Artorian's Archives Omnibus

by Dennis Vanderkerken

  “Hadurin Azure Eruna Fellhammer.” All Dwarves around Hadurin slid from the pew, and before he could blink the Grand Inquisitor was seated in a gaping empty space roughly seven feet in every direction. Dwarves crawled over both pews and their brethren to evacuate the danger zone.

  He stood slowly, having been addressed. “Matron.”

  Gran’mama turned, and impatiently slapped her slipper into her waiting, open hand. Tiny explosions occurred with each impact. “Hadurin, my boy. You wouldn’t know of any tradition transgressions having happened in the last… day? Would you?”

  Pyrite. Did the old man blab? He was hosed. His only way out was to tell the truth as best he could. He may be the head of the Inquisition, but Gran’mama had the kind of mind that ran circles around Artorian’s. No way in the abyss that she didn’t already know. “We may have… accidentally lost track of the human for a short duration when we were in the oval.”

  “Oh… accidentally lost… track.” The Grand Matron parroted his words. Her tone was calm. Sweet even. It frightened Hadurin to no end. Gran’mama did not smile. “Is that… all?”

  The Grand Inquisitor swallowed. “I think so, Gran’mama.”

  The Grand Matron’s slipper hurled away from her. Artorian winced and blocked with his arms to shield himself from the sound and shockwave, but there was no need as it never reached him. The slipper *whizzed* through the air and detonated upon impact. *Boom*!

  Artorian blinked. She had explosion Mana!

  “You think so?” The slipper *whizzed* back into her hand from the point of impact. Hadurin had jumped out of the way, and was preparing to do so again. Trying to shield himself, he dove into the crowd to his immediate left. With Gran’mama raising her arm to prepare another throw, Dwarves spilled like water in a stream away from him.

  “Do you have any idea what I found? An entire Fringe region that you’re keeping to yourself for hidden projects, making your brother Don sneak about for shady business so you can get supplies out to the middle of nowhere! I’ve got friars from the Church knocking on my hall doors because their self-entitled Vicars are demanding land from my clans. They’re thinking their organization should be above family and tradition, and they demand recompense for the clans not conforming to their beliefs!”

  Her thundering voice was accompanied by successive explosions as her slipper flew again and again. Pews turned to shrapnel. Floor chunks becoming rubble. “Why do I have the Church muscling in on family territory, Hadurin? Why is there a massive unsanctioned building project in a crater that your brother Kiwi secured? I received a piece of vellum with a Mana signature that didn’t work. Then when I tracked down what has been going on, I find that the same human is involved with both recently acquired regions. Neither of which are by the books, or by the rules!”

  Artorian squeezed his lips together, trying to become one with his chair as he sank into it; saying nothing. He watched many a Dwarf copy his exact behavior. Or he was copying theirs, hard to tell. Nobody was getting in between Gran’mama and her doom-slipper. “So I asked you to come home, and you ignore me. Then I ordered you to come home, and you both ignore me. Then I sent messengers to make you come home, and neither of you show up!”

  She accusingly pointed her slipper at Don, but didn’t launch. “I find out one of my grandsons is spending time with a girl he fancies in a Wood Elf grove, and I’m happy for that. About time the Modsognirs did something other than endlessly trade, and I’m thankful for the endless influx of high-quality wood.”

  Her slipper nudged half an inch. “Dimi, sweetie, I’m not mad at you. You’ve done nothing wrong. I know you got strung along.”

  The point of her Mana-imbued explosive slipper switched to Hadurin’s current position as the Grand Matron spun on her heel. Dwarves protected themselves with Essence techniques even as they dove from the place they’d just been, with Fellhammer still running.

  “Then I get a letter from O’Nalla that one of my boys is under a Church contract preventing him from doing what he should be! They treat the Grand Inquisitor of the clans like a messenger, making him deliver a document that will wrest the new land acquisition right out of our grasp, along with the human I want to talk to. So I send Don with a contract of my own after I’ve got all the details. Then, finally, you come home when I’ve given the lynchpin of your little plan a reason to bring you both here.”

  Her hand gently came to rest on Artorian’s shoulder, and her booming voice was again tender and soft. “I’m not upset at you sweetie; you’ve also done nothing wrong.”

  Artorian nodded wordlessly, providing a soft smile that appeased her. The Grand Matron turned her head, slipper stabbing in the direction of her troublemaking grandson. “So, my boys arrive home, and I find out within minutes that the human they brought with them is loose, nowhere to be found even with well over a hundred of my clan looking. The lad finds out about the traditions that safeguard the sanctity and security of every Dwarf that ever lived! Your ancestors scowl upon you, Hadurin!”

  The Grand Matron caught her returning slipper and exhaled steam so hot it could boil eggs. “If I hadn’t quickly declared and put down in writing that this lad was allowed to know, we’d be having a full tribunal right now. I don’t want to hear a word about the lad sneaking away, you had two clans worth of eyes on him, and I blame you entirely for losing track of a single non-Mage human. Now sit down in the front pew.”

  She stowed her slipper. A significantly singed and discombobulated Hadurin groaned out a pained response. His stubby fingers extinguished the fire burning on the end of his mustache. “Yes, Matron.”

  Gran’mama slid into the geode throne seat, calmly placing her hands into her lap as she watched the Tribunal right itself. New pews were brought in, and the destroyed floor was swiftly mended as clans organized themselves back into proper place. “Now, what is your name, dear?”

  The nervous philosopher cleared his throat. “Artorian, Matron. A pleasure to meet you.”

  She smiled back at him. “I am Ephira Mayev Stonequeen, Grand Matron of all the centralized Dwarven clans. I go by Matron, or Gran’mama. I don’t hold the title of royalty, though they’ll listen to me all the same. You can call me Ephira.”

  Not knowing how to respond, he leaned forward in his chair to make a minor bow.

  “A delight, Ephira. My apologies if I’ve offended in my ignorance.” The deference this human offered the Grand Matron pleased the great majority of the crowd. Order was important, and his willingness to fall in line sat well with many a Dwarf.

  “It’s fine, sweetie. Did you like my biscuits?”

  “Oh, I adored them, I think I absconded with eight before realizing it.” Artorian perked up and winked, a little drama in his voice as it dipped to a whisper. “I may have nicked a few.”

  His hand patted his left chest pocket, which did seem a little bulkier than it should have been without a handkerchief in it. A chuckle passed around the crowd, but the Matron got right to the point. “I’m glad. Since I don’t want this to come up again, you’re allowed to hear privileged information without anyone getting in trouble for it. I really do need to ask a few things. To clarify, a Matron is the female head of a Dwarven clan. While the Grand Matron is the head of all the Matrons. Being Grand Matron means I hold all the land-ownership contracts, and the power that comes with that. Why do neither of the contracts you’ve been involved with work?”

  All eyes bore down on the snazzily-dressed human, and he crossed a leg over the other while lacing his hands together. Ephira was a verbal warrior that knew her way around words, so Artorian chose his carefully. “Well, someone needs to be a landowner for signatures to work. It’s a little extra wonky in the Fringe. That place has its own rules. Since I am the landowner of neither…”

  He raised his hands to the air. Making the ‘I don’t know’ motion, while his face conveyed the same message. Kiwi and O’Nalla Fellhammer didn’t feel so good. Both stared at one another from their respective seats. They hadn’
t known about that particular detail until just now. Luckily for them, the Matron was aware. No explosion slippers for them today. Blessed pyrite.

  Ephira easily deduced why her land contracts didn’t work with that bit of information. “Why are the Vicars after you?”

  Artorian squeezed his beard, pulling down to let the braid brush along the inside of his palm. “Well… I may have upset the Church once or twice. There’s also the distinct possibility that your next question of ‘why did I sign land ownership contracts when I am not one’ might have to do with that.”

  The Matron leaned down and crossed her arms on the armrest of her throne. “Why, pray tell, did you brand yourself as an enemy to an organization as vast and powerful as the Church?”

  Artorian looked up at her with gentle fondness. “I firmly believe it is better to be a friend to Dwarves, rather than be a tolerated non-believer. Which is why—even though the contracts are a little skewed—it is the clans that will receive the Skyspear region. Not the Church, which might make them mightily miffed.”

  He motioned at the front row. “During my times of need, Hadurin was there for me like a brother when I thought he might barely call me friend. Dimi saved my life in the forest, and while that debt is paid, I would trust him to do so again if needed. Don has a soul so glittering with gold that no amount of coin in the world could amount to his true value. He saw me as a nobody, and yet treated me with love and care. It’s only through their kindness that I had the tools to sit in this Tribunal today.”

  Ephira was taken aback. She didn’t realize that the old man could wield words like her smiths wrought works with their hammers. Her hand gently pressed to her chest, eyebrows high. “High praise for my grandchildren.”

  The old man sat up in his seat, back straightened. “Respect where respect is properly due, Matron. Your sons are responsible for giving me the chance to rescue mine. May their honor light the depths.”

  A moment of silence hung over the Tribunal; none would speak while Gran’mama was in conversation. “Can you guarantee the clans’ acquisition of the Skyspear region?”

  Artorian sharply nodded. “I can.”

  Ephira nodded, pleased with the truth in his voice. Had the old man lied before her, she would have known. “Then I’m going to look the other way on certain problems, and construction can continue as a properly sanctioned project. Though I will need a proper contract for it. Can you Introduce one of my sons to the true landowner?”

  The human was hesitant, and that didn’t go unnoticed. “I… can. I have a suggestion, but have neither the courage nor the position to voice it.”

  The Matron narrowed her eyes at him. “Tell me why.”

  Artorian fidgeted, “Could… could I please whisper it to you? It’s a… sensitive topic. The landowner is peculiar and she doesn't like… certain things.”

  Ephira made the hand motion for him to approach, and lent her ear. The aged human shuffled up, cupped his hand next to his mouth, and whispered, “The true landowner of the Skyspear is named Dawn, and she is the S-ranked Incarnation of Fire.”

  “Ah.” She dismissed him with a hand motion, and he sat back down as Ephira leaned into her throne. Ponderously, she squeezed her bony hands together while deep in thought. She noted some foul looks angled Artorian’s way, and dismissed them. “I’ll not accept scowling; the human was right to treat what he just told me with caution.”

  The admonishment faded. If the human was under the Matron’s wing of favor, making a foe out of the man was a poor life decision. Not that many wanted to. Instead of punishment and lambasted castigation, he’d lauded praise and brought honor to their clans. Don, Dimi, and Hadurin all breathed easier.

  The Matron made her decision. “I will go myself.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The room erupted with gossip. Complaints were loudly voiced at the prospect of the Grand Matron leaving the ancestral halls. Clans bickered at one another about topics of defense, structure, and safe voyage while others shot down the idea that the Matron was serious—surely she would send a son.

  “Enough!” Silence fell over the tribunal. “There are many thrones, and many Dwarves who can steward my position while I embark upon this task. I have made my decision. Matron’s will be done.”

  The entire Dwarven gathering stood and slammed a fist onto their chest. “Matron’s will be done!”

  There was no further argument, and Ephira sat down after her quick rise to snap away the chatter. She was going to continue the chat, but her attention was drawn to a heaving messenger that the guards let through. “My… my Tribunal! Em… emergency message!”

  The messenger was provided water and pats on the back, encouraging words were whispered for the message to be given when able. When Artorian glanced at the throne, Ephira wasn’t on it. He blinked and scanned the room, but found her in front of the messenger girl, holding her up and adding soothing words of support. Matron or no, she was still Gran’mama.

  Artorian got off his chair and tried to get close, but a horde of Dwarves blocked him. He didn’t hear what the messenger was telling them. While he could see the messenger’s mouth move, his vision obscured too much to read any sort of intent. Drat!

  “Artorian.” He froze as his name was spoken, and a path of empty space parted in a direct line from the Matron to his current position. He didn’t know Dwarves could move like frictionless sand. He was addressed again. “There are Choir Mages in one of our ovals demanding we hand you over, saying you’re in violation of a contract. They’re here to take you. Is this true?”

  Artorian staunchly stood and crossed his arms. “It is not! I signed only the missive of the clans, and returned the other to Hadurin.”

  The Grand Inquisitor chimed in, having dug the object from his spatial pouch. “I have it here! He speaks true! Your plan was a success Grand’mama, the Church has no rightful claim.”

  She nodded at her boy, extending her hand for the object. Through a sea of Dwarves, the missive made it to her, and she clicked the object open and read it aloud. The contents quickly brought to anger everyone that heard it. This writ was an insult. A demand. A ‘you will do this or die’. The clans didn’t like people strong-arming their way into their traditions and lifestyle, and this blatant offense sealed it. Tiny explosions popped between the Matron’s fingers.

  “Hadurin.”

  The Grand Inquisitor stepped forward. “Yes Gran’mama?”

  Ephira crushed the metal document in her hand, and the delicate contraptions *poigned* upon breaking. Sputters of larger explosions between her fingers sent screws and sprockets to the floor. “I am done placating the Church. I have had it. While the Inquisitor profession is one your clan is indeed good at, I no longer assent to Church ties. The central clans are done. I will not accept an organization believing themselves so superior to our family coexisting with us in our lands and homes. Especially if these are the kind of actions they take against us. Clan heads! Speak your verdict.”

  They were all so angry that rounds of ‘aye’ went around like wildfire. Until finally the eyes and ears settled on a very silent Hadurin. “Ma… ye be askin’ for half me life… Ye making me choose between me beliefs and me family…”

  Ephira understood that this was difficult for her grandson. Still, she needed an answer. Hadurin closed his eyes, and squeezed the insignia on his chest. He thought over his life, and made his irrevocable choice. Ripping the Church insignia from his chest, he crushed it in his hand. “Abyss me beliefs. I stand with me family.”

  A roar of unity rumbled around the tribunal. Hadurin didn’t participate, and regretfully looked over to his clan. He’d just ripped half of their purpose away from them. He watched Kiwi stand, rip the insignia from his chest, and throw it to the ground. He was with him. O’Nalla stood, ripped the symbol from her chest, and threw it down. She was with him, and so was the rest of his clan.

  A ghost of a smile proudly twitched on his mouth as he bit back tears. What had he done to his family…
? He could not express the pride he felt that even in this sudden upheaval, they stood as one. His fist punched the air and his war howl joined the others. His family punched the air with him, following him as the mountain shook.

  The clans and the Church no longer walked as one.

  Friars Fiona, Azral, and Pjotter impatiently waited alone in the middle of one of the large entryway ovals. Being Mages of the Choir, flight was something they’d accomplished ages ago, so accessing the Dwarven lands from above turned the majority of their defenses laughable.

  Fiona threw her hands up when an armored party of Inquisitors spilled from the gate to greet them. “Finally! Heavens blessed, you kept us waiting!”

  Hadurin squeezed his grip on the warhammer, shield firmly in the other hand as he rolled shoulders in fitted ancestral runic armor. He marched with a good portion of his clan towards the trio. This was their problem to tackle. “Greetin’s, Friars! What brings ya?”

  Pjotter lazily flopped his hand towards the group. “What is with that gaudy outfit? It’s so droll. We are here to pick up the prisoner. Artorian, Headmaster of the Skyspear. He has broken a contract and claimed to own lands rightly belonging to the Church.”

  Hadurin’s helmet bobbed. “So ya say… prove it.”

  Pjotter blinked as his face squeezed to pure incredulity. “Prove…? Prove what? I am a Friar! I am not questioned! I am obeyed! Bring out the prisoner, or we shall go acquire him, and we do not care what we break in the process, Short-quisitor.”

  Fellhamer’s men looked at their leader for guidance, who tapped the business end of his hammer against the armored tip of his chin. “Nah.”

  Hadurin’s shield buckled under the impact as Azral was spurred into action. The quiet Mage wasn’t having any of this insubordination against the Church. The Runes on the shield triggered, but Hadurin was still launched all the way back to the door they’d walked out of a few minutes before. His shield was a bent ruin, and his arms were strained to breaking. One punch from a Mage was deadly for a C-ranker, and they all knew it.