<PREV

The black curse.

The word hung in the dim office like an unfulfilled promise.

The dusk gnome crossed his legs precisely, as though they were two gentlemen discussing the finer points of sailing, or cravat shopping, or however people who don’t work spend their lives.

Yeji was stalling, or steeling himself, maybe. Durgin let it happen. He didn’t really want to have this conversation.

Yeji sipped his wine. Set the glass aside carefully. “Let’s approach this logically. Of all the Underearth factions, the cartel alone has the resources and connections to commission a black curse. Sergeant Mountainfist was found dead shortly after their representative visited you. A strong coincidence.”

“You don’t think they did it.”

The gnome shook his head. “It’s not in their best interests, and they always act according to their best interests. It’s not their style, either. They wouldn’t come bearing gifts and vague threats, and immediately escalate after being rebuffed.”

Yeji studied the fire in the hearth. “They’d rather let time be their ally. Let misfortunes accrue. Drive you to them eventually out of desperation. They play the long game.” He shook his head, conclusively. “It wasn’t the cartel.”

A swell of relief washed over Durgin. He’d met with their representative only hours ago. If they’d sent the curse, it would’ve been personal. He would’ve been responsible. The facts remained—Sergeant Mountainfist dead—but if the cartel wasn’t involved, it reframed everything. “Who then? The Deep Ones just got what they’ve been after. You said the Spiderlings are pacifists—”

“No,” Yeji interrupted. “I said they’re primarily concerned with insect rights. They keep their mandibles sharp. They’re meat eaters, primarily. But escalating in such a matter doesn’t fit.”

Durgin shivered. “Right. The Cavebillies, then.” He could see the shape of it. An isolated fort, populated with non-humans. Seemed a prime target for a group of racists looking to stir up trouble.

“Possibly,” Yeji said in the tone of a teacher correcting an especially stupid student. “You’re thinking too myopically. Consider: who would benefit most from a weakened Deephouse?”

The chair groaned as Durgin leaned back. He ran through the list of factions in his head. He didn’t see the answer Yeji clearly already had in-hand. “Just tell me,” he grumbled.

“We aren’t being targeted by an Underearth faction.” Yeji smiled tightly. “We’re being led to believe we are. This is corporate espionage.”

Durgin frowned. “That’s…”

“Unfathomable?” Yeji shook his head. “Adventuring corporations send people into mortal danger to secure profits. That’s their business model, and it informs everything they do. The value of your life, and mine, resides in an actuary chart kept in a dusty filing cabinet. Is it so hard to believe their profit calculus might involve more… aggressive maneuvers?”

“Wait—you said we’re being led to believe the cartel was behind this.” Durgin sat forward. “That means the timing wasn’t a coincidence.” His fingers pinched the armrests. “Deephouse has a mole.”

Yeji nodded. “Which further suggests the perpetrator of this attack could be our own employer.”

Durgin found it hard to believe TEC would target its own operation, kill one of its own employees. That Yeji considered it a possibility suggested dark alleys he wasn't prepared to walk down.

“You knew all of this.” He slumped into his chair. “You begged me to stay anyway.”

The gnome showed his palms in an apologetic gesture. “What I said before is true, and perhaps balances the danger: Deephouse must be advantageously positioned near an opportunity of great value. What else would merit such attention?”

Shadows danced in the hearth. “Do we have any idea what that might be?”

“No.” Yeji picked up his wine glass. “We’re operating blindly.”

Durgin chuckled darkly. “Do you have any good news, or do you just enjoy kicking me in the balls?”

Yeji smiled; he did in fact appear to enjoy dispensing hard facts and ugly conjecture. “Only this—they don’t know that we see through the ruse. We have an opportunity to tip the scales. If not steal them outright.”

His fingers wormed into his beard. “We need to find the mole and put eyes on him.”

“Fortunately, we have just the cover for such an operation: A recently arrived foreman, conducting personnel interviews with his staff.”

“What? And just ask them straight out if they’re working angles? ‘Hello, I’m Durgin, the new foreman. Are you playing shadow games?’”

Yeji’s grin was that of a snake who’d come home to find a rodent sleeping in its nest. “Leave that to me.”

<PREV

<PREV

“You wish to know everything?” Yeji smiled broadly. “Allow me to crack a bottle. This will take some time to tell.”

The gnome waddled to a small wine cabinet, returning with a bottle of dark liquor. “Dublait, 723.” He popped the cork and took a long sniff. “An especially auspicious vintage.”

They lifted the glasses. Yeji swirled, sniffed, sipped.

Durgin drank half of it off in a gulp. He belched. “Not bad.”

Yeji cradled the glass against his chest, his eyes unfocusing as he fell into memory. “I have been stationed at Deephouse nearly a decade. Not long by our accounting of years. Only a breath compared to the centuries this fort has stood. But long enough to reach an understanding and form some theories.”

His eyes flashed to Durgin. “I won’t be able to assuage all your doubts or answer all your questions. I retain many of my own. But I can tell you what I know, what I suspect, and what remains a mystery.”

Durgin nodded in agreement, but the gnome didn’t notice. He was wandering the spaces between now and then.

“Most believe the cartels run Underearth. Certainly, they’re the most organized and the singleminded in their pursuits. Their interests run the gamut of organized crime: racketeering, elixir-running, extortion, trafficking… Everything up to and including murder.”

Durgin winced inwardly. Just hours ago he’d had a cartel member in his office, trying to intimidate him. He’d said as much to the orc and had been a bit short with someone who killed for a living.

“The cartels are not to be trifled with, but they’re also motivated primarily by profit. That makes them predictable, to a degree.” Yeji leaned forward, setting his glass on the desk. “The representative they sent—what did he want?”

Durgin summarized the exchange. “Assurances we’d not meddle in their business.”

“A little enough ask. You told them yes?”

“No.”

Yeji blinked and just stared at Durgin. “That was… probably unwise.”

Durgin didn’t disagree.

“We should discuss which clan approached you. That will frame our response. But allow me to first finish setting the scene. The cartels are just one of several factions jockeying for position here in Underearth.”

Yeji sipped his wine. “Deep Ones are the most dangerous. Apart from their appetite, their motives are unknowable.” He smiled tightly. “Our deal with the Deep Ones gives me pause. I do not believe they are motivated only by their stomachs.”

Durgin wondered what could possibly be worse than something wanting to crack his head open like an oyster. He held out his glass for a refill.

Yeji looked at his half-empty bottle of Dublait, 723—a rare vintage wasted on someone who couldn’t tell the difference—and refilled Durgin’s glass.

The gnome continued, counting off with his fingers, now up to three. “Shadow Elves, like Klyde. They come sniffing around Deephouse every fortnight. We tolerate it. I wouldn’t go so far as to call them allies, but they’ve been known to aid us in the past. Letting them snack on our emotions is the cost of maintaining that relationship.”

Yeji flicked up another finger. “Gremlins: the little nuisances of Underearth. Kobolds, Goblins, Halflings.” He scowled. “Not a unified faction, just a convenient way to group them.”

His thumb made five. “Spiderlings. Sentient creepy crawlies with the capacity for speech. They serve the Queen Mother, a spider said to be the size of a castle. Terrifying thought. Fortunately, she mostly seems interested in insect rights. She sent a delegation here some months ago. Wanted to put posters on our walls. The tagline was something like: ‘Don’t step on me.’ Your predecessor sent them away, against my better judgment.”

A sixth finger. “Last and certainly least are the Cavebillies. Stooped humans with sloped brows and a disinclination for bathing. Refugees from a surface war some centuries ago, left to degenerate here in the crushing dark. Feeble-minded, offensive, blatantly racist. They seem interested only in relitigating their lost war, getting drunk on mushroom moonshine, and racing souped up mine carts.” Yeji made a face. “Avoid at all costs.”

Durgin sat with all of that. He took a drink of wine, slower this time. “Which of them would’ve sent a black curse against Sergeant Mountainfist?”

Yeji nodded, satisfied. “Good: we come to the important question. I have a theory.”

<PREV

<PREV

A crowd was milling in the Great Hall when Durgin passed through.

Nobody tried to stop him.

He looked away from their faces, tried to ignore the light leaving their eyes. Hope was a strange thing. Intangible, more of an idea, really. And yet, if you looked closely, you could see the exact moment someone lost it.

Durgin pushed the chest into the lift’s cage and crammed in behind it. The lift shuddered to life and began the torturous climb to the surface. He watched Deephouse dwindle, growing ever smaller before the darkness consumed it whole.

Moments later, the lift coughed violently and died. It swayed, creaking.

“Can’t be done of this place soon enough,” he muttered. He knelt beside the engine and tried priming it, as he’d seen Perlen do.

In the silence, he could hear the muffled call of birdsong.

His LiveScroll.

The enchantments that enabled LiveScrolls were weak this far underground. Unlike on the surface, where communication was nearly instantaneous, messages here could be delayed by days.

He opened the chest, digging through layers until he found it. The lift forgotten, he sank to the floor and read the scroll by the lift’s ever-burning torch.

It was from Elryn.

My dear Durgin,

We’re all okay.

Dalrigg broke his leg falling off a roof. He was showing off to his new friends. It was a bad break. His days of running would’ve been over without tonics. We had just enough money to cover his treatments.

It’ll be a week before he’s whole again. He’s antagonizing his sister right now, which I take as a good sign.

I admit I had misgivings about this job. It took you far away, for too long. And I do not trust these adventuring companies. A person’s worth is greater than what they add to a balance sheet.

Still, I won’t deny it’s come along at a good time. Somehow those creditors tracked us to Thornview. I’ll sleep better once your bonus comes in and we don’t have to look over our shoulders anymore.

Speaking of sleep: make sure you’re getting enough. Write when you can.

All my love

~ E

Durgin sat staring at the words. His immediate inclination was to rush to the surface, sweep his family into his arms, and never leave them again. But the message was already days-old. The emergency had passed. He could do nothing more for them.

That wasn’t entirely true. Elryn’s words rang through his head: I’ll sleep better once your bonus comes in and we don’t have to look over our shoulders anymore

He wiped the scroll clean and penned a quick response, then stowed it and fiddled with the lift. It was several long, anxious moments before the engine roared back to life.

Durgin reversed the directional indicator and rode the lift back down into black depths.

He found Yeji studying documents in the lawyer’s office. The gnome looked up, the surprise in his eyes giving way to something bright.

Durgin looked away. He had no intention of giving them hope. Deephouse would have him only long enough to earn his 90-day bonus. He was nearly halfway there. It’d be foolish to leave now.

He sat opposite Yeji. “Tell me everything.”

<PREV

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Durgin was hastily packing his things when Yeji interrupted.

“Mr. Grimforge?” He poked his head into Durgin’s private chambers.

Durgin didn’t bother looking up. He’d upended a chest and was hurriedly stuffing his belongings into it. “I’m quit of this place, Yeji.”

The gnome took a cautious step inside. “I cannot cast aspersions upon your inclination to depart Deephouse. Nor do I seek to dissuade you of what you have quite rightly come to understand—this is a troubled place in no small amount of danger. If I may, I wish only to offer a more complete picture than the one you’ve cobbled together.”

“Don’t see as it’ll make a difference.” Durgin knelt to look under his bed for a wayward boot.

Yeji folded his hands on his plump little belly. “I should’ve taken a more active role in helping you survey the lay of things after you’d arrived. For that, I apologize. I was afraid the untarnished truth would send you running topside. Perhaps that was unavoidable, but my handling of things remains inexcusable.”

Durgin sank back on his haunches, a boot cradled in his hands. “This business with Mountainfist—the black curse. Is that a regular thing?”

“No, no—that was new, even to me.”

“Wonderful—Deephouse is still finding new lows. Guess it’s not my problem any more.” Durgin tossed the boot into the chest. “If you’re as smart as your vocabulary lets on, you should leave too.”

Yeji winced. “I’m afraid my contract is rather explicit in that regard.”

Durgin shrugged. His mind was already elsewhere.

“Blasé mentioned you had a visitor from the cartel. Eventful day. Did they bring a gift?”

“No mere gift, that.” Durgin slammed the chest shut and latched it. “I know golden shackles when I see ‘em.”

“Underearth is a place of ever-shifting alliances, of feints and shadow games. It is not, admittedly, the best arena for a dwarf to demonstrate their quality. No offense but from what I’ve seen, you exhibit the practical rigidity that appears to be ingrained in your people, as though stubbornness was a birthright.”

“I’ve had worse compliments, but not many.”

Yeji smiled thinly. “Only an observation. Here’s the compliment: Perlen sent down a copy of your resume before you hired on. I thought, perhaps, I spied a glimmer of hope nestled between the bullet points.”

“Looking for a patsy, was that it?” Durgin grasped the handle of the chest with one hand, his battleaxe with the other. He didn’t anticipate any problems getting to the lift, but he hadn’t anticipated anything that had happened since he’d signed on with TEC.

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Grimforge. And misstate your own competence.”

Durgin pulled the chest through the office and into the corridor.

Yeji followed, talking all the while. “Yes, your smithing business went under. Fate can be a cruel lady. But you exhibited great creativity and innovation in staving off the end as long as you did. You fought, Mr. Grimforge. And that is what Deephouse needs. A fighter. Someone with ambition and imagination.”

“That’s not what Deephouse needs. It needs a miracle.”

“Perhaps.” Yeji stepped in front of Durgin. “What is a miracle but effort and determination, plus a little luck?”

“Yeji—move.”

The gnome stood his ground. “For all its many faults, Deephouse offers one thing you will find nowhere else: endless opportunity. All of the wealth of Underearth, as yet untapped, waiting for someone to just stretch out a hand.”

Durgin rested a hand gently on Yeji’s shoulder. “That may be. But if it was so easy, wouldn’t someone already’ve done it?”

He pushed Yeji aside and walked away.

<PREV | NEXT>

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The body was laid out on a metal table in a cold, brightly-lit room.

A ghastly creature, pale and emaciated, stood over the corpse. It looked up as Durgin entered, rheumy eyes widening. White lips pulled back in a cold smile. “Foreman. Welcome.”

Even at this distance, Durgin could feel the pull. Dark elves sustained themselves on the living. It was not harmful but it was deeply unpleasant. They relish strong emotions.

Energy vampires. Revolting creatures, but not killers. A body empty of life was of no use to them. But it still shouldn’t here.

“What are you doing?”

The shadow elf’s smile deepened. He ran a long fingernail across the corpse’s chest. “Just saying goodbye to the sergeant.”

“Friend of yours?” Durgin was trying to puzzle out what a dark elf was doing here, and what he should do about it.

The elf stood, a straightening reminiscent of a spider stretching its legs. He wore black leather—pants, vest, duster—and a collection of uncomfortable-looking piercings. He waved a hand. “More like a reluctant acquaintance.”

“I’ve never known a dark elf to be overly picky.”

“Have you known many shadow elves, Foreman?”

Before Durgin could respond, Yeji stepped into the room. “I see you’ve already met Klyde. Excellent, we can get straight to work.”

He’d never admit it, but Durgin felt a swell of relief from Yeji’s presence. “You know this thing?”

“Does one ever dare know a shadow elf?” Yeji’s eyes darted toward Klyde and back again. “I can vouch for him. He’s part of your staff. Sees to our medical needs.”

“Why?” A shadow elf would be incentivized to prolong suffering.

Yeji shrugged. “He was here before I.”

Klyde’s smile grew teeth. “I could tell you, but mmmm, the wondering, it’s delicious.”

Yeji strode toward the body, pointedly not looking at Klyde, and climbed onto a stool. Durgin followed his lead but remained standing.

Absent bluster and bravado, Sergeant Mountainfist was greatly diminished in death. He was also physically diminished; his blackened face was sunken, as though his skull had partially melted.

Durgin averted his eyes.“What killed him?”

“It’s far too early to say. What with all these grievous wounds.” Klyde lifted the sheet draped over the corpse’s chest. Split, blackened flesh oozed bright fluid. Klyde pulled at the puckered skin with the tips of his long fingernails. A large flap pulled free.

Durgin’s stomach lurched. He spun around, blindly looking for a trash can. He was still looking when he vomited on his boots.

Klyde sighed contentedly. “Would you like to see what’s left of his manhood, Foreman?”

“Enough of this.” Yeji’s voice had an edge Durgin hadn’t heard before. “You’ve had your snack. To business, or suffer the consequences.”

“Fine.” With great reluctance, Klyde pulled the sheet up to Mountainfist’s chin.

Durgin rejoined them at the table. He stood as far from Klyde as he could without making it obvious he was trying to. “What could do this?” He tried to project authority but his throat was raw from vomiting; the words were uncertain, weak.

“Magic.” Klyde’s long fingers drummed on the table. “Powerful magic. The sergeant’s recovery will be long and quite painful.” He shivered in anticipation.

Yeji nodded sympathetically. “I’ll submit the resurrection requisition at once.”

“You are so very wrong, vampyre.” Blasé emerged from Mountainfist’s torso. “There will be no resuscitation. No resurrection. No, no, no. This was the work of a black curse. His soul was consumed.”

Black curses were dark rituals, the domain of powerful liches and arch-fiends. Durgin wasn’t willing to accept the possibility that something that powerful had Deephouse in its sights. “There must be another explanation.”

Blasé disdainfully inclined his nose. “Yeji, please tell the foreman that Blasé knows of what he speaks.”

Deep Ones. Cartels. Black curses. It was too much.

Durgin backed away from the table. And ran.

<PREV | NEXT>

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“Finally—some intrigue to dine upon.”

Durgin startled, spilling mead down the front of his shirt. He’d remained by the fire after the orc departed, silently weighing portents and plans.

Blasé’s head and torso drifted into view. His airy shirt was open to the navel, revealing a forest of fine, ghostly hair. He stopped floating when he was level with Durgin’s crotch.

“Were you spying on me?” Durgin was too surprised to be angry. He twisted his legs to the side and clumsily crossed them.

“Well, of course. I am forever interned here, and it is dreadfully boring. I was hoping for a bit of sport, something to stir my cold dead heart. Alas, you’ve yet to disrobe.”

“Excuse me?”

“No need to apologize. There will be much time for the peeping. Time is my one true possession. But this is better, I think. There is no fruit so sweet as anticipation. And the orc was a welcome surprise. It is not every day you meet someone named Elf Splitter, no?”

“It was a first for me,” Durgin muttered.

“Surely not?” Blasé tilted his head. “What could draw a Dwarf out of the mountain, save to dabble in more risqué pleasures? I see the denial on your face, but do not voice it! I know the heart of the city. None can resist its lurid call. We are men of passion, no? Of verve. We come gladly to the orgy, and drink our fill.”

Durgin didn’t know what city Blasé was referring to. The only frenzied displays of communal passion he’d witnessed had been the Mid-Summer’s Eve pie-eating contest. “I’m a married dwarf, and true,” he said brusquely. “You have me confused with somebody else.”

Blasé looked at him slyly. “Ahh, but of course. We are gentleman, and will not speak of prior dalliances. Though if you insist, I will indulge your curiosity—what you’ve no doubt heard is true, I once lounged at the heart of a three-way tryst with a treant and a mermaid.” Blasé winced. “I would not recommend crossing swords with a treant. Exotic, yes, but oh, the splinters.”

Durgin stood suddenly, toppling the chair. “I’m sorry—Blasé, is it? I must demand you take your leave. I have… things to attend to. Decisions. Things.”

Blase’s good humor vanished. “Life is wasted on the living. You fritter away these precious heartbeats, worrying over little nothings. Deep Ones, cartels, interdimensional shapeshifters… these are all triflings.”

“Inter-whats?”

Locked in a monologue, Blasé did not seem to hear. “Do you wish to know the secret of life? What am I saying—of course you do. Even a dour dwarf cannot help but wonder. Where do we come from? Why are we here? I do not hate you enough to ruin the surprise. As they say, the journey is the destination. Here’s a hint: it doesn’t involve tedious reports and crinkled brows. No! Surely you must—”

“Enough.” Durgin’s voice rang like a hammer striking anvil.

Blasé drew back, his hand dramatically groping his own throat. “Was it something I said?”

“Your endless prattle makes my head hurt. Your assertions about my character are unwelcome. I don’t know why you’re here, but you will serve Deephouse. Or I will find a way to remove you. Is that clear?”

Blasé inclined his nose with all the aristocratic disdain he could summon. “Perfectly. Sir.”

“And stay out of my chambers. No more peeping. On anyone.”

Glaring daggers, Blasé drifted through the floor. “One day you will have want of a friend.” His disembodied voice whispered through stone. “And your apologies will fall upon dead ears.”

Apologize? For what? Durgin sank into the chair behind his desk. “For not taking life advice from a dead man? Madness.”

His thoughts untethered, drifting like soap bubbles. The Deep Ones. The sad state of Deephouse. The orc’s gift that was no gift at all. His majordomo, who enjoyed haunting bedchambers. Each time he tried to focus on one thought, it spun out of reach.

He drew his LiveScroll from a drawer, thinking of sending Elryn a message, check on her and the kids.

A fist thumped on the door. Heavy with urgency.

A dwarf in chainmail stood without. Eyes wide and nervously gripping the heft of a battle-axe. “Apologies, sir. It’s Sergeant Mountainfist.”

Durgin sighed. He wasn’t ready to have it out with the sergeant. “It’ll have to wait till morning.” He started to close the door.

The dwarf put his boot in the opening. “I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

Durgin’s face flushed. He didn’t appreciate the implied summons. “Then tell the sergeant to get up here.”

“That’s impossible, sir. Sergeant Mountainfist is dead.”

<PREV | NEXT>

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The orc was called Zhok ‘Elf Splitter.’

Durgin handed Zhok a mug of mead and settled into an armchair flanking the hearth. “So… did you have to kill a bunch of elves to earn that name?”

Zhok paused with the mug halfway to his mouth. “Who said anything about killin’?”

“Oh. Oh.”

Zhok drained the mug in a single gulp.

Durgin tried—and failed—to follow suit. He wiped a hand across his damp beard.

“I work for Chief Gruzo’Mal,” Zhok said. “He sends his regards, and this.” He lifted the bowler from his lap. A plainly wrapped package sat underneath. An envelope was bound to the package with green ribbon.

Zhok held it out to him. “C’mon, take it. Otherwise, you risk insulting my boss.”

Durgin accepted the package gingerly. It was surprisingly light. “Please offer your boss my gratitude.”

“I’m to wait until you read the letter, so I can bring back your reply.”

Durgin slipped the envelope free. The green seal bore the mark of a single eye.

Mr. Grimforge—

Congratulations on your appointment. Deephouse plays a vital role in Underearth. I rest easy knowing it is in your capable hands.

Your appointment comes during an unsettled time. Certain assurances had been made by your predecessor regarding the flow of goods to the surface. I would sleep easier knowing our business could continue unimpeded.

As a token of my esteem, I’ve sent a gift. And a pledge: I’ll help repair the abandoned tracks. You’ll need them if you want to pull serious weight out of the mines.

Yours in friendship,

Chief Kog ‘Blind Eye’ Gruzo’Mal

Durgin reread the letter. “What sort of goods are you moving to the surface?”

Zhok twirled the bowler loosely in his hand. “Better for you if you don’t know.”

“I won’t agree to anything without details.”

“That’s your call, gov. But you’re all alone down here. The going’ll be easier if you have friends.”

Durgin hesitated for just a second, a final breath before the plunge. “Then the answer’s no.”

Zhok’s fingers squeezed the bowler’s brim, bringing it to a halt. “No?”

“Aye. No disrespect to your boss, but I won’t be bullied into making decisions without knowing all sides of it.”

Zhok leaned toward Durgin. “You should reconsider. Underearth is dangerous. People have a habit of disappearing. Whole crews, even.”

Durgin returned the stare. Say one thing for insolvency, it prepares a dwarf for appearing comfortable in uncomfortable situations. He held out the package.

“Keep it,” Zhok stood and placed the bowler on his head. “It was a gift.”

He left.

It was several minutes before Durgin’s pulse stopped racing.

He considered leaving the package unopened. Just stuffing it in a drawer and trying to forget about it. But curiosity got the better of him.

“By all the gods...”

Nestled within folds of green velvet was a mithril locket.

Durgin lifted it by its silver chain and gently cupped it in his palm. It was slightly warm to the touch and cast a soft glow. Shaped to resemble a diamond, each facet etched with dwarven runes. He was no arcanist but had seen symbols like these in his smithing days. He thought they granted some sort of protection and, perhaps, safe passage.

He set it back in the box and closed the lid.

This was no mere gift. It was a kingly treasure. An ancient artifact. And it would not come cheap.

He could feel invisible strings winding around his limbs. The cartel meant to have his help, one way or another.

<PREV | NEXT>

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The return to Deephouse took 30 days.

They passed through enormous caverns grander than any king’s hall. Forded underground rivers softly lit by sapphire lichen. Shimmied on bellies through breathless pockets squeezed by inhospitable rock. Places unknown by time and man alike.

It might’ve been a grand adventure, but Durgin was miserable.

He was bruised and bloodied in a dozen places. Even when they stopped for the day, there was no rest. The bedroll was too thin, the ground too hard, the darkness too complete.

Yeji weathered the journey without complaint, so Durgin kept his suffering to himself. His pride had taking a beating these last years, but there was no world in which he’d be emasculated by a lawyer of all things.

He felt a great swell of relief when Deephouse’s leaning towers finally came into view.

His euphoria didn’t last. A crowd waited in the Great Hall.

They sat at several tables. Less than 20 in all, dwarves and gnomes. They fell silent as Durgin stepped inside.

He stopped in surprise and cleared his throat. “Hello. I’m Durgin, the new foreman.”

Yeji edged around him and disappeared down a corridor without a backwards glance.

“I imagine you have many questions. They’ll have to wait—I am weary from the journey. We’ll reconvene tomorrow, after breakfast.” Durgin started toward the stairs.

“Oy—new guy.” A broad-shouldered dwarf with salt in his beard stood. His nose was a lumpy red bulb. “Is it true, then? Dealing with Deep Ones?”

Durgin turned. “Aye, we just returned from meeting their representative.”

The dwarf spit. “Deep Ones? Are ya daft?”

“They only want one thing,” a female shouted, “and it’s disgusting!”

A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd.

Durgin held up his hands. “Deephouse is in dire straits. We need to turn a profit or we’ll be shutdown. All options are on the table.” Brutal honesty probably wasn’t the best approach, but he was too tired to care.

The dwarf crossed his arms. “Even dealing with them that would drag us from our beds for a midnight snack?”

Durgin hadn’t the patience for this, and didn’t appreciate anyone undermining his authority, new as it was. “What’s your station, friend?”

The dwarf’s chest swelled. “Tharmond Mountainfist. Sergeant at Arms.”

“So I have you to thank for our crumbling defenses?”

“Bah!” Thurmond spit. “What would a city dwarf know of it?”

“Little enough, yet I am the foreman. That is all, sergeant.”

Silence followed Durgin up the stairs. Provoking someone he’d need was probably not an ideal way to start this job. Distracted, he didn’t notice someone waiting in his office until he was halfway into his private chambers.

He stepped back.

An enormous orc sat watching flames dance in the hearth. His features were chiseled out of stone, gray and unyielding. A black mohawk, edged sharply, tapered to a point at the base of his skull. He was dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit. All black, save for an emerald tie.

A bowler rested in his lap.

The orc looked up and smiled. “G’day, Mr. Grimforge.”

Durgin froze, trapped between confusion and panic. “Uhh… I’ll be right with you.” He indicated the bag on his shoulder. “Just got back.”

“Sure, take your time.” The orc turned to the fire.

Durgin slipped into the quiet dark of his bedchambers, heart hammering at his ribs. The confrontation with Tharmond had barely stirred his blood. This was different.

This was terrifying.

What does the cartel want with me?

<PREV | NEXT>

<PREV | NEXT>

Present Day

A thick, mottled tentacle rubbed the Deep One’s belly. “Yguijh’therc hungers for meats.”

Durgin was hoping to find some wiggle room in its appetite. “What about zombies? They have brains.”

The Deep One growled. It needed no translation.

“Perhaps we round up criminals awaiting execution?” Yeji rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I daresay, an end to the waiting might be seen as a blessing.”

“I doubt they’ll consider being eaten alive a kindness.”

Yeji shrugged. “Some people find a way to complain about everything.”

The Deep One’s tentacles slumped listlessly. “Meat of questionable moral fiber is less palatable. Elf is a highly-prized delicacy above all others.”

Durgin snapped his fingers. “What about Shadow Elves? We wouldn’t even have to go far—I saw sign on our way here.” Shadow Elves were people in the same way that penguins were birds—only kind of.

Yguijh’therc made a retching noise. “Dark Elves are inedible.”

“Well we’re not going to round up surface elves and preschool teachers.” Durgin thought for a moment. “It’s gonna have to be criminals awaiting the noose. Or no deal.”

He wasn’t bluffing, though he really needed this deal. The mining rights would buy time to right the ship. Or at least to properly assess if it was possible to save Deephouse.

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. He’d mismanaged his smithing business because he’d been poor with numbers and had overreached his limited grasp. And now here he was again, trying to stave off another foreclosure.

Knowing the Deep One could read his surface thoughts and emotions, Durgin tried to bury his desperation under layers: disgust about dealing in brains, determination not to bend his morals any further, greed for the mineral deposits he’d glimpsed.

The Deep One stared at him for a long time. “Yguijh’therc accepts prison meats.”

Durgin exhaled. “Good. Great. Uhhh… 5 brains, a year?” Durgin had no idea if that was a good number. It felt like a lot.

“Yguijh’therc suggests 20 brains to ensure none of our workers are consumed.”

Durgin didn’t know how to counter. “20 brains it is.”

“Yguijh’therc is pleased. It considers you a friend and requests you refer to it as Gui.”

“Friends?”

Yeji’s expression was unreadable. “Gui admittedly doesn’t meet many new people, seeing as it consumes most of those it does. As the purveyor of meats, you are its favorite humanoid.”

The Deep One extended a tentacle across the table. After a moment of indecision, Durgin grasped the end. It felt slimy and viscous.

How fitting.

<PREV | NEXT>

<PREV | NEXT>

Durgin was exploring Deephouse—looking for signs of life or an excuse to leave—when he met the ghost.

Durgin stood looking into shadowy barracks. Three beds were occupied, despite the hour. He hovered at the threshold, deciding if he should wake one of them.

“Ohhh, a voyeur? How illicit.”

Durgin spun around.

It’d been a man in life and, even semi-transparent, an air of aristocratic disdain remained. The ghost wore floppy long sleeves, very tight trousers, and a cape that stirred on an imperceptible breeze. He smiled hungrily. “A fellow admirer of the flesh?”

“Ahh… no.” Durgin looked between the ghost and the barracks. “I was just looking around.”

“Do not be so coy! No, no—I caught you with the red hand. You were peeping and hoping for seeing, yes?”

Durgin shook his head emphatically. “I was looking for someone to talk to. I’m new here.”

“Really? Tell Blasé something he does not know.” The ghost inclined his nose and started drifting away.

“Wait! Hold on a second.” Durgin started after him.

“There is no need to repeat yourself.” The ghost started passing through a wall.

“I’m Durgin Grimforge. The new…”

The ghost disappeared.

“… foreman.”

The ghost’s head reemerged. “The new foreman? Well, why didn’t you say so? I am Blasé, major-domo of Deephouse. You have arrived just in time. Come—the triplets have confused chamber pot and cooking pot again. So amusing.”

“That will have to wait. Do you have account books? Ledgers? I need to get a grasp on the numbers so we can turn this place around. Quickly.”

“Ahh, the enthusiasm of the living! I miss it so. But what you ask, it is impossible. The accounts haven’t been kept in years.”

“Then how did the last foreman run this place?”

“He came to us many years ago. A dwarf, much like yourself, full of ideas and ambitions.” Blasé shrugged. “Ahh, but this place, it drained all that from him. It is haunted, damned. I know of what I speak. He gradually abandoned his plans. And then one day—poof!—he disappeared. But do not worry, I am sure nothing ill will befall you.” His smile was full of cold cheer.

Durgin sank into a chair and put his head in his hands. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, he learned something new about this place.

“Ahh—that look of dejection! I know it so. But do not worry, it is not so bad. Eventually the boredom becomes a comfort.”

“Is there any way to quickly make some money? Do we have any active operations?”

“No, no, no, I am afraid not. The sites we own have long been picked over. Anything else would need to be leased. But that will not come cheap.”

“Spend money to make money,” Durgin muttered. It was a problem he knew intimately.

“Something like this, yes.”

“No prospects, no income, no hope.” Why did Perlen bother hiring me?

“Ahh, but my dour little friend—there is one option. The Deep Ones continue to send missives. But, of course, they are Deep Ones. Your predecessor thought it better to avoid them.”

Durgin didn’t see as he had a choice. “Show me these letters.”

<PREV | NEXT>

<PREV | NEXT>

Durgin’s first impression of Deephouse was one of complete disbelief. “What a piece of junk.”

“She’s fallen on hard times,” Perlen said, “but that just means you have nowhere to go but up.” He fell silent for a moment. “Unless the foundations completely erode. Then you’ll probably plummet to your death.”

They rode a steam-powered lift into the black depths of the earth. Deephouse was located several miles underground and accessible only by a rickety lift or an impossibly long flight of stairs. They’d taken the lift upon Perlen’s assurances that it was probably fine, just needed a tune-up.

Halfway down, after the engine had sputtered out for the third time, leaving them stranded over a precipitous drop, Durgin had decided fixing the lift would be his first order of business.

Then he laid eyes on the fort itself.

It was a squat stone structure, 2 stories tall, leaning dangerously over the edge of a cliff. Steam drifted from a burst pipe running alongside the fort, shrouding the area in ghostly vapors. If someone climbed up from below, they’d be at the doors before they were spotted. Not that there was anyone to see—the towers stood empty, nobody minded the gates.

The lift jolted to a hard stop. Perlen fought with the gate a moment.

“Well? What do you think?” Perlen stood with his hands on his hips, radiating with obvious pride.

“I think it should be condemned. Not even Phantom Hollowkeep would bother with this.”

“What! It’s not that bad. Just needs a little paint.” Perlen slapped the side of a wooden outbuilding. The wall collapsed inward, taking the rest of the structure with it. “And maybe some nails,” he said from within the cloud of dust.

Deephouse’s crenellations were worn, rounded nubs. The eastern tower had partly collapsed, and the entire northern wall was blanketed in gray fungus. Less than half the lanterns were lit. A pair of massive ballistas sat on the roof, but given the state of everything else, Durgin doubted they were usable.

He peered into the gatehouse. Random junk filled it to the ceiling. “How long has it been abandoned?”

“It’s not abandoned—it’s just been a little mismanaged.” Perlen was coated in black dust.

Durgin took a second look at everything. “For how long?”

“6 months? Not that long.”

Durgin cast a doubtful glance at Perlen. This was years of neglect. Decades. And it’d take just as long to correct. He supposed he should think of it as job security. “Clearly the first order of business will be shoring up the defenses.”

Perlen winced. “First of all—love the enthusiasm. But I should warn you that Deephouse has been operating at a loss for months. Corporate wants to shut it down completely, write it off as a tax break or something. A real waste if you ask me.” He shrugged. “The suits have no appreciation for history. For legacy.”

There it was. The boot Durgin had been waiting to drop on this too-good-to-be-true opportunity. “How much time do I have?”

“Technically I was supposed to have shut it down already.” Perlen held up a finger, forestalling Durgin’s complaint. “If you hadn’t shown up for the interview, I would’ve been forced to. But now you’re here, so…”

“Let me get this straight: your bosses ordered you to salvage some value out of this ruined fortress and instead you decided to find someone to run it?”

Perlen nodded. “Exactly! I knew you’d understand.” He checked his pocket watch. “Wow, it’s 5 o’clock already. Time flies when you’re miles underground, cutoff from everything that makes life worth living.” He started backing toward the lift. “Go inside, meet everyone. And get to work! While you still can.” Laughing nervously, Perlen shut himself inside the lift.

Durgin watched him ascend in disbelief. He thought to follow, to complain, but that would only waste time he didn’t have.

“Tell my wife I’ll be late for supper.” He shouted to be heard over the lift’s engine.

Very late.

<PREV | NEXT>

<PREV | NEXT>

“Before we get started, can I ask you a personal question?”

Durgin had prepared for the interview by imagining all the questions he might have to field. Questions about his failed businesses. About his lack of managerial experience. About his mining ignorance.

He was a dwarf, it was true, but claiming he’d some kind of born-in knowledge of breaking stone was just foolishness. He’d lived in cities all his life. At best, his was a passing familiarity with the subject.

But he sensed there was a wrong answer to the odd question, and likewise was anxious to put off admitting all he didn’t know, so he shrugged and said, “Yeah, sure.”

Perlen Sunbrook smiled. His teeth were crooked, his brown hair badly receded, his eyes shadowed by dark circles. “Great. Listen to this and tell me what you think.”

The half-elf sat behind an enormous mahogany desk. The surface was littered with objects, each as random as the last. Perlen pushed aside a fake boulder with a sword rising from it; the text on the hilt read: Pull in case of emergency. He smoothed out a scroll on the desk.

“This is from my ex, Percephona,” he said. “We broke up last year because she wanted to see other people. I asked if she wanted to see anyone in particular and she said, ‘anyone but you.’” Perlen shrugged, grinning. “It’s a real will-they, won’t-they situation.

“She sent me this message on LiveScroll: ‘Perlen, I left my mom’s scarf at your place. Can you leave it outside the front door? That way we don’t have to see each other.’” Perlen leaned back in his chair. “What’d you think?”

“I think she wants her scarf back.” Mostly Durgin was thinking about how this was the weirdest interview he’d ever heard of.

“Really though? In my experience, women speak in subtext and innuendo. They rarely say what they mean. I guess because they don’t know what they think.”

Durgin imagined the secondhand shrapnel he’d take telling Elryn about this part of the interview. “My wife knows exactly what she thinks, and says what she means.”

Perlen waved him off. “She’s a dwarf. Right? All dwarves are blunt to the point of insult. Percephona is a human. Very sensual. Totally different. She says one thing and does another.” He re-read the last line. “’That way we don’t have to see each other.’ Is she afraid she’ll see me and be overcome with passion?”

“That’s one interpretation.”

“It’s the only one! It’s so obvious. You’ve been out of the game too long, my friend.” Perlen dropped the scroll into the drawer. “So... do you have any questions for me?”

“Uhh...” He had lots of questions about the job, but this bizarre non-interview had chased them into hiding. “The posting mentioned extensive benefits?”

“That’s HR speak—bleh—but the perks are pretty good. We’ll relocate your family to Thornview. You’ll have use of a wagon. Well, your wife will. We don’t allow company wagons into Underearth. Damned goblins are always stealing them. You get one free resurrection a year, so that’s nice.”

“I’m sorry—did you say resurrection?”

“Of course—you can’t do the job if you’re dead. A different branch once tried using undead labor. It didn’t end well.”

Durgin held out a hand in a stop gesture. “Can we go back to the resurrection thing?”

“It’s a great perk, isn’t it? Torchbearer Exploration Corp really knows how to take care of their employees. The job pays a gold a day, plus percentages on whatever you extract—minerals, precious metals, gems, whatever. That’s where the real money is.”

Durgin nodded dimly. A gold coin a day? He’d never have to worry about money again.

“There’s also a signing bonus. 10 gold, payable after your first 90 days.” Perlen stood and offered Durgin a handshake. “So when can you start?”

<PREV | NEXT>

<PREV | NEXT>

Thornview: A small town offering neither thorns nor views. A place of grime-caked windows, mute smokestacks, sullen stares. Ill-favored. Forgotten.

The nearest dungeons have long been picked over. There haven’t even been rumors of brigands in a generation. It’s an impractical place to base an adventuring corporation. You have to question any company that tried it.

Torchbearer Exploration Corp.: An adventuring corporation with regional headquarters in Thornview.

Durgin arrived to the interview 10 minutes early and spent the time trying to decide if his suit should be buttoned or unbuttoned. Buttoned was more professional but accented his gut; he looked like he was trying to smuggle in a ham.

He decided to go unbuttoned. He didn’t expect to get the job. Might as well be comfortable.

The company’s offices were on the second floor of a three-story building. Thornview didn’t even have the distinction of being a place that used to be someplace; he’d never heard of it before Elryn had showed him the posting. It seemed to be one of those places that popped up in the middle of nowhere and persisted on stubborn inertia.

He sat on a small couch just inside the door, a briefcase in his lap. The briefcase was empty. It wasn’t even his—he’d borrowed it. It’d seemed like a good idea at the time. Now he just felt silly.

The office buzzed with activity. Ravens swept in through open windows, scrolls clutched in their talons. A bronze-skinned woman with tiny horns filed her nails while dictating to an animated quill. The floor rumbled as a half-troll tromped toward the restrooms. And under it all, the wordless murmur of conversation and the steady clank of typewriters.

Nearby, a chiseled male centaur was talking to a tree about “dungeon yields” balanced against the escalating costs of life insurance policies. Durgin understood the words but their meaning was secreted behind doors he couldn’t unlock. He realized he had no idea what adventuring corporations actually did.

He glanced at the clock. It was five minutes after the hour. Maybe that was a sign. Maybe he should leave before he made a fool of himself. There were other ways to provide for his family. Probably. Although he’d already taken eight other interviews and had gotten eight nos.

“Excuse me, sir?” The receptionist half-stood from behind her desk. “Can I get you something to drink?” She was a willowy elf with long silver hair and purple eyes. The plaque on her desk identified her as Aelindra Moonsong.

“No. No, thank you.” He tried to smile.

“It’s really no bother. I get tired of sitting herall day, anyway.”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

She looked at him doubtfully but let it drop. “I’m sure Perlen will be with you shortly. He’s very busy.”

A half-elven man burst through the door, all breathless enthusiasm and wide eyes. “Aelindra—you’ll never guess where I was!”

Aelindra’s eyes slid toward Durgin. “Wherever it was, I’m sure it was very important.”

The half-elf waved a hand. “C’mon, guess.”

“A meeting with corporate? Volunteering at the orphanage again?”

“What? What are you even saying? No—I went to that new massage parlor. The one run by a genie. ‘Shimzea’s Many Hands’.” He giggled. “I just wanted my back fixed, but she really rubbed my lamp, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh!” Aelindra looked horrified. “Oh dear.”

“She worked out all my kinks. And introduced me to new ones.”

“Umm...Perlen? Your 3 o’clock is here.” She indicated Durgin with a nod of her head. “The applicant for Deephouse’s foreman.”

The half-elf smiled at Durgin. It was a friendly smile, but something lingered in its shadow.

“Ahh, Mr. Grimforge! Why is your forge so grim?” Perlen laughed at his own joke. He shook Durgin’s hand. “I am Perlen Sunbrook, captain of this ship and you, sir, have permission to come aboard. Right this way.”

Durgin followed Perlen to his office. Aelindra’s words rang in his head. The applicant. The job had been posted for some time. Had they really had no other candidates?

All Durgin’s doubts were swiftly replaced by a single question: What am I getting myself into?

<PREV | NEXT>

<PREV | NEXT>

One Week Earlier

Because there was nothing to eat, Durgin Grimforge drank another cup of watery coffee.

He stood at the center of his tiny bedroom. He’d never noticed how short the ceilings were. This place was better suited for gnomes or gremlins. Dwarves were meant for great halls, places that echoed with emptiness. What kind of dwarf chose to live so tightly constrained?

What dwarf indeed.

The living quarters hadn’t entered into his thinking when he’d bought the place. He’d been enamored with the spacious first floor workshop, ensnared by dreams of the marvels he’d create.

He was a great craftsman. He was a horrible businessman.

Now the forge had breathed its last. He’d exhausted the bank’s patience. Durgin and his family had to vacate by the end of the week.

Where would they go? The question tortured his waking hours.

His children played in the next room, sweetly oblivious that their world was about to be upended. Where will we go?

His wife Elryn swept into the room, all breezy smiles and positivity. She was wearing her apron even though there was nothing to cook. “My, my, don’t you look dapper.”

Durgin frowned at the mirror. “Somehow I’ve gotten too big and too small at the same time.”

Elryn patted his belly lovingly. “Somehow, huh?”

It was one of life’s great ironies that he hadn’t had a decent meal in a month, yet he looked like he never missed second breakfast. Dwarven metabolism moved with all the urgency of rocks.

Elryn drifted toward their bed. He watched in the mirror as she took a shirt off the pile, shook it out to admire it, and refolded it. She carefully placed the shirt into an open chest.

They’d sold what would sell. All that remained were old clothes, a handful toys, her knitting knives, a few odds and ends. He’d pawned his smithing gear, an embarrassment worsened by the meager coin he’d taken in trade.

He’d kept the war axe.

It was a family heirloom, ancient by the counting of men, and worth its weight in gold. He didn’t keep it for sentimental reasons or out of stubborn pride. He kept it because the coming days were certain to be dark. Times like that, a good axe was the difference between life and death.

Not that he had any practical experience wielding it.

He turned from the mirror and hugged his wife from behind.

She patted his forearm. “We’ll find a way. We always do.”

He didn’t share her optimism.

He kissed the back of her head. “I better get going. Even by portal, it’ll take some time to get to Thornview.”

Elryn turned to face him and laced her hands behind his back. “Just remember—these adventuring corporations need us more than we need them. Don’t jump at the first job they offer you.”

“Hold out for the second, is that your advice?” He rested his forehead on hers.

“One that doesn’t involve danger.” She pulled back slightly and raised a finger for emphasis. “No matter what it pays.”

“Don’t worry—these companies have excellent life insurance policies.”

She punched him in the chest.

“Ow—I’m kidding.” He forced himself to smile, knowing he’d face a dragon if it meant he could feed his family again.

<PREV | NEXT>

NEXT>

“The Deep One wishes to know how many brains you offer for mineral and mining rights.”

“Brains?” Durgin Grimforge repeated the word like he’d never heard it before. He was a thick-shouldered dwarf with calloused hands and a bushy black beard. It’d only been a week since he’d become foreman of Deephouse.

He was in way over his head.

“Brains are their standard currency,” Yeji said. The gray-skinned dusk gnome was Deephouse’s counsel. “Didn’t you read the concise Underearth treatise I prepared?”

“The 100-page book you left on my pillow?”

“As I said, I kept it brief.”

They were deep underground, in a vast cavern that had only ever known darkness, sitting at an exquisitely carved table provided by their host.

The Deep One had no eyes, just a nest of mottled tentacles circling a toothy maw. It nonetheless gave the impression it was staring at Durgin.

He looked away. “Can’t we offer gold?” Not that they had any to offer.

Yeji spoke as though addressing a very stupid child. “The allure of shiny things is lost on them, being as they cannot see.”

“What if we stamp it with braille? Something like: ‘Gold is so beautiful, you’re really missing out.’”

The Deep One’s tentacles spasmed violently. Harsh barks and sudden warbles erupted from its mouth. It sounded like whales humping.

Yeji translated. “Yguijh’therc finds you amusing.”

“It can understand us?”

“Deep Ones possess a limited form of telepathy. As I explained in the document you did not read.”

Durgin tried to unthink all his thoughts about the unseemly way the tentacles writhed, which only made him think it more.

“Yguijh’therc compliments you on your brain fragrance. ‘Resourcefulness, resolve, intuition, and a smattering of sweat.’”

“Uhhh… thank you?” He tried to deflect. “What does Yeji smell like?”

Yeji didn’t translate the response.

“C’mon, Yeji—what’d it say?”

“I’d really rather not.”

“You smell like a pastry or something?”

Yeji sighed. “‘Dusty books, despair, loneliness, a hint of spoiled meat. Yguijh’therc would consume the gnome only if it had no better options.’”

It’d be funny if Durgin wasn’t so unnerved. “So… no gold?”

“Yguijh’therc requests head meats.”

Durgin drummed his fingers on the table. He felt uncomfortable with the direction this was headed, but was equally determined to successfully close his first negotiation. Minimally, he’d like to survive until its conclusion. “What about the brain of something already dead?”

Yeji blinked. “Surely you’re not suggesting roadkill.”

“It doesn’t have to be. What about graveyards?”

A meaty tentacle whacked the table. “Yguijh’therc demands humanoid meats. Fresh humanoid meats.”

“Fresh?”

“Alive at the time of consumption. They find all the writhing very stimulating.”

One of the tentacles rubbed the Deep One’s belly. “All this meat talk makes Yguijh’therc hungry.”

Durgin was suddenly very aware of its overlapping rows of serrated teeth.

“I suggest we conclude our negotiations swiftly, sir.”

Durgin agreed. But the idea of trading living brains was unthinkable. It meant conscripting people to a gruesome death in the name of corporate profits.

He wondered, not for the first time in the past week, how his life had led to this.

NEXT>

Deephouse. Chiseled into the earth underneath Torchbearer Exploration Corp. A subterranean fort perched on the precipice of eternal night.

Deephouse. A place of grime and steam, gloom and thunder, where dwarves and gnomes tirelessly plumb the depths.

Deephouse. It was supposed to be a peaceful assignment.

Deephouse is a weekly serialized story about the employees of a mid-level adventuring corporation. No, not these guys. Different employees.

Each installment will be short and punchy—around 500 words, mostly dialogue—while evoking the spirit of the comic.

New issues release every Wednesday.

Start reading: Deephouse #1

More about this project and the team behind it.