16 – Ana – Setting Traps in the Dark
It is an orderly
movement. They move like a tide through the stone: the old ones up front, the
youngest in the middle, the strongest at the rear to catch those who stumble or
lose their way. They have been moving since dawn; the caverns empty in a slow, steady
tide that smells of smoke and packed wool. The Aniniwiin Sukaniniwinin
stay behind to do the work no one else can bear — to lay traps and set
rockfalls that will seal the border if anyone should follow.
Ana sets a large, smoothed stone into its cradle, fingers working the grooves until the balance is right. When the trip line is pulled, the rock will fall, crush the narrow tunnel throat, and block it. She pauses, feeling a little sick. Using skills she honed to enforce peace, to now kill those who might invade. “The elders all agreed, and we will do our jobs while the people move to safety,” she thinks for a moment. It saddens her, but it is needed.
She remembers Dulmir and Kavran. “I hope it isn’t one of them,” she tells herself, and the thought makes her shudder. She pictures them in the Hall of Disputes — measured, professional, fair. She remembers Kavran’s laugh at Mid‑Bite and the way he spoke to Ashke of retiring to a Hill Dwarf village as a sheriff, a gentle peacekeeper enforcing laws with a soft hand. That dream is gone now. Waad showed them the scroll when the Grand Market closed: official seals, words in both Durask and Mishikwe. The scroll didn’t order Protectors to abandon posts; it gave the Legion temporary authority to coordinate border security and civilian movement. All Peacekeepers who wanted to continue serving were now transferred to the Legion of Stone.
Voices echo from the caverns as whole communities move deeper into the Deep‑deep. Special teams of Stone‑listeners close the largest caverns; runners mark safe passages with glow‑moss and chalk. But it is the Silent Hunters who make sure the tunnels stay closed for now. She looks at her handiwork. “Yes, it is they who now hunt silently. Those rumored priests, mocking us with the name “Durn’s Silent Hammers”. They don’t even follow their own beliefs. A silent hammer would crush quietly. Not slip in the shadows and slit the throats of their own people.” In frustration, she hits her fist against the floor. “We had one. I didn’t see him. He killed one of his own kind.”
She waits until the voices fade, then finds the next narrow point. Falling stalactites are devastating; a single one can end a life and seal a passage. Ana climbs the cavern wall, fingers finding purchase on rough calcite. She loosens a great, brittle spike just enough, then secures a thin line of spider‑silk to pull it down when needed. She drops to the tunnel floor and taps the stone, listening for hollow pockets. None here; she will make a hidden pit when she finds one.
Setting traps is a craft of patience and cruelty. She hates the cruelty. She hates what they turned her into. She is now the Zhul-rakkaz of their stories. The killer in the shadows that the dwarves always said that border scouts were. Waad’s voice returns: ‘A single silent scout is more than a match for anyone who crosses the border’. “This is not justice; it is survival.” She tells herself that aloud, quietly, and the words steady her.
She thinks of Dulmir, how proud he was to follow his grandfather’s path as a Peacekeeper, unlike most of his family in the Iron Legion. She frowns. “He will be pressured into being a member of The Legion of Stone. The rumor from the last of the Bimkor traders who joined the caravans to be safe was that the Legion of Stone wears leather armor. The wool uniform of peace is now replaced by armor for war. “We are all killers now,” she softly says. “Bruna, forgive the pain we cause. We protect the people as we protect you.”
At the next choke point, she finds a natural sinkhole, half‑hidden beneath a carpet of calcified moss. She digs with a small trowel until the lip is thin and treacherous. She slips sharpened quartz into the pit — edges honed to a razor that will cut even swamp‑reptile leather. Then she covers it with loose stones and a lattice of spider‑silk, the kind of work that will swallow a foot, slice it open, and take a life. She lays a whisper of powdered lime on top so the surface looks solid.
She finishes the pit and sets the final anchor for the stalactite. Her hands are steady. Her throat is tight. When she is done, she taps the code into the stone with her knuckle — a soft, practiced rhythm — and the reply comes back: a single, low whistle and the tapped reply that means “Traps set. Border sealed for now.”
Ana realizes after a moment, “If any of the Legion of Stone are listening, they will understand. That is a mixed blessing. They know we sealed the borders and know we set traps. Hopefully, they come no further.”
She rolls her rope, puts
it in her bag, and checks her lines, then stands and watches the last of the
columns move deeper into the Deep‑deep.
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