The tunnels here are musty, pungent from years of disuse and a fungi infestation. It was the poisonous spores here that caused the mine shaft to be closed, according to Zefyra, because too many workers were dying.
Sephania wears a mask tight around her face, showing only her shining eyes, while the rest of us move with our faces uncovered. As vampires and dhampir, we’re relatively resistantto disease that might be inhaled. Our insides don’t work the same as humans’ do.
It’s just the five of us. Eerily quiet, dismally black, and uncomfortably stuffy. Some of the cruder parts of the tunnels are so narrow I have to move sideways to squeeze through, or crawl through holes that leave me scratched and my leathers ripped.
A few hours of struggling through here feels like days. Eventually, we make it to wider corridors, where thin streams of light seep in through the porous rock overhead, mottling the space with dancing dust motes. The light and the dust tells us we’re close to the surface. We’ve been moving across an incline for a while now, higher up the mountain interior.
When we hear muffled voices ahead, we freeze. Sephania takes the lead, and we draw our weapons. The hilt of my war-axe scrapes the ceiling of the tunnel as I pull it off my back.
Inside the next chamber, twenty halfkeepers stand, crowded shoulder to shoulder. Their eyes meet ours and Sephania gives them nods. Their hair is filthy, dark when it should be fair, greasy and caked with dirt. Their faces aren’t much better, and their throats bob nervously.
I was the foreman of many of these forgotten folk, and most of them fail to meet my eye. I could be a taskmaster and a proper bastard, so I understand the ex-miners not wanting to be friendly with me.
“Thank you for helping us,” Sephania whispers to them.
The head halfkeeper, a girl with stubble growing on her chin and cheeks and bright red hair shorn on the sides to give her a single row of braids on her pate, grunts to Sephania. “We’re doing this for our own dignity. It’s time the Olhavians learn the mines don’t work themselves. Our people have been forgotten for too long, Hellwhore.”
“Agreed.” Sephania draws her dual swords from her hips. The steel glints in the numerous torches held in the room. “You know the way to the North Mines from here?”
The redhead nods. “And the way to the silver cache. Half our group will fight with you, the other half will lead you to it.”
“Excellent. Let’s get this over with.”
The Gilded Ghosts lead us through the tunnels, beelining past the spiderweb of offshoots and mine shafts to strike a direct path to the surface.
We come into the North Mines through the southern end deep in the mountains. Even I haven’t been down this deep, but these people have.
The clanking sounds of pickaxes against stone begins to echo through the mines. Dim at first, growing in volume as we ascend the tunnels.
We come to a pair of miners, their picks stuck in midair as we emerge from the shadows like phantoms. Their voices end on gasps.
The redhead, called Kimera by her comrades, puts a finger over her lips to tell the miners to be quiet. The halfkeepers adjust their helmets and step out of the way. One of them points wordlessly down the winding corridor, around the corner, and lifts two fingers.
Kimera nods to Sephania, who nods to me, Skartovius, Lukain, and Garroway.
Garroway and Lukain take this one, dashing forward on light feet. The dhampir are silent fuckers, and we hear nary a grunt or thudding of bodies as they return with their daggers bloodied.
Passing down the hall, I note two vampiric guards with their throats cut and holes in their chests. The cub and the overseer made quick work of them.
Moving stealthily, we pass more miners working, none of them raising a fuss at the sight of us. Almost like they wish to join us.
Near each group of workers are guards stationed with their backs turned, staring the opposite way toward the entrance of the deep mine shaft in the mountain. Their negligence makes it easy to squeeze swords through their ribs and chests, pierce their hearts, and end them.
By the time we’ve reached the entrance of the mines, we’ve slain no less than a dozen guards. None of them are Aramastun’s judgemen, however, which I know are a skilled breed we have to watch out for. These have all been hired hands, mercenaries under Liolen Sesk’s employ.
The purple night cuts through the dark, aided by moonlight. Shafts of silver and white bathe the wide mouth of the mine opening. Skartovius takes the lead, my arrogant brother-in-arms, with Sephania by his side. Lukain hems in next to my silverblood, and I make toward the opposite side with Garroway. The cub and I have always worked well in tandem.
We emerge from the mines like a gust of wind, a gentle breeze you’d soon forget. Except none of these bastards will forget about us after this night is through.
A line of guards blocks the path, all of them facing the wrong direction since we came in through the back.
I lift my axe.
My boot hits gravel.
The closest guard warily looks over his shoulder—
And my axe takes his head off at the neck.