Jackal Among Snakes

The dwarves gathered in an enlarged room. Large amounts of the strange dwarven metal lined the wall, containing elaborate pipes and nozzles meant to regulate something or other. They stood around the large circular hole in the center of this place. Once, it had been the house of worship of the tribes of Vysenn. Now, however, much of the more sacrificial elements had been dug away to make way for the pump. And in one corner, a complex machine waited idle and cool.

The dwarves dealt cards, but each and all anxiously glanced at the machine in the corner of the room. Each of them sweated like they were betting their lives on the line in this card game… and perhaps, broadly speaking, their lives were on the line. If this project of theirs failed, they might die—either because of an enraged king, or because they succumbed to magma in their attempts to turn it into lava without disturbing the volcano below.

Footsteps from the hall beyond made them all stop dealing their cards and turn their head. There, a dwarf walked in, panting from running.

“This land… too much of it,” the man heaved, putting his hand on the wall to catch his breath.

“You can rest when you tell us what you heard,” one of the dwarves walked away from the card game.

He took his hand off the wall, then nodded furiously with a grin. “The area is clear. We can begin whenever we’re ready.”

The dwarves burst into cheers, clapping each other’s hands and giving celebratory back pats. But someone broke past all of the cheer—the oldest dwarf in the room.

“You boys can cheer later when that machine is running and working,” the wizened dwarf reminded them. “And the moment that we see magma coursing through those pumps… you will be the first journeymen made into masters via the new volunteer program. I need to bear witness as your supervising master.”

The dwarves were all sobered at this, and their anxiety redoubled at the same time. After they exchanged glances in the silence, they walked to their stations almost as though commanded. They were jittery from the pressure and stress, each and all. The master dwarf walked to the pit, whereupon he looked into its endless depths. The pump extended for miles and miles, partially suppressing the heat of the deep. Now it was time to bring that deep heat up to the surface.

The journeymen dwarves flipped switches, attached bolts, tightened and loosened parts, checked glass gauges… but one by one, they grew still, their tasks completed. They were all like rats frozen before the light of an opened door as they waited for command. Then the master walked to the pumping station, giving it one last examination. He firmly grasped the iron handle in its center, turned it, and then pushed deep. The machine let out a low hiss that rose in volume until it sounded like the tide of the ocean against the coast.

The pumping station’s parts scattered throughout the room came to life. The journeymen monitored their gauges, frantically made sure that all of the moving gears and restraints were working properly. The master craftsman, however, ignored most all of that. He walked back to the hole, gazing down at the pump. He could hear the forces of nature moving within it, toiling at their direction to harness the very fires of the earth itself.

There was a frantic silence in the room as the dwarves awaited the outcome of this project. Their constant review to ensure everything was in place was more to cool their own nerves than genuine doubt this machine would work. The master craftsman waited, watched, and listened. He heard the air within the pump shift, and knew that it had taken hold of something far below. He waited seconds longer, and then…

know of. It was the heat that came when magma was being pumped through the pipes. Enough to singe away the hairs on your head, yet after the dreadful

excited despite himself. Yet then, his heart

black malignance rising from the pit the pump was placed in. It coiled around their hearts, their minds,

one of them rubbed at his chest, lost for words. A subtle creaking drew his attention, and he turned his head. A bolt on one of the pumps

leading them to act before they thought. As one of the pressurized chambers exploded and released hot steam into the air, the dwarves furiously worked to

leapt to action. The magma was currently coursing through the pumps even now—he didn’t need to maintain the machines, but rather what kept that molten rock restrained. He furiously

on their machine. The magma started to pour through each of the pipes, making the work of repairing them dreadfully dangerous.

bend downward as it fell. He freed both of his hands and raised them up just as

with the supernatural insulation offered by dwarven metals, this was far too much for anything living to bear. He felt the metal

has been stolen from Royal Road. If you

go, master!” the dwarves

while the journeymen wrapped his hands in heat-insulating material. The pipe held, all the bolts resecured. They

one of them demanded. “Stop crowding him! Go

fast

a moment after. “Something… something foul came

his head, stepping up to the pump as it worked. “That king… he was right. Gerechtigkeit’s toying with the world, down below. And he intends to go down there

earth preserve us…” one of the dwarves prayed, and he was silently joined by

of the magma would be pumped up to the surface, providing that there were no more surprises. Once pumped, it would be distributed atop the surface of Vysenn,

what he’d find… did anyone know

#####

looked down at Argrave. His arms bore the evidence of battle, but from Argrave’s view, the wounds seemed to be mostly from hitting rather than getting hit. And the foremost evidence

storms?” Argrave looked upon the man. His body had been pierced by ten knives with red tassels. He was so badly broken that Argrave could discern little about his features save his midnight black hair and pearly skin. Argrave looked back at Sataistador. “What about the other

got my hands on him, I ate him