Raven’s tongue spoke the truth. The men under the mountain – they are here now. We had gone to the Black Forest on what I had planned to be our last sortie before finishing the infirmary. When we arrived, Tjokaben grew distracted and stubborn. He refused labor, and instead stared intently toward the South. I followed his stare and heard their voices on the wind.
They were whispers of terror, sorrow and despair. I could feel their loss, sense their resignation, their regret, their listlessness. An entire people was starving – dying – slipping away into utter non-existence. We abandoned our work and hurried for the Black Mountains.
The air near the Black Mountains is dank and wet with sulfur. The breathing gets harder the higher one climbs. We stumbled over the foothills and in time came to an opening at the base of the mountain. The stench in the air was unbearable. A foul vapor emanated from a crack in the rock. The opening too narrow for the ox to traverse, I left him and squeezed through the rock.
The light from outside was nearly useless against the helvetesten that coated the walls. The rock drank the sunlight like a thirsty horse. I cursed myself at having forgotten my staff. Once my eyes had adjusted, I could make out a narrow set of stairs roughly hewn out of the rock. They curved along the wall as they descended into darkness. Warily did I follow them down.
After several steps, I could smell it: death. The stench had been there for years. It penetrated the walls and lived in the porous rock. As I reached the bottom step, I nearly tripped over something heavy on the ground. I stooped, trying to identify the obstacle.
It was a corpse – the body of a man whose cause of death I could not possibly hope to determine in the darkness. All I could see was that he was covered in black – his face, his hands, his clothes – all coated in a thick layer of grime and soot. Whether he was a sentinel or an intruder I did not know, but I could hear the murmurs of the still-living deeper inside the cave. Again I cursed the darkness.
I left the cave and rushed back to Vinterstad with my heavy-hoofed companion. We retrieved my staff and a sledge laden with lamps, blankets and rope. We then made haste to Niaafjäll to recruit the Giant’s help.
The sky was again awash in blue, and after a length of time, Jötnar came to the gate. I explained that raven’s words were true, that there really were people living under the mountain and that we must rush immediately to render aid to that sick and dying populace.
Jötnar refused.
I was stunned. I begged him to come with me – to pull this forgotten people from the precipice of extinction – but he would not be moved. He was…indifferent. I could see that his mind was bent on ridding me from his doorstep that he could return to his conjuring. His eyes glowered with impatience at my very presence. Dejected and filled with sadness, I turned away and headed for the Black Mountains.
My staff alit, I re-entered the fissure and descended the stairs. At the bottom of the steps I found the man I had stumbled upon in the dark. I turned him over to see his face. It was gaunt and covered with filth, and his hands were withered. Doubtless he had seen many winters.
On the floor was a curious thing – an arrangement that appeared to be an offering of food, but it was not food. There were leaves and small stones arranged on a bed of moss – a mock offering of álfablót. Those still living in the mountain retain the practice of food sacrifice. They are elves!
I continued on into the filthy mountain. Another stench emanated from a gap in the wall. The narrow passageway opened up to a larger atrium, and there they were: the forgotten. Scores of elves lay listless and withering in the sulfuric den. Many huddled in small hollows they had dug into the cavern walls. Some were lifeless, rotting in their grotto tombs. Those still living lacked the strength to bury their dead, though each corpse had álfablót by his side.
I moved as quickly as I could, carrying them one by one through the cavern and up the narrow stairway. I laid them out on the sledge, side by side. I had to tear shrouds of fabric from the blankets to shield their eyes from the vengeful sun, whose rays they hadn’t seen for such a time as I cannot imagine. Then down into the chasm I went for the next individual.
Six trips did we make for the 43 survivors. Tjokaben was swift yet gentle with his quarry, and he proved very competent at helping to arrange bedding for them. On our final sortie, we loaded the remaining passengers onto the sledge, then I went down into the cavern and offered död färd to the dead. I promised that I would return and give them all a warrior’s burial.
We returned to the unfinished Infirmary with the last of the elves. They are malnourished, dehydrated and in need of medical attention. I have given them water and some fruit and grain. Their recovery will be slow. They are confused, disoriented and scared. In the morning I will bathe them. Over time, I will learn their story. But now my limbs are weary and my eyelids heavy. I must rest.
Oh – I let Tjokaben stay in the house tonight. Just for tonight.