking for a way onward.” Then she leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Does it feel like he led us here, like he knew where he was going?”

Wynn watched him expectantly.

“That is not possible,” he answered, though doubt crept in. The dwarf had brought them directly to this hall.

“Is he leading us where he wants to go?” Wynn asked, not letting the notion drop. “Does he know more than he’s told us ... perhaps even about the orb?”

Chane had never truly cared what Ore-Locks wanted here. It had sometimes seemed the dwarf simply wished to know if the seatt was just a myth or if anything could be learned of his long-dead ancestor. It had not occurred to Chane that Ore-Locks might also be seeking the orb.

If so, Wynn was in more danger than Chane had thought. His first instinct was to take her from here, by force if necessary. But she would never forgive him.

“If he knows ... anything,” Wynn continued, “all the more reason to follow him, since I don’t know where to look.”

Shade growled in obvious disagreement, but Wynn turned and headed toward the effigies.

Chane checked both his swords for a smooth draw before hurrying after her. At the first sign of treachery, he would take Ore-Locks suddenly, killing the dwarf before he could react. That would end this foolish exploit.

“Ore-Locks,” Wynn called.

“Here.”

They rounded the last of the statues, the only female among them, and Ore-Locks stood before another archway. The dwarf’s expression had altered, filled with relief or satisfaction. Then Chane took a better look at the archway.

Set deep between the thick frame stones was a panel of old, marred iron with a worn seam down its middle. The panel fully filled the arch, slipping into the wall on either side through a thick slot. It would be at least an inch thick, with two more like ones behind it. There was no lock, handle, or latch, nor brackets for a bar, and there would not be on the other side, either.

Chane knew those panels would open only for a certain set of individuals. His hand dropped to his sword hilt as he eyed Ore-Locks.

This portal matched the same impassable barriers they had once faced in Dhredze Seatt. One way or another, all black iron portals led to the underworld of the Stonewalkers.

Wynn became more suspicious of Ore-Locks by the moment. He was looking for something specific down here—and it wasn’t effigies of the Bäynæ. His steady progress was beginning to border on manic, and he appeared to know where he was going, as if he had been here before.

“This must be opened from the other side,” Ore-Locks said.