In a strange way even the splitting headache was a relief. Of all the terrors and discomforts of her ill fated few weeks in the army, this one was so familiar as to be a comfort. Hannah cracked her eyes open and groaned. The ashes of a small fire, kindled from broken crates, cast a faint red light over the old mining station. Carefully, Hannah lifted Malcador’s arm off herself and half crawled to one of the open barrels of ale. There was no water so she slaked her thirst with a careful sip of ale. It wasn’t perfect but it was the best she could do. Hannah leaned back against the cut rock of the chamber and groaned softly, picking up a piece of waybread that appeared to have had a whole shot through the middle of it and chewed on a corner thoughtfully.


Malcador groaned and sat up looking considerably better than Hannah felt, though a slight tremble of his hands showed that even wizards were not immune to the effects of dwarven ale. Truthfully they were less under the weather than they might be after human drink which tended to be weaker but still somehow produce a worse hangover.

“What is for breakfast?” the wizard asked, for all the world as if they were in a tavern in Altdorf.

“Well let me see,” Hannah replied, making a show of looking around.
“We have dwarven waybread and… oh look MORE dwarven waybread,” she replied and scudded a half loaf across the floor to his feet. The wizard scooped it up and lifted it to his lips but before he could take a bite his eyes cut sideways towards one of the open tunnels. He shot her a look, then twitched his fingers and the coals went out, plunging them into darkness. Hannah froze in place, feeling her bowels clench in fear. She felt a tingle around her eyes and suddenly she could see, as though the world were illuminated by soft starlight. She opened her mouth to say something but the pinched expression on Malcador’s face warned her against it. There was a soft skittering sound and then three small rat like beastmen entered from deeper within the mine.  They carried odd lanterns which gave off a soft greenish glow and Hannah gently edged back into cover, her fingers wrapping around the hilt of her sword. The repulsive rat things paused, lifting their noses to sniff the air. They were moments away from being seen, when the rearmost of the rat things chittered at his companions and prodded one of them with the tip of a spear. The target of this crude encouragement whimpered and skipped forward out of range, vanishing down one of the tunnels. The remaining rats made to leave when the leader suddenly froze. It reached down and plucked something from the ground, lifting it to its snout. Hannah realized to her horror that it was a lump of waybread discarded at some point during the revelry the night before. For a moment it seemed likely they must be discovered, but the rat shoved the food into its mouth and followed its companions out of the chamber. 


“Ranald’s balls,” Hannah breathed, wrinkling her nose at the unpleasant stink they left in the air. It reminded her of an old house she had once explored where rodents had infested the place and defiled it with years of droppings. 


“We have to get out of here…” she breathed, and cast a look at the collapsed ruin of the entry shaft. There was no help there.