by RG Long
Anders first thought of how long it would take him to give his employer a bloody nose. It wasn't the first time the thought had crossed his mind.
Androlion had employed Anders shortly after news of the downfall of Thoran made it back with the army. The general of the Mercs had praised Anders craft and told him what he needed to have produced. After dumping a bag of gold coins at his feet in advanced pay, Anders had willingly accepted the offer and committed to crafting the weapon of Androlion's request.
When the original payment ran out, the leader had told Anders that he would be responsible for paying his own way north and that delivering the item on time was essential to getting the rest of his money. Anders had thought a good punch to the face was in order.
Save for the fact that Androlion had been accompanied by two of his own generals, one of which was the same size as Anders, he would have given the ruler a mark to remember him by.
Just as he did now, he had held back the impulse to do bodily harm.
He simply bowed again and spoke as respectfully as he could muster.
“Of course, your greatness,” he said as he rolled his eyes at the ground.
Androlion let a snort of contempt leave his mouth before giving his mount a swift kick and continuing to ride among his ranks.
Anders watched him leave with gratitude. Dictators were so demanding.
“I wonder if there's any good company here on Ruyn,” he said out loud to his horse as they searched for a place to make shop.
The hustle that had suspended with the arrival of Androlion had picked back up in force. Men were running about with swords and barrels and flags. The army was doing its best to organize for the coming battle quickly.
Anders didn't care. He had work to do and gold to earn.
“This looks like a decent spot,” he said after coming to a part the crowd had made around a rather large rock. “Let's unpack, Felipe.”
With that, Anders began the long task of taking the tools off his cart and placing them around him in their usual positions that allowed for him to perform his best. It had been the same way when he was taught, and it would be the same way now.
The master weapon maker was ready to work.
15: Gifts Refused
Once, when he was little, Jurrin wandered off by himself outside the borders of his hometown. It couldn't have been more than a few paces, but to the little halfling at the time, it seemed like a journey worthy of fairy tales. The forest that surrounded his home had come alive to him. Looking up, he could spy the vast sky above the treetops and decided it was time to climb.
Higher and higher he swung through the branches, though he often had to stop and ponder how to reach the next limb with his tiny legs and arms, until he came to the top of a tree.
He poked his head out of the foliage and looked as far as his keen eyes could see.
It was beautiful.
The forest went for miles, but beyond it lay mountains to the west and east, an ocean to the north, and to the south, a great many cliffs rose from the plains.
The sight was so wondrous that Jurrin was nearly short of breath. Then he fell out of the tree and broke his left arm.
Even though they found him crying over his smashed bones, the thrill of seeing beyond the forest was something he would keep with him for the rest of his days.
And it was that first sight of what lay past his hometown that rang in his mind the day strangers appeared with strange tales of the world outside and the perils it held.
He knew, in that moment, what he was going to do.
Presently, Jurrin was overwhelmed with the vastness of the dwarven empire inside the mountain. Never had the little halfling imagined that such a thing was possible. How could any creature hollow out the earth and make room for a city?
Granted, learning how big cities could be was also new to Jurrin.
His home of Big Tree had been all he had known up until a month ago. Then stories of adventures and doing what was right to save the world began to tug on his heart.
And, for the first time ever, he was out to see the world beyond his little town, just as he had dreamed of doing after climbing the trees and looking out from his forest.
But outside his forest, there weren’t only adventures and trolls and big cities made out of mountains. Jurrin was learning that, outside, there was also pain and loss and sadness.
He wiped another tear from his eye, hoping that Gorplin and the dwarf king Thuda didn't see him crying. It would ruin him to make his guide and his host think he wasn't enjoying himself. He was.
But he missed the older man who had come with them, too. Gaflion.
Jurrin had known death before. His own father and mother had died. But they had passed away from old age, having had Jurrin much later in their years. He was sad then, too.
This was a different sadness. An unexpected loss.
One that might have been avoided if Jurrin had been stronger. Could he have fought the wolves like Gorplin and Gaflion had? Why did he have to be so small and weak?
He sniffed once and told himself to be brave and not to cry.
Nodding his head a bit, he steeled himself and tried to focus on what Thuda was telling them.
“...the finest weapons you'll find on Ruyn made right here!” the dwarf king shouted with a flourish of his hand, motioning at the room they had entered recently.
The great hall took up at least twice the same space as Jurrin's hometown and was echoing loudly with the hammering of several hundred hammers pounding on metal.
Great fires roared. Air whooshed from one side of the room to the other. The clang of iron on steel was piercing.
They had found themselves in the hallowed forge of the dwarves of Grandun-Krator.
Not only that, but something was being crafted for Jurgon as they spoke. Thuda had gifted the young and talented halfling, who was never much for words unless he was muttering an incantation, with a sizable Rimstone. The raw stone was now being cut, measured, weighed, and forged into some weapon or other item for Jurgon's own use.
Either Thuda was feeling sympathetic towards their causes or he was overly proud of his dwarves and their craft. This exercise might have been nothing more than a chance to show off their skill.
Jurrin doubted Jurgon cared. His own Rimstone was a small piece placed on top of a wooden stick. The humblest of magical objects, but still one he treasured above all of his other possessions.
Seeing as how most of those things were cooking pans, it's not surprising it ranked so high.
Thuda was now leading them down a stone walkway that rose above several workstations where dwarves hammered away endlessly at metal and stone.
It was like they were on a mountain range and, on either side of them, a valley of dwarven ingenuity was toiling away.
Thuda stopped them above one station where Jurgon's stone was being worked on.
Jurrin's breath caught in his throat as he saw a dwarf with giant tongs take the stone and drop it into a round rock dome that appeared to be on fire.
“Wait!” he shouted, though it was hard to hear his voice over the din of hammers and other tools in the large chamber.
Thuda thumped him hard on the back.
“Never mind, little one,” he said with an air of superiority. “These are the finest Rimstone crafters on Ruyn. Perhaps in all of Gilia! They know what they're doing!”
A large column of fire came from the small opening the Rimstone had disappeared into, making Jurrin doubt every word the dwarf lord said. One of the workers down below them, who was covered from his head to his feet in protective gear, began to turn a giant crank. His suit was mostly metal plating with leather joints. Jurrin was sure it had to be sweltering inside the suit. The heat was beginning to make him sweat, even though he stood a good distance from the flames.
Gears and wheels turned all around the flaming pot. It began to tip to one side. Another dwarf stepped up in similar attire and placed a thick metal cup underneath the opening
with large tongs.
A brilliant red liquid poured out from the pot and into the cup. As the first dwarf turned his crank to return the flaming device back to its original position, the second one picked up the cup with his tongs and hurried off with it.
“The red stuff. Was that...” Gorplin began before being cut off by Thuda.
“Molten Rimstone, young Master,” Thuda said over the noise around them.
He turned and, setting off at a brisk pace, yelled over his shoulder.
“If you want to see the final product made, you'd better run!”
Jurrin, Jurgon and Gorplin all jogged to keep up with the excited ruler of the dwarves.
His pride in the work of his people was apparent.
They ran down the path above several work stations before they were stopped with a motion from Thuda. With one hand, he motioned for them to slow down and, with the other, he pointed at a large stone table. Four dwarves, dressed in ornate blue robes with tall, rectangular headdresses stood around it, had their hands on the edges of the structure. Jurrin thought he could hear a faint chant coming from their lips. Runes glowed green along the sides of the stonework. Some were as large as the table itself while others were smaller and ran around the table in patterns.
It was beautiful.
The dwarf with the cup of Rimstone approached the table and began to tip the contents out.
“Hey! It's going to spill, sir!” Jurrin was shouting before he could stop himself.
Thuda only looked at him with a grin.
“Watch,” he said as he gestured back to the workers.
A shimmering cascade came from the cup. Instead of spilling out onto the table, however, it gathered together in a round shape above the surface.
“It's floating,” Jurrin breathed.
“Yup,” Jurgon said, his eyes transfixed on the orb of magical rock.
Another dwarf came and placed something skinny and metallic on the table, under the orb. It, too, began to float into the air, towards the red ball above it. Sparks flew from the metal rod and the orb grew brighter and brighter. The runes' color grew in intensity and the chanting of the dwarves came to a crescendo.
The two joined together in a flash of light that caused Jurrin to shield his eyes.
When the light returned to normal, Jurrin took his arm down and saw one of the dwarves down below inspecting the piece, turning it over and over in his hands. He nodded several times and then proceeded to climb a set of stairs that led to the upper path the three companions and their guide stood on.
As he crested the last stair, Jurrin's eyes grew wide when he saw what had been crafted down below.
The red Rimstone was now in the shape of a perfectly round orb that was attached to a metal rod. Dwarven runes ran up and down each side of the rod. There were five all together. From each side a metal leaf with intricate detail reached out and kept the orb in place at the top of the wand.
Bowing low, the dwarf in his ornamental robes presented the rod to Thuda, who took it with a prideful smile.
The Lord of Grandun-Krator then handed the wand to Jurgon, who took it with trembling hands.
Jurrin had never seen his friend examine something so closely nor hold anything so gingerly.
The halfling turned it over many times, caressing it and treating it as if it were a young one, fresh from its mother's womb. No finer wand could Jurrin have ever imagined. Surely any Speaker would gladly give away his riches for such a treasure.
Then, to Jurrin's amazement, Jurgon's eyes hardened at the sight of the magnificent creation. He bowed low to Thuda, and presented the wand back to the dwarf.
Gorplin prodded him.
“Bah,” he said with a hint of gruffness in his voice. “Jurgon, that's not polite of ya. You ought to accept that gift.”
“Nope,” was his short reply.
He continued to hold out the wand for the bewildered king to take back.
But Thuda made no motion to accept it.
“What's wrong with it?” he asked slowly, looking the halfling up and down. “Do you think it's well made and crafted? Is it not a fine wand for you to use in your Speaking, little Master?”
“Yup.”
Still Jurgon held the wand out, his face looking at the ground instead of up at Thuda.
Jurrin cleared his throat.
“Pardon me, sir,” he said, hoping to clear the air. “I think I know what's in his mind.”
Thuda turned to Jurrin, but cast another glance back at Jurgon to see if there was something amiss with his dwarves’ work.
Jurrin was beginning to see why his friend wouldn't accept the gift.
“King Thuda, it's a wonderful thing you've made, sir,” he began. “And I'm sure Jurgon would love to keep it and use it. We've never seen anything like it in all our days, I guarantee you that.”
He heaved a sigh.
“But we didn't come for fancy gifts and weapons and the like. We came to ask you to lend us your armies. There's a war brewing down south and it's coming here. We need you to come help and bring as many of your warriors as you can. Weapons are good and all, but, sir, if we don't have anyone to put them to use for a good cause, they're just things to admire.”
Jurrin looked to Gorplin, who still seemed a bit nervous at returning such a fine gift. Slowly, however, the dwarf began to nod his head.
“Bah,” he let out, his face becoming somber. “We've bled and died to come here and ask you to help us, your lordship. If we can't have your help, we'd best be off to tell our friends you and the other dwarves of Grandun aren't coming.”
Thuda considered the three in front of him carefully, each in turn. His gaze landed last on Jurgon.
“The wand is yours, little Master,” he said in a tone Jurrin couldn't quite place. Was it shame or pride?
“I'll not accept it back.”
He turned to walk further down the stone pathway to an open door at the other end, again calling to them over his shoulder.
“We can see to your provisions and...”
Another, much louder noise, louder than all of the hammering that rang around, them filled the chamber. It was deep and low, long and loud.
Jurrin felt it reverberating in his chest.
After a few short moments, the noise stopped and all fell still. Not a hammer was struck.
Thuda turned and looked down at the three and let out a huff.
“That's the warning horn of Krator,” he explained as he hoisted up his belt. “We're under attack.”
16: Deliberation
Tory heard shouting behind him as the ranks of the elk-riding elves were halted. Snow continued to swirl around him. He cautiously released his death grip on the animal, only partially sure that he wasn't going to be thrown off of it at any moment.
"Not good," Holve said as he adjusted the sword at his side.
A lone elk rode forward, carrying the leader of the elves of Shiv, an intimidating female elf named Pella, forward towards the battle line.
Holve and Lote's mounts lurched forward to follow. Tory was thankful his was staying put.
"Good girl, uh, boy," he said patting his elk's neck. "I guess you'd be a boy, right? Stay where you are."
As if to spite him, the beast started trotting forward, following the others.
Blasted animal, Tory thought, not wanting to voice his opinion and upset his ride.
Pella rode out ahead of them. The three strangers to Yule rode just behind her.
Out ahead of them was a similar delegation. Five elves behind a formidable looking figure on a great white horse.
Lote's father, Tory guessed.
He wouldn't be unsure for long.
"Greetings, High Counselor Paterus," Pella shouted at the figure clad in gleaming plate armor. The contempt in her voice was palpable.
The contrast in the two leaders of elves could not be greater.
Pella wore black garments with two swords sticking out from the sheaths attached to her back. Her brilliantly whit
e hair gleamed against her robes
She may have even been beautiful, without the hatred that seethed through her expression. Years of contempt had marred her. Tory thought he could just glimpse a shadow of a beautiful elf under the hate.
But it had faded.
By contrast, Paterus seemed as though time had forgotten to age him. Even though he must have been hundreds of years old as the father of Lote, who herself was in her late seventies, he showed very few signs of aging.
A few wrinkles creased the sides of his eyes, but that was the only visible evidence of his great age. His gleaming silver armor was decorated with blue fabric bearing the symbol of Yule. He seemed a knight and warrior in his prime.
Yet in his eyes, there was a darkness Tory couldn't quite explain.
“Pella, leader of the rebellious Shivian elves,” he said in a controlled and calm manner. “I see you have come to return to me my daughter.”
Paterus made no glance over to Lote. Tory couldn't help but give her a sideways glance. The elf mirrored Pella in hatred for the leader of the great army in front of them.
What other demons was she aware of in her father that the rest of them could only guess? Tory wondered.
“She is free to return to you at her own wishes. She is not held against her will,” Pella replied, nearly spitting out each word.
Paterus let out a mirthless laugh.
“Then she has fully become the traitor I've known she was all along,” he said as his laugh echoed over the hill.
“That will not do,” he said, not to Pella, but to Lote. “I cannot allow any elf of noble blood to seek to undo what the Yulian elves have long sought to accomplish. It is today, on this field, that Yule will reunite the elves of the north into a glorious kingdom once again!”
Pella spat at his feet.
“You mean you'll bring about our end!” she yelled.
“The Shivians have only claimed to fight with honor and valor, yet you spew forth lies and yearn for the blood of your brothers and sisters!”