by Terry Brooks
Whatever the case, it was one of those tales that caught fire and kept burning—a tale of courage and victory against a superior enemy, the kind of story men loved to tell over and over. Some doubted it, of course. Some doubted everything. Not so much Dwarves, but others who were unaware of the fact that Dwarves never lied. If they were found to have lied, they were seen to be without honor and cast out.
Battenhyle had heard his own story or references to it at least a thousand times too many, and he gave Lakodan a derogatory grunt. “Spare me, neighbor. Point is, I never know what these weasels will be wanting next, so I am left with no choice but to go out to meet them and find out. Going alone would be foolish. Going without my favorite ax would be beyond foolish.”
Lakodan reached for his spare and shouldered it. “Number one is under repair, but I think number two will suffice for this adventure. Lead the way.”
They departed Lakodan’s workshop and ambled down from the heights and through the village, picking up a handful of others on the way. Word of the Federation visit had already spread, and some deemed a confrontation with men they didn’t much care for a good way to pass the time. Their fighting days were limited of late, and many were anxious for a scrap of some sort. Having it with Southlanders was always preferable to mixing it up with anyone else. Especially given their long history of conflict—a conflict he and Battenhyle were all too familiar with.
Back when he and Battenhyle were much younger, they were hardworking and ambitious, skilled craftsmen in a community of lifelong friends. They were under the iron hand of the Federation even then, but the Southlanders seemed a distant, almost benevolent presence, their emissaries seldom even appearing in the village. Until an older, less tolerant Dwarf firebrand named Chisletkin had begun a campaign to throw off the Federation yoke. Men and women flocked to him, heeding his fiery rhetoric, fed up with being a forced protectorate with its taxes and conscripts and rules, and captivated by the thought of being free once more.
The matter might have faded away and been forgotten entirely if not for an organized attack by the rebels against a Federation command sent to find and punish the leaders of this infant rebellion. The Dwarves caught the Southlanders unprepared and killed them all. The result, which might have been anticipated if Chisletkin and his fellows had been thinking clearly, was the arrival shortly thereafter of a sizable army that crushed the rebellion with little effort. In the aftermath, they hauled the unfortunate Chisletkin to the nearest tree and hung him in front of his fellow survivors, then cut him into pieces and threw the remains into a pigpen.
Then they killed the rest of their prisoners, too.
Battenhyle had been part of this band for a time—a powerful young man able to stand against four or five opponents at once, much admired for his bravery and fighting skills. But on the day the rebels were slaughtered, he had been home so sick he had come close to dying himself. He escaped the fate of his fellow rebels, but that was not the end of it for either him or Lakodan. The Federation decided to make an example of Crackenrood, and all those other villagers they considered at least tacitly complicit. So they conscripted a hundred of Crackenrood’s strongest young men—Battenhyle and Lakodan among them—and marched them under Federation command to the far eastern frontier, to root out and destroy a particularly troublesome band of Gnome raiders who had been preying on Southland shipping for the better part of a year. Over the course of the campaign—deemed a huge success by the Federation—more than half of those conscripted lost their lives. Lakodan and Battenhyle, who had guarded each other assiduously, were among the lucky ones who made it home safe, but the experience had left scars.
“Odd they didn’t send word they were coming,” Lakodan observed as they passed out of the village and marched toward the Pass of Jade. Already they could see the Federation officials and soldiers approaching from downslope, wandering out of the trees like tiny animals in search of food.
“As if what the Federation does can ever be anything but odd.” Battenhyle cocked an eyebrow. “I think they must all be born odd and never quite be able to escape their fate. Still, maybe they intend to surprise us.”
“Oh, surely.” Lakodan chuckled. “There’s a tactic they are so adept at. That and treachery.”
They eased up on their pace as they caught a glimpse of the young woman who walked in the midst of the Federation soldiers and officials. Lakodan took her to be somewhere south of twenty-five. This was a surprise. He could not remember the last time the Federation had sent anyone that young as part of a visiting delegation.
“Maybe they’ve run out of seasoned diplomats,” Battenhyle muttered, thinking the same thing his friend was.
Lakodan frowned. “Perhaps this is meant to throw us off guard about what’s coming.”
“Uh-uh. Not throw us off. Soften us up.”
“Sharpen your wits, Old Bear.”
“Sharpen your own, neighbor.”
As they stopped where they were—allowing the Federation party to come the rest of the way to them rather than the other way around—Lakodan noticed something else. The rangy, hawk-faced man at the young woman’s side was well known to both Battenhyle and himself.
“Choten Benz,” he murmured.
Battenhyle nodded but said nothing.
Lakodan made a quick count. The Federation party was thirteen strong. An unlucky number, but hopefully not for them.
The young woman started to step forward, but another man—an older, hard-faced Federation officer bearing the insignia of a lieutenant commander—quickly moved in front of her. “I have seniority, young lady,” he announced. Looking as if he found the task altogether too distasteful, he faced Battenhyle. “We are here to levy a conscription. The Federation requires a brigade of Dwarf conscripts from your village to serve in the Federation army, starting immediately. Call all your men and women over the age of sixteen and under the age of forty together, to allow me to make my selection. Any refusal to do as I have ordered will mean a…a…”
He trailed off, staring at the Dwarf. Battenhyle was shaking his big shaggy head. It made a noticeable impact. His broad, expressive face was covered in coarse black hair, and what wasn’t was weathered by sun and age and sat comfortably on a neck as thick as the speaker’s thigh, balanced atop a short but powerful body.
“Now, who are you, exactly?” Battenhyle asked companionably.
The lieutenant commander looked both irritated and confused. “Lieutenant Commander Arturus Barta Fillian,” he snapped.
“Well, then, Lieutenant Commander, my name is Battenhyle, and this ugly fellow standing next to me is Lakodan. A single name tends to be sufficient for Dwarves, so that’s all you get.” He grinned. “Now, what is it you want?”
The lieutenant commander turned scarlet. “You heard me well enough, so don’t…”
“Excuse me, but your tone of voice is unnecessarily rude.” Battenhyle suddenly looked dangerous. “I asked a reasonable question, and it is up to you to give a reasonable answer.”
The other man fumbled for a response. “You are required to…”
“No, that is a poor beginning. It sounds like a demand rather than a request. Besides, we are not required to do anything.” Battenhyle took a step closer to the man. “As a courtesy, we will hear you out. But then we must decide how we will respond to what you ask of us.”
The lieutenant commander, clearly unfamiliar with how Dwarves operated and feeling the butt of a joke he did not understand, lost it completely. “You are a defeated people!” he screamed. “You have no choice in what you do or do not do! You are nothing but—”
“Commander!” The voice carried such authority that it silenced him midsentence. The young woman stepped forward a second time. “Let’s leave off, please. Other villages lie ahead, but this one is exempt. Have you forgotten?”
Fillian’s jaw tightened. “I have no way of knowing if wh
at you claim is—”
He did not finish this sentence, either. She cut him short by thrusting a document in his face. “Read this, then!” she snapped, “since your memory seems to be suffering. And do not presume to question me afterward. You know the extent of my authority, and you must appreciate the consequences of an unfavorable report should I be forced to give you one.”
Lakodan was impressed. This was bold talk for a young woman to give a seasoned soldier. Still, young or not, she must carry some weight with the Federation hierarchy to be able to speak like this. He exchanged a quick glance with Battenhyle, who shrugged. None of their business, said the shrug.
The lieutenant commander finished reading the paper, then handed it back. “Very well. My men and I will return to the airship to wait for you. Meanwhile, you are on your own.”
He wheeled away, beckoning to the others. “Follow me.”
The rest of the party turned to follow—all but one. Fillian stared at him with annoyance. “You also, Benz.”
“Actually,” said the man both Lakodan and Battenhyle had identified earlier, “I am under orders to stay with Miss Belladrin and keep her safe. Those orders come directly from the Prime Minister and supersede your own, Lieutenant Commander.”
Fillian hesitated only a moment before turning away. Not surprising, Lakodan noted to himself. Benz was not the sort of man you challenged without good reason. But he was also not a Federation man. Or hadn’t been, until now. It made the Dwarf wonder.
The young woman stepped forward a second time, extending her hand. “Blessings on you, Elder Battenhyle,” she said, offering him a traditional Dwarf greeting.
“And on you,” the chieftain replied, engulfing her small hand in his own.
When he released it, she turned to Lakodan and extended her hand to him, as well. No hesitation, no sign of fear—even alone and in the face of two huge, bearish Dwarves. This dark-haired young lady couldn’t weigh more than a moor cat’s newly born kitten, yet she was not the least bit afraid.
She turned back to Battenhyle. “My name is Belladrin Rish, and I have the honor to serve as personal assistant to Prime Minister Ketter Vause. I am here at his request, to speak to you of an urgent matter. Have I your permission to continue?”
Battenhyle nodded. “You do.”
“Then first let me sort out the terms of my involvement with Lieutenant Commander Fillian’s conscription. First of all, the conscription is real. He is charged with fulfilling it, and if he fails today he will be back at some point with enough Federation soldiers to complete it. A part of my purpose is to stop that from happening. While the Prime Minister normally does not interfere with the prerogatives of his army officers in carrying out their duties, he does sometimes make exceptions and allowances. This is one such time.” She paused. “Are you familiar with the events taking place on the banks of the Mermidon River just west of Varfleet?”
Battenhyle exchanged a quick look with Lakodan. “Rumors, only. It is not Dwarf business.”
“Please let me explain why you are wrong.”
And she went on to do so in great detail—a thorough accounting of events over the past few weeks that included the arrival of the Skaar, their march south after decimating several Troll tribes who opposed them, their destruction of the Druid order and seizure of Paranor, and finally their further advance to the north banks of the Mermidon.
“They were opposed by a Federation force of more than five thousand soldiers, and they annihilated it in a single night,” she finished.
Lakodan pursed his lips. “Well, that’s impressive. How did they manage all this?”
“Apparently,” she answered, “they can make themselves invisible when they choose—at least for short periods of time. It’s difficult to fight what you cannot see, as those who opposed them were unfortunate enough to discover.”
“Magic?” Battenhyle asked.
Belladrin shrugged. “No one seems to know for sure. What the Prime Minister does know is that the Skaar are a people intent on conquest. And at present, they have the Four Lands in sight.”
Lakodan was certain there was more to this than what they were being told, but he held his tongue. In negotiations, you always kept something back to avoid looking desperate. Belladrin might be doing the same, or she might simply be telling them what she knew. Ketter Vause was a shrewd fox, and he would not hesitate to use others—even those he valued—to get what he wanted. That was how politicians held on to their power, wasn’t it?
“Fascinating story,” Battenhyle ventured. “What has any of it to do with us? We are not involved with these Skaar, and we have no wish to change that. Who would? Surely, Ketter Vause does not expect the Dwarves of Crackenrood to march forth to face these invaders on the Federation’s behalf.”
“As a matter of fact, he does not. But he does need your help. If you are willing to give it to him, I am authorized to spare Crackenrood from any further conscriptions for a period of ten years.”
“Ten years?” Battenhyle repeated in disbelief.
“Ten years,” she reaffirmed.
Lakodan was impressed. Ten years was a lifetime in terms of conscriptions.
“Can we sit down together somewhere while I explain?” Belladrin asked. “I’m very tired. We flew for two days straight to get here.”
And Lakodan suddenly realized what it was that Ketter Vause and the Federation wanted from his village.
* * *
—
So far, so good, Belladrin was thinking as the three of them sat together in the Dwarf council lodge drinking cold ale and eating cheese and bread. She was both thirsty and hungry from the trip; there had been little time to do anything during the flight other than to prepare herself for what was needed once she arrived. The Prime Minister had introduced her to Choten Benz, and she found him scary and at the same time reassuring. He had been quick to tell her that whatever she needed he would do, and there was a look about him that suggested he was quite capable of following through.
Nor had she been overly worried about Lieutenant Commander Fillian, whom she recognized as a man who firmly believed men should always be in charge. Mistaking her for an inexperienced girl rather than a capable young woman was his first mistake. Trying to assert his dominance when they arrived was his second and last.
“You were about to explain why the Prime Minister is being so generous,” Battenhyle prodded gently, his deep voice reverberating through the empty lodge.
She gave him her attention instantly. “I was. Recently, Cor d’Amphere, the king of the Skaar, met with Prime Minister Vause and presented a series of demands that he claimed would avoid any further battles. However genuine that offer might have been, the Prime Minister saw it as a deliberate sign that any refusal by the Federation would be met with force.”
“That would not have sat well with him, I imagine,” Lakodan ventured.
“He agreed to negotiate.”
The Dwarf was taken aback. “But he didn’t want that, did he?”
“No. What he wants is to defeat the Skaar and send them back to wherever they came from. Eurodia, I am told. Which brings me to why I am here.”
“You want the Reveals,” Lakodan said.
For a moment, she hesitated, clearly caught off guard. “Yes. The Prime Minister wants the Reveals. But he knows that he needs the Dwarves of Crackenrood to provide whatever fuels them and to operate them successfully.”
“He can develop the mixture and train the men on his own,” Battenhyle pointed out.
“Over time, yes. But he doesn’t have that kind of time. He has perhaps thirty days. So he makes you the offer as a way to settle matters quickly.”
Lakodan shook his head. “How does he even know the Reveals will work? They’ve never been fully tested. What if the Skaar are immune?”
The young woman shrugged. “He knows the risks. H
e intends to test them first, to be sure. Even if they don’t work, he will honor the bargain he is making with you. Ten years, no conscriptions.”
Both Dwarves were quiet for a long time, glancing at each other in silent contemplation. They had known each other all their lives; words weren’t necessary in certain situations. Lakodan held up five fingers. Battenhyle nodded.
“Fifty,” he said to Belladrin.
“What?”
“Fifty years, not ten, if we agree to help you.”
“I would have to ask him…”
Battenhyle held up his hand to stop her. “No you won’t.”
“You are a very bright, capable woman,” Lakodan explained. “Ketter Vause is a careful man. He would not have sent you to bargain on his behalf without full authority to act for him. You said yourself there is no time for delay. So he has already given you leeway to agree to what we ask, providing it is not entirely unreasonable. Fifty years is more than reasonable, given what it will save in Federation lives and prestige. Fifty years—with no conscription.”
“After all, I want this prohibition to last at least for the remainder of my life,” Battenhyle teased, then broke into laughter.
Belladrin grinned in spite of herself. “Which, in your case, might actually come to pass. Very well, we have an agreement.”
“Ask the Prime Minister to write it up. No clever games, tell him. No tricky language. We’re not stupid, but we do have short tempers. In the interests of saving time, we will bring the Reveals to you, but make sure that—when we arrive—you have the contract ready and waiting. If it is not as we agreed, we will depart again—taking the Reveals with us.”
He rose to his feet, Lakodan with him. The meeting was over. Belladrin exhaled sharply. Things couldn’t have gone better, discounting the number of years of non-conscription she had been forced to give up. But they had asked for nothing else, and she had been empowered to give them almost anything. How the Prime Minister knew of the Reveals was a mystery to her, but he was adamant he must have use of both them and the Dwarves who were trained to operate them.