by Doug Niles
“I tell you, it’s no lie!” Dram’s face grew red, and his beard was twitching. Jaymes rested a hand on his companion’s shoulder, exerting gentle pressure, until his dwarf companion exhaled very slowly.
Swig took another long pull, draining his mug, and sat down. Jaymes took the opportunity to steer the conversation away from reminiscence.
“I understand that you mine plenty of iron from these hills—a good, pure strain of ore.”
“Aye. You understand right. So what?”
“And you do the smelting and casting, right here?”
“That we do. No sense letting a good raw material get gunked up by a bunch of amateurs.”
“Commendable. Vingaard black iron is famed throughout the lands of Solamnia and beyond.”
The dwarf preened a bit, warmed by the praise. “We sell it to the Solamnics at a good price. They take all we can dig and pay premium. So if that’s what you’re after, you might as well stop talking right now. We already got our customers.”
Jaymes shook his head. “No. I have no need of iron and couldn’t match prices paid by the dukes even if I did. But Dram tells me that there is another material, a waste rock of dusty yellow, that you have to cart out of the way in order to get at the iron. Is that true?”
“Sulfir?” Swig shook his head in disgust. “Oh, we haul a bit of that stinking junk off to the cities—some of the metalsmiths use it in their smelting. Most of it we pile up just to get it out of the way.” Suddenly the chieftain narrowed his eyes. “You don’t mean to suggest that you’d be wanting some of that useless chalk?”
“It might have a use for me, yes,” Jaymes said. “I would be willing to negotiate a fee. To start, I want to arrange for the purchase of five tons.”
“Five tons, eh?” Swig looked bored. “Hmm. That’s a lot, that would add up. That might be possible. When do you want it?”
“I will need it in three months’ time. Delivered to a place I will specify one month before delivery—some place in Solamnia.”
“Delivery? Well, of course, delivery is one of our specialties, but that will cost extra.”
“Of course,” Jaymes agreed. “I have no desire to cheat you. If this works, it might be the start of a whole new business for you—something you’ll be able to sell as fast as you can dig it out of the ground.”
“What do you intend to pay for this …” Swig seemed to realize that “junk” was the wrong word to use in describing his newfound and apparently valuable commodity. “… this sulfir ore?”
“What do the dukes pay for iron?” Jaymes asked.
Swig’s eyes narrowed, and he made a great show of scratching his bearded chin. “Well, that depends, depends. The finest grades fetch a thousand steel per ton, paid in gems, usually. Rough ore makes me in the neighborhood of four hundred.”
“I’ll match the price of low grade iron,” Jaymes offered. “Say four hundred steel per ton of sulfir. But I only want the pure yellow rock—your miners will have to chop out the waste.”
Now the hill dwarf looked indignant. “Of course they’ll get rid of the waste! How long do you think I’d stay in business if I was selling impure product?”
“Not long—not with me, in any event. I just want to make sure we understand each other.”
“I understand,” Swig said. He mused for a moment then looked up at Dram, his face locked in a scowl that slowly cracked into something resembling a smile. “She was really just mending your trousers?” he asked.
“I tore ’em on a snag coming up from the south,” the mountain dwarf said with a glower. “And your daughter, bless her kindness—and Reorx knows where she gets it from!—was good enough to see that I could pass on from here without the chill winds of winter blowing up my … well, you get the picture.”
Swig tossed back his head and laughed. The two gnomes joined in, as did the other hill dwarves standing around. Even Jaymes cracked a smile, the warrior winking at the sulking Dram.
“Enough with business!” roared the Vingaard chieftain. “Brewer—bring us a fresh keg. We’ll seal this suitable arrangement over a fine ale—as sacred a bond as a pledge to any god!”
The resulting feast was one of those parties that could be called the stuff of legend. Pilsy Frostmead, lovely and cherished daughter of the chieftain, emerged with several other young lasses, carrying pitchers of Special Reserve Ale, and they proceeded to see that all became better acquainted. Pilsy was a beauty by the standards of the race, with rosy cheeks and a plentitude of toothsome curves.
Dram Feldspar and Swig Frostmead, of course, proceeded to get roaring drunk. The inevitable fistfight erupted shortly after midnight and lasted for slightly less than an hour. In the end they clinched as wrestlers and, after staggering around the room with increasing unsteadiness, collapsed, utterly exhausted.
They fell asleep in each other’s arms, lying in the cold ashes outside the hearth, brothers in dwarfdom …
And mortal proof of Reorx’s blessing.
“You the fellow that drove the Duke of Thelgaard into the Vingaard River?”
The speaker was a human knight dressed in dark armor. He wore no emblem on his breast and carried no weapon—otherwise the guards would not have allowed him to approach Ankhar. The dark-armored knight had a companion, a man dressed in supple black leather, including gloves and a riding cape as long as a robe. The camp guards, naturally, had searched beneath that voluminous garment and pronounced the man unarmed.
These two were courageous, for they did not flinch as the half giant rose to his full height and looked down at the visitors.
“My gobs and hobs did it,” Ankhar replied flatly. “Attack plan all mine.”
“Nice piece of work. That bastard drove me right out of my own city. I’d like to see him spitted on a sword, myself.”
“Your city? Thelgaard?”
“Well, it was for a time, a while back,” the man said. “I got no place now.”
“Well, duke drowned. Or swam away.” Ankhar had been a trifle disappointed that his warriors had not been able to bring him the head of the enemy commander. “His army pretty much broken up. Nine out of ten men fell on field.”
The half giant was more than pleased with the result of his first battle against a large force of trained knights, but it had not sated him. He hungered for more victories. That aim would not be served by fighting this man or his force of some two thousand men—including hundreds of knights in dark armor. Ankhar’s scouts had reported the humans encamped just over the horizon.
The half-giant gazed at the human, sizing him up. He was handsome, by the standards of humankind, with a dueling scar on his cheek.
“You warriors? Captains of men?” Ankhar said.
The armored knight replied. “I am the leader of this brigade. My companion here is a knight of a different kind—he commands legions of magic.”
The leather-clad fighter clicked his heels and bowed his head. “Sir Hoarst, Knight of the Thorn, at your service, my lord.”
Ankhar chuckled, and looked back at the captain. “Why you come here, all alone and pitiful? Because I broke Thelgaard’s army? I not give you his city back.”
The visitor laughed with an easy self-confidence that Ankhar admired. “No,” he said. “Nobody needs to give me anything. I came looking for work. I have a strong company, two hundred armored men, former Dark Knights. There are also a thousand of us on foot, all trained in knights’ tactics. Sir Hoarst has two comrades of the Thorn, well-versed in battle-magic. We are looking to join your army, and we’ll fight for our share of the plunder.”
Ankhar scratched his broad chin. This was a surprising, pleasing development—a human offering to join and serve under a barbarian half giant. The additional troops would add considerable punch to his army. As to how battle magic could help, he had little concept, but he liked the sound of it.
“Wait here,” he said, abruptly turning his back and stalking through the camp. He made his way to the conical tent that was set up for his f
oster mother. Not surprisingly, she awaited him, holding back the flap as he stooped to enter, then dropping it into place. They sat in semi-darkness, leaning close to speak privately.
“I like this human. Prince of Lies want him to join us?” asked Ankhar.
Laka shook her skull-totem, and immediately the eyes glowed green, the teeth chattered out a message.
“Monstrous master,
“Mankind’s bane.
“Truth is righteous,
“Ankhar’s reign!”
The half-giant nodded, satisfied. Without another word he rose, left the tent, and made his way back to the human visitors.
“I your general. General Ankhar. Your men welcome to join us, Captain. What your name?”
“Blackgaard. Captain Blackgaard, if you please.”
“Captain Blackgaard. Come into camp. Join our feast. Soon, we march against Knights of Solamnia.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
APPLES IN THE TREES
My head hurts!” protested Carbo, as the four travelers trudged out of the forest and onto the familiar flat, brown plain. “Can’t we stop and camp for a day? In the mountains? By the stream?”
Sulfie, plodding behind her brother, nodded miserably in agreement. “Water and cool grass! Oh, the smells! I want to go to sleep!”
“Yeah. Can’t we stop?” asked the red-eyed Dram, stumbling over a root that curled across the trail. “Ouch. Damn. Slow down, will you?”
“We have to get some miles behind us,” Jaymes said, unsympathetically. If he was feeling any ill effects from the ale he had shared with them and the hill dwarves of Meadstone, the fact was not apparent to the others. “We have to cross the plains again, then return, in two months. Don’t have time to waste.”
He nodded at Sulfie, who had a bulging bag strapped to her backpack. “Have a care with that sulfir. It’s a valuable specimen.”
The little gnome woman sniffed but reached around to make sure the sack was secure. The hill dwarf had provided them with a generous sample, and Sulfie said she would embark on a study of its properties.
Jaymes turned to look at his dwarven companion, almost smiling. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Swig Frostmead had such a colorful history?”
Dram groaned. “I was hoping he wouldn’t remember me, to tell you the truth.”
“You should know better than that!” the warrior declared.
“Well, I’ve never had a daughter?” Dram snapped. “Have you?”
Jaymes’ expression guarded his emotions. “No. I’ve never had a daughter. There was a time when I learned something about the way a father can feel toward his own flesh, though.”
Dram blinked in surprise, and glanced up at his friend. When Jaymes seemed inclined to let the subject drop, the dwarf simply harrumphed and stomped along, until another question came to mind.
“Where are we going to camp, then?” he asked, pointing to the flatland sprawling before them. Blinking his bloodshot eyes, the dwarf looked around without enthusiasm. A low, mud-bottomed gulley snaked along to their right, dotted with a few thorn bushes. Other than that, they were confronted with a brown dirt and dead, brittle grass. “On the middle of the plain?”
“That’s why we need to make tracks today. Remember that grove we passed when we were heading into the mountains, about ten miles away? Where the stream out of the mountains formed the pond? There were apple trees there, some of them already bearing fruit.” The warrior glanced at the sun, halfway descended toward the horizon. “If we keep up the pace, we can be there before dark.”
“Ten miles?” squawked Carbo, pitiably.
The warrior only picked up the pace, and his three unhappy, hungover companions stumbled along, doing their best to keep up. It was a long, hot day later when they finally came into sight of the trees. The trunks were gnarled and weathered, but the limbs drooped with ripe fruit. They followed a shallow, meandering stream into the apple orchard, which was overgrown with tall grass and bushes. There was plenty of fruit within easy reach of even the diminutive gnomes, and the four weary travelers munched on sweet apples as they came to the pond in the center of the grove.
“I remember this little pool for some good fishing,” Jaymes remarked.
“Well, we should be able to make ourselves pretty comfortable here,” Dram allowed, his sour mood lifting.
“Yes,” the human agreed. “Why don’t you start making camp, then drop a hook in the water? I’m going to check out that old ruin of a house, make sure we don’t have any neighbors.”
“All right,” the dwarf said. Dram had already spotted a supple branch, which would make a perfect fishing pole, as Jaymes shrugged out of his pack and wandered off through the trees.
“I remember this place,” Princess Selinda said to Captain Powell. “My father brought me here when I was a girl—we used to watch the farmers harvest the apples from that grove in the fall.”
“It looks like it’s been abandoned for a long while,” the knight replied. “See how the weeds have taken over the yard? The brambles are growing right out through the walls of the house. The roof is caved in over there, and I wouldn’t be surprised if bats and rats have taken the place over.”
“We don’t need to go into the house—instead we can make our camp for tonight in the grove,” the lady said. “I remember fishing in the pond there—you could hardly throw a hook in without catching something. We can have fresh fish and apples.”
The captain nodded, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. “It would make a nice change from all this trail fare,” he acknowledged. “I declare, it would be nice to be under the stars.”
Turning in the saddle, he waved to the file of knights, nearly a hundred strong, who made up the princess’s escort. “Make for the trees!” he called. “We’ll camp in the grove over there! Usual drill—scouts forward to reconnoiter, knights to follow in open line.”
With visible enthusiasm the weary riders turned their horses, several scouts dispersing as they approached the lush green trees. Already they could see the red apples beckoning here and there, growing wild and untended across the extensive grove.
During the last three weeks of riding, Selinda had grown accustomed to the smooth competency of all these knights. Captain Powell led the group with avuncular compassion, and his men responded with a loyalty and good humor that bespoke a volume of respect and affection for their leader and their own camaraderie.
Most of the knights, from the moment they rose in the morning until they went to bed at night, wore steel breastplates, helms, and other bits of armor. Indeed, when she reflected upon their seeming modesty—no doubt a reflection of their Oath and Measure—the princess wondered if some of them might not actually wear parts of their steel trappings in their bedrolls.
The scouts, who numbered only a score of knights, wore leather tunics and soft, moccasin-like boots. Shieldless, they were armed with light bows and slender swords. Mounted upon lean and leggy steeds in comparison to the broad-withered giant war-horses that carried their more heavily armored brethren, the scouts could move quickly through all kinds of terrain. Now they rode among the apple trees, making sure all was safe.
Abruptly one of the scouts held up his hand, and the rest came to an immediate halt. Several riders conferred with each other, and one of these came galloping back to the main body, reining in his horse before Captain Powell and Selinda.
“We’re going to have to go in carefully—Royster smelled smoke,” reported the scout. “Probably just the campfire of a few innocent travelers, but we’re not going to take any chances.”
“Good man,” said Powell, with a nod. The scout whirled his horse and rode back to join his comrades. A minute later, the twenty men dismounted. Leaving their well-trained mounts to wait for them, they drew their swords and slipped into the grove.
“Finally,” groaned Dram, leaning back on the soft grass, closing his eyes, and sighing. He had pulled off his boots, and as he let his bare feet dip into the water of the pond he began to
let the weariness of the long day’s trek—not to mention the lingering effects of the hill dwarf ale—fall away. He picked up the makeshift pole he had formed from a small sapling, to which he had affixed a string and hook, and inspected the worm that still wriggled on the end.
“Carbo, throw another couple sticks on that fire, will you?” he called. “This little fellow is going to catch us a fat trout, or my name isn’t Dram Feldspar.”
“Dram Feldspar, eh? Never heard of you.”
The speaker was a stranger, and the sound of the man’s voice yanked the dwarf’s head around so fast that he dropped his pole into the pond. Several men emerged from the surrounding trees. They wore leather armor, and all were armed.
He noticed the emblem, the outline of a red rose, on the chest of each man’s tunic. The dwarf looked around. He counted about a dozen, knew there could be more out of the sight in the surrounding trees. Carbo and Sulfie, sitting at the fire, were gaping in astonishment as the newcomers approached.
“Sorry, dwarf. Didn’t mean to startle you,” said one of the archers, with a nod at the ripples where Dram had dropped his fishing pole. “We smelled your smoke and just wanted to make sure who was here before we set up camp.”
“Oh, uh, sure,” Dram said.
It had been about an hour since Jaymes went off to inspect the ruined old house. Dram could only hope he’d notice the strangers before he blundered into their midst. As to himself and the gnomes, they had nothing to fear from a band of knights. Indeed, he reminded himself, most travelers would be delighted to have the protection of a well-armed group of honorable men. He forced himself to act gracious.
“There’s plenty of room here,” the dwarf said, indicating the meadow that surrounded the fishpond. “Lots of firewood and more apples than a hundred men could eat in a month!”
“That’s good,” said the scout. He put up his weapon and waved. “That looks about right for the size of our company. Looks like we’ll be your neighbors tonight.”