Four Beheadings and a Funeral

by Ugland, Eric

  It wasn’t the day to test me.

  I kicked the door in.

  The door shot through and smashed into the far wall.

  I stormed through into the room and scanned from side to side.

  An old dwarf was sitting at a small table, a smoking pipe in one hand and a mug of steaming tea in the other. He was impressively old. His beard was well past his belt-line, and he looked like he was made of more wrinkles than anything.

  “Oh,” Talmer said, giving me a nod, “good evening, your grace. You’ll forgive me — seems I had my hands full.”

  “Mind if I sit down?” I asked.

  “You can try,” he replied.

  I looked at his table, and saw what he meant. Being a dwarf, he’d obviously gotten furniture fit for himself, which meant my six-foot something frame wasn’t exactly going to be comfortable. Still, I wasn’t about to not sit down, so I tried it. And definitely didn’t fit. It wasn’t as bad as sitting down at a kids’ tea party table, but it wasn’t far off.

  He looked at me, crammed at his table, my knees rising above the table top, and raised an eyebrow.

  “There a reason for the visit?” he asked, setting his mug down and standing up slowly to grab another from a green-painted cabinet. “Or did you just find my door unappealing?”

  “It is a kind of shitty door,” I said.

  “I agree. Should’ve used stone. Might have stood up to another of your kicks.”

  “The color really doesn’t blend well with the stone either.”

  He chuckled while he poured a mug of tea for me.

  The apartment wasn’t tiny, but it wasn’t a whole lot of space. It was a studio set-up, with a large bed nestled into an alcove lined with books. A lantern with a single glowing rock inside it hung down from above the bed. There was a small fireplace along one wall, opposite a comfortable looking couch, and a kitchenette took up the rest of the place. Well, that and the tiny table with two small chairs. One of which was creaking precariously under me. I did my best to not move.

  He set the mug in front of me, and I got a heady whiff from it. Woodsy and thick, whatever was in the cup was set to knock my socks off if I drank it.

  “What is this stuff?” I asked.

  “Narfo,” Talmer replied.

  “Narfo. Never heard of it.”

  “Fermented worm blood—”

  “Wyrm or worm?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Scales.”

  “Worm.”

  “Wyrm or worm? They sound the same.”

  “I know. Ridiculous.”

  “I agree. Which one’s blood are you drinking?”

  “The one that burrows through the ground.”

  “So the worm.”

  “Round we go.”

  “You got a son that works down in the tunnel?”

  “Aye. A guard.”

  “I feel like I’ve had the same conversation with him. You mean the thing that is not related to a dragon.”

  “Like a garden worm. But bigger.”

  “Right.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “And you drink its blood?”

  “Fermented.”

  “Right, you ferment the blood and then you drink it?”

  “Someone else does, but yes. Good for the heart. Keeps the hair on your chest.”

  “Is it, I mean, like a banded worm?”

  “Nothing so grand. Believe that’d kill a dwarf.”

  “So it’s a particular species.”

  “Aye, the Narfing worm. Bred for flavor. Plump little bastards. They have the most delectable meat to them. Melts in your mouth.”

  “Interesting. Have you, I mean, is that fresh?”

  “It’s fermented, of course it’s not fresh.”

  “I meant—”

  “As much as I’m not enjoying having a chat with you, your grace, why are you here?”

  I sighed, starting to understand why no one had wanted to show me to the old bastard. I pulled the ingots from my bag and thumped the three of them on the table.

  He was about to say something to me, something clearly mean, when he caught sight of the mithril. The brilliant silver color seeming to flash by itself in the dim light of the room. He reached out and stroked the ingot almost reverently.

  “You find a vein here?” he asked, his voice shaking ever so slightly.

  “Just a gift,” I said. “But we have a decent enough supply for the moment.”

  “You thought you’d show off your riches?” he asked.

  “That’s a present to get you to look at the other two ingots,” I said. “I want to know what they are.”

  Talmer set the mithril down on the table slowly, and picked up the Rumib Pass bar. He hefted it, turned it over, tapped it against the table. Then he grumbled a bunch while getting to his feet. He puttered over to his bed and lifted the whole thing up with one arm. Despite his age, he still had a ton of muscle. Lifetime of swinging hammers, I suppose. Or, given he was seven centuries on, several lifetimes of swinging hammers.

  There were a few chests under the bed. He pulled one out, and dropped the bed back down. Then he opened up the chest, revealing a host of tools. He snatched a small hammer out, something with a tiny little head about the same size as a pinky finger, and walked back over to the table. He sat down, still grumbling, tapped the hammer on the metal, and then listened.

  “Wolfram,” Talmer said. “Impressively pure stuff. You get this from out east?”

  “I did.”

  He nodded. “Pretty sure it’s from a mine over in Mahrduhm.”

  “I got it from a smith in Rumib Pass.”

  He nodded again. Then he pulled the other ingot to him.

  There was a repeat of his performance, and then he set the ingot on the table.

  “WarWaters,” he said. “They did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “Found the answer to the celestial metals.”

  “Celestial metals? Are these infernal?”

  “They are,” he replied. “Infernium. I didn’t know it actually existed. Please take it with you when you leave.”

  “Is there, I mean, what’s it do?”

  “It’s a metal. It just sits there.”

  “So why, I mean—”

  “If you’re one who aims to take on the heavens, this would be very useful.”

  “Who does that?”

  “There are those.”

  “How did you know about this stuff?”

  “It was why they retreated to the castle on the lake. I know it was within my lifetime, but when, I can’t tell you.”

  “I just don’t get why they were—”

  “You want to kill a seraphim, you need something more than steel, boy.”

  “I just don’t know why you’d want to do that.”

  “Because good isn’t always good.”

  ‘That’s fucking vague as shit.”

  “I ain’t here to teach you about nothing. You asked me to identify the metals, I did. You want my opinion on top of that? Burn or bury that infernium. It’s only going to bring you trouble.”

  “Good thing we have a metric shit ton of it.”

  “You likely have a problem then.”

  “Well fuck.”

  “The mithril, though. That’s nice.”

  I scooped up the two other ingots and walked out. “I’ll make sure you get a new door soon.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fuck.

  Double fuck. Lots of fucks. I was angry. On the one hand, I felt conflicted about that quest I completed for that duchess in the lake. Was she part of the whole angel-killing scheme? Was she evil? Had I set up something bad there?

  I didn’t know. And chances were, I’d never know.

  Also, my attempt to ignore a problem had just given me another problem. Luckily, this was a problem I felt confident leaving on the desk of Nikolai. But before I did that, I went back to the smithy, tossed the wolfram on the pile of other ingots
, let Zoey know what it was, and then told her that the crate of metal was trash.

  The trip from smithy to throne room and Nikolai’s office was short. As expected, he was sitting behind his desk sorting through papers while prinkies marched in and out, presenting shiny rocks to him. I dropped the crate of metal on his bed, thinking the mattress would break the fall of the metal.

  But the metal broke the bed.

  The poor frame snapped into pieces. Feathers shot into the air and then floated gently around the room.

  “You needed something, your grace?” Nikolai asked. “Perhaps you could just knock next time.”

  “Um, sorry about that,” I replied. “Also, we need to replace a door in the western residential area.”

  He sighed, and pulled out a small notebook. He scribbled in it, and then slid the notebook into a pocket inside his jacket.

  “That’s infernium,” I said, pointing to the metal while sitting down.

  “Is that some slang word from your first world?”

  “It’s the opposite of celestial metals.”

  He tilted his head.

  “Remember WarWaters? The Castle?”

  “I do.”

  “That’s the metal we found in the boathouse. Well, one of the tons and tons of fucking crates of it.”

  “And it’s called infernium?”

  “Yes. Meant for killing seraphim.”

  “Ah. Useful.”

  “Is it?”

  “Is is if you’ve got a problem with seraphim.”

  “Do we?”

  “We might once the seraphim hear we’ve got a ridiculous stockpile of that shit.”

  “Get rid of it.”

  “What?”

  “I want it gone.”

  “Is that an order as a duke?”

  “Yes. I don’t know how to get rid of it, but it’s important it get gone. Now.”

  “Yes, your grace. I will see to it at once.”

  “Thank—”

  “Provided, of course, you knock it off with the fucking prinkies already.”

  I smiled. As if on cue, a prinky walked in and presented a shiny pebble to my chancellor.

  “Hey there little buddy,” I said to the prinky, “pick up the feathers and make a neat pile of them in the corner. And you tell your little prinky buddies to do the same.”

  He nodded like I’d just told him there was an endless buffet of pancakes and he was invited, and rushed around, picking up the feathers.

  “Done and done,” I said.

  “You ready to go to Osterstadt?” Nikolai asked.

  “No. Wait, is that—”

  “Very soon. Tomorrow you’ll need to be available for a sizing.”

  “Sizing? What—”

  “Uniforms and armor. So you look like you’re actually meant to be escorting Lady Northwoods.”

  “I’m not sure I like where this is going.”

  “You don’t have to like it. What about the magic building?”

  “Brewery.”

  “Not something I’d considered. But I like it.”

  “Either that or a garden.”

  “So it’s as of yet undecided.”

  “Which of those two would you choose?”

  “You said you’d handle this yourself, your grace. Would you really like me to weigh in?”

  “Is this some sort of test?”

  “Isn’t everything?”

  “And this is why I send you shiny little pebbles.”

  I left the office.

  Chapter Fifteen

  My inability to make a decision kept me awake. But that’s probably why I discovered something. I had an axe that returned to my hand after I threw it, which meant I could practice throwing an axe without bothering to go and get it. So, I went out to my balcony and set up a large target. I got as far away as I could, and I started throwing.

  Thunk

  Thunk.

  Thunk.

  Over and over again, harder and harder. I started out pretty good, but my aim got better as I worked at it. Paying attention to how I was using my muscles and how that was affecting the axe’s rotation through the air. I started adding movements to my work. Jumping throws. Spinning around throws. Diving throws. They were silly and a bit John Woo, but there was always the chance it’d come in handy to have a healthy dose of showmanship.

  Somewhere in the middle of the night, when the moons were high above, I got a notification.

  * * *

  Cool Beans, you’ve leveled up the skill Small Weapon Throwing. Now you can throw smaller sharp objects and likely hurt others! +5% damage. +5% attacks on target.

  * * *

  Nice. Worth it.

  Which meant it was time to try something new. I threw the axe, and before it hit the target, I put my hand out to pull the throwing axe back.

  The axe continued on and hit the target, then immediately came back to me. Interesting. I wondered if there was some sort of kinetic-energy-to-magical-energy transfer that gave the axe the power to return. But then that thought made me worry I’d been possessed — since when did I understand physics enough to even consider something like that? Clearly, I’d done too much for the night, and needed rest.

  I leaned on the balcony balustrade and looked over the valley. A cold wind was blowing clouds in. Snow was coming — I could feel it. There was that snow-like smell in the air.

  I searched the area in front of the walls, hoping I’d see something. Someone. A rage was beginning to boil inside me, born of frustration, and I wanted to take it out on someone. Preferably someone who deserved it, but I kind of felt like it would be okay for me to take it out on anyone right now.

  I could go hunting. Goblins.

  I grabbed a basic chain hauberk from my wardrobe, and it fit. Zoey knew her stuff, and there was something so nice about armor that fit. I had protection. I headed down and down and down until I got to the banded worm tunnel that led between the kobolds and the goblins. I didn’t want to have to wander around looking for goblins when I could just go directly to the source. I’d just sneak into their base and wreak a little havoc. Probably. I didn’t know what I’d find, but I was tired of not knowing anything about the little bastards. Especially when it seemed like our conflict with them was only heating up.

  There was a small group of guards watching the door to the tunnel, and when they saw me, they all snapped to attention.

  “Easy guys,” I said. “No need for that.”

  They relaxed, at least nominally. I took a second to look at them. Three humans, two dwarves. The dwarves had chain armor on that looked a lot like mine. The humans were wearing the wyrm-skin leather armor that had become something of a symbol for the Coggeshall guard. I noticed that each guard also wore the Coggeshall tabard. Solomon the tailor was definitely pumping them out. It was nice to see a cohesive uniform coming together.

  “Mind opening the door for me?” I asked.

  Four of the guards looked at the dwarf with kind eyes looking out under bushy red eyebrows.

  “Uh, your grace,” he stammered a bit, “we aren’t, you, I, no one is supposed to go into the tunnel.”

  “No one? Why?”

  “Captain Zwinsel’s orders.”

  “Are they just orders or does he have a reason?”

  “To limit chances the enemy will find our access point.”

  I nodded. That did make sense. If you never go through the door, it’s more trouble for the people trying to find that door.

  “Are the goblins actively patrolling tonight?”

  “They have gone by twice, my lord.”

  “Out and back?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often do they do that?”

  “I, uh,” he looked around at his compatriots, but they all shrugged. “It’s different most days.”

  “So you can’t be sure they’ll stay out of the tunnel for the rest of the night?”

  “No, your lord. Grace. My lord. Your—”

  “Just call me Montana fo
r now.”

  “I, no, I don’t think that would be right.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Bas Nuise, your grace-lord.”

  “Gracelord does have a certain ring to it. Why are you so nervous?”

  “’Tis my first night in charge,” he said. “I didn’t know you would be here.”

  “I’m just checking in on you all,” I said, realizing it would be an asshole move to make the guy decide between listening to me or listening to his commanding officer. “Nicely done here.”

  I nodded, and then walked away. I’d have to go outside to hunt. But maybe that wasn’t a good idea either. Seeing the guard actually doing their jobs, and being smart about things, made it hard to justify going rogue just because I was in a mood. Maybe it was a better idea to explore the MountainHome, look for something interesting.

  It wasn’t long before I was in a part of the base I didn’t recognize. I was deeper in, where the place had an earthy odor to it. I came around a corner, and saw a large archway.

  Beyond the archway was a massive cave, soaring into the distance. It was bright, like walking into daylight. I squinted against the light, having been used to the relative gloom of the tunnels, and put my hand up to block out some of the artificial sun. When my eyes finally adjusted, I was shocked at what I saw before me.

  Grass and farms and animals. Trees. People. Even some buildings. It was like stumbling through a wormhole. I even looked back at where I’d come from to make sure something like that hand’t happened. I mean, it was certainly possible in Vuldranni. At least in theory. But, no, it was just some terraforming inside a cave.

  “Ah, your grace,” came a voice, and a man waved to me from a wide open field that was full of chest-high amber grain.

  “Uh, hello,” I said.

  Timurlan waded through the grain, and hopped over the fence. He was beaming. He looked more, well, suited for mucking out stalls than I’d seen before, wearing something akin to the medieval version of coveralls. He had a large knife on his wide belt, something that was right at the edge of being called a short sword, and carried a big stave in his other hand.