The Collapsing Tunnel - Chapter 14

 

14 – Shaatka – Invasion

Shaatka cups her hands beneath the cool trickle of the public well and lets the mountain spring water wash the dust from her face. “Maybe I should have stayed with Mosek at the Grand Market”, she thinks. “Too bright. Too loud. Too many people”. Even these Bimkor border communities feel crowded to her Deep‑deep senses—too many straight lines, too many cut‑stone walls pretending to be caverns.

A small child approaches; ears pointed like hers but hair pale as river sand. “Protector… that’s special. Did you get it from the Grand Market?”

Shaatka bends to his height and holds out the pry‑bar. “No, little one. It was a gift from a big hairy bear. I helped save his life, and he gave it to me.”

The child’s eyes widen—whether at “big hairy bear” or “saved his life,” she can’t tell. He darts away, already shouting the story to anyone who will listen.

The rhythmic clang of a metal‑shaper’s hammer rings through the central cavern, echoing off the smoothed stone. Shaatka lets the familiar sound settle her nerves.

A runner bursts from a side tunnel, breathless. “Riot at the Grand Market! Merchant hung!”

The words strike like a thrown stone. People pour from their homes—stone‑faced dwarven blocks, goblin‑woven timber roofs—voices rising in a panicked chorus.

“What happened.”

“Is it spreading.”

“Was that blasting powder.”

“Are we safe?”

Before the runner can answer, the ground trembles beneath Shaatka’s feet. A deep, booming echo rolls through the cavern. Then comes the unmistakable metallic ping of picks biting into stone.

Shaatka’s stomach tightens. That’s not blasting powder. That’s digging.

She scans the crowd for another Protector and spots Miskwa‑Tanen, his woolen uniform rumpled, his face drawn with worry. He raises his hands, voice steady despite the fear around him.

“Don’t panic. Don’t let rumors fuel fear.”

The wall closest to the border shudders—and collapses inward. Dust billows. A cluster of dwarf miners stumbles through the breach, cheering.

“We made it!” one shouts in Durask.

Miskwa‑Tanen strides toward them, calm but firm. “You are lost and have violated the border,” he calls in accented Durask. “Return the way you came. We will repair the damage.”

Shaatka moves closer, pry‑bar in hand. Everything about this feels wrong.

A voice booms from behind the miners. “They’re hiding Durn’s Gifts! You have his blessing to find them!”

Another voice answers sharply, “Hold, Priest. We have a job to do first.”

Three dwarves in brown leather armor step through the breach—two with war hammers, one carrying a scroll. The scroll‑bearer spots Miskwa‑Tanen and smiles coldly.

“Good. You can enforce this. By order of the Unified Guilds, this settlement is to be searched for precious metals and minerals, and reassigned as housing for Guild miners.”

“What!” Bimkor voices cry. “This is our home.”

“If you resist,” the dwarf continues, “the Legion of Stone is authorized to use force.”

Miskwa‑Tanen takes the scroll, glances at it, then throws it to the ground. “Who is the Legion of Stone? Who are the Unified Guilds? You have no authority here. Leave.”

The scroll‑bearer draws his truncheon and strikes Miskwa‑Tanen across the head. The Protector crumples. Gasps and screams fill the cavern.

“They won’t listen,” the dwarf snarls. “Make them listen.”

The miners surge forward, picks raised.

Shaatka moves without thinking. She blocks a blow with her pry‑bar, twists, and disarms the miner. Another rushes her. She parries again, but more are coming. She sees Miskwa‑Tanen being dragged upright, iron manacles clamped around his wrists.

A Priest steps through the breach, blessing the cavern with a sweep of his hand. Behind him come dwarven families pushing carts. “See,” he proclaims, “Durn provides for the faithful.”

Shaatka shouts in Mishikwe, “Head for the tunnels to Deep‑deep. Go.”

Families flee. She disarms another miner, then hurls the pick. It strikes a charging dwarf square in the chest, knocking him backward.

“They’ve got a fighter,” one of the Legion shouts.

Shaatka backs toward the nearest exit tunnel, guarding the retreat. She can’t block every path, but she can slow them. She slams her pry‑bar into a support stone and wrenches it free. The tunnel mouth collapses in a shower of dust and rock.

Not enough to stop them. Enough to buy some time.

She retreats with the last of the fleeing families, guiding them through twisting passages until they reach the next community. Elders are already gathering, demanding answers.

Shaatka finds two other Protectors and gives a rapid report. Then she faces the Elders, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

“A circle must be called. Decisions must be made.”

Only when the others disperse does she finally reach for her bow. She strings it with practiced ease, the string snapping taut.

“Next time,” she whispers, “I’ll use arrows.”