She and Whitney locked eyes, obviously both thinking the same thing.
A Glintish under the banner of the Glass requesting an army? Sounds like Torsten.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Lucindur said.
Brouben cleared his throat. “Father, I told ye. We were out—“
“Outmatched?” Lorgit said. “In all me years alive, I ain’t never seen a man outmatch a dwarf. And yer tellin me them gray-skins found a way to slaughter—“
“As I told ye, Father—“
“Don’t ye say it.” Lorgit’s face was the color of a ripe plum.
“How do ye expect me to defend meself if ye keep tellin me not to talk about it?”
“I ain’t lookin for defense; I’m lookin for quiet!”
The request was granted apart from what was surely an involuntary harrumph from Tum Tum.
Whitney motioned for Sora to do something.
“Your Grace,” Sora said, improvising. “What is this about? If I might ask.”
At the same time, Brouben said, “Father, I don’t think—“
“By Meungor’s shinin axe, yer finally right on a point,” Lorgit interrupted. “Ye sneak these flower-pickers in, disguisin them as prisoners—in me own throne room! Yer lucky I don’t have me clanbreakers shred all of ye on the spot.”
“I’m sorry, Father,” Brouben said. “It seemed the only way.”
“Only way for what? They want more of our warriors killed in their squabbles?”
“Warriors?” Sora said. “Your Grace, we don’t need soldiers…”
“Then spit it out,” Lorgit said, interrupting Sora. “What’s an outcast and a horde of outsiders doin in my home?”
Whitney let out a sharp raspberry, then covered his mouth with his hand. Sora sucked in a breath, doing her best not to look at him, hoping everyone else would do the same. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice.
“I sent me own son to Yarrington to help those fools govern their coin,” Lorgit said. “Seems like it ain’t done nothin good. Ye ain’t here for soldiers, then yer here for gold.”
“They ain’t here for gold neither,” Brouben said. “Please, listen to them. If ye won’t listen to me…”
For a moment, Lorgit calmed, and just as he was about to speak, Sora did.
“Nesilia, the Buried Goddess—“
“For the love of all shog-shuckin, yiggin horse-lovin—Enough already!” King Lorgit shouted. It was a strange sound coming from such an old man, deep, resonant.
The clanbreakers edged forward at the outburst from their king, undoubtedly ready for violence should it come to it. Perhaps they were even hoping for it.
Sora watched as Whitney used the distraction and continued the climb further up the dragon skeleton. At first, Aquira looked skittish, as if afraid of the great beast that was her ancestor. Sora’s heart nearly melted as Whitney turned his head, nuzzling against her for a moment. However, then her eyes drifted to the armor-clad warriors below them, faces forward. She wondered how they could possibly fight in that getup, and hoped she wouldn’t learn. Two slits were carved out of their helmets for eyeholes. They didn’t even look like they could turn, much less see what was beside them.
That boded well for Whitney as he crept along the dragon’s spine toward the spot at the crest of the beast’s back where Lorgit’s throne sat. No less than ten large braziers similar to those in the main hall kept the throne room lit. That also meant if anyone turned around, he’d be shining like the sun atop the dragon’s back.
Sora cringed as he leaped nimbly from bone to bone until he was safely hidden behind the king’s massive throne and waited for his next move. It was quite the feat, she had to admit. To do such a thing so quietly as he had—perhaps he wasn’t exaggerating all of his tales. She smiled, then remembered her face and cleared it of emotion.
“Your Grace,” Sora said, taking a place next to Lucindur. “Your son tells the truth.”
“And what do ye know?” Lorgit said.
Sora was confident the word “knife-ear” was sure to follow, but it didn’t. She supposed that was a mark in the positive column for the dwarven King.
“Yer people have been just as quiet as hers.” He pointed to Lucindur.
“All the more reason you should believe something important has occurred,” Sora said.
A look washed over him that made Sora think he might be considering it. Until he spoke.
“Ain’t a thing more important than preservin this mountain and me people. Now, if that be all, ye can find yer way back to the warmth, and feel lucky I don’t have yer heads taken from yer shoulders.”
“Father, ye can’t expect us to simply sit back while the world ends,” Brouben said.
“That’s precisely what I mean us to do. Ye don’t know what yer triflin with, boy.”
What did that mean? Did Lorgit know more than he was letting on? Sora chewed her lip and considered Nesilia’s previous tactics with the Strongirons. Had she gotten to Lorgit and secured the Three Kingdoms as her own?
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” Lucindur said. Brouben put a hand on her arm, but she yanked it away. “With all due respect. We were there.”
Lorgit glared at her. There was something there in his eyes, emotion thick in the air. Though, Sora couldn’t place it. Anger? Pity?
“There?” the King asked.
Lucindur hesitated, but to her credit, it wasn’t for long. “Nesilia and her whole army… we saw her.”
The King, however, didn’t pause for a second. “Aye, and I’m tellin ye, ye saw wrong.”
“I promise, we didn’t,” Sora said, her heart heavy. She’d seen from the eyes of the goddess herself. “We saw it, right after her army ravaged the Strongiron Kingdom in the East.”
“More hogwash.” Lorgit waved his hand in dismissal. “Whatever trouble the Strongirons be in, they did it to themselves. Prolly stirred up the nest of forgotten beasts. We’ve seen our share. Those soft-bellies never know when to stop diggin.”
Sora considered telling him that she was there, but that truth might get them killed sooner rather than later. He clearly didn’t care for a rival dwarven kingdom so far away, but they were all dwarves in the end.
“Father…” Brouben tried again to reason with the King.
Lorgit turned to his son, a look of disapproval on his face. “Ye think ye know these folk?”
Brouben didn’t answer.
“The place now called the Glass Kingdom… ye know what we call it?”
“Morrastreaudunimum,” Brouben answered without a moment’s hesitation.
“That’s right. Morrastreaudunimum will always be Morrastreaudunimum no matter how many times those flower-pickers change its name. Been that way since before King Andur Cragrock, me great-great-great-great-grandfather, brought our folk to the mountain just to avoid ye filthy humans.” The King’s features turned soft. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Balonhearth as any good dwarf, but ye know this weren’t where we was supposed to be.”
Brouben shifted, and Sora could feel his discomfort.
“Before the Drav Cra rode south on their chekt—foul, smelly beasts,” the King continued, “our people were all happy down there. Warm weather and all. We built the place those flower-pickers now bury their Kings. Built most of their castle too, and that damn bridge ye have so many wild stories about. Then, the bastards turned on us. Used their chekt and dragons against us until they nearly got those creatures extinct like so many others. Drove us north to here.”
He motioned with his hand.
“Father, what does all this mean?” Brouben asked.
“It means we are resilient,” Lorgit said. “Strong. Ain’t no way no one, goddess or not, gonna be drivin us from our home again. We learnt.”
“But Father—“
“No buts. We be traders and merchants, Son. We know a good deal when one comes along.”
Deal?
The king turned without another word and st
arted back to the Iron Bank. Above, Whitney pulled himself behind Lorgit’s throne.
Below, the clanbreakers returned to the gate, armor clattering.
Sora couldn’t breathe. Had Lorgit struck a deal with Nesilia? If he had, they were in more danger than they’d thought. The glint in Lucindur’s eye told Sora she was thinking the same thing.
If they had any chance of surviving, Whitney would have to move soon. His chance, slim as it was, was now gone. One of the clanbreakers on the right pulled on the gate of the Iron Bank, and it squeaked as it opened.
“She got to ye, didn’t she?” Brouben said, voicing Sora’s own thoughts. His words were barely more than a whisper, hard to be heard over the roar and crackle of the many fires, but it made Lorgit stop dead in his tracks in the middle of the threshold.
“I never thought ye, me own father, King of the Three Kingdoms, to be a coward,” Brouben continued.
With that final word, the clanbreakers tensed, and Lorgit turned. “What did ye say?”
“Deaf, too? Yer a coward,” Brouben repeated, slowly, emphasizing each word. “She’s got ye by the balls, and ye can’t grow em enough to get away.”
What are you doing, Brouben? Sora thought. You’re going to spoil the whole rotten plan!
“Stop talkin, now,” the King practically growled.
But Brouben ignored him. “Ye don’t get it. Are ye gonna kill me? We’re all gonna die just like the Strongirons if ye don’t step up. Because they’re all dead, we can’t ask them what did it, but why would these people lie? We’re all gonna die without ye. All of us. Them, me, ye.”
Lorgit didn’t speak, he just waved his hand dismissively and turned.
“Ye don’t deserve the crown,” Brouben said. Cold ice covered everything in the room. “Me brethren been sayin it for years, but I always told em they was wrong. But ye don’t deserve to be King of the Three Kingdoms. Ye don’t deserve to be my father.”
King Lorgit cleared his throat and flattened his beard. “Take him to the deep mines,” he ordered his men. His voice was serene, calm, collected. “All of them. Chain em up and don’t give em a pickaxe. Let’s see if they can hit quota with their fingernails and sharp tongues.”
The clanbreakers stomped forward, and Sora tried with all her might to think. She had to do something.
The memory of her first grift alongside Whitney exploded into her mind. It had been Sora waiting for Whitney that time atop the Jarein Gorge. She remembered the feeling well, praying to whoever that he would leap out from his hiding place behind that rock in time to save her from the vile deeds Grint Strongiron and his gang had in mind for her. Funny how many things came back to dwarves, and specifically, the Strongirons.
That snapped Sora to attention. She locked eyes with Whitney, who peered out from behind the throne. She gave him the faintest of winks, then looked within. She remembered her anger as Nesilia made her watch while she slaughtered Grint’s own brethren, as if Sora herself wanted it. And that anger fueled her reach into the ever-present well of Elsewhere, now more prevalent than ever. Her hand wagged just the slightest bit.
The cavern quaked.
The clanbreakers broke stride, rushing toward their King.
Heat sprouted up from the many basins around the room, including one hidden within the dragon’s skeleton. Sora hadn’t intended it, but the flames threatened to make a roast giant’s meal of Whitney. The dragon bones chattered; the braziers erupted, shooting flames every which way. Tendrils leaped from their pots and drew a line between Whitney and Aquira and the others, clanbreakers included.
The clanbreakers grabbed the King as he stumbled.
“What’s the meanin of this!” Lorgit cried.
Brouben took advantage of the opportunity, hurrying to the mouthpiece of a large horn situated at the eastern wall. It soon became apparent that it would act as a bell tower, warning the whole city of danger.
The sound it made was so resonant, the walls trembled.
“Father, come on!” Brouben shouted as the flames crept toward Lorgit.
The King stared at the flame, awestruck. “I thought I listened well… Why?” he said to himself. Sora had no idea what he was talking about.
“Father, we can settle our differences later!”
King Lorgit snapped to and nodded. The clanbreakers grasped him and rushed toward Brouben.
Sora didn’t relent. Even as her head grew fuzzy from exertion and her skin became pale and cold. She couldn’t keep this show up much longer, but Brouben rushed everybody onto the same cart that brought them up to the throne room just in time. Lucindur grabbed Sora and helped her on, then held her upright. They exchanged a knowing glance.
This time, as the cart took off, there were five extra passengers—four if you consider Whitney wasn’t with them. Tum Tum and Brouben took the lead on the seesaw once more and began pumping. Everyone else did their best not to get stuck by the clanbreaker armor.
Sora breathed in and out slowly, letting Lucindur’s gaze calm her. Then, under her breath and covered by the many sounds around her, Sora whispered, “Go steal a stone, Whitney. And come back to me.”
XVIII
The Thief
It was official: Whitney had never seen so much gold in one place in his entire life. Actually, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen so much gold if he’d added it all up. King Lorgit Cragrock was rich. No, Barty Darkings was rich—Lorgit Cragrock had the wealth of a god. No, ten gods. Shog in a barrel, all the gods.
Whitney hadn’t had time to make sure Sora made it out of the King’s throne room. He didn’t have time to think about his own escape either. He had just dropped through the dragon skeleton’s ribs as soon as the others had loaded onto their cart. Hearing the sound of a cart pumping through the tunnels gave him solace to know that he’d be alone to do his deed and that Sora and the others would be safe below, within the city. Right now, though, none of that could be his concern. He needed only one thing: the Brike Stone.
Looking down at his hands, Whitney could’ve sworn they were glowing gold in the reflection of the stuff. He took a few timid steps, careful not to disturb anything. Coins were strewn everywhere like a metal carpet. Just one bagful from this place would set Whitney up for life.
Then again, just one of the coins would cover the remainder of his life if he didn’t get that Brike Stone and stop Nesilia once and for all.
Chests, overflowing with gold and jewels, surrounded him. What looked like the newest of them hadn’t even been unloaded from a wooden wagon yet. It bore a familiar crest, a bundle of grapes, though Whitney couldn’t remember where he’d seen it before.
“This is something else, huh, Aquira?” he said.
The wyvern chirped in response, then flew up ahead a ways.
He pressed forward after her. Piles and piles of treasure threatened to bury them both—truly enough to keep all Pantego living comfortably for many years. It was impossible to tell the breadth and depth of the chamber, the glow and gleam of everything was so disorienting. When he made it to the end of the room, he saw an opening on his right and walked toward it.
“Come on, girl.”
Inside was something more akin to a palace sleeping quarters than something that should’ve been found inside a vault. Indeed, a bed rested at the crest of the half-circle wall on the far side. Whitney nearly laughed out loud when he saw it, expecting a small version of a human bed. Instead, it was huge—big enough for ten of the dwarven King to sleep in without bumping into one another, even if they all had a fitful night.
Torches burned in sconces on the stone walls, light dancing like Talwyn on a stage. Whitney assumed it to be the right side of the giant stone-carved dwarf head he was inside of. The furniture was all made of stone as well, dressers carved out of the walls themselves. Whitney could only wonder how the drawers opened and shut.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” he said to himself and to Aquira, if she was even listening as she zipped around.
Approaching the nea
rest one, he cracked his knuckles and wiggled his fingers. He ran a hand along the edge, feeling for any traps or alarms. Finding nothing, he tried to open the first drawer. There was no handle, and it was so finely carved, not even his fingertips could fit into the almost invisible lines.
“Curious.”
He placed his palm against the face of the top drawer. He slowly felt for any inconsistencies, anything that might hint at a secret button or release mechanism. Still, he found nothing.
“Any ideas, girl?” Whitney asked Aquira.
In response, she flew from her perch on his shoulder and landed on the top of the dresser. He watched her, expecting something, then felt stupid for doing so.
“Smart but not that smart, I guess.”
She snorted once, a dismissive sound if he’d ever heard one, then reached down with her front limb, which was attached to her body by membranous wings. She gave the drawer face a gentle push. There was a click, then the drawer shot outward toward Whitney. It stopped, and he helped it the rest of the way.
“I stand corrected,” Whitney said. “You are so much more than anyone credits you for. Except maybe Gentry.”
Aquira made a sad sound.
“I know. We’ll see him again soon. I promise. And maybe he’ll still have some of those peanuts you like so much, huh? All right, now, let’s see what’s inside.”
There were six such dressers, each one with four drawers filled with clothing and keepsakes that Whitney could’ve sold to any merchant in the realm and used the proceeds to live in luxury. He now regretted never pursuing dwarven kingdoms in his younger, thieving days. They did have stuff worth taking, just, only their Kings.
What he didn’t find was anything that even slightly resembled the stone Tum Tum had described. He searched under the bed—or at least he’d tried to. The bed, too, was carved from stone and permanently affixed to both the back wall and the floor. There wasn’t even a mattress on it, meaning the King slept on a slab of cold rock.
“Sounds about right for dwarves,” he remarked.
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 133