“How does that work? Is that some kind of magic they use?” I asked Trueanvil as we were trudging back to the upper level, where the only door was that we couldn’t open yet.
“No, that is a perfectly mundane process. Something to do with acids. I am not clear on the details.”
“Acids?” I mused. That made me remember Theophrastus, or what was his name. He was one of the Greek philosophers Decia Maior was so fond of. My sister always liked to talk about the books she was reading. Even though most of the stuff was soul-crushingly dull, or simply beyond my comprehension, as a dutiful big brother, I often humoured her and heard out her ramblings. Once, as we were making an afternoon walk by the Tiber, she spoke about these acids, and that caught my attention because it seemed like something useful. Theophrastus asserted that if an acid, for example, vinegar, was to be mixed slaked lime, both liquids would lose their corrosive effect.
This seemed interesting, so I tried it at home later. After that Decia Maior was unbearably smug for a few days and reminded me on every occasion that his beloved Greek philosophers proved to be of interest to me after all. As she was my adorable little sister, I refrained from doing anything violent for a remarkably long time, and only pushed her into the Tiber after she got really annoying. As I have always been a thoughtful and attentive brother, I also took care to do that on a day when she was wearing an old, worn-out stola. Even so, Decia was not appreciative of my consideration. She berated me in a very unladylike manner, using expressions that a young woman of her standing had no business knowing. Maybe teaching her the lingo velites used, hadn’t been my brightest idea after all.
Nevertheless, if these fearsome oozes were using acids to attack their prey, slaked lime should be an effective weapon against them. I made a mental note to myself to try this out if I ever encounter one of these beasts again.
By the time I arrived at this conclusion, we have reached the door. First, we tried to open it with the key that we found in our shelter against the roper – it was the right size, and we had nothing to lose.
It was the right key.
There was a staircase behind the gate, leading upwards. I don’t know why, but all three of us got bad premonition, so we advanced very cautiously. Beldrak, as usual, cast his spell to see if we faced any magic, I was looking for mundane traps, and Jim gave a good hard pat to every step with his halberd to trigger the traps we missed.
The staircase led to a spacious chamber, where three dwarven statues stood, all three of them cast from bronze. There were also two gates, one leading to the right, the other one left, but none of them opened. After I knocked on them, I concluded that the left one was walled in, or was only ornamental on purpose. But the right one definitely opened onto something, because it gave a sound like any ordinary door.
“Still no magic in the room,” assured us Beldrak.
“The door has no keyhole,” Jim mused. “I wonder if we have to do something with the statues to open this gate?”
All three statues had a plate before them. Maybe for sacrifices? I tentatively put a coin of gold before each figure. When nothing happened, I sighed and put nine more coins in the bowls. We waited, but in vain. After a while, I shrugged and collected the money into my purse.
“It was worth a try. Let’s see if you have a better idea.”
Jim had one in fact. He observed that the statues were not cast as one piece, but they were assembled from several parts.
“I think we should try to move their limbs or something. But not while we are still in this room.”
We pulled back, and Beldrak used the lesser spell that was able to move objects he was looking at. As it turned out the arms of the central statue moved easily, and when both were set in a vertical position, the door on the left opened.
This shaft is too low for me, I thought annoyedly as I saw the corridor that laid behind the gate. Well. I wondered when will it become apparent that the place was made by dwarves.
“There is some kind of magic before us,” warned Beldrak. “Stay behind, I am sending my spider in.”
As the spider survived, and encountered no resistance, Trueanvil carefully followed it. Still nothing happened, so I entered, and almost went deaf as a thousand trumpets started to blast an alarm right into my ears. An authoritative voice started rapping out commands in Dwarven language. Trueanvil tried to answer, but the speaker did not stop it just repeated the same few sentences over and over.
“A damned recording,” cussed Jim. “Do we go back, or forward?”
“Forward,” shouted Beldrak. “I doubt there are any dwarves left here, it’s just an automatic mechanism!”
Soon the trumpets and the voice stopped, and we were left to walk in eerie silence.
“I should have known there would be an alarm that would be triggered by non-dwarf trespassers,” said Trueanvil ruefully. “I might have set up defences like that in their place too.”
“I doubt there would be many dwarves left to hear the alarm,” Jim observed. “From what we have seen, the orks had killed everybody when they stormed the place. I wonder, who moved in here after the orks pulled back to the upper level? Must be a pain in the ass to hear this racket every time you come home.”
“Maybe there is another way in, where they already removed the wards.”
“Maybe,” Jim shrugged.
“Or they are dwarves themselves,” frowned Beldrak. The end of the shaft was sprayed with fresh sawdust – and we could clearly see footprints very much like that of Trueanvil.
“I hate to realise only at the finish line, that I have been overtaken,” Jim sighed.
“If they are still here, maybe they haven’t found Durgeddin’s legacy yet. If they are still searching for it, and we help them, we could work out some agreement,” I argued.
Meanwhile, we reached the end of the shaft and stepped into a spacious hall. We could straighten again at last. Then a stern, angry voice rapped at us in Common from among the richly embroidered columns.
“Halt, right there! One more step, and we will kill you!”
Time to practice some diplomacy.
