“Is there anyone alive here?” Howland wondered.
“Someone’s stirring. I heard him last night,” said Robien. “I never caught up with them, and I decided to wait until you arrived.”
A second dirt road crossed the first at right angles. They stood at the crossroads, taking in the scene. On their right was a massive furnace house made of local timber and stone. Two tall chimneys, one broken off to half the height of the other, still gave off smoke. The upper half of the broken chimney had come down on the roof of the furnace house, smashing it wide open. The wooden part of the structure had been reduced to charred wood, and the stone walls were blackened on the inside. Outside the furnace house were scores of abandoned wheelbarrows, some empty, some full and lying on their sides, spilling coal or dull red ore on the ash-covered ground.
To the left stood a number of plank and canvas huts, the kind used by an army on campaign. Most were trampled and torn. A few had been torched. Beyond them was a rail-fence stockade full of conical hide tents. The front of the stockade lay flat on the ground, facing outward.
The newcomers walked through the ruined camp. Now and then one or the other would stop to examine some trace, some relic, or some body. By the time they reached the shattered stockade, it was clear what had happened.
“The slaves must have revolted,” Howland said, pointing to the conical tents. “They were housed here. At some point they rushed the stockade and broke it down. They rampaged out, demolishing the outer camp where their captors lived.”
“Interested only in flight, they stole every animal they could find and fled,” Robien added.
“Who brought down the chimney, I wonder?” Raika said.
“Who knows?” Howland said. “Maybe the black gang did it as part of the rebellion.”
Everywhere they found signs of struggle, destruction, and a hasty departure. Near the mouth of the mine they found a sturdier, more finished building, built in the fashion of a dwarven mountain hall. Every window was shuttered with thick, seasoned planks, but they had been breached nonetheless. The big, iron-strapped door was off its hinges, stove in by a salvaged timber used as a makeshift battering ram.
Raika hesitated at the open door. “Hello?” she called. “Anyone there?”
No one answered, but they heard a scuffling from within. Out came three swords.
Robien whispered, “Guard the door, Sergeant. Raika and I will go in and flush out whatever’s here.”
Inside the hall was dim, with only the light from shattered shutters leaking in. Robien went right, Raika left.
She was sure she was standing in the sacked headquarters of the Throtian Mining Guild. Several rooms were filled with broken furniture and scattered sheets of parchment. Raika knelt to examine a random page. It was covered with columns of tiny, precisely written figures.
A thick, hairy hand protruded from under an upside-down table. She kicked it aside and found the body of a dwarf. He’d been battered to death, but his rings and silver gorget were still in place. Raika pondered relieving him of his jewelry. He didn’t need his finery any more, and the price of it might get her home to Saifhum.
Underneath the dead dwarf was a dark brown leather bag. It clinked when Raika nudged it. Sweat beaded on her lip. She opened the flap and poured the contents out.
Gold! Big Thorbardin double-hammer coins rang and rolled across the floor. Raika yelped with delight. She quickly counted forty-six double-hammers, which were twice the weight of a standard gold piece. Now she could get home in style!
She swept the thick golden disks back into the bag and quit the room without disturbing the dead dwarf’s jewelry. The gold was ample reward, and taking it was less likely to anger the dead dwarf’s spirit.
Raika emerged into the hallway as something darted across her field of view, passing from a room three doors down.
“Hey!” Raika fumbled for her sword. “Stand where you are!”
She darted into the doorway where the mysterious stranger had gone. No sooner had she done so when her danger-honed senses forced her to leap back. A heavy, black-bladed axe whistled by, missing the tip of Raika’s nose by a hair. It crashed to the floor, burying its edge in the planking.
Raika promptly stamped her foot on the axe head, pinning it to the floor. She presented the point of her sword to her attacker’s chin. He was an unusually short, rotund dwarf with wild yellow hair and a wide-eyed expression.
“Don’t kill me!” he cried shrilly, throwing up his hands.
“Strange words from an axe-wielding ambusher!” Raika said. Flushed with anger, she stepped forward, forcing her captive back. “Give me a good reason not to cut your gullet here and now!”
“Take what you will, but spare me, gracious lady!”
Lip curled, she lowered her sword and grabbed the little man by the collar. He was a young fellow, with only peach-fuzz on his chin. Yanking him up so high he was on tip-toes, Raika propelled her prisoner into the hall.
“Robien! Howland! It’s all right-I caught a little rat!”
Howland sidled cautiously through the open doors. “What have you got there?”
“The last of the mining guild, I reckon.” She shook the unhappy dwarf. “What’s your name?”
“Banngur, if you please, lady.” He shrank from her fearsome glare. “I’m not of the guild.”
“Who are you, then?” asked Howland.
“A scribe, honorable sir. A bookkeeper. I keep-I kept-the tallies for the Mining Guild.”
Robien appeared behind them. “You’d better come see this!” he said urgently. Without waiting for a reply, he dashed out again.
Howland and Raika followed, the Saifhumi woman holding onto Banngur’s collar all the way. Robien led them deep into the hall, into a large open room. Judging from the stone walls, the dwarves had built their headquarters into the side of the mountain itself.
From one side of the room to the other, and from the entrance to the rear wall, the place was filled with waist-high piles, covered with tarpaulins. Howland estimated there were more than a hundred piles.
Robien lifted the corner of the nearest tarp and flung it back. Bright metal gleamed.
“Iron?” said Howland.
Robien shook his head. “I tried to score it with my knife blade. It’s steel.”
Raika loosed her grip on Banngur. The pudgy bookkeeper tried to flee, but she easily tripped him. Planting a foot on his squirming backside, she whispered hoarsely, “Is all of it steel?”
“Probably.” Howland swallowed, hand holding his own throat. “This was the treasure Rakell was defending. There must be tons of steel here-”
“Eleven tons and forty-two hundredweight,” said Banngur. “Property of the Throtian Mining Guild, Limited.”
Raika kicked him. “Property of us!”
“Wait,” said Howland. “Let the dwarf up.”
She let Banngur stand. Howland bade the little man come closer.
“Tell us what happened here,” he said.
Banngur looked from one face to the other. Deciding Howland’s was the most trustworthy, he moved away from Raika and Robien.
“The dragon came,” he quavered.
“The red dragon? He did this?”
“He flew by and knocked down our chimney, that’s all.” said the dwarf. “When that happened, the workers revolted.”
“You mean, the slaves rebelled and regained their freedom?”
Banngur nodded.
“How many slaves?”
Numbers were Banngur’s business. “Two hundred twenty-nine, all told,” he said.
“How many guards were there when the rebellion broke out?”
The dwarf thought a moment, silently moving his lips. “Eighteen humans, and three ogres.”
“How many dwarves?” said Raika.
“Eleven, but none were soldiers. Guild members supervised mining and smelting the ore, but discipline was left to Lord Rakell’s men.”