“No gnomes and no women! Watch yer’ choice potlicker!” Rallik cautioned with a wave of his warhammer. He looked to the north side, picking out the youngest dwarf he could see.
“I know the rules mugsnuzzler, I know em’ better than ye’ do! I pick, him! That one there, he be on yer’ side Rallik, the one with the blue sash n’ the beard!” Therrak could not choose the women, the minotaur looked too big and could likely drink a ton. He thought of testing Azenairk or Drodun, but the human man was the obvious victory.
“And I choose, that one there, young master Droghinn, new Marshall o’ the Northern Outguard Scouts!” Rallik pointed to his man, and the dwarves and gnomes all clustered to the center of the room in a wave of stampeding commotion.
“Vuumber, vuumber, vuumber!” The chant of war began, Saberrak and Shinayne dove for their weapons, as did Zen. Gwenneth backed up, ready to cast something or throw up, she still was not recovered from the speak-mead. James stood still, not sure why all the dwarves from the north side and their king were all pointing at him. The companions were ready, blades and weapons drawn, stances set for a battle, even James Andellis finally grabbed his blade from the pile.
“What they doin’?” The High Hammer Brunnwik looked to them, then to Drodun Anduvann.
“Oh, oh, no! Not that kind o’ war me friends, naye, naye.” Drodun walked a few steps and eased them down, then waited until they relaxed and put their wares of war back to the table in the pile. Everyone was again staring at them.
“Sir James, ye’ are the chosen defender o’ King Rallik o’ the South and the Mountain. Ye’ have to take three meads, then three flasks o’ whiskey, faster than Marshall Droghinn there, or King Therrak wins. Ye’ can’t puke it, drop it, spill it, or stop. First one done, wins the war. Then the other king cannot be insultin’ the other for a week. Ye’ ready?” Drodun looked concerned, knowing that a human would likely not win over a dwarf, even a young one like Marshall Droghinn Duunimer.
“I cannot.” James thought of the wine, his pain, his past.
“Ye’ have to, it would be the worst insult ye’ could give to the kings, and to yer’ friends.” Drodun pleaded, not wanting any further fighting today or any more embarrassment. Everyone in the room was silent in stare at what looked to be, a human knight reluctant to drink in the very important traditional dispute between the kings of Marlennak. They had stopped actual fighting between families and clans long ago, this was their only way. They all began to whisper.
“I will not drink.”
“I will stand for him.” Saberrak stepped up to Drodun.
“Ye’ cannot, ye’ were not chosen. You neither Azenairk, nor you ladies. Law is the law.” The priest of the Cracked Wall hung his head. Never once had someone refused the war of the mug and flask in Marlennak. The whispers grew from throne to throne, each side talking louder.
Alden help me.
James’ forehead was perspiring, his hairline and temples as well, and his left hand began to shake and tremble ever so slightly.
Alden, send me a sign, something.
“This here, is Sir James Andellis, Knight of Southwind Keep, Knight of Chazzrynn, and a very decorated soldier! Help him take the table for King Rallik now will ye’?!” Drodun did a bit of motivating, a little boost to the morale of this man.
Alden, anything. Woman’s voice, someone, something, please…
“Very well, this one time, and one time only.” James stepped forward to the table of mugs and flasks, face to face with Droghinn Duunimer, Marshall of the Northern Outguard Scout who defended King Therrak. Cheers went up to storm the ceilings, the stone shook, and the mugs rattled. James faked a smile, receiving a grim stare from his redbearded staunch opponent in return, then the same from his four friends. He knew exactly what they would say, what they were thinking, and what terrible past incidents at the hands of the bottle that were on their minds at this very moment.
The mead had an odor yet he could smell the spirits inside just the same. The whiskey flasks were open and the aroma of strong liquor hit his nose. His eyes relaxed, his heart fluttering like a hummingbird in heat, James felt it. The overwhelming powerlessness that told him it was fine, he could do this, he wanted to do this. He lifted his mug, same as Droghinn standing across from him, he raised it high to King Rallik behind him. The dwarves cheered and yelled, stomped and pounded, and James did not look to his friends.
The door opened, letting a fresh rush of air into the warming room, then a battle axe, a spear, and lastly a steel shield slammed ontop of the weapon pile on the left table. James turned, as did everyone else in the room. A dwarf in plate armor took a mug, drank it, and glared at Droghinn Duunimer.
Slam
“Ahhh, I see I do, aye. This is how it be then? The men o’ the North Outguard Scout be tryin’ to stab a cheap victory with their new Marshall! We all knows the Southern Outguard be the real dwarves o’ Marlennak, aye there Droghinn! How about ye’ step up against a real Marshall, if ye’ not be yellow n’ green all on the backside then?!” Tannek Anduvann, Marshall of the Southern Outguard Scout slammed his mug down, putting a new crack to the stone table to his right.
More pounding, stomping feet, rallying cries for Tannek to be allowed in the stead of the visiting human from Chazzrynn. The south side wanted their Marshall to step in, the north side said nay and wished for James to stay and take the table with Droghinn. The north wanted victory. The kings pounded their weapons to their thrones and all went quiet.
“Yer’ call, Marshall Droghinn, ye’ decide who be yer’ challenger then.” King Therrak nodded.
The pause lasted forever it seemed. Droghinn staring at James, then the grim look of Tannek staring back, and the moments turned long indeed. Victory over a human, or a challenge of honor against an older dwarf, north versus south, his pride hung in the balance.
“North Outguard don’t be fearin’ any scouts o’ the sissy south! Aye, I take yer’ challenge Tannek Anduvann! For King Therrak!” Droghinn raised his mug to the king behind him.
James was still, frozen with the mug next to his face, ready to drink. He felt a hand take his arm lower, Saberrak’s hand. Then the mug was removed from his grip, Zen took it and handed it to Tannek. James came to, snapped back to reality all of the sudden, he smiled, waved, and walked back by his friends.
Thank you, whoever you are, thank you
“That was close, stay back here with me, knight. These dwarves seem to take the drink seriously, and you need to take staying away from it just the same.” Saberrak gave him a pat on the shoulder, but left his hand there.
“Thank you, Saberrak. Dually noted.” James got half smiles and second glances from Zen, Shinayne, and Gwenneth. He knew no one was as relieved as he was to be standing back next to the minotaur.
The first mugs went up and down fast, faster than any but the dwarves of Marlennak could swallow the thick speak-mead of blackened spirits. The second, then the third, each dwarf pounding his empty to the stone table harder each time. Tannek had a half second lead, the younger Marshall grabbed for a flask just as his opponent slammed the first whiskey container down. The second flask went up to Tannek’s lips and beard, the dwarves of the north pounded the tables and cheered. Then the third whiskey raised and he stopped. Droghinn Duunimer had just finished his first flask of whiskey, he was slowing, in obvious trouble as sweat appeared on his brow. He belched loudly, paused, it looked as if something more than air wished to surface. His trembling hand went to lift flask number two, and it was grabbed.
“North Guard ain’t nothin’ but shart, boy! Let me show ye’ how tis’ done then!” Tannek Anduvann drank his last flask, then drank the second and the third of Droghinn Duunimer. He slammed them down, a second apart, each steel container echoing above the roaring crowd. “Ahhhh haaaahhh! For King Rallik o’ the South and the Mountains!” The men of the south hollered with an intense ferocity that was as if they had just won a war.
Droghinn hung his head, held his stomach, and sat down t
o rest. King Therrak lowered his head as well, took his crown of spears off and rest in on the arm of his throne. The dwarves all mingled within minutes, no one recalling who was on which side after a few mugs and flasks tossed back and down. It was as if the end of the world was avoided by all and this was the celebration. Everyone had to yell to speak, even the kings themselves. The little gnomes never stopped moving in and out to refill.
Zen watched, smiling at it all, it reminded him of home, a bit escalated, but a dwarven kingdom it was without doubt. Saberrak shook his head, accepting a few mugs of mead himself, the taste did not bother him in the slightest. Water, refreshing water, was brought for James and the ladies. Everyone had been taking turns meeting and greeting the five travelers, they shook hands and gave big chested dwarven hugs, and all here seemed to forget the purpose of the meeting and the contest that had started the whole days’ affair.
“This is actually pleasant, once you get used to it, Zen.” Gwenneth watched some dance begin then a few more contests. The mead and playful antics had lightened her rigid demeanor.
“Agreed. And this drink is not that bad, I could get used to it.” Saberrak concurred.
“Without all the threats of violence, this sort of celebration reminds me of gatherings at home, in Kilikala. Well, outside in the fresh weather and with nature, that is. And, with refined foods and wine, and fruit. There is meditation too, and …nevermind. You understand, right Zen?” Shinayne was trying to think of home when two dwarves went tumbling and laughing over a table, brotherly fighting over a flask of whiskey.
“This is dwarven life. But, I understand elf, I do.” Zen grabbed a passing mug. He raised it to each king, then to the High Hammer Brunnwik, then to wherever Drodunn and Tannek Anduvann were in the middle of the room. He drank, savoring the speak-mead, and closed his eyes to think of Boraduum.
“So Zen, is this what it will be like when we find Kakisteele!?” James yelled from the crowds of joyous dancing and drinking.
Both kings looked up, then to each other. The High Hammer, all fifty or more dwarves, the two drunken Marshalls, even father Drodunn. Zen spit the mead out onto the floor from sudden shock, his coughing and choking turned his face red. Saberrak grabbed James by the arm and squeezed, trying to hide what he was doing yet shut him up, forgetting he was three feet taller than any dwarf here.
“Ssshhh. Do not mention that here, James.” The gray minotaur whispered.
“Why not? He has the key and the deed, and we are all going together on---“ His arm was being crushed, he took the hint, everyone was listening. James was quiet.
“Father Thalanaxe, ye’ would not be goin’ to search for the lost mines to the west, would ye’?” King Rallik of the South questioned rather calmly.
“Uhhm…no, I was just…I…had told James here that…dammit…yes, yes King Rallik, yes we are.” Zen hung his head. His face was red, his heart had stopped, then it beat again. He knew that every eye in here was on him, they had met him, and he had kept it secret. He felt sorry for his friends as well, for they too would endure the ridicule.
At first it was whispers. Then commotion, translating from Agarian to Dwarven tongues, then someone broke into laughter. Just one, then the rest in turn. Kings from thrones of two, priests of Vundren, Marshalls and soldiers, noble dwarven men, even the little half sized offspring gnomes piped in with quips and laughter. They pointed, slapped their knees, fell down on the ground, and even turned their backs as if the five of them were not there. Some shook their heads in disbelief, others baah’ed and naye’ed that it could not be true.
Azenairk knew his friends were standing around him, he felt them there. Still, he would keep his eyes closed until it was over, or tolerable enough to say his farewells. He had seen his father and even his father’s father, too into their mugs, receive the same reaction in Boraduum, several times. It was ridicule and humilitation he did not care to endure. He looked to Gwenneth, she was standing proud with him, as was Saberrak. Shinayne looked angry, not at him, but at these dwarves. James, his head hung low in the deafening laughter, low from having misspoken on accident. Zen was grateful for his friends, he smiled, and closed his eyes to wait a bit longer for it to be over.
Ye’ be serious? Kakisteele, they lookin’ for it?
The mines, the ones that don’t exist?
Him? He follows the drunkard’s fairy tale he does?
Poor women, they all be goin’ to die then?
Baah, waste o’ time even seein’ em here!
Ain’t nothin’ there, fool of a priest!
Sad it is, folk still believe in that shart n’ story.
Send em’ out, get it over with then!
The hammer and axe of the two kings could barely be heard as they tried to stop it. The High Hammer raised his hands for silence. Nothing, they had too much mead and whiskey, even the guards at the door began to talk behind them. Tempers brewed, anger boiled, the hospitality turned into a spectacle of five travelers obviously on a journey that no one approved of. No one could get a word in past the barrage of accusation and offensive queries.
Azenairk was thankful that almost all of it was in dwarven, no one but he could make out what was being said besides a name and curse here and there. Then he felt something on his waist, something in his pouch, and he went to grab her arm. Too late.
Shinayne leapt up on a table, reached down for a mug, lightning elven speed beyond anyone here. She raised it amidst the laughter and finger pointing, and drank, drank it all, and threw the mug to the stone where it bounced and rolled until there was silence. Her face composed somehow against her stomach, she raised the leather pouch in the air, producing an iron box from inside, and she opened it, staring at the silent dwarves of Marlennak.
“Shinayne, no! No, do not---“ Zen reached for her legs, but she was too quick.
She raised an ancient key, draconic writing upon it, rusty and heavy in her hand. “This, my rude and intolerable hosts, would be the key to those mines that do not exist.” Her aquamarine eyes flared and stared in anger at those gathered, even the kings on the thrones, even the priests. She put the key back and pulled out the bag and the rolled ancient parchment.
“And this, I was told, is the dust of your ancients to pour down the throat of some demon that guards Kakisteele. And here, the deed that passes the ownership, several millennia old, with my friend’s family crest upon the top.” All eyes looked, dwarves rubbing them to get a clearer view, heavy breath and quiet translating in the thronesroom. She heard Zen’s head thud on the stone table behind her, heard her insides roiling with the speak-mead, but she cared not. Shinayne could not allow her friend to simply lie down and take such verbal abuse.
“And where did ye’ be getting’ that then, elf? Did the priest tell ye’ that, tell ye’ it existed then? Baah!” King Therrak of the North pounded his axe tip on the stone.
“Tis’ a fool’s errand, a deathwish in any regard, would that it even existed over two millennia later. Ye’ be a fool of an elf to follow, and yer’ friends too.” King Rallik thudded his hammer. The crowd began to talk, then louder, without the insults as much as a true conversation. They ignored the golden skinned elf standing atop their drinking table.
She took another mug, drank it, hearing the sighs from Zen below. Shinayne tossed it to the floor, empty. “Then I am a fool, but I will cross steel with any dwarf who would say that to my friends, or up close to my eyes. I have had this confirmed, by the dragon Ansharr of Soujan Mountain, it does exist, and we are going. The next man who wishes an insult, can draw his blade and meet me outside this room.”
“Enough! Enough there elf, mind yer’ words. Therrak, ask yers to leave then, and I mine. Priests and High Hammer stay, and these travelers with father Thalanaxe. The rest, out. It be a private matter o’ the thrones as of now.” Rallik stood, walked to the center of the room, all bowing as he passed.
“Aye, out men, back to yer’ duties then. Me brother and I have some discussin’ on the matter.” Therrak sto
od, waving his hand and axe as the room emptied. He too, met in the center of the room. It was quiet now, very quiet.
Shinayne hopped off the table, her stomach ready to burst, her anger cooling. She handed the box to Zen, his head still face down on the table. She poked him, and he put out his hand for the rusty container with his family heirlooms.
“Sorry Zen, I felt it and ran with it. You know how I am, with you all the way to the end. I think I am going to be sick now.” She patted his bald head as he stood, then looked for where she could vomit the mead.
“Aye, ye’ deserve it.”
“Me too, my apologies. I should not have mentioned it.” James patted his shoulder too.
“Aye, ye’ should have kept yer’ lips shut.”
“I was supposed to tell them not to bring this up, right?” Saberrak lowered his horns a bit and looked to Zen.
“Aye, nicely done.”
“Forgot.” Saberrak smacked Zen’s armor in apology.
“Aye, I would be sayin’ so.”
Zen looked up to the dwarven kings, he bowed, holding the box with the key, the dust, and the deed to the lost mines of Kakisteele. He waited, silently sweating and exhausted.
“Oh, stand up then, last o’ the Thalanaxes. Let us see what ye’ have here on yer’ foolish journey. Surely Vundren brought ye’ here for a reason.” King Rallik looked to the box that his guest placed on the table.
“Tell us how ye’ have this then, from who gave it from whom n’ all that. Ye’ got yer’ attention now, spill it out then.” King Therrak looked at the old rusty iron box, surely ancient indeed.
“Ye’ really intent on heading west to find this then?” The High Hammer Brunnwik joined the table as well.
“Aye, aye we do.” Zen breathed deep, preparing to retell the tales from his father, father before that, and all that led he and his friends to this day here in Marlennak. He sat down, everyone gathering around, for it would take quite some time.
Tannek looked to Drodun, Drodun looked to Brunnwik, then they looked to the corner where the elf was vomiting up all the good speak-mead.
The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains Page 30