Lihan Taifun
Aztryd scrambles over the rubble in a narrow passageway, careful of little Nizl strapped to her back. The air here is clean, since it is only one level down from the kitchen-garden entrance, but empty and lifeless. The smells of fire and death have faded since the night she arrived. But, outside the kitchen and pantry where the tiny group of survivors remain, the smells of normal life are missing -- wood smoke and lamp oil and charcoal, leather and wool and furs, sweating bodies and soap. Here is only the cold air, faintly scented of the pines beyond the ruined gates, and cold lonely stone. A thin layer of dust has settled, undisturbed, over the floor of the passage and its rubble, rising to tickle Aztryd's nose as she clambers along.
"I hope it is true," she babbles to Nizl, "that the water works on this side are on a different pipe. That's what Brokk said, and he would know, wouldn't he? But he isn't climbing over these rocks, not until that broken leg mends. So you and I will go check the water levels." The bucket Aztryd carries bangs against the rock wall, sending unnaturally loud echoes through the passage. "If we found an unbroken well, wouldn't that be fine? Or a spigot with a good flow. Then people would clear out this mess, so a cart could get through, and we would bring back all the water we wanted." Aztryd doesn't speak her worries about the 'people' who would be clearing the passage. Between the injured who passed on into the Maker's hands, and the patrol that did not return, every day the survivors are a smaller group. Nizl gurgles in small wordless grumbles. She would rather be crawling free than strapped up here, but she does enjoy listening to Mama's voice.
Aztryd climbs down the far side of the fall of rubble, and continues cautiously down the passage. If she stretches her hands out, she could touch the walls on either side. "And we will need water if we stay. You, little magpie, do need so much washing up!" That is the real question, these days: "If we stay ..." The idea of leaving Gamilfûn, their ancient home, is shocking, almost unthinkable. And how would it be possible for the injured to travel? Yet any thinking person could see that there were not enough dwarves here to rebuild. The question, spoken or unspoken, seems to hover over all other activities. Would they go, or stay, or send to another settlement for help? "The south is closer -- Nimirukhs and Khazad-dûm and Ibirgathol -- but it is still many days travel. And you and I don't want to go there, do we? Too close to somebody we don't want to see again. East is even farther -- the Grey Mountains and the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills. That journey might take us months. What do you think, magpie? Would you go back to King Olwë's island? Dwarves on an island, can you imagine?" She adds wistfully, "At least we ate well when we were there."
A sudden noise breaks the surrounding silence, a scream echoing through the tunnels. Aztryd freezes, every muscle tense. The sound seems to be coming from ahead. Other voices join the screaming. What could possibly be happening? Should she try to help? There is a low rumble in the walls, as of rock straining, and Aztryd looks up in alarm at the ceiling. Then a roar fills the air, the same roar burned into her mind at the Elves' island; the sound of an angry dragon. Nizl begins to cry. Without further thought, Aztryd turns and runs back the way she came, scrambling again over the pile of rubble. She feels heat in the air behind her, and once again smells burning flesh.
She runs a long way, back to deeper tunnels far from any entrance, before she stops to catch her breath. "Oh, Nizl, dearest," she pants, "where are we ever going to be safe?"
> Next
"I hope it is true," she babbles to Nizl, "that the water works on this side are on a different pipe. That's what Brokk said, and he would know, wouldn't he? But he isn't climbing over these rocks, not until that broken leg mends. So you and I will go check the water levels." The bucket Aztryd carries bangs against the rock wall, sending unnaturally loud echoes through the passage. "If we found an unbroken well, wouldn't that be fine? Or a spigot with a good flow. Then people would clear out this mess, so a cart could get through, and we would bring back all the water we wanted." Aztryd doesn't speak her worries about the 'people' who would be clearing the passage. Between the injured who passed on into the Maker's hands, and the patrol that did not return, every day the survivors are a smaller group. Nizl gurgles in small wordless grumbles. She would rather be crawling free than strapped up here, but she does enjoy listening to Mama's voice.
Aztryd climbs down the far side of the fall of rubble, and continues cautiously down the passage. If she stretches her hands out, she could touch the walls on either side. "And we will need water if we stay. You, little magpie, do need so much washing up!" That is the real question, these days: "If we stay ..." The idea of leaving Gamilfûn, their ancient home, is shocking, almost unthinkable. And how would it be possible for the injured to travel? Yet any thinking person could see that there were not enough dwarves here to rebuild. The question, spoken or unspoken, seems to hover over all other activities. Would they go, or stay, or send to another settlement for help? "The south is closer -- Nimirukhs and Khazad-dûm and Ibirgathol -- but it is still many days travel. And you and I don't want to go there, do we? Too close to somebody we don't want to see again. East is even farther -- the Grey Mountains and the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills. That journey might take us months. What do you think, magpie? Would you go back to King Olwë's island? Dwarves on an island, can you imagine?" She adds wistfully, "At least we ate well when we were there."
A sudden noise breaks the surrounding silence, a scream echoing through the tunnels. Aztryd freezes, every muscle tense. The sound seems to be coming from ahead. Other voices join the screaming. What could possibly be happening? Should she try to help? There is a low rumble in the walls, as of rock straining, and Aztryd looks up in alarm at the ceiling. Then a roar fills the air, the same roar burned into her mind at the Elves' island; the sound of an angry dragon. Nizl begins to cry. Without further thought, Aztryd turns and runs back the way she came, scrambling again over the pile of rubble. She feels heat in the air behind her, and once again smells burning flesh.
She runs a long way, back to deeper tunnels far from any entrance, before she stops to catch her breath. "Oh, Nizl, dearest," she pants, "where are we ever going to be safe?"
> Next