Chronicle of Ember and Shadow

北方是一座参差不齐的山脉,白雪皑皑的山峰在冬日的阳光下闪闪发光.峭壁与悬崖宛如黑牙般冲破白色,在它们的底部有一条传闻通往古老矮人隧道的险恶通道.那里浓雾浓密,像活物一样蜿蜒在岩石山坡上.

科林沿着蜿蜒的小路前进,小心翼翼地尽可能不发出声音.他的兜帽被拉紧,抵挡着冰冷的阵风,这些阵风抓住了他的斗篷.长长的阴影覆盖着山壁,为他提供了掩护,但也隐藏了威胁.每隔一段时间,他就会在一堆巨石后面停下来,倾听.风呼啸着穿过裂缝,松散的石头从岌岌可危的壁架上滑落.没有脚步声,只有他自己的脚步声.至少现在,他一个人.
虽然保密是他的职业,但科林还是忍不住感到不安.他冒险进入这些高处寻找隐藏的矮人据点.正式地,他没有标准,也没有证据证明他为奥尔登勋爵或他的女儿萨布林夫人服务.这是有意为之:很少有人需要知道这项任务.然而他发现自己希望有一个同伴,哪怕只是为了打破压抑的沉默.
他紧紧抓住一张画在羊皮纸上的地图,这张地图破旧得各处都碎裂了.这些线路表示一个几个世纪前就被封闭的入口——世界上大多数人都忘记了,但有传言说,如果一个人知道正确的路线,它仍然可以通行.他还带着一根刻有神秘符文的细长金属棒.Sabrine 坚持要他带上它,声称这根棍子可能会打开隐藏的大门或照亮前方的道路.到目前为止,它没有表现出任何力量的迹象.
旧世界的回声
经过几个小时的小心翼翼的前进,Corin 发现了一个若隐若现的天然石拱门.楔入它的下方是一块巨大的巨石,因天气和岁月而伤痕累累.一条狭窄的裂缝从一侧切开,宽到足以——勉强——让一个人挤进去.冰覆盖着表面,使它们变得光滑,从更深的隧道中飘出的陈旧空气气味,带有一丝泥土的霉味.
"一定是这个,"他低声喃喃道."通往矮人王国的门户."
一个较弱的灵魂可能已经回头了.即使在矮人中,如果有人在这些山中幸存下来,人们也以低声的语气谈论着古老的堡垒.有些人认为这是诅咒.其他人称它为圣地.科林鼓起勇气,回想起萨布林夫人的恳求,然后溜进了裂缝里.
黑暗吞噬了他.往深处走,长廊扩大到一条大通道的大小,宽到足以容纳矮人商队与步兵.石墙雕刻得异常精确,镶嵌着破损的固定装置,这些固定装置可能曾经装有发光的水晶.现在只剩下一片寂静.
科林点燃了一盏小灯笼,它微弱的火焰投下了舞动的影子.他向前冒险,明显地喘着气.几个世纪以来的灰尘在空气中飘荡,覆盖着废弃的铁轨和生锈的链条,暗示着曾经繁荣的矿山或车间.坍塌的横梁和瓦砾证明了部分塌陷.不过在某些地方,矮人艺术的微弱痕迹依然闪耀着-错综复杂的符文铭文,褪色的壁画,描绘骄傲的矮人国王与人类王国结盟.
"这里发生了什么?"科林大声问道.这个问题在柱子和壁龛之间回荡,直到回声消失在寂静中.
一种空洞的不祥预感笼罩着他.他怀疑矮人不仅仅是放弃了这些隧道;他们可能是逃离了比敌对部落更糟糕的东西.从海斯皮尔图书馆的旧记录中,他知道矮人是狡猾的建筑师-除非威胁超出凡人的理解范围,否则很少会一次地震或战争将他们赶走.
腐败的迹象
随着 Corin 的深入,地板下沉.一个咸水坑横跨一个低洼处.小而盲的鱼在摇曳的灯光下蠕动着走——整个地下生态系统在孤立中蓬勃发展.他小心翼翼地向前走,靴子在浅滩上晃动.
前方某处,一阵安静的滴水声以诡异的规律回荡着.滴...滴...滴.他愣住了.又是一阵声音,更微弱,几乎是刮擦的声音,就像爪子敲打岩石的声音.心跳加速,他熄灭了灯笼,相信自己的眼睛会适应.在近乎黑暗的环境中,他努力听见.
时间一分一秒地过去.刮擦没有重复.慢慢地,Corin再次移动,一只手沿着墙壁滑动以保持他的方位.然后走廊通向一个巨大的空间,让他喘不过气来.
一个巨大的矮人大厅,宛如一座地下大教堂般延伸开来.破碎的柱子高耸入云,拱形天花板上点缀着微弱发光的矿物矿脉.在这里,古老的矮人手艺得到了充分展示:由多种颜色的抛光石头制成的马赛克地板,部分坍塌,但仍然具有华丽的艺术性.一端矗立着一个巨大的讲台,雕刻成一个风格化的铁砧,是矮人皇室的象征.
然而,一丝黑暗的污点破坏了它的美丽.黑色的卷须像匍匐的藤蔓一样沿着地板和墙壁蔓延,每个卷须都从中央裂缝中伸出.他们跳动着微弱的光芒,仿佛他们还活着.一股刺鼻而难闻的气味让 Corin 的胃紧绷起来.
He had seen corruption before—blighted farmland, cursed forests—but never anything quite like this. It seemed to breathe. Shifting closer, he noticed a faint hum at the edge of his hearing, a rhythmic pulse in sync with the veins of darkness.
Suddenly, an unearthly shriek shattered the silence. From behind a fallen column lunged a twisted shape: vaguely humanoid but hunched, its flesh warped and ashen, mouth lined with jagged teeth. Glowing darkness threaded through its veins. The creature's eyes glowed with a sickly violet light, and it stumbled forward on clawed limbs.
Corin reacted on instinct. He threw himself aside as the abomination swiped at him. The blow crashed into a chunk of rubble, sending stone fragments flying. His short sword hissed from its sheath. With no time to think, he slashed low, but the creature sprang away, letting out a gurgling hiss. It circled him, drooling black ichor.
Their battle commenced in that grand dwarven hall, overshadowed by a sense of ancient majesty turned to ruin. The twisted monstrosity moved in uneven bursts, as if half-lame, yet each strike it attempted came with feral force. Corin danced back, narrowly avoiding a blow that might have broken bone. He struck back with precision, scoring a gash across the monster's chest. No normal blood spilled—only a vile ooze that sizzled against the floor.
A second shriek echoed from deeper in the hall. Corin's heart sank. He didn't know how many more of these creatures might lurk beyond. Deciding on speed, he feinted left, then thrust his blade directly into the creature's neck. The steel bit deep, and with a rattling breath, the abomination collapsed, limbs twitching.
Corin wrenched out his sword, panting. Dark fluid clung to the blade, and the faint humming in the air faltered. He looked toward the dais, at the lines of darkness creeping along the floor. He had no illusions that was the only foe; more might appear at any moment.
The Strange Awakening
In that tense moment, a new sensation seized Corin's mind. Something akin to a whispered voice, or a half-remembered dream, threaded through his consciousness. Images flashed before him: fires raging, an anvil blazing with light, a dwarven crown placed upon a shadowed figure's head. He felt a subtle pressure, as though an unseen presence tested his spirit for worthiness—or for weakness.
Alarmed, he clutched the engraved rod Sabrine had given him. Its runes began to shimmer, faint at first, then blazing with sudden intensity. A heat spread through Corin's arm, not painful but impossible to ignore. As though guided by instinct, he raised the rod toward the dais. A line of crackling energy shot out, illuminating the gloom.
The black veins reacted violently. They flared, pulsing with an angry violet light. The foul presence that clung to the dwarven hall recoiled, as if threatened by the rod's awakened power. Corin gritted his teeth, unsure whether to press the advantage or retreat. But the rod seemed to move on its own, tracing patterns in the air, leaving behind afterimages of swirling runes.
Something within Corin resonated—a force deep inside him that he had never felt before. It was more than physical skill or cunning; it was as if the centuries-old craftsmanship of the dwarves, their runic knowledge, recognized and called to him. Another wave of images flooded his thoughts: dwarven lords forging pacts with human allies, runic circles glowing in unity, the forging of a mighty artifact…
The black veins lashed out, as though sensing a threat. Tendrils of vile energy writhed along the mosaic floor, creeping toward Corin's feet. But before they could ensnare him, the rod's glow intensified. A flash of light exploded outward in every direction, forcing him to shield his eyes. When the brilliance subsided, the tendrils had retreated, and silence returned to the cavern.
He exhaled, heart pounding. The rod's glow dimmed, returning to a faint shimmer. Something in the air had changed, as though a boundary had been crossed. He felt…different. Not immeasurably stronger, but more attuned to the hidden textures of these ancient halls. A quiet sense of clarity coursed through him, a sharpening of instincts.
"I don't know what you've done to me," he whispered, staring at the rod, "but I suspect it's awakened something I never knew I had."
Whether that awakening was a gift or a curse remained to be seen. A wave of exhaustion coursed through him, but he fought it down, scanning the hall for any new threats. The darkness along the walls still festered, but it no longer crawled forward.
For the time being, the malevolent presence seemed content to watch, waiting for another opening.
Echoes of Conflict
Corin knew he couldn't linger here. Though the dwarven realm still beckoned deeper, with possible answers lurking in hidden chambers, he needed to confirm that the passage behind him remained unobstructed. If reinforcements from Highspire ever came, this would be their route.
Cautiously, he made his way to the dais, noticing the anvil-shaped throne was carved with dwarven runes that repeated a single phrase: "Strength from the Earth, Fire from the Soul." Beneath it, a stone panel had been pried open. He peered inside to find a descending staircase, spiraling into blackness. Cold air exhaled from the depths, laced with an ancient smell of metal and decay.
He considered venturing deeper but ultimately decided to investigate only briefly. At the top step, he dipped his lantern down, trying to gauge how far the staircase went. The dim light revealed old dwarven script along the walls—more references to forging and the harnessing of elemental energies. But the text was too worn for him to read thoroughly.
A scuttling noise echoed from below. Corin grimaced. Another of those twisted creatures? Or something else? The deeper he went, the more likely he'd be overwhelmed alone. For now, intelligence-gathering sufficed. Quietly, he backed away and replaced the stone panel, disguising the entrance as best he could.
He set off through the hall again, searching for an alternate route or any tangible evidence that might confirm his mission's purpose. One or two more abominations limped out of the shadows, each as warped and rage-filled as the first. He dispatched them swiftly, half expecting his rod to flare to life again. But it remained dormant, as though whatever power had awakened lay in slumber once more.
Return to the Surface
At last, Corin found himself at the sealed gate he had heard about from the old maps. Gigantic stone doors soared above him, carved with dwarven heraldry—a hammer and anvil surrounded by serpentine dragons. Though battered by time, they still exuded an air of solemn grandeur. Blocks of blackish tendrils clung to the seams, oozing around the edges, but not enough to stop him.
A mechanism on the side, partially jammed by debris, hinted at how to open the doors from inside. Carefully, Corin cleared the rubble, keeping a wary eye on the dark slime that twisted nearby. He fit the engraved rod into a cylindrical notch. With a groan that echoed in the vast corridor, ancient gears began to turn. Dust fell in thick clouds as the stone doors rumbled open a crack. Icy sunlight spilled in, piercing the gloom.
Corin inhaled sharply. The crisp mountain air felt like a lifeline. He slipped through the narrow opening, forcing his shoulder against the heavy door to widen it enough to exit. Outside, he stood upon a ledge overlooking a steep valley. Snow fluttered from gray clouds above. In the distance, the glimmer of a river snaked through pines and frost-laden meadows. This vantage point was unknown to him—he had emerged on the far side of the mountain from where he'd started.
The wind howled, as though warning him that his discovery was only the beginning of something far larger. Indeed, the presence of those twisted creatures and the creeping corruption suggested that the dwarven tunnels were not just ancient ruins but an active battleground for the darkness stirring in the realm.
He made camp beneath an overhang, gathering what dry wood he could to start a small fire. His mind buzzed with conflicting impulses: the sense of newly awakened potential clashed with the raw horror he had just witnessed. He wondered how Sabrine would react when he reported back. More importantly, how would the alliance mobilize against a threat that seemed to seep up from below the very foundations of their world?
Supper was cold rations, hard bread and jerky, but the crackling flames offered comfort. Corin's gaze drifted to the engraved rod. Its runes remained faintly aglow, like embers quietly pulsing in a hearth. He could still feel that resonance in his bones, a subtle hum at the edge of his awareness. Did that mean he was bound to these dwarven secrets now? Had he become some sort of conduit for powers best left untouched?
Despite his turmoil, exhaustion soon weighed down his eyelids. The day had been fraught with battles and revelations. He had done enough for one mission—enough to prove that the tunnels harbored a terrible menace. He would need rest if he hoped to survive the return journey and warn Lady Sabrine of what he had discovered.
And yet, sleep came fitfully. Dreams haunted him: flickers of dwarven halls in all their old grandeur, thrumming with arcane energies; a monstrous figure crowned in black flames, unleashing an army of twisted horrors upon the surface. At times he glimpsed his own reflection in polished steel, eyes shining with an uncanny glow. He awoke several times, each time heart pounding, unsure whether the vision was a portent or just a nightmare conjured by his exhausted mind.
Uncertain Alliances
While Corin navigated subterranean perils, Highspire Keep bristled with growing tensions. Lord Alden worked tirelessly with Prince Tarles, Warchief Ganhar, and other lords to structure a workable chain of command for the newly formed coalition. Scouts brought word of villages burned to cinders, of survivors speaking of winged shapes in the moonlight. Others claimed to have witnessed swirling black mists that swallowed entire caravans.
In the keep's courtyard, Lady Sabrine oversaw the final training of volunteer squads. Clad in leather armor fitted for comfort and movement, she demonstrated fundamentals of spear and shield. Her eyes showed approval at how swiftly the recruits learned—desperation was a fierce instructor.
Prince Tarles often observed, offering occasional pointers. He showed a remarkable knack for rallying morale, telling stirring tales of heroism. Yet Sabrine found it harder to read him each day. He'd vanish at odd hours, his intentions cloaked in secrecy. Sometimes, she caught him in side corridors engaged in low-voiced arguments with advisors from his homeland. Rumor had it he was attempting to forge a separate pact with certain eastern warlords—ones known for ruthless tactics that often skirted the boundary of monstrous.
Confronting him felt premature; they needed his forces to stand against the coming dark. But Sabrine's heart grew uneasy. "If Prince Tarles fosters alliances beyond our knowledge," she murmured to herself one night, "whose side will he truly stand on when the fateful hour arrives?"
The Distant Desert's Whisper
Meanwhile, riders from the eastern deserts arrived, bringing news of a new faction. They called themselves the Jade Sojourners—adepts of an arcane discipline that melded illusions with real-world tactics. The Sojourners' leader, a veiled mystic named Qariyah, offered tentative cooperation. Her letter spoke of monstrous raids upon desert trade routes and of strange storms conjured by unknown mages.
Lord Alden read the letter in the candlelit privacy of his study, with Sabrine at his side. "If they join our cause," he said, voice grave, "we may gain valuable knowledge. But their illusions are rumored to be as dangerous as the threats we already face. We must tread carefully."
Sabrine nodded. Her gaze flickered over to the window, where a faint swirl of snow danced against the glass. "Every corner of the realm is in turmoil—north, west, east. We can't fight on all fronts alone. If the Jade Sojourners are sincere, they could be the allies we need to break this tide of darkness."
Alden's shoulders slumped as if bearing the weight of a thousand conflicts. "Perhaps. Yet we may be inviting a viper into the nest. It's a gamble, Sabrine. One of many we're forced to take."
Outside, the first true snow of winter fell quietly. Highspire Keep's banners, emblazoned with the Hale sigil of a hawk and sword, fluttered in the cold wind. Armies massed, blacksmiths toiled, and couriers galloped out with orders and pleas for more aid. Deeper in the fortress, Prince Tarles held private meetings with those who had eyes filled with ambition.
Far away, in the gloom of dwarven caverns, an awakened corruption stirred. And on a mountainside ledge, Corin dozed by his dwindling fire, unaware that his footsteps and actions might shift the balance of an entire world.