Underkeeper

The soldiers took the prisoners away, leaving Bernt and the rest of the party sitting dazed in the chamber as more came to fortify the tunnel. Syrah made sure Therion was healing properly, and Furin began checking the bodies, looking for survivors. As the reinforcements took up positions in anticipation of another attack, a few of the soldiers moved to remove the dead enemies, but Bernt stood in their way.

“Hold on!” he said. “We have looting rights down here. The adventurers and the Underkeepers. This was our fight!”

It was only partially true, of course, but it was worth a shot. They’d risked their lives for this, and they hadn’t expected to face anything like a demonic dwarf. The soldiers just exchanged a glance, shrugged and walked off. That was good. The last thing Bernt wanted was to start a fight, or even an argument, with a bunch of soldiers. He wanted to see what that warlock abomination had.

The creature had reverted to something more natural-looking in death. His horns were receding, and his odd dark-gray skin color was lightening into a grayish pink, like the other dwarves. He must have been a warlock. Bernt wondered exactly what kind of pact would have given him such demonic qualities. If the demon was inside the dwarf, was the warlock actually in charge, or was the demon driving him like a cart?

Bernt shivered.

“Can you guys come and lend me a hand with this?” he called out as he tried to strip the armor off. He couldn’t get the clasps undone—the design was completely unfamiliar. Furin lumbered over and helped him, quickly and efficiently removing his gear before moving on to the next body. Meanwhile, Bernt went through their pockets, collecting their personal effects and weapons.

In a few minutes, they’d gathered a wealth of dwarven steel, high-quality armor, and even a few enchanted items. It was only when he went through the warlock’s belt pouch, though, that he found the real treasure. It was a small bag of holding, not unlike his own bag, and it contained quite a bit of gold alongside a thick cylinder of leather held closed with a simple buckle. The cylinder unrolled into a long leather band—essentially a series of slim pockets containing vials, bundles of dried mushrooms, herbs, scales, hair, and other items more difficult to identify.

As he touched them he felt the mana gushing from each one, confirming his suspicions. These were spell reagents—all of them. Most likely, they were from deep below the earth, extremely rare up on the surface. He didn’t see anything fire-related, but he was sure an alchemist would pay a fortune for a collection like this. The warlock must have needed it for his infernal rituals.

Bernt’s heart sped up in his chest, considering the potential value of what he held in his hands. The others were looking through the loot now, taking what they wanted.

“Uh, does anyone mind if I take this?” he asked, trying not to sound too timid. “I think they’re spellcasting reagents.”

Furin hefted an axe in his hand and swung it experimentally. He shook his head, even as Syrah shrugged at him.

“Go ahead,” she said. “I don’t need reagents.”

Elyn didn’t look interested, but Therion came over to look, whistling in appreciation.

“Hey, good stuff!” He poked through the little pockets and pulled out an item here or there to look more closely. “I don’t even know what most of this is, but that, right there, is earthshine algae from the Midnight Sea.” He pointed down at some dried, midnight-black plant matter. “It’s practically impossible to find up here. I just saw it in a book once. There’s no telling how much it’s worth.”

He rolled it up and handed it to Bernt, saying, “You’d have to be a skilled ritualist to know what to do with these, or an alchemist. I get dibs on those enchanted vambraces. I’m not getting my arm gashed open like that again.”

“Come on!” Bernt said, shaking his head in denial. “If it’s worth that much, we should split it, at least.”

Therion scoffed. “Bernt. I don’t need money. I’m not here for the loot. What I need is for my arms to stop getting cut open.”

Bernt raised a skeptical eyebrow. Everybody went adventuring for the loot. That and the prestige, of course. That was the whole point.

As if sensing his thoughts, Therion pushed the roll into Bernt’s chest. Bernt grabbed it reflexively, too startled to stop his friend as he spun on his heel and walked off.

Therion was a good guy—he didn’t have to do that. Enchanted dwarven metal work was very valuable, but it wasn’t sized for humans. If Therion wanted vambraces so badly, he didn’t need this to pay for them.

Bernt couldn’t use these reagents either—they were just worth a lot of gold. That was good, he had a debt to repay. He owed Ed for… a lot. He could never have given Jori her papers without his help, and he wouldn’t even have known where to start on a proper architecture for his mana network. Never mind that he’d imposed on the old man for the material he needed. There was a nice bit of symmetry here, he thought.

A shout from the tunnel interrupted his thoughts, and he quickly rolled the leather back up and stuffed it into his bag.

“Contact!” an officer roared. Rielle wasn’t here anymore, and someone else was running the defense here. An eerie, high-pitched howl echoed to them from far, far down the tunnel. “Dan, clear the vermin!”

A young mage in uniform with a white band around his arm ran up to the mouth of the tunnel, holding a metal-bladed fan etched with runes. With the other hand, he lobbed what looked like a potion bottle over the low wall one of the geomancer corps had raised there less than five minutes earlier. Then he raised the fan and began gently waving it at the entrance, humming to himself.

Like Bernt, the aeromancer preferred to use an tonal focusing method to help him with his air magic. Not that he should need it. It seemed he was just casting a gentle breeze, but realization dawned in seconds as a biting chemical smell filled the room. No one moved back, so he guessed the mage was pushing the vast majority of the alchemical vapor down toward the enemy. There were no screams—no sound at all, except for a low growl.

“Demon!” the officer called out. “Spears and axes! It’s a hound!”

The mage took a step back to let soldiers in front of him, but he raised his hand higher and kept fanning. He’d have to keep wind moving down that tunnel until the stuff completely dissipated, or he’d probably kill everyone in the chamber. Maybe that was why he was using such an efficient casting method.

Bernt stood up to help and found he wasn’t the only one—his entire party was moving toward the action, and Elyn was playing her flute. A split second later, a monstrous four-legged creature nearly as tall as a human leapt over the low wall with no apparent effort, landed among the soldiers and snapped down with its jaws.

The fighting was cramped and awkward as soldiers tried to stab and hack at the creature without exposing the mage right behind them. Bernt wanted to help, but any spell he could cast was just as likely to hit one of their own as the hellhound. Therion had the same problem, and both hesitated.

Syrah didn’t. She loudly chanted in Dwarvish and pushed into the soldiers, holding a stone amulet high above her head. Light shone from it like the sun and the hound yelped, backing away half a step. The soldiers took advantage of the opportunity instantly, skewering the thing with spears to hold it in place. Flame gouted from the deep wounds, splashing outward. Soldiers screamed and reeled back in panic.

Thinking quickly, Bernt raised his wand and cast one of the first cantrips he’d ever mastered: control flames. He hoped his investiture would help him use it on hellfire. The spell might not have been intended for this, but typical fire and hellfire had similar physical properties. Sure enough, the spellform activated and he seized control of the blaze. Concentrating, he pulled the fire off of the soldiers, drawing it together into a ball of roiling liquid flame overhead.

It took less than five seconds, but it felt like an eternity. In the meantime, new soldiers had forced their way in, shielding their injured comrades and hacking down at the immobilized hellhound with axes. More blood splattered, and this time Bernt saw the fire eating into their weapons and armor. The spears were charred, already mostly gone. He reached out again, drawing the flames off and adding them to the inferno above.

It was a lot of fire and, with no better solutions available to him, Bernt sent it down the tunnel to splash down as far away as possible. He saw the light of the flames as they impacted below, splashing hellfire all over the tunnel floor.

Finally, the hound stopped struggling. The soldiers dragged two dead comrades out of the tunnel. They’d bled out during the fighting, and both had been terribly burned. More soldiers shuffled out trailing blood from bites and horrific-looking burn wounds—but Syrah was already on it. The aeromancer, Dan, hadn’t moved the entire time. He was still humming to himself and fanning at the entrance, though Bernt could see the side of his face. The young man’s face was contorted with grief. He was crying.

And Bernt thought he understood. His friends had stood in front of him, and died for it. If they could have fought in the chamber, they would have had more room to maneuver. But that wasn’t an option. The wind stream needed to move cleanly down the tunnel. Of course, far more would probably have died if they’d let the entire group of dwarves into the chamber, but that wouldn’t help the mage’s conscience now. He’d never forget this.

Bernt swallowed. If the dwarves could get reinforcements here so fast, how many other tunnels were under attack right now? How many people had already died? What would happen when they sent an entire unit of demons?

“Adventurers!” A voice called from the other side of the chamber. Bernt turned to see Rielle arrive with her soldiers, alongside another unit, this one containing several mages as well as a man and woman in odd, stylized armor with identical symbols etched on their breastplates—a sword, point down with a pair of wings behind it. They were paladins of Auros, the Righteous Bulwark. Bernt stared stupidly for a moment. Usually paladins worked for their respective temples. He hadn’t realized the military had any.

He was so surprised he actually missed what Rielle said next, but he understood well enough what she wanted as she waved them over.

“I have orders for you,” she said. “All nonmilitary personnel are to evacuate the dungeon immediately. The prisoners confirmed that we’ve made hostile contact with the Duergar Empire. General Arice doesn’t want any third-party interests involved until after we’ve had a chance to make diplomatic contact.”

“What do you mean?!” Syrah cried. “You need us down here! This is a disaster. We’ve only seen two groups, and both had warlocks leading them!

There’s no telling what will be coming up that tunnel next, and you need absolutely everyone you can find to keep them back.”

Rielle nodded. “Yes, that’s why we brought in the paladins. I’d personally love to keep you around, but you’re not the only ones here. When we got to the general, your local head of the Solicitors was already there, screaming at the general about his, the count’s, and the king’s ‘criminal incompetence.’ The general… he didn’t take it well. He tried to order the man stripped of his position, but apparently he can’t actually do that, so he just ordered all nonmilitary participants out of the dungeon.”

Bernt tried to picture Radast screaming at someone like the general, but he couldn’t. The warlock had seemed like the type to pride himself on his control—both of himself and others. Then again, he supposed a Solicitor should have strong feelings about what looked like an army of unsanctioned warlocks popping up in the middle of their country.

Wait a minute. Hadn’t that book he found been written in Duergar? The one on demons?

Bernt shivered.

How long had the dwarves been pushing their way up these tunnels? And how long had the kobolds held them back?