Verath the Red (Dragonwall Series #3)

Chapter 43 - The City of Safuil

Safuil

Mikkin devoured a bowl of mushroom soup before going for a second, using a ladle to dish generous amounts from the vat sitting before him. He broke chunks of coarse brown bread from the loaf in his hands, dipping each generously into the broth. With every bite he sighed, relaxing deeper into his bench. The soup was thicker than the typical broth, still steaming, and flavored with spices. Almost too rich to his deprived stomach.

His companions ate in a similar fashion, the Drengr and their Riders, especially. They devoured everything set before them like starved animals. No one spoke. Not even Jamie. That was saying much, since the lad was generally the most talkative of the bunch.

They had wandered the tunnels beneath the mountains for days. The dried meat ran out first, and then their carefully rationed water. Mikken was already weakened from his stint beneath Shadowkeep, supported almost entirely between two bodies as they walked. The lack of food and water withered him as nothing had before, not even his worst journeys into the mountains to hunt.

Another day, perhaps just one more, might have ruined them. A party of Dwargs found them. Saved them, rather, and brought them here, to this place. This dark, dark place. He'd lost count of the days since he'd seen sunlight. There had been none in Shadowkeep. None in the tunnels. None here.

Safuil.

A city of rock and stone, deep under the mountains. The city patrol had found and escorted them straight to the massive dining room, an empty stone hall filled with stone tables, where they rested and ate. He knew little of the city beyond what he'd seen on the way, but he speculated it was all much the same. Carved from stone, void of daylight.

Thank the gods for Berbik! He'd negotiated on their behalf when the Dwargs considered killing them. Strangers wandering the depths of their mountain tunnels was an uncommon occurrence, especially Drengr, but Berbik's quick tongue brought them to safety.

They ate what the cook had on the fire. In this case, mushroom soup. It was the most delicious thing Mikkin had tasted—could remember tasting. He ate and ate and ate. So did the others.

Once their stomachs were full, they would go see Dubrael, Lord of Safuil. Dubrael would decide if they were worth killing. At least if they died, they'd do it with full bellies. That was a blessing.

Mikkin hardly cared one way or another. He'd been as good as dead anyway. The others appeared unconcerned too. All except poor Unka. The Gobelin hadn't stopped trembling. Dwargs didn't like Gobelins...No one did, for that matter. But especially Dwargs. He'd do what he could to negotiate on Unka's behalf—if it came to that.

He glanced over at the poor wretch who'd hardly touched the bowl before him. "You should eat, Unka," he prompted. Unka's large eyes darted at him, his green-skinned throat bobbed, and he attempted another bite.

The Gobelin had been true to his word. No, he'd been better than that. He'd appeared when Jamie needed him the most, helping the lad work out a plan to get Mikkin back from Shadowkeep. Lord Averaen and his party showed up just before they were set to scale the mountain walls.

He sighed. A belch rumbled up his chest. And with it also came relief. He was safe. They were safe. For now. Albeit under careful watch.

Their guards lurked along the wall, observing as they stuffed their faces, making comments in Dwargish. He glanced in their direction, studying them now that he wasn't starving. They were just as hairy as Berbik, overgrown beards decorated with beads, bones, and teeth. Short, too, with bodies that rose not taller than his waist, and wrinkled skin, like it wanted to belong on a taller person but instead, had to make do. Yet, what they lacked in height they made up for in strength.