Ashen - Chapter 11: Ruin

 Chapter Eleven: Ruin

Tormund was the first into the crevice, followed by a pair of genasi marines. The dwarf staked down ropes as he went, leading the way for Oquee, Ceru, and finally Adovar to descend into the darkness. The going was slow and treacherous. Ceru and each of the genasi wore small lanterns tied to their belts, while Oquee’s staff gave off an unnatural white brilliance. These played and competed with each other, causing long shadows that danced around them,  if the darkness itself was fighting for dominance, trying drive them back out.

    They dropped through a hole in the roof of a squat, square chamber covered in dust. The walls were finely chiseled stone carved out of the hard rock and reinforced with brick and mortar. The room was barren, except for a single stone door on the south wall. All decoration and design was worn away by the harsh environment that had been allowed to creep into this dark place, scouring the room's every surface.

    Adovar studied the door, consulting with one of the genasi. There was no mechanism with which to open it, and in the end, he took out his staff and cast a spell causing the heavy stone to sink into the floor.

    Ceru imagined a low growl from the darkness beyond, as stale air and a millennium of neglect rushed out to greet them. She followed the marines into the darkness, with Oquee at her back followed by Adovar and Tormund.

    The passage was low and squat, wide enough for three to walk abreast comfortably, but she could put her hand up and drag her fingers along the ceiling. Adovar actually crouched a bit, though he needn’t have bothered.

    About thirty feet in, they found an intersection, and the massive hulk of a mechanical man slumped against the wall, facing them.

    “It’s one of them forged men,” Tormund said in a husky half-whisper. It was fashioned of iron, stone, and wood, with the proportions of a dwarf, though it would stand nearly seven feet tall if it were still active. It was built a lot like Bob, really. Ceru wiped some of the dust away from its face, when one of the genasi hissed.

    “Be careful!”

    Tormund was ignoring them, studying the stonework and three passages around them. “I wasn’t sure before,” he said, “but these walls are dwarven stone.”

    Adovar was kneeling beside the warforged, looking into its crystalline eyes for any sign of life. “I know,” he said. His voice was crestfallen.

    “What are you sad about,” Tormund asked. “This is amazing! Ancient dwarves on another world - and before the mind flayers!” He was positively giddy.

    “You’re right, of course,” Adovar said, standing. “It’s just… I was hoping to find the Arcane. I’m certain this was their world, the first race to explore the stars. Maybe the first inhabited planet - the precursors to the Elven Alliance, and an answer to who really created the Helms, and established trade routes between the many worlds. It's a lot. I know that; and it's only my first visit, but still...”

    “Sounds an awful lot like blasphemy,” Oquee said, “or treason.”

    “I don’t see any other elves around here to complain, do you?” Adovar smiled, but in the dim light of that ancient place, his expression seemed sinister, and extremely lonely. He took a deep breath and patted the warforged on its shoulder. “This,” he said, “is indeed one of the Forged Men. If I knew how to give it life, I’d introduce you.”

    “They’re bigger than I thought they’d be,” Ceru marveled. She imagined the earth shifted around them, perhaps noting the momentous occasion of this ancient being, now dead at their feet.

    “This one is unusually large, actually.” Adovar had crouched down again to study the creature. “Most of them are only slightly taller than humans.”

    “What in the nine hells is that,” Tormund exclaimed, drawing his axe. Without hesitation, the genasi followed suit, but there was no indication as to what had set off the dwarf. Then the walls around them and the earth beyond truly began to rumble.

    There were cracks in the walls, and in the ceiling, only noticeable now because of a dim firelight illuminating them, and growing every closer. A red-hot, metallic beetle fell from one of these cracks and landed on the elf’s shoulder.

    Adovar cried out and brushed at the thing, flinging it away. It struck the wall as he pulled his hand back with a hiss.

    “Forge beetles,” Tormund cried. “Moradin’s tears!”

    And then they were overwhelmed. Each of the insects was no bigger than a copper coin, but with an exoskeleton of metal, heated by some internal fire, and there were hundreds - maybe thousands - of them, pouring out of the cracks in the ceiling and the walls. Burning flesh and clothing alike and squealing like a thousand teakettles, they covered the floor and the few unlucky enough to be standing beneath them when they attacked.

    The genasi stood their ground using their weapons to wipe the creatures away, while stamping at the swarm. Adovar and Oquee each loosed a handful of spells, but for all the beetles they destroyed, more seemed to fill the gap, chittering and screaming. Ceru’s cutlass seemed useless to her, and she resorted to stomping them with her feet. Her pants leg caught fire.

    Tormund fell to his knees, one hand on the ground, covered in fiery-hot insects. “Help,” he cried, “I need healing!”

    And the warforged woke up.

    It’s empty black eyes filled with an inner fire of its own, and with the shrill creaking and the hard whine of ancient machinery, it stood immediately to its full height, head and shoulders scraping the ancient stone walls. It pushed the others aside and rushed to Tormund’s aid, crushing the insects beneath its massive feet and slamming into them with oversized hands. Lifting the dwarf in its arms, it began quickly brushing the beetles away, still stomping them as it cradled Tormund and studied his face.

    Adovar cast a frost spell and the genasi resorted to wielding their hammers. With the warforged’s help, they survived and eventually, the swarm of fiery insects was driven back into the darkness beyond the walls.

    The warforged laid Tormund on the stone tile floor where it was clear of smashed insects and scorch marks. She withdrew a stoppered crystal vial from somewhere within her person. She then cradled his neck and head in one enormous hand and poured the contents of the vial into his mouth with the other. “Drink this,” she said in Dwarvish. Her voice was distinctly delicate and feminine, strange only because it issued from such a gargantuan creature.

    The effect was not instantaneous, but was nevertheless miraculous. The wounds, the tiny bites, and the burns covering Tormund’s exposed flesh appeared to be weeks old, rather than moments. He woke with a startled cry, but was shushed by the warforged who said, “it’s okay. You’re safe now.”

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