Blue Diamonds (Book One of The Blue Diamonds Saga)

by Murphy, R. E.

  “Dangerous diggin?” Ridiculous, thought Pall. To him diggin was about as exciting as watching beans sprout.

  “Yes, dangerous diggin. Something ye'd know little about. We're lookin at a big pocket of fire rock.” Jevon proudly glared at his alchemist, happy to have acquired him. He met the intriguing dwarf during the chaos prior to the big move. He'd never met a dwarf alchemist, let alone heard of one. Fire rock was a miner's worst nightmare. If undetected and struck with a metal tool it exploded into violent plumes of flame and poisonous gas. In the best-case scenario it killed the miner, while in the worst case it brought the entire tunnel system crashing down.

  "Baylor says there's a way to diffuse the dangerous stones, but he needs some materials first."

  Pall shot an incredulous look at Baylor. “Fire rock? In this ancient mountain? Everyone knows it’s been dead for many-"

  “-Yes, Fire rock," said Jevon, and he cut off his son's glare with a wave of his hand. "He’s the specialist here, and the last I checked yer just me slacker son. Now yer actually going to do something for yer clan. Baylor needs a book from the great library in the city and yer gonna go fetch it.”

  “A book?” said Pall. He heard the word city, and the fight in him subsided for a moment. Shomnath was waiting in the city.

  “Three books, actually. I wrote a list for yer father.” Baylor slid into the conversation, seemingly just loud enough for Pall to hear. Even though Baylor was hidden somewhere out of Pall’s peripheral he felt the alchemist grinning. Sneering.

  “And another thing," his father put his hands on his hips.

  "Yes father?"

  "Don’t dilly dally.”

  Jevon held out the list to his son, which Pall briefly considered not taking. He changed his mind when his father replaced his smile with the universal “son, yer about to get a beating,” look. There was no point in arguing now. Pall knew all too well the finality in his father’s eyes.

  “Yes father, I’ll be on me way," was the only thing Pall could say as he took the list, his posture no longer confident but a submissive haunch.

  “Great,” said his father, his face transformed back to his normal, jovial appearance. “I knew ye would see the light.”

  Pall cast a quick, angry look at Baylor before shuffling away from the head table, then back down along the rows of tables and out the exit farthest from his father.

  During the stroll out of the giant maze he encountered one dead end tunnel after another. Yet instead of adding to his frustration, the wandering ended up chipping away at his mood, because with each step there was also the curiosity of what adventure Shomnath had planned. They'd gotten into plenty of mischief together, but this was the first time he'd only speak in person, which meant this had to be something special. Before he even found his way out of the mountain he'd forgotten the embarrassment of the confrontation with his father, and was steadily daydreaming.

  Once Pall emerged from the hammer gate and into the full afternoon sun, he realized that he still had the problem of fetching the books. It would be too awkward to ask for help from any of the dwarves that were breaking their backs on the cliff, being that he was the cleanest dwarf in or out of the mountain. Most of the dwarves he passed on the way out were so completely covered with grime that they were the same color as the tunnel walls, and only the whites of their eyes and smiles floated by.

  No, he couldn't bother any of them. He would just have to get to the library and back as quickly as possible. Maybe he would plead for Shomnath not to leave till he got back. Shomnath normally sent Kala to fetch him ahead of time while he made provisions for their trip anyway. If Shomnath couldn’t wait, well, he decided he was just going to be in big trouble with his father.

  “Hey Pall! Pall!” The high, warbling voice caught Pall’s attention just as he was nearly out of the build site.

  “P-a-l-l! Hey! Where’re ye off to?” Scuttle, Pall’s youngest cousin, was hurriedly wobbling down the path after him.

  To Pall, Scuttle’s life seemed to revolve around irritating him. Not the way carrying luggage can be irritating, but in the way a curious wasp can be irritating. As cute as the short, round, curly-haired boob was, he was extremely accident prone and generally oblivious. At first, Pall was going to dismiss his cousin the way he usually did, but saw the window for opportunity.

  “Hey little cousin,” said Pall, looking side to side before lowering his voice to a whisper. “I’m off to the city on a very important, secret mission.”

  “Whoa!” Scuttles eyes nearly popped out of his skull. Pall patted the air between them, lipping "quiet" all the while.

  “Want to help?” asked Pall after Scuttle finally calmed.

  About half the height of Pall, Scuttle was twenty-five years old, or about a twelve year old in comparison to a human’s maturity. The chubby little dwarf tensed at his cousin’s offer, nodding his head up and down furiously.

  “Relax Scuttle, before ye get seen acting strange. The first step in keeping a secret is not letting anyone know that there’s a secret being keeped.”

  “I’m sorry,” whimpered Scuttle. “But I would so, so like to help, cousin.”

  “It’s okay, ye don’t know better. Hmmm, let me think," said Pall. He stroked his chin feigning deep thought. Scuttle went into a series of mini convulsions, clutching at something in front of his chest that Pall couldn’t see.

  "Alright, ye can take the mission, if ye choose to accept it.”

  “Yes yes yes yes!” he cheered. This time Pall grabbed Scuttle by the shoulders and forced stillness into the youngster.

  “Just remember, yer me number one dwarf now, and if ye want to stay that way follow me orders and keep silent.” There was something about the way ‘number one dwarf’ sounded that made Scuttle absolutely glow.

  “What will we do in the city? Are we going to Ol’ Brook?” Scuttle erupted into questions as soon as they took to the path together.

  “Silent, please,” said Pall, and for effect he stopped, commanded eye contact from Scuttle and whispered again, “silent.” For a moment Pall felt like his father, finger pointed out and reprimanding the way he always did. He didn’t like the feeling.

  Scuttle bent forward and whispered so quietly the soft breeze nearly drowned out his words, “I won’t say a word cousin.” Pall couldn’t keep his smile contained if he wanted to.

  “Perfect. Let’s be off then,” said Pall.

  Pall smiled all the way to Somerlund, an arm hanging over Scuttle's shoulder, fully content that he’d caught his fish after all.

  3) The Cleric's House

  Baymar’s home was anything but inviting. Not that the posh neighborhood he lived in was particularly inviting to begin with, but his house was exceptionally uninviting, a truth that became evident the moment you decided to knock on his door.

  The front door wasn’t facing the street, to his neighbor’s undying irritation. Neither was a window, door, or any other sign of residence. To find Baymar's front door, you needed to follow the tall, thick bush wall that circled the brick home all the way around to the lone opening behind the house.

  It forced visitors to walk through his neighbor's garden, which worked wonders on making them give up and leave, as nobody liked to do it. Some families might spend a year's worth of a common man's wages on their yards, and messing with one could mean serious business. These garden soldiers do not want anyone touching their gardens, let alone setting foot on them. Strangely, in most cases these crazed landscape lovers don’t even want anyone to stop to look at their yards.

  If you’re the apathetic type, who doesn’t care what anyone might have to say about you trampling their flowers, you only had to push through three rose bushes, several peonies, and a splattering of lilies to get to your destination. As you rounded the cottage style home, you'd find that the windowless theme continued around the entire building, but it was the mother of all chimneys above the house that usually captured everyone’s attention. It didn't jut from the side or top of
the house like a normal chimney. This one was fat, long, and lay out, like a sleepy snake, lazily draped back and forth across the roof. A stout, stub of an exhaust hole poked out of the coiled mess from somewhere not quite the center. No one knew what came out of the chimney, only that the smoke was odorless, constant, and at night occasionally glowed brighter than the moon itself.

  The house wasn't always in this backward position, socially or geographically. Meaning to say that before Baymar acquired the property, the front door faced the road and visitors weren't abhorred. Baymar cherished his privacy as all mages do, so after he moved in he formulated a plan to put an end to all bothersome visits. As soon as a day came when no family, friends, or friendly new neighbors threatened to visit he beckoned a magical tornado to twist the house, along with its foundation, until the front door was opposite the street. Add a few darkness spells to the space between his house and the surrounding hedge, and he had the most unwelcoming front porch in Somerlund. As simple as the solution seemed, it worked masterfully. There was an immediate ninety nine percent decrease in surprise visitors.

  Once you finally reached the front door, there's no welcome mat congratulating your diligence. Just a wooden sign hanging from above the doorframe that read, "Fundamentals of Spell Casting and Cosmic Energies," in peeling, red paint.

  Years ago, Baymar converted half of the house into a school for aspiring wizards. The only catch with attending his school, was that he would only teach his apprentices how to harness the healing forces of magic, or in layman’s terms, how to become a certified Clerical Mage. If he taught how to do combat with magic the students would be considered monks or battle mages, but this was something he was adamantly against. Long ago he’d decided that anything taught under his roof would resonate peace, healing, and life.

  With the number of alchemists rising, (who relied on minerals rather than magic), added with a generation of youth that grew more destructive, there wasn’t exactly a line of applicants at his door. It is debatable whether Baymar planned it that way from the start in order to avoid taking on any student altogether.

  The half of the complex that wasn’t the "school" was Baymar’s personal study. He had little use for a bedroom, and less use for a bed. He was an insomniac, and his mountainous collection of books reflected what he did with the time most people spent in slumber.

  Spread about between the bookshelves were pyramids of dusty books, scrolls, and crates, that contained more books and scrolls. In one corner was a large, red-pillowed chair with an ornate frame made of solid gold. Next to it was an old mahogany desk with a large silver lamp on it. There was no flame within the lamp, or candle, yet it held a light source that radiated white light so intensely that it illuminated the entire study, from one cob webbed corner to the other.

  Shomnath was leaning against the mahogany desk, curiously watching Baymar dart back and forth as he collected items for their trip. All about the wide table were dozens of open books and journals covering Ambrosia, General Bryon, and dragons. After the meeting at the Black Cauldron the cleric couldn’t stop thinking about what lay ahead, and it was obvious.

  “How long did your father know about the scroll? Or more importantly, why hasn’t anyone heard anything about it until now?” asked Baymar from behind a bunker of books. A squeaking mouse perched at the highest point of the bunker, apparently bothered by the invasion of its space.

  “It was discovered about two years ago. No one’s heard about it because the archmage has been studying it, the whole time,” answered Shomnath.

  Baymar popped his head out from behind the book bunker, his face twisted like he just tasted something sour.

  “He gave it to Horace? No wonder the stones haven’t been found yet. Will he be joining us? I honestly can’t stand the man. Don’t ever turn your back on him, let me tell you,” rambled Baymar. He walked over to a cabinet and squinted at its contents through dusty glass doors.

  It amused Shomnath to see this lively side of Baymar. The old cleric was wearing a black pouch over his shoulder, which he was loading with bottles of all sorts of size and shape. He appeared in such deep thought about which ones to take along, that Shomnath decided it better not to ask what they contained.

  “He claimed to know where one of the diamonds could be, but he was murdered before he was able to announce his findings.” At this Baymar looked up and listened more intently. Shomnath went on, “his notes were missing, and the investigation ended with no answers.”

  “Are there any suspects?” asked Baymar. “As much as I disliked Horace, he would not be an easy victim.”

  “Well, I’m sure you know that Horace liked to take all the credit for his accomplishments, but above this he demanded absolute privacy. I think it was an inside job, but no one knows who assisted him, let alone if he had any assistants at all. Whoever the killer is, he could be headed for the diamond right now.”

  “Or all four of them,” stated Baymar with both wonder and dread.

  “No. The only thing we know for fact is that he only found one. He announced that much before he was murdered. The next day he was scheduled to make a formal declaration. That was three days ago.”

  “Just like the damned fool. I bet he was ready to present his discovery in full, gaudy, classic Horace fashion. He always lived for the glory. He could never spit anything out unless he had a large audience ready to devour his every word. Then you couldn’t shut the man up,” said Baymar. The old man couldn't help but to reminisce over times when he and Horace had been young rivals in the guild. Horace had a thirst for fame, matched only by Baymar’s thirst for knowledge.

  “A shame really. The poor bastard was frozen solid, and then his killer shattered him into hundreds of pieces. Some of him had been thawed out by the time he was discovered, which caused an absolute mess!” Shomnath made the scene sound amazing. Baymar held on to a bookshelf to keep steady. "We knew exactly what happened because we'd seen the same effects before."

  “Killed by his own magic ring,” stated Baymar.

  “Apparently,” Shomnath answered, “but the ring was never found.” Every citizen in Somerlund knew of Horace’s ring, Frostbern, which was a gift from the Ice Wizards of the north. At the time the cleric had been more than a little jealous over the gift, although for Baymar it was more about Horace getting to meet the isolated folk, than receiving the powerful artifact.

  “So now that the search for Horace's killer has failed, your father wants my help in finding the diamonds?” guessed Baymar.

  “Not exactly.” Shomnath gave his best impression of innocence, failing miserably.

  “What exactly do you mean, not exactly?”

  “My father decided not to delve any further into the subject. He says a dead wizard’s theory is not reason enough to start an entire crusade.”

  “A dead wizard’s theory? Did he read the same scroll you showed me?” Baymar walked over and plopped into his chair, as if the gravity of the situation took a physical toll on his body. “Not enough reason? We're talking about a weapon strong enough to bring the city of Somerlund to its knees, nay, to its grave. We can’t afford to have those diamonds fall into the wrong hands.”

  “You don’t have to tell me! I’ve spent hours trying to make my father see the same point.” Shomnath shook his head and exhaled, obviously exhausted with the subject. “He is so occupied with taxes and political quarrels that his head hasn’t come out of his ass for years.”

  “What about the murder? What is the king’s theory there?” asked Baymar. The young man's attitude towards his father piqued Baymar's curiosity momentarily but he dismissed the thought for now.

  “Coincidence, a robbery,” he sighed, “and that there's no way to prove anything.”

  “That is the problem with our race,” Baymar waved his hands out in submission, “we insist on being so reactive, when it’s wiser and by far easier to be proactive.”

  “So,” Shomnath broke the cleric's pondering silence, not wanting to stray from the poi
nt, “I decided to form a party myself. We can travel to where the scroll was found, and maybe find some other clue. For all we know, Ambrosia hid them in a nearby cave.”

  “How will we even find this place? I hope a map came with the scroll.” Baymar was getting a clear picture of the obstacles lying ahead of them.

  “Oh, that’s the easy part,” he said.

  Shomnath raised his left hand from under his cloak, and pulled off the long leather glove that was on it. It went past his elbow, a glove commonly worn by archers. There was obviously some sort of armor underneath, and once the archery mitt was completely off a slightly shorter, shimmering, golden gauntlet sat in its place. It sent reflective light bouncing all over the walls as well as the face of a stunned Baymar.

  “I’m the one who found the scroll,” the prince chimed with his boyish grin.

  “My word! Is that General Bryon's gauntlet?” asked Baymar as he rose to admire, as well as inspect the fabled glove. “Do you have the rest of his armor?”

  “Actually, this was the only piece that wasn’t horribly scratched or bent beyond use, and was the only piece I kept for myself.” He waved it around, adding a few punches at an invisible foe, obviously proud of his shiny glove. The light from the lantern beamed off the gauntlet, splattering every surface around them with glowing, dancing dots. “The rest I turned in for study. Again, it was all given to your friend Horace.”

  “For Horace to horde? What a waste.”

  “A waste?”

  “Do you realize how much society could profit from understanding enchantments such as the one bestowed on the General's armor? Instead, it's just another enchantment that will never escape the guild's pit of forgotten secrets. I’m sure it will serve the military well, but imagine bridges or buildings that don’t collapse, or even plumbing that could stand the test of time. Do you know why the public never benefits from such enchantments?”