The air on the sixth level was thick and heavy, smelling of ozone and ancient dust. Valos ran his hand along the wall.
«I wonder, does this level ever end? Or will we keep descending forever until we reach the very core of the world?»
Beside him, Corvus was carefully studying the tunnel fork.
— Are you confident in your messenger, my lord? — Corvus asked quietly. — Mithril... is not something you entrust to just anyone.
— The Fox? He won't steal it. Firstly, he knows I'd find him even in hell. Secondly, he's the only one who can run twenty miles without stopping and not get winded. Thirdly... — Valos looked meaningfully at the dark passage, — ...he has an incentive to return. I promised him ten percent of the first batch.
Corvus nodded silently. In his world of honor and duty, such pragmatic calculations still caused slight revulsion, but he could no longer deny their effectiveness.
***
Meanwhile, on the surface, the Fox — a lean, wiry fellow with the eyes of a wild cat — was already racing through the muddy streets of the castle town. His feet, clad in worn-out shoes, seemed to barely touch the ground. In the knapsack pressed against his chest lay a fist-sized piece of mithril, wrapped in coarse canvas.
«Run, Fox, run,» pounded in his temples in time with his heartbeat. «Ten percent. Ten percent of a whole mountain of this stuff. I'll buy myself a tavern. No, two taverns. And the girls better be the most expensive...»
He sped past the market square, where merchants were beginning to set up their stalls. The air smelled of fresh bread, smoke, and slops. The awakened city was slowly coming to life.
— Stop thief! — someone's cry came from behind, but the Fox didn't even look back. He knew these streets better than the back of his hand. A sharp turn into an alley, a leap over a barrel of salted fish, and there he was on the main street leading to the estate.
The guards at the gate recognized him and merely nodded, letting him through. The Fox didn't slow down; his bare feet drummed loudly on the stone slabs of the inner courtyard.
***
Baron Eldrid Tropan stood by the window in his study, looking out at the awakening city. In his hands, he gripped a goblet of unfinished wine — a habit left over from the time his son had disappeared into the dungeons.
«Where are you, Valos? Are you even still alive?» his soul tormented itself.
A sudden commotion in the courtyard made him frown. He was about to call for the guard when the door burst open and a breathless messenger rushed into the study.
— My lord! — The Fox was barely standing, his chest heaving. — From... from your son...
Eldrid strode quickly to the young man. — Valos? Is he alive?
— Alive, my lord... — The Fox gulped for air convulsively and held out the knapsack. — He sends... this...
The Baron unwrapped the canvas, and his eyes widened. In his hand lay a piece of shimmering blue-white metal. Pure mithril. He hadn't seen such quality even in the royal treasury.
— Where? — Eldrid asked curtly.
— In the dungeon, my lord. On the fifth level. There's... a lot of it.
A note was tied to the mithril chunk. Eldrid recognized his son's handwriting — hurried, angular, but firm.
«Father. The mithril is real. We need the dwarves. The Ancient Hammer clan. Offer them exclusive mining rights in exchange for weapons and engineering assistance. Tell them I challenge them — can they work with metal of such purity? There's no time. The necromancer is approaching. V.»
Eldrid slowly sank into his chair. His son... his dissolute, lost son had not only found the legendary vein, but was thinking like a strategist. The offer to the dwarves was brilliant in its simplicity. Challenge their pride — the surest way to interest the stubborn short-folk.
— Go, — he nodded to the Fox. — Tell the kitchen to feed you. And... thank you.
When the messenger left, Eldrid walked over to the bookcase. Behind the third volume of «History of the Eastern Lands» lay a small wooden box. Inside, on a velvet cushion, rested a rune — an intricate pattern carved onto a plate of polished black stone. A teleportation rune. The last legacy of his great-grandfather, which had cost a fortune.
He placed the mithril sample and the note next to the rune, then carefully touched the central node. The stone flared with a soft blue light.
— To the Ancient Hammer clan, Black Peaks. To Chieftain Thorgrim Steelbeard.
The rune hummed, the light growing brighter. The air in the room trembled, and the scroll with the message, along with the mithril, vanished, leaving only a faint smell of ozone.
Eldrid sighed heavily, looking at the now-empty velvet cushion. Expensive. Very expensive. But if Valos was right... if the necromancer truly was coming... then this was their only hope.
***
Meanwhile, deep in the dungeon, Valos suddenly stopped. Corvus instantly froze, his hand going to his sword hilt.
— Do you hear that? — Valos whispered.
From the darkness ahead came a strange, rhythmic scraping sound. Almost... mechanical.
— A trap? — Corvus asked, equally quietly.
— Or not only that, — Valos slowly shook his head, listening intently. — The sound is too... purposeful. As if someone is working.
He exchanged a glance with Corvus. In the swordsman's eyes, he read the same wariness. The sixth level concealed something more than just traps and monsters.
— Carefully, — Valos nodded. — And be ready for anything. I hope my letter has already reached its destination. Because what lies ahead...
They moved forward, toward the unknown, while in the Black Peaks, events were already unfolding that would change the fate of the entire continent. The game was truly beginning.