The helmet lights cut through the dark, the beams shaking and wobbling as they advanced slowly. The tunnel was tiny, barely high enough for the shortest of them to walk bent over and tight enough that at time they had to turn sideways to advance. The “emergency escape” had clearly been built more from obligation than any real concern for workers, it would be a death trap in the event of a collapse. The wooden beam supports were old, but at least seemed to be standing firm. Culann and Winifred lead the way, the hound’s nose low against the dirt floor and Winifred walking in a crouch beside him, one hand on his back to guide his pace. Even in the dim light of the helmets, they could see marks in the floor. A great many things had been dragged through the dirt here, the surface uneven and disturbed. Fuath came behind them, crawling on his long limbs like some horrifying spider, his silhouette in the shadows the thing of nightmares as he fit his lanky frame through the space. Wakesfield followed behind him, seemingly unperturbed, in a low practiced shuffle walk, his rifle ready. Felix behind him had attempted to imitate the walk, and given up as his knees had creaked in protest. He was short enough he could walk bowed over mostly, and crawled through the spaces where the ceiling dipped low. He leaned in to Wakesfield for a moment as they paused, the wolfhound sniffing between two corridors to confirm their path.
“Been meanin’ to ask, that thing” he indicated the rifle in Wakesfield’s arms “was pretty loud at the caravans, ain’t it gonna blow our damn ears out, you fire it in here?” He was whispering, but in the tunnel every sound carried and echoed. There were noises coming from deep inside the tunnels, distorted by space and echoes to make them impossible to decipher. They had to hope the same was happening to their own noise.
Wakesfield shook his head silently, and held up the rifle. A series of small lines, almost like scratched were visible on the stock, a faint glow within each. He tapped the barrel off the rock wall, and the noise was dim and quiet, like it had come from a great distance away.
Felix hissed in air between his teeth, the small whistle carrying as he shook his head in wonder. “A Word of silence, you did come prepared Doc.”
Wakesfield gave him a small glare, and held up a finger to his lips. Naran behind Felix put a hand on his shoulder, and leaned in to whisper, far more quiet than he had been. “We need to be as quiet as possible, we have no idea the numbers we face.”
Felix nodded back, and mimed turning a key beside his mouth and throwing it away. He turned to the three guards following behind. The lead had lit a torch, leaving him awkwardly holding a halberd in one hand. If a fight broke out, she would have to drop it. They each looked on the brink of vomiting from nerves. Felix gave them a smile, attempting to reassure them, and was about to say something again when he was tapped on the shoulder by Wakesfield. The hound had the scent again, they were back on the move. As the turned left down the Y junction, one of the guards looked back at the last traces of daylight. The tunnel had swiftly descended, an almost vertical shaft with wood panels staked into the dirt to act as foot and hand holds. Two corners quickly after the descent had left them in near total darkness, the torch brackets in the wall long empty and abandoned. Winifred put a hand on the wall, and a small flame flickered around her hand for a moment. Just enough to leave a small scorch mark in the shape, a guide for them to follow out just in case. She moved on.
The hound did not growl, he was too well trained for that. But his fur raised, and Winifred could feel his muscles tense as he raised his head. The main tunnel was clear, a small doorway carved directly into the rock had caught his attention. Some long forgotten office, the stone still bore the hinges though the door was long gone. She peeked around the corner, and hastily withdrew her head as she caught a brief glimpse of a huddle of weevils, towards the centre of the bare room. She saw briefly their small pale green forms bent over something, bulbous heads on too-thin necks bent downward, though the noises were unmistakeable. The wet tearing and chewing made it obvious they were feeding, though there was occasionally an odd addition, a long exhale from one of the things. She allowed Fuath to silhouette her with his helmet for the others, and held up a hand. She had counted four, but with her other hand she gave a shake to indicate there could easily be more. The hallway had widened slightly at least so they could get closer. She pointed at herself, Fuath, Felix and Naran, then into the room. Wakesfield nodded, his light bouncing up and down. He stood to the side to allow the four to get ready, two either side of the door, and placed himself and the guards ready to follow in. He pointed at Winifred then Felix, the two either side of the door, then Fuath and Naran standing behind them either side. They looked, then nodded when they understood the order of the charge. The doorway would only fit one of them at a time. He held up 3 fingers, and dropped them in a countdown. Winifred gave a silent signal to Culann, a double pat to keep him in place. As Wakesfield’s hand turned to a fist, Winifred turned to charge.
The lights bobbed in the dark, despite their attempts to hold their heads steady. The spots of light waved through the dark, highlighting their targets. They saw a total of four weevils, the small pale green workers, their heads bowed to their meal. They looked up, bulging blue orb eyes reflecting the light of their helmets, wide mouths and chests stained with blood and mess as the four charged. Winifred took one down before it could rise, stepping past one to bring her shortsword down in a plunging stab through its skull. Felix leapt in shortly after her, breaking left as she broke right. He did not have her foresight, and took the first weevil on his side, a single strike of his blade removing its head from the jaw up as it hissed. Fuath was next, a pair of long steps taking him within reach of the weevil now turned and preparing to lunge at Winifred, and two swift stabs of his steel poker put it down silently. The last had time to attack, a jump aimed at Felix’s throat with both three-clawed hands ready to grip and tear. He caught it with his shield, and rolled with it, tossing it over his head and into Naran’s way. She caught it out of the air with her club, a strong downward strike to its back folding it in two, and another blow to its skull stilling its twitches. It had taken but a moment, and now they stood back to back, scanning the room. There were no other weevils and no other movement they could see as the guards passed the torch in.
The room was larger than they thought, but the space was filled with clay jars, their tops sealed. They were stacked on top of each other and on shelves to the low ceiling, at least two dozen if not more. They looked down at what the weevils had been feeding on. A ruined face looked up at them, forever frozen in terror in pain, twin trails of dried tears visible on his face. A young looking man, naked with most of the flesh between his pelvis and nose gone, ragged chunks left behind clinging to gnawed bones and his torso a hollow bowl with most of the organs gone. Wakesfield bent down to examine the scene as one of the guards retched and fought a wave of vomit. There were two jars either side of the body, filled with some grotesque paste. He moved one of the slain weevil’s heads with the barrel of his rifle, and a trail of the same paste trickled down its cheek.
“They cannot properly digest solids” whispered Naran, her voice filling the space. “So they mix with their saliva, fill the jars and allow it to putrefy so they can drink. Stocking up for winter.”
They looked again at the number of jars already sealed, and at the half full jars next to the corpse. Winifred quietly bent down and closed the corpse’s eyes while Fuath whispered a prayer. Felix placed the lids on the jars, there was a faith but foul smell emanating from them. There was a small scraping from behind the jars, and they snapped up. Weapons were once again ready, and the lights criss-crossed over the rows of jars as they looked. Fuath saw them first, two pairs of eyes between the jars. He went to advance, weapon ready, but stopped. There was a gasp as the light fell on the figures. Two small children were hiding in the rows, neither more than eight years. They were naked and covered in many small scratches, blood trickling down through the dirt that covered their bodies. Fuath put down his weapon, and reached out a hand. “It’s ok now, we’re here to help.” The children shrank back, and Fuath seemed surprised, looking down at his hand, the long thin claws casting eerie shadows in the light from his helmet. Felix kneeled beside him, giving him a small smile before looking at the children.
“S’alright now, he’s a friend. We’re the good guys. Can you come outta there?”
The children shook their heads, and one whispered “Papa said not to come out for anything”
Felix swallowed. He had a grim feeling “Papa” was the carcass behind him.
“It’ll be ok” he tried to keep his voice level and calm. “We’re here to get you out.” He reached out a hand again. “If you can come on out, we can get you back to the city.”
They trembled together, but slowly nodded, and creeped through the jars towards him. As they approached the edge of the rows, he whispered again. “C’mon now, out you come. Just…close your eyes tight once we got hold of you, alright? Keep ‘em shut ‘til we say it’s ok”
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The children paused, but continued forward. Felix took hold of one child, and there was a small whimper as he lifted her up. She kept her eyes closed, and buried her face in his shoulder. “Jus’ gonna pass you to m’buddy here, ok? I promise he’s a friend too.” She whimpered again as Fuath took her, the wood and stone hands cradling her. One of the guards stepped forward, the short waist cloak removed, and wrapped it around her. Felix took the other child, and he was wrapped in a cloak like his sister. The children were dead silent, and kept their eyes shut as they buried their faces in their carriers. It was somehow worse than if they had cried.
“We need to get them out of here” said Naran, her face pale in the torch light.
One of the guards stepped forward. “We’ll take them out, and follow you back in” he said, gently taking the child from Felix. Another took the girl from Fuath, leaving their comrade with the torch to lead the way. They quickly checked for any more hiding figures, but the children shook their heads when asked if there was anyone else.
They paused as they went to exit, and saw Wakesfield rifling through a pile in the corner. There were bloody rags of clothing, small hunks of metal that may have been buttons or buckles, all in a wet pile. As Winifred whispered to ask what he was doing, he held up a ring, and carefully set it aside as he continued his search. Winifred’s expression shifted to one of disgust, and her fist tightened on her sword. “Are you looting the dead’s belongings?” she hissed angrily.
He finished his search, gathering up a small pile he had put aside, and held it into the light. There was the ring he had found, a heart shaped locket that clicked open to show small portraits of two women, a simple iron rectangle on a chain that matched those worn by the guards around their necks, and some pouches and wallets that looked half-gnawed. “Personal effects” he said simply, as calm and monotone as ever. “They may allow families to confirm deaths.” He handed them to one of the guards, who put them into a satchel at her hip. He brushed off his hands, and picked up his rifle. “Are we prepared to move on?”
They watched the guards head back out the way they had come, the light of the torch rapidly disappearing leaving them with the dim light of their helmet lamps. They allowed Culann to sniff around, but it seemed the scent trail of the scrap from outside ended here, in one of the many jars. They pressed on.
Their progress was slow, though the path was not a long one. They were clearly not in the main tunnels. These were small and tight, exploratory tunnels turned into storage or needed workshops when no veins were found. There were a few branches, and at each Winifred scorched a mark into the stone, wiping it away if they backtracked. Several tunnels were dead ends, either caved in due to years of neglect or simply ending in flat walls where no resources were found. Twice they had crouched and braced as something distant rumbled and boomed, the tunnels shaking and loose stone and dirt rattling loose from the walls and ceiling. There were few weevils roaming the tunnel, in ones and twos. The first pair they had encountered they had attempted to sneak up on, but the creatures wheeled on them when they got within a few paces. They seemed to not notice the lights, but turned on the sneaking Fuath and Naran as they had approached silently. After a brief pause and conversation in a side room piled with broken handles and worn tool heads, Felix offered some barely remembered advice about the weevils, that they “saw” through their skin or some such. Wakesfield has looked at the ceiling as if reading words in the stone, and offered that if their skin was a sensory organ, their lack of lights and detection in the dark made sense. The ambushes met more success as simple rushes, charging at the things out of the dark before they could react.
They continued on, and finally entered what must have once been a main shaft. From the cramped tunnels they had descended into a wide open space, large enough for two rail lines to be set into the stone, presumably for carts when the ore was still being removed. They paused to refill the lamp oil, and continued on. There was more noise now, an ever present low clatter of rocks, and some more rhythmic hammering of metal. One end of the road had ended in another wall, the rails ending in small turntables suggesting the shaft had simply terminated here. They turned around, moving towards the hammering and clattering.
The hammering they found within a small workshop, a faint glow as they approached betraying the location. They peered around and saw a small workshop, with a group of weevils clustered around a bed of glowing coals. They had small piles of old blades and tools at their side, and as they watched the creatures it became apparent they were attempting repairs, albeit poorly. The coals were too low to properly heat the metal for reuse, and even if it were they simply placed them on anvils and struck with blacksmiths hammers and in one case a rock, warping and chipping the blades further. No point leaving them in case their attention wandered. Another rush, directed as before by Wakesfield’s silent signals, and the room was clear. They waited anxiously, the lights cutting through the darkness, for some incoming force, some investigation of the sudden silence, but there was none. They took a moment of relief, and continued on.
They were no longer sure what they were searching for. Whatever traces of life they had been following had surely ended in the abattoir room, lives ended by teeth and claws and then mulched and spat into the jars. But there was a silent anger, or disgust now. The sight of the children hiding in the rows of jars haunted each of them in different ways. They could not leave any of these foul things alive. The nest had to be cleansed in its entirety.
They encountered another branch before long, though there was not much choice. The road turned and descended sharply as always, putting them further and further underground. The main road ahead of them had been cut off by what looked like a recent rock fall, the source of the clattering of rocks. Four weevils were attempting to clear away the blockage, but every rock they moved simply allowed more to fall. Even as they watched one was knocked down by a falling rock, and it simply stood back up and resumed digging with its claws as yellow blood flowed down its head. They lined up for another ambush, Wakesfield taking aim for the first time as one of the things was perched near the top of the pile. As they charged his weapon fired, the expected roar quietened to almost a coughing noise, though the flash of flame and light was untouched, the dark tunnel lighting up for a moment. The shot caught the creature high and on the side, and its arm was severed as a chunk of torso and part of the jaw was reduced to a yellow splatter on the rocks. The three finished their own targets, Fuath watching the rear for unexpected reinforcements.
Wakesfield reloaded as the carcass slid down the pile, wetly landing at the bottom. Felix gave an impressed nod, and they moved onto the only remaining tunnel. They looked inside briefly, and quickly pulled back. The beams from their helmets had briefly illuminated a large chamber, slightly taller than the tunnel they stood in. But there was a good number of weevils within, the small green things they were used to accompanied by taller, pale skinned specimens. They were clustered around something laying on the ground before a large brown rock near the centre of the room, the only thing visible of the prone figure a brief glimpse of red fabric.
They retreated slightly to plan.
“That’s a lot of ‘em” said Felix, briefly removing his helmet to wipe his brow of sweat. It was not a warm day, but the air in the mine was warm and stifling, heavy and dusty.
“The figure on the ground must be guarded, they did not appear to be feeding” added Fuath.
“The queen?” asked Winifred as she poured some water from a canteen into a cupped hand for Culann.
Naran shook her head. “For a nest this size, numbers we have seen, the queen should be much larger. It may be a juvenile queen, a spawn of the true queen, based on the readings in the House library.”
Wakesfield nodded thoughtfully. “That seems the most likely explanation. They appeared to be guarding it, it seemed to be resting, or perhaps wounded. We have two options then.” He held up a hand to indicate either option as he spoke. “One, we retreat to our exit. We saw no other escape tunnels, and could deal with them as they tried to escape, assuming there is no other escape we missed, or even within that chamber.”
Their minds once again went back to the rows of jars, of the ruined staring face of the corpse on the ground.
“Option two, we engage them here and cleanse them.”
He looked at them, and there was a muttered agreement for the second option. He gave a small exhalation. “Not my preference, but we go as one. First, some better light will be needed. Miss Naran?”
Naran nodded, and removed a pouch from her back. There were some torches inside, ready to be lit, and three were passed to Winifred who ignited the cloth bound heads with a look and handed them to Felix and Naran, keeping one herself.
“Leave your helmets on” said Wakesfield as they squatted in the torchlight. “We toss the torches in for visibility, hold the entrance as long as we can, a funnel to cut down their number advantage. Winifred and myself engage at range, you three and Culann cut them down as they approach. Ideally we won’t have to enter unless we see them making an escape elsewhere in that chamber.” He looked around, no disagreements, just silent nods. “Let’s go.”
They slowly approached the chamber again, and took up positions either side. Wakesfield stood before the entrance, taking a kneeling position, his rifle ready, and nodded. At his signal the torches were thrown in, scattering a red glow into the chamber, and he opened fire. A cough of noise and an explosion of light, and one of the larger weevils went flying, half its head reduced to a thick yellow mist. He reloaded as the air filled with angry hisses and the sound of clawed feet, another cough knocking a messy section from the chest of one of the larger weevils.
But the crowd inside the chamber did not charge. They formed a wall between them and the figure on the ground, who slowly stood up. It was a tall humanoid, matching Fuath in height. Its blue skin shimmered in the torchlight, two rough reddish-brown horns erupted from its forehead. It wore a dress, or more specifically two dresses, crudely stitched together to add extra sleeves for its extra pair of arms. The dresses still bore the stains and slashes telling the fate of their original owner. As Wakesfield reloaded and aimed his rifle at its head, it ducked behind the brown rock, emitting a low chattering from its fanged mouth. As it did, the rock shook and moved. Lit by the thrown torches, the rock unfolded into a massive insectile monstrosity, a broad four armed creature that stood on six multi-jointed legs arranged around a pillar like body. The thing lowered its head, pointed all four arms ending in massive tearing claws, and charged, a low deep chattering emitting from its throat accompanied by the hissing of the lesser weevils that followed behind.
