Golem Dungeon (Orb Keeper #1) - A Dungeon Core LitRPG Read online

  Drumbeats.

  Dust.

  Horns.

  Blood.

  Cries: shrill, terrified, high-pitched.

  ‘Who sent you hither? What do you want with the Dwarves of Carkhold Mine?’ Durn cried in a great voice. There was a rush of hoarse laughter, like the slide of shingle under a great tide.

  With a quick movement, Hadagul pushed the small door to the deeper galleries open and thrust forward his staff. It blazed forth light. The passageway beyond was lit up in a fiery glow. ‘Go,’ Hadagul commanded Bowen, and ordered him into the passageway beyond the door.

  For an instant Bowen glimpsed over Hadagul’s shoulder the line of menfolk falling under a rush of pale bodies. Saw the women overwhelmed, as they tried to protect the children. Any child big enough to stand and fight had joined the fray. Bowen saw a toddler trampled beneath racing feet.

  Hadagul dragged him down the passageway. Bowen tried again to spring back to the aid of the dwarves. But the power Hadagul held over him was too strong. The gemstone glowed and its touch on Bowen’s skin made it impossible for him to pull away. Arrows whined and whistled after the two fleeing dwarves.

  Then they were running.

  ‘There are too many of them,’ Hadagul wheezed. ‘There is no hope.’

  ‘Then let me die with my kinsfolk,’ yelled Bowen, still struggling against the gem’s influence.

  The passageway plunged down stone steps leading away from the hall.

  ‘Now!’ shouted Hadagul. ‘Run.’

  Swift of foot, the old dwarf led Bowen through the narrow passage, down a circular stairway, and along a gallery.

  Hadagul and Bowen fled toward the living quarters of Carkhold Mine. Four simple chambers: a kitchen, a dormitory with family rooms off it, a communal washroom and the sanctuary.

  The sanctuary which now housed the elders, the crippled and the tiny little newborns. All hiding, terrified, behind bolted doors.

  ‘We cannot leave them to die!’ cried Bowen.

  ‘Do as I say!’ said Hadagul. ‘Fighting is of no use now. Only magic and destiny will overcome this enemy and even that is not certain. Follow me!’

  There were no torches lit in the quarters, and were it not for the glow of Hadagul’s staff, it would have been utterly dark, like running into the empty pit of night. Bowen prayed he would not set a foot wrong and tumble into the excavation shafts beyond the quarters.

  He knew they were very near the shafts now, for he could smell them in the steamy sulfurous air. Yes, he was certain the shafts lay just to one side of them, but in the darkness he could not be sure exactly where.

  Some of the shafts had caved in right down into the ravine itself, way, way below them: a fathomless place caused by major shifts in the plates of the volcanic mountains, eons ago. Some shafts were flooded, others hissed up steam from the boiling center of the mountain.

  Bowen figured Hadagul was leading him to the old storerooms, high above where the old rail track lay. The track had once linked them to other dwarf mines. A railway long submerged by rising underground water in the old, deep mine.

  Together Hadagul and Bowen found their way, past the shafts, past the steam vents from the ravine. Hadagul knew the mine, every corner of it, and he steered Bowen like a guide dog aiding a blind man. Bowen gazed forward, gazed back, gazed to every side, but could see very little. He strained his ears too. Nothing.

  At least the goblins were not following them.

  Not yet.

  The Oath

  Bowen breathed heavily, his mind churning. He peered into the darkness around him.

  He was not sure if it was him, or the walls, that seemed to be trembling.

  Perhaps the goblins would not want to give chase. Perhaps they would not know how to follow the paths of the mine.

  Then with a soul-wrenching sinking of his heart, Bowen heard the drums again. His pulsebeat quickened.

  Please don’t let them be discovered.

  He felt sickened at his own desire to stay alive, when just above him in the Great Hall, dwarf children perished.

  As Hadagul led the way, there was a dull rumble and even as Bowen listened, the pounding of the drums grew louder.

  Louder and closer.

  Vain thought. Vain hope. He would not survive.

  ‘They are coming,’ warned Hadagul.

  There was something in Hadagul’s tone that alarmed Bow even further. Hadagul sounded weak, as though he was wounded, wise still and powerful yes, but broken somehow.

  Bowen wheeled round, axe in hand. ‘Spark me a flame! Light up a torch, I will fight and die here. I will not flee like a scared guilty creature. Not one step further.’

  ‘You will have to do without light and you will follow me yet,’ ordered Hadagul. ‘Keep close. Move on. Stay quiet. Not far now until we reach the forge.’

  Drawn inexorably on, unable to defy this strange new power Hadagul had over him, Bowen stumbled forward.

  Were the goblins much nearer? The sound of pursuit, the beat of the drums, the tramp of feet? Bowen listened, trying to decide.

  Hadagul did not slow down. He took no turns, to right nor left, keeping only straight on toward the forge.

  Suddenly Bowen did hear something. Shrieking. Iron on wood.

  O ye gods, no! The goblins had discovered the sanctuary.

  Bowen clenched his jaw tight.

  Please, not the elders and all the little pretty ones.

  ‘On,’ urged Hadagul. ‘They will soon be here for us too.’

  The two dwarves descended a few steps, down then up again. In the dark Bowen could not see the steps and tripped. He nearly went flying.

  Bowen cursed silently and strained his ears in the darkness. The screech of wood yielding.

  Screaming.

  Heaven help those poor tiny babes.

  Hadagul halted. Here there was a bit of light. It was a warm dancing light, a glowing on the walls, coming from down the passage before them.

  They could see their way a little now. Just ahead through an old archway a space was lit up. Bowen suddenly felt hot air hit his face. Instantly he broke out into a complete sweat. They had arrived at the forge.

  Hadagul signaled Bowen to wait. The two of them stood there, poised. The red glow from the forge pooled like spilt blood on the polished masonry of the floor, and an unbearable heat came spilling out toward the two dwarves.

  Bowen and Hadagul were standing in front of the foundry where the dwarves worked. Had worked. Where the smelted metalwork slowly cooled and was packed and assembled for use, for trade, for barter, for collection. Bowen bit his lip as he remembered those happy days working in the forge with his beloved brethren.

  A deep fissure lay in the very center of the forge. It was capped off, of course, by a kiln-like structure, which covered it completely. For under it a volcanic shaft fell away, bottomless, terrifying.

  The shaft came up from the very center of the mountain. Right from its molten core. And this was the source of heat the dwarves had harnessed for their foundry.

  Over the center of the shaft, brick engineering stood. A dome shape with openings to the side. Channels and pulleys. Here the dwarves shunted the metals into the heat in crucibles. Around the forge were the scattered remnants of the casting molds and the containers used for smelting.

  Bowen sighed. Here the blacksmiths of Carkhold Mine had worked, sweated, hammered, crafted. Here they had dropped their tools, left them lying carelessly on the flagged floors: chisels, tongs, hammers, calipers…

  Brave blacksmiths called to their doom by the huge bell in the Great Hall.

  A sudden swelling of his heart made Bowen catch his breath.

  Where were his trusty friends, his childhood playmates now?

  All slain.

  Lying in their own blood: unmourned, unburied…

  And now out of this unmanned fiery forge, a furnace shivered. Flames sent dancing shadows across the stone floors. Tongues of thick smoke licked the tracery of the ceiling. Ste
aming channels of heat surged upward. With no one left to tend the foundry, the molten mouth of the mountain spilled its heart up and out.

  The earth was angry.

  And so was Bowen.

  ‘Come! Be quick!’ Coughing and fanning the smoke away, Hadagul pulled Bowen away from the forge and into the workshop. Even as Hadagul spoke, Bowen heard again the pounding of drums and the shriek of goblins.

  ‘This is the place,’ said Hadagul. The pillars seemed to quake and the flames to quiver. There was a ring of goblin feet that echoed out into the foundry. A chance arrow whistled over Bowen’s head.

  Were they discovered? Had the goblins seen them?

  ‘Press the stone.’

  Bowen had no choice but to find the stone in his jerkin pocket and form a fist around it.

  ‘Quickly, there is little time.’ Hadagul lifted up his staff.

  Bowen looked behind them. Beyond the smoke hiding them, he saw swarming black figures and pale faces. There seemed to be scores of them. They brandished spears and stone daggers, bows and steel-tipped arrows. All shone blood red in the firelight. The drumbeats rolled, louder, still louder. The goblins shrieked as they hammered on something. The sound of metal on wood.

  They were breaking down the locked storeroom doors around the forge.

  Like a great ocean of darkness, there was a power and terror that seemed to surround the goblin foe. Bowen trembled and held the stone tighter. At the edge of the foundry, the shadows thickened. A cloud formed over the sea of goblins. Smoke swirled about them. Black smoke writhing in the air. Hiding Hadagul and Bowen from view.

  Bowen clenched his teeth.

  Some random arrows pierced the darkness.

  One struck Bowen’s arm, and bounced off his thick jerkin. But another pierced Hadagul in the chest.

  Hadagul groaned, faltered and reached out to the rocky wall for support. ‘Cursed be all fell folk!’

  ‘Hadagul!’ screamed Bowen, trying to hold the dwarf up.

  ‘Stop!’ commanded Hadagul. ‘It is not to save this wrinkled old dwarfish skin that I have led you here to the forge at the center of the mine.’ He staggered; his breath came in great gurgling sighs.

  Then there were more arrows.

  Another hit Bowen, again bouncing off his armor.

  ‘You must help me, for I fear my power is fading…’

  Bowen stopped resisting. He felt the sudden hand of destiny upon him.

  ‘Take the stone. Listen to my words. And accept your fate…’

  ‘I will fight.’

  ‘The time for fighting is over. Only magic and sacrifice will work…and even then success is not assured…for I fear I may not be strong enough to assist you with the doing of it…’

  Bowen shook his head, but he could see that Hadagul spoke the truth. Bowen was just one dwarf, a strong one, true, but he had only his shield, his axe, his crossbow and no arrows. Hadagul was badly wounded and had nothing but his staff.

  ‘Let us conclude this sad ending of our people in there…’ Hadagul pointed at a chamber just off the workshop: an empty store, less than three meters square.

  Supporting Hadagul and hurrying as best he could, Bowen made for the shelter of the storeroom. They crouched low under its arched ceiling. It was little more than an alcove.

  ‘Do now as I say. Do not interrupt me – my power is draining – I cannot speak twice.’

  Bowen lowered Hadagul to the floor and knelt beside the dying dwarf.

  ‘Press the stone above your heart,’ instructed Hadagul. ‘Do it, and do it quickly.’

  Bowen took the stone and pressed it over his pounding heart.

  ‘Before I say the words, I will etch an oath onto the stone of this chamber wall, so that when you awake, when you are reborn in the heart of our gem, you will see the words carved there and ponder them and remember your purpose.’

  ‘I do not understand…’ began Bowen.

  ‘Do not interrupt. There is no time for explanations…only know this…once you’re reborn as a dungeon…you may not remember much about your life as a dwarf. But a dwarf you are. A dwarf you were born and a dwarf you will remain, whether your soul is encased in crystal or not…whether you died here at the hands of the goblins…whether you transmuted into a precious jewel…you will remember. You will, for so I command this gemstone to do our will…and this dwarfish promise I carve upon this wall…’

  Hadagul raised the staff and pointed it at the stone wall beside them, and from the tip of the staff a beam of brilliance streamed forth.

  The goblins must surely see them now.

  Hadagul did not falter, and with a sure hand, even as goblin feet clattered nearer, he wrote on the wall beside them.

  Abandon hope all ye who enter here for the Spirit of this Mine seeks Vengeance upon those that ally themselves with the Powers of Darkness. May the Crystal Heart of the Dwarves shatter if it be not so.

  The stone hissed and the light of the staff snapped out. Hadagul dropped his arm. The staff clattered to the floor. Bowen looked on in amazement.

  Why had he never known that Hadagul was a Mage of such power before?

  ‘Father of the Mine?’ he cried. ‘Can you not then save us with your magic?’

  But Hadagul shook his head, slowly, sadly. ‘I do not have the power to fight these hordes,’ he said. ‘My strength is drained – even as I finished writing the oath. Long have I studied the magical arts…yet I still have much more to learn…it will go unlearned now…I cannot use my powers for anything other than the protection of the Brisingstone…’

  His head slumped forward a little.

  A cry went up from the goblins.

  They were discovered.

  The sound of myriad feet hurried nearer. There was no escape. There was no evading that godless horde anymore. In a few minutes they would be overrun.

  ‘I will not crouch here like a kinder,’ cried Bowen, his mind suddenly flashing back to Camlin, her babe and two younglings hidden behind the tapestries.

  Had they survived? Who would come to save them now?

  ‘Let me fight like a dwarf and die like one!’

  ‘Nay, lad.’ Hadagul’s hold over him if anything grew more powerful. ‘Now is not the time for useless death.’

  ‘Then what?’ cried Bowen, powerless, broken.

  ‘Take you this stone, press it hard against your heart and know that once I have commanded it, you will die as a dwarf forever and ever and be reborn as a gem soul.’

  A gem soul? What was the Father of the Mine saying? Were his senses leaving him?

  ‘Your duty will be to protect the Brisingstone, help such dwarves as yet survive in these mountains and to find a way to bring vengeance upon the goblins and all those that have persecuted our people…’

  ‘Shush Father, shush, if die we must – let us take down a score of these swamp folk with us.’

  But Hadagul raised a hand and whispered on. ‘Vow to protect all of our kinsmen wherever you find them…and if you should fail in this duty – then let the Brisingstone shatter into a million shards…’

  ‘I swear I will,’ Bowen intoned, if only to appease the dying dwarf.

  The goblins were there. Bowen readied himself.

  The air from Hadagul’s chest rattled, gurgled.

  The scrape and shriek of the approaching forces made Bowen draw in a quick breath of air. There was no time to think. No time to ponder, or mourn the rest of his young life – now doomed to be forever cut short.

  Hadagul was right, there was no escape from here. In this chamber, at the very core of the mine, let them die together protecting the Brisingstone.

  ‘I am ready, Father of the Mine,’ Bowen said, ‘to do your bidding, and may the gods keep the stone from falling into the hands of our enemies.’

  Even as he spoke, the cries of the goblins drowned out his words. They were out of time.

  ‘Prepare yourself,’ Hadagul said, and with that he put his hand on his staff and feebly raised it up.

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; Goblins spilled into the store room. From the tip of Hadagul’s staff, a beam shot out. Hadagul cried out in a great voice, roaring out words of power.

  Bowen felt the words ring in his chest, even as he pressed the stone against it. And then he was hurtling across the small chamber, slamming deep into the wall. Everything seemed…larger.

  The room seared red hot, flashing with a brilliance that seemed to stretch on forever.

  Then…darkness.

  Rebirth

  One

  Nightmare

  Darkness everywhere. Dreamlike shadows. Memories chasing each other down forgotten passageways. The mine. Destruction. Goblins, screaming…daggers, stabbing, demanding the Bright Light…

  The Bright Light…

  Vague detached sounds.

  Where is it, dwarf filth?

  Give us the stone.

  Give us the Bright Light.

  And the reply. ‘You will never get the Brisingstone.’

  And then something horrible. Something I cannot bear to watch.

  And all the time I’m here, and the stone is with me, and the stone is me and there is nothing that is not me, that is not the stone.

  The Bright Light.

  Then more darkness.

  Buried inside the wall of the store room chamber: stonework all-enclosing me.

  Hidden.

  Secure.

  Entombed.

  And I find myself accepting that I will stay here forever in the darkness of this eternal night. Perhaps I am dead. Perhaps I am buried here, in the walls of my vault, perhaps I am a corpse in a tomb, in an underground crypt, in the catacombs of the churches of the Clerics…

  I am dead.

  I was dead.

  Dead, yet not dead. Encased in cold, cold stone.

  I can’t move.

  In fact, I can’t even feel my legs, or my arms.

  My mind spins in confusion.

  Something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

  Where was I? Who or what exactly am I?

  I must find out. I must investigate my surroundings. There is nothing to see. Utter darkness. There is nothing to hear. That memory of goblins and dwarves seems to fade. So long ago.