Wycaan Master: Book 02 - The First Decree

by Alon Shalev

  On the other side of the throne sat Clan Den Zu’Chantague. They were the wealthiest of the clans and had no problem showing this. They all wore ornate capes sewn of fine materials and edged in gold over their armor. Two of them carried staffs bedecked with jewels. Clans Den Zu’Chantague and Dan Du’Reiltan took their places around the table, as well.

  Clan Den Zu’Chantague potentially had the most to lose from a war with the empire. They had established trade routes and made much of their wealth through business with the humans.

  Sitting next to the wealthy clan was Clan Dan Zu’Reiltan, the black and brown robes of the religious sect offering a sharp contrast to the opulence next to them. Seanchai realized there was nothing to discern behind the masks they wore.

  The scholars of Clan Dan Zu’Ornagen and the artisans of Clan Dan Zu’Ulster joined the others. Rothendir had not been able to determine whether either had an army, or what their political stances were. One of the artisans turned to Seanchai as he sat.

  “Welcome, elf,” he said. “I wish we could meet under different circumstances. One day, I would like to travel to see the crafts of the elves.”

  “I would like that, too,” Seanchai replied, wondering what art his people still possessed. He was suddenly struck by how truly uncohesive the elf races were, and how much was lost because of it.

  Clan Den Zu’Reising, while not exactly opposite the King, were positioned facing the throne and the two most powerful clans. Rothendir had fought vigorously, from what Seanchai had heard, to receive this seating arrangement.

  The pounding of a thick, metal-edged staff brought him abruptly from his reverie. All fell silent and a deep voice boomed. “Rise up. Rise up, mighty dwarf nation. Your King walks among you.”

  In unison, those around the table were on their feet, though Seanchai thought he saw resentment on a few faces. The King entered, wearing his crown and red velvet robes. Two bulky warriors stood on either side of him in shining armor, holding glimmering pikes.

  Once all were again seated, a huge banner unfurled behind the throne. On it was a shield with a crown on top and two ornate axes beneath. The King was going to great lengths to ensure a regal presence, and Seanchai conceded he had been successful thus far.

  The dwarf by the door with the huge staff banged it again on the floor twice. His deep voice boomed out. “Behold, the Clansfelt meets. Let all who seek council with the dwarf nation come forward. Speak only with truth and honor.” Again the huge staff banged down on the stone floor twice.

  The Clansfelt had begun.

  FORTY NINE

  Seanchai rose brusquely from his chair when break was called on the second day and was out of the conference hall before any dwarf had even moved. Ballendir shuffled after him and caught up in an adjacent corridor. He put his hand on the tall elf’s arm, and Seanchai spun around.

  “Don’t say anything here,” Ballendir said, bringing his finger to his lips. “Come with mah.”

  He led the Wycaan through a maze of corridors to a room designated for their clan. Once they were behind closed doors, Ballendir spoke again.

  “Okay, Seanchai. Let it out, mah friend.”

  “We have just sat for a whole day and . . . and everyone’s just introduced themselves. This isn’t supposed to be a common gathering. There’s a huge army out there coming this way, fully bent on destroying us all. Pleasantries!”

  He stopped mid-rant when he noticed Ballendir watching him, arms folded across his chest, and smiling.

  “What?” Seanchai asked, “What is so amusing?”

  “Yeh, mah friend. I told Rothendir that yeh had been warned and, in truth, yeh had. This is not an easy process. Everything’s delicately balanced. The clans have not met in half a century, many are new leaders, and most are unfamiliar with the King. Statuses and circumstances have changed as some have got richer, others poorer. Everyone is dancing around, trying to work out the pecking order, and until they do, they will not vote.”

  “But there are ten thousand voters getting closer,” Seanchai snapped. “They are each armed and determined to destroy Hothengold. Apart from Clan Den Zu’Garten, who lives here, no one has brought an army with them. They will need to be sum–”

  “Seanchai!” Ballendir’s rebuke was sharp, and his hands moved to his hips. “Do yeh really think these leaders are stupid? No clan will bring their troops too near the Clansfelt, as that might be interpreted as an aggressive power move, but they’re nearby. We aren’t fools, Seanchai. We have lived underground all these years, but we have not ignored what’s been happening above ground.”

  Seanchai turned around and took a few moments to compose himself. He poured himself a cup of water from a flagon on a table and offered Ballendir some.

  “Bah, I need something stronger,” the dwarf said, producing a pewter flask from his hip.

  “So it frustrates you, too?” Seanchai smiled.

  “Of course it does. I wouldn’t even be allowed near the Great Hall if it wasn’t for yeh. I have vouched for yeh with my axe. Rothendir’s under the impression that if anyone can control yeh, it’s mah.”

  Seanchai laughed. “She’s probably right. When are they going to start addressing the issue? When am I going to be offered a chance to speak?”

  “Very soon, young elf. But yeh must control yeh emotions. Yeh shuffle in yeh chair, pick yeh fingernails, stare at dwarves who are not speaking. Yeh need to show interest, and yeh cannot jump up at breaks and charge out like yeh can’t hold your bladder.”

  Seanchai laughed.

  “Seriously, Seanchai. Yeh need to take yeh time before leaving. Allow other dwarves to approach and talk with yeh. Yeh need to gain their trust. Whatever yeh story, if yeh can’t count upon their trust, yeh’re lost,” Ballendir took another swig, “as are we all.”

  “You’re worried, Ballendir?”

  “Aye. I told yeh I’m not one for all this politicking. But don’t depend on mah observations. There’s so much posturing, so much pride. I have listed everyone as being against us at some point.”

  “But we already have an agreement with Clan Dan Zu’Reiltan, don’t we?”

  “We do,” Ballendir said. “But they have their pride just like the rest. We must allow them to vote in favor because they have no choice if that ‘s possible.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If we can garner enough votes without forcing them to openly support us, they will be doubly in our debt. And though this agreement is a secret, all the other clans will see how benevolent we are. Bah! I hate this, too.”

  “You say the armies are nearby, Ballendir. Is anyone making plans for the battle?”

  “Good question,” the dwarf answered. “Yeh have to assume that Clan Den Zu’Garten has plans to defend its own city.”

  “Plans that can deal with explosives and trained dwarf regiments?”

  Ballendir frowned. “And cave trolls and probably other monsters.”

  There was a knock on the door. A young dwarf poked his head around the door. “Rothendir requests that you join the council to eat.”

  “Thank yeh,” Ballendir replied. “We’ll be along shortly.” The door closed and Ballendir turned to Seanchai. “Play the game, Wycaan, and take deep breaths.”

  The dining room was huge. When Seanchai entered, he saw Rothendir glare at him and tried to put a permanent smile on his face. A dwarf approached him.

  “My lord Wycaan,” he said. “Would you do us the honor of joining Clan Dan Zu’Ulster at our table?”

  “Thank you,” Seanchai beamed. “I would be delighted.”

  They moved to an l-shaped table, and one young dwarf rose and offered his place at the angle.

  “I couldn’t,” Seanchai protested.

  “I saved you the seat,” the young dwarf said, pointing to his setting. “Look, I haven’t eaten. We all want to be able to hear you, and this hall is loud.”

  Seanchai thanked him, sat down and spooned some fish and vegetables onto his plate.

&nb
sp; “Elves don’t eat meat?” A big dwarf with intricate metalwork on his armor asked.

  “Most elves do, I think,” Seanchai replied. “But Wycaans prefer fish. It’s how I’ve been instructed.”

  “I’ve never seen a plump Wycaan,” one exclaimed, patting his considerable stomach. “Perhaps I should ask to join the order.”

  They all laughed, and Seanchai felt himself relax. “You have met other Wycaans?” he asked hopefully.

  “I must admit that there are several flaws in my argument,” the dwarf replied. “Not least is that you are the first I have met. But I have seen many fine pieces of art depicting Wycaans. My name is Ruffminsk. This fine dwarf is Dugenminsk, our clan leader.”

  Seanchai nodded to each. The rotund Ruffminsk had a huge beard that flowed down over his ample stomach. Dugenminsk, the dwarf in the ornate amour, had a shorter red beard and blazing locks to match.

  They plied him with questions about elves and Wycaans. He would admit when he did not know an answer, and it didn’t seem to bother anyone. He had not met that many elves outside of those in his own village, and his training was not complete. Seanchai smiled at the acceptance he felt.

  The young dwarf who had given Seanchai his seat sat near the end, but constantly rose to bring more bread, cheese, and fish for Seanchai. He beamed each time Seanchai protested and thanked him.

  When the meal was over, many of the dwarves at the table rose and left. Seanchai stayed behind with Dugenminsk, Ruffminsk, and a priestess who didn’t speak.

  Ruffminsk leaned forward. “Our people are apprehensive. We are not a big clan in terms of heads or weapons, but we neither are we poor or unarmed. Our metalwork,” he caressed the lip of his chest plate, “is not only beautiful, but tough.

  “We’ll not be the first to cast our vote. We’ll listen to you and the bigger clans and see which path they decide upon.”

  “Why?” Seanchai asked. “The size of a clan is irrelevant. The armies that the Emperor can muster will claim everyone, whether they stand with the Alliance or alone. Perhaps what the Clansfelt needs is for a smaller clan to take the initiative. Maybe you can create a momentum of inevitability that will stop the clan posturing. There is little time.”

  The dwarves glanced at each other.

  “You have a keen mind, young Wycaan,” Dugenminsk said. “We’ll consider your request. But we want to hear what you have to say to the Council first.”

  “That’s fair,” Seanchai consented.

  “Good,” Ruffminsk replied. “We have three gifts for you.” He signaled to the Seanchai’s young dwarf admirer, who approached, beaming. “This is Thorminsk. He is a promising apprentice, taught by our greatest artisan. Please accept these gifts made from his hands.”

  Seanchai opened the first. It was a pipe, long, in the fashion of the elves, but buffeted with intricately carved pewter.

  “The pewter will protect your pipe when you travel,” Thorminsk said, his pride clear.

  “Smoke it during breaks at the Clansfelt,” Dugenminsk said, and gave him a pouch of pipe weed. “This is a very earthy weed and has three different mushrooms in it. We say it will help you grow your beard.”

  They all laughed.

  “This is our second gift,” Thorminsk said, offering another small pouch.

  It was a beautiful hip flask, and Seanchai gasped.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Note that it is full,” Ruffminsk said. “You can’t smoke the weed when you get frustrated in the Clans meetings – yes, we’ve seen you fidgeting – but you can steal a swig from this. It will help keep you calm. You’ll have to wait for your third gift.”

  “Thank you; thank you all,” Seanchai said. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s what you will say when you return to the hall that is important,” Ruffminsk said.

  FIFTY

  Much to Seanchai’s disdain, Rothendir asked no questions about his lunch with Clan Dan Zu’Ulster as they took their seats in the Great Hall. Ballendir, however, was thrilled at the lunchtime events and excited when Seanchai discreetly showed him the gifts.

  “That’s a fine pipe, mah lad,” he whispered. “But please don’t smoke it yet in public.”

  “Are you worried how others might interpret the gifts?”

  “No. I’m worried yeh’ll inhale once and disgrace our clan by coughing yeh guts up.” Ballendir chuckled to himself, and then patted Seanchai’s arm. “Well done, laddie.”

  Though the King had not joined every session since the Clansfelt had begun he entered this time, waiting until all were settled, prompting them to rise in acknowledgement.

  “No, no,” the King protested. “Please be seated.”

  This made Seanchai smile and Ballendir leaned over. “I see yeh’re getting the hang of dwarf politics,” he whispered.

  When the King was settled, all eyes turned to Ruffminsk, from Clan Dan Zu’Ulster, who was holding up the small, ceremonial axe that indicated his wish to speak. Suddenly, there was a feeling that the Clansfelt was about to really begin.

  A few seconds passed as all stared at the magnificent axe. Its handle was intertwined metal strands, and the head arched beautifully. Small stones, reflecting the torchlight, gave it life and vibrancy. The King broke the spell by clearing his throat.

  “Forgive me, Clan Leader Ruffminsk. The artisanship of Clan Dan Zu’Ulster is legendary throughout our nation, and thus we are all dazzled by the beauty of your axe.”

  Ruffminsk bowed his head. “Your Majesty is most kind. Clan Dan Zu’Ulster indeed prides itself on our craft. But, unfortunately, today we must speak of war, not artistry.

  “The Clansfelt has spent time thus far introducing our leaders and this is most important. We have updated each other on our economies and growth since we last met a half-century ago and this we all know to be necessary.

  “But time is of the essence. An elf sits in our midst despite the First Decree. Yet we have not questioned it thus far because these are not ordinary times. One of our clans has been attacked and driven from its home, an attack the likes of which has not been witnessed in our generation. A large imperial army approaches with conscripted dwarves among its ranks. These are indeed not ordinary times.

  “My fellow dwarves: our clans have given us their trust to lead them in the light and the dark. They have given us their allegiance to make the right decisions at the right time. That time is now.

  “With your permission, my King, let us call upon the elf. It has been fifty years since the Clansfelt has met and much longer since a Wycaan has addressed us. That time, also, is now.”

  Seanchai noticed that, as Rothendir turned her head towards the King, she held the faintest of smiles. He wondered how spontaneous his lunchtime invitation had been. Perhaps Rothendir sent Ballendir to keep Seanchai from the dinning hall while she spoke with Ruffminsk?

  Ruffminsk bowed his head respectfully toward the King and sat down. But the King did not get a chance to reply, as a tall priest of Clan Dan Zu’Reiltan rapped his black speaking axe on the table. The King looked at him emotionlessly.

  “Your Majesty.” The deep voice was muffled behind the mask. “Think well upon your next move. The gods hold their breath and wait. We have heeded their words and forbidden any other than dwarf to come beneath the ground. This is the First Decree. Look what happens when dwarves defy the gods and move above ground. They become slaves in our enemy’s army and will surely suffer for their sins while alive and in the hereafter.

  “Clan Dan Zu’Reiltan has held its tongue until now, but know that you tread upon a thin piece of rope – you and the entire dwarf nation.”

  The King turned to the black-robed dwarves and looked on for a moment. Then he raised his own axe, a beautiful long-handled weapon, laden with gold and jewels.

  “The presence of the elf worries me too, Clan Leader. I do not have the ears of the gods, though if I did, they would find me a humble servant. So until their will is revealed directly to me as the High King, I
will make the best decisions I can for our race based upon the facts as I understand them.

  “The best decisions require we hear all views and weigh the information offered. That an elf walks among us – and humans too – is a sign of changing times. That one of these is a Wycaan is a sign indeed that we must listen. It is our duty to hear and consider his words.

  “Wycaan: are you ready to address the Clansfelt?”

  Seanchai’s legs went to jelly, and he wondered whether he could summon the strength even to rise. He took a deep breath, drawing energy from the earth to pull him up and give him strength. Then he turned slowly to the High King of the Dwarves and spoke.

  FIFTY ONE

  Ahad was surprised when the letter arrived, though it was more because it signified that a month at the palace had passed without him noticing. His growing relationship with the Prince was unpredictable. They could be thick as thieves one moment and the next, Phineus was argumentative and antisocial.

  Oddly, when Ahad pushed Phineus in his studies, the Prince was appreciative, even when he was frustrated with his own learning difficulties. In weapons training, Ahad was the willing student, and, though he smarted from several bruises and bumps, he knew the Prince was making him fitter, stronger, and a far better warrior.

  He could tell from the handwriting that the letter was from his mother. He took it to a hammock in the nearby courtyard and put it to his nose, disappointed to find that it didn’t smell like her. He glanced around, certain he was being watched, and opened the letter.

  My dear Ahad,

  How I miss you. It has been only a short while since I left to take care of my parents. I don’t even remember how long it has been since your father, you and I spent time together. Perhaps when he brings this current campaign to its end, we shall take some time as a family and travel.

  My journey was uneventful, and I am grateful for that. My mother is weak, but carries on. Her stoicism makes it difficult to truly know her condition. My father is a bit lost, and his memory is weak. I am happy to be among my family, but miss you, your father, and the capital.