Impossible Library - Week 010.42
Grim Dawn Series - Chapter 7: Salvage
If you have not read Grim Dawn from the start, you can find the beginning of the series here:
Chapter 7: Salvage
The next two days blurred together in a haze of backbreaking labor. Alarik hauled timber and stone, his muscles aching as he cleared rubble from the collapsed sections of the prison. Sweat stung the still healing wounds across his body, and dust caked his throat, the cough it brought making him rub at the scar around his neck, bringing dark visions of something he couldn't quite remember… something horrible.
The other survivors gave him a wide berth—conversations died when he approached, eyes tracked his movements with barely concealed hostility. The soldiers, Keenstead and Barnes, were friendly enough, but Alarik's dealings with them were few. Sergeant Mainville would give a curt nod or mumble a gruff greeting in passing, but little more.
The only exceptions were Sahdina, John Bourbon, the scavenger Faldis—the man Alarik had saved from the razor hounds—and Edwin the cook, a cheerful man who remained kind to everyone despite the harsh living conditions.
In the evenings, he took to cleaning out his cell, methodically removing cartloads of dirt and debris. Faldis had shown up to help, once more impressing upon Alarik how grateful he was. It was starting to make Alarik uncomfortable—his thoughts sliding into a dark sense of superiority. The obsequious bowing made him smirk inwardly, looking down on this weak, cowardly fool. The sensation disturbed him as much as they pleased him.
Alarik forced himself to smile and accept Faldis' help, using the work to push down whatever darkness was stirring in his mind. With each mound of rubble moved, the cell slowly transformed, exposing more and more of the stone floor beneath.
They were getting close to being finished when the shovel knocked a stone aside, revealing something buried. Wedged against the far corner, he uncovered a sheaf of battered parchment, its edges torn and stained. The letters were crude, blocky, and scratched in what looked like charcoal:
Now, I ain't a decent man and I sure ain't good at writing, but word needs to get out 'bout what this place really is. This prison, it ain't like no joint I ever been in, and I've seen double my share. Men don't stay here long neither and some of the lads they haul in, they ain't criminals. I'd know. Moment I see a man, I can tell by his eyes that he done wrong. These boys? I see fear.
I seen this warden a coupla times, big man in black armor. If you ain't know better, you'd think he was on the wrong side of the bars. Every day, he and his lackeys take prisoners out to this hut in the yard by the dozen. They ain't never come out. Later, a wagon rolls in by the hut. It always leaves full.
They don't let us outa our cells no more, but I can tell there ain't much of us left. The halls are quiet. I'm the last man in my row. The others? They was taken in yesterday's batch. I ain't asking for pity. I know my end's in that hut; but perhaps this note will be my one good deed in my pathetic life...
Alarik worried at the edge of the paper, his brow furrowed as he reread the man's final words. Captain Bourbon would have to see this immediately.
After thanking Faldis for his help, Alarik knocked on the captain's door, handing him the note and explaining where he found it. John's face grew grim as he read the ragged parchment, then set it aside with a heavy sigh.
"Warden Krige," he muttered. "I've seen that name mentioned in a few documents that survived the destruction of this place. Nothing sold through. I'll need time to dig through the remaining records and see if I can corroborate any of this prisoner's claims."
The captain settled into his chair, resting his chin heavily against a fist. "Unfortunately, we have more immediate problems. Water, for one. We're surrounded by the stuff, but none of it's safe to drink. The lake to the west is saltwater. That nearby creek reeks, and with so many corpses rotting upstream..." He shook his head. "Walking north a mile to the river means fighting through undead-infested territory. We'd need a heavy escort we can't spare."
"Where were you getting your water from?" Alarik asked.
"The windmill was our source, but it broke the other night. You wouldn't happen to know anything about windmill repair, would you?"
“Me?” Alarik’s eyes narrowed. He felt angry. Insulted.
“Relax!” John’s hands patted the air, “I didn't mean to imply you did it. Although some people are already blaming you. A part was sawed through, causing it to snap on its own. Sabatage to be sure, but there’s no way to tell when it was done. It could have been days or even weeks before you arrived.”
Alarik relaxed somewhat, but now his nerves were now on edge, thinking about one more thing for the people of Devil's Crossing to hate him.
“Anyway,” John continued, “the mill was our only reliable source of clean water.”
"What do you need me to do?" Alarik asked.
“A man named Barnabas is working to repair the windmill—but he needs materials. There's a dumping ground north of here where we might find the scrap to fix it. I'm sending a salvage team, and I want you with them."
Two hours later, the dumping ground stretched before them—rusted metal, broken furniture, and garbage piled in towering mounds. The acrid smell of decay hung in the air, and a heavy mist rolled between the refuse piles, slowing their pace and increasing the chance of an ambush by undead or predators.
As escort, Alarik stood guard over the men along with two other soldiers: Garret, a stocky man with greying temples, and Finn, a fresh-faced recruit, a little too eager to get some payback on the monsters.
Alarik mostly ignored the kid and his endless prattle about revenge, trusting Garret to keep him in line. A snapping twig forced a murder of crows to suddenly erupt from the trees. They scattered in a terrifying and sudden explosion of movement and cawing.
With the blackbirds' calls fading into the distance, the scavengers returned to their search for salvage, slower now, more wary after the ill-omened display. The mist seemed to press in on them, making the hills loom like menacing shapes in the fog—the curve of some great and terrible beast with spears and weapons impaled upon its jagged hide.
Alarik gritted his teeth and tried to dismiss the image of the hill rising up to crush them all. He told his companions, "Keep your eyes open."
Garret grunted his agreement, adjusting his grip on his sword hilt, while young Finn nodded, his breathing ragged, scanning the refuse with wide eyes.
Another hour passed as the scavengers picked through the debris—pulling out pieces of metal and beams of wood not yet succumbed to rot, then loading it all onto a small wagon pulled by a mule. One man climbed a steep mound and lifted a section of sheet metal, holding it up before yelling back, "I think this is enough scrap."
There were murmurs of agreement from the men. They were filthy and tired, gathering their tools and grumbling about a hot meal, when a scream sounded out. The man on the slope was rolling down, a dark brown blur attached to his leg as he tumbled. At the bottom, the man came to a stop and a creature came loose, sliding to a stop and coming to all fours, snarling and hissing.
It was a massive rat, the size of a large dog, fat, with greasy fur that bristled with long sharp quills. It hissed and snarled, baring jagged teeth, the flesh around its mouth blistered with oozing pustules, its eyes burning with feral hunger.
The scavenger, still laid out on his back, gasped from the pain of his savaged leg, blood flowing freely from the tear in his pants. Alarik was about to charge when the rat's screech echoed across the dumping ground—and was answered by several more emerging from hole. The hillside bulged, the mound where the hole was swelled, and like a boil it burst. The earth opened up and a flood of brown fur erupted, scurrying up the hole that had been concealed beneath that sheet of metal.
"It's a nest! Form up!" Alarik shouted. The soldiers moved forward, shields up, but the scavengers were scattering in a panic, running for the path back to the prison.
The quilled rats burst from the refuse, racing down the hill of garbage, their razor-sharp spines making a strange rattling sound as they charged. Alarik's revolver barked, sending one falling back in flames, but more kept coming.
“Don’t run!” Alarik bellowed at the backs of the fleeing men, “We can't protect you if you run!”
Alarik did not look to see if the scavengers remained, focusing on aiming, and firing at the horde of monsters charging towards them. Pulling the trigger, a quill rat’s foreleg was blown free in a fiery blast, the creature tumbling and flipping the rest of the way down. A second rat’s head exploded, a charred crater between its shoulders. As the pack closed the distance Alarik squeezed off one more round, hitting, but not killing the monster before he holstered the revolver, saving his final rounds for dire need.
As the wave of rats hit the bottom of the slope, Alarik drew his sword and braced for their charge, at the same time he spotted a flicker of movement in the air above them, “Arrows! Shields up!” he bellowed. A second later a rain of needle-sharp quills peppered them, and a moment after that, the rats slammed into their shield wall, the heavy thuds of bodies and claws slamming into metal and wood.
Alarik lunged and his blade punched through fur and bone. Garret roared, driving his sword deep into a snarling maw, the tip of steel punching out the back of the skull. But there were too many—Finn screamed as three rats bowled him over, their teeth fighting for his throat.
With Finn down, a few rats slipped through the gap in their line, rushing for the scavengers. Garret held his ground, stabbing at another rat while swinging wildly at one of the creatures atop the kid. Alarik heard cries of alarm and fighting from behind him, but resisted the urge to look. He imppailed one of the monsters that had latched onto his shield, then stepped forward and kicked another off Finn so hard he felt the thing’s ribs crunch.
Finn had his shield over his torso and face, but with the rat kicked free, his sword arm came up. With a panicked cry, the kid stabbed the second quill rat biting and snapping around his shield, his thrusts frenzied and shallow. The creature screeched as the blade slid in, blood splashing down over Finn.
Garret plunged his blade into brown fur and yelled “Cover,” before getting his shield up.
The kid curled up into a ball under his shield and Alarik didn't even think about it, just crouching and ducking, moments later the heavy thunk and patter of quills striking all around them. Raising his shield gave a rat easy access to his legs and it bit deep. With a scream of pain Alarik ran it through and twisted, his blade, pulling it back slick with blood.
He scanned the mist, spotting two of the quill rats still up on the slope, keeping their distance and rattling their spines in preparation for another volley. There were screams behind him as the scavengers fought off the rats that got past, but the ones on the hillside were the greater threat—raining down theri barrage of quills.
“Protect the men!” Alarik yelled, sheathing his sword, drawing his revolver, and charging up the hill.
His leg lanced him pain, and the wound slowed his advance. He fired once and missed, cursing the pain. There was a whipping sound and he dove towards a busted armoire, the thunk of quills punching into the heavy wooden cabinet only moments later.
He winced, realizing he had not moved fast enough—a spine hung from his left shoulder. Alarik grabbed the spine, prepared to yank it out and wondered how it was that his most protected area kept getting injured. He let out cry of pain and then a deep sigh as he ripped the bone dart free, letting it drop to the ground.
He gasped and sucked air in through gritted teeth as he took a second to reload and check on the men at the bottom of the mound. In this moment of pained focus, a strange sensation came over him—his head snapped up and his eyes darted around, searching for the source of what?
There was something here... was it power? An otherworldly tugging, like the crystals… like the vortex. He focused on it, feeling invisible threads, pulling at his soul. It was faint but unmistakable, emanating from somewhere deep within the mound of refuse. The burrow entrance? Or something else entirely?
In his frantic searching, he spotted movement, and heard the shouts of the men. The fog was thick, but with his back to the sturdy furniture, he could just make out shapes through the mist. Garret and Finn had flanked the rats, now pinned by a line of men with staves and wooden planks. They had used the wagon as a shield, keeping the spiny rats at bay with their improvised weapons.
With a force of will, Alarik pushed himself up on his wounded leg and leaned out, spotting a quill rat. He heard the whipping sound once more and dropped back as a flurry of spines flew. Wood thumped and cracked under the barrage, and then Alarik popped out and shot the beast, the flaming round catching its fur alight. It screeched and tried to run, but fell after a few feet, the creature's hair continuing to burn, forming an orange glow in the dense fog.
He darted out from cover, fighting against the pain as he brought his shield up. His boots pounded the ground as he scanned for the next rat hidden in the trash-cluttered hillside. He saw movement to his left and crouched behind his shield, taking no chances. There was the whip sound, then quills hitting and bouncing across the hillside all around him. He returned fire. Two more rounds and the quill rat was a flaming heap, smoldering and igniting the remains of a busted doorway half buried in the refuse.
Alarik jerked the revolver from side to side, his eyes wild and hands shaking, but he saw nothing—just swirling mist and the orange glow of flames blotting out his visibility. The sudden silence felt wrong after the chaos of battle. His ears rang from the gunfire and the world was muffled, muted. Both sight and sound blurred into indistinct shapes.
He didn't hear or see any more rats up here. Only quiet murmurs and groans of pain drifted up from below. With an exhausted sigh, Alarik limped back down the slope, his leg throbbing with each step.
At the bottom, he surveyed the aftermath. Dead rats lay scattered across blood-soaked ground, but his men were alive. Three scavengers sat holding rags to puncture wounds, their faces pale from blood loss. Garret was helping Finn to his feet—the young recruit's armor dented, crimson streaming down the side of his head and matting his hair. Wounded and shaken, but alive.
"Good work," Alarik said, though his voice was sore and raspy—dry from the dust and burnt hair and the stink of garbage. He quickly switched to nods as his eyes met the other men.
"Sir?" Garret's tone cut through his thoughts. The older soldier was watching him with concern. "The men need to see a healer."
Alarik grimaced at the formality. For a moment he had the desier to correct the man and insist on being called 'My Lord', but he ignored that, instead saying, "I'm not in the army, Garret. Just Alarik will do."
The scavengers were already loading the last of their salvage and helping one wounded man up onto the wagon—he wouldn't be able to walk back on his own. They all seemed eager to leave this place. Finn stood ready, though he kept glancing nervously back at the burrow.
"You're right," Alarik said finally, shouldering his pack. Whatever secrets the burrow held would have to wait. Devil's Crossing needed water.
As they made their way back through the mist-shrouded dumping ground, Alarik couldn't shake the feeling that something important lay hidden beneath the earth. That same otherworldly energy he'd felt at the pillar in Burial Hill, and near the rift in Devil's Crossing—it pulled at him. Not with the same intensity as the rift gate, but enough he was sure there was something there.