by David Adams
“Dwarves are patient.” Salviana finally managed to look at me, still flustered. “We expect our allies to be the same.”
I grumpily folded my arms and stormed into one of the booths, pushing aside the curtain and stepping inside.
Frustration burned inside me, but I took a deep breath, held it for a time, and then let all the stress out of my body. This was just like training in Atikala. Learning discipline. Learning to put aside your own needs, wants, and desires to focus on the community.
Ssarsdale needed me. My people needed the aid of the dwarves. Whatever inconvenience they wanted to impart on me would have to be endured. Their games, their annoyances…
Someone pulled the curtain aside. It was a dwarven handmaiden, a warm smile on her face. She had a bundle of cloth in her arms, far too large to be a simple tunic.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Your clothes,” said the handmaiden, holding one end of the bundle and letting it fall out. “It’s called a dress.”
In the Witty Fox, Serren had brought me a dress—a simple piece of cloth sewn into a tube. Utilitarian. This one looked very different indeed, now that I could see it properly. It was a wide, puffy thing like a flower, designed to hang off the body and cover me to my ankles. Multiple layers over multiple layers, fluffy and full of colour. It looked heavy, itchy, and uncomfortable. Definitely not made for kobolds.
There was no way I was getting inside that thing if it were even possible. “Why do I need to wear this?” I asked.
“It is important that people understand if you are a Lord or a Lady,” said the handmaiden. “Only noble Ladies wear dresses.”
“Why?” I asked. “What does it matter. I am the Leader of Ssarsdale.” I ground my teeth. “I want to see your queen right now. I have come a long way, and these frivolities are grating.”
“We could put a pink ribbon on you?” suggested the handmaiden as though she were not truly listening to me. “You have no hair, but perhaps glued to the back of your head—”
“Or you could introduce me as Lady Ren of Ssarsdale, and have your queen address me accordingly.”
The handmaiden looked less than enthused with my demand, but bowed her head politely. With great difficulty and discomfort, the two of us worked to strip my plate in the cramped quarters of the change room. Magmellion’s voice faded from my mind as I removed the pieces, and I sensed—perhaps worryingly—that he seemed pleased to be gone.
Then the handmaiden squeezed me into the dress.
I could barely breathe, let alone move. My tail caused the back of it to rise; the handmaiden said it was scandalous to let the men see my ankles so. I had no idea what in all of the Hells she was talking about. I utterly ignored all of that.
Indignities on indignities. I wiggled and squirmed and tried, mostly in vain, to make the thing comfortable. It wasn’t. But I was wearing it.
With the task complete, I stepped out of the booth, ready to die of embarrassment.
Salviana seemed truly impressed. “You look magnificent,” she said. “So much better than armour.”
“I look like a mushroom.”
“Mushrooms are delicious,” said Salviana.
My eyes narrowed. “I am not food.”
“Of course not, of course not.” Salviana gestured back the way we’d come. “Shall we go?”
Waddling back to the feast hall in the highly constraining, entirely ludicrous dress was a trial. My toes scraped on the stone cobblestones, I tripped several times, and I felt ridiculous.
And everywhere I went, I attracted stares. Far more than my armour had done. I felt so out of place. An alien curiosity who did not belong. How much of this was deliberate on Salviana’s part, more games to intimidate me, I did not know.
But it made me angry.
By the time we arrived back at the feast hall the actual feasting part was mostly done. The bowls were empty and many of the patrons had stumbled back to their homes to sleep off the bread and ale.
Of Valen there was no sign. That greedy kobold was probably eating his way through whatever food was left, messily devouring even more than his admittedly voluminous belly could handle. If he got himself sick again, or was poisoned, then this would be entirely his own fault.
I located Dorydd, slumped in her chair surrounded by crumbs, sporting a satisfied look on her face. I waddled over towards her.
“I expected this kind of thing from Valen,” I said.
The moment she looked at me she burst into laughter.
“Shut up!” I hissed. “Salviana said—”
“Oh, my sister is one part fey trickster, one part uncompromising wall. The dress is lovely, I promise you, but it…doesn’t suit your figure.”
“Any fool could see that,” I snapped, a little more harshly than I had intended. I took a breath and tried to steady myself. “What about you? Are you done here?”
“Done?” Dorydd clutched her belly helplessly. “Truth be told, I’ve eaten too much. I feel death’s cold breath. You’re going to have to go on without me.”
The musicians started to play all around. Nobody else seemed concerned; the other dwarves ate, drank, or laughed.
“Go on where?” I asked. “Are we leaving?”
She grasped my shoulders, and I thought I could see humour in her eyes. Maybe. “Go on, save yourself! Float away on your mushroom dress!”
Was she lying? I almost panicked. “W-what?”
Dorydd laughed again. “Don’t you worry, child. Everything’s fine. But Dorydd is going to need a little hand standing up.” She looked around. “Where’s the little one?”
“Valen?” I offered Dorydd my hand, bracing myself. “Probably face down in some bowl, half dead. I’m not saving him this time.”
“Cruel, but accurate.” Dorydd took my arm and pulled herself up to her feet with a groan. “You should probably eat something before you head off to see the queen.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know, but it’s good manners.”
Not wanting to offend—despite the rapidly growing pile of insults that had been placed upon me of late—I reached out and picked up a stray piece of fruit, nibbling on it idly. It was too sweet for my taste, and barely fit in my hand, but it was food and satisfied what was required of me.
“There,” I said, putting the uneaten core of the fruit back on the table. “Can we go?”
Dorydd smiled approvingly and then gestured out of the feast hall. “Let’s go and see the queen,” she said, and we walked outside together.
CHAPTER XIII
VALEN REJOINED US AS WE walked. I didn’t notice his appearance until he was next to us. His footsteps were like the breath of a ghost; even my underworld-attuned senses caught nothing of him.
His growing skill brought a smile to my heart, even if I didn’t show it on the outside.
“Where are we going?” he asked. “Are we seeing their leader?”
“Yes, finally.”
“I trust in your wisdom,” said Valen. “You are the Leader.”
His confidence, especially after all the insults I’d been struggling to put out of my mind, was heartening.
Dorydd led us towards the centre of the undermountain, a huge, flat, squat building that seemed to be the opposite of the grand spire at the heart of Ssarsdale. The similarities struck me as much as the differences. Both placed their leaders at the middle of all things, but while Ssarsdale’s leader’s residence was a vast tower that built up in an efficient manner to use as little space as possible, the dwarf queen seemed to take great pleasure in building out as flat as possible. Some kind of social signal, maybe? A display of wealth and power to be able to build flat?
Thoughts like this turned over in my head as we approached. A quartet of dwarves awaited our arrival, and they pulled the heavy iron doors open in time for us to step through without stopping.
Within, a pile of skulls was set in the centre of the room, a hundred species all stacked together—humans, elves, Was
p-Men, and far more exotic creatures I did not recognise. It was nearly twenty feet tall and wide, unsorted and chaotic aside from bone steps that lead to a black onyx seat perched on top. Atop that seat sat a frail, thin dwarf woman who seemed almost like animated bones herself, so thin and wizened I could not imagine a living creature surviving so many years. On her head was a thick iron crown that seemed impossible for one such as her to hold up. Thin wisps of red hair poked out from the metal, along with a faintly glowing red rune on her forehead.
Beside her, a large demonic creature stood, arms folded, glaring contemptuously down at us. It was ten feet tall, goat-like with reverse-jointed knees, cloven hooves, and curled horns. It had the same rune on its forehead as the queen did, but bigger.
Eight dwarven women wearing plate and bearing shields with heavy axes formed a path leading to the throne. Their steel was emblazoned with the gold symbol of a dagger.
“May I present,” said Dorydd, bowing low, “Queen Orirbela Thunderhelm the Sixteenth, Iron Lady of the Thunderhelm Territories, the Fist of the East, Shield of the Undermountain, Stone Heart with a Visage of Flame, Supreme Leader of all the Thunderhelm dwarves, along with her eidolon, Derodohr.”
I dipped my head in respect. I had encountered eidolons before. They were powerful foes indeed.
“Queen Orirbela,” said Dorydd, “this is Lady Ren of Ssarsdale, leader of her people.”
I had never enjoyed titles, and sought as few as possible for myself, but I was forced to admit that Orirbela’s long name was impressive to me.
She leaned forward, even the subtle motion enough to evoke fear that even the slightest movement might snap her fragile bones. “So,” she said with a voice that had a young person’s vigor to it, “the kobold comes before me, seeking an alliance, both military and trade, in equal measure. Curious that she travels to our keep alone, save for a child and one of our own. She eats our food, she drinks our wine, and then without steel or weapons, comes before me. An impressive display of confidence in my eyes, Lady Ren.”
Was it? “Thank you,” I said to Queen Orirbela. “I appreciate your words. I am proud of my own abilities.”
“I’m certain,” Queen Orirbela smiled thinly. “Guards, kill them all.”
The eight dwarves unsheathed their axes, readied their shields, and as one, turned to face us. Derodohr glared contemptuously down at us, unmoving.
“Wait,” said Dorydd, her hands outstretched. “Queen Orirbela, you cannot possibly—”
One of the guardswomen lunged at Dorydd. She knocked aside the axe with her palm. The other seven moved to surround us, their sharp weapons levelled at Valen, Dorydd, and me.
Salviana’s words echoed back to me. One day you will be without your sword…had she been trying to warn me?
No time for looking into the past. Valen darted behind me, hissing angrily.
“Queen Orirbela,” I said, trying to diffuse the situation. “I came to you in peace. I do not want—”
“You did not want war,” she said, “and yet, war is upon you. Decide on the course of action, Ren of Atikala.” Her ancient face grimaced. “Or die.”
One of the guards stepped towards me, weapon raised. I had no sword to parry, so instead, I drew upon my other talents.
Flame. I called a wall of fire from the stone below my feet, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, a roiling curtain of heat sealing us off from the dwarves. Dorydd and Valen recoiled from the heat, retreating towards me.
The dwarves marched through the wall of flame, the heat searing the hair away from their heads and igniting exposed cloth. They advanced stoicly, heedless of their burning clothes and seared flesh, stonelike discipline on their faces.
Three of the guards chopped at Dorydd. She leapt into the air, neatly avoiding the three blades, then slammed her boot into the face of one of the soldiers. The woman recoiled, staggered back, and fell into the flame. Prone, stunned, and pressed against the hottest part of my fire, her skin caught like tinder.
She didn’t scream. Merely fought to her feet, staggering forward wreathed in flame before falling once more, never to rise again. The other guards didn’t react other than to close the gap in their ranks.
Through the wall of flame, I matched gazes with Orirbela, her features weirdly distorted by the heat shimmer. Her face was as hard as her crown.
No more words. I drew upon the fire in my blood, extending my hand, sending a roaring cone of flame towards the line of guards. They raised their shields in unison, protecting their faces, and then they advanced towards us.
Dorydd stepped in front of me. One of the remaining guards jabbed at her. Dorydd caught the blade between her hands, twisted it out of her foe’s reach, then jammed it into the face of its former wielder. The dwarven guard’s head burst into a gory shower.
The other guards, anticipating this, chopped and thrust their weapons at her. A blade caught her side, another her shoulder.
Dorydd couldn’t protect me forever. I stepped out to the side, casting another cone of flame. With their weapons stuck in Dorydd, the guards could not shield themselves effectively. My flame burned two of them to the bone, and they wordlessly fell to the stone.
Four left. Dorydd stumbled back, bleeding heavily, her hands on her wounds. Now it was my turn to step in front of her; I snatched up a dagger from a fallen dwarf’s belt. It was too large for me, a sword in my hands, weirdly balanced. The dress constrained my movement.
An axe swung in. I blocked it. Another came for me. I dodged it. A third cut in low, slicing a thin trail across the cloth of my dress, opening it up, digging through to my thigh beneath. Blood. Pain. Another burst of my flame enveloped a guard, blasting her blackened body to the ground.
Then the backswing from the axe I had dodged caught me on the cheek and knocked me back to the ground. The three remaining guards leapt upon me, axes gleaming as they descended.
Dorydd, bloody and weak, roared as she leapt in to save me, crash-tackling a guard with each hand. She couldn’t win against them them—not wounded as she was—but it bought me time.
I snagged the third axe with my dagger’s crossguard, twisting it wildly, trying to tear the handle from her grip. The guard was too strong. Her boot caught me in the groin, blasting the air from my lungs. I held on to the dagger for my life.
Dorydd wrapped her legs around one of the guards’ throat, and with a wet crunch, shattered her neck. Her sister slammed her fist into Dorydd’s back, knocking her down to the stone.
Focus. I needed to focus. I willingly dropped the dagger to keep thoughts of smoke and flame in my head. I reached out for the guard, and forcing the wind out of my throat, spoke words of arcane power. Flame burst from my hand and I burned her to scorched ashes. Spots swam in front of my vision.
Dorydd coughed in agony, rasping, struggling to breathe as she bled onto the stone. The sole remaining guard loomed over her, axe in hand, raised high for the killing blow.
The guard howled in pain then fell to the side.
Valen slid a tiny dagger out of the guard’s thigh as she tumbled over. Where he’d gotten it from was a mystery. He leapt upon his enemy, driving the weapon up under her neck. The tiny blade seemed insufficient for the task—the dwarf kicked and punched at him still—but he withdrew it, plunging it into her flesh over and over, the thin sliver finding cracks in her armour. He took the tendons in her arms, leaving them limp noodles, then he jabbed each of her eyes. Still she fought him, thrashing, kicking.
He kept stabbing. Over and over and over, effortlessly plunging his tiny dagger into her body until dwarven blood soaked him up to his elbows, splattered over his body, and finally—finally!—the dwarven guard lay still.
Valen carefully, deliberately dragged the sharp edge of his weapon across her throat, and sawed back and forth until the head was removed. He picked it up in both hands—it was as large as his chest—and then, with a ferocious shout, threw it into the wall of fire.
I stared at him in mute horror.
“I swore to protect you,” said Valen, turning to face me, his small body bathed in gore. “I do not take my oaths lightly.”
“Thank you,” I said, gasping for breath, focusing on the wounds that burned. “You impress me, Valen.”
His white teeth shone against his dark scales. “I owe it all to you,” he said. “You set me on this path.”
I dragged myself up to my feet. “Congratulations on your first kill,” I said.
Valen affixed a dark look on me. “That wasn’t my first kill,” he said, his tone sinister. The wall of fire dimmed in intensity, then winked out. “The Darkguard have trained me well.”
Worrying. I resolved to find out exactly how the Darkguard were training their assassins.
“Well done,” said Derodohr, clapping his huge hands together. “A wall of fire is no minor spell.”
I spat blood on the ground. “You’re next,” I said, with absolutely no way of backing up my threat at all.
“Please,” said Orirbela, amusement painting her tone, “if I wanted to kill you, I would have set Derodohr on you and watched as he tore you into tiny scaled hunks. Or opened a pit to the Abyss and brought forth fiends. Fiends who cannot burn. Against unarmed spellcasters, this seems an unfair test.”
“Test?” I stared.
“Of course. We could not ally ourselves with weakling sycophants who seek our fiends for their armies but offer us nothing in return.”
“We could have died,” I snapped angrily. “Dorydd is wounded.”
“Then you would have been unworthy.”
“I killed eight of your guards!”
“And still hundreds more remain. Those were Ironguard, women and men sworn to fight and die for me, to keep my secrets and my honour above their own. The Ironguard die the moment they take up their sacred axes and pledge themselves to their queen. Their passing shall not be mourned. Nor should it be.”
“Your tradition of being murdered by city leaders continues unbroken,” said Dorydd, propping herself up into a sitting position using her elbows, her hands firmly planted on her wounds.
“Attempted murder this time,” I clarified. “I still breathe yet.” I crouched by her. “How are you?”