And So, They Stand by TheRedIronFox < Submission | Inkbunny, the Furry Art Community

Keywords female 1128962, rabbit 144208, fantasy 27930, mystery 1778, suspense 245, fantasy world 127

And So, They Stand

       demoui (dehm-OEIH), noun, lower/common dwarven
       1. A large, imposing, or commemorative statue, typically of an individual or creature that is deceased
       2. The bodies of those infected with the Affliction of Stone (see also: Creeping Stone Syndrome)
       Harrel wrinkled her nose, tugging the cloth covering her face up just a little more as dust billowed around her, the sudden cloud obscuring the focused beam from her lantern. Cursing softly beneath her breath, Harrel lifted the lantern higher, glaring along the light it shed as the dust settled to the ground once more. This room appeared the same as all the others: abandoned. Trinkets and baubles lay on any surface she chose to look at. Clothing was folded neatly on the shelves of forgotten wardrobes. A bed stood defiantly against the far wall. Everything, from the combs that sat on a table before a mirror whose quicksilver backing was blistered so badly it was unusable, to the outline of what had once been a rug, was covered in a frightfully thick layer of dust.
       Looming in the center of the room was a lonely statue. The figure was massive, easily 10 feet tall, had to stoop to not connect their head to the ceiling . Height was combined with bulk to create a rudimentary humanoid shape that dominated the center of the room.
       Ignoring the butterflies in her stomach, Harrel approached the stony figure. Like all the others she had seen there was definitely a face on the roughly round head. Just like the others the eyes were closed, mouth turned down, head bowed as though a single sad thought had sent this creature to a rocky demise.
       “They say you can still see the dwarf inside breathing,” a snide voice noted from behind Harrel, causing her to flinch as she turned.
       “No you can’t,” she snapped back at Cairon, one of the two tinkers that had been brought along on this particular expedition.
       The Yorn cheetah just shrugged as he examined the mirror.
       “Doesn’t matter either way,” he said aloofly, “think we could strip the quicksilver off the mirror?”
       “Maybe,” Harrel said, abandoning the stony figure and approaching the mirror, “probably wouldn’t be worth it though. Dwarf mirrors always had real thin backings. They were good enough to last for a while, but they’re no Jahlnarth polished plate mirror.”
       “Does explain how the dwarfs managed to undercut the polishers in the Holy Jahlnarth Empire,” Cairon chuckled, brushing dust off of the combs on the shelf before the mirror, “ooh! Look at that!”
       The combs were definitely for the meticulous care of the infamous dwarven beard. These particular tools were elegant implements made of carved horn, set with tiny jewels and plated with heavily patinaed silver.
       “They’re nice,” Harrel said with a shrug as Cairon tossed the combs into his satchel, “not good for much now though.”
       “There’s gotta be a dwarf left out there somewhere who’d buy these,” Cairon countered as both of them turned back to the door.
       “I don’t think there is,” Harrel said softly, glancing back at the single occupant of the room one more time before leaving.
       Further down the corridor, Harrel could hear her fellow scavengers hard at work. This work was not glorious, nor was it as exciting as advertised. Plumbing the depths of the abandoned dwarven settlements was at least profitable.
       “Abandoned” was perhaps too strong a word for these places, Harrel thought. It wasn’t as if the dwarfs had chosen to leave. They had all suffered the same fate as the one in the room: they were entombed in stone.
       For generations the dwarves of Sallum, and thousands of other underground settlements, had provided the Holy Jahlnarth Empire with the metals they craved for craft and warfare alike.
       Then, one day, the shipments stopped.
       Envoys were dispatched. Concerns were raised, along with a little hell. No one could find the doorways into the mountains, as if the dwarfs had suddenly decided to entomb themselves in their halls.
       And that was exactly why saying any dwarven city was now abandoned was a point of debate.
       The dwarfs had indeed entombed themselves. In numbers that boggled the mind, the dwarfs had sealed themselves into the mountains, blocking passages to the surface, cutting off their underground road networks, and plugging up the aqueducts many of them relied on for survival and transportation.
       After these measures, the dwarfs would never leave their homes again.
       Some of them made it to the surface, despite the quarantine. Those that did were no better off.
       It was called “Creeping Stone Syndrome” by the dwarfs that made it to the surface; a disease for which there was no seeming logic nor cure. Slowly, over weeks or months, the dwarfs that fell victim to the disease would turn to stone…very literally. What was more baffling to those who were unfortunate enough to observe the phenomenon was that the process added a frightful deal of mass to the dwarf’s body. They grew so large that their petrified corpse—which lost a great deal of defining features—towered over even some Jahlnarth who came to investigate the sudden disappearance of the dwarfs.
       Now, there were no dwarfs. There were only statues, “demoui” if you spoke dwarven, standing in clusters of a dozen to over a thousand. They were propped up in warehouses, stacked in vaults, collecting dust in spacious halls and in libraries, anywhere there was space to keep them. Some, like the poor soul Harrel had just met, had simply shut themselves in their rooms, petrifying in solitude that was only made more oppressive by the stone eating them alive.
       Ruffling her tall ears to knock some of the dust off of them, Harrel turned to head deeper into the settlement. The boss liked that her rabbit ears and stark white fur made her easy to spot in a crowd or a ruin, even if the rest of her small, lithe frame did little to make her stick out.
       Dwarven ruins were what had initially drawn Harrel into this kind of work. She had made a study of dwarven in her school days, which some had thought preposterous. The dwarfs had always been and would always be. What did some little rabbit Yorn studying at an unaccredited upstart university in Pretannai need with dead dwarven dialects and the complex syntax of formal dwarven (which was exclusively reserved from snobby poetry and official government documents).
       It was that exact fascination with dwarven that had gotten her a spot on her first expedition.
       Now, as she wandered through what felt like a market square, she smiled around at what she was able to read that none of her colleagues could. She could grasp that this had been a place of business. Family names followed the stout glyphs that spoke of shops, of trades plied within, and of goods and services offered.
       Harrel paused, nose quivering as curiosity rolled up through her spine.
       “CLINIC”
       The word was not on a proper sign. Nothing about the carved front of the building particularly screamed “healing here!” either. If nothing else, the elegant stonework more closely resembled the inns that Harrel had seen in other settlements.
       Again, she came back to the word “CLINIC” on the crooked sign over the entrance. The slab of stone was nailed haphazardly over another sign, one that had certainly once announced the original purpose of the building. Some of the glyphs were a little smaller than the others. All of them beaten into the stone with a nearly frantic look, flakes and fragments creating gaps all along the edges of every single line, as though this word had been carved in great haste or with shaking hands.
       Nose still quivering, ears standing upright to scan for any sounds of danger, Harrel crept forward. First, she poked her head through the entrance, then her shoulders followed, then the rest of her. The orbs that the expedition mage had summoned for each of the scavengers followed her, dipping under the low doorframe then swirling their way up to the ceiling once more.
       When a dwarven structure boasted “vaulted” ceilings that merely meant other races could stand upright and still have room to stretch their arms. The vaulted hall Harrel found herself in was clearly meant for grand gatherings. She could count at least two dozen tables with even more chairs in the pool of light from the orbs pursuing her. Further on in the gloom she could see a stoutly carved bar with a massive mirrored wall behind it.
       Dust billowed around her as she moved across what was certainly a tavern. Harrel grinned as she vaulted over the low bar to confront the shelf behind it, which would have sagged with the weight of the bottles on it were it not for the fact that the shelf was also cut from stone. The labels, made from rare and expensive paper, had faded under the dirt that accumulated on them, but Harrel could still make out a few characters on them.
       Picking up a bottle, Harrel smiled as she turned it, thumbing away the dust from the crumbling label.
       “Craigfisher’s #12 Silver Spirit,” Harrel muttered as her eyes roved over the label, “nice! Morrigan’ll love this!”
       “Silver Spirit” was distilled from fermented fungus the dwarfs had cultivated in their caverns. No one had ever managed to learn how dwarfs had found a strain of fungus that had natural sugars in it so that it could be fermented and then distilled, but they done it. Called “miner’s sliver” or “hyper-silver”, this particular sprit had been a popular export and it so happened that Morrigan, the expedition’s captain, loved the stuff.
       Seeing no other bottles that could easily be identified as “silver label” Harrel turned her attention to the rest of the room. As she started, her brow knit together. The layout of the tables was wrong. They were shoved out of the way, clearing a direct line from the door to the corridors on either side of the bar that presumably led to rooms.
       Nose once more aquiver, eyes wide and ears alert, Harrel crept further into the ghostly inn.
       Open doors greeted her everywhere she looked. Most of the rooms were empty. Every now and then she would be momentarily confronted by a stone face attached to a massive body, but they were oddly rare here.
       At the back of the structure, a door opened into a massive space. Perhaps this place had once been a kitchen, judging by the massive ovens set into a far wall, but before it went dormant that was clearly not what the space had been used for. Tables had been replaced with beds. Surgical tools hung where cooking utensils had once been. Pots and pans were missing, alchemical equipment and books crowding the spaces where they would have once sat.
       The oddity of the impromptu clinic failed to hold Harrel’s attention for more than a few seconds before she took note of the stone figure in the room.
       He, or she since it was impossible to tell, was not sitting or lying down like so many of the figures Harrel had seen in other dwarven cities. This one stood over a workbench, a crushed stool beneath its feet the only sign it had made an attempt to sit previously. The figure’s shoulders were hunched, head down, as though there were something on the table before it that had commanded its attention up until the moment it perished.
       Stepping around the bulky stone figure, Harrel’s frown deepened as the orbs repositioned, casting the figure’s face in soft shadows. This one did not appear sad. The eyes were open, at least as open as solid stone could appear to be. The mouth was pressed into a thin line, the kind of line one made with their mouth when engaged with thoughts that were too weighty to be solved in one sitting. Clutched permanently in one colossal hand was a delicate silver pen. Buried under a layer of dust that obscured the tip of the pen was an open book.
       Moving gently, Harrel leaned past the figure’s arm and blew gently on the dusty book. A small cloud exploded outward from the book as the dust scattered. Two pages came into view, the first stacked with bulky renditions of dwarven glyphs, the other page only three-quarters full, the pen paused mid-stroke.
       “Even seeing through the stone…can’t see…barely see page…harder and harder to keep my mind clear. I can hardly see. I cannot fee—”
       This dwarf had perished in the middle of chronicling his own death.
       Swallowing timidly, ears folding down as she bent forward, wedging herself in between the figure and their journal, Harrel gripped the edges of the book. The paper seemed solid enough under her fingers as she tested the book’s resistance to the idea of moving. In spite of the stone hand hovering over the pages, the book moved easily. Cringing as a line was made across the page by the still viable pen—Harrel cursed both dwarven alchemy and their engineering as she moved the book—she pulled the book out from under its petrified owner.
       A relieved breath escaped her as she stood upright again, shaking the dust from the journal and closing it carefully so she could examine the cover. An elegant copper sheet formed the cover, inlaid with brass symbols that had cultural meaning but no linguistic significance.
       On the first page of the book there were just a few words scrawled in writing that was much smaller than the writing Harrel had first seen.
       “Observations of the Creeping Stone Syndrome
       Surgeon E. Bellhammer
       22-3-37 through”
       Harrel’s eyes widened as she thumbed quickly through the book. Gold was nice. Gems were good. Tools and other hardware sold for outrageous sums. Dwarven records, however, were almost unheard of. Whether they had been hidden away or dwarfs had relied on oral history was not entirely clear, but no one had managed to find more than a few tomes since the scavenging had begun, and none of those works related to anything newer than the last great dwarven war some 500 years prior.
       This book, which by itself would have cost Surgeon Bellhammer a pretty penny or two, was nearly full of handwritten notes from what Harrel realized was the stone figure still hunched over his work. What she saw at a glance were references to the condition, which was called Creeping Stone Syndrome. There were names of patients, dates, notes on physical and mental state as the disease worsened, and copious commentary from the Surgeon himself.
       Clutching the book close, Harrel scampered from the makeshift clinic. This was the kind of thing Morrigan liked to see when it was found.
       Morrigan lit up like a lantern when presented with the book. The expedition captain was, perhaps, a little jaded when it came to scavenging work in the ruins. She had been at it since the news of possibly abandoned dwarven riches had hit the surface. While never having found a treasury or anything more than a few coins or gems at a time, Morrigan was an excellent leader, able to organize even the most unseemly group into a well-oiled scavenging machine. Seeing her get giddy about anything was such a rare occurrence that her crew had a betting pool established regarding what would and would not make their captain squeal with glee.
       Several people lost money the day Harrel handed over Surgeon Bellhammer’s journal.
       The journal was almost instantly handed back to Harrel. Much to her surprise, and the surprise of most of the crew, Morrigan gave Harrel one task she was expected to finish before the crew returned topside.
       “Translate that thing,” Morrigan ordered through her elation, “cover to cover. I want to know exactly what it says ‘cause the moment we know that we’ll know if we’ve got something people’ll pay for!”
       So Harrel sat in her tent, lantern burning low, chewing on the end of a slightly stale heel of bread that had hosted several pieces of cheese up until a few moments ago, transcribing the first page and then flipping to the next.
       “22-3-37, first patient.
       “Rumor has turned to fact, I’m afraid, as the first case of the Creeping Stone Syndrome has been brought to me.
       “We thought we were safe here in Sallum, far from the halls of Duhr and Mahrla, where this disease seems to have originated from. It pains me to see that we were wrong.
       “I have not been able to contact any of my colleagues for weeks now. Any information they could have provided on this disease is lost to me now that the Elders have sealed up the tunnel roads. They said it was to stop the creeping stone, yet here I am now, confronted with this very plague.
       “What perplexes me most is the spread of this disease. Even before the roads were sealed, we had seen no travelers from any other cities for weeks. News of the uncontrolled outbreak in Duhr came to us on the back of a carrier rat.
       “Does this plague ride the backs of rats and bats? That seems unlikely to me….
       “This first patient, however, makes even less sense.
       “Aurgree Riviter, 45, male, no known history of illness, has not traveled to Duhr or Mahrla in almost 20 years.
       “Left foot is fully engulfed in a strange form of what appears to be basalt. This does not align with what scant information I did receive, which indicated that patients presented with formations of much harder stone on their extremities.
       “Patient presents with no discoloration in their urine or blood. They are able to breathe normally and their pulse is strong. Patient is not reporting a decrease in appetite or energy.
       “Really, other than the stone on his body, he seems quite healthy.
       “Patient reports no pain in the afflicted area of their body. Rather, they state that they are experiencing a most unpleasant tingling sensation in the flesh above where the stone has manifested. Patient compares the tingling to the kind one feels when they sleep atop their arm and the limb goes numb.
       “The stone is, indeed, stone. However, it manifests properties that are not common to basalt strata found in the hills around us. This basalt does not chip. Rather, it sluffs off when pressed and it can be cut with steel blades.
       “It is as if the stone is mocking the flesh it has grown on…but it does not bleed.
       “How can it be alive if it has no blood? Is it alive? Are we beset by some fungal infestation that merely looks like stone but is not?
       “I have removed several large slices of the stone from the patient’s foot, as well as some of the flesh just above the growth.
       “Patient has no sensation in their flesh from 2 to 3 inches above the edge of the stone growth. Cutting into the flesh yielded no blood.
       “Despite the lack of blood, the patient’s flesh is not dying and appears quite healthy.
       “I will give some of the stone and flesh to Corra. Maybe she can make sense of this with her potions and tinctures. Gods know that alchemy has been the bane of my practice, yet now I cannot help but think that it will be the only thing that can provide any satisfactory answers to what is happening.
       “Should the disease progress, we must consider amputation of the limb where the stone is manifested. I have no idea if that will stop the infection, but if such a procedure manages to stop rot, decay, and other decompositions that threaten the blood, it should work for this…I think.
       “24-3-37
       “As agreed upon previously, Mr. Riviter underwent an emergency amputation of his left foot today. I must admit, it was some of my shoddier work as there were other things beginning to press their way to my attention.
       “Four more patients have presented with stony growths. Two with growths on the left leg, one with the right hand fully engulfed, and the last with a large section of stone presenting along their spine.
       “This affliction seems to target complex joint structures first, going after ankles and wrists, now a spine. Could the disease be concentrated in these areas? Is there some component that the disease is drawn to in these areas of the body?
       “What if this disease comes from the bones? I’ve read some speculative works that conditions of the bone could cause outgrowths, but nothing like this. Besides that, the stone appears to be exactly that: stone. It is slightly malleable, warm to the touch, and exhibits some flesh-like qualities, but other than that behaves as one would expect the stone it appears to be should behave.
       “Riviter is recovering in my clinic for now after his procedure. I have asked Mord if we may house those afflicted in his inn for the time being. With no travelers on the tunnel roads, business has been slow for him. I have promised I will cover expenses for anyone boarded at his establishment until I am able to cure this malady.”
       For hours Harrel slowly transcribed page after page of almost similar narrative. Every day, without fail, two or three new dwarfs were found to have stone growing from their bodies. The surgeon, Bellhammer, remained clinical, direct in his notes, but Harrel couldn’t help but feel as though the surgeon was leaving his own feelings on what was happening out of the observations.
       Yawning, Harrel flipped a page over and continued to work.
       “2-4-37
       “Riviter’s foot has grown back. There is a part of me that is relieved. A life without a lower limb like that is no life for a miner. Still…I cannot help but entertain a certain amount of fear.
       “I have been delaying amputations for as long as possible until the success of this first procedure is verified. Removing a limb, even a portion of one, is dangerous. The life of the patient is forever altered and it is not always possible to keep rot out of the flesh after such a dramatic procedure. For these risks, and a lack of knowledge surrounding the Creeping Stone on my part, I have been doing all I can to avoid amputating limbs of the others until I can say with surety that such action would spare them.
       “I can no longer make that promise to them.
       “By divine curse or joke, but certainly not by any blessing, Riviter’s foot has regrown…at least, I assume it is his foot. The rocky growth is in the exact place where the foot that was removed should be.
       “In scope, this new appendage is all wrong. From the amputation site to the sole of the foot is twice the length of the patient’s other intact leg. At the mid-shin, the patient’s leg has twice the girth of his intact leg.
       “It’s as if this limb belongs to a creature several times the size of the patient. Yet there it is, growing out of his stump as though it had all the right in the world to be there…
       “3-4-37
       “We have no answers to lean on in this. Corra has brought back what little information she was able to scour from the samples I sent her. Her alchemy revealed that the “stone” we are fighting is unlike any stone we have previously seen.
       “This stone lives.
       “Perhaps, given the rapid growth on the afflicted and the reappearance of Mr. Riviter’s lost limb, I should not be surprised that this stone is somehow alive. That would at least explain how and why it can be marred with common surgical tools.
       “In the course of our conversation, Corra confessed that she was unable to determine the origin of this particular stone. When comparing slices of stone removed from other patients to the earthly version of said stone, she has found that the structure of the samples is indeed identical to the rock. Unlike the marble or basalt our engineers are used to tunneling through this stone responds to alchemical mixtures the way that flesh would respond.
       “This worries me, though I must confess it also grants me a modicum of hope. If this disease merely appears to be stone but is in fact flesh? This means that the cause of this affliction lies within the flesh and not within the bone or blood, as I have previously been given to thinking. This disease could be no more different than a tumor, or perhaps a goiter…though a goiter can be relieved with tinctures and time and this will benefit from none of those things if Corra’s findings are sound and my observations correct. If this “stone” is indeed flesh, and therefore this is a condition of the flesh itself, then it is equally possible that I will be able to devise a method of sequestering and then eliminating the affliction.
       “Still, I am haunted by the return of an amputated limb. After that unpleasant experience, I have informed all of my patients, which now total 57, that no further amputations will be attempted. This has caused a small amount of rancor, but many of them are understanding once the lack of benefit is explained to them.
       “One patient, who has somehow managed to keep herself in good spirits throughout, did joke that if cutting a limb off caused a bigger one to grow back, perhaps I should remove her husband’s manhood so he may regrow a larger, firmer one. I must admit, the laughter in the clinic was a welcome change of ambiance. Myself and Corra, I fear, have been too somber in our work.
       “Should I make an effort to be more cheery? Would that help those afflicted with the Creeping Stone? It may, at least, bring them a little peace.
       “Starting tomorrow I will begin to work from the kitchens of Mord’s inn full time. I am here at the inn more than I am at my own residence and clinic these days. Also, Mord has…manifested the Creeping Stone. He would like to have me near until this crisis is at an end.
       “Corra will be moving some of her work to the kitchen as well. With all tunneling compelled to stop by order of the Elders, there is no need for blasting flasks at the moment. Her skills will be a welcome addition in this battle.”

* * *

       The expedition had been scheduled to run underground for a week, then return the surface. Harrel had been looking forward to the time exploring the dwarven ruins, but found herself now caught up in a much less profitable type of exploration. For several hours every day, she was compelled by the sharp eye of Morrigan to continue the transcription. She would then spend the remainder of her day with her hands full of paper and graphite, wandering the halls of Sallum, taking further notes, connecting places mentioned by Bellhammer’s notes to their physical selves.
       Yet she could find none of the patients he mentioned. Save the monolithic figure she had found in Mord’s Inn—who she was now certain had to be Surgeon Bellhammer himself—she could not locate any of the dwarfs that Bellhammer spoke of in his observations.
       That changed a day before the expedition was to return to the surface.
       Killian was one of the best curse-breakers the guild had to offer. It also didn’t hurt that he was deft with a pick and rake. Morrigan liked to brag that the otherwise useless human Killian had yet to encounter a vault door or locked trunk that he could not safely open. For days now the lanky human had been toiling against the massive vault door beneath Sallum’s council chambers. Dwarven law demanded that all banking happen through the lawmakers of their kingdoms, so the vaults beneath civil buildings were always stacked with valuables.
       Harrel had her nose in Bellhammer’s journal and her left hand busily employed writing what she was reading when Killian slouched back into camp. His sallow face was paler than usual as he fished a bottle of wine from the supply buggy, ripped the cork out with his teeth, and proceeded to chug the contents.
       “That’s coming out of your cut, you know that, right?” Morrigan asked through a smirk as she watched Killian wipe his lips on his filthy sleeve and toss the bottle to the ground.
       “I found them,” he whispered, eyes on the now cracked bottle as it rolled to a stop at his feet.
       “Found who?” Morrigan demanded as the entire camp seemed to lean toward the two in anticipation of an answer.
       “All of them,” Killian replied hollowly, “I found the dwarfs of Sallum. They’re in the vault under the council’s chambers…has to be a thousand or more.”
       No one got much sleep that night as the entire expedition poured over what was in the vault. There was no treasure. No gold ingots or fabulously cut gems. No legendary artifacts or weapons built to slay gods. Instead, 4,421 statues of at least 40 different types of stone and a dozen types of crystal and gemstone sat or lay in repose in the eerily still air of the vault.
       Harrel was saddled with the tedious task of cataloging the corpses. This was done in part because she was one of the four record keepers that the expedition had on hand. The main cause for this assignment, however, rested in Bellhammer’s journal. The dwarf surgeon had been explicit in his descriptions for the majority of his observations when patients began to perish under his care. He recorded every detail he could about their stony physiology, from the type of stone that had claimed them to the minor details of fissures around the jawline of one particular patient who had been encased in quartz. It was not difficult for Harrel to use her notes and Bellhammer’s journal to put names to the stony figures of the vault. One by one, she was able to confidently name over half of the “demoui” that had been left in the city vault.
       “What about the rest?” Morrigan asked, reading over Harrel’s shoulder as both of them stood before a black and grey marble demoui who Harrel felt sure had been a stone carver named Voultan Brimwalker.
       “The notes are getting worse,” Harrel confessed as she checked Voultan’s name off of her list and picked up a small brush from the little clay jar of white paint she had been using to label the demoui, “the entries aren’t as frequent and the details are getting more scattered. I think after almost a year of dealing with the dying this Bellhammer guy started to lose his mind a little. His writing is getting…depressed. He’s spending more time wondering why he can’t save anyone as I read along.”
       “Do what you can then,” Morrigan sighed, frowning up at the immobile figure before them, “hard to believe they were dwarfs. These things are huge! What do you think this one is? Ten? Eleven feet tall?”
       “Ten feet, four inches,” Harrel reported quickly, eyes flitting to her notes, “Mr. Brimwalker here is actually the last patient that Surgeon Bellhammer recorded final physical measurements for. After this one, he just sorta gave up I think.”
       Morrigan nodded, turning to go and check on the rest of her team, “I would too. After watching a few thousand people die? It’s a wonder this dwarf kept recording anything after that.”
       Once the vault had been sorted through, and nothing valuable had been found, the crew all returned to camp.
       Silence reigned more than usual as the evening wore on. Whether it was the lack of treasure or the somber nature of the tomb they had accidently uncovered, Harrel couldn’t tell. Instead of trying to figure out what weighed down the minds of her comrades, she returned to Bellhammer’s notes, readying herself for what she feared she already knew was coming.
       “8-2-38 10-2-38
       “I had intended to continue the notes from the previous day, but it would seem I can no longer feel my own hands.
       “Continuing from 7-2-38, almost 90% of Corra’s body is now stone. What little remains of her is her left hand and the upper right quadrant of her face, though this is only visibly through a small opening that I know by now will form the right eye of the demoui she is becoming.
       “I spent the last two nights seated by her side. From time to time, she would squeeze my hand with hers and I could observe her eye blinking. Her eye is wide, the pupil constricted to something smaller than the point of a needle. She is terrified and there is nothing, literally nothing, that I can do for her now.
       “The most I will be able to do is move her down to the vault in the end. It is far from a proper burial, but it is all we can manage with how ridiculous the bodies of the deceased are to attempt to handle.
       “Grimm has become fully encased. I will need to move him to the vault as well.
       “I alone remain unchanged thus far…but I know that will not be the case for much longer. I have heard the symptoms enough times by now to know that the loss of feeling proceeds the unpleasant tingling that signals the beginning of the end.
       “The stone is coming for me next.”
       Harrel frowned, turning pages back and forth a few times to be sure she was seeing things correctly. Two or three pages had been torn from the journal. Between the page dated 10-2-38 and a page that began with 18-2-38 two pages had been removed. Shuddering, Harrel braced herself and continued to read.
       “18-2-38
       “Corra is gone. Grimm is gone. Mord is gone. They are down beneath me now, safe in the vault, which I have locked.
       “I was drawn into what was the market earlier today. There was weeping from one of the residences. Of course, there was nothing I could do. There never is.
       “Her name was Yolda, a silversmith whose only rivals could be found in Duhr. In fact, I own several of her smaller beard combs. They are such lovely pieces, perfectly practical while being elegant enough that kings would be rightfully jealous of the one that owns them. Yolda had not come into the clinic after her husband was moved to the vault. I hoped, perhaps the same way a child hopes their slain father will return from war, that she was preserved from this insanity. She was not. Instead of burdening others with her condition, she has stubbornly spent the last of her days alone, in her home, forcing her body to continue daily functions.
       “To the eternal credit of Yolda the silversmith, it appears that she was somehow still moving despite the fact that only face remains unaltered. When I entered her chambers, she was sobbing from the effort of taking a single step. I was, admittedly, terrified to see that she could still move. No one has been able to convince the Creeping Stone to movement once it claims a limb. Yet she walked, bawling, until her legs froze in place before her vanity.
       “She was entirely inconsolable. All I could do was sit before her, my tiny hands clasping her monstrous stone hands, as the stone engulfed all but the top half of her head. I held the stone that had become her hands and watched, helpless, as the last of the stone capped its work and sealed her away. I have no idea how long I sat there holding those oddly warm stone hands. Perhaps today is not the 18th. It could be the 20th, or the 30th, for all the good it does me to know such a thing.
       “I cannot move Yolda, not by myself, but I think even if there was someone left to assist me, the task would be difficult. It was all I could do to move Corra and Grimm down to the vault, and that was with the cart and pulleys. There is no way for me to move Yolda. The portals of her home are simply too small for me to even imagine a way to maneuver her into the street, even with the help of machinery. New portals would need to be cut, and I am no stone master. My world is bone and sinew, not loadbearing arches and elegant doorways. Via ignorance I could collapse an entire street if I attempt to open up any existing doorways. Yolda will have to remain in her quarters, alone, trapped, for eternity because there is no one left who can help her.
       “I can’t help anyone! I couldn’t save anyone! Gods damn the stone! Gods damn me!”
       Scrawled further down on the same page was one line:
       “There is a small spike of raw blue marble growing out of my right forearm.”
       “22-2-38
       “I have been somewhat absorbed the last few days. It is left to me to care for one last patient…myself.
       “The blue marble spike has continued to grow. It has friends now, with four more spurs the length of my pinky appearing on my right shin. This development has compelled me to cut the legs from my pants and the arms from my tunics. As the disease progresses, those parts of the clothing will only become more damaged. We found that it was best to remove them early.
       “Perhaps it is a good thing the Elders were claimed by the Creeping Stone so early in this. They would have been terribly upset by the “indecency” we have had to expose the whole of Sallum to. The only way to accommodate the stoney growths is to butcher the clothing of the afflicted. Perhaps, in a different light, this would have been a humorous venture.
       “I did, however, chose to leave a few of my favorite tunics folded in my wardrobe at home. It will mean little, if anything, once I am gone, as I doubt greatly that any dwarf will remain to ever wear them. Still, the notion of preserving at least one little piece of myself brings me some comfort, as it has for so many of my patients up to this point.”
       “30-2-38
       “I feel that I am losing my mind…but that is most likely the result of a severe lack of sleep.
       “Previous patients were entirely correct when they observed the tingling sensation that is one of the main symptoms of the disease as unpleasant. This sensation is worse than the recovery from pressure or a tourniquet. My limbs itch constantly because of this damned sensation. Each day it seems to seep further into new regions of my body. Like every patient, I have lost the ability to sleep completely, for at all hours some part of my body is alight with the madness of this sensation.
       “Relief only comes when the stone consumes an area entirely. Today, officially, the stone has crept up to the top of my right knee. This bulk is remarkably uncomfortable to manage. Now I am worried we did not do enough to make patients comfortable throughout this disaster. Of course, I did all I could, but the cots we rested them on were stiff, unsuitable for the weight of the stone.
       “Our bodies are unsuitable for this kind of weight. I can feel my right hip constantly dislocating and relocating when I move about. Should I attempt to immobilize the limb? We did have some success doing so with others, or, at least, doing so allowed them to walk with the aid of a crutch.
       “Mother Mountain keep such silly thoughts from my head! Me, a physician, a surgeon, hobbling about these ghostly halls on a crutch? Absurd.
       “Then again, this entire situation has been absurd. Dwarfs have worked the stone of the world since the Days of Creation. None grasp the will of the stone and rock so well as we do and yet the stone is what has turned on us. Omens failed to appear. Signs were not given. The will of the gods of the earthen places was entirely obscured. Now I wonder if all of this was their will. Perhaps some cruel joke? The actions of a trickster or entity of Chaos?
       “Aggravatingly enough, I will never know the answer to that.”
       “31-2-38
       “Even in the midst of this seeming madness there is some form of order. Despite the overgrowth of my right leg, it has been possible to continue observations. Those observations will lead to no cure, as such, but perhaps they can be enough to spark some inspiration. If something previously unseen is seen, then I may yet escape this fate. Perhaps I can free the others.
       “The growth of the stone towards my hip has slowed drastically. As with all the others, the stone is not growing as rapidly as it encases my arms and torso. The legs and lower quadrants of the body are consumed at a much more rapid pace.
       “Does this disease intentionally do this? Speculation among my peers was once rampant that disease is a function of some invisible living force that has a will of its own. Should that prove true, can a disease think? Can it strategize in order to maximize its ability to spread within a population?
       “Does it seize upon the legs to trap its victim in one place so it can devour them?
       “No. This is no animal we faced. It is a disease. Still, it is odd that the more mobile parts of the body are taken first.
       “There is some ragged fragment of my mind that is flirting with the concept of amputating my own leg. I am, of course, fully aware that this will do nothing to stop the process of the creeping stone. It may, however, allow me a rare opportunity to understand how Riviter’s leg grew back…assuming I could even preform such a procedure on myself. Two aides were always required for amputations. I am out of clean tools as well, and with no means to properly cleanse my tools remaining, I may accidentally kill myself either by loss of blood or rotting flesh.
       “Would the stone or rot claim me first should both be introduced?
       “Looking back to see if I made note of any rot—and seeing no such notations—it came to my attention that it was more than a year ago now that Riviter came to me and that his leg was removed. Mercy of the Mother…a year…just one year…and everyone is gone! I am trapped here, alone, given that the tunnel roads are still blocked off. One dwarf can dig as well as any other, but those tunnels were backfilled for leagues. Mechanisms have long been in place to rapidly and deeply clog the tunnels, should invaders successfully gain a foothold down here. Now those same defenses make it impossible for me to even dream of reaching any of the other cities. We were assured that once the crisis was over, tunnelers from Durh would reach us. But no one ever came through.
       “I no longer believe anyone will break through to us now.
       “5-3-38
       “My thoughts are wandering more often now. Patients often became more emotional, and mildly forgetful as the Creeping Stone ate them. They became less rational. My professors would flog me if they knew how much I have wept in these last days. Surgeons do not weep, they would say to me, because the weight of life and death cannot be carried by those who weep.
       “What is worse, it took nearly an hour to recall today’s date. Almost a week has passed since I made any notations on my condition. I will do my best to keep my records as the disease progresses, but I am worried that this will be more difficult as time goes on.
       “It is already getting difficult to write. I have, after all, had to switch to my left hand. Bless my stubborn mother for forcing me to learn how to use both hands like a proper dwarf.
       “As my right arm continues to become encased, the first spurs have broken through the skin on my left leg, lateral on the midthigh, a dozen small spurs all measuring less than the width of a finger in length. But, they are there now.
       “What surprises me is that still there is no blood. Given that the stone presses upward through the flesh, I would expect all manner of evisceration with this process, and certainly a great deal of blood once that skin is breached. Yet there is no blood, not from my stone nor the stone of any dwarf that fell to the Creeping Stone.
       “I was able to cut one of the spurs off. As with the stone of all other patients, the inside of the structure is almost spongy, despite its appearance. The exterior is very much stone, though I have noted something unusual, something Corra made note of early in this disaster. For approximately an hour after excision, the stone remains supple, as though constructed from sinew or cartilage. It can be bent, rebounds when pressed, but it will crack or rip if pressed too hard or bent too far. After an hour, the sample ceases to exhibit these properties and becomes entirely like the stone it appears to be.
       “This stone, this damned Creeping Stone…is it…alive?
       “6-3-38
       “I am an idiot.
       “All of yesterday’s observations are identical to observations I wrote down a year ago. Why could I not remember that? Does the Creeping Stone eat away at the brain as well? Loss of memory, difficulty with…”
       Several words had been scrawled and then scratched out. Harrel frowned, bending close to the page, realizing that Bellhammer had written the word for “speech” incorrectly five times before achieving the word he was looking for. This same pattern, Harrel noted, began occurring regularly in the last few pages of the book.
       “speech.
       “Gods damn it all! I am unsure of how much longer I can manage this! The stone is moving at a predictable pace. Within a few days I will have lost every semblance of a body from my waist down. My right arm is gone. My left is, surprisingly, mostly unmarred, save for a few small spurs. I can feel the stone on my back. My chest tingles constantly and I can feel hard lumps beneath the skin.
       “Thinking is difficult. Eating is impossible. I have lost any desire for food…though as with all my patients I do not feel the pains of hunger. Odd that no one perished of starvation, even after they were rendered free from their desire to eat.
       “13-3-38
       “I have no idea how, but I have managed the same feat as Yolda the silversmith!
       “Both of my legs are lost to me. I have been standing here, dozing and cursing intermittently, for days now, but today I experienced a fit of rage. In the midst of said fit, I found myself so overcome with the urge to move that my legs, or the things that have taken the place of my legs, obeyed!
       “As long as it is intact and remains anchored to a body, this stone can indeed behave as though it were flesh.
       “Clunky and uncoordinated barely describe my first steps with these awful legs, but steps were indeed taken. I was able to traverse the length of my now defunct impromptu clinic and return to the bench where this book is. With some effort, most of which involved screaming at my arm as I wept, I was able to bend my right arm at the elbow.
       “I still can’t feel my left arm, but it moves as it ever has. Now these stony limbs move as well.
       “If I use them, if I am consistent, if I push my body to master this stone…can I claim it? Is it merely a parasite and I its host? If so, can I dominate it?
       “22-3-38
       “I haven’t written…long time…been too busy leaning to walk, to pick things up, to use this stoney body that has taken hold of me. It…sort of works…but…it is a crude, fumbling thing.
       “Can’t feel hands. Most of body is stone now. Writing…hurts…thinking…hurts….
       “But I can still move…and I move a lot. Maybe if I keep moving…keep moving…keep moving….
       “24-3-38
       “The stone claimed my face today…but I can see…how?
       “28-3-38
       “Dates probably wrong…don’t know….
       “Just have my left hand now. I can move this body…but mind…almost…gone. Long periods…all black…can’t tell when I lose consciousness and when I get back.
       “Even seeing through the stone…can’t see…barely see page…harder and harder to keep my mind clear. I can hardly see. I cannot fee—
       Harrel sat back, eyes wide, staring as she set her pencil down. Numbness radiated throughout her limbs, causing her to shiver, a sliver of fear stabbing into her, curious if she could be turned to stone as well.
       Moving like a mannequin that had been forced to come to life, Harrel delivered the transcription to Morrigan. She didn’t stay to witness the reading. Reading the journal of Surgeon Bellhammer once had been plenty for Harrel. She vowed to herself that this would be her last scavenging expedition. These places that companies like the one she was part of went to, they were not ruins, they were tombs. Robbing the dead was not something Harrel had ever wanted to do and now she was sure that all that she would ever find in these places would be desolate ghosts with stories like the one she had just transcribed.
       Several hours of fitful rest later, Harrel awoke to the sounds of camp being torn down. Morrigan was somber as she oversaw the process. Without explanation from their leader, the company broke camp and began the two day hike up through the emergency ventilation shaft they had used to reach Sallum. Officially, Morrigan would report that some goods had been recovered, but that Sallum was to be designated as a gravesite, ensuring that others from their company would not tread on what remained of those who had perished in such a bizarre and frightful manner.
       Over 2,000 miles away, on the slope of a hill that had only ever been seen by four people and walked over by only one other, a dwarf gasped for breath. All of him, minus his mouth, was covered in thick grey stone. For weeks now he had plodded along, mad with fear, unaware of where he was going or even how far he had managed to stray from the road his caravan had perished on. Pleading, sobbing beneath warm, creeping stone, he was confronted by his failure to escape the fate that had claimed every guard, driver, and hand of his caravan on the dusty roadside.
       One last gasp flew up to towards the heavens, bearing a final, desperate prayer to the Mother Mountain for salvation. Stone closed over the mouth, thickening over the tedious minutes that followed that last exclamation that went unheard by all except a badger in its den just down the slope of the hill.
       In the ruins of Sallum, moments after the last dwarf in the world gasped out his final moments on a hill that had no name, there was a strange rumbling sound. Like thunder it rolled up through the rock of the city, loosing dust older than the Holy Jahlnarth Empire from crevasses that no one even remembered existed. Fissures spidered their way across smooth carved surfaces as the thousands of demoui in the vault shook in rhythm with the tremor.
       And there, in the dark beneath the mountains, standing where his book had been, the demoui once known as Bellhammer opened its eyes and its mouth split to admit a reflexive breath that the previous surgeon had been holding when he had succumbed to the Creeping Stone.

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