by Thomas Head
“Lucky young bull! I envy you!” someone shouted.
I turned to face a tall, dark dwarf with the swarthy complexion and the intensely black eyes of Kenzo. It was his nephew. Tilli. I had become accustomed to the soft-spoken, melodious speech that betrays wilderness living. If I were to encounter a descendant of a cutter in the blackest dark, I could recognize the wilderness in his blood by that rhythmic trick of the tongue.
“Then you must not have seen the beast!” I answered
At that instant, Tilli made a fanning motion behind. “Indeed I did gaze upon it, master. And got trousers full of shit for my trouble!”
At which the assembly was sent rollicking into loud hysterics of laughter.
Faster than the cooks could sort the meats, great bundles were heaped on the table. By midnight, bellies were crammed from basement to attic. Smoked salmon, otter, pork, chicken, venison, goat, beef—these and other rare meats, which were the testimony to the luxury of the kingly meals availed to a dwarf of the wilderness.
* * *
Grand were the tales around the great dining hall that night. Lanterns swung from the black rafters of the ceiling, and piles of half-eaten foods stood in flippant rows down the center of each table, showing that dwarves, not maids, had prepared the banquet. Stuck in iron brackets against the walls were the pine torches, which had been dipped in some resinous mixture and now flamed brightly with the smell of incense. Tables lined the four walls of the hall and ran in the form of a cross at the middle of the room. Backless benches were on both sides of every table. At the end, chairs were placed as seats of honor for famous Cutters. Family flags had been draped across windows and hung from rafter to rafter as explorers, warriors, and cutters from all over the wilds of Yrkland were assembled four hundred strong. It seemed each had a tale larger than the other, buoyant and unrestrained, enthusiastically given hilarious fellowship. Their manner and clothing were rough, for dwarves who have passed a lifetime exploring southern wilds have much to say. But it is all worth hearing. So the feast was prolonged, to say the least. Indeed, before the gathering broke up, flagons as well as candles had to be renewed.
As my uncle finished one of his tales to a hearty round of, “Here, here!”, the silvery light of morning was already stretching through the windows.
I was inclined to stand and clap, but I was far too drunk.
He leaned back and whispered, “Ah, nephew! Is this not fine? Is this not worth living for!”
I nodded, drifting into slumber, my drunken face dropping atop pile of alder-smoked salmon.
Chapter 17
It was noon before we woke. We had slept for seven hours, perhaps.
We were still at the benches where we had been sitting. Fiddles and flutes were striking up again in different parts of the hall, the backbone rhythms of simple ballads, smacking of old delights. Folks were laughing. Some were just stirring, while others still were beating time to the rasp of the fiddles.
Last night, dwarves had risen and danced wild jigs. A few had deftly executed some intricate elvish or dwarven step, and uproarious applause greeted every performer. The hall had throbbed with confused sounds until the din deadened my faculties. But now, that deafening tumult had subsided to dizzy little ditties here and there, and as I rose to my feet, the lights swam painfully through my drunken skull.
Looking around at Jickie and the lads, I understood that it would be late afternoon before any of us had any strength to begin our quest anew.
* * *
The lads were not in a tenth as grand as mood as they were last night, a toll for all the beer and merriment. But there was something else, an unseen succubus vamping our spirits. And the succubus was truth itself—because to venture out of the fort southward meant enter what folk called the True Wild. From now on, to go west was to go purely dwarven country, to go east landing you in the realm of me, and traveling south, as we were, one would trek through little but elf encampments, where natives and outlaws had the upper hand.
When our rough crew was preparing to re-embark south, I was shocked beyond measure to see the wild elfish, dwarven shaman. In the light of day, I could see that his hair was red. Not true dwarvish red, either, as was Halvgar’s. Instead it was a rather Dellish orange, and for the first time I understood that dwarves and elves must be able to interbreed, for no elf could grow a beard that fine, and no dwarf could ever hope for so grandly pointed ears.
He came down and wished us well.
My uncle interjected and reminded him, “I thank you, half-elf, to note that our party is thrice as reckless as the creature we face! We are undeterred adventurers who fear neither beast nor blade!”
The shaman nodded.
I thought it was a little strange of my uncle to expose our ‘virtues’ like that, especially to a fellow he had not even greeted out along the riverbank that night. And the wild dwarf seemed to feel the same. He stood wide-eyed and silent. And if things were not uncomfortable enough, a shapeless old she-elf in moccasins—probably the wife of some trader inside—ran to my uncle’s place in the vessel and kissed him on both cheeks, wishing him a safe trip.
“Oh!” my uncle growled.
We all just stood there a moment, staring at him. He wore the sour expression that is all too often the aftermath of banquets.
“Well, then!” he bawled. “Any rose who would offer such nectar to an old fat lump of a bumblebee…”
“I did enjoy your company, master. And though you might not remember me by this evening, I’ll carry your touch for the rest of an old maid’s life.”
My uncle turned a purplish shade of red. “Look here, see! Well… damn it to the depths, I mean, damn it… frozen hell, but the thing of it is…”
The maid giggled and daringly handed him a flower, a very meaningful dwarven gesture.
“A token, master.”
“Well! See here! There are others who would not appreciate that sort of thing, but by thunder, I thank you! This is the wilderness of lost opportunities!”
And it was.
Not a soul laughed or chortled as he kissed her back.
* * *
With our heads to the warming, southern wind, we set out at last. The early evening air was fragrant with the odor of summer’s early flowers. Winding among the countless greening fields, we smelled onions and worms and all the musky scents of life as it erupts from the soil.
The river was an oasis of visibility among the rolling meadows and thick woods. So through the many narrow, rocky channels we felt unnerved. We kept our heads up, and along those endless tangles of silver water, we were not lulled by the beauty, but instead took two dwarves from rowing to mind their bows and keep guard. We went all night that night, and all the next day, and on a flat stretch of rock, exhausted and hungry, we pitched our tents for the night. I could not help but marvel at the almost magical growth in these more southerly latitudes. Not even a pair of weeks had passed since snow enveloped the village of Goback like a winding sheet. Yet here we were in an almost tropic of growth, and slam it to hell if it had not run full damn riot. The frost, which still lay beneath the upper soil, was moistening the succulent roots of a wilderness of green. The woods were an impenetrable mass of foliage, and the meadow grass, swaying off to the forest margins, was already knee-high, rippling in billows.
The wind brought it all to life, from the forest of ferns that swayed about the broad trunks to the new leafs of the treetops, nodding and fanning. Amid it all was still odor of hidden flowers.
For the first time in far too long, I had the strange advantage of being put on watch. There is nothing quite so strange and wonderful as having a meaningful purpose behind just sitting and looking at your surroundings. I loved it, and it made me glad in ways that are difficult to explain. When the troubadour trills his epic over the strums of a mandolin, or some aged storyteller sings songs of old wars, folk rightfully applaud. Yet a nesting warbler, a thousand leagues from home, holds me more rapt. I don’t know why, exactly. I have seen th
e same thing a thousand times from the windows of my own hall, and it hardly gained my attention. But out here, the music has a deeper meaning and higher message, albeit one I would never presume to know. The wild has its frets, to be sure. And nature’s fascinations aren’t without discomforts in a sky full of blackflies or young, hungry mosquitos. Still, I pity those to whom venturing out ministers to only their itchy skin and sore muscles rather than their minds and souls. Indeed, I pity those who seek only the spoils of the adventure. To eat sumptuously, to dress comfortably, to enjoy friendly discussions, or even to make good use of wealth gained on such an outing—these are the empty ends without the pleasures of the field and forest discovered along the way.
Sitting there amid of the lavish motion of the grass, it almost boggled the mind why folk would even bother with the mad, feverish pursuit of wealth, why they would trample one another down in strife more ruthless than war, strife that widdles away the gifts of mind and soul. These are the things for which they barter all freedom but the name. Success comes with a thousand failings. Those with higher aims count themselves happy, indeed, to possess a good pair of boots, a cloak with a dwarven stocking hood, and few square feet of canvas to keep the weather from the bones.
Perhaps this is an odd way to look at it. For my part, I know I would be counted mad by half of the old lords of Delmark.
But to each his tastes.
Other voices may call to other men and teach them what the waterways and forests, or a ripe naked maid from Beergarden, were teaching me. If gold comforts their souls, then let it be. That’s fine.
As for me, that night, I was as content as a pup on a teat.
Chapter 18
In all, we spent over a month on the river. And I wish I could stand by my words, and say that I loved the wild. But it is the nature of Nature Herself to balance things, and it seemed that as my contentment grew, so did Halvgar’s discontent.
And it was in him that my worry about the wilds grew. Mountains, after all, are easy enough to enjoy so long you do not have to cross them. Carry someone across them, and they are the stuff of a nightmare.
As for Halvgar, I could hardly call his life anything more than an existence. A blow to the head stuns, but one may recover. The blow poor Halvgar had suffered to his heart left the once strong, merry dwarf slowly succumbing the way one would to a vampire or some insidious, paralyzing disease. Seeing the beast that had done it seemed to have brought it all back into horrifying, morbid reality. The mere thought of effort seemed to burden him. He would silently mope by the hour in some dark corner away from our camps, or wander aimlessly about the woods around the fire, muttering and talking to himself. He was weary and fatigued without a stroke of work; and what little sleep he snatched from wakeful vigils seemed to give him no rest. His food was untouched, as far I could discern. He pushed it from himself with the petulance of a child, and at every suggestion I could make, he sneered with a quiet, gentle insistence that was utterly discomfiting.
To be sure, I had Uncle Jickie’s boisterous good cheer as a counter-irritant; but as the hard, merciless nights closed in, I could not think of Halvgar at all. Shuddering at the distress I knew he must suffer, I could only turn my head.
I was on watch again.
We were two weeks south of the rowdy burg of Foxwash. A bleak storm wind roared through the open blackness of the grassy meadow where we camped. But the weather was good for now, good enough for laying on the ground.
Looking back at Halvgar, I felt wet beads start from every pore in my body. In his dreams, he was panting. It seemed he was fighting blindly, raining down on some unseen foe with aimless blows. Then he rolled over and sank into the tangles of his cloak like a limp and helpless child. He raved in a low, indistinct tone, muttering Shiri’s name again and again, and tossing his head restlessly from side to side. Then he fell into a troubled sleep. His supper lay untouched. Torches had burned black out. One tallow candle, that I had extravagantly put among some riverside boulders sputtered low and threw ghostly, shadows across the grass.
I slipped from main campfire, heaping more logs on it and stretched out as I took a higher seat atop a hill. In the play of the flame Halvgar’s face seemed suddenly and strangely calm. It might have been only the dim light, but the furrowed lines of sorrow seemed to fade, leaving the peaceful, transparent purity of the dead. I could not help but associate the shadows my fellows cast with legends of Death keeping guard over those who wished to accompany him.
Then something strange happened. The shadow by his pillow gradually assumed a vague, awesome shape. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.
Was this an illusion, or was I going mad with fatigue?
Neither was true. It was real. The filmy thing distinctly wavered and receded a little into the dark. There was a cry on the wind, the shriek of distant, dead things. An unspeakable fear chilled my veins. Then, from nowhere, my courage surged. I could have laughed in defiance and challenged death. Death! Curse death! What had we to fear from dying? Wasn’t there more to fear from living?
At that came the thought of my strange love for Dhal, who I’d known for mere hours, and the tumult against life was quieted.
Then I shook my head. Who was I kidding? I, too, feared death. Thundering hell, but I did. The thought of dying all but scared the living hell out of me.
Again I peered forward. The shadow fluttered, moved, and then it came out of the gloom, a menacing presence with mossy, black hair, a white veined brow, and gray eyes, speaking unimaginable noises. Then it became fully formed, the visage of a dead dwarf, dressed like a king. The Dead King waved his hand over my fellows, and they fell so still that I feared they were dead themselves. But the fear was stayed as the figure shook his head no, telling me without words that they were merely deep in slumber.
A strange, wondrous dread overcame me. I wanted to fall to my knees before him, but there was something in his countenance that suggested he would not respect groveling.
Instead, I stood my ground.
“What are you?”
The Dead King sneered, approaching closer.
I drew my silver dirk. The Dead King halted.
“What in the frozen depths are you?” I whispered again.
“I am…” its voice hissed, “…here to tell you….that they who watch you will strike you down should you not approach. You must go to them… Alone.”
Something in me begged for it to go, and it did. And I turned, walking obediently into the tall grasses. I had not gone two hundred steps before I saw them. Even though I knew they were there, I nearly pissed myself. It was a band of elves, as wild as the sweeping countryside. There were thirty of them, an entire hunting party.
I halted and nodded to them as if I had seen them there all the while.
“Do you speak Dwarvish?” I asked in a calm, low voice.
One rose from the grass. He was tall, nearly six foot. He grunted and approached, coming uncomfortably close before he asked, “What alerted you to us?”
“An ancestor.”
The elf turned and said something to the others that sounded like “Unt id!”
The others grunted. A few were wide-eyed.
“What else did the ancestor say?”
“I am to stop you from killing us.”
The elf laughed, and turned to others. “Herdsa meen tul polpa dun, itsay.”
The others laughed, and the oldest among them pointed a stick at me, prompting my translator to turn back toward me and ask how I propose to stop them.
I put my pipe between my teeth and lit it.
“He did not explain that part,” I said.
“Snatu been ola ola dis!”
At which the others laughed so hard that the oldest one started to tear up, muttering something through his laughter that was not translated. When he finally calmed himself, he said something to the effect of, “Kif been all drea ludse fooin!”
“He wants to know what’s in that pipe.”
* * *
Aft
er another hour’s jokes at my expense, in which I took an animated part, beating down their exorbitant request for my life story, I led them past my snoring fellows, and offered them a small bale of my finest starweed, along with a dirk, a few beads, and oddly, enough tin bells to outfit a whole heard of dairy cows. Indeed, the creeping rascals cleaned me out of tin bells altogether, at least what I had in terms of trading stock. Then they swore by everything, from the sun and the moon to the piles of shit in the meadow, that they would do anything for more bells. But I had none. And when I saw them leave without any intention of fighting, I held back my curiosity and just watched them go.
* * *
The bell-obsessed warriors had spoken the truth. And I saw no more of them as the sun rose.
Moreover, they vowed the river hurried just ahead, and the next tribe downriver, had horses enough for the entire party. As I had no want of arousing their resentment, I listened without voicing my own suspicions.
But I had no intention of being tricked by the rascally natives.
Chapter 19
The old fellows, eying me distrustfully, listened to my tale of the night before, which I felt was odd enough without revealing my encounter with the Dead King. But my uncle became immediately suspicious that there was something else.
“Och, young Mister Fie, now see here! Your lips are too tight!”
“There’s more to this tale, you think.”
“Think, sir? I’ll wager it!”
I tapped my pipe on my chin, as if trying to think. “Well, there were few bits I left out. A few jests, I think, that were not translated properly, or perhaps at all.”