Off the Trail - Part Two

A speculative tale told in three parts

Photo by Luke Chui on Unsplash

So…remember when I said “Off the Trail” would be two parts? I’m sorry. It’s going to end up being three. I couldn’t help myself! I hope you’ll continue this crazy little adventure story with me as we begin 2023. I’ll get back to the short stuff soon, promise!

If you missed part one, or if you need a quick recap, you’ll find it below. Enjoy!

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“You’ll have to remove those…contraptions,” the rider says.

Cormac looks at me, wide-eyed. My shoulders slump.

The dwarf waves his crossbow at us. “Quickly now.”

Cormac bends over and loosens his bindings, and I press on the back of mine with the tips of my ski poles to disengage my heels.

“Leave them,” the dwarf orders. We obey. Cormac steps away from his snowboard and I drop my poles in the snow beside my skis. I have a feeling I’ll never see them again.

“Come. Follow me.”

The dwarf slings his crossbow over his shoulder and grips the reins. He turns the mountain lion around and then drives his heels into its sides, almost like he’s riding a horse.

We trudge through the knee-deep snow after him, trying not to make eye contact with the other four beasts that prowl beside us – two to our left and two to our right.

I cast a glance over my shoulder and notice the other dwarves have fallen into step behind us. They linger a decent distance back, keeping their crossbows fixed on us. They must be wearing snowshoes – or are rather light-footed – because it appears they aren’t struggling through the snow like we are. It’s difficult work, especially in clunky ski boots.

After a solid half-mile of traversing through the thickening trees, we emerge into a bit of a clearing. We pass through it quickly and descend deeper into the woods, into the wild.

That phrase has taken on an entirely new meaning, no doubt about it. I stare at the strange duo leading us.

I’m able to sneak a quick peek at my watch: it’s 4:07 PM. Darkness will soon be upon us.

The dwarf-rider lets out a sudden shrill whistle, splitting through the gloomy Adirondack wilderness and halting me in my tracks. Cormac, too. In response, the four mountain lions flanking us take off together, tails swishing. They disappear into the forest. The rider hops off his mount, makes quick work of removing the saddle, and pats the beast on its hind leg. It takes off after the others.

The dwarf approaches us and heaves the saddle into Cormac’s chest. “Make yourself useful.”

Cormac doesn’t say a word. He simply nods. I wipe my brow with the back of my glove. Despite the dropping temperatures – we must be nearing single digits at this point – my body is damp with sweat.

The other dwarves, who have crept closer to our position, let out spurts of laughter. There must be a dozen of them, at least.

Our second leg of the journey doesn’t take nearly as long. Within five minutes, we spot a vast, rocky outcropping burrowed into the hillside. As we approach, a slight fissure is barely visible. Our guide turns sideways and enters the opening.

Cormac stops and holds out the saddle. “Should I just leave this here, or –“

“Yes, yes, just drop it there, mutt.” The dwarf then says something in a different language – some guttural tongue – sending the others behind us into a bout of laughter. For the first time, I feel a prickle of anger.

Cormac drops the saddle outside the entrance. “You’re welcome,” he mutters under his breath. I’m the only one who hears him.

I follow my friend, turning sideways into the fissure. The opening widens into a vast cavern. Colossal icicles hang from the ceiling, and some of them reach the floor. I’m careful to side-step these icy patches.

There’s a light up ahead. A tunnel. Our fearless captor guides us toward it. Torches smelling of a strange combination of pine and kerosene line the cavern walls.

My ski boots echo keclack-keclack with every step I take as we descend further and further into this…place. I don’t know why, but my mind travels to Middle Earth, to Tolkien’s creations. I can’t help but wonder if this cavern is an entryway into another world.

The thought gives me goosebumps.

As the tunnel levels out, it bends into a U-turn before we come face-to-face with a tall, heavy door with a rusted knocker. It blocks our entry.

The dwarf grasps it, then slams it in rhythmic succession, code-like.

Within seconds, there’s a grating of metal on metal, followed by the sound of locks opening. The door inches open, inward.

As soon as we step through the doorway, the dwarves behind us grasp our arms to keep them at our sides. It startles me, but I’m more surprised at the sight before us.

It certainly isn’t Moria in its prime, but damn, it must land somewhere close.

Gargantuan pillars line the main path before us. The ceiling here must rise to a height of fifty feet or so. The floor has transformed from cold, dark stone to white, painted brick – maybe even marble, in places – and blazing hearths crackle near the main gathering areas. Various passageways and tunnels trail off from our location.

But the most eye-opening sight of all is the sheer number of dwarves living here. There are men and women of all ages. Little kids chase after one another, getting in the way and getting reprimanded.

It’s a sprawling, subterranean society.

Are there hundreds of citizens here? Thousands? And how far, how wide – how deep – does this city go? My mind races.

Cormac and I stand still as the pillars before us. We’re in absolute shock.

When the other dwarves outside of our immediate vicinity notice what is going on, the commotion dies down. They begin craning their necks – some even stand on crates – to catch a glimpse of the strangers who have entered their hall. Their home.

Everything comes to a standstill.

One of the taller dwarves, clad in a heavy maroon cloak, approaches us. As he nears, I notice a deep scar that runs across his face, directly over one eye. That eye appears to be a pale, icy blue – near-white – while the eye opposite is closer to cobalt. A large hammer is strapped to the dwarf’s back.

He grunts something to the shorter dwarf who had brought us here. Our original captor responds in the same harsh language. He pulls at his long beard and gesticulates wildly, throwing his arms in the air. The more I listen to them go back and forth, the more I realize how strange it is that Longbeard happens to know English — and speak it fluently. Had he lived above the surface in human society at some point in his life? How the hell could he have learned it? It would have been easy enough to blend in, I suppose, but it still boggles my mind given everything that’s unraveling in front of my own two eyes.

The banter between Scarface and Longbeard softens, as the taller dwarf rests a hand on his comrade. They both face us.

Longbeard turns to Cormac and me, and to the dwarves at our sides. Their grips are iron. “Our leader wishes to discuss this matter privately. We will call for you soon.”  He then grunts in the dwarven language, which the others respond to by pulling us from the main hall and down a winding passage. Six to eight total dwarves are accompanying us. I can’t tell the exact number.

“What the actual fuck, man,” Cormac whispers to me.

“Grubusk!” a dwarf yells, yanking on Cormac’s arm. He winces.

We take the hint.

On our trek, different aromas waft from the various side tunnels. I swear, at one point I can smell freshly-baked bread. The pleasantry is short-lived, however. It’s replaced with rotting meat, then dank mold and fungi. Eventually, we smell sewage.

And, lucky us, that’s the tunnel we take. Even the dwarves cough and cover their faces.

We stop before a series of rusty cells. The vertical bars are misshapen and slightly bent in places. I can’t help but wonder what could have done such a thing.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say to the dwarves. “Please don’t do this.”

“Just let us go,” Cormac pleads, trying to break free from their grip.

“Grubusk!” several of them yell at us as we both fight against their grip. Though we tower over them, they are fiercely strong. Straining against them feels like trying to push through boulders and break free from steel shackles.

The dwarves guide us to two adjacent cells as we thrash against them.

“No! Let us go!” Cormac yells. They throw us in – send us flying, really – and lock the doors behind us. They must know we’re not capable of bending these bars or plotting some clever escape.

They leave without another word.

We both scream at the top of our lungs until we realize it’s futile.

I drop down to the floor, back against the bars, chest heaving. Cormac does the same. Realizing I’m still wearing my helmet and gloves, I take them off.

We don’t say anything for a while – can’t. I check my watch: 5:23 PM. By this point, it’s pitch-black outside, and most of the skiers at Gore Mountain are all packed up or already on the road. Some are probably at the lodge, nursing beers at the bar, or mugs of hot chocolate by the fireplace.

I hear Cormac unzip his jacket and pop open his flask. When I see his hand reach through the bars, I take it without hesitation.

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And that’s the end of part two. I hope you’re enjoying “Off the Trail” as much as I’m enjoying writing it.

Thanks so much for being here at Along the Hudson.

I’ll see you here next Monday with the final part of the story and our next Fifties by the Fire prompt. Until then, take care!

Oh, and apologies for the late send-out. I thought I had scheduled the post, but evidently did not!