Without so much as blinking, Baymar rolled and re-tied the ribbon very slowly. He then placed the scroll onto the worn, wooden table and traded it for his pipe, looking absolutely dazed. It wasn’t until after several puffs of smoke from his pipe that the cleric finally came out of deep thought.
“I must go to my study and prepare," he said finally. "Shall we set out tomorrow?”
"Perfect!" smiled the prince. "I’ll be at your house at high noon. Rolo will rally the gang and meet us afterward. There’s only two more who’ll be joining us, and I’ve already sent for them.”
"Good, that will do fine,” said Baymar.
“I thought you’d see it my way,” said the prince.
Rolo toasted the both of them, and then chugged his pitcher to the last drop.
2) Fort Hammerheart
To dwarves, engineering came as second nature. A toddler dwarf grows into understanding mechanics the same way an elf toddler learns how to vanish into the wilderness. At a young age, suddenly and magically.
“When a dwarf learns to walk, a dwarf learns to build,” goes one of their many, many, proud mottos.
They were loaded with such quips. Verse after proud verse, a dwarf will sing of all his memories, his father’s memories, his father’s father’s memories, and memories completely imagined if the wine is flowing right, which it usually is. Wine is best aged in the cool, deep underground, and that happens to be where dwarves live. On any given night, after a long day of labor the wine and mead flows by the barrel and song echoes throughout the dwarven underdark and for several miles around.
But merrymaking aside, dwarves were brought into the world for a sole purpose, which is to build, and there wasn’t much that they couldn’t. From stunning architectural structures that filled their massive caverns, to devastatingly efficient weaponry, they were truly great inventors and craftsmen.
Many think the dwarves are nothing more than rugged underground people of the mountains, which is actually a pretty accurate description if only on a personal level. Add that they’re the world’s greatest craftsmen, as well as miners, and you make the analogy complete. They say iron forms iron, and the dwarves forged their mettle after millennia of battling the earth's elements with hand, hammer and pick.
"Show me a wall, and I'll show ye a door," went another saying.
Today, gathered at a cliff at the foot of Mount Loyola, a group of dwarves were working in high gear. Four hundred dwarves had labored for three long months, fighting the rock with hammer and chisel in a race against the coming winter. At a distance, the future stronghold dubbed Fort Hammerheart looked like several scattered huts, sparsely spread around one great opening in the cliff base of the western face of Loyola. This rocky giant of a mountain commanded the horizon south of Somerlund, it's peak often disappearing high above the clouds. On a clear day observers in the city can see the snow that capped the peak year round.
Forging a city into the side of a mountain isn't easy work, especially one that is three quarters granite like Loyola, but even so within the clamor of construction was the drone of cheerful song. This stronghold was not only to be a fortress, but their new home, a vision that lifted the moods of the toiling dwarves.
At this time last year they lived in Ol’ Brook, the underground division of Somerlund better known among locals as dwarf-town. Back then, over two thousand dwarves claimed the subterranean section of the city as home. Ol’ Brook has been a part of Somerlund from the beginning, and it grew along with the city accordingly. It was a peaceful marriage, but among the dwarves there was always a whisper of disagreement over living beneath so dense a population of humans. Excuses for leaving entailed a wide range of reasoning. Some brought up unfair tariffs on goods, as city taxes treated their goods as imports. Others brought up the odor, an inescapable factor when living below the city that never stops growing in population and waste. Some argued that not only should they stay, but that they should rule the city themselves. After all, the dwarf race was much older and therefore the superior race. Eventually there was enough dissent to cause an exodus.
Under the leadership of Jevon Hammerheart, nearly a quarter of the Ol’ Brook dwarves marched to relocate at Loyola. The bulk of the movement to the mountain was made up of his Hammerheart kin, the second largest local lineage, although many close friends and acquaintances followed. Jevon was the youngest of eighteen uncles, or elders, of the Hammerheart clan, but by far the fiercest of the lot, and a natural leader.
His argument for the migration was simple, it was just time to leave. The fact that he'd discovered the best mining pocket seen in generations did not hurt his argument. He wasn't able to pull the entire dwarves population to his side as he would have liked, but he felt he had enough support for a good run at a new, free life.
The dwarf hierarchy that remained in Ol’ Brook let them leave without hostility, and even gave them their blessings along with many donkeys and supplies in support. They did not agree with the move, but they were still dwarves and would be welcomed back into Ol’ Brook once they realized their poor decision. Of course they would not retrieve their pods, their cave like underground homes, and would have to restart their station in the community as lower class citizens. This would never happen. Jevon would rather live above level with the humans, whom he generally blamed for the need to leave.
"If a dwarf built such an unorganized city he'd die of shame," he often said.
While there was probably some truth to the words, it wasn't fair to place all the blame on humans. Although humans started the colony that grew to become Somerlund over five hundred years ago, those founders could not have imagined it evolving into the metropolis it is today.
The original motivation for Somerlund's settlement was survivalist in nature. They relished in the fertile soil and the defensive position of the location. To the west was the ocean. To the north and south, a mountain range rose from the ocean and stretched east. Although the range to the north eventually curved southward, forming a crescent wall only breaking briefly in the northeast corner where an acrid, boiling sea awaits. Because of these barriers, Somerlund was safely tucked into a valley, with the only easy access being a road from the southeast, where both northern and southern ranges part to open plains.
Today, citizens rarely gave thought to the safe geography of the city. Instead of natural barriers, they appreciated the beautiful sweeping mountain views. The ocean didn't provide an easily defensible border, but instead beautiful beaches to enjoy.
One thing the founders quickly learned was that all this farming, fishing, and building would require a lot of hard work. Luckily this revelation fell right along with a human’s natural talent. They couldn't build like dwarves, or age-wizened, magical creatures like the elves, but they possessed the most powerful skill of them all. From a young age humans master the ability to exploit their environment, living creatures included. That talent was how the other races found their way to Somerlund, primarily through jobs and promises. There was no gold to be shared at the time, but word was sent to all the closest towns that if you came to perform a job, you were promised a place to live. It wasn't long before traveling laborers were pouring into the valley in droves.
Somerlund offered these skilled travelers secure walls to live behind freely, and in return all they had to do was build those walls. In those days, this type of contracted work was unheard of, and quite a tasty ticket. If only those hard workers could foresee what type of welcome awaited them once work was complete, then they might not have been so hasty to help the younger race. Luckily for the founding humans the world did not yet understand greed. It wasn't until sometime later that the humans would eventually educate the world on that new emotion.
These immigrant races, or the newer residents of the valley, could live in the city for as long as it took to complete their jobs, but with the rapid development the jobs never ended. Workers started families or brought in their families from abroad, creating the demand for stores, schools, and all so
rts of business. This of course added more jobs, and so the wheel of progress began to spin. It was only a matter of time before the city grew to its presently bloated size.
Today, elf, gnome, dwarf, barbarian, and human alike share residence at Somerlund, each bringing their unique customs and culture. Of course, in such a melting pot of culture there will always be squabbles. The most heated of these squabbles were about how the throne can only be occupied by a human ass. Countless hours have gone into this debate, many times nearly ending in a riot, but in the end remaining united created security, and that always trumped those disputes.
Jevon Hammerheart wouldn't miss those irritable quarrels. He stood on a slab of stone that jutted out from the mountain about a thousand yards above the construction, absorbing the wind and view. From this vantage he had a clear view over the mountains, the ocean and most importantly the city beside the water. Staring out at the huge city in the distance he reflected on the last few months. It was hard, but very good work that his people were doing. He frowned at the grey haze that stained the sky above the city. It was not the grey of rain clouds. The unmoving mass was the culmination of the human’s excessive pollution. Though an ugly sight for anyone’s eyes, to Jevon it was a marvelous omen, foretelling the time was nearing for yet another obese city to perish, as all great cities that outgrew their resources did in the end.
His people had seen it many times before, and not only with the fall of their own mega dwarven cities of the deep. Even the orcs, beneath their astounding irrationalities and savage ways have had a turn at dominating the world. It was the goblins before them. The desire for power and conquest is the one character trait all intelligent creatures share and feel the need to live out, and all attempt, at least once in their history.
Needless to say, it did not work out for either the orcs or the goblins, both of which now live scattered about the wild in packs, clinging to random territories amidst the cliffs and crags of the highlands. Their once formidable races are now reduced to conquering the nightmares of children who eavesdrop on the grownup's late night conversations. The only people who’ve experienced more than his own were the elves.
“Bah!” he said. The thought jolted him back from his thoughts. Jevon knew he’d been meditating for too long when he started comparing himself with the elves, those skinny tree lovers with their long silky hair and tight trousers.
“Bah!” he repeated, because the first one wasn’t enough.
He traded his daydream for a more suitable image, the vast riches they would surely gain after the mining operations began. His main argument for the big move was about how the dwarves couldn’t sell their weapons for what they were worth, because of restricting taxes that were automatically placed on any nonhuman goods sold within the walls of Somerlund. They couldn’t raise their prices either. Whenever they tried, the humans would threaten outsourcing cheaper weapons. Some dwarves accepted the strong words to be the ways of business, but Jevon took the words very personally.
Whether the humans would actually go through the trouble of outsourcing was questionable, but it wasn't something the dwarven tribunal wanted to wager on. In rebuttal Jevon moonlighted the best of Ol’ Brook's miners to defect to Loyola, and along with them he also targeted the best weapon-smiths.
A year prior, he discovered the mountain to have substantially better ore than the mines deep below Somerlund, nearly a whopping fifty percent more pure, and that was all they needed to hear. Better ore meant better metal, which meant better quality weapons and in the end, better pay and reputation.
Fort Hammerheart would be much closer than any other weapons suppliers outside of Somerlund, and without paying local tariffs undercutting import prices would be easy, even with vastly superior product. He would simply price match the products from Ol' Brook, but with the same prices he would enjoy much bigger profits.
Jevon believed wholeheartedly that Somerlund’s market would open up for them. With this in mind, he took great measures to ensure the separation from Somerlund was a peaceful one, being careful to cause no more damage than hurt feelings. He held no ill will toward the rest of the dwarves or their leader, his stepbrother Jenkin, he only wanted to do what he believed was best for his people. Jevon was fully confident that once his better weapons took over the market, the rest of the dwarves would eventually take leave to Loyola.
“If they only knew what they were missing,” Jevon whispered to the big city as much as to himself.
He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, savoring the freshness of the clean, mountain air. He wasn't sure if the air was so much cleaner here, or if it was that freedom made the air taste so good. He took a few more breaths and decided it was probably both. Then he turned and started on the path downhill, ready to return to the responsibilities of his new life of supervising his hard working dwarves.
At least all but one dwarf.
“If they only knew what they were missing,” cheered the dwarf, smiling at the sparkling lake before him.
Pall, pronounced like wall, and thought to have a head as hard as one, absolutely loved to fish. Not to say that he ever turned down a night of hunting for wild boar with the rest of his kin, but when the skies were clear like now, he without a doubt preferred a relaxing day by the water over all else.
Although, before he could really relax he had to get over the hardest part of fishing for a dwarf. Some things were just plain difficult to do when you have short, stubby fingers, and near the top of Pall’s list was fixing bait to a hook. After several tries, and more than a few angry words at the uncooperative worm, he conquered the hook and cast his line out. Hook, worm and lead weight shattered the still water with a loud KERPLUNK in a section a little up shore that was shaded by a twisting tree that hung over the bank.
“Bulls eye,” he claimed, pleased with his aim. With the hard part over, he padded the grass with his foot searching for the softest tuft to sit on. He was determined to have fish for dinner no matter how long the wait. He was sick and tired of chicken and pork stew, which was all the aunties seemed to make for the work-line at the fort. They may have switched the vegetables in the broth from time to time, but in the end it was always chicken or pork stew.
Pall, Jevon Hammerheart's only son, opted out of “diggin in the mud” with everyone else the moment they arrived at the mountain. It may have been sacrilegious, but he was a dwarf who didn’t care about building anything at all. He fancied using weapons far more than making or selling them, and mining was definitely low on the list of his desires.
“Why do we need to sell anything? And why do we barter with the people we say we can’t stand?” he’d defiantly ask his father, never receiving an answer.
Ashamed, he already knew the answer. Greed. It was a fire his people may not have started, but lately everyone seemed to be burning with it. Pall couldn’t understand wanting all that money. He’d rather have a life rich with adventure, or at least for now a tasty, red trout.
He stuck the end of his fishing pole into the ground, between a large piece of driftwood and a rock, and then pulled a small silver bell from his tackle box to fasten at the top of the rod. Lastly, he checked every angle of the rod several times just to be sure it wasn’t going anywhere.
“Perfect,” he said, before plopping down onto the grass, finally satisfied with the setup.
Just as he began to put his hands behind his head and relax Pall tensed and sat deathly still, facing the lake. His nerves were screaming something fierce in his skull. Nearly a minute passed as he scanned the span of the lake slowly from left to right, searching for anything. Nothing moved, but the dazzle of sunlight energizing the lake. Everything looked normal, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. He briefly scanned the beaches once more for movement. He only found rocky shores that rose out of the water and into a faltering pine-tree line, the same as it ever was. A bird let out a rapid pulsing of what seemed half chirp, half whistle. Whatever bird it was, Pall took it as a good omen and w
as at ease once again.
Pall found this treasure of a lake to the west of Loyola, hidden between two small hills. This side of Loyola caught the brunt of the draft that rushed down from the top of the mount. The constant breeze kept the hottest of days bearable, but also filled the air with a restless orchestra of stressed wood and flapping leaves.
He didn't feel much like lying down now, so instead he strolled into the trees, casually grabbing the handle of his heavy, double-bladed axe from where he’d left it leaning against a sapling. Passed on to Pall by his uncle Burt Hammerheart, the massive axe was even more massive in reputation. His uncle had a whale of a war story to match each of his four hundred and eighty seven years of being alive. That would give the axe four hundred and eighty two years of action, considering uncle Burt claimed to have wielded the axe at the tender age of five.
The axe had cut down orcs by the hundreds, giants by the dozens, and was never on the retreating side of a battle. The stories were suspect, but the axe had definitely done its job when Pall needed it most.
Today Pall was going to use the prolific orc slayer to carve himself a canoe. He wanted to reach deeper parts of the lake sure to be full of tasty fish just begging to be fired up. His mouth watered at the thought of crisped skin, just off the fire and squirted over with a little lemon.
He just needed to get himself a nice log, split and hollow it out and presto, he’d be on his way to endless fish feasts. He was still undecided as to what method he would use for this hollowing to happen. The humans bored out their dugouts with hot coals, turning the core of the tree into embers that they would scrape out before the burn spread to the outer ring of trunk. It was a good technique, but if you fell asleep on the job, you wake up to a pile of ash instead of a boat.
Blue Diamonds (Book One of The Blue Diamonds Saga) Page 5