The other dwarves chose to fight with a giant ax and a formidable looking hammer. Dwarven fighting first involved throwing yourself into your enemy in hopes of knocking them down. Though the average dwarf grew no higher than four feet tall, their girth and muscle gave them plenty of weight to throw around. A head-butt from a dwarf would make anyone's day much worse. If the first blow knocked you down, the second was sure to be the heavy end of whatever weapon they wielded. Your demise would be messy, but swift.
There were two others on board who were neither human, dwarf, nor elf. A curious creature called a Skrilx. For all intents and purposes, it resembled a cat. Not the kind that haunts alleys, however, for it stood on its hind legs and indeed, had the very posture of a man. This particular Skrilx indeed had the muscular tone of a very big and well-trained warrior of a man, but its face, its fur, and its tail was quite animal.
Ealrin was not sure if his kind spoke, for this one didn't say a word. It obeyed Felicia without question or pause. He was her first mate. Roland said that the Skrilx were a proud race, but a dying breed. This was only the second one he had ever seen. Felicia would often say his name: Urt. He carried a giant spear that was three heads taller than Ealrin. Urt was ferocious looking and bested any other living thing in combat on the ship with ease. Ealrin thought better than to offend him.
The last and most curious thing on board was in fact just that, a thing: a suit of armor that moved and walked and fought and talked but contained nothing. Of course, Ealrin had not checked to be sure the thing was empty, but it offered him up the information willingly.
"Fear not me, nor the suit that contains me. I am spirit, though I once had flesh as you have. That was before my body was torn asunder, struck down and defeated. Instead of passing on, as others do, my spirit lingered here, on this temporal plane. A mighty wizard, who passed on many years previous, bound me to this armor. Though I have not found any method by which to pass from this world to what lies hereafter, I have committed myself to the service of the great country of Thoran, as the wizard who bound me hailed from this land. You may call me, Edgar."
Ealrin couldn't imagine which would be odder to a passing stranger: a giant feline walking upright as a man or a suit of armor that contained no body.
This entire crew was a hodgepodge of adventurers. The remaining humans all had stories: some were from Thoran, some from the Republic, and two were from the land of Beaton, which had only one enormous city, resting on the shores of a glimmering sea.
This voyage had done wonders to take Ealrin's mind off his current state, and allowed him to learn many different things about the land of which he had no recollection or memory.
And if it were not for the stories, it would be for the practicing fighting techniques. Roland, though he carried several weapons, preferred a one handed short sword to all the various options he carried with him.
"I'd prefer not to run short when the time comes and fight with what is at hand!" said Roland after Ealrin had finally asked him about his collection. "Though, if given the option, I'll use this blade before any other. It's never done me wrong!"
The blade itself was quite beautiful. Inlaid into its steel, which was strong and could cut a cloth in two if it were dropped above it, were various dwarven runes that Roland said were magical. It kept the blade unusually sharp and strong. The handle was meant for one hand and was covered in beautiful black leather. The dwarves on board said it was one of the finest they had seen, though they were unsure of its maker. Roland certainly wasn't going to tell anyone.
"Now if I told you where I got this sword, you might go get a fancy one yourself!" he had said to the dwarf, Arin, who had asked him where it originated from and got its name. A dwarf could always trace a weapon by its name, for a dwarf would name the weapon after himself, its intended use, and its place of origin.
Ealrin had no weapon of his own, save the small knife Elezar had given him, so Roland allowed him to try out all of the others he had collected. Though Holve proved himself to be adept at handling a spear, the handle of a spear felt odd in Ealrin's hand. He didn't know where the end of it would be at any moment and couldn't get a solid strike with one. He left the spear fighting to Holve. The hammers and maces and axes of the dwarves felt odd. There was too much weight at the end of the weapon for him to handle. He found himself lodging the weapon into the wood of the ship and unable to retrieve it before he was struck by his opponent and on his back.
So Ealrin, instead of trying his luck with a bow from the elves, decided to take up the sword. Of his options from Roland, one in particular stood out to him. It was a sword that could be used with two hands if the bearer so chose, but it’s weight was not so much that it could not be used with a single hand either. Ealrin enjoyed being able to switch between the two at a moments notice, as defending and striking sometimes required one or two hands, depending on the situation or the foe. And instead of a slender blade, this particular sword had a blade that was the span of a hand across. Finally, the blade’s end did not have a pointed tip, but instead had a rounded edge. To think that it wasn’t sharp was a mistake as Ealrin found out inspecting the weapon. His finger still bled from the cut as he readied himself again to face against Roland. The cloth he had wrapped around it kept the blood at bay while he focused on his foe’s attack.
Again and again, Ealrin and Roland sparred with one another. It was easy to see that Ealrin was outclassed in every way by the seasoned swordsman. Whenever Ealrin expected him to swing his blade left, it somehow came from the right. Instead of blocking a blow that was coming from above, all of a sudden, Ealrin found himself being smacked with the flat side of Roland’s sword. It was infuriating to him, and so with every blow he demanded another attempt.
On the second day of constant sparring, the crew had gathered around to watch the two facing off against each other. Most were yelling for Roland to teach the young Ealrin a lesson he wouldn’t forget, the dwarves had taken sides with Ealrin, grunting out advice or howling whenever they saw an opening in Roland’s defense. Seeing as how most of their advice was “Barr! Just tackle him!” they actually weren’t very helpful.
Though Ealrin’s sides and arms were tired and his legs were sore, after the last meal of the day he finally landed a blow on Roland.
As his blade fell and finally smacked Roland against his exposed ribs, the crew fell silent for a moment, surprised that he had finally scored a hit.
Then the whole crew stood up to cheer for Ealrin. In taking his eyes off Roland for the momentary praise, he found himself knocked to his back and looking up at, once again, the man who had been teaching him hard for the last two days.
“Well done Ealrin, but don’t take your eyes off your foe. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself on your back!” He let out a hearty laugh and offered out a hand to help Ealrin up.
“I was so surprised I actually landed a blow on you,” said Ealrin truthfully, taking Roland’s hand and rising to his feet. He was beginning to feel like he would never actually get through Roland’s skilled defense.
“That’ll do, sailors,” said Felicia, who was still at the helm, Urt dutifully standing at her side. “Get the ship ready for the night and the first watch.”
The night was divided into two different shifts: sundown to high moon, high moon to first light, and then everyone was expected to be up with the sun. Ealrin’s shift wasn’t until high moon, so he went to lie down. Only two or three crew members kept watch over the White Wind while it sailed at night, so that everyone else could get a decent night’s rest. If they could sleep on a boat, that is. The dwarves complained the whole time that sleep was meant to occur on the solid earth, and not on the shifting tides. Ealrin had agreed at the beginning, but he was now getting used to the rocking, and the shifts of being at sea.
As he lay in his hammock in the crew's quarters, unable to sleep for the horrible dwarves snoring, he wondered how his slight improvement in swordplay would serve him in the future.
He would learn
all too soon.
Chapter 12: Ceolmaer the Elder
His eyes shot open, and he sprung from his bed so fast he felt dizzy. Ceolmaer was old, and the quick movement was unfamiliar to him. It took a minute for him to catch his breath, and realize that he was wet with perspiration. He reached to the side of his bed with a groan for a towel to wipe his forehead. Knowing that sleep would not return to him easily, he slowly swung his legs to the edge of his bed. His feet touched the cold tiles of his tower suite in the capital of The Southern Republic. He had to shift over in order to place his feet into the fur-lined slippers.
Being the head elder of the entire country had at least some advantages.
Ceolmaer stood up and wrapped a robe around his frail frame. He was having more and more nightmares recently, and he figured they wouldn’t stop until he could somehow convince the three major races of the Southern Republic to find peace between themselves.
Then again...
How in the world was he going to get them to agree to peaceably unite when there continued to be these smaller skirmishes between them? From all over the southern peninsula, reports came of elves being attacked by dwarves after exploring the forests around the dwarven mountains, humans attacking dwarves who they claimed were mining illegally from their surrounding mountains, and elves who were shooting down the caravans of men who came too close to Talgel.
It wasn’t always like this.
Ceolmaer was old enough to remember when the three races lived in peace with one another. There were no fights between them. Well, at least not like these brutal ones that were being reported recently. Perhaps there had always been disagreements.
But war?
Surely not, Ceolmaer thought.
He walked past his bed and around to the balcony of his high tower suite. The doors were solid wood and carved with the symbol of the Southern Republic: three triangles facing downward, all supporting the one above it.
The original intent of this design had been to show how each race of the south could learn to depend on one another, as well as a warning. The triangles were precariously placed on top of one another. To move one of them ever so slightly would send the whole thing toppling down. Ceolmaer had always been aware of that balance, and the need to maintain it.
It had been a goblin war that had united the three races against a common enemy, and saw the formation of the current country called The Southern Republic. How long could that republic last against senseless violence?
The door opened with great effort. The one hundred year old tower that served as the meeting place for the elders of the south was showing its age. Still, the old elder marveled at the building. It had been a showing of cooperation. No other tower stood as tall on the entire continent. Not even that ruin on Good Harbor, the Tower of Pallum, ancient though it was.
No, dwarf stone had been cut specifically to build this tower. Elven wood had been hewn and carved to make its doors and ceilings, floors and windows. And what had men done? Ceolmaer laughed at the thought. We designed it. We built it. We sit atop it. Our magicians lifted the stones. Our engineers ensured that it would be sound.
Were it not for the brilliance of man, this tower would not have occurred.
“Stop it,” he said out loud. It was that type of thinking that would bring down an entire country. It had been an effort shared. A symbol of the unity of the races. Ceolmaer shuffled out to the balcony that overlooked the great city of Conny, capital of the Southern Republic, and breathed the air in deeply. From here he could just barely make out the glittering of the stars along the sea that spanned the horizon. This was the city that had fought the hardest during the goblin invasion, and it was here that the pact of the three was made.
It would be here that they would settle their differences and keep their peace, Ceolmaer thought.
His eyes scanned the city he had lived in all his life. Judging by the position of the moon it was approaching midnight, but from his vantage point he could still hear the activity in the streets below, and see fires and lanterns burning bright despite the late hour.
In a city of over 600,000 souls, there has been rarely a time when everyone slept. Ceolmaer reveled in the buzz of the city. Several buildings stood over four and five stories tall. In the morning their roofs would create a patchwork of color that only those who viewed the city from this great height could truly appreciate.
The streets branched out from the capitol tower like spokes on the wagon wheel. Several towers similar in design to the spiraling capitol tower rose along the city streets. Some were places of study and books. Others were the homes of the nobility, and the second houses of some other elders on the council. Though he knew he lived a soft life in comparison to some of the other residents of Conny, Ceolmaer had never really enjoyed the vanity of any of his fellow elders. Being elected an elder of the Southern Republic was a high honor, but it also came with the possibility of terrible corruption. Many wealthy merchants and landowners would gladly pay to influence your decision on important matters, and several elders had taken advantage of such deals. The two other elders of men, for example, both had at least two other houses in which they lived in the great city. Ceolmaer shook his head just thinking about it. But perhaps this was why he had become head elder. In his many years of service, far too many for him to recount this late night, he had never once accepted payment for decisions made. Perhaps it was his purity in the face of corrupt politics that had enabled him to be the elder of elders for the last 15 years.
Still, there was much to do in order to convince the six other elders to lay aside their differences, and focus on the current unrest between the races.
His mind wandered to the council's previous session.
As he sat in his chair at the raised portion of the circle of the council, Ceolmaer was holding his head in hands. His elbows rested on the armrests of the oaken chair. His eyes focused on the decorative stone table that formed the inside of the circle. Its intricate ruins and carvings of dwarves, elves, and men depicted all the people of The Southern Republic. In the carvings they were living in peace and cooperating. On the table, they were fighting with words like daggers.
"You'll come to find that the ax of a dwarf is much better suited for crushing a skull than some finicky elven blade!" shouted Dollin, one of the dwarven elders that sat around the table. Well, everyone else was sitting. Dollin was in fact standing, but his short stature made it seem like he could be doing either to Ceolmaer. For a dwarf, he was shorter than most. He more than made up for it with presence. His red hair flared along with his anger.
"This is not a discussion about weaponry, Dollin and I'll not have it turn into one. I believe your original point was the elven caravan that traveled to Kaz-Ulum from Ingur," Ceolmaer interjected. It was the first time he had spoken in well over thirty minutes. The bickering between the elves and dwarves was getting worse, and he knew it would soon escalate.
"Now, Dollin, if we are to understand, you are not debating axes and swords, but an elven caravan that intended to travel to Kaz-Ulum?” he said, trying to bring the conversation back to a focus.
"Not only that, but I say there was no caravan!" Dollin shouted at Ceolmaer, who, upon hearing those words put his head back into his hands.
"Dollin of Kaz-Ulum!" shouted one of the elven elders, a tall and brown haired man named Finasaer. He was younger than Dollin, in fact, he was the youngest of the elders. His youth gave him a pride and arrogance that matched Dollin's rage. The elf was fair and had no beard, for in fact, no elf had ever needed to shave. They never grew facial hair. Ceolmaer’s own graying goatee fell into his lap as he continued to listen to the bickering.
"You know full well that the elven caravan came to Conny, and resupplied here and convened with myself and Olweleg before continuing on to Kaz-Ulum. Or have you forgotten that they also spoke with Thrinain, who gave them his blessing to travel to your infernal mountain? If you say there was never a caravan then you are a liar or a fool, perhaps both!"
Shouting on both sides grew so that no words were intelligible, by either party.
Of course Finasaer was right. The elves had indeed sent a caravan of artisans and craftsmen from Ingur to Conny with the intent of traveling to the dwarven mine in order to learn from the weapon smiths there. It was to be a time of cooperation and learning from one another. The elves had in fact traveled to Conny. Ceolmaer had seen them with his own eyes. The issue was that the caravan never made it to the mountain. Upon searching for the fourteen carts, forty horses, and over two hundred elves that were a part of the traveling group, only a single charred cart was found.
On that cart rested the heads of the lead artisans upon the axes of dwarfs.
Now both sides were furious with the other. The elves naturally assumed that the dwarves had slaughtered the elves for reasons unknown to anyone but themselves. The dwarves claimed no such violence could have taken place. It was during a season of meditation for the dwarves, before a concentrated effort to better understand the mountain and its gifts to them. No weapons would be held during the two week long worship of the mountain. Therefore the dwarves could not have attacked the elves.
And they said that it damaged the honor of a dwarf to be called liars.
Both sides blamed men for different things at different times. Men should have accompanied the elves to help them travel safely to the mountain. Men should have come to the aid of elves if a battle was to be fought. Men should side with the dwarves because of the weapons forged by them and used in the Southern Republic's army.
And so the argument continued to escalate.
"Peace, my fellow elders!" said a feminine voice finally.
Mara held up her hands to silence the elves and dwarves. Ceolmaer looked up from his hands, hoping that the sole woman elder could grant him respite from this bickering. His headache was worsening by the moment.
Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey Page 97