Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  “Exactly what you’re looking for, sir!” Scrounger said, slapping his hand down on top of it.

  “And what would that be now?” the dwarf asked. Judging by the length of his whiskers, he was the leader of the caravan. “Ale, maybe?” His eyes brightened.

  “No, sir,” said Scrounger disparagingly. “Griffon’s meat.”

  “Griffon’s meat!” The dwarf was clearly taken aback.

  So was Caramon. He opened his mouth, shut it when Scrounger trod hard on his foot.

  “One hundred pounds of the finest griffon’s meat a person could ever hope to see roasting nice and juicy over a fire. Have you ever tasted griffon’s meat before, sir? Some say it tastes like chicken, but they’re wrong. Mouthwatering. That’s the only way to describe it.”

  “I’ll take ten pounds.” The dwarf reached for his purse. “What do I owe you?”

  “Sorry, sir, but I can’t split up the lot.” Scrounger was apologetic.

  The dwarf snorted. “And what am I going to do with one hundred pounds of any kind of meat, griffon or no? The boys and I eat plain on the road. I don’t have room in the wagons to waste hauling around fancy wittles.”

  “Not even to celebrate the Feast of the Life Tree,” said Scrounger, looking shocked. “The most holy of the dwarven holidays! A day devoted to the honoring of Reorx.”

  “What? Eh?” The dwarf’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “What feast is this?”

  “Why, it’s the biggest festival of the year in Thorbardin. Ah.” Scrounger appeared embarrassed. “But I guess that you—being hill dwarves—wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “Who says we wouldn’t?” the dwarf demanded indignantly. “I … I was a bit confused as to the dates, you know. All this traveling. A dwarf gets mixed up. So next week is the Festival of the … uh …”

  “Life Tree,” said Scrounger helpfully.

  “Of course, it is,” said the dwarf, glowering. He took on a cunning look. “Mind you, I know how we hill dwarves celebrate this great feast, but I don’t know how they do it in Thorbardin. Not that I care particularly,” he added offhandedly, “what those snooty louts do in Thorbardin. It’s just that I’m curious.”

  “Well,” said Scrounger slowly, “there’s drinking and dancing.”

  The dwarves all nodded. That was standard.

  “And they break open a fresh cask of dwarf spirits—”

  The dwarves were starting to look bored.

  “But the most important part of the entire feast is the Eating of the Griffon. It’s well known that Reorx himself was a great lover of griffon.”

  “Well known,” the dwarves agreed solemnly, though they shot sidelong glances at one another.

  “He was said once to have downed an entire standing rib roast in one sitting, complete with potatoes and gravy, and was heard to ask for dessert,” Scrounger continued.

  The dwarves whipped off their hats, held them over their chests, and bowed their heads in respect.

  “So, in honor of Reorx, every dwarf must eat as much griffon meat as he can possibly consume. The rest,” Scrounger added piously, “he gives to the poor in Reorx’s name.”

  One of the dwarves mopped his eyes with the tip of his beard.

  “Well, now, lad,” said the leader in husky tones, “since you’ve called our attention to the date, we will be wanting this barrel of griffon’s meat after all. I’m a bit short on steel just now. What will you take in exchange?”

  Scrounger thought for a moment. “What do you have that is unique? That you have only one of?”

  The dwarf was caught off-guard. “Well,” he began, “we have—”

  “Nope.” Scrounger said flatly. “Couldn’t possibly.”

  “How about—”

  Scrounger shook his head. “Won’t do, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re a hard bargainer, sir,” the dwarf said, frowning. “Very well. You’ve driven me against the wall. I have”—he looked around, careful to see that they weren’t overheard—“a suit of plate that was made in Pax Tharkas by the best dwarven metalsmiths for the renowned Sir Jeffrey of Palanthas.”

  The dwarf laced his hands over his belly, gazed at the two, expecting them to be impressed.

  Scrounger lifted his eyebrows. “Don’t you think that Sir Jeffrey might need his armor?”

  “Not where he’s going, I’m afraid.” The dwarf pointed to the heavens. “Tragic accident. Slipped in the latrine.”

  Scrounger considered. “I assume the armor comes with the shield and saddle?”

  Caramon held his breath.

  “Shield yes, saddle no.”

  Caramon sighed deeply.

  “The saddle is promised already,” the dwarf added.

  Scrounger mulled over the matter a good long minute before answering. “Very well, we’ll take the armor and shield.”

  He thrust out his hand. The dwarf did the same, and they shook on the deal over the upturned barrel of sacred griffon.

  The lead dwarf tromped to another wagon, returned dragging a wooden crate behind him. On top of the crate was a shield with the embossed emblem of a kingfisher on the front. Puffing, he dropped the crate at Scrounger’s feet. “There you are, lad. Much obliged. That’ll make room for the meat.”

  Scrounger thanked the dwarves and looked at Caramon, who reached down and, with much groaning, lifted the crate onto his shoulder.

  “Why did you tell them it was griffon meat?” Caramon demanded.

  “Because they wouldn’t have been interested in plain old beef,” Scrounger replied.

  “Won’t they know that they’ve been tricked when they open it?”

  “If they do, they’ll never admit it to themselves,” Scrounger said. “They’ll swear that it’s the best griffon’s meat they’ve ever eaten.”

  Caramon digested this for a moment, as they headed back down the road in the direction of the baron’s castle.

  “Do you think this armor will make up to the master for the loss of his saddle?” Caramon asked doubtfully.

  “No, I shouldn’t think so,” Scrounger said. “That’s why we’re taking it back to the human camp.”

  “But the human’s camp is back that way!” Caramon pointed out.

  “Yes, but I want to get a look at the armor first.”

  “We can look at it here.”

  “No, we can’t. Is that crate awfully heavy?”

  “Yes,” Caramon growled.

  “Must be good solid armor then,” Scrounger concluded.

  “Lucky that you knew all about that feast in Thorbardin,” Caramon said, bending double under the weight of the crate.

  “What feast?” Scrounger asked. His mind had been on something else.

  Caramon stared at him. “You mean—”

  “Oh, that?” Scrounger grinned and winked. “We may have just started an entirely new dwarven tradition.” He looked back to see how far they’d come. When the fires from the camps were only small orange dots in the darkness, he called a halt. “Come here, behind these rocks,” he said, beckoning mysteriously. “Put the crate down. Can you open it?”

  Caramon pried open the crate lid with his hunting knife. Scrounger shone the light from the dark lantern on the armor.

  “That’s the most beautiful thing I ever saw!” Caramon said, awed. “I wish Sturm could see this. Look at the kingfisher etched on the breastplate. And the roses on the beaver. And the fine leatherwork. It’s perfect! Just perfect!”

  “Too damn perfect,” said Scrounger, chewing his lip. He glanced around, picked up a large rock, and handed the rock to Caramon. “Here, bash it a few times.”

  “What?” Caramon’s jaw dropped. “Are you crazy? That will dent it!”

  “Yes, yes!” Scrounger said impatiently. “Hurry up, now!”

  Caramon bashed the armor with the rock, though he winced at every dent he put into the beautiful breastplate, feeling each almost as much if he’d been on the receiving end. “There,” he said at last, breathing hard. “That should—” He
stopped, stared at Scrounger, who had taken Caramon’s knife and was now proceeding to make a cut on his forearm. “What the—”

  “It was a desperate fight,” murmured Scrounger, holding his arm over the armor, watching the blood drip onto it. “But it’s comforting to know that poor Sir Jeffrey died a hero.”

  Smitfee stopped the two at the edge of the wagons. “What now?” he demanded.

  “I have a trade to propose, sir,” Scrounger said politely.

  Smitfee looked at Scrounger closely. “I wondered where I’d seen ears like that before. Now I remember. You’re part kender, aren’t you, boy? We don’t take kindly to kender, diluted or no. The boss is asleep. So go away—”

  The boss walked around the side of the wagon.

  “I saw Barsteel Firebrand hauling that barrel of beef into his wagon. He wouldn’t buy so much as a rump roast off me. How did you do it?”

  “Sorry, sir,” said Scrounger, cheeks flushed. “Professional secrets. But he gave me something in return. Something I think you might find interesting.”

  “Yeah. What’s that?” The men looked at the crate curiously.

  “Open it up, Caramon.”

  “Old beaten-up armor,” said Smitfee.

  Scrounger’s voice took on a funereal tone. “Not just any armor, gentleman. It is the magical armor of the valiant Solamnic Knight, Sir Jeffrey of Palanthas, along with his shield. The last armor of the gallant Sir Jeffrey,” he said with sad emphasis. “Describe the battle, Caramon.”

  “Oh, uh, sure,” said Caramon, startled at his new role of storyteller. “Well, there were … uh … six goblins …”

  “Twenty-six,” Scrounger cut in. “And don’t you mean hobgoblins?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Twenty-six hobgoblins. They had him surrounded.”

  “There was a little golden-haired child involved, I believe,” Scrounger prompted. “A princess’s child. And her pet griffon cub.”

  “That’s right. The goblins were trying to carry off the princess’s child—”

  “And the griffon cub—”

  “And the cub. Sir Jeffrey snatched the golden-haired griffon—”

  “And the child—”

  “And the child from the hobgoblins and handed the child back to his mother the princess and told her to run for it. He put his back against a tree and he drew his sword”—Caramon drew his sword, to illustrate the story better—“and he slashed to the left, and he slashed to the right, and hobgoblins fell at every blow. But at last they were too much for him. It was a cursed goblin mace hit him here”—Caramon pointed—“disrupted the magic, stove in his armor, and gave him his death blow. They found him the next day with twenty-five dead hobgoblins lying all about him. And he managed to wound the last one with his dying stroke.”

  Caramon sheathed his sword, looking noble.

  “And the golden-haired child was safe?” asked Smitfee. “And the griffon cub?”

  “The princess named the cub ‘Jeffrey,’ ” said Scrounger in tremulous tones.

  There was a moment of respectful silence.

  Smitfee knelt down, gingerly touched the armor. “Name of the Abyss!” he said, astonished. “The blood’s still fresh!”

  “We said it was magic,” Caramon replied.

  “This famous battle relic’s wasted on the dwarves,” said Scrounger. “But it occurred to me that a caravan that happened to be traveling north to Palanthas might take this armor and the tale that goes with it to the High Clerist’s Tower—”

  “Our route does happen to lie north,” said the leader. “I’ll give you another hundred pounds of beef for the armor.”

  “No, sir. I can’t use any more of your beef, I’m afraid.” Scrounger said. “What else do you have?”

  “Pig’s feet pickled in brine. A couple of large cheeses. Fifty pounds of hops—”

  “Hops!” said Scrounger. “What kind of hops?”

  “Ergothian Prost hops. Magically enhanced by the Kagonesti elves to make the best beer ever.”

  “ ’Scuse me. Conference.” He motioned Caramon off to one side.

  “Dwarves don’t travel much to Ergoth these days, do they?” Scrounger whispered.

  Caramon shook his head. “Not if they have to go by boat. My friend Flint couldn’t abide boats. Why once—”

  Scrounger walked off, leaving Caramon in midstory. Scrounger thrust out his hand. “Very good, sir. I believe we have a deal.”

  Smitfee hauled away the armor, treating it with great respect, and returned some time later with a large crate over his shoulder. He tossed the crate on the ground in front of him and bade them both good night.

  Caramon looked down at the crate, then he looked up at Scrounger.

  “That was a wonderful story, Caramon,” Scrounger said. “I very nearly wept.”

  Caramon leaned down, picked up the crate, and heaved it onto his back.

  “So, what have you brought me this time?” asked the dwarf.

  “Hops. Fifty pounds of hops,” said Scrounger triumphantly.

  The dwarf appeared disgusted. “You evidently haven’t met dwarves before, have you, lad? It’s well known that we make the best beer in all of Krynn! We raise our own hops—”

  “Not like these,” said Scrounger. “Not Ergothian hops!”

  The dwarf sucked in a deep breath. “Ergothian! Are you sure?”

  “Take a whiff for yourself,” said Scrounger.

  The dwarf sniffed the air. He exchanged glances with his compatriots. “Ten steel coins for that crate!”

  “Sorry,” said Scrounger. “C’mon, Caramon. There’s a tavern in town that will give us—”

  “Wait!” the dwarf yelled. “What about two sets of Hylar chinaware with matching goblets. I’ll throw in gold utensils!”

  “I’m a military man,” said Scrounger over his shoulder. “What do I need with china plates and gold spoons?”

  “Military. Very well. What about eight enchanted elven longbows, handcrafted by the Qualinesti rangers themselves? An arrow fired from one of these bows will never miss its mark.”

  Scrounger stopped walking. Caramon lowered the crate to the ground.

  “The enchanted longbows and Sir Jeffrey’s saddle,” he countered.

  The dwarf shook his head. “I can’t do it. I promised the saddle to another customer.”

  “Caramon, pick up the crate.”

  Scrounger resumed walking. The dwarf sniffed the air again.

  “Wait! All right!” the dwarf burst out. “The saddle, too!”

  Scrounger let out his breath. “Very well, sir. We have a deal.”

  Caramon was deep in a dream, battling twenty-six golden-haired children who had been tormenting a blubbering hobgoblin. Consequently, the sound of metal clashing against metal appeared to be part of his dream, and he did not bother to wake. Not until Sergeant Nemiss held the iron pot she was banging over his head.

  “Get up, you lazy bum! Flank Company’s first to fight! Up I say!”

  He and Scrounger had returned to camp within an hour of day’s dawning. Groggy from lack of sleep, Caramon stumbled out after the others to take his place in the ranks of men lined up in front of the barracks.

  The sergeant brought the company to attention and was just forming them into a marching column when the sound of galloping hooves and a voice shouting in anger brought the marching to a halt.

  Master Senej reined in his excited horse, jumped from the saddle. His face was red as the morning sun, a flaming, fiery red. He glared around at the entire company, recruits and veterans. All of them shriveled away to nothing in the heat of his anger.

  “Damn it! One of you bastards switched my saddle with the baron’s saddle again. I’m sick and tired of this stupid prank. The baron nearly had my head on a stick the last time this happened. Now, which one of you is responsible?” Master Senej thrust his square jaw out, marched up and down the ranks, glaring each man in the face. “C’mon. ‘Fess up!”

  No one moved. No one spoke. If the Aby
ss had opened wide at his feet, Caramon would have been the first to dive in.

  “No one admits it?” Master Senej snarled. “Very well. The whole company’s on half rations for two days!”

  The soldiers groaned, Caramon among them. This hit him where it hurt.

  “Don’t punish the others, sir,” said a voice from the back of the orderly lines. “I did it.”

  “Who the hell’s that?” the master demanded, peering over heads, trying to see.

  Scrounger stepped out of ranks. “I’m the one responsible, sir.”

  “What’s your name, soldier?”

  “Scrounger, sir.”

  “This man’s about to be mustered out, sir,” said Sergeant Nemiss quickly. “He’s leaving today, in fact.”

  “That doesn’t excuse what he did, Sergeant. First he’s going to explain to the baron—”

  “Permission to speak, sir?” said Scrounger respectfully.

  The master was grim. “Permission granted. What do you have to say for yourself, Puke?”

  “The saddle doesn’t belong to the baron, sir.” Scrounger replied meekly. “If you’ll check, you’ll see that the baron’s saddle is still in the stables. This saddle is yours, sir. Compliments of C Company.”

  The soldiers glanced at each other. Sergeant Nemiss snapped out a command, and they all turned eyes front again.

  The master studied the new saddle closely. “By Kiri-Jolith. You’re right. This isn’t the baron’s saddle. But it’s in the Solamnic style—”

  “The very newest style, sir,” said Scrounger.

  “I … I don’t know what to say.” Master Senej was touched, the red flush of anger giving way to the warm flush of pleasure. “This must have cost a small fortune. To think you men … went together …” The master could not speak for the choke in his throat.

  “Three cheers for Master Senej!” shouted the sergeant, who had no idea what was going on but was more than willing to take the credit.

  The soldiers responded lustily.

  Mounting his horse, seating himself proudly in his new saddle, the master responded to the cheers with a flourish of his hat, then galloped up the road.

  Sergeant Nemiss turned around, lightning in her eye and thunder on her face. She fixed that eye upon Scrounger, sent the bolt flashing through him.