by J. C. Bass
Datan and two members of the fortress guard walked through the Lignite housing block past the hordes of cats and dogs and stacked piles of old clothes and onto the level where most of the leatherworkers in the fortress lived. The majority of Lignite denizens were at work, but a few Dwarves still lingered about their hovels attending to the odd task. A Dwarf sweeping the stone dust out of his home stopped and stared at the armored trio as they passed. He called out to his wife, and then she called to her sister and her children to come and see what was going on.
Datan sighed. This was precisely what she didn’t want. If she had it her way, arrests would be made by guardsdwarves in plain clothes. They always wore mail shirts beneath anyway, so full armor was rarely necessary except in the most heated of exchanges.
Also, it drew a lot of unwanted attention.
Now every Dwarf in Lignite was coming out to see what was going on. Whispers echoed off the stone walls as the crowd speculated on who was in trouble, and for what. Children climbed on stone balconies and clamored over one another for a better view.
“You want me to make them go inside?” One of the guards asked.
“No,” Datan said. The quieter this was the better. “Leave them be.”
They came to the door of a simple apartment that was indistinguishable from the rest, save for the small carving of a Dwarf handling a stack of hides and leatherworking tools.
“Dumed Lorumstiz, come out please,” Datan said.
A moment later, a leather-clad Dwarf with a brown beard and hair streaked with gray opened the door. There was a swollen purple bruise around his left eye and another on his lower lip which had been split and was in the process of scabbing over. He gave her a nod. “Datan.”
“Hello again, Dumed. Will you come with us please?”
“Aye,” he said, closing the door behind him. He gave the watching crowd a glance, then blushed a little. “Didn’t know there would be an audience.”
“For that I apologize,” Datan said. “But it couldn’t be helped. Come old friend, let’s go somewhere we can speak privately.”
As Datan led him through the halls, she could feel the air thicken with tension. The crowd was quiet for the most part, save for a few Dwarves calling out ‘he’s innocent!’ or ‘it was Moldath’s son who started it!’ A few grunted in agreement but most remained hushed, watching them with…what was that look on their faces?
Resentment, she realized. It was resentment.
Datan felt a wave of guilt pass through her. The emotion was becoming all-too familiar lately, but that made it no less painful.
“I heard you questioned Edzul,” Dumed said as they walked.
“Aye,” Datan said. “The duke…” she stopped and corrected herself. “The mayor ordered his release.”
Dumed spat on the stone floor. “So I’m to take the blame, eh? Is that how it stands?”
“We’re still in the process of interviewing witnesses.”
“Aye, and what do they say?”
Datan stayed silent. The majority of witnesses claimed that the fight started when Edzul punched Dumed as they were arguing, thus setting off the fracas that involved over fifty Dwarves. However, many of Edzul’s friends and other members of the mining guild put the blame on Dumed, some of them even going so far as to say that he pulled a knife, forcing Edzul to defend himself.
“People are saying that Moldath is the one pulling the strings,” Dumed said after she didn’t answer. “Did he order you to arrest me? Is that it?”
“The fortress guard doesn’t take orders from the mining guild,” Datan said.
“Aye, not usually.”
Datan shot him a look. “You think me corrupt?”
Dumed frowned, and she could tell the leatherworker regretted the harsh words. “No captain, I don’t. If there’s anyone’s honor I’d never question, it’s yours. I’m just…I just can’t believe…” His eyes were plaintiff in the torchlight of the halls. “You know I wouldn’t pull a knife on another Dwarf. Have I ever shown myself to be a troublemaker?”
“No. You haven’t.”
“Then why am I arrested, and Edzul isn’t?”
They came to the outside of the jail, which was actually just an old resource storage room below the farms that had been refitted for the purpose. Some of the nobility was pushing for the building of a real prison fully outfitted with proper cells, but so far it hadn’t been done. Crime was traditionally rather low (though it had increased lately), and prisoner space was never an issue, so many saw it as an unnecessary expense. Datan didn’t like the idea, but not for fiscal reasons. Much in the same way that stonecrafters hesitated to build extra coffins, she had a superstitious fear that a new prison would somehow break the peace and bring about more criminals.
Datan saw that he was still waiting for an answer to his question. “After he punched you, what happened?”
“I hit him back,” Dumed said. “Then we traded blows for a moment, but I got the better of him. That’s when he fell.”
That matched what the bulk of witnesses had said. “And then?”
“Then the smiths rushed forward. That’s when everybody else got involved. Before they did that, it was just between the two of us. Would that it had stayed that way.”
Would that it had, Datan wished. But it hadn’t.
The makeshift jail was essentially a series of beds with walls separating them. It looked much like the hospital did, save for the chains. A door at the far end of the room was the only one that locked, and it wasn’t used for Dwarves. That’s where they kept the Goblins they’d captured in battle last winter.
Dumed turned up his nose as Datan fitted the metal around his wrist. “Gods…I can smell their stench from here.”
“For that I am truly sorry,” Datan said, and she was. For most prisoners, the reek of Goblin was worse punishment than the confinement and chains. “I hope you’ll excuse this breach of procedure, but I’d like to speak to the duke before I charge you.”
“…May I ask why?”
“It’s for your benefit, I assure you,” she said. “Edzul was released from the hospital this morning. He lost the thumb.”
Dumed raised his bushy eyebrows. “His thumb? But how?”
Just as she suspected, Datan thought. He didn’t know.
“The doctor said it appeared to have been crushed, as if under a great weight,” Datan said. “He was unable to repair the damage.”
Dumed still looked puzzled. “But that can’t be, I only-”
“It was the crowd, Dumed.”
The realization dawned on him slowly. “But…but it was the smiths who rushed forward. If one of them stepped on his hand after he fell, then…I only struck him, as was my right.”
He was not wrong. Datan found her mouth terribly dry.
All the color left Dumed’s face. His expression turned grim, and suddenly the Dwarf looked five decades older.
“If you hammer me, I’ll be crippled,” he said, his voice weak.
“Let me talk to Goden,” Datan said.
“I won’t be able to work. My kids…they’ll-”
Datan put a hand on his shoulder. “Let me talk to Goden.”
The meeting hall had originally been built as a dining area for the nobility, a place where they could converse in private and discuss matters of state together. While it still served that purpose on occasion, it was, for the most part, used exclusively by Goden and his son. Datan didn’t remember exactly when or how the two of them had taken ownership of the beautifully decorated hall, but none of the other nobles had ever objected, so apparently it wasn’t an issue.
The massive table that sat in the center of the room wasn’t the most valuable piece there, but Datan had always found it to be the most captivating. It was an astounding combination of petrified wood and steel, built in a now legendary fit of mania by one of the metalcrafters. It had been made in nine pieces that fit together much like a child’
s puzzle and every piece was needed for it to stand, for if one was removed or if the weight was not distributed correctly, the entire thing would collapse on itself. It had taken a surprising amount of work to put it together, but the result was glorious. The rest of the hall was filled with weapons of almost unspeakable value, including gifts of rare gems from the mountainhomes, specially crafted suits of armor, and statues of exalted figures from Goden’s aristocratic ancestry, but Datan found that she loved the table best.
Goden sat at one end and his son Iteb, the fortress’s seven year old mayor, sat at the other. There was a golden brown turkey garnished with baked apples, grapes, pears and fisher berries. There were dressed eggs and assorted cheeses, leafy quarry bush greens coupled with slices of exotic imported vegetables that only Goden could afford. There were rolls of doughy bread glazed with sugar and small wooden bowls of frothy cream, and the mayor gorged himself on these, completely ignoring all else.
“Ah, captain!” Goden said through a mouthful of turkey. “A pleasure to see you. Sit, have some pudding.”
“No thank you, duke.” Datan wondered if she should ease into the discussion gently or get right to the point. She decided on a direct approach. “I want to talk to you about Dumed.”
“Who?”
“Lorumstiz, the leather worker.”
Goden grunted, then poured a mug of ale down his throat. “Did you arrest him?”
“Aye. But there are certain…” Datan hesitated. “…Facts I think you should be aware of.”
Goden gave her the look she’d expected, like a tradesman about to scold his apprentice for fouling up his work. “What facts are those?”
“After interviewing most of the witnesses, it appears that the majority of them claim it was Edzul who started it.”
Goden frowned. “Edzul tells a different story, as do the smiths who were with him.”
“Aye, they do.” Datan tried to choose her next words carefully. “But I have reason to believe they may have been…mistaken about a few things.”
Goden stopped eating for a moment, and immediately Datan could tell that he’d seen through the veil of words. “Those are the sons and daughters of prominent Dwarves. Many of them have shared this table with me. Are you calling their honor into question?”
Goden was intractable at even the best of times, but when he was angry he was impossible. The last thing she wanted to do was get him worked up. “I’m not in the habit of dragging good names through the mud. But from what I’ve found, Dumed was not entirely to blame.”
“Tell that to Edzul, who has lost the ability to ply his trade,” Goden barked.
“That’s a grievous injury, and one that should not be overlooked,” Datan said. “But the weight of that shouldn’t be placed entirely on Dumed.”
“Then who?”
“No one. Or everyone, depending on how you look at it.”
Goden leaned over the table, his voluminous robe dipping downward into the greasy turkey. He didn’t appear to notice. “And how is that just?”
“It was a fight between two Dwarves that got out of hand. If Edzul is not to blame for starting it, then Dumed is not to blame for responding to it. I wouldn’t charge either of them, but the warrant for Dumed’s arrest was issued by the mayor. That should have been my decision.”
Goden glanced across the table at his son who was still stuffing his face, oblivious to the mention of him.
“Our good mayor is merely ensuring that justice is served,” Goden said.
“A hammering for a Dwarf who did no wrong is not justice,” Datan said. “And it’s not up to anyone besides the captain of the guard. It’s my decision to make.”
“As acting captain of the guard, it’s understandable if you sometimes need help making the hard decisions,” Goden said, his oily voice imitating perfect kindness. “That was something your predecessor knew well.”
“Aye. But he’s dead nigh on four months now. And if I carry the title, then the justice is mine to wield. If I’m asked to investigate wrongdoing, then I will rule according to what I find, not what a noble orders.”
Goden actually smiled at that. “You do realize you’re a noble too, right? Or do you still think of yourself as just a soldier?”
Datan ignored that. “Lift the call for a hammering, Goden. One cripple is bad enough, there’s no reason for us to create two.”
“You speak of justice and then ignore the obvious,” Goden said. “By every right of law, a Dwarf who cripples another Dwarf should have the same done to him.”
“But Dumed did not-”
The duke slammed his hand down on the great table, a gesture all the more meaningful for the pain it must have caused him. Petrified wood and steel did not yield.
But neither would Goden, and if he felt any pain from the blow he did not show it. For the first time in the whole conversation, the little mayor looked up from his sweets.
“A guild leader is demanding justice for his son,” Goden said. “What should we tell him, Datan? That it was Edzul’s fault for losing his thumb and the deed will go unpunished?”
Datan needed to tread especially carefully here. “Punishment, perhaps, should not be the primary goal, especially considering what caused the confrontation in the first place.”
“And what was that?” His face was expressionless, his eyes locked on her. Either Goden never lied or he did so constantly. Either way, his face never showed even the slightest inkling of hidden truths or machinations.
“Dumed approached Edzul and started a conversation with him about food prices,” Datan said. “It was Dumed’s hope that he’d pass a few ideas to Moldath for his consideration.”
The expression of puzzlement on Goden’s face was either completely genuine or a master work of deception. “And what would Moldath have to do with food prices?”
Since Datan could never tell what was a lie and what wasn’t, she spoke as if Goden were telling the truth, if only for the sake of politeness and, hopefully, a productive conversation. “As you know, we began exporting weapons at a much higher price than usual last summer.”
“Of course we did,” Goden said. “White Hills had a war with the Goblins. We’d be fools to charge them the same prices as peacetime. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“It is said that in order to afford the weapons, the Hill Dwarves tripled the amount of food they were sending to us.”
“Who says this? Tradesdwarves?”
“Yes.”
Goden scoffed. “Where they get these numbers, I’ll never know. They haven’t the faintest idea what kind of agreements we’ve made with the Hill Dwarves.”
Datan continued. “Nonetheless, if their assumptions are true, the increase of food imports should have flooded the market, thus lowering prices across the board. But as I’m sure you’ve noticed, that’s not what happened. In fact, food prices are at an all-time high.”
“Again, what does that have to do with-”
“It is speculated that, after the Hill Dwarves tripled their exports, our local farmers knew they wouldn’t be able to compete with the inevitable downshift in prices, so they conspired with Moldath to help them hoard much of the imports in a private cache to create false scarcity and keep prices high.”
Goden shook his head. “No wonder Edzul took exception. It’s pure speculation.”
“Is it? If so, then how have food prices gone up since the war? Locally grown food is still about half the cost of imports, as it has always been, but the price of food as a whole has more than quadrupled. How is that possible?”
Goden sighed. “There are clusters of truth in what you say captain, but as the old adage goes, ‘a cluster is not a vein.’ Food imports increased, but not by triple. And yes, we are storing more food than usual, but that’s to save up for an emergency. Should White Hills be taken, our food imports would stop entirely, and then you would truly see a crisis. We’d lose half the f
ort to starvation in two years. We’re trying to prevent a catastrophe, not start one.”
“But their war has proven little more than a series of small exchanges, has it not?” Datan asked. “The Final Torment is not sending full armies to their gates, Goden. They’re harassing, not invading.”
“For the moment. If they sent a force to White Hills the size of what they sent us last winter, then-”
“Then the Hill Dwarves would do what they do best; retreat to their canyons and bluffs and slaughter them with ambush tactics. The Goblins are too smart to walk into that, and they know the Hill Dwarves are too smart to meet them in the open field. These harassment tactics are their only alternative, and they’re meant to bring victory through attrition over decades rather than overnight collapse. Though I advocate having plenty of food stores on hand, hoarding it out of fear is unnecessary, and we’ve seen the trouble it has caused.”
Goden folded his flabby arms. “So you’re trying to blame the leatherworker’s foolishness on our trading policies? Isn’t that a bit of a stretch?”
“Crime has gone up, most notably thefts. People aren’t steeling gems and jewelry, Goden. They’re stealing food.”
Goden took a swig of his ale. “So you say.”
“If a percentage of the food stores were released for sale to the public it would relieve some of the hunger we’ve been seeing.”
“It would hurt the farmer’s guild.”
“If done slowly over time, the effect would be negligible on the farmer’s guild, and they would have plenty of time to adjust their prices accordingly. Incidents like what happened between Dumed and Edzul would diminish over time as tensions between the nobility and tradesdwarves eased. To punish Dumed would not only be unjust, but would be addressing a symptom of the problem rather than the problem itself. It would also insure that this would not be an isolated incident.”
Goden raised an eyebrow.
“The craft and trade guild would almost certainly find a way to retaliate,” she said. “That’s the last thing we want.”
“That would be very foolish of them.”
“Aye, it would,” Datan said. “But hungry Dwarves do foolish things.”
“It is your job, captain, to prevent any such retaliations from happening, and to ensure that justice is served without undue interference from those seeking revenge. If we stopped punishing Dwarves simply because we feared reprisal from them, then we might as well not have a justice system at all. We would be just as bad as the Goblins.”
“Duke, I ask that you please reconsider. I don’t think-”
“The mayor has ruled already,” Goden said, wiping his greasy hands on a silk handkerchief.
“As I said before, it’s not the mayor’s decision. Even so, the citizens will understand if he retracts his order. It will be seen as a sign of good will.”
“No, it would be seen as a sign of weakness,” Goden said. “Iteb cannot afford to look weak.”
The little mayor dribbled cream on his tunic as he stuffed another piece of bread into his mouth, smacking his lips as he chewed.
Datan stared at Goden for a long time, trying to think of something else to say. There was much that went unsaid between them, for if certain things were spoken aloud, it would almost certainly result in ruin.
When she could think of nothing else with which to convince him, Datan gave a curt bow. “As you wish, duke. I’ll see it done myself, then.”
“The hammering? Why not use Tobul?”
Because Tobul would shatter him like cheap porcelain, she thought. “He’s seeing to the militia’s training today.”
Goden shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Datan gave one last look to the table in front of them; the turkey and pudding and fresh exotic fruits. I could say so much, she thought.
But it would do no good.
Iron Hall was particularly raucous, for whatever reason. The tradesdwarves that took their meals there were the sort who found reason to revel even in the leanest of times, and the shortage of food had done nothing to dampen their spirits.
Perhaps that was why Datan found herself eating there rather than in the northern tower. These were the types of Dwarves that were most affected by the food crisis. Brewers, carpenters, craftsdwarves…common folk who sold the bulk of their wares in the market and took only a tiny share of trade revenue in comparison to the other professions. Unfortunately, the Hill Dwarves didn’t have the same hunger for wine and stone chairs as they had for sharp steel blades and shields and copper bolts.
Datan ate a simple mushroom stew with fresh black bread and ale. Though her position provided her a large wage in comparison to her Iron Hall counterparts, her lifetime of eating portable military rations rather than elaborate meals had made her palate easy to satisfy. Many of the nobledwarves spent a shameful amount of money on food, but Datan had never seen the sense of it. The memory of a good meal was fleeting, its effect dulled by repetition. Datan preferred to invest in things more permanent. She had recently commissioned the fortress’s best artist to engrave an entire wall of her living quarters with a mural of Ogath, goddess of justice. In the image, Ogath was considering the fate of two quarreling children, a scene from one of her favorite legends. When Datan woke up in the morning, it was often the first thing she saw.
She sipped her ale, an earthy black brew that suited her meal well. As she drank, she considered her quandary. She certainly couldn’t refuse the hammering order, for that would only get her removed from her position and Dumed would be punished anyway. But to sentence Dumed to a hammering would not only cripple a Dwarf who’d done nothing wrong, it would also make it quite clear that the guard were a tool of the nobles. Since the mayor had breached protocol and called for punishment himself, that was now impossible to avoid. As Dumed had demonstrated earlier, mistrust of authority had become widespread amidst the poorer Dwarves; another unfortunate consequence of the food crisis. Looking back on it now, Datan realized it was possible that Goden had appointed her to the position of captain of the guard for the sole purpose of quelling that suspicion, for she had always been well-respected amongst the common folk. That type of sly maneuvering was exactly the type of thing Goden might do.
Datan was considering all these things and more when Rorec walked up and greeted her. She’d been so busy with the aftermath of the nightcreature attack and the recent fight that she had forgotten all about their Human visitor. She recalled the scare Tobul had given him upon his arrival and felt a pang of guilt. For a guest to be greeted with anger and suspicion was unforgivable. She stood up and offered him a place at the table, and he graciously accepted.
As he sat down, she noticed that he had an old injury on his right hand. There was a large scar and an indentation that made it look like it had been crushed at some point. He appeared unable to use it much, if at all. Datan was curious but decided not to ask, for she didn’t want to risk rudeness. Dwarves bragged of their scars, but she didn’t know if Humans did the same.
“I must apologize for not checking on you these past few days,” Datan told him. “I’ve been exceptionally busy lately. I trust the duke has seen to all your needs?”
“He has. He’s been very welcoming,” Rorec said. “It’s been quite overwhelming actually, I never thought I would be greeted with so much...well, pomp. I still haven’t made a dent in all the food my neighbors gave me.”
Food? The Dwarves of Granite were struggling to feed themselves and their children, but they’d still given him gifts of food? Datan could not help but be moved. That was true generosity indeed, but unfortunately Rorec couldn’t possibly understand the full gravity of it.
She studied the Human in front of her. From the moment he’d first arrived, it had been clear to her that Rorec was no noble, though she had expected him to be when Goden first told her a writer was coming. How could someone who knew how to read and write not be part of the nobility? Perhaps Rorec was a
bit of an oddity amongst his own kind, a commoner in possession of unusual skills. Certainly there were Dwarves like that; Datan had a tradesdwarf cousin who could take a glimpse into a room and declare with uncanny accuracy the value of the trade goods inside, a feat which would take even the most experienced broker hours of careful calculation. Despite this talent he’d remained poor all his days until death. Judging by the clothes Rorec was wearing, he appeared to be enduring the same struggle.
“Have you visited many fortresses?” Datan asked.
“A few Human ones, but none of Dwarves. I wrote a book about the fortifications at Plainsview, but compared to Firehorn, they were miniscule.”
“Where is Plainsview?”
“In the eastern half of the Storm Plains, south of the Isle of Graves.”
Datan thought. “I know the Isle. It is said the men of Boulder Coast come from there.” She pulled off a piece of bread. “Are the fortifications of Plainsview well-known in your land?”
“Fairly well, yes. They were instrumental during the early stages of the Sunset Quest.”
Datan knew of the war. The Final Torment versus the Humans of Silvermire. The Goblins sacked a city in a surprise attack, prompting a total retaliation that saw a quarter of the Goblin population killed over the next twenty years. It was said that Silvermire took the entire eastern half of the Goblin empire as payment for an end to hostilities.
“And how did you become a writer?” Datan asked. “Is that a common profession in Silvermire?”
“Not at all, actually. In fact it was only due to luck that I was afforded the opportunity at all. When I was a child, a wealthy landowner hired my father to build him a series of mills and granaries on a swathe of newly purchased farmland. It was a project of several years, so we were allowed to live on the edge of the property as my father worked. I was a sickly child, and it was clear to my father early on that I would never be suitable for the hard work of mill-building. As a favor to him, the landowner allowed me to be tutored along with his own children, and I learned my letters that way.”
Now Datan understood why he carried himself like a commoner. “Are all your family builders?”
“Traditionally, yes. I’m the first in four generations not to be.”
Datan detected a tinge of regret in his voice. She changed the subject. “So tell me about this book you intend to write.”
Rorec immediately brightened at the mention of his project. “My intention is twofold; to describe, in detail, the inner-workings of Firehorn. It is fascinating to me how a fortress at the far ends of the earth can not only function, but thrive, and Human academics and laymen alike will surely be interested in such a thing. The second part is to describe, basically, the essence of the Dwarven soul.”
“The Dwarven soul? How do you propose to do that?”
“It is my hope that I can find a single individual who exemplifies Dwarven nature better than any other. I know it will difficult to find such a subject, but I’m hoping that over time, one might be revealed.”
Datan thought it was a novel idea, especially from a Human. Another Dwarf would have inherent biases as to what traits exemplified true Dwarven nature, but a Human would be a total outsider capable of rendering a fair and impartial judgment.
“I was considering, perhaps, the Dwarf that was wounded in the nightcreature attack,” Rorec said. “What is his name?”
“Vucar,” Datan said. “Normally I’d say he’s a fine choice, but…his condition is worsening.”
“Oh,” Rorec said, taken aback. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Datan nodded. Her bread and stew were finished, and though there was much more she wanted to know about him and his project, she needed to get back to her duties. “I apologize, but I must take my leave. It was nice talking with you, and if I get a chance at the feast tonight, I’d like to continue the conversation.”
“Ah yes, the feast…” Rorec gave a shy smile and nodded. “I hope they don’t go to too much trouble because of me.”
“Goden is in charge of the festivities, so I’m afraid the chances of it being a modest affair are slim to none.”
He actually blushed. “Oh dear…”
Datan couldn’t help but appreciate the irony of it all; commoner amongst his own kind, but heralded amongst foreigners, and all for a work he hadn’t yet begun. He must feel a great deal of pressure to make good on what everyone expected of him, on what he expected of himself.
Datan understood those expectations all too well.
The hammer was a lustrous bronze color flecked with bits of diamond dust. The torchlight made the little stones wink and glimmer like cold distant stars fixed in a forged metal sky. The grip was smooth polished polar bear bone lined with small red rubies. It was a gorgeous weapon that any warrior would be proud to carry, but it had never seen battle and never would.
Technically by doing the hammering herself, she was infringing on Tobul’s duties. That would certainly irk him; he never liked to miss a chance to hammer someone. He’d even started bringing the silver judgment hammer into battle with him, something of which Datan didn’t approve. There are weapons for enemies and there are weapons for justice, but the two should not mix, she thought.
She made a point to walk the shortest route to the jail so fewer Dwarves would see her. Those that did immediately knew what she was about to do. Word traveled faster than an eagle with a tailwind and nothing stayed secret in a fortress for long.
Bomrek was standing next to the prison door smoking a dark briar pipe. He wore a long leather coat that was dusty at the tails from where it dragged the stone floor. His long hair and beard were obsidian black save for a tinge of tobacco brown on his moustache. The fragrant smell of his smoke brought back old memories of good whiskey and long conversation.
“Thank you for coming,” Datan said. “Did you bring your supplies?”
He nodded. “Inside.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Not yet. I thought I’d leave that to you.”
Datan entered the jail and he followed. Immediately her nose curled from the smell of the Goblin prisoners in the back. She wondered if this room would ever smell clean again.
Dumed was reclining on his bed, the metal chain extending from his hand to a bolt on the wall. On a nearby table were half a dozen stone idols and burnt candles; he’d been doing a lot of praying. Several empty casks of ale sat beside him and he was drinking heavily from a large tin flask. He saw the hammer in her hand and a rictus of pain formed on his face.
“Hello, Dumed,” Datan said. “You know why I’ve come?”
He took another long drag from the flask, then nodded.
Bomrek removed the chain clamp from his wrist. “Kneel.”
Dumed moved off the bed slowly as if he were already in pain. When his voice came it was hoarse and labored. “Where will you strike?”
“Your right arm.”
Dumed cringed, and tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “Gods be kind…”
Datan took her place beside him. “Dumed Lorumstiz, you are hereby convicted for the crimes of assault and maiming committed against one Edzul Thobilid. Your sentence for this crime is hammering. Do you have anything you wish to say before the punishment is carried out?”
Dumed’s tears ran freely now. “Gods be kind…gods be kind…”
Datan eased the hammer slowly back into swinging position, and steadied herself.
“Gods be kind…gods be kind…”
With one smooth, fast motion, she swung the hammer forward…
…And lightly tapped Dumed’s arm.
Dumed eased his eyes open, his muscles still coiled to receive a blow. He looked up at Datan.
“The sentence is carried out.”
Dumed dropped to the floor at her feet, weeping. “Gods save you, Datan. Gods save you…”
“Do not thank me,” Datan said. “Thank the chief.”
Bomrek removed the bag of gypsum powder and tools from his bag, smiling amicably at Dumed. “Get up.”
Still bewildered, Dumed rose from the ground and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I thank you both, but…but the mayor decreed that-”
“I know,” Datan said. “And he must be satisfied.”
“I’m going to give you a cast for that nasty break of yours,” Bomrek said, grinning through his pipe. “In a few months you’ll come in to get it removed, and you’ll find that you’ve made a miraculous recovery.”
“Gods thank you both,” Dumed said. “From the depths of my soul, thank you.”
“You must understand, of course, that this kindness comes at a price,” Datan said. “When asked, you must say that you received full justice for your conviction. You must never tell a soul what happened here.”
“Aye. Aye, I can do that.”
“And one more thing,” Datan said, kneeling next to him. “Since they won’t know the truth, your guild leader and fellow tradesdwarves will be angry that you were punished and Edzul wasn’t. There can be no retaliation,” she said, emphasizing her last words. “You must convince them of this, for if you don’t the situation could very quickly spiral out of control. I have showed you mercy this time because I know you were not the cause of the trouble, but so help me Armok, I’ll crush anyone who puts this fort in disarray. Do you understand?”
“Aye,” he said. “It will be done, I swear it.”
“Good,” Datan said.
Bomrek started mixing the plaster. “Come, Dumed. Let’s get this done.”
The Grand Hall was true to its name as the largest single room structure in the fortress. It was dug out over fifty years ago with the goal of providing enough space for every Dwarf in the fortress for generations to come. True to their skill, the miners had accomplished their task and then some. The fortress had grown more than expected, and yet there was still plenty of space for all. The wall engravings were as high as towers and more detailed than any in the entirety of the Firehorn. There were images of the seven founders carved in chert and the symbols of the nine guilds took up an entire wall of jet, their colors and insignias brought to life by the flickering light from the massive stone hearth below.
Goden had clearly spared no expense. There was roasted lamb, chicken, geese, cave lobster, giant thrips, alpaca, yak, cheeses of all kinds, great wooden bowls of quarry leaves and plump helmets and turnips and carrots and a myriad of baked breads and imported fruit. The younger Dwarves seemed to find the latter fascinating, for many of them had never seen strawberries and pears and oranges before.
The nobles sat on a raised dais with their backs to the blazing fire. Rorec was seated next to Goden, as was customary for all guests of the fortress. The little mayor sat on the duke’s other side, his chubby cheeks already reddened from too much wine. Tobul was there, brooding as usual, and Bomrek was seated next to him, puffing away on that old briar pipe of his. There was a seat for each guild leader as well, and as if to prove that the gods had a sense of irony, Datan found herself sitting next to Moldath, father of Edzul and leader of the blacksmiths.
The bulk of Firehorn’s attending population was seated according to guild, each with their own series of tables marked by raised cloth banners featuring their symbols. Datan couldn’t help but notice that the leather workers, who were part of the craft and trade guild, had been seated on the opposite side of the hall from the blacksmithing guild. She thought that was probably for the best, all things considered.
Dumed had been told to stay in jail during the festivities, an act which both kept up appearances and lessened the possibility of arousing negative emotions. Bomrek had made sure that he would be the only doctor to treat him, and Datan trusted that he could handle it. Bomrek was the soul of discretion, and Datan couldn’t have asked for a better co-conspirator than the chief medical Dwarf himself.
Goden rose to his feet (an act which was becoming more meaningful for all the trouble it caused him) and banged his mug down on the wooden table. It took a while for the crowd to quieten since there were so many assembled, but after a few moments a hush fell, and all that could be heard was the sputtering of the fires.
Silence in a room with two thousand Dwarves…Datan couldn’t help but smile. Goden did have a way with crowds.
“Dwarves, I thank you for coming,” Goden said, his arms moving with practiced drama, his smooth voice carrying with seemingly little effort. “I do not wish to delay our meal any longer, but I would be remiss if I did not first speak of our reason for assembling.” Goden took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Firehorn is known throughout the north for a number of things: its bears, its weapons, and its hardy citizens. But though we are both famous and infamous amongst Elves and Goblins alike, we are relatively unknown to the Humans of Silvermire in the far east. We know of some of their exploits; their vast cities, their martial prowess, their thriving culture…but of us, they know little.
“However, there is one who would change that.” He put a hand on Rorec’s shoulder. “This man traveled from half a world away by sea and by land to reach us here so that he may see the glory of Firehorn, record it in detail, and return home with the knowledge so that all of humanity will know our accomplishments.”
There came a barrage of cheering. Goden waited patiently for it to die out, then continued.
“For that, we honor him tonight. Let us show our appreciation for the Human writer, Rorec Kethorma, whose bravery and thirst for knowledge has led him here to us tonight.”
There was a cacophony of applause as all two thousand Dwarves stood for him. Rorec was clearly taken aback by the uproar, but he smiled and waved to the crowd, much to the delight of all. Goden himself was ecstatic, and he clapped so hard and with such fierceness that Datan thought he might hurt himself.
“Let the feast begin!” He cried, and the enthusiasm of the Dwarves shifted to tender meat and frothy ale, crispy vegetables and sweet fruit, good conversation and loyal company. Every Dwarf rejoiced, for it was a rare occasion when all had plenty.
Centuries later, historians would remember the night as ‘Firehorn’s Final Joy.’
ZAS
The Dwarves gorged themselves on thick heaps of greasy meat and slick fat, guzzling ale the color of fetid water and slurping the pungent flesh from tumorous foreign fruits. In their reveling they paid no mind whatsoever to decorum; they wiped their mouths on sleeves caked in dust and oil, or simply let the remnants of their meal gush freely from their mouths like untrained babes. Every bite was an exercise in disgust, each filthier and more depraved than the last.
Zas forced these thoughts out of his mind. The old feelings were the hardest to be rid of, he’d found. Perhaps they would never leave him. He feigned a drink of his wine and when no one was looking, dribbled a little onto the stone floor.
At least tonight that would be easier than usual.
Asha leaned over to him. “Dear, are you sure you don’t want something? Some pudding, at least?”
“I’m not hungry.” He was starving.
“It’s a shame, you’re missing such great food.”
Zas watched as a pack of dogs and cats feasted off the floor scraps. Normally they’d be fighting each other for the bounty beneath the tables, but tonight there was enough for all of them. Even the runts would be getting fat.
Before he could stop her, Asha refilled his wine goblet. Zas forced himself to smile in thanks. She was as dutiful a mate as a Dwarf could ask for, but that was not why he married her. As he watched her quietly dine on her modest plate of greens and chicken breast, he saw none of the slovenliness that he saw in the others. Asha had a polite and, dare he say, stately grace. Though she was a common weaver she carried herself with unusual poise and nobility, a quality quite rare amongst the crude and loathsome lot they shared a table with.
Zas wondered for the hundredth time whether or not he loved her. He knew he should.
She had many loveable qualities. She had given him two healthy children and had helped raise them to have the same attentiveness and grace their parents shared. She listened when he spoke and was open-minded to his ideas, even when they flew against convention. She expressed herself well and thought before she spoke, and when she was emotional she sought his reason and his counsel to make her feel better rather than flying into a rage. He should love her for those things.
But did he?
His son Urvad was there next to him. Barely seven. He spooned pudding into his mouth and looked up at Zas with his large sandstone colored eyes. He hung on every word his father said. He was a quick learner and creative with his crafts. When Zas spoke to him of the proper methods of bone carving, the gentle relationship between hands and bone and blade, he listened, and rather than rush into it like other children, he made an effort to perfect the form. He was everything a father could want and his sister was no different.
But did Zas love them?
Such questions were always troubling, but not seriously so. The quandary of love had lingered with him like a light wound that nagged quietly for attention. He was not bothered by it, but at the same time, it merited thinking about.
And at least it distracted him from all this.
Zas tried to ignore the lot of so-called friends and neighbors at the table around him and focused his attention on the dais. Their Human guest seemed to have manners, at least. He ate almost as daintily as Asha, but without the comfort or surety. Even from this distance, Zas could tell he was nervous. His meal was more of an exploration than a dining experience; many of the foods were surely new to him. Beside him, the idiot duke talked and laughed in boisterous acclaim, probably bragging about something or another. The Human seemed to sense his ridiculousness, but did a good job not to show it much.
But Zas could tell. He read the expressions on Humans and Dwarves and Elves as a master angler might read the ripples of the water and know that a great fish lie beneath. Still, even as he exercised this skill, he did not really want to. It was merely second nature.
And the skill came at a cost: no person was a mystery to him for very long, and that made them dreadfully boring. Not even Asha was an exception to this, but perhaps that was unavoidable with any mate. There was no depth to her that he did not understand, and he often felt that he could read her moods and needs as if hearing her thoughts aloud. Because she was good to him, he made efforts to satisfy those whims accordingly, as any good husband would.
And of course, she adored him for it. Asha was madly, foolishly, and hopelessly in love with him, and the guilt that caused was painful for Zas to bear.
But he had borne worse.
What had started as a feast had now become, in many places of the Great Hall, a dance. Music was being played and those who were finished with their meals (or merely taking a break, more likely) got up and danced or sang along. Soon the Great Hall would be filled with the sounds of merriment and joy and celebration.
Zas hoped to be gone by then.
Asha laughed as she watched some friends dance. She would want to join in soon. She would ask and Zas would smile brightly and say yes, and they would dance just as happily as the other couples, but Zas wouldn’t feel it. All the joy would be hers and hers alone, but he would still smile and laugh, if only for her sake. Of course he could tell her no if he wished, but then she would be disappointed, and there was no reason to disappoint her.
For the moment though she was content to watch, so Zas did as well. He dribbled some of his wine out on the floor as everyone at the table watched a particularly drunk Dwarf slur his way through the first verse of a popular song. Zas pretended to watch and even pretended to laugh, but he had found something more interesting to occupy his attention.
It was the captain of the guard and another Dwarf, one of the smiths, judging by the way he dressed. They were in the shadow of the huge stone hearth behind the dais, well away from anyone else. Datan had an expression of dire seriousness, and the other Dwarf, judging by his body language, appeared to be getting chastised for something.
The conversation finished and the Dwarf turned to walk away. Zas recognized him as Edzul, son of Moldath, and remembered hearing about the fight that had taken place between he and another Dwarf recently. Datan starred daggers into the smith as he walked away, and Edzul was clearly flustered and embarrassed by the exchange. All the same, the moment seemed to have passed without notice, and once again all was merriment and music.
Interesting, Zas thought.
It wasn’t difficult to make an educated guess as to the nature of their discussion: Datan was warning Edzul. Everyone with any modicum of intelligence knew that he had escaped prosecution only as a political favor from Goden to his father. More likely than not, Datan wanted to make sure Edzul fully understood that this was a onetime event and there would be no such exceptions in the future.
Datan was more clever than most, though like many common Dwarves elevated to nobility, she lacked a proper understanding of her full political power. This fortress could be hers if she merely reached out and took it, Zas thought. She was a pillar of the community, equally respected by tradesdwarves and nobility alike. The only ones who liked Goden were the nobility, but they were all that was necessary to keep him in power. As with most leaders, Goden ruled via illusion of strength and control and greasing the right palms. All that could be shattered with one well-placed political blow, and Datan was in the best position to strike.
But she never would. Instead she would always put the fortress before herself, as evident by what she’d just done with Edzul. She surely knew that a brat like him couldn’t suffer harsh words without whining to his powerful father the first chance he got, but apparently she didn’t care.
Luckily for Zas, she was making a mistake.
There was no person in this fortress who was more of a danger to Zas than Datan, and thus, he’d been watching her closely for some time. She was intelligent, capable, fierce, driven, and worst of all, incorruptible. Such Dwarves were his mortal foes by their very nature, and conflict with them was as inexorable as autumn’s change to winter.
But Datan could very well be sowing the seeds of her own destruction. If tensions in the fortress continued to rise the way Zas thought they would, Datan might be ousted (or worse) in a matter of a few short years. That wasn’t long for him to wait. After all, he was playing the long game.
The music changed to a fast, upbeat number. Their friends and neighbors linked hands and rose to take their places. Asha turned to him, her watery blue eyes gushing with love and adoration. “Would you like to dance, dear?”
Zas feigned his brightest smile, returned her loving gaze, and took her hand.
“I’d love to.”
The children were asleep, cradled in Asha’s arms. Zas wrapped them up in a thick woolen blanket and pulled it to her chin. He could tell that she was exhausted from the feast and the dancing, but she was trying very hard not to show it. When Zas was awake, she wanted to be as well.
“Will you come to bed dear?”
“No,” Zas said. “I think I’ll do a little work.”
“But it’s so late.”
Zas bent and kissed Asha and his children in turn. “Rest dear. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“I’ll wait up for you.”
She was asleep within moments. Bless her, Zas thought. She did try.
Their apartment was cozy and comfortable and had all chert walls. Their neighbors were other bone carvers and weavers, dyers and leather workers and the like. Lignite was normally a lively place, but tonight it was pleasantly quiet. The festivities had lulled the fortress to a joyful sleep, sated on food and drink and music.
Zas sat in a small chair near the door, a chicken fat candle burning in a dish beside him. Sometimes Zas spent entire nights like that, just sitting there in the dark by the door. He would retreat into a haze of old memorie
s filled with times and places long gone by, faces from lovers and family members and strangers and enemies long since dead. There was a restful peace that would come to him then and his mind would slow to a crawl, his thoughts trickling out like water from a frozen pipe.
Other times he would light the candle again and stare at the mural he’d had engraved on the wall.
It was the one thing in their living quarters that he had insisted upon. Asha always pretended to like it because she knew how much it meant to him, but Zas could tell that she didn’t. All the same, she never complained.
The mural was of Asroth the Reviled; a scholar turned outcast, an outcast turned outlaw, and an outlaw turned king. Once the most learned Dwarf in all the kingdom, he dared to claim more wisdom than the gods and was thus cursed for his hubris. He then wandered the wilds for untold years, gathering other wayward followers like himself until one day he brought his band of outcasts to the gates of Marblespire. The battle became known as ‘The Siege of Curses.’
His reign of terror lasted two hundred and eighty-four years and marked the longest time in Dwarven history that the capital had been occupied by a hostile outside force. His ascension to power was the stuff of legend, and was filled with tales of brutal warfare, unimaginable decadence, and strange rituals carried out by the cult that worshiped him as a living god. Never before had a Dwarf been so merciless to his own kind. It was said that he gorged himself on the blood of those who challenged him, and that such acts of barbarity were the secret to his unnaturally long life.
And then one day, he simply disappeared. Nobody understood quite how or why, but all sources agree that one day, Asroth simply ceased to rule and was never heard from again. Bloody succession wars raged amongst the various factions of his empire until they were finally united by the Glowing Embers, one of the early precursors to the Emerald Eyes.
That had been eight hundred years ago. Like Asha, most Dwarves grew up hearing the awful stories of Asroth’s reign; the gruesome tales of his lava pits and water dungeon, and the hellish and mysterious feasts he and his cult would hold in Marblespire’s central annex. Sometimes Zas would listen as Asha told the stories to their children. Being kind, she always ended them the same way: But that was an age ago, and Asroth is long, long gone.
If only she knew.
On quiet nights like this he would stare at the image and sometimes, if the unseen air currents moved just so, the flickering light would almost make it look like Asroth was coming to life, his stony limbs flexing to regain their old strength, his hoary beard parting to reveal red stained teeth in a predatory sneer, his lashing tongue forming the old words of reign and ruin, of blood and fire, of rage and conquest.
It was in those moments that Zas would snuff out the candle.
Some things were best left to the dark.
Zas believed that in the quiet hours of early morning a fortress was simultaneously at its most beautiful and its most horrible. A settlement that was devoid of life, if only briefly, was much like a tomb: one could appreciate its elegant structures and decorations, but its emptiness made it a body without a soul.
It was the beauty of silence, and the horror of stillness.
Zas walked through the dark, not bothering to carry a torch. Only once did he see anyone else and when he did, he merely stopped where he was and let them pass. It was so dark and the Dwarf was so drunk and tired that he hadn’t even registered Zas’s presence. When he was out of sight Zas continued on again, sticking to the shadows.
It would not do to be seen tonight.
His task was a delicate one, and had been put off for too long. There had simply been no opportunities. Zas had thought he’d get a chance with the wounded militia Dwarf (Vucar, if he remembered correctly), but his condition was such that the doctors attended to him every hour of the day and night, so getting to him would be next to impossible.
But, in a stroke of irony, it was Datan who had provided him the perfect opportunity.
Zas opened the door to the jail. It was never locked, for every prisoner wore shackles that were anchored into the wall. There was no escape from those but with a key.
A guard sat napping in a stone chair near the door. On the table next to him sat many empty ale jugs and the meatless bones of a roasted guinea hen. He would remain asleep as long as nothing startled him.
Zas found the guard’s torch and snuffed it out, engulfing the jail in darkness.
He ignored the stench of the goblins emanating from the back room and proceeded forward. They were certainly a viable option, but he wanted to save them for an emergency. There was no telling how long Goden would keep them there, anyway. Months? No use wasting them now.
Dumed was lying on his stone bed, eyes fluttering in sleep. The plaster cast from his hammering was on his right arm, stretching from elbow to wrist.
Perfect.
Zas moved silently. He felt his pulse quicken, but forced his sense of urgency away. Calm was essential. Eagerness was a liability. He squatted down near Dumed’s wounded arm, watchful of the leather worker’s eyes. They did not open.
Now came the difficult part.
If this was to be done correctly, he needed to be gentle. Zas carefully lifted Dumed’s wounded arm and rested it on the bed. Dumed did not react.
Good, Zas thought. Now, the cast.
Of course casts were meant to stay stationary on the arm, but Zas had found that even the most skilled of bonesetters left a little space between the plaster and skin, if only for comfort’s sake. Zas gently slid the cast back toward the leather worker’s elbow, just a little bit, just enough to leave the wrist bare before him. It had only slid a meager two inches, but that was good enough.
Zas opened his mouth and clamped down on the meaty flesh of Dumed’s wrist.
Before the leather worker could call out, Zas’s hand found the Dwarf’s mouth and clamped it shut.
The taste of the fresh blood was irresistible. In his younger years, these moments had sent him into a frenzy of drinking, often causing him to make foolish decisions. But time and practice had brought control and patience.
And most of all, experience.
Dumed flailed his good arm, causing his chain to rattle. He was strong despite his wounds, stronger than Zas had expected. Still, the guard was too deeply asleep to hear, and Zas was much stronger. He clamped down harder, and though Dumed still fought, he could gain no ground against his attacker.
Slowly but surely, Zas felt the strength slip from his victim. Zas drank long after the leather worker was still, savoring every drop and wasting nothing.
When he was finished, Zas felt around in the dark and forced the cast down over the leather worker’s wrist. That would cover the bite marks. No one would question that someone who was recently hammered had succumbed to their wounds. Shock and melancholy were common amongst prisoners, not to mention that the blows themselves were often fatal. His death would be seen as an unfortunate but understandable accident.
Zas breathed deep the darkness. This Dwarf had been hardy. Perhaps he would not have to feed again for a while.
Zas moved past the dead leather worker and checked on the guard. Still fast asleep. Good.
He opened the door. There was nothing. No one. The halls were clear and the fortress quiet.
Zas slipped into the shadows and was gone back to Asha, back to his children, back to his humble home of chert on the fourth level of Lignite, amidst the weavers and bone carvers and leather workers that called him friend and neighbor.
If only they knew.