Avalore, against what he felt was his better judgment, agreed to have a leolf accompany him along his journey to find the skinder called Sharp. He exited Thirndor with no fervor or pomp; instead, he chose to sulk like a child, as his pride remained wounded from his prior altercation.
As he cleared the last small hills of Thirndor, the remnants of the mountains became just an extensive background to the wondrous sights of the dwarven forests. The path he followed initially led him down an old dirt pathway, deeper and deeper into the woods. The forest would have been dark were it not for the more than adequate amount of lanterns that lined the dirt road, providing light for all who traveled through the wood.
The glow, a soft yellow hue, flitting about the tree trunks and shrubs of the forest as Avalore continued onward, intent on reaching Vel Boramm and never returning.
As he walked, his elven eyes began to change their hue from the dark brown glow people were accustomed to looking at; in their place, a light green became visible. It was natural, of course, as elven eye colors were often known to change depending on the mood of the elf, though not every elf had the ability to perform such a feat.
Avalore’s ability to alter his eye color was the one benefit of his being in the elven army. After all, he offered no other positive reinforcement to their ranks. He was as brave as the biggest coward was, though his arrogance would beg to differ, and his tongue was more than capable of letting anyone within earshot know this.
Before leaving Thirndor, he changed his clothing so as not to be too hot while walking through the forests. Gone was his long fur coat, and in its place, he donned an all-white shirt and pants, made of longhaired rabbit’s fur. It would keep him warm enough, he thought, but he packed his fur coat just in case.
As he walked on, his gaze lifted to the skies, which were blotted out by the lush greens and yellows of the tree leaves that covered the road. Fireflies danced high above the lanterns’ lights, moving in a rhythm, which one could easily argue was a dance of some sort. For the first time in days, Avalore’s lips curved upwards and formed a smile. He actually loved the forest, and though he now wandered through one in the dwarven land, devoid of elven presence, he felt oddly at peace.
He stopped for a moment to stare at all the underbrush, taking in the vivid colors of the forest. He was so intent on looking at the various vines, leaves, and colors that he did not notice the pair of dwarves that walked up the path toward him. The leolf growled as the pair neared, snapping Avalore out of his temporary trance.
“Who are you?” Avalore demanded in the gruffest voice he could muster.
“We are just dwarves, young sire. We live in this forest. Who might you be?” the shorter of the two dwarves asked.
“I am Avalore, assistant to the elven king of Faswary, and I am on my way to Vel Boramm to conduct business.” Avalore looked around and saw no homes in sight, and became immediately tense at the prospect of possible trouble.
“An assistant to the elven king.” one of the dwarves quipped with a laugh.
“Sounds mightily important, it does!” the other joked in return.
“Tell me, you two live in the forest?” Avalore asked.
The elder dwarf nodded, his hands tucked behind his backside.
“Then where is your home? I see no houses of any kind.” Avalore placed his hand on the hilt of his dagger in his waistband. The two dwarves looked at one another and burst into laughter.
“For an elf, with all of that keen eyesight your kind speak about, you are definitely blind!” one of the dwarves said through a fit of laughter.
“Look at the forest, lad!” the other said and pointed toward one of the huge trees covered in moss. “Are you unable to see the door?” he asked.
Avalore took a second look, though he glanced at the two men every few seconds. It took him a moment before he realized what he had missed: the trees were homes. He finally noticed a dark door carved into the side of one of the trees. It was so well placed that one would not even notice it in passing by.
“I cannot believe I did not see that!” Avalore cried out, astonished.
“That is very remarkable craftsmanship, indeed!” he looked at the two dwarves as they stood next to him, their faces red with pride at their great work.
“Would you like to see the inside?” one asked.
“Well, I am in a bit of a hurry. Winter is near, though fall it seems has just begun. I really should not hesitate to get to my destination.”
He glanced over at their home once more before turning in a circle, slowly, to look at all the other trees in sight. It did not take him long to realize they were all homes of some sort.
“Although,” he muttered to himself, “a short break from walking would certainly be welcomed.”
“Very well then,” the older of the two dwarves said, “follow us, and you shall eat some flugendom soup tonight!”
Without another word spoken, the dwarves trudged into the thickly padded forest with Avalore and the leolf right behind them. Avalore thought them to be harmless dwarves, just happy to see someone new in the woods. He knew from listening to Fogrolir and the others that most travelers avoided the far northwest side of the forest, preferring instead to sail on either the ocean or flyover on the backside of a dragon.
As the men approached the gigantic tree, Avalore took notice of all the metal trinkets that lay about in the grass. He could tell right away that these dwarves were certainly metalworkers of some kind or another, and his curiosity piqued.
“What kind of metal work do you do?” he asked.
“Oh, a little of this and that. My brother and I are from Megh Borim; are you familiar with the city?”
“I am afraid I am not. I have only been in the city of Thirndor. I would rather not travel about in the dwarven kingdom, but my king has ordered that I do so at the behest of the Storm Rider leader, Fogrolir.”
The younger brother’s brow furrowed a bit:
“Fogrolir, you say? Hmm.” He pulled a small, ornate wooden smoke pipe from his pocket and lit it, puffing smoke in every direction.
“Forgive my brother, young sire. He fails to realize that not everyone cares to smell his stovepipe.”
Avalore smiled and nodded, “It is of no consequence to me, sir. The scent is rather pleasant, in fact.”
“Too kind, yes indeed. You are too kind, young elf.” The older brother rapped on the wooden door in a certain way, and a small metal hand loop popped out from a slit in the door’s frame. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open.
“Welcome to our humble abode, Avalore, assistant to the king of Faswary.”
Avalore ducked his head to make it inside the home and realized immediately that the structure was enormous on the inside and he was able to stand fully without fear of hitting his head on the ceiling. As he looked around, he found the room itself to be quaint; though the furnishings inside were disheveled.
Books upon books were stacked in one area; the stack followed the roundabout shape of the tree. A hand carved desk which resembled a half moon sat next to the piles of books; feathered quills and various bottles of ink covered the desk, while pieces of parchment hung over the side as if they were teetering on whether or not to fall over the edge.
Various sized matki and budga were strewn about the home, no doubt filled with water for cooking and drink. Avalore, being fully cognizant of the look in his eyes, smiled as he took in all of the miscellaneous items, gadgets and such within the main room of the dwarves’ home.
The elder dwarf spied Avalore staring at a stack of small metal rods:
“Those are pieces of black iron, found in the caverns under Gornfurum. They are what we use in most of our metal works. I can take a short piece of black iron, say ye’ long,” he held his fingers roughly six inches apart, “and turn it into a bar almost as tall as yourself, and so sturdy that even a leolf cannot run through it without a near fatal encounter.”
The look on Avalore’s face let the dwarves know right a
way that he was impressed by their skill. Avalore knelt down in front of a small stone fireplace; he admired the intricate etchings in the rock, which he had no doubt took a countless amount of hours to produce. He took his finger and ran it along one of the grooves, following the curves as the design made its way upward toward the ceiling.
“Fascinating, I dare say!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, it is just everyday work to us, Avalore. Nothing of particular note; just standard dwarven work.”
“Yes, but this somehow looks to be immaculate compared to what I have seen in Thirndor.” He turned to face the dwarves. The younger dwarf motioned for him to take a seat on the couch, which was carved straight out of the side of the tree itself.
“Well, that is because it is more immaculate. Every dwarf has their own specialty, you see. In Gornfurum, the dwarves specialize in making traps and farming goods; the people are great at both, and you will find no other dwarf in the land that can make a trap like those made in their city. In Megh Borim, where we are from, our specialty is ironworks. We can make just about anything your heart desires from heated metal, and etchings, detailed carving and the like are what we do best. Like I said, every city has its own unique brand of work.”
Avalore nodded his understanding, for Faswary was somewhat similar, though not as cut off as Umuosmar. As he sat on the wooden couch, he became accustomed to the heat and the smell of the stovepipe’s tobacco, and he quite liked the home.
“Would you like some of our flugendom soup now?” the younger dwarf asked.
“It would be rude and inconsiderate of me to say no, though I am not very hungry. Perhaps just a small taste is in order?”
The younger dwarf nodded his agreement. He turned and rapped his hand against the wall, and moments later, the wall slid open and revealed a staircase going down below the earth. Avalore watched as the dwarf descended the stairs until his dark gray hat and black hair were no longer in sight.
“Living in a tree does have its drawbacks,” the other dwarf stated. The words startled Avalore as he was still staring intently at the staircase. “Our main room is above ground, but everything else is below, where the sunlight never reaches. Not that it matters, as the sun hardly ever pierces the thick canopy above anyway!”
The elder dwarf, Avalore noticed, had hair that was black with streaks of light gray mixed in. His nose was fat and stubby, almost as though it had been smashed in a fight. His beard, though a dark black, was unruly and had the appearance of an electrical experiment gone wrong, as the hair darted in every direction with no sense of guidance.
“Do you practice magic?” Avalore asked.
The elder dwarf’s dark eyes fixed upon Avalore, his pupils slowly retreated until they were just slits of their former appearance.
“No. Not anymore, that is. We have not practiced magic in over a hundred years. Magic brings trouble, and we do not need nor want any trouble.”
His voice was gruff, and Avalore feared he had struck a chord of disdain and pure hatred within the elder dwarf.
“I am sorry if I offended you, good sir.” He said.
The dwarf raised his hand and put it back down at his side:
“Eh. It is not your fault. No harm was done! Now, where in the world did my brother go? He should have returned by now.”
Without waiting for an answer, the elder dwarf scurried down the stairs as he called out to his brother. Avalore continued to sit on the wooden couch as he stared at the various trinkets in the room, admiring everything around him.
‘Maybe not all dwarves are bad,’ he thought to himself as he spotted what appeared to be multiple vials for experiments. ‘Perhaps Fogrolir is just an ass, as is my brother-in-law. It is no wonder the two get on so well; they are both overbearing and rude. At least Vulred is an actual king, even if he did have to marry my sister to become one. Fogrolir, however, he is just a dragon trainer and not a splendid one at that.’ “Hmpf!” he said aloud.
He was so fixated on his thoughts that he did not smell the flugendom soup as its vapors traveled up the stairway in front of the younger dwarf. The dwarf stepped out of the stairwell and into the living room and perceived their houseguest was staring at the elixir vials on the small stone table.
“Medicine.” The dwarf said.
“Huh?” Avalore snapped back to reality.
“Medicine. The vials you are staring at on the shelf, they are used to make medicine.”
“Oh. Um, my apologies. I must’ve been daydreaming for a moment.”
“Not to worry, Avalore. Here is your soup, and my brother will be up momentarily with soup for both him and me.”
The dwarf motioned for Avalore to take the soup, and so he did so. It smelled exquisite. Chicken permeated through the rest of the soup, the smell of it instantly warmed Avalore more than he already was. The soup appeared thick and hearty, with peas and small doughy balls mixed in.
“What are those?” Avalore asked as he pointed to one of the balls.
“Kreplach. It is dough, almost like dwarven bread. It is chewy but easily devoured, and it brings out the flavor in the chicken quite nicely! Go ahead, have a taste!”
Avalore took the wooden spoon in the bowl and moved it about. He pulled it out took a bite of the soup. It was hot to the touch, as steam rolled off the top of the soup, but its taste was fantastic!
He had devoured the soup before he realized he had not waited for the elder dwarf to return with soup for him and his brother.
“Oh no, my apologies! I did not mean to be rude!” he said as he placed the bowl in his lap.
The dwarf just laughed a deep, hearty laugh and shook his head.
“It is quite all right! You have never had flugendom before! It is only natural that your heart would want to eat it all as soon as you tasted it!” he continued to laugh, which put Avalore at ease. Moments later, his brother came through the doorway with their soup, and they ate and continued to chat.
After a while, the younger dwarf grabbed what appeared to be an instrument of some kind, made entirely of wood, except for the metal buttons that were pressed to uncover the various holes in the wood. Avalore did not know what the instrument was called, but he had seen it in a book before. An instrument, he recalled, that was mainly used by humans. To see one in dwarven hands immediately piqued his interest.
“What it is that called?” he asked.
“Well, humans call it a clarinet. However, it is not a clarinet in dwarven hands. You see, I made this with my own hands, and added a few more holes for extra notes. I find it to be really quite smart, as you will see.”
The elder dwarf shook his head: “He finds everything to be clever, except things that are indeed smart.”
“Oh hush, brother.” He pointed to Avalore, “now then, go ahead and make yourself comfortable and get ready for a show like you have never seen before!”
Avalore eased down on the couch, and for the first time, he realized the wood was not hard, but rather soft like a pillow. He glanced down, pressed his hand against the seat and found that it was, in fact, a pillow, made in the exact same color as the wood carved couch itself. He smiled and turned his attention back to the younger dwarf.
“Are you ready?” the dwarf asked.
Avalore nodded and watched as the dwarf placed something colored at the top of the instrument and set it afire. As it burned slowly, the dwarf began to play the instrument.
As he played a slow, soothing melody, colored smoke billowed forth from the instrument and began to tell a story as the colors took shape and became animals, people, and more. Avalore watched on as if he were in a trance as red smoke turned into deer and galloped about the room. Shades of green smoke transformed into various birds and flew in circles over the deer.
His mind converted into a myriad of images as his eyes looked on. So entrenched in the story that unfolded in front of him, he did not notice as the elder dwarf brought forth an instrument made of pure brass. Images spewed from the sound hole of the horned instrumen
t as its sweet, engulfing melody joined that of his brother’s device.
The deer suddenly scattered as a maelstrom of dark red smoke sprang forth into the room. The smoke popped and a shower of what appeared to be little fireworks fell to the floor, where they turned into battlements of dwarves, ogres, giants, elves, and a creature Avalore had never seen before: cyclops.
The music sped up, and Avalore’s heart began to race as he realized the story being told was the war that was sure to come soon to Thirndor. He watched intently and hoped upon hope that the images would give him the answers to the war. A plume of yellow smoke swirled out of one of the saxophone-like instruments, and as it hit the wooden floor, it began to roll around until hundreds of tiny creatures vaulted into the mix of cyclopses.
Avalore gasped as his eyes widened; the smoke hit his pupils and burned, but he no longer felt its effects. Skinders were everywhere, setting traps and blowing up things. Orange smoke turned into horses and leolf’s entering the battleground, while a burst of white smoke became a litany of Storm Riders. Fogrolir led the charge into the melee; but just as the troops were on the verge of a collision with one another, a deep roar erupted from the fireplace and the head of a lion launched forward into the room, its fiery mane danced about its face.
It was so sudden that it scared Avalore and he jumped up from the couch; in doing so, he slipped and fell backward, his head connected with the wooden arm of the sofa and knocked him unconscious. The last thing he remembered seeing was the two brothers as they continued to play their instruments. Their eyes smiled at him; a wicked, debonair smile of pure wickedness.
11
(Hegh Thurim)
Sentries posted at every turret along the castle walls kept their eyes open for any incoming attacks. Their armor blended with the stone, and it was near impossible to tell if anyone were on the turrets. That is unless you happened to spot the small glint of their spyglass as they searched for enemies. Soldiers lined the battlements; ready to be given orders.
A sentry along the northwestern wall spotted a glimpse of green in the sky just behind a line of clouds. He searched intently, determined not to lose sight of whatever moved through the air. As he stared through his spyglass, the small sliver of green broke through the cloud lining and revealed an emerald green dragon. She flew with all her might straight toward the castle. The dwarf, stunned initially, regained his composure and fixed his spyglass on the rider in hopes of seeing whether or not it was one of Praghock’s men; it was not.
Demoweir's Rise (Great War Chronicles Book 2) Page 9