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Fox eyed the women who were unloading the tenders as they came up from the tunnels loaded with ore. She whispered to the Dwarf: ‘Did you hear about the mine owner in Austry whose workers sold him to mine-gnomes?’
Valiant gave Jacob an alarmed look. ‘You should keep a close eye on her,’ he hissed. He disgustedly shoved back one of the children who’d been stretching a little hand towards his wolf-fur coat. ‘She already sounds like one of those anarchists who smear their slogans on every factory wall.’
‘I liked you better when you were less of an honourable businessman,’ Jacob said. He helped the little tyke back to his feet. ‘Go on, show us the tomb before this cold drives someone to kill you for your coat.’
A rusty chain-link fence, surrounding three buildings with copper roofs to keep out the mountain wraiths . . . rail tracks, chimneys, a drainage ditch . . . nothing here gave away that the Dwarfs had found anything else but ore.
Fox looked around. ‘Can we see the Dead City from here?’
Valiant shook his head and pointed westwards. ‘Unless you can see through that mountain there.’
The Witch Slayer had built his city after Albion, Austry and Lotharaine had been united by the crossbow, and Helvetia had become the centre of his gigantic empire. Silberthur was what he named it, but now it was only known as the Dead City, for all its people had disappeared the day Guismond died. There were stories that their faces still looked out from the crumbling walls like fossils. Jacob had never seen the ruins with his own eyes, for even Chanute had always steered clear of the Dead City. Even after four centuries, it was still considered unhealthy to walk its deserted streets.
Valiant opened the gate in the rusty fence. The chain was loose, and there were footprints leading through the grey snow towards the mine lift.
‘I thought you closed the mine,’ Fox said.
Valiant shrugged. ‘A foreman comes by here every now and then to check on things. They sent in the last treasure hunter about a week ago.’ His face showed a satisfied grin. ‘And I’ve got three ounces of gold on the idiot never coming out again.’
Jacob pushed open the gate. ‘Three ounces of gold? Not bad. And what did you bet on me?’
Valiant’s smile turned as sweet as elven honey. ‘How stupid do you think I am?’
Fox shone one of the mine lamps into the pit with the lift cages hanging above. Valiant looked around furtively, but none of the men who guarded the workers on the other side of the fence had taken any notice of them. ‘Right. Once more, just to avoid any trouble,’ the Dwarf whispered. ‘I only brought you here to consult with Jacob.’
Fox climbed into the swaying cage. ‘You’ve told us so often, your dogs can probably repeat it by now. But I forgot the next part. We steal the crossbow, and you get dragged off by mine-gnomes before you can stop us, right? Or is it we who drag you off after we steal the crossbow?’
‘Very funny!’ Valiant growled. ‘You obviously have no idea of the risk I am taking here! The Dwarf council will have me shot should they ever suspect anything. And nobody outside the council knows of this tomb.’
‘Nobody except the council members, their secretaries, their wives, the mine workers who found the tomb . . .’ Jacob lifted the Dwarf into the cage. ‘I wouldn’t count on your secret being safe. And about you getting shot? Nonsense! You’d talk your way out of anything. I should know. I wanted to shoot you a dozen times already.’
The cage descended endlessly into the deep. When it touched firm ground, the light of their lamps exposed the roughly hewn walls of a chamber with a number of tunnels branching from it into the darkness. Wooden beams supported the low ceiling. Pickaxes and shovels leant against piles of rubble. Laid out on a flat stone were the usual offerings for the mine-gnomes: coffee powder, scraps of leather, coins. If the mine-gnomes disappeared, the miners could breathe easy. If they stayed, one had to expect sharp cries in the dark, rock falls, and spindly fingers stabbing into ears and eyes.
Valiant picked a tunnel leading west, towards where, high above them, the Dead City lay nestled among the mountains. At some point, they reached a crude drill that in Jacob’s world would have stood in a museum but that Valiant proudly pointed out as the pinnacle of Dwarf engineering. The drill had exposed an arched entrance in the rock face and, beyond it, a broad staircase leading steeply down, lined with burnt-out torches. The metal clamps were covered with soot. At the bottom, the steps opened into a wide chamber. A few forlorn gas lamps created a pale pool of light on the stone floor, and in the middle of it lay a sleeping Giantling. He wore the uniform of the Dwarf army and lumbered to his feet only after Valiant kicked him hard in the side.
‘You call this standing guard?’ the Dwarf yelled at him. ‘Why are we paying you thrice what we’d pay any human guard?’
The Giantling picked up his helmet and anxiously snapped to attention, even though Valiant barely reached his kneecaps.
‘No incidents to report!’ he mumbled with a sleepy tongue. ‘I have orders not to—’
‘Yes, yes, I know!’ Valiant interrupted him impatiently. ‘But I have brought an expert who has travelled here from afar. This is his certificate of authority.’
He pulled out an envelope so small that the Giantling’s gross fingers could barely take hold of it. Valiant gave Jacob a wink while the guard looked helplessly at the tiny thing.
‘What?’ Valiant barked at him. ‘Look at me! I know to you all Dwarfs look alike, but you should at least try to remember my face. I’m the owner of this mine.’
The Giantling suppressed a yawn and adjusted his helmet. Then he pushed the tiny envelope into his uniform and stepped aside.
His huge body revealed a door, framed by a frieze of skulls. The slits above the noses clearly identified them all as the skulls of Witches.
Guismond the Witch Slayer. Chanute had once told his story to Jacob in some filthy tavern. He’d been so drunk, he’d barely managed to pronounce the name. ‘Guismond, yes, there’s no man ever knew more about witchcraft. You know what they called him?’ Jacob thought he could hear his own voice answer, the high voice of a boy: ‘The Witch Slayer.’ That name resonated with everything that had made him follow the old treasure hunter in the first place: danger, mystery, the promise of enchanted treasure to gild his life. His life, which on the other side of the mirror had tasted only of boredom and yearning.
Already Chanute didn’t have to explain to Jacob how Guismond had earned his byname. No human on either side of the mirror was ever born with magical powers, but in this world there was a way to acquire them. It was a sinister way, and Guismond had not been the first one to follow it: one had to drink the blood of a Witch when it was still warm. ‘How many Witches did he kill?’ Chanute had refilled his glass with the acrid liquor that had cost him one arm and almost his mind. ‘How would I know? Hundreds, thousands. Nobody counted them. He’s supposed to have drunk a cup of blood every week.’
Jacob examined what was left of the crest on the gold-plated door: a crowned wolf, a cup of blood, and there was the crossbow . . .
Behind them, the Giantling was leaning against the wall.
