Artorian's Archives Omnibus

by Dennis Vanderkerken

  The behavior shifted with drastic effect. A happy, fun-loving people with a penchant for partying and a great love of community were now a well-organized, stoic and silent mob. Gender didn’t appear to matter; the Modsognirs wore suits, and kept one hand over the other in front of them, speaking volumes of respect with their eyes and gazes.

  “Mah clan is one of staunch virtues. We stand as one, so we dress as one. Check hands if you need to determine status. Number of rings, the type and quality of precious gems upon them, is how we differentiate rank. Try not to speak with anyone wearing more than three diamonds. It’s that problem I mentioned before, ask someone with less power to speak to them, and it’ll go up the chain.”

  Artorian assented with a nod, and Nixie Tubes flared to life on a wall before the twelve-foot-high door creeped open with well-oiled precision. Dwarven engineering didn’t allow for something even bordering the realm of ‘rusty squeaks’. Don motioned. “Yer housing be this way. Please stay put till someone comes to get ya?”

  Artorian again sighed and assented. He’d had it up to his nose with these mystery rules, but he’d signed the contract and had to make sure it was fulfilled. Otherwise the Church would likely come hunting for his head. Here, the rule of the Dwarven clan was held in higher regard than the status of the Church. That was likely one of the few things keeping his head attached. He might as well figure out the rules and play by them for now.

  The housing district was far less glamorous than the magnum opus cathedrals connecting to even more cathedrals. They were… pleasant. Cozy. Warm. That last one was of specific value, as he'd worried it would be cold underground, and memories of being stuck under the dirt with Blighty weren’t doing him any favors. He sat his armored rump down onto a springy bed while the Modsognirs waited at the door.

  “We’ll be bringing ya something proper ta wear. We need to get changed before we’re caught in work attire. Don’t run off now. Not unless someone says ya can.” Don closed the door with a clang, and Artorian was left to his own devices in the resting room. That was clearly a very safe thing to do. Nothing could go wrong following instructions.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Artorian compiled mental notes. The Modsognir area was laid out like a sprawling network, while the Inquisitorial clan likely owned the more religious designs they’d passed though. It must have been a shortcut to get here… wait. From the sound of it, they were avoiding someone; a person likely residing in the Don’s clan area. So coming in from the side was important. They didn’t want to get caught.

  Caught by whom? Artorian took the time to take the iridium armor off. He’d need to test hidden functions when in more… favorable circumstances. It did so, so much more than he thought it did, and that had completely thrown off what should have been a simple test run. Granted, it had gotten him some of the information he was after. There was some kind of rule in place under the guise of ‘tradition’ that either encouraged, or forced, everyone here to conform to a certain ideal so that outsiders saw only a certain aspect of their society and nothing else.

  He made sure to tightly seal his passive cultivation; there was nothing but corruption down here for him. Stowing the helmet into the spatial bag with the rest of the set, he flopped down and held his own hands. Now, what to do? Sneak out? Likely guards at the door. Cultivation was a flat no. Check for hidden passageways? That would look suspicious.

  Artorian was still pondering as the front door parted. An older Dwarven woman with grey hair carried linens at a speed that said ‘I am busy and don’t want to be bothered’. Dressed in slippers and a fluffy bathrobe, her topaz eyes snapped to the half-slumped human on the bed, and she cleared her throat at him. Glancing at the bed, he realized the linens he sat on were dirty.

  “Oh, my apologies.” He got up in a hurry as the scowling, curlers-in-her-hair Dwarf zipped by him. Artorian didn’t want to get in the way of the help. He guessed since everyone was so familial and community oriented here, the elderly saw to the household chores. Based on how swiftly the woman went at her task, he thought it best to keep out of the way. Still, an idea struck: this could be the right person to sneak a question.

  Keeping to himself until she was at the pillows, he gently raised his hand up from the table he’d taken a seat at. “Erm… excuse me, young lady. Could I ask a question? I have a terrible concern.”

  The elderly Dwarf stopped her movement in a heartbeat, blinking to process what she’d just been called. She hadn’t been called ‘young lady’ with such innocence in well over a hundred years. Why, it was downright adorable. She finished pillow casing and raised an eyebrow to regard the human, having a good second look at him. She’d been in a hurry upon first glance, but being addressed by a person who honestly didn’t know any better was… charming.

  Her voice cracked, but sweet care rolled from her tongue with practiced ease. “What’s bothering you, dear?”

  Artorian released a heavy-hearted sigh, and the woman was swiftly seated with him at the table. Heavy sighs were universal in meaning, and she flipped open the lid of a small ornate box on the table to reveal some hard-tack cookies. One was between her fingers in a heartbeat, then pressed into the old man’s hand. She firmly closed his grip around it; there was no rejecting a grandmother’s confection. “Eat, you’re bony. Well? Speak, lad.”

  The corners of his mouth crept up into a smile. Her word choice was harsh, but she was just tugging him along. ‘Lad’. Ha! “I’m just burdened with worry that I’m going to upset someone, because I don’t know how the rules work. None are willing to tell me what proper social convention is. How do I greet someone? Is there a proper method to say hello without offense? Should I even greet people, or will I break this ‘tradition’ thing by even attempting? I’m told I’m going into a big meeting with lots of majestic, important individuals. I’m just an old man worrying his head off, and it’s eating at me. I’ve been dragged into someone’s home, and don’t even know if it’s polite to wipe my shoes.”

  The aged Dwarf patiently nodded while keeping her bony hand on the back of his hand, lifting it up and moving it to his mouth so he would take a bite. He did as he was directed, and she beamed a bright smile at him. Oh, good, a smile!

  “Where did you hear that tradition was important, dearie?” Her smile didn’t fade in the slightest. It comforted Artorian, so he gladly continued. He wasn’t going to namedrop, but some generalized details wouldn’t hurt.

  “Overheard it while I was on the caravan that brought me here. I signed that metal-contract missive to get the boys here, but I’ve just been in the dark and trying to keep my ears open. I dislike offending people that don’t deserve it, and I still have grandchildren to free from unpleasant claws. Making it home in one piece is important, I worry for them.”

  Her mouth formed an ‘O’ as her eyebrows went up, having been told something very interesting indeed. There was only one caravan that arrived recently, and it was no secret who came along with it. She believed the old human next to her knew a lot less than needed. “Oh, well, you don’t need to worry about that, sugar. You just stick with me and I’ll walk you to where you need to be. Don’t you worry about offending anyone, alright? You have another cookie, and I’ll go fetch something for you to wear that will help set you at ease.”

  He graciously nodded with relief, having another hard tack. This one was more of a biscuit rather than a cookie, but he wasn’t going to not eat it while her gaze was on him. Success! Artorian was eight biscuits deep by the time the door opened again, the same elderly Dwarf strolling in with a spare Modsognir suit. The deep crimson vest lay atop a black suit, and the shining buttons instantly caught his eye.

  “Try this on, dearie. Don’t worry about the handkerchief, those are for family. You’re fine without. Now up! Show me the fit. I have places to be!” Cloth was hastily accepted as a few deft steps placed him behind the table for… decency reasons. He weakly flashed another smile at the woman, and half-caught she was no longer in a cozy bathrobe.
Her hair was up and braided, and she wore an outfit that seemed simple in design, yet it was made of something he didn’t recognize. Thoughts for another time!

  Most of the outfit slid on without issue. It was still too big for him, but they didn’t have time to tailor. Still, he looked snazzy! Since he had the extra room, he posed while throwing out a giant smile. “How do I look?”

  *Mmm*. Turning her nose up, her hands were on his outfit and adjusting things against his will to fix some minor details. A button was out of place, and that wasn’t acceptable. She sorted it and looked him up and down. “It will do. Now come, we are late.”

  Artorian hurried along, not knowing if they were actually late at all. Once at the door, he opened it for her since that seemed to be the polite thing to do, and she waltzed through it. Following her into the vast hallway of exquisite craftsmanship, he did his best not to be distracted as he saw the woman hold her hand up, palm open. Without a second thought, he slid his hand beneath the waiting palm to provide support.

  Clueless to where they were going, he couldn’t lead the walk. The lady seemed more than content to tug him along without a second thought. They strolled through the under mountain Modsognir mansion, encountering few people even though they took—as far as he could tell—major routes for traffic.

  When they arrived at the bottom of an immense staircase that led to what the sign indicated as ‘The Tribunal’, he paused. He knew the stairway must lead straight into the middle of it, while split, fancier stairs veered off towards the side. He gulped and tried to quickly think of something to take his mind off the matter, this was likely where his guide was parting from him. Turning to the lady that had gotten him this far, he slightly bowed.

  “Could I please have the honor to escort the wisest beauty in the hold?” It was a bit of a gamble, but entering alone left him vulnerable to mistakes. His worry was misplaced, as she smiled at him and tapped him on the hand.

  “Of course, dear. You stay right by me. Alright?” Her smile once again put him at ease, and she ascended a few steps so he could properly offer his arm. She didn’t need his help, but the offer was just so charming. It was rare anyone let her feel young again, or attempted anything in the realm of romance. The human was adorable, even if he could mean nothing by it.

  The stairs were made of lustrous geodes. A thousand rocks were cracked and turned inside out, followed by a thousand more to form each step as they ascended the glowing pathway. The stairs lit up as pressure pressed down upon them, illuminating a piece of Dwarven history carved into the walls with the addition of their shine.

  Stone plate guards waited at the top. These men were retired, stationed at a cushy low-risk task after a lifetime of service. These grizzled veterans could stare down a great worm and not blink an eye. When they saw the human come into view, they contained their amusement and calmly stood to attention. Uphold the rule of- oh, pyrite!

  When the person Artorian was with came into view, they felt their rears clench hard enough to form diamonds. Sharing a quick glance, the halfhearted ‘attention’ stance sprung to full as they rushed to open the doors. They’d planned to let the human stand in front of it awhile. For fun… but fun was tossed into the pit as the solid gold, engraved tribunal doors parted outwards.

  Artorian slowed, needing to adjust his support to adapt for the height change when they ran out of stairs. A strong light poured from the opened pathway, and he had to squint to see rows upon rows of Dwarves seated deep within. Passing the threshold, they passed guard after guard that stood against the wall in a long, well-lit tunnel. This path was nearly a hundred feet all by itself, how deep was this tribunal room?

  He squinted when they exited the tunnel, and his jaw dropped as he saw they were in a massive… coliseum? Arena? The words felt inadequate on his mental tongue as the area was just so much more. Multiple thousands of Dwarves, separated cleanly by outfit and clan, sat in designated quadrants. From the recognizable suits immediately in their vicinity, they’d entered at the Modsognir entrance. Not a soul turned their heads to look at them.

  Silence resounded as the human entered. Oh, he felt so bad; this was so embarrassing. Artorian glanced to his right, there were some empty seats in the back row of the Modsognir section. He wasn’t particularly important, and should stay out of the way. The back is where he bel…

  The lady grasped his wrist and tugged him along. There was no argument even as his discomfort rose with every step. Maybe the middle? Maybe she wanted him to sit in the middle. Sure, that was still out of the way. He nearly paused when they reached a row that had some empty seats, but her Dwarven stride neither stopped nor slowed down. They were going at her speed and her speed alone. Silence had fallen so completely upon the Tribunal that her shoes were the only noise in the space, with every *click* of them echoing through the area.

  Reaching the front, Artorian solidly needed to control his breathing. He saw Hadurin Fellhammer between the middle and the front row to his left trying to blend in. He said nothing as they approached the geode thrones. Inlaid with precious metals, the imposing seats of power were arranged in a ring around the middle of the arena. A dais in the middle caught his eye, but he just barely broke his eyes from the sight to look at the single empty seat available in the front row.

  Ah! That’s where he…! The next steps dropped his heart into his stomach. Why were they still walking? Why was he in the throne ring? This was not the place he should be, but the woman dragging him along was undaunted. Not a single person stopped her. He didn’t dare say a thing as she motioned for an aide to bring something over. The young Dwarf, full of worry, frowned towards his direct superior that was already motioning for him to get a move on. The young Dwarf scampered from his position and fetched an old wooden chair. With some direction, it was placed next to one of the geode thrones.

  Artorian gazed at the seat like a death sentence. With eyebrows raised, he silently looked at the lady with topaz eyes, and her flat expression squeezed into a smile as she motioned towards it. “Sit. Stay. We’re having a conversation.”

  The academic’s eyebrows felt like they were about to touch the roof. For most of the walk they hadn’t spoken a word. Her saying that they were in the middle of something, and that he was certainly included, made him defeatedly fall into the seat. The tactical section of his mind was blowing the whistle and waving white flags.

  The Dwarf who could only be the Grand Matron slowly inhaled a breath, her back turned to the passage they had come from. “Don. Dimi. Front seats.”

  Artorian had to look over his shoulder to see two Dwarves doing their utmost to sneak into the back of the Modsognir row. Dimi was taking big long steps on his tip-toes to try and squeeze into a seat out of view. The largest Dwarf in the hold wasn’t great at being stealthy, and Don had already squeezed his eyes shut; face scrunched as he was following right behind his less than stealthy friend.

  Guards winced at the mention of both of them being called out. Dimi mumbled under his breath, completely frozen in place. “How bad is it?”

  Don grit his teeth, stuck equally motionless in place. “Matron is smiling. She never smiles. Gran’mama is beyond furious.”

  A squeaky, chipmunk-like *ah* left Dimi, his voice holding to that peeping whisper. “Great.”

  The Grand Matron didn’t take a seat, and Artorian felt like a slow runner at the track. The lack of being deterred at leaving his chamber. The outfit. The lack of commentary. The silence. He closed his eyes, deciding to keep out of this as the Grand Matron drew another deep, angry breath.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Gran’mama exploded. She was furious, and her voice thundered through the area. “Don Dremurus Mordran Modsognir! You are late!”

  Don was in the middle, walking up the main aisle as the Mana pouring off his Gran’mama slammed his feet to the ground. His voice hitched; words trapped in his throat as his hands went up defensively. He was going to explain, but already knew the Matron wasn’t going to have any of it. Don
glanced at a very pale Dimi for help, but he was equally trapped in the sinking boat.

  “Dimi-Tree Giant-Blood Wolfram Modsognir. You are also late, but I know that wasn’t your fault. You may sit.” Don pleaded with his eyes for Dimi not to abandon him in the middle of the aisle, but the giant Dwarf ever so slightly shook his head. He was always there for his blood brother who had adopted him into the Modsognir family. Brotherly bonds, unfortunately, did not beat out direct commands from the Grand Matron. Don stared daggers as the massive Dwarf who shuffled forward, whispering ‘sorry, sorry’ before sitting in a quickly vacated seat.

  “Why are you late, grandson?” Gran’mama still hadn’t turned to regard him, and Don mumbled out excuses.

  “Erm. We uhh. Came. We hurried, and even, ueh. Followed along with the mandate our friend signed and, so, we brought him over, and…”

  “Did it have anything to do… with breaking the rules?” Don turned blue at the Grand Matron’s words. ‘Pale’ was too gentle of a reaction for the blood that drained from his face. He stuttered out his response as he saw Gran’mama fiddle with a slipper between her hands. Pyrite! Not the slipper! “Ah broke no rules, Gran’mama!”

  “Are. You. Sure?” Everyone in the audience winced, and Don peeped out his reply in the same chipmunk squeak his brother had before.

  “…Yes?” The piercing moment of silence stretched.

  “Then you may sit.” Don Modsognir felt his spirit leave him for a moment as the pressure keeping him pinned lifted. He could properly breathe once again. He didn’t think twice, and hurried to sit next to Dimi, their rigid composures a matching shade of tepid pale. Neither of them said anything further.