The Men of War

by Damon Alan

  Harry ordered his men into positions. “Do not engage unless they engage us.”

  Cylethe sent the drakon into the air, ready to attack if the need should arise.

  The dirigible climbed until level with the Brits and Cylethe, then rose straight up while drifting slightly up the trail. A rope ladder dropped over the side and fell precisely onto the trail. They had a skilled pilot.

  A head popped over the railing that ran along the side of the dirigible’s undercarriage. Cylethe grabbed Harry’s hand and wrapped it around the amulet she wore.

  “Oy!” the head called down to them. “We seek to trade. Come on board if you like.”

  “What clan are you?” Cylethe asked.

  “Flitterboots,” the creature replied, confusing Harry. Had the amulet not worked?

  “The runners from troubles?” Cylethe yelled up.

  “That is a nasty rumor,” the creature answered. “We never run. We fly.”

  Cylethe grinned at Harry. “It’s safe. You can call your men down to us.”

  A few minutes later the group was one again. As that happened, one of the beings climbed down the ladder, which Harry noticed had extremely close rungs. Now Harry understood why. The spokesmen of the Flitterboots was no more than three feet tall if an inch.

  “I’m Sorbiloonisorb,” the gnome said. “I can invite two of you to the deck to discuss trade if you like, if you have anything of value.”

  Harry noticed that Sorbi-whatever didn’t actually touch the ground. He stayed on the ladder, interlocking his arms through the rungs to help hold his weight. A small crossbow hung on his back, but it was hard to imagine the little guy getting angry. “You and I,” he said to Cylethe. “No more than two of us can understand them anyway. But what would they want that we might have? And what might they have for us?”

  “They’ll pay a lot for something they haven’t seen before,” she answered. “And you have quite a few things they haven’t seen before if you’re willing to part with such treasures.”

  “I’ll gather some things from the men.”

  “Sorbiloonisorb, we would be most honored to trade with the Flitterboots,” Cylethe said to the gnome as Harry called his men in for a huddle. He didn’t understand the response; he was no longer touching the amulet. But it sounded very sing-songy.

  “Men, I need trade items to swap with these fellows. They seem friendly enough, and we might get some things we can use.”

  “I’ve got my lighter,” Wilkes offered. “I’m out of smokes anyway.”

  Three more men offered lighters.

  “Flint and steel?” Parker offered.

  “They’ll have that,” Harry said. “Besides, what if Miller gives out on us? We’ll need something to light fires.”

  Lars tossed a flask onto the growing collection on the ground. “Ah hae some cratur in that.”

  “Scotch?” Harry asked. “You’d part with that?”

  “Weel it doesn't keek lik' ah will be getting ony mair, wull ah?” the Scotsman said, indignant. “A dram is worth a lot, bit living thro' this is something tae.”

  “We’re all going to live through it,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I appreciate the sacrifice. Anything else?”

  “We got our gas masks,” Garrett replied. “We’re not using those.”

  Harry started to agree, but then he remembered the weapon Cylethe’s drakon used on the half-horses. “No, we keep those.” He sighed. “Three lighters and a flask of scotch.”

  Miller handed over a pocketknife. A fine specimen with several blades.

  “You sure?” Harry asked.

  A nod and a weak smile was his only answer. Harry thought he remembered Miller saying something about the knife being a gift from his father.

  He grabbed the small pile and headed to the ladder. Sorbiwhats was already back on deck, and Cylethe was climbing. The drakon complained from somewhere overhead, but she kept going. So Harry climbed too.

  The deck wasn’t far from the balloons of whatever it was that made the dirigible float. Four feet at most, but then the occupants of the craft weren’t tall enough for that to matter to them. A small horde of them gathered around as Cylethe and Harry sat cross legged on the deck. She held out the amulet for him to once again clasp onto.

  “Can we get you anything as a refreshment?” Sorbitoots asked. “Wine? Ale?”

  A cold wind blew across the deck, then one of the gnomes turned some valves on pipes that ran underneath the balloon. Soon warm air radiated downward toward the deck.

  “Ale,” Cylethe answered. “For both myself and my human.”

  Her human?

  He let it go for now, filing a note to ask later. “Yes, ale.”

  After some introductions and the serving of refreshments, the gnomes got straight to business.

  “What have you got to trade?” Sorbsnots asked.

  “We have some trinkets, the likes of which I suspect you haven’t seen,” Cylethe stated. “The first are three lighting boxes.”

  Harry lit a lighter then flipped the lid back down on it. He opened it and it was out. He lit it again. Then repeated the process again.

  “Is that magic or machine?” Sorbonobs asked, clearly interested.

  “Machine,” Harry replied. “It runs off very refined pitch.”

  “Excellent,” the gnome exclaimed. “We can make just such a fuel.”

  “What else do you have?”

  “We have a liquor from Earth, probably the only example of which exists on Aerth,” Cylethe said. “It’s in a finely crafted metal flask, which could itself be used for a potion or the like after the liquor is consumed.”

  “I’d like to taste it,” Sorbinoodles said.

  “Not going to happen,” Cylethe said. “There are only a few mouthfuls, which is, as I said, all that exists that you might find. You may, however, smell it.”

  Harry opened the flask and waved it under Sorboneedles substantial nose.

  “It smells delicious,” the gnome smiled. “What else?”

  Harry opened the blades of the pocketknife. The gnomes on the deck jostled one another for a closer look. Clearly, they liked the tool.

  “What is that you carry?” Sorbisuits asked Harry, pointing at the sidearm in his holster.

  “My defense weapon,” Harry replied. “A gun.”

  “How does that work? Would you trade it?”

  “The price would be very high,” Harry said, reluctantly. He didn’t want to, but everything had a price.

  Sorbisnooker opened his arms up wide. “We will begin making offers for the items, and if we can agree, we will trade.” The other gnomes nodded their agreement. “We will discuss among ourselves below deck and return in a moment.”

  Only seconds passed before Cylethe and Harry sat alone on the deck. The sound of things being tossed around echoed up through the wood under them. The only other sound was faint wind noises through the ropes of the dirigible and the whoosh of the large propeller that kept the airship in position.

  “We sure could get to the winter grounds faster with one of these,” Harry commented.

  “Don’t even joke about it. These airships are like temples to the gnomes. You’d basically be asking them to sell out their gods.”

  “Got it. The airship is out of bounds.”

  “Besides, you’re not rich enough by orders of magnitude.”

  He sighed. “The story of my life.”

  The gnomes returned and began piling items on the deck. Flasks, sacks, foodstuffs, what looked like gemstones. Something interesting caught Harry’s eye. Weapons that he assumed were dwarven in make based upon the crossbows his squad already had.

  He wanted those.

  A fact that wasn’t lost on Sorbispittle. “You appreciate Dwarven artisanship?”

  “I do,” Harry replied. “I would trade for those first.”

  “Two crossbows for the lot,” the gnome replied immediately.

  Cylethe coughed loudly. “Are you mad?”

 
“Every negotiation starts somewhere.”

  “It shouldn’t start with an insult to our intelligence,” she retorted, a bit of anger in her voice.

  “What do you consider to be fair, magician?”

  “All the crossbows and swords for the three lighters. With ammunition for the bows.”

  “That’s thirty bows then?” the gnome sputtered. “And a like number of swords?”

  “Indeed,” she replied.

  “Madness!” he spat out. “I wouldn’t pay half that number!”

  “What number would you pay?” Harry asked, still very much interested.

  “Ten of each, only because we want to see how the light boxes work and you have three of them.”

  “Twelve,” Harry replied. “Of each. Plus, all the bolts you have for them.”

  “Ten, and I’ll throw in a week’s fine rations for all of your humans,” Sorbisorts said to Cylethe. “Or, if you give us our own human, we’ll give you all the weapons.”

  Cylethe looked at Harry.

  “No,” Harry snapped.

  She shrugged then turned back to the trader. “Ten bows, ten swords, we pick. Two hundred bolts. A week of fine rations. A keg of ale.”

  “Deal!” he shouted, louder than Harry would have expected he could. The other gnomes on deck broke out in dance and song. The dancing took nearly two minutes while he stared on incredulously. They certainly were a happy people.

  Once the dance was over the trading continued.

  “We might as well see what you want for the liquor,” Sorbisinger said. “I wouldn’t wish to insult such a great magician again. I prefer not to be a toad.”

  The gnomes laughed.

  “Healing brew,” Cylethe said. “Twenty flasks.”

  “A fortunate thing we have some straight from the Shingar Seacoast,” Sorbisloop replied. “I agree.”

  During the song and dance that followed, Cylethe’s expression fell. “I should have asked for more,” she whispered to Harry.

  Once the songs died away, trade for the last item began. “And the knife of many knives?” the gnome asked. “What for that?”

  “What do we need?” Harry asked Cylethe.

  “I feel you bested me on the last trade,” Cylethe said. “You make an offer, Sorbiloonisorb.”

  Harry was relieved to hear the name again. Too bad he still didn’t quite understand it.

  Sorbilooniesnorts smiled. “I will offer a set of Dek leather that keeps the wearer comfortable in any temperature.”

  Cylethe nodded. “We’ll make that deal.”

  The deck of the airship erupted in song and dance once again. Two gnomes ran below and appeared a short time later with a set of leather armor much like he’d seen Undek warriors wear on patrol.

  “And for the… gun you called it?” the trader said, surprising Harry.

  He stared at the gnome a minute, who stared back, grinning.

  “Could you show me how it works?” the trader asked.

  “That is in itself, valuable,” Cylethe said. “Are you willing to pay to see?”

  The gnome slid a gem over to Harry. “I am.”

  Harry had no idea what the gem was, or what it was worth. But Cylethe seemed pleased and the deal was already made.

  He explained the gun and the workings of it to Sorbiloonibin, including the safe handling procedures.

  “I’d like to have that one to develop more from,” the gnome said, when the demonstration was over. “A weapon like that would command value with the elves and dwarves.”

  “I am not sure—”

  “— if you want to trade away such an advantage?” the trader asked. “Of course you don’t. But what if I gave you something of equal advantage that is much harder for me to duplicate, but much more useful to you?” He clapped his hands gleefully. “After all, I only see six of those— cartridges you called them? Your weapon only works six times unless you can get more of the cartridges, yes?”

  Harry sighed. It was entirely too painfully true.

  “I thought so,” the trader laughed. “I have a trade I think we’ll both like.” He turned to a gnome nearby, one with baubles all over his leather jacket. “Run and get me Dynamus, Elomostookkimarilom.”

  The decorated gnome ran off, returning a short time later with a sword in a scabbard. The weapon was human, elven or dek sized. “I obtained this off a trader over twenty years ago. He had a bit of a gambling problem and this settled that debt.”

  The trader placed the sword gently on the deck in front of Harry. “It was a substantial debt.”

  Harry picked up the scabbard, and he would swear on a Bible the sword hummed inside. Almost as if it were purring.

  The hilt of the sword was wrapped in maroon leather, and a stone lay in the pommel. A clear stone, with a blue energy dancing inside.

  “What is it?” Harry asked, awestruck.

  “It likes you,” Sorbiloonsnips said. “It is an intelligent creation from long ago. Few have the knowledge to make such a wonder now, but here is your chance to own one.”

  Harry looked at Cylethe. It was almost as if the sword was calling to him. “Is this real?”

  She chanted off a spell and the swords hilt glowed with a bright purple aura. “Very much so. This is a trade that I would take, Harry. I believe you’ve reached a point in your life where destiny is determined by the choice you make.”

  “And the destiny of our clan,” the trader said. “Everyone wins, human.”

  Harry handed the pistol and some ammunition to Sorbiloonisorb. Suddenly the gnome’s name seemed very clear.

  “I accept.”

  “Don’t you wish to test it first?” the gnome asked. “See how it feels?”

  “I think, sir, you know I don’t have to do that.”

  The gnome smiled. Of course he knew. “It is a weapon that seemed more suited for you, otherwise I’d never have parted with it. Now that you have it, the universe seems to be more correct.”

  He didn’t yet know why, but Harry knew that was true. Reality was a better place with the sword in his hands.

  Chapter 17 - The Underways

  Irsu had traveled the Underways, also called the Deepways or the Underroads, as a younger dwarf. He’d worked as a laborer for cargo caravans. He knew what they were in for during their trip to a distant hold.

  “You’re thinking,” Coragg commented.

  “We’re in a bad way,” Irsu replied, where the guards could hear him as well. “We don’t have a trade banner. We don’t have a priest of any kind. It’s unlikely that any hold is going to open their gates to us. They might even attack us as brigands.”

  “What do we do?” Coragg asked.

  “Excursion,” Irsu replied.

  Coragg groaned. “We’re not scouts!”

  “I am,” Numo said. “I’ve been on more excursions than you’ve had ladies.”

  “So more than one then?” Irsu quipped.

  The guards laughed as Coragg scowled.

  “And you, the lot of you. You’re clearly no longer royal guards,” Irsu added. “You’re members of the Iron now, Iron platoon, Iron company, from Iron Mountain Hold. Your allegiance is to our survival, not any nonsense, you got it?”

  Mumbles of agreement, reluctant sounding, but Irsu could sense that they were relieved he’d given them status. As the Amblu-gane, he could conscript soldiers. While these were already his by word of the Underking, they were now officially his by the authority he possessed.

  “We’re going to find a way out. Numo is an amazing scout, he’s been my trusted eyes for a few years now. I have no doubts to our success.”

  Livelier responses greeted those words. He was appearing as if he had a plan. Something they needed to see, no matter how marginally true it was. The plan consisted of simply finding a natural path to the surface. Once there they’d find a way to the Hagirr gate and back to Earth.

  Hevreg be damned. Even if she did have the pale dwarf sickness, something was bothering Irsu about what happened in
the Royal Quarter. Hers was the only irrational voice in the old Iron Mountain Hold. Why was she so affected with madness while the guards were fine?

  “We’re away from the eyes of our clan and we have a long journey,” Coragg said. “We should rest and prepare for a solid march tomorrow. Hopefully these lizards will fit where we need to go, otherwise packs will get heavier.”

  No complaints. That was good. The soldiers listened as Coragg gave them the watch rotation, leaving Irsu out.

  “I take watch as well,” he said. “I’ll rotate with Degrin and Mikun.”

  Coragg nodded. His expression showed he’d hoped Irsu would do as much. “Four watches, three dwarves each. You will watch with the same team every night. I’ll assign the portion of your watch based upon your performance that day. If everyone is at peak, then we’ll rotate one slot.” He pointed at Irsu and his two watchmates. “You’re first. Wake me in two hours.”

  Irsu chuckled. His second was clearly eager to get to bed barking out orders like that. “Two hours,” he agreed, trusting his innate sense of time to get it right. Living underground, separated from the sun, an internal clock was essential.

  Nights passed uneventfully as did days for some time. The underways, always a challenge, were kind to them. They made as little noise as plate armored dwarves could, but if there was trouble nearby, it would find them.

  They came to a bridge across a chasm. Below them water rushed, invisible in the depths below. The far side of the bridge was too distant to see.

  The bridge, built by dwarves that lived long before Irsu was born, was suspended from thick cables sunk into the walls that rose into the darkness above. He’d been on two or three caravans that came this way before. The bridge would support no more than one wagon at a time as the merchants crossed.

  It would easily support Irsu’s squad, even with the two pack lizards.

  “We cross together,” he ordered. “If you’re afraid of heights, don’t look over the side.”

  His soldiers scoffed at the idea they’d be afraid. But he’d make mental note which ones didn’t stray too near the edge. It was his duty to know the strengths of these warriors. As they wouldn’t confess to any weakness, it was his to find it himself.