The Deep Deeps Call Again

The relative comfort and order of the upper dwarven stronghold, with its well-lit halls and (mostly) predictable inhabitants, was, it turned out, to be a brief interlude. After Grond had made his report about the goblin nest and submitted me for a cursory inspection at the armoury (where a grizzled old weaponsmith had peered at my maker’s mark, grunted about the “Ironhand clan’s lost techniques,” and declared me “a fine piece of work, too good for any green-skin”), he was summoned to the office of his direct superior, Captain Borog Stonebrow.
Borog was a dwarf whose beard looked like a petrified waterfall and whose disposition was roughly comparable. His office was stark, functional, and smelled faintly of rust and old parchment. Stitch, tucked into Grond’s belt, had a perfectly good view of the Captain’s unimpressed scowl.
“Hammerfall,” Borog rumbled, his voice like grinding millstones. “Your report on the Sector Gamma-Seven sweep. Goblin activity, you say. Dealt with?”
“Aye, Captain,” Grond affirmed. “Nest cleared. Found this on one of ‘em.” He patted my hilt. “Dwarven make, Ironhand work. Old, but still true.”
Borog’s eyes flickered towards me, then back to Grond. “Ironhand, eh? Curious. But that’s not the half of it. The tremors in the lower levels are getting worse. Two days ago, Monitoring Post Delta-Nine went silent. And that patrol we sent to check on the ‘Big Cold’ whispers young Gimgli’s scouting party reported? They’re now three days overdue.”
My non-existent blood ran cold. Big Cold whispers? Overdue patrol? Oh, this isn’t going to be good. This is going to be actively, spectacularly bad.
The Captain continued, his voice grim. “The Elders are still debating whether to send down a full company or just seal the lower access ways and be done with it. Superstitious fools, some of ‘em, babbling about ‘awakened evils.’ But until they make up their damn minds, someone needs to go poke around. Carefully.” He looked directly at Grond. “Delta-Nine is your sector, Hammerfall. You know those tunnels. And you’ve proven you can handle yourself against… unexpected company.”
No. Please, no, I projected, a wave of pure, unadulterated dread, a chilling premonition of doom, trying to seep from me into Grond’s consciousness. Tell him you’re busy! Tell him your beard needs re-braiding! Tell him you’ve developed a sudden, debilitating allergy to deep, dark, terrifying places possibly inhabited by reality-bending horrors!
Grond, bless his dutiful dwarven heart, merely squared his shoulders. “Orders, Captain?”
“Take a short patrol. Head down to Delta-Nine. See if you can raise them, find out what happened. If it’s just a faulty signal line, fix it. If it’s… something else… report back. Immediately. Don’t engage anything you can’t handle alone. This is reconnaissance, not a crusade.” Borog paused. “And Hammerfall… be on your guard. The Deep Deeps feel… wrong these days.”
As Grond prepared for this new, unwelcome assignment, checking his warhammer, replenishing his waterskin, and ensuring I was securely fastened, I continued my silent, desperate broadcast of foreboding. I focused on the memory of the crushing cold, the terrifying glimpse of that thing, the sheer, soul-deep wrongness of the lower caverns, and tried to imbue Grond with it.
He paused, his hand resting on my hilt. His brow furrowed, and he looked down at me, his expression unreadable. “Aye, old blade,” he muttered, his voice low and thoughtful, almost as if responding to my silent plea. “You feel it too, eh? Like a cold draft from a freshly opened tomb, that place. A bad taste in the air.” He shook his head, his jaw set with grim determination. “But duty is duty, and a dwarf doesn’t shirk it for a few bad feelings, whether they come from his own gut or a piece of steel with a mind of its own.”
He straightened up, his decision made. “Come on then, pointy. Let’s see what shadows are stirring in our cellar.”
Oh no. No, no, no, my internal monologue wailed as Grond’s steady footsteps began to lead us away from the comforting light and noise of the upper stronghold, back towards the descending tunnels that led to the Deep Deeps. We were going up! Up was good! Up had better lighting and significantly fewer things that wanted to eat your soul or unravel your sanity! Why are we voluntarily heading back towards the Land of Nope and a Thousand Terrors? Does this dwarf enjoy existential dread? Or is ‘duty’ just dwarven for ‘a profound lack of sensible survival instincts’?
The descent began, each step taking us further from safety, closer to the chilling echoes I remembered all too well. And this time, I had a very, very bad feeling that Gnikpaugh’s luck, however terrible, might have been marginally better than Grond Hammerfall’s sense of obligation.