As Kalad told the story, there was a web of ancient dwarven tunnels beneath the Slatespire Mountains to the west of the Monastery of the Sundered Chain. These dated back to the time of the rebellion against the giants, where they linked the various underground mines and redoubts of the dwarven insurgents. At the centre of this web was a chamber known as the Nexus. Here one could find ancient mechanisms built to block the tunnels in the case of attack. Someone had to travel to Rolus Keep to warn the city elders: both the attack on the monastery and the orcish patrol we had encountered a few days earlier proved that the enemy was already loose in the tunnels. However, we also had to find the Nexus, and find the control device, and close the tunnels—as soon as possible.
After some discussion, we took the painful decision to split the party. Thor would travel to the city to confer with the elders—as a fellow dwarf, he seemed most likely to convince them of the peril they now faced. Kalad, who knew at least something of the area, would travel with the rest of us to find the Nexus.
Our journey was punctuated by frequent bickering between Kalad and Viggo. My friend, it seemed, had deep misgivings about the paladin—the only dwarf to have (apparently) survived a massive orcish onslaught. I too was suspicious. For his part, Kalad offered little information about himself, seemed almost entirely devoid of a sense of humour, and had the annoying habit of telling us all to “hurry up” when he was quite the slowest of the group.
“Why not you dwarves close tunnels if they not use them?” asked Viggo, as we trudged along. “Is like leaving pants loose when fighting snowsnakes, is not?”
“Achh, nae it isn’t… nae a body knows abit th’ tunnels, ye rockit.. only we dwarves.” replied Kalad.
“Viggo think orcs know. Maybe dwarf cannot hold liquor. Or is tortured. Or is spy.” With the latter sentence, our ranger glared at the paladin, who was too busy muttering to himself about “thick-headed humans” to notice.
Skalrag tried to mediate between the two for a while, but finally gave up. “I do hope Kalad is who he claims to be,” he confided to me, “because otherwise we’re going to have a hell of a time explaining to people why Viggo drinks from a dwarf-shaped skull-goblet…”
As we approached the volcanic plateau of the Slatespire Mountains, the terrain became ever more bleak and rocky, and the vegetation ever more sparse. Here and there, plumes of smoke or steam seemed to rise from the jagged mountainside. It was clearly no place I would ever come on holiday.
It took Kalad an hour or so to find the right vent. As we prepared to descend by rope into the crevice, Viggo kneeled to examine crushed leaf on the ground. “That no is from here.. that is ghularleaf carried on boot from forest in valley. Someone has been to stinky crack. Be careful, Arnold. Maybe am-bush.”
Hardly reassuring. We had little option, however, other than to proceed.
The stench from the fumes was overpowering, and I felt my eyes water and lungs tighten as we descended. Eventually we found a small tunnel, which continued several hundred paces deeper into the mountain. Thankfully the vapours slowly began to dissipate as we marched on.
The vents below the mountainside were a maze of small, twisting, and trecherous passages. From time to time Viggo would remark at what he believed to be evidence that a small group of others had passed this same way recently. Who they might be, we didn’t know.
Eventually we reached what appeared to be an opening into a larger room. A couple of guttural voices could be heard inside. Orcs! They seemed to be quarreling over something, and had failed to notice our approach
We sprang to the attack at once, hoping to overwhelm them before they could escape and warn others of their kind. As my companions fought with sword, bow, and spell, I slipped amongst them, dazing one with a quick thrust from Petunia, then darting among them to stab another deep, dropping the brute. One of the survivors started to bolt down a long corridor, but he too was felled before he could take more than a few steps.
The rough hewn room in which we found ourselves was unremarkable, but the corridor beyond it was much more striking: 10 paces or so wide, it was well-crafted and marked with strange runes. Two iron statues of dogs and a large contraption stood in the middle of the corridor, half-way along. A door lay at the other end. However, no sooner had I stepped a few paces along the corridor when a crossbow dropped from a concealed port in the ceiling, swiveled in my direction, and fired. We all backed hurriedly out of the line of fire.
“As tightly-held as a Dwarf’s front door..” I muttered to my companions, the popular expression having a particular resonance with our current predicament.
“Aye,” chuckled Kalad. “Thaur’s naethin’ finer than dwarven defences.”
“That be why dwarfy-holes be crawling with orcs like little ants on puffy dead caribou?” shot back Viggo at the paladin, as he kicked one of the bodies on the floor. “Perhaps I hold you in front of Viggo as I walk to door and you can tell Viggo of great dwarf defences while shooty things shoot us?”
As Kalad spluttered in anger, Dirock intervened. “It would not be appropriate to use a paladin of Moradin as a shield, Viggo.” said the cleric as he rested a steadying hand on the ranger’s arm. “But perhaps one of these orcs will serve the same purpose.” With this, our cleric bent down, threw one of the orcish bodies across his shoulder as a makeshift shield, and started into the room. No sooner had he done so than the crossbow on the ceiling started to track him, then fire. More ominously, the large contraption in the centre of the corridor unfolded with a whir and clank, revealing itself to be a rather large arbalast. By some mechanism arcane or mechanical, it loaded itself, swiveled towards Dirock, and fired. The very first bolt hit the corpse he was carrying with such force as to fling it from his hands and onto the floor. As it did so, the dog-statues began to move. Clearly they too were constructs of some sort.
“Usually thaur is a hidden panel, whaur ye can turn these thingies aff,” added Kalad rather belatedly. “Doon at th’ end ay th’ hall somewhaur, Ah suspect.”
My companions looked at him with annoyance, and then rushed to join Dirock, hoping that we might overwhelm these defences before they could perforate the cleric of Kord like a block of Uncle Barnaby’s Old Farnsleydale Wyvern-Aged White Cheese. I, for my part, decided to take my chances with the crossbow hanging from the ceiling. I ran towards it, throwing my grapple into the device. Then with a hop, skip, and jump, I quickly pulled myself up, and—dodging yet another missile—thrust my rare first printing of Edgar Stoat and the Case of the Missing Gnomes into the works, halting its movements. It was easy work thereafter to decommission it entirely.
Looking down from my dangling rope, I saw Dirock, Skalrag, and Kiira in combat against the constructs, destroying first one of the statues and then the other. Fleet-footed Viigo had made it to the end of the hall, and appeared to be arguing with Kalad about where the secret panel might be found, and how the traps might be deactivated. When Kalad finally found the panel, Viggo used the ranger skills he had so finely-honed in his native Kuz Valley to resolve the problem: he smashed the contraption with the pommel of his sword, generating a shower of sparks as he did so. While less artful than my own efforts might have been, it worked equally well. The arbalast stopped moving.
We patched our wounds, and opened the double doors at the end of the hall. These entered into another, much larger chamber. It was strangely warm, and had two large bronze and iron pipes running the length of it from west to east. To the north and south there two sunken sections, each partly covered with a metal grill. There were also eight or so orcs here. Again, we had little time to react if we were prevent our foes from raising the alarm! As the rest of us lay down covering fire from spell and blades, Viggo sprinted to the far end of the chamber to secure the exit.
It was a difficult fight. Viggo took several deep cuts from orcish blades as he valiently fought his way to the far end of the chamber, blocking any of the orcs from fleeing. I sought to join him, but found myself ambushed by a devious Dark One that slipped from the shadows to slide a blade just beneath my armour. Calling on Petnuia’s majicks, I lunged back, wounding him critically, before stepping back to let Viggo finish him off. The others found themselves beside by a half dozen orcish attackers, but between Kord’s wrath and the arcane powers wielded by our two mages, these foes were eventually reduced to scorched corpses.
Viggo, once again, was in need of Dirock’s healing powers. As the cleric tended to him, we searched the chamber. There were several fire beetles scurrying around, one of which we were forced to kill when it became aggressive. There were corpses strewn here and there, at least one of them not orcish. Upon examination this appeared to be one of the Farstriders, the adventurers we had met a few days earlier at the Pig and Bucket. It seems they were the ones who had preceded us down the vent, doubtless sent here by the elders of Rolus Keep to secure this most strategic location. Judging from the number of orcs we had already encountered, they had failed.
“I wonder what these do?” Skalrag asked out loud, as he examined two huge valves mounted on the massive pipes that ran either side of the chamber. “Should I turn this?”
I for one was rather wary about doing so, for fear that it might alert our foes. After further examination, it seemed that one was already open—and that this pipe was hot. The other seemed closed, and its pipe was cool. Perhaps they were connected with the control panel we were seeking? Might they release scalding water into passages so as to block them and drive back the enemy?
“Aye, that’s it,” said Kalad, clearly not entirely sure himself. “They’re…. well… stoatin big pipes… water… and… turn.. orcs.. pipes… errrr.” His thoughts trailed off into a mumble. It seems he had spent more time in the pious surroundings of the monastery than he had with mines or machinery.
In the end, we opened the second valve, allowing that pipe too to fill with what we presumed was boiling water from deep beneath the volcanic mountains. If it was the right thing to do—well, only time would tell
With a renewed sense of urgency, we continued deeper into the complex. Beyond the next door, we found ourselves in a corridor extending to our left and right—and with a particular large and ornate set of doors in front of these. These latter portals, we suspected, led on to the Nexus. Before entering that place, however, we thought it wise to secure our flanks. We turned down the right-hand passage, from which we could hear orcish voices and jeers.
Some twenty paces further along, we came across the source of all the ruckus: a group of a half dozen orcs were busy defiling a small chapel of Moradin. With them, on a long metal chain, was a creature I had only read about before in books, and more specifically in Edgar Stoat and the Regenerative Horror in the Deep: a huge, fearsome-looking cave troll. As best as I could tell, it was dining on the remains of several other Farstriders. Blood, flesh, and gear were spread everywhere.
Once again, we had managed to achieve surprise on our foes, and rushed into the assault while we still had the advantage. Viggo raced at the troll with a sword in each hand, backed by the powerful incantations of Kiira and Skalrag. Dirock stood ready to wield his mace, powers, and healing arts. For my part, I practiced the pew-hopping skills I had learned so well in Phirul and the Monastery of the Sundered Chain to dodge, hide, and unleash my spinnyblades at the orcs.
It was a close fight. While the orcs went down one after the other, the troll seemed to absorb our blows with little damage, inflicting in turn terrible wounds on Viggo and Dirock with its massive, jagged claws and huge jagged teeth. At one point, it even lifted one of my companions up by the legs, and briefly wielded him as one might a club! Although Kalad had positioned himself to guard our rear, I was worried that at any moments orcish reinforcements might arrive, alerted by the sound of the desperate battle.
Finally, the huge creature let out a last roar, and toppled dead, still smouldering from some spell or other. Viggo wiped the blood from his eyes as Dirock did his best to ease his injuries. The ranger had taken on more than his fair share of the melee since we had entered these caverns, in part because Thor was not with us to fulfill his usual role in the front lines. It didn’t help either that Kalad had contributed little to the fights, a point that was not lost on Viggo either.
Resting a moment, Kalad knelt and prayed at the altar while the rest of us examined a huge tapestry that hung on the wall here. It depicted the construction of these tunnels—and, more importantly, the operation of the Nexus. As Skalrag had suspected, the huge pipes we had seen earlier fed hot water from deep volcanic springs into the central chamber. From there it could be used to flood the half dozen tunnels that radiated from this location.
With the chapel secured, we headed to the opposite end of the corridor, and opened the heavy stone door we found at the end of the passage. It opened into what seemed to be a barracks of sorts, with smaller chambers leading off from a central hall. A few orcs were searching in the debris for things of value, and did not notice us. Mindful of the urgency of our main task in the Nexus, we elected not to fight them. Rather, we shut the door and spiked it shut with a few of my pitons. This alerted the orcs inside, but at little cost: it would be some time before they could force open the doorway, and in the meantime the thick stone walls more than adequately muffled their angry shouts.
That left only the final set of doors—the ones we were certain led on to the very Nexus itself. We opened them slowly and quietly, hoping thereby to preserve the element of surprise….
We found ourselves peering into a massive chamber, in which the ceiling rose 100 feet or more above us. At the center of the chamber was a pillar of solid steel that was built into the stone and stood as tall as the ceiling. Two bronze and steel pipes, like those we had encountered before, emerged from the eastern walls and travel toward the steel column before vanishing into the stone. Rising around the outside of the room was a stone catwalk that connected to steel grating that wrapped around the steel pillar like scaffolding, spiraling to the top of the column. A half dozen small, dark tunnels opened up in the walls along the catwalk, leading to who knew where. At the very top of the contraption, a small steel ladder could be seen rising up to the top of the chamber.
“Ayyye. that’s the Nexus, lads…” said Kalad as he drew in a sharp breath.
There was a shout. Our lights had forewarned a small group of orcs in the first of the tunnels, who were now charging towards us, weapons drawn.
“As sure as elves sniff butter, I bet the controls be at the top of this here device,” I said to my friends. “We had best hurrying before more orcs appear!” Kiira looked momentarily confuse, but then nodded in agreement.
We started to run up the catwalk, Viggo in the lead, and Dirock and I close behind. As we reached the first of the exit tunnels, a huge flaming sphere appeared in it, blocking the first group of attackers. By Aunt Sally’s wooden clogs, our eladrin sorceress was certainly handy with those things!
Unfortunately, there was an even more serious challenge ahead: several orcs and their huge orog leader barred our way, the latter clad in dark plate armour and wielding a huge, fearsome-looking falchion. Among them was also a lithe humanoid woman, who uttered a few words and flung an arcane curse at Viggo. A witch of some sorts. it seemed. Skalrag fired a spell back at her, as Viggo charged into the fray, his twin swords glinting in the flickering torchlight. With a bellow (which I alone among our group recognized at the battlecry of the Kuzian timber caribou) he shoved one of the orcs off the catwalk to plunge to his depth below. As he did so, however, the orog swung his heavy axe, striking deep into the ranger’s shoulder. The orcs cheered, and chanted “Tusk, Tusk, gharrg-nur Tusk!,” which we took to be the chieftain’s name, or the name of his axe, or possibly that of their favourite local sporting team.
Viggo fought valiantly, but was clearly gravely wounded. I dashed in to aid him, throwing a handful of spinnyblades in an effort to blind our foes (dropping one of the smaller orcs in the process), then slipping between the legs of the orog to stab him deep in the back with Petunia. He roared in anger, turned, and swung at me with his blade. Only by Avandra’s grace and some deft halfling footwork did I escape, stabbing at him again and again. I could see Dirock taking advantage of my distraction to aid Viggo, sending Kord’s healing powers once more coursing into the ranger’s battered and bloodied body.
All this time the cavern was filled by bursts of light and bright flashes at Kiira and Skalrag focused their majicks at the witch, pounding her with magic missiles and other incantations. Finally, she fell with a high pitched scream.
Encouraged by her demise, we pressed our assault against Tusk and his minions with renewed determination. He finally fell, his armour dented from Viggo’s blows and cut in a dozen places from our collective blades. My companions leapt over the huge corpse, and we all started to sprint further up the spiral catwalk.
I was the first to reach the top, and immediately ran to what appeared to be—and indeed was—the control box. Below us we could hear the sounds of more orcs entering the cavern from the side-tunnels. Viggo readied his bow, and fired down at them as they emerged. Kiira, Kalad and Skalrag reached the platform too, panting from the run.
The control box was considerably more complicated than any ancient-Dwarven-underground-tunnel-flooding-device that I had seen before (the record of which, to be honest, was precisely zero), but it seemed straightforward enough. After turning a dial, and pulling a few levers, the main doors below us clanged shut, and a deep low mechanical sound could be heard reverberating through the massive cavern. A small exit hatchway popped open at the top of the nearby ladder. Moments later, scalding hot water began to pour into the room from spigots at the base of the steel pillar.
“Everyone, up the ladder as fast as a ferret in a fur shop!” I shouted to my companions. As Little Viggo hid deeper in my pack, Kiira and Kalad began to climb the ladder. Skalrag, however, shouted “Wait!” and rushed back down the catwalk. With instincts that suggested some long-forgotten halfling ancestry, he wanted to loot the bodies of Tusk and his witch before we departed.
Amid screams from scalded orcs, Viggo and I covered Skalrag’s desperate gambit with our missile fire. A few moments later he returned, his arms laden with objects. He winked at us as he passed, and also scurried up the ladder. As he did so, I looked at my ranger friend.
“You first, viggo!”
“No, Arnold. Viggo think you must be first to up go.”
“No, I insist.”
“In Kuz Valley we have saying: halfling who argue get boiled in stew.”
I doubted there was any such saying at all, but it certainly was true that the scalding water had already reached a level of 50 feet or more in the cavern and continued to rise rapidly. I distracted my friend with some sleight of hand, and dashed up the ladder before he noticed.
“Arnold! Arnold! Where are you? Have you fallen in stew?” Viggo shouted below me, looking around the mist-filled cavern in confusion. When I called out his name from the the hatchway, he threw me a dirty glance, chuckled, and climbed up himself. We closed the hatch behind him, which sealed tightly.
We had done it: the Nexus had been sealed. The orcish invasion-from-below had been parboiled and steamed. And—in what was becoming something of a pattern—the people of Tamarin had once more been saved from the miscalculations of their leaders by the heroism of the Company of the Ivory Goat.
Our battle had been a desperate one, although we had won in the end. By the valor of Skalrag (how often does one say that?), most of the prospectors had been rescued. However, as we sat a few minutes to gain our breath, my head hurt something terrible—and not just from the heavy axe blow it had taken from one of the orcs now dead on the temple floor. It hurt because this, like every other victory we had won since the Omen of the Goats, only made the whole evil-plot-threatening-to-destroy-all-good-things seem that much more complicated. It all felt rather like trying to unravel a basket of Kalonian water-eels.
