"That's what I wanted to hear.” The wizard cleared his throat awkwardly. “I haven't forgotten that you, Dal, are basically the Dwarf King. Dalcorne Senior wears the crown, but you run the kingdom behind the scenes. It's you I came to visit."
The prince managed a weak smile. “It's nice to be appreciated. My father certainly doesn't. He's of the old school: chop out a problem with an axe and stuff the consequences. That was all well and good in days of yore when Carallord required strong-arm tactics. Modern times demand a more delicate type of rule. Mother intuited that, which is why she had me schooled in the ways of Men down in Dunmarl. Diplomats tend to make better statesmen than mace-toting soldiers. She realized just how closely tied we are to Anarica."
"You don't know the half of it,” Maldoch muttered under his breath. “She was a smart woman,” he said aloud.
"And yet she fell for the prickly old sod that sired me."
"Love makes us pick the most unlikely soul mate. She was obviously attracted to his stature as a warrior. It's what Terrath requires most from him now. The Dwarfs will speedily get behind their king when he's out in the front ranks slashing away at foes."
"Good for him,” said Dal sourly. “I only hope he doesn't get his grandson hacked to pieces in the process."
"Isn't Dalcorne number three attending school down south?"
"I wish he was. The old man yanked him out of the university about a year ago and foisted on him a commission in one of the regiments, insisting that serving as a soldier will eventually make him a better king. He tried it with me, but mother blocked the move. This is his revenge."
"Valoria went along with it?"
"My wife was in cahoots with the old sneak. Reckons a stint of army life will build character. I did manage to get the boy assigned to an out-of-the-way posting down at Faldhim. That should keep Little Dalcorne clear of the frontline. I have to ask, Maldoch. Can't diplomacy avoid a race war? Any conflict on that kind of scale will be detrimental to East and West. Surely a peaceful resolution can be negotiated before any blood is spilt."
"The wheels for this tussle have been in motion for a long, long time,” returned the spellcaster. “So far our labors have forestalled outright war. My hope is to continue intervening successfully. But if those efforts finally come to naught Terrath will want heroes shortly and Dalcorne the Elder fits the bill nicely. However, when the warring ends Carallord will need to rebuild and that'll fall into the lap of the thinkers, not the soldiery. That is a ways off yet, assuming we fight and win. So let's get down to brass tacks. Is Olab Strongarm Warchief still?"
"He is father's right hand axeman. Is there a problem with that?"
"There could be. Strongarm's a good enough general, but he doesn't adapt to a changing battlefield fast enough. When it came to the last border clashes the Elks ran rings around him. He just wasn't quick-minded enough to react in timely fashion."
"He has given sterling service as regimental commander for many years. We can't just replace Olab, even if I could convince father to retire him.” Dalcorne rubbed his bearded face musingly. “I get the feeling you're privy to something I'm not, Magnificent One."
Just then the tea arrived, brought by none other than the Crown Prince's wife. She was a fuller-figured matron dressed in traditional female Dwarf attire: a low cut bodice showing off a great deal of plump bosom and an ankle length brocade skirt. Her golden-brown hair was coiled up in two elaborate buns above each of her ears.
"Valoria Fairskin, you are as ravishing as ever,” schmoozed the wizard.
"And you've always been an outrageous charmer,” responded the princess, setting the tray on a side table.
"I've been practicing, Val."
Picking up the pewter teapot, she said, “Shall I be mother and pour?"
Maldoch grinned impishly. “You can mother me anytime, my dear."
Dalcorne came off the couch to stand behind his wife, putting his arms protectively about her waist. “She's happily married,” he said, giving her a loving peck on the cheek.
"Get off me you romantic fool or you'll make me spill the tea. We've already got five kids. I'm too old to start thinking about number six. Besides, Maldoch is not the marrying kind. Him and his brother have been bachelors far too long to change their ways now."
Dalcorne chuckled and returned to the sofa with two cups of steaming hot tea. Maldoch took one and asked if Valoria was joining them.
"Nay. You two boys have business to discuss and I'll only be in the way. Dal can catch me up on your chat later. He tells me everything."
"I have little choice, dearest,” commented the prince. “You pester me from dawn to dusk if I don't."
Valoria patted her husband's cheek fondly. “How else can I find out what's going on in the kingdom, luv? Maldoch, this time be sure to say goodbye before leaving. It makes me grumpier than a toothless beaver when you skip town without any farewells."
"Yes, mum.” The wizard smirked. When she had gone, he said of Valoria, “Another fine highland woman there, Dalcorne."
"Val's a bit of a handful, but she keeps me on the straight and narrow."
Sipping his tea, Maldoch remarked, “Tasty blend. Who's your supplier?"
"An importer I got to know down in Dunmarl during my school days. He's pricey, but you get what you pay for. I'll give you his name if you like."
"Do that. I'm sick of Parndolc reusing the dregs of those mucky tea leafs he buys on the cheap. My brother is such a spendthrift."
That's like the pot calling the kettle black, Dalcorne thought. “What are you holding back?” he charged the wizard, restarting their interrupted conversation.
Cradling the teacup in his wrinkly hands, Maldoch revealed, “The Goblins have a surprise weapon that'll knock the britches off Olab."
"What's that—a giant battering ram to knock down the Great North Wall?"
"You aren't far off."
"It was a joke."
"I'm not laughing. Three years ago a group of Goblins pulled off an audacious heist down in Gwilhaire and ripped off the Horn of Dunderoth from the Elves."
"The Lothberens kept that a secret!"
"Embarrassment keeps people quiet. Would you broadcast the fact that a foreign thief slipped into the heart of your nation and stole a prized relic?"
Considering the implications this news held, Dalcorne postulated, “A blast from that horn can level a mountain. Make no mistake they'll put it to evil use. The question of where has an obvious answer: Frelok Pass."
Maldoch knocked the theorizing prince back. “Don't be so sure of yourself."
"Goblin border raiders always came that way."
"Until you lot built the whacking Great North Wall to block off the pass."
"This is obviously why they nicked the Horn of Dunderoth. What better means of tearing down a wall is there than blowing on a rock-splitting trumpet?"
"Unless you plan on giving it a toot in the vicinity of the Ishnal Watchtower and coming at Carallord via the backdoor through Anarica."
Dalcorne's eyes went wide. Either of those possibilities was unpleasant. “I can persuade father to further bolster the Eastridge Scouts at the wall easily enough. He's always maintained that the Carnachians will try their luck at the pass again. We've already got five divisions camped out in the region. Moving a few more battalions into the area won't pose much of a problem. The old man loves playing soldiers. However, Montaine Divide is Anarican territory and that might well be a sticky point."
"Shouldn't be. I told the Prince of Men to begin making preparations for giving war aid three years ago. Anarica's military buildup must be well underway by now."
"It isn't. Their ambassador keeps sending me worrying reports about delays in the Royal High Army getting mobilized."
"Does he tell you the cause of the hold up?"
"Read for yourself. I have his latest communiqué on me.” Dalcorne reached into his tunic and pulled out a piece of folded parchment, passing it on to the puzzled wizard. It read:
> —
His Highness, Crown Prince Dalcorne Steelfist
—
Since you remain the only lettered individual in this godforsaken land of barbarians, I am again instructed to beseech you on behalf of my fair-minded sovereign, Prince Lindan, for any news of the wanted liar, spy and accomplice murderer, Sulca the Weatherman. Your willingness to finalize an extradition accord between our two nations is commendable, but will only be sealed properly by promptly turning this criminal over to Anarican authorities should he show himself anywhere in the boondocks of Carallord. He is known to frequent the abominable northlands and relations between us will improve considerably once this miscreant is apprehended, questioned, and punished in due accordance with Anarican law.
As to the recurring matter of activating the accords of the Collective Shield Pact, His Highness feels that to be a premature request. Royal military advisers detect no untoward activity on the western border, as claimed by you, and perceive no threat from Carnach. If, on the other hand, you have the urge to pick a brawl with the Goblins, Anarica lodges no objections. But let me stress that no military assistance will be forthcoming from the premier Eastern Realm.
Reluctantly yours,
Folham Bruchanner
Appointed Representative of the Prince of Men & Alberion
Ambassador to Dunmarl
—
Maldoch leapt off the couch like a loosed catapult arm, slamming a fist into the palm of his hand. “Damn and blast! What is that fool of a boy-prince playing at? I'm going to have to journey to Alberion quick smart and sort this mess out."
"While there, get that young Holbyant to sack Bruchanner,” suggested Dalcorne. “An ambassador who can't stand the country he's sent to is a waste of a man. At least he has enough misguided sense to address his insulting correspondence to me personally. Knowing father, if he ever clapped eyes on such slanderous letters he'd march on Alberion before the spring thaw."
"Make sure he doesn't then. Before I take off reassure me that Arnuthe is safe and sound."
The Prince gave his surety. “The Axe of Power is safely under lock and key in the vault under the throne room, ever since father tired of waiting for his granddaddy skirmish that never came and placed it in storage.'
"Don't lose it,” came the wizard's stern admonition.
"Magnificent One, this castle is practically unassailable. It would take an army to breach the walls and make off with our national treasure."
"There may soon be one on your western doorstep willing to try just that,” Maldoch reminded him. “That axe will be vital in days to come, whether you or your father wield it."
Dalcorne frowned with consternation. In a society where prowess with weaponry was the measure of manliness, the heir to Carallord's throne was an indifferent fighter at best. Adequate was a dirty word in the Dwarf vocabulary. The Crown Prince, while gaining a basic grasp of military strategies from his schooldays in Anarica, was no warrior and doubted he could lead his armies by example if needed to. Would they even follow him?
Letting the prince be alone with his concern, Maldoch said by way of departure, “Tell Valoria sorry I couldn't say bye."
Dalcorne grabbed the sleeve of the wizard's robe as he rose to leave. “You're forgetting that you are a wanted criminal, Maldoch—a fact you haven't satisfactorily explained. Are you simply going to waltz into Alberion and give yourself up?"
Terrath's goodly spellcaster grinned wickedly. “If the Anaricans want me so badly, they can have me."
—
Traipsing up the corkscrewed stairs, Maldoch gained the opened doorway at the top puffed and piqued, emerging from the dingy watch turret into the bracing air of a steely early morn. Catching his breath after ascending a dizzying twenty-four flights, he gazed eastwards across the snowed gatehouse battlements. A cloaked Dwarf stood as still as stone beside a hulking tarpaulin occupying the northwest corner, etched against the lightening skyline of the faraway mountain range Fearsome Grey. Wandering over, Maldoch joined the lone sentinel silently staring out at the waking day. Pooling shadows darkened the base of the castle-sized primary gatehouse, creating the illusion of an impossibly deep well.
Unsurprised by the wizard's companionship, the Dwarf King broke the absolute stillness of the wintry dawn. “Did you sleep well, wizard?"
"I tossed and turned the whole night. Your beds are as uncomfortable as your chairs."
Smiling devilishly beneath his beard, Dalcorne poked further fun at his unhappy houseguest. “My daughter-in-law was happy you accepted her invitation to stay overnight."
Maldoch winced. Caught in the act sneaking out of the castle without paying Valoria the courtesy of the personal farewell she requested earlier, his punishment was her hospitality. The slighted and willful princess persuaded him to spend the night by threatening to turn out the Home Watch.
"Trekking south today?"
"This isn't the only realm on my watch."
"Can't I discourage you from giving yourself up to the Anaricans? My purse would profit greater from collecting the bounty on your head."
"I've had enough of Dwarf persuasion for one century. It normally entails threats of violence. And you're hoarding more treasure in your strong room than a Gnome kleptomaniac."
"You can never have too much money.” Dalcorne Senior then asked the wizard the oddest question. “Do you take time to smell the cowslips?"
"You're asking if I sniff cow dung."
"Dinna be daft. Cowslip is also the name of an alpine primrose with bunched yellow flowers."
"I didn't realize you're a connoisseur of plants."
"That's my point. You should take the time to enjoy the simpler things in life."
"Is that what you're doing touring the ramparts every morning?"
"I come up here to enjoy the sunrise. Old soldiers appreciate every dawn they live to see. Too many comrades don't have that luxury."
Nodding, Maldoch expressed regret. “I'm usually too busy keeping the peace to pay much attention to anything else."
"Don't work so hard at it, wizard. Fighting keeps one young."
"Unless it ends your life,” rejoined Maldoch. “War will be the death of you, Dalcorne."
"Old age will kill me anyway. Might as well die merry,” grumped the king, folding his brawny arms. “What dragged you up here to pester me? I expected you to be hightailing it out of the castle after your detainment."
"Goblins nicked the Horn of Dunderoth."
"Junior mentioned it last night."
"Reassure me they won't get their sticky mitts on Arnuthe. Omelchor's got them on a thieving spree and I'm thinking the Axe of Power is next on their shopping list."
"This isn't Gwilhaire and we aren't a soft touch like them Elves."
"For my peace of mind, leave it under lock and key in the vault. Don't bring it out under any circumstances."
"It's Carallord's national treasure. Carnk looters would have to bash this castle to rubble and prise it out of my cold, dead fingers first.” Seeing the doubt clouding the wizard's hawkish face, the elder Dalcorne tugged on a rope and delighted watching the tarp fall away with a flash and rustle of disturbed snow, revealing the sinister lines of a secured catapult.
"A rooftop siege engine,” remarked Maldoch.
"On a swivel mount, making it instantly trainable in any direction,” Dalcorne said proudly, pointing to the circular wooden base recessed into the stonework floor. “Its twin partners it on the northeast corner. Between them they cover all approaches to the gatehouse. Any unwanted callers will get showered with rocks long before they reach the front door."
"This would impress my mechanically minded brother. What genius thought it up?"
"Parndolc himself,’ confided Dalcorne. ‘He mooted the idea to my chief engineer during our last binge together. Where is my old drinking buddy? The bugger hasn't visited in ages."
"Parny is busy babysitting and won't get out of the house anytime soon."
"Shame. I feel like g
oing on a bender."
"Against doctor's orders."
"I only do what I'm told when it suits me. That's a king prerogative.” Running an age-spotted hand over the heavy-duty timbers forming the trebuchet frame, the stolid hardness of the wood beneath his touch imparting almost the same rock solid security that stone provided, Dalcorne grew uncommonly maudlin. “Junior is no warmonger: he's a quill pusher, not a hatchet man. That's his mother's doing, god rest her soul. I want Carallord to be done skirmishing with Carnach, so when I'm gone he has the chance to rule as king in peace."
"You're just a big softie, Dalcorne Steelfist."
"Spread that around and I'll chop to bits your favorite appendage."
Maldoch clutched his staff jealously. “You're not making my job as peace officer of the East any easier."
"Preserving the Dwarf kingdom is mine. If that requires crushing every Goblin tribe and bringing Carnach to its knees before I'm consigned to the family crypt, so be it. Unexplained disappearances on my doorstep is only added encouragement."
"What are you referring to?"
Dalcorne began a leisurely stroll along the parapet, compelling Maldoch to follow. “A couple of months back a party of engineers dispatched to Habrell Fork to survey new fortifications vanished without a trace en route."
"Maybe they got lost.” Failing to elicit a cutting response to his sarcasm, Maldoch proposed a saner likelihood. “Slavers out of Ranshorr must've crossed Eastalps and nabbed them. Raven Goblins make periodic use of secret high passes. Little more than goat tracks really, it's impossible to monitor them all. Luckily, these paths don't facilitate mass passage."
"A reasonable assumption that doesn't explain the trade caravan last month making a late run from Druscan.'
"I'm guessing it failed to arrive at its destination too."
Dalcorne's nod of confirmation was unneeded when he halted beside the sheeted companion catapult and disclosed, “Search parties from our end discovered their butchered remains in shallow graves in the forestland east of Tarnmount. All were scalped."
"That's particularly troubling."
"Ach, I'll say. Traffickers in slaves’ dinna usually kill their merchandise and Goblins never bother burying enemy corpses. Whoever slew them wanted to hide the evidence."
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