The Doom Brigade

by Don Perrin

  Auger set down the lamb and stood gazing at it hungrily. Bleating plaintively, the lamb piddled on the floor.

  “Oh, thanks, Auger! Thanks loads!” Selquist glared around. “Just what we need to improve the decor around here, the pungent smell of lamb piss. Why in the name of Reorx did you bring that beast inside the house? Take it out and put it in the pen, then get something to clean that up. You two, open the crate, and let’s see what we have.”

  “Steel coins,” said Pestle hopefully.

  “Jewels,” said his brother Mortar, working on the lock.

  The lock gave with a snap.

  “Shovels,” said Selquist, peering down. “Also picks and a saw. Come now,” he added, when he saw the brothers scowl in disappointment. “You didn’t really expect we’d find a king’s ransom stashed in a draconian shed? Those scaly louts wouldn’t be hanging around this god-forsaken valley if they had money. Heck no. They’d be whooping it up in Sanction.”

  “What are they doing here, if comes to that?” Pestle demanded. He was in a bad mood.

  “I know,” said Mortar, looking very solemn. “They’ve come here to die.”

  “Balderdash!” Selquist glanced around to make certain they were alone. He lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you why they’re here. They’re on a mission from the Dark Queen.”

  “Truly?” Pestle asked, awed.

  “Of course.” Selquist straightened, scratching reflectively at his scraggly beard, which had once been likened by his own mother to a growth of fungus on a rock. “What other possible reason could there be?”

  “Mine,” said Mortar stubbornly.

  But the other two laughed at him derisively and began hauling tools out of the crate. The tools were not of draconian make or design, which meant that they had been originally stolen from the dwarven village. Selquist and his friends had simply stolen them back, a proceeding that was not unusual. After twenty-some years of raiding, most objects belonging to the dwarves and the draconians had changed hands more often than gifts at a kender wedding.

  “Not bad,” Pestle said to his brother. “We can sell these for ten steel. They’re Thorbardin-made and good quality.”

  Very little was manufactured in Celebundin. The town had a forge and a competent smith, but he made tools for building, not digging or fighting. Most of the dwarves’ weapons were either purchased, bartered, or stolen from their richer, safer, and bitterly resented cousins, the dwarves of the mighty underground fastness of Thorbardin.

  “We can either sell them to the Thane or we can sell them to travelers on the road north. What do you think?” Selquist asked.

  Mortar gave the matter serious consideration. “Who is going to buy shovels and picks and a saw while they’re on the way to Solace? A roving band of goblin road workers? No, it’ll have to be the Thane.”

  Mortar always had a good sense for the market. Selquist agreed. Pestle raised an objection.

  “Someone’s bound to recognize these and claim them. Then the thane will make us give them back.”

  At the sound of the dreadful word “give” the dwarves shuddered. The brothers looked to Selquist, who was the acknowledged brains of the group.

  “I’ve got it!” he said, after a moment’s thoughtful pause. “We’ll take that little pissy lamb and make a present of it to the High Thane’s daughter. We’ll look like heroes! After that, if there’s any dispute, the High Thane will be bound to side with us.”

  Pestle and Mortar considered this option and pronounced it feasible. Auger, who had just come back inside, glared at them, narrow-eyed.

  “What’d you say you were going to with the lamb?”

  Selquist told him the plan, adding modestly. “It was my idea.”

  Auger muttered something beneath his breath.

  “What did you say?” Selquist asked. “It sounded like ‘lamb chops.’ ”

  “It was lamb chops! You’re giving our supper away to the High Thane’s little brat!”

  “You should think less of your stomach,” Selquist said in moral tones. “And more of the Cause. We need all the money we can raise for our little expedition.”

  Selquist quenched the light and walked majestically out the door, accompanied by Pestle and Mortar. Auger trailed behind, carrying the lamb.

  Auger knew all about the Cause.

  The only Cause Selquist ever promoted was Selquist.

  Chapter Four

  The Hall of the Thanes was located in the center of Celebundin and sounded a lot grander than it was really was. The main roads of the town ran from the meeting hall to the edge of town like the spokes on a wheel. Ring roads connected the spoke roads, and the dwarves’ dwellings were built in between. The town had no wall, but every building was made of stone, each constructed like a small fort.

  The hill dwarves of Celebundin didn’t like being cooped up inside a wall. Walls reminded them of their Thorbardin cousins. Reminded the hill dwarves of the terrible days after the Cataclysm, when the mountain dwarves had shut the gates of the walls of Thorbardin in the faces of their beloved cousins, leaving the hill dwarves out in the wilderness to starve.

  Today, the Hall of the Thanes—in reality, a blockhouse about the size of four dwarf houses put together—was filled with dwarves, standing room only. Selquist, his friends, and the lamb squeezed their way through the entrance in the back and pushed and shoved their way forward.

  “Excuse me, pardon me, mind my foot!” Selquist prodded and poked the dwarves blocking his path. When they saw who it was, his fellow dwarves made sour grimaces, as if they’d mistakenly taken a big gulp of green beer.

  “Who is it? What’s going on?” the High Thane inquired mildly. He was a kindly dwarf, a baker by trade, who took a hopeful view of the future and, in consequence, always looked vaguely disappointed.

  “It’s Selquist, the Expediter!” someone said, sneering.

  The High Thane’s face took on a pained expression. He had once been hopeful about Selquist, but that hope had been dashed about a hundred years previous.

  “Selquist,” he said, “whatever it is you’re selling, we’re not interested. We did quite well for ourselves tonight.”

  The High Thane indicated the pile before him: six bags of flour, a sack of bread, an ox-plow, and fourteen empty dwarf spirit kegs. To the side, near the exit, two full-grown sheep stood, eyeing the crowd with trepidation

  “Congratulations,” Selquist said. Turning around, he snagged Pestle, who had become mired in the crowd, and extricated him. “Since I see so much wealth here, I guess you won’t be interested in the little gift I was bringing. I had heard,” Selquist added in a flight of inspiration, “that it was your dear daughter Sugarpie’s Day of Life-gift.”

  The other dwarves standing around looked stricken, all of them thinking in panic that they’d missed the High Thane’s daughter’s Life-gift Day and wondering how they could make up for the oversight.

  Selquist presented Pestle, who presented the lamb.

  The High Thane blinked. Behind him, a chubby youngster, who had been raised on her father’s baked goods and who resembled nothing so much as a puff pastry, made animate, lurched forward, hands outstretched.

  “Baa-baa. Me want!”

  “But, Precious,” admonished the High Thane, eyeing Selquist with a certain amount of suspicion borne of long acquaintance, “it isn’t your Life-gift Day. Your Day was two months ago.”

  The dwarves standing around Selquist started to breathe freely again.

  Sugarpie glowered and stomped her small foot. “It is my Day. Me want baa-baa!”

  Her face crumpled. Two tears—squeezed out with much effort—trickled down the fat cheeks. She flung herself on the floor, and those dwarves standing in the neighborhood stepped backed up a pace or two. Sugarpie’s temper tantrums were known and respected for miles.

  “Don’t disappoint the dear child,” Selquist said kindly. Bending down, he gave her a pat on the head and whispered encouragement. “More tears, kid. More tears.”r />
  Standing beside the High Thane, his wife—a formidable woman with impressive side-whiskers—shook those side-whiskers reproachfully at her husband. He quailed beneath them.

  “Thank you, Selquist. We’ll … uh … take the lamb.”

  The High Thane accepted the animal, transferring it to his daughter, who flung her arms around the creature in a hug that nearly choked it.

  Pestle, watching, licked his lips and thought regretfully of mint jelly.

  Task completed, Selquist bowed to the High Thane, then made his way back through the crowd, aiming for the huge keg of nut-ale, which occupied a prominent place in one corner of the Hall. Before he reached it, however, a hand caught hold of the collar of his tunic, giving it an expert twist. Selquist was suddenly nose to nose with the grizzled, gray-haired, fierce war chief of the settlement.

  “Contrary to your opinion, Master Selquist”—the war chief was red with fury—“we do not run the raids on the draconian camp for the benefit of you and your thieving scamps! It’s us who take the risks, and, by Reorx, I’m getting sick and tired of seeing your skinny butt disappear through a crack in the wall when my brave lads are getting their brains knocked out!”

  “No great loss there,” Selquist muttered.

  “What was the that?” The war chief dragged Selquist closer.

  “I said, ‘you’re the boss, Moorbrain.’ ” Selquist squirmed, trying to free himself.

  “It’s Moorthane!” the war chief thundered. “My name is Moorthane!” He gave Selquist a shake. “Whatever you took, you bring to the High Thane to be distributed to those dwarves who are most needy.”

  “Fine, Moorbrain,” said Selquist politely. “You go to that dear, sweet little child and tell her that you’re taking her wee lamby away.”

  The war chief paled. Draconians with six-foot, saw-toothed, poisoned-edged swords were nothing compared to Sugarpie.

  “Just heed my warning, you Daergar whelp,” Moorthane growled, emphasizing his words with an extra twist on the collar, which left Selquist momentarily speechless. “I don’t ever want to see you on a raid again. If I do, I’ll bring a motion to have you Cast Out!”

  The threat was a terrible one. A dwarf who is “Cast Out” is forever banished from his home and his clan. He becomes an exile, a wanderer over the face of the land. A Cast Out may be taken in by another clan in some other part of Ansalon, but he will have no voting rights within the clan, will be viewed as essentially living on its charity.

  Moorthane dropped Selquist to the floor. Rounding on his hobnailed heel, the war chief stalked off.

  Selquist smiled at those dwarves standing nearby, who had been watching with stern approval. He straightened and smoothed his maltreated tunic. “Nice weather we’re having,” he said. “A bit hot, and I suppose we could use some rain, but otherwise great for outdoor activities.”

  The other dwarves, glowering, turned their backs. He heard the word “Daergar” repeated among them, but that was an old story, one in which he’d lost interest a long time ago. This threat to have him Cast Out. That was new. Admittedly Moorbrain was mostly blubber and bluster. A motion to have Selquist Cast Out of his clan would require a unanimous vote of all the dwarven heads of household—an unlikely occurence, though few of them numbered Selquist as a friend or even someone to whom they might stop to give a drink of water if he were dying of thirst in the desert.

  Selquist looked in vain for his companions. Upon the arrival of the war chief, the three had blended in with the crowd, leaving their leader to his fate.

  Selquist poured himself a large mug of nut-ale from the huge keg in the back and settled down to put Moorbrain out of his mind and enjoy himself. The meeting droned on for another hour, as the dwarves discussed how the booty should be divided and how they were going to defend the village from the inevitable return raid of the draconians.

  Certain that the war chief was fully occupied with matters of state, Selquist’s three companions emerged from the thickest part of the crowd and came to join him.

  “Did I hear Moorthane right?” Mortar demanded, aghast. “Did he threaten to have you Cast Out?”

  “Bah!” Selquist brushed it aside. “He can try, but he’ll never get the votes. My mother will stick up for me, for one.”

  The other three eyed him glumly.

  “Oh, sure she would!” Selquist protested.

  “Speaking of your mother, he called you a Daergar,” said Auger in low voice. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “No,” Selquist said lightly. “Why should it? It’s true. Half-true, at any rate. I’m half-Daergar. And I’m proud of my heritage. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you that the Daergar are the most feared of all the dwarves, noted across Ansalon for being powerful warriors.”

  The Daergar—or dark dwarves—were also noted for being murderers and thieves, but Selquist’s companions wisely refrained from pointing this out.

  No one knew much about Selquist’s father, including his mother. Having imbibed a large quantity of dwarf-spirits during a Forge-day celebration, she had danced off drunkenly into the woods by herself. She had returned several days later with the incoherent tale of having partied with wood sprites. A search of the vicinity by her father turned up bootprints that were larger and heavier than those generally left by wood sprites, plus a knife and a quiver of arrows of Daergar make and design. When, several months later, the dwarf maid gave birth to a child, it was noted that he was also of Daergar make and design. Since the baby was half-Niedar, the clan accepted him, but they made it clear that they didn’t have to like it.

  They’d gone on making that clear for the next hundred years of Selquist’s life. And now Moorthane was threatening to have him Cast Out. Oh, well. Selquist hadn’t planned on hanging around this backwater settlement much longer anyway.

  Under cover of the hubbub in the Hall, the four dwarves stood close together, while Selquist issued orders.

  “Mortar, the High Thane likes you, plus you’re his fourth cousin twice removed on his grand-uncle’s side. You go to the High Thane’s bakery tomorrow and sell him the tools.”

  Mortar nodded. He was the only one of the four whom the High Thane even remotely trusted.

  “Don’t take any trades,” Selquist cautioned. “We want steel, not day-old bread. And we don’t—”

  They were interrupted by the breakup of the meeting. The warriors headed for the keg of nut-ale, filling their mugs and then lacing them with dwarf-spirits. The warriors would spend the rest of the day bragging about their exploits during the raid. Four of the women marched off, going to collect their husbands, who had been left behind at the draconian settlement. Two well-armed warriors went with the women to ensure their safety, more from the occasional savage animal in the area than from the draconians.

  Selquist turned to find the High Thane standing behind him. “So, Selquist,” said the High Thane, stroking his beard, which was perpetually streaked with flour, “what prompted you to such a display of generosity tonight? I trust,” he added hopefully, but without much confidence, “that this means you are planning to forge a new hammer, as the saying goes.”

  Selquist smiled. “I am merely fulfilling my moral obligation to the community, High Thane, as would any other productive member of this clan.”

  “I wish I could believe that, Selquist.” The High Thane gave a pious sigh. “You’re half-Neidar, after all. But I can’t forget that your other half is Daergar.”

  Selquist’s smile broadened. “Something I’m never allowed to forget myself,” he said pleasantly. “Permit me this gesture tonight, O High Thane, and perhaps return the favor sometime. I do hope your daughter enjoys the lamb.”

  “I know I would have,” Auger muttered. “Roasted.”

  Selquist trod on his friend’s foot to silence him. “Could I offer you a mug of nut-ale, Respected High Thane?”

  Selquist drank a mug of ale with the Thane, just to be companionable, but as soon as politely possible, he ditched the old fart and, round
ing up his friends with a glance, left the Hall.

  * * * * *

  The Celebundin dwarves belonged to the Neidar Clan of dwarves. After the Dwarfgate War—a war brought on by the refusal of the Hilar dwarves to assist their kinsmen following the Cataclysm—the Niedar dwarves were forever barred from the hallowed halls of Thorbardin. The Neidar seat on the Council of Thanes within Thorbardin now stands empty.

  All that was ancient history. Various parties, attempting to foster peace among the inhabitants of Ansalon, have suggested that the mountain dwarves, if properly approached, would graciously allow their kinsmen to return to the mountain. The hill dwarves have always replied that they would rather be strapped to a gnomish device without benefit of earplugs than come crawling back to the ancestral home. Neider pride had never recovered from the insult and most likely never would.

  As for the Daergar, they had split off from the main clans in Thorbardin following an unsuccessful attempt to seize control from the Hilar. Delving even deeper into the labyrinthine caves of Thorbardin, the souls of the Daergar grew dark as their surroundings. The Daergar ruler is always the most powerful of the warriors of the clan and keeps his rule by staying alive. Daergar are excellent thieves and are known throughout dwarfdom as the most dexterous and dishonest of all dwarves, traits that Selquist had inherited.

  From an early age, he had shown a talent for what the kender term “borrowing.” Unlike a kender, Selquist knew full well how he came by his acquisitions and what to do with them once acquired.

  Selquist and Auger bid good-night to the brothers Pestle and Mortar and walked back to their own house. The two lived together as young bachelors, not yet having settled on wives. Auger fell in love about once a week, but when the word “marriage” was mentioned, he broke out in hives. Selquist had no time for dallying with the opposite sex. He had plans to make, profit to generate. This night, he was working on one of his best.

  Arriving at home, he unlocked the three locks, entered, lit the lamp, and settled down to work. This meant that he lounged in the best chair, while Auger sat at the desk and wrote down Selquist’s orders.