Sleep, old man,
and the trees
call us for eats.
The leafs are on fire,
but so what,
they all gone by snowtime.
“No, no, NO!” Flint roared above their cacophony. He slapped his palm with a thin stick. Eventually their song ground to a halt. “I want you to hear a real song. The Dwarven Marching Song is part of your heritage as dwarves. Now, listen up.”
Flint cleared his throat and unconsciously straightened his spine. His voice, pleasantly low and rumblingly pitched, began the first strain of the song he had not sung in years, since he had left the dwarves.
Under the hills the heart of the axe
Arises from cinders the still core of the fire,
Heated and hammered the handle an afterthought,
For the hills are forging the first breath of war.
The soldier’s heart sires and brothers
The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
Out of the mountains in the midst of the air,
The axes are dreaming dreaming of rock,
Of metal alive through the ages of ore,
Stone on metal metal on stone.
The soldier’s heart contains and dreams
The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
Red of iron imagined from the vein,
Green of brass green of copper
Sparked in the fire the forge of the world,
Consuming in its dream as it dives into bone.
The soldier’s heart lies down, completes
The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
Flint became aware, sometime around “Out of the mountains,” that Perian, standing at his side, had joined in the song. Their voices mingled and intertwined, his a low baritone, hers an even, clear alto. When he stumbled over a few forgotten words, Perian was there to fill them in. His heart was full and near to bursting with pride and passion and … dwarfness, as they finished the anthem of their race. The song had taken on even greater meaning to him with Perian singing along; he had never thought he shared any traditions with his mountain cousins. He found his hand in Perian’s, and when he turned to her at the close of the song, he saw her eyes, brimming with unshed tears, through his own misty blue ones.
“Quivalen Sath,” she breathed, identifying the song’s composer.
“Is there anyone else?” Flint asked rhetorically.
“Sing again!” the gully dwarves chanted. “We learn! Sing! We sing royal song real good!”
Flint and Perian hummed the melody over and over for the Aghar, then repeated the words of the song with them at least three times. Practicing, mimicking, stumbling over the refrains, the gully dwarves stayed with the exercise for at least an hour. Flint had never seen them try so hard at any endeavor. A new understanding evolved for everyone. In the end, when the gully dwarves sang it for the first time in a chorus, King Flint and Queen Perian did not even mind that their version came out a bit changed.
Thunder pills the fart of the ox
Erasers for Cindy these still put out the fire,
Beated and bammered the hand thunk a thought,
The hills are breathing the fish-breath afar.
Soldiers hit brothers, sorry
The battle feels.
Come back, O glowworm
And don’t forget your shirt.
What mattered was how hard they tried.
Chapter 19
The Best Gift
Thane Realgar of the Theiwar clan strutted before his six hundred House Guard troops, who were lined up in three ranks on the Central Parade Grounds on Level Two of Theiwar City East. His posture was ramrod straight as he stretched to his full height of just under four feet, pearly white hair streaming over his shoulders. He marched rigidly along the line of equally rigid derro dwarves who made up the House Guard.
These troops and their costly barracks occupied the entire second level, just one level below the pinnacle of the city, where the thane and his adviser had their own plush residences. The superior location, away from the smoke and stench of the forges a level below, was a symbol of the military’s prestige with its thane.
The dwarves of the guard stood at attention now, conceited about their appearance, smug about their discipline, and haughty over their position in the most prestigious, and only pure Theiwar regiment.
They wore glossy black breastplates of the hardest, most refined steel. Their unnaturally white hair was covered with black helmets of the same metal, with tall, feathered plumes sprouting from the top of each, the color designating a soldier’s company, of which there were three. Each dwarf was armed with at least two weapons.
The first rank, denoted by the red plumes on their helmets, were the Bloody Blades, axemen chosen especially for their large size and ferocious demeanor. Among the most savage hand-to-hand fighters on all of Krynn, the dwarves of the Bloody Blades were like machines of death on the battlefield. Each carried a shield and a short sword, in addition to his axe. They were indoctrinated with fanatical loyalty and fanatical zeal in carrying out the orders of their thane. It was rumored that over twenty-five percent of the Theiwar recruited into the Bloody Blades died during training, so rigorous were their preparations. They were forbidden to marry, so they would have no ties outside the unit. Before battle, each would prepare his funeral song, since planning to live through the battle was a sign of weakness.
The second rank of derro, sporting ebony plumes, were known as the Black Bolts. They wielded heavy crossbows, which were slow to load and awkward to fire. But a volley of their bolts could strike with enough force to penetrate steel armor and shields. In fact, most dwarves could not fire one of these crossbows without dislocating a shoulder. Members of the Black Bolts were required to place three out of three shots into an elf-sized target at a range of two-hundred yards. Anyone who failed this test was stricken from the unit.
The third line of Realgar’s troops were the Silver Swords, their symbol a tall, swaying gray feather. These derro, while still wearing steel armor, carried smaller shields than the Blades. They were trained in more agile, skirmishing tactics, and could spread out to take advantage of small gaps in an enemy’s formation. Individually they were intelligent, motivated, and aggressive. More than once they had won a battle by penetrating the enemy’s line and seeking out and killing the enemy general, plunging the opposing army into chaos. They painted their faces with charcoal and ochre before a battle to make themselves appear frightening to the enemy.
Arrayed to the side of these three ranks were the regimental banners, trumpeters, drummers, officers, and signalmen. The trophies they carried from previous battles were both grisly and glorious. They included captured banners, mummified heads, gleaming helmets, monstrous claws, golden spears, and dozens of other tokens and trappings of war.
Actually, there were four ranks of troops, although the fourth was comprised of only six dwarves: the savants. The result of centuries of arcane developments in the deepest bowels of derro civilizations, the savants were the only dwarves who had the unusual ability to cast very powerful spells, ones capable of levitating large objects or even calling down storms of ice. Their skin was even pastier white than others of their race. They wore black like the other House Guard soldiers, though their uniforms were padded robes, not metal armor. Their powers on the battlefield, especially against magicless hill dwarves, could not help but prove decisive.
“Pitrick!” Realgar bellowed, and the hunchbacked dwarf shuffled behind his leader as the thane resumed his inspection. “The troops look splendid! Perian Cyprium obviously excelled at her job before her untimely death.” The thane stole a glance at his adviser, suspicious as always about Pitrick’s explanation concerning the captain’s demise. But the savant kept his face bowed and expressionless. The thane always chose not to press the issue, since
Pitrick was far more valuable to him than any frawl captain could be.
“It will please me if you command the House Guard in Perian’s stead,” the thane said, his tone lazy.
“Yes, my lord,” was the adviser’s confident response. “With troops such as these, we can not fail to wipe the little village of hill dwarves from the face of the continent!”
Arms crossed, feet spread wide in a powerful stance, the thane considered his adviser. “The latter is the point of this attack, is it not?”
“Most certainly,” Pitrick said quickly. “We shall leave midafternoon this day for the long march through the wagon tunnel, so that we will arrive on the surface at dusk, in familiar darkness. Though I have recently made trips to Sanction, the troops have never been outside the lightlessness of Thorbardin. I am not sure how well their eyes will adjust, so we will travel at night and sleep in caves or under the protection of thick trees during daylight.”
Realgar nodded his approval. He, himself, had not been on the surface in many decades, lacking the time or the inclination to go there. “What of snow?” he asked. “Isn’t it nearing wintertime above?”
“Yes,” Pitrick agreed, “but the wagon crews tell me it is yet early, and the snow is still traversable. I estimate that, encumbered by the mass of troops, it will take two nights of steady marching to reach the dreadful little village. We will attack an unsuspecting Hillhome on the third evening. We can rest the afternoon nearby—out of sight of Hillhome so that our attack will come as a complete surprise.”
“What could Perian possibly want in the grotto so late on the night before we leave for battle?” Flint mumbled aloud as he hastened down the final long tunnel leading to the beautiful cavern at the farthest corner of Mudhole. He had been working with Nomscul to pack the explosive sludge into sacks and bottles, as well as clean up some rusty old daggers and sword blades that had been discovered during the searches of the last two days. Nomscul had relayed the message with a giggle: “Queen Furryend say you to meet her at grotto when done. She have big surprise!” With that, the gully dwarf shaman had clamped his hand over his large mouth, refusing to give Flint further clues about the mysterious missive.
At last Flint came to the opening on the right that marked the entrance to the cavern, and he turned down the enclosed staircase, taking the narrow steps two at a time. He paused at the bottom to draw in a breath, then bounded in.
Immediately, he was grabbed by a giggling frawl, Perian’s self-appointed “weighty lady,” Fester.
“Take off clothes and come with me!” Fester squealed, her fleshy cheeks buckling in a smile as she tugged at Flint’s clothing.
“What are you talking about? Stop that! Don’t touch me, you silly frawl! Where’s Perian?” Flint demanded, trying to shake off Fester’s grip.
“I’m right here,” Perian called. She came around the corner of a stalagmite and laughed out loud when she saw Flint’s stony, red face and Fester’s eager tugging. “Stop it, Fester.” The frawl Aghar dropped away from Flint, sheepishly regarded the royal family, then scampered up the stairway.
Flustered, Flint gathered the edges of his clothing that Fester had managed to pull down, his face burning. “What’s going on here? What have you been teaching her, mugging?”
Perian laughed again. “Unfortunately, she already knew that. Look, I’m sorry,” she said, flashing her big, hazel eyes. “Fester must have decided that since I’ve taken off my usual armor, you would want to as well.”
Suddenly Flint became aware that Perian was dressed in a tight-fighting blue-green wrap; his favorite color looked spectacular against her copper hair. She stood silhouetted by the glowing moss behind her near the pool, and for the first time he could really see her shape through the gauzy gown. His eyes traced her form upward, from her surprisingly slim ankles, to her muscular calves, her broad hips, slightly narrowed waist, her ample … His cheeks grew hot again, and he forced his eyes back up to the safety of her face.
Perian smiled invitingly and held her hand out to him. “Come, your surprise is getting cold.”
Startled, Flint drew back. “What surprise?”
Perian frowned impatiently. “If I told you here, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it? You aren’t afraid to be alone with me, are you?”
“Certainly not!” Flint huffed, snatching up her hand in embarrassment and irritation. But as he followed her around the stone pillar and into the depths of the grotto, he was not so sure. He forgot his humiliation when he saw what awaited him on the bench before the pool.
Five mismatched pots of steaming food nearly covered the bench and surrounded a single lit candle and two metal plates. Flint clapped his hands and licked his lips as he rushed forward, eyeing the containers.
“What’s the occasion?”
“The occasion is our last dinner—a celebration,” she said simply, waving him to sit by the plate that faced the pool.
He dropped to the ground on the fluffy moss and slid his legs under the bench. “Celebration,” he snorted. “What have we to celebrate? We’re leading a ragtag bunch of gully dwarves off to save a village from a powerful, demented magician, and—”
“I know all that,” she interrupted with a sigh. “Can’t we have just a few last peaceful hours?” She folded her legs under her and gracefully lowered herself to the ground, back to the pool. She took the hilt of an old dagger and stirred it around in one of the pots, then used it to ladle a portion of the pot’s contents onto Flint’s plate.
“Sauteed white fungus and onions,” she said. Pointing from one pot to the next, she rattled off their contents. “There’s mushrooms and sprouts, meat—don’t ask what kind—in red sauce, turtle soup, and creamed fish.”
“Where did you get all this stuff?” Flint mumbled through a mouthful of delicious fungus and onions.
Perian propped her chin up on her hands looking proud, yet a little sheepish. “I’m afraid I risked sending two more Aghar up to the warrens. It took them long enough, but they managed to find most of what I sent them for without getting caught. You’ll be happy to know that I did not send them for mossweed—I’ve broken that habit … I think. And also, gully dwarf hands never touched the food during preparation—I made it all myself.”
“What a catch—brawn, brains, beauty, and she can cook,” he muttered unconsciously, busy stuffing his mouth. He listened to his own words and gasped, glancing up quickly, but Perian, intent on her plate, showed no signs of having heard him. They ate quickly and in silence, savoring tastes forgotten in the short week they had been consuming a tiresome catch-all called gully dwarf stew.
When the last bowl was scraped clean, Flint pushed himself back, patting his stomach happily. “Simply marvelous,” he sighed.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Perian said, standing up. “I hope you like my next surprise as well.” She danced past Flint and disappeared behind him into the columns of limestone that ran from floor to ceiling opposite the pool.
The mountain dwarf quickly returned, holding a long, narrow package wrapped in cotton batting and tied shut with twine. Flint watched expectantly, unable to guess its contents.
Perian’s head was dipped nervously as she untied the parcel with shaky hands. “I’ve wanted to give you this for a day or two, but the moment just never seemed right. I wish I could have spent a few more days on it …” she mumbled mysteriously as she fumbled with the twine. “Oh, here!” she said, flustered. She flung back the cloth cover and thrust her hands toward him. “A weapon befitting a monarch leading his troops to war.”
Curious, Flint peered beyond the wrapping. His breath caught in his throat and he drew no air, his face paling dangerously.
“What’s wrong?” Perian asked, concern and dismay creasing her face. “I—I cleaned it up as best I could. I know it’s very old, but it’s an excellent axe, dwarven-crafted, no doubt. Don’t you like it?”
But Flint hardly heard his queen as his eyes focused on the thing in her hands. He reminded himself to b
reathe, and then he willed his hands forward to grasp the axe.
The haft of smooth oak showed no sign of wear or stress. Polished lovingly, it was without blemish or knots. The wood blended so perfectly into the flawless steel blade that the axe looked as if crafted from one material. The steel blade itself was of that immaculate white-silver quality, and its circumference was decorated with the most delicate, faint tracings. Flint ran his hands lovingly over the familiar dwarven runes, not one bit lighter than when last he had felt them.
For this was no ordinary axe. It was the Tharkan Axe, the weapon he had found, then been given by his brother Aylmar, and then lost again so many years ago.
“Where did you find this?” he said at last, his eyes still on the wondrous axe. Why was it here? Now?
Perian was mightily confused. She had hoped he would like it, but his reaction seemed to go beyond that. He held it like he would a lover.…
“I—I found it in the garbage heap in the Big Sky Room, the day we discovered sludge,” Perian explained, then chuckled. “You were so sour that day … I don’t know what possessed me, but the second I saw this axe I knew I had to hide it away and clean it up so I could surprise you with it.”
“You didn’t know it was once my axe?” he asked, looking from the weapon to her with misty eyes. “But how could you?” he asked himself. “I never told you that story.”
“What story? This axe was yours? Did you drop it in the Beast Pit?” Perian was very confused, as her voice rose with her agitation.
Flint shook his shaggy head vigorously, nearly overcome by finding the axe again in, of all places, Mudhole. “No,” he whispered softly at last. “My brother, the one who was murdered by Pitrick, gave me the Tharkan Axe on my Fullbeard Day many long years ago. We’d found it together during our dungeon-crawling days, but I lost it in a hobgoblin lair here in the Kharolis Mountains during an adventure several years afterward. I later returned to retrieve it, but it was already gone. The Tharkan Axe served me better than any I’ve had since.” He ran his hands over the haft again, closing his eyes, remembering. “I thought it was gone forever.…”
Flint the King Page 24