“That third leg might not be a leg, maybe the demon ain’t a she!” More laughter rolled, unstoppable.
“Ye o’ no faith, ye’ stupid drunks, all o’ ye! Me fathers, fathers, father was handed this and he knew, aye he did! That be no myth, it is there, ye’ stupid fools are no---“ Pentrik fell back in his chair again as a mug flew across the pub and hit him square in the nose. The laughter was deafening, the tempers boiled from his family.
“How much for a mug, Erden!?” Kimmarik spoke up amidst the laughter.
“Three silvers. Why, lookin’ to drown yer’ father out for the night and save some beard?” The pub owner laughed and pointed, seeing little Azenairk the temple boy helping old Pentrik up once more.
“Son.” Kimmarik spoke deep, an angry tone.
“Yes father!” All three boys answered, they knew that tone of voice. It was beyond the fights he and their mother had, beyond the battle cries out in the mountains his oldest had heard before, it was a calm inner storm of short words he would expect quick answers to.
“Middle son, Tad.” His growl almost a whisper, Kimmarik stared his blue eyes at the ground.
“Aye father!” Tadnek stepped to his father, keeping an eye on the mob that continued to laugh over the Thalanaxe plight.
“Who hit ye’?” Kimmarik looked to the older Silvunak man, Forikk was his name, the one with the shortblade in his hand, he had a hunch already.
“No one did father. Old Silvunak threw a chair at papi to shut him up about the lost mines, so I jumped in the way of it. Ye’ always told me to use me head.” Tadnek felt the bump, saw the blood on his hand, and smiled to his father. The smile was not returned.
“Gead.” Kimmarik glared at Forikk Silvunak, then to Erden Granvang.
“Yes father.” Geadrik lowered his axe a little, pulled his beard to keep his anger down at all the laughter still roiling in the pub.
“Watch yer little brother Zen, and papi, just for a moment. I need a word with a few o’ these men here.” The slightest smile, though not of anything pleasant, crept from under his beard.
“Then what?” Geadrik looked at his fathers eyes, blue and serious like his papi’s.
“Fight like hell.”
Geadrik took a breath as he gazed at the now eager twenty angry dwarves circling from other families. He looked to little Zen, then to his rambling grandfather, finally he cast a wink to Tadnek. The wink was returned.
Kimmarik Thalanaxe walked up to Erden, warhammer in hand, which drew all the angry dwarves involved up close. They knew he had fought in several wars, he had a reputation as more a warrior than a miner, and they all knew he was likely unable to pay the bartab again.
“Granvang, I see eleven mugs there, would be thirty three silvers, or three gold and a bit extra. Ye’ told me seven.” He pointed to his fathers table.
“For all the trouble, the price be double. Shart, ye’ don’t have any coin anyhow, Thalanaxe. Everyone knows that.” Erden smiled his toothless smile, surrounded by twenty angry patrons, his confidence was sound. “Maybe I will take that box o’ junk for the tab, but ye’ will still have to wash me mugs cuz’ it is about worthless. Hand it over then.”
“Naye. It be ours.”
Kimmarik ignored the laughter at another jest aimed toward his family and walked up to old Forikk Silvunak, smiling with each step. The laughter died off early, all the dwarves could sense anger now brewing in the quiet grinning dwarf.
“Forikk, did ye’ throw a chair at me father?”
“Aye!” Forrik stared right down at Kimmarik.
“And it hit me son in the head? Then did ye’ throw a mug at him, right at me fathers face?”
“Aye, sure did, you was here! Tried to shut his stupid ars up. What ye’ think ye’ gonna do---“
Crack!
Crack!
“That!” Kimmarik lowered his warhammer, passed on from his old father, after two brutal swings to the ribs sent Forrik to the ground.
“Now ye’ done it Thalanaxe! Take this load o’ shart out o’ me pub and send for the guard! Not before we rough em all up a bit ourselves!” Erden Granvang pulled a small hammer off his belt as nineteen dwarves in his tavern pulled weapons and stepped up on Kimmarik.
“Boys! Time to settle the tab at The Smokin’ Anvil, the hard way!” The old warrior, followed by his two sons, dove into the mob that charged them.
Geadrik smashed the pommel of his axe into an angry dwarf, then swung his plated fist into the face of another, wild swings, brutal and hard. Tadnek slammed his shield into breaking dwarven noses and heads, his pick was held upside down and clubbing everything in sight with a black beard. Kimmarik whipped the hammer twice, then his elbow three times, then even headbutted another bar patron. The dwarves flew and fell like sacks of squash. Many other patrons just watched, moving away for a bit of safety, but enjoying another fight at the Smokin’ Anvil.
Azenairk watched his brothers and father pummel twenty dwarves through chairs, over stone tables, and even slammed their heads into the hot anvil centerpiece more than once. He stood, guarding his papi, and watched his heroes in action. His smile hurt his face it was so wide, yet he never blinked, not daring to miss one second, one blow, not one brave strike that his outnumbered family dealt the patrons that had insulted them. They were giants to him, Gods even, three dwarves that no one could match. Within a minute or three, it was all but over.
“Ye’ had better yield, or it will be the Smokin’ Granvang in a moment!” Kimmarik held the bleeding face of Erden next to the hot golden anvil, ready to push down should he not give up.
“I yield, I yield, ye’ blasted wretch!” His eye was an inch from the steaming hot embers that kept the anvil scalding.
Kimmarik threw Erden Granvang to the ground. He looked about full circle, his boys stood tall with him over twenty or more dwarves that were all crawling and groaning in pain. Bruised, bleeding, and beaten, they all shuffled on the stone floor away from the Thalanaxe boys and their father.
“This is gonna cost us more than seven gold coins, but it sure was fun, eh?!” Kimmarik smiled to his sons, then to his youngest, then he met the eyes of his father.
“Was there a fight, what did I miss?” Pentrik stood, wobbly, putting a hand on little Zen for support. He handed the box to Azenairk as he gazed at the moaning dwarves on the ground of the pub. He kicked one, then spat into his gray beard.
“Kimmarik, Kimmarik! Come quick!” Rhosda yelled into the pub, looking to the mess, then back up as if it mattered not. Two of their workers, covered in soot, stood behind her.
“Sorry hun, it got a bit complicated with papi and all. I uhh, well ye’ see, the boys and I just----“
“Oh close yer hairy spitbucket and come here, look at this.” Rhosda opened a cloth that one of the miners handed her.
“What is it mum?” Little Azenairk tried to see, standing on the tips of his toes.
“Oh by Vundrens holy helmet, where did ye’ get that then?” Kimmarik stared, his boys stood with their mouths agape, and old Pentrik just stumbled past. He took the box back from Zen, patted him on the head, and kept walking in his smiling stupor.
“The miners found it, tis gold Kimmarik, it---“ Rhosda was cut off.
“Ye’ got to give it back then, tis a lot, someone will surely be lookin’ for it and---“
Smack!
She slapped her husband out of his glare and stare, wiggling his graying beard and refocusing his blue eyes to blink.
“Tis ours fool! It was in our mines, the outer ones! The ones yer father had bought o’er thirty years past now, they be full of gold on the south walls hun.” Rhosda Thalanaxe coughed, then held the rough golden ore low. It was pure, solid, enough to make a thousand coins or more.
“Ye’ serious?”
“Aye master Thalanaxe, we gonna need more workers then.” One of the miners spoke up. “Yer family likely gonna be rich again, but we need more men to fetch all of it.”
“How many we, uhh, we talkin’?” Kimmarik was chok
ed up, he could barely speak. “ I mean, how..uhh..how much gold be there then?”
“Gimme’ twenty to mine, five to hold guard, and about fifteen more to haul, stack, and keep diggin’ out and down. Should do it.”
“Ye’ serious?”
“Aye, he be serious then! Snap out o’ it Kimmarik.” Rhosda put her hand gently on the side of her husbands face.
“Boys, pinch me or somethin’, so I know I not be dreamin’.”
Two hard slaps into his back and a third low into his thigh did the trick, Kimmarik Thalanaxe was not dreaming.
“Then, then, we can get our old home back, up topside near the peaks? The fancy noble nice one?”
“Aye husband.” Rhosda was tearing up.
“And then, our things, our family things we been sellin’ off, we can get them back too?” Kimmarik began to choke up again.
“Aye father.” Geadrik put his hand on his fathers shoulder.
“Then, little Azenairk can go and study at the temple then? Zen, My little Agrvund?” Kimmarik looked to his youngest, then to his father who had sat down with the rusty box against a tunnel wall, talking to himself and his heirlooms.
“Aye father, he can.” Tadnek spoke up, putting his arms around his mother and father.
The bells rang three times in the halls of Boraduum, summoning the soldiers to head to the outdoors to the north. They all heard it, thirty thousand dwarves in Boraduum, the army was over five thousand strong and ready for war. The Thalanaxe family stood still, staring at one another, then the gold, and the bells rang again. No one spoke for untold moments, no one breathed much either.
“Time to go boys. Ye’ got me armor at the barracks?”
“Aye father.” Tadnek nodded.
Kimmarik hugged his wife, then his youngest, then nodded to his drunken father who was unaware of anything besides the old rusty box and its contents.
“Can ye’ keep up, old man? I thought ye’ slowed a bit last battle, maybe ye’ should let me lead the second brigade this time?” Geadrik smiled and smacked his father on the back, then rubbed Azenairks head, lastly hugging his mother before they left.
“Baah, ye’ stay close to me boys, I’ll show ye’ how tis’ done in case ye’ forgot me actions at the last two battles. Them giants and ogre fear the name Thalanaxe out there, mostly cuz’ o’ me ye’ know.” Kimmarik smiled, turned with his two oldest, and walked toward the north tunnels, ready for war once more.
“So, I’ll be takin’ care o’ everything then?! With the mines, and home, and Zen and papi!?” Rhosda yelled down the tunnel, then coughed, waiting for her husband to reply.
“Aye! Ye’ be the smart one and all! Do what needs doin’, we be back in a few days or so brown eyes, won’t be long!” Kimmarik yelled, waved and turned as he walked away, kissing his hand and waving it again.
Zen held his mothers hand, kept a close eye on his papi and his rusty box, and smiled as he watched his heroes head to the north, to a battle he was too young to fight in, but would surely dream about, every night until they returned.
Azenairk IV:II
Evermont, Shanador 345 A.D. fifty one years later
“Through pain and suffering, time and toil, the words of God will be sent from the holy mountain when you be most in need of them. Should you listen, be open in spirit to His will, and be pious to Vundren, He will never let his devout fail.”---excerpt prayer from the Golhiarden, read from the holy tablet of law, passages of the dwarven family, kept in Boraduum Circa 4643 B.C.
Azenairk sniffled, rubbed his shaved head, then pulled his black braided beard to keep the tears back in his brown eyes. He looked down to the shield, his brother Tads and a family treasure from generations, smiled at the twin axes over the moon, and all of the scratches from battle. The crest of Thalanaxe, at least he still had that. He had never told anyone of these things, not aloud anyway, only in prayer to Vundren.
“Go on.”
Zen looked at the thick red lace in front of him, the dark wood in the closet of a prayer room, he focused back to the moment. He had forgotten it was a temple to Alden, forgotten he was in Evermont in Shanador, the memories were still fresh and vivid five decades later. He smiled at the feathered cross sewn into the lace in golden thread. He took a big breath and tried to continue.
“Well, me brothers never came home, not walkin’ anyway. That was the last time me family was together, happy, had hope. Twas about thirty giants in the Bori, with over two hundred ogre. Should have been an easy win, and it was with five thousand beards. But, me father and brothers, they led the second brigade, first ones into the ambush. Over four hundred o’ me people perished in all but three minutes I heard. Me brothers died quick they said, and me father fought with a rage that had scared even the other dwarves. King told me mum her husband killed four giants there, and eleven ogre, alone.” Zen put his head down on the wooden shelf.
“Continue.”
“Me brothers… me older brothers Tad and Gead was buried, me father went to drinkin’ in his silence and grief. He and me mum talked little after that. Then papi passed on about a year later. Me papi.” The tears creased the corners now, blurring his vision as he sat and fought them.
“I am listening.”
“Whewww. Allright. The mines did flourish, and we was rich, but it was a hollow victory there. Then me mum…me mum…she got sick in the chest. She passed on two years after me papi.” The words were hard, like iron that wanted not to rise up his throat.
“Go on my son.” The voice was low, almost if tears were choking back on the other side of the curtain as well.
“Enough with the son rubbish, I be nearly twice yer age then. I just need to be tellin’ someone, in case we don’t be comin’ back from where we be headed is all. Vundren’s mercy!”
“Well I have never done this before, not on this side anyway. Sorry, go on Azenairk.”
“Tis allright, sorry bout that then. Where was I?”
“Your mother.”
“Right. After she passed, me father left the mines to one o’ the older workers. But, they ran dry. Me father did all he could, hoarded all our things from bout seven or eight generations he had collected back, and finally he just accepted it. We was done. He found old things, banners and deeds, related to a king once we was, but in the end it mattered not. He had taken out some loans and favors to open even more mines, and they was dry too, or filled with worthless fools gold. Taxes came, debts called over the years, and then he got sick.”
“Where were you, during all of this, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, me father, the great Kimmarik he was, he wouldn’t accept it. The one thing he never missed a coin on, was me. He had me the finest mentors, the full tutelage at the temple o’ Boraduum, and he never missed a mass. Especially when it was me, his little agrvund, presiding with the bishop ye’ see. The day I was confirmed and got me hammer and moons, you’d a thought he was the king o’ the whole continent. Proudest father in Boraduum he was, even…even…until his last breaths.” The tears fell, fell harder than they had in decades. Zen thought of how he was in line to be the next bishop, the next spiritual leader of Boraduum, perhaps bringing the old titles of High Hammers and such back to his people. He looked to the rusty box in his hand, blurred and watery through his tears, and pounded his fist on the wooden door to the confession room. That box and its contents, were all he had left to remember his father and family by.
“You need a moment?”
“Naye, no. It’s just, just, I miss em all so damn much is all!” Azenairk wiped his face. “Sorry for cursin’ in yer church there Alden, Vundren has me forgiveness, just borrow some from him then.” He chuckled, mirrored in laughter from the other side.
“Why me?”
“Cuz’, ye be the closest thing to a priest I have here, and a close friend ye are James Andellis. Yer’ the best human I know, and a good man, a solid knight without fear. Ye’ overcome odds, from what I know of ye’, odds that woulda’ seen most in their
graves. And, ye’ be blessed. You know it, n’ I know it. Priest or no, I needed to speak to someone o’ faith today that would keep it quiet, before we go.”
“The others, you know they love you as much as I do, they---“
“I know it, I know. But the elf, she’d likely cry more than me from hearin’ it. Saberrak, he’d want to hear the fightin’ parts in detail, and Gwenneth, well, there was no magic so she’d a fell asleep by now.” Zen stood, stretched his legs and pulled his beard. He put the box back in his leather pouch.
“I saw those books you had read, the ones in the library. This have anything to do with that?”
“Aye. Ye’ read about it too then?”
“I did. You are afraid, aren’t you Zen?”
“A bit. Said there that nine times over the last twelve hundred years did they send excursions into the lost lands we be headin’ to. No one ever---“
“And? Stories in books frighten you, mighty Thalanaxe?”
“James, just from Shanador alone, over ten thousand men never returned from where we is going! Armies gone, hardened and reputable lords and knights never seen again, and we be just five of us! That not be countin’ any dwarves that went, nor anyone from Armondeen or other kingdoms around---”
“So? They did not have the key, the dust, and they were not us, Zen. All we have been through, survived, what we have seen, it is all for something. Even I have no doubts anymore, even me Zen. Do not lose your faith now, not now.”
“I knows it, I know. That be why I am here, a little spiritual kick in the ars as we round the last bend. Lot weighing on this ye’ know, all our deaths and all.” Zen smiled, feeling better having gotten some of his worries and guilts out.
“I have your back, so do the others. Do not doubt that, not ever. We are your family now.”
“Allright, I s’pose we should pray then and seal this up. No feathers though, no offense Alden, but no feathers.”
“Well, take a knee then.” James still whispered.
Zen took a knee. He breathed deep, clearing his mind for the will of Vundren, while a knight of Chazzrynn whispered a prayer in a church of the feathered cross, far from his home.
The Exodus Sagas: Book IV - Of Moons and Myth Page 3