The dwarvish escorts and Turk bowed to the tall dwarf, and he returned the gesture with a quick dip of his chin. After a wave of his hand, another horn blew, and a second portcullis, at the other end of the neck, began to open. A dozen more armored guards marched through the new opening as the tall dwarf spoke to Turk again. The look on Turk’s face showed irritation mixed with compliance, and he bowed, again. Turk turned to face his companions.
“You must give up your weapons here. They will keep them until we leave.”
“I think not,” Switch muttered. “Do dwarves have to give up their weapons to enter the city?”
“No, but you are not a dwarf,” Demik replied. “However, Turk, Nafer, and I must give up ours as well.”
Erik’s companions loosened their belts, and they walked forward, presenting their weapons. Erik saw Switch had shuffled to the back of the line and pushed a short-bladed knife into his boot and then another down the front of his pants. He then saw the thief removing all his other knives and daggers and piling them into the dwarf ’s outstretched hands before he slipped his bow off his back and gave that up.
Erik felt a tingle at his hip and slid his dagger to the small of his back and pushed it low so that only half the handle would be visible if his rucksack wasn’t covering it. He handed the dwarvish guard his sword, and as gray eyes glared at him from under the dwarf ’s helm, Erik could feel sweat along his brow, down his cheek, and around the neck of his shirt. The dwarf looked him up and down for what seemed like an eternity until Demik curtly said something to the guard in Dwarvish and, with one last passing look, the dwarf jerked his head to the side, signaling the young man to pass through the gate.
Erik released a sigh of relief as he passed into the walled city of Thorakest. As he looked up at the open portcullis, he felt a tingle at his lower back, and a sudden sense of approval overcame him.
Chapter 29
“WILL WE GO TO THE mayor’s hall first?” Turk asked.
“Aye,” replied the guard who was leading them through the city.
“I have missed this place,” said Turk, more to himself.
As they passed among them, almost as if he was seeing them for the first time, Turk took in the stone and wood shops, the artisan and fruit carts, the small homes with little, short-fenced gardens on either side of cobbled walkways. He saw a large fountain centered by a statue of some stately dwarf holding a bucket pouring water into the well around the fount. It sat in the middle of a large courtyard. Several dwarves—reading, courting, relaxing—sat around the well. They eyed the party and ceased their conversation as they passed but didn’t scowl or offer jests.
“Why did you leave?” the guard asked.
“It’s a long story,” Turk replied. “I forgot how large Thorakest is.”
They came upon a large market center with fountains at every corner and carts and half-permanent structures everywhere. A tall, square keep of dark-gray stone stood at the center of the market square.
“Here it is,” the guard said. “The keep of Fréden Fréwin.”
Turk turned to his companions and spoke to them in Westernese.
“We will ask the mayor for passage to the castle and freedom within the city.”
“Is not the king’s steward the person who would give us that leave?” Wrothgard asked.
“It’s a matter of respect,” Turk explained. “Just because you can eat whatever you wish in a host’s house, as an honored guest, doesn’t mean you do so without asking for permission.”
“Ah, I see,” Wrothgard replied.
The doors to the keep stood open, a steady flow of dwarvish peoples walking in and out. Turk walked through the doors and into a large foyer, a rectangular room with a number of vendors and carts lined along its walls, selling many of the same goods that a marketplace vendor might sell. Along with colorful banners, which hung from the ceiling, suits of armor lined the wall. They were clearly meant for decoration since most of the suits, with their elaborate fins and horns and spikes, would be worthless in battle.
Across from the entrance, Turk followed the guard through a set of huge doors and into the main hall of the keep. It was long and wide, and a carpet of red and gold led visitors to a raised dais, upon which lounged an older dwarf, many years past his middle years, with long, gray hair and beard. Dwarves that looked like dignitaries and business owners, aristocrats and minor nobles surrounded the older dwarf and his high backed, cushioned chair. He stroked the beard that reached to his chest as he listened intently to his guests, the large, open sleeves of his gold and silver embroidered, red robe flopping back and forth, making it look as if he only pretended to listen. He had emeralds sewn into his sleeves and sapphires sewn into the front of his robe, which he used as buttons.
“Fréden,” Turk muttered.
The guard looked over his shoulder and nodded.
“Who?” Bryon asked.
“The mayor of the city, the steward of the civilian world of Thorakest,” Turk replied.
They walked towards the chair of Fréden Fréwin, and he pretended to ignore them, but Turk could see his sideways glances. He gave the party several fleeting looks before putting up his hand to some richly robed dwarvish man with gold rings and diamond necklaces to silence him. The old mayor straightened in his chair, gripped the armrests with his hands, and then leaned forward. Turk saw the dwarf nod to two of his own guards, dwarves clad in mail shirts and carrying large, round shields and tall spears. They moved to the front of the dais as if to protect the mayor.
“Who are these . . . visitors?” Fréden Fréwin called to the guard who led the party through the keep. He hung on the word visitors, almost spitting it out.
“Surely, you know who they are?” the guard replied.
“Do I not deserve a city guard’s respect?”
Turk could hear the guard sigh and groan.
“No, my lord. Apologies. I present you Turk Skull Crusher.”
“Just Turk Skull Crusher?” the mayor asked.
“Turk Skull Crusher and his companions, my lord.” The guard bowed, but Turk felt that it took much effort to do so.
“And his companions consist of men?” Fréden Fréwin asked.
The guard paused and quickly looked back at Turk.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Turk Skull Crusher.” Fréden Fréwin stood. “This is a name that I know, at least the surname. Although, the patron of this family, to the best of my knowledge, died several years ago. You must be his son, long lost to the lands of men. Do you speak for this group of . . .” The mayor’s lip curled. “Do you speak for this group?”
Turk stepped forward and bowed.
“I do. Shall we speak in Westernese, for the sake of my companions your Excellency, the most respectable Fréden Fréwin? Out of respect?”
“And would they speak in our tongue if we were in their lands?” Fréden Fréwin asked.
“No,” Turk said to Fréden’s curt question, “but we have always taken pride in being more hospitable than men, have we not?”
Fréden Fréwin scoffed. He looked at the party of men.
“Aye. Who are these other dwarves you have with you, Skull Crusher?”
His broad, pale finger might as well have been a knife as he pointed to Demik and Nafer.
“Demik Iron Thorn.” The dwarf walked forward and stood next to Turk, offering the mayor a short bow.
“Nafer Round Shield, Fréwin,” Nafer said.
“Your names I do not recognize,” Fréden Fréwin said, “have you been living in the lands of men as well?”
Neither dwarf took care to nod.
“And these men are—” began Turk, finally switching to Westernese.
“I care not who these men are!” Fréden Fréwin shouted in Dwarvish. “I should ask what your business is here, after living with the likes of these surface dwellers for so long.”
“My business is personal,” Turk replied, using Dwarvish again himself.
“Not only do you
show up with these dogs, but then you choose to disrespect me in my own hall. Especially you, a member of such an esteemed family. Am I to be such a fool to believe that you are simply here on personal business?”
The mayor stood and took a step down from his dais. “The Duke of Strongbur executed a young warrior such as you—family highly respected—not two months ago. And for what, you might ask? Spying.”
“For whom was he spying, my lord?” Turk asked with eyes squinted and a cocked eyebrow.
“Who else could it be other than men?” Fréden Fréwin shouted. “Who else could want the secrets of the dwarves, the secrets of our mines and treasures, the secrets of Dwarf ’s Iron?”
Turk could think of another people for whom a young, disenchanted dwarf might spy as disheartening as that might be, but he dared not say a thing in this place.
“My family has been honored by King Skella and the kings before him. This you know to be true,” Turk said. “Do not call into question my integrity. It is simply out of respect that we ask you leave of the city.”
“You would speak to me this way in my own hall!” Fréden yelled.
“Has the mayor taken up the crown since I have left my homeland,” Turk asked, “and been given leave to pass judgment on the honor and honesty of a warrior?”
Fréden Fréwin’s face turned red. Below his bearded cheeks his jaws clamped. His fists clenched, and if he stood close enough to Turk, he might have hit the dwarf. Fréden’s guards slowly began to close in on the party, but the mayor gestured them away. Anger and disrespect did not give enough reason to order an attack on a dwarf warrior, whose family had close ties to that of the king’s. Fréden Fréwin sat back down.
“You know the way to the castle,” the mayor said to the party’s two escorts.
Turk bowed to him, but the mayor did not acknowledge his courtesy. They walked through the rearward door in the keep, behind the mayor’s seat, and entered the remainder of the town. Only a few blocks of homes past the keep, sat another courtyard similar to the first, its only difference being two fountains on either side of the road on which they walked and rose gardens beyond each fountain. Their escort turned and held up a hand, turned back around, and walked towards the keep of the castle.
“Where is he going?” Wrothgard asked.
“He is going to tell King Skella we are here,” Turk replied and stopped to wait. His companions followed suit.
“I apologize,” Turk said to them all, “Nothing was said that should concern you, and I’m sure that you can tell that dwarves are no different than any other peoples of Háthgolthane. Some feel they are superior to others. They feel we should exert our superiority. Clearly, Fréden Fréwin is one of those dwarves.”
“From his demeanor, the mayor seems like a bitter fellow,” Erik suggested.
“He comes from a long line of stewards here in Thorakest,” Turk replied. “He has never trained as a warrior like many of us. He chose a life of diplomacy and politics, and many of those fools are nothing but pompous, elitist idiots.”
“And many think like him?” Erik asked.
“Some do, yes,” Turk replied. “But most do not. Mind you, many dwarves do have a general dislike for men, even those that are born and raised in a dwarvish city like Thorakest. But his views of dwarvish purity and dwarvish dominance are more than foolish—they are contrary to our traditions, contrary to the teachings of An, the Almighty and the scriptures he has left us.”
“But there are others that feel the same way?” Erik insisted.
“Yes, but they are fools,” Turk replied with a nod. “The whole lot of them. Fréden Fréwin is the biggest fool of them all.”
Switch grumbled and spat and kicked dirt, while Vander Bim walked from one statue to the next, inspecting them, touching them, and marveling at them. Befel and Bryon seemed to bicker about something, which they often did—when they spoke. Wrothgard stared at the castle while Erik stared to the darkness beyond the mirrors of Thorakest. All the while, Turk just expectantly waited, reveling nervously at being home.
The dwarvish escort returned.
“King Skella knows you are here,” the escort said. “He has many appointments, however. He has commanded that you be housed in one of the barracks until he is ready to see you.”
Turk bowed, turned to his companions, and relayed the information, and they began to follow the guard again.
“Are we not important enough for him?” Switch asked.
“He is a king,” Demik replied. “We are lucky he is seeing us at all.”
“Being men doesn’t put us at the forefront of his appointments?” Wrothgard asked.
“He is involved with men quite often,” Turk replied, “certainly more than Fréden Fréwin and some of his citizens. You being here is nothing too alarming. What we have in our possession is probably more alarming than anything.”
“And what is that?” Wrothgard asked.
“The map to Orvencrest,” Turk replied.
“What do you mean?” Wrothgard asked.
“I will show King Skella the map,” Turk replied.
“Truly,” Wrothgard said and stopped walking.
“Of course,” Turk replied. Everyone stopped, even the escort, as Turk confronted the soldier. “What did you think I would do?”
“I thought we were helping you traverse the lands of men,” Vander Bim said, “and you would help us traverse the lands of dwarves.”
“And that has happened,” Turk replied.
“You lied,” Switch said.
“I do not lie,” Turk snapped. “I did . . . we did as we said we would. Showing King Skella the map is of no consequence to you. We will still find the lost city, and you will still fill your haversacks with more jewels and coins than you could imagine. But not showing him the map could be of grave consequence to my people.”
“That’s all well and good,” Switch said, “when you will be here, in the protective confines of your mountain. What happens to us when the Lord of the East finds out we’ve given a map to the king of the southern dwarves?”
“I don’t think he will find out,” Turk replied, “and if he does, you are truly foolish to think that I would be any safer than you, even in the confines of a dwarvish city.”
Chapter 30
LIEUTENANT BU WATCHED BOTH THE small group of men camping in the forest clearing and the half-dozen dwarvish soldiers who thought they were hidden by the cover of the adjacent trees. General Patûk had tasked him with searching out men who had accepted the Lord of the East’s mission of finding some lost dwarf city. Most would have balked at such a task. Sorben surely would have and would say it was beneath him. However, Bu was different. He relished the opportunity to find favor in the General’s eyes and show strength to anyone who might think of challenging his position.
The dwarvish soldiers were expertly hidden. Any untrained eye would have never seen them until it was too late. They were from these mountains—the Southern Mountains—after all. But Bu saw them. It would be a bonus, dispatching a dwarvish patrol along with agents of the usurper. Hairy rats that smelled like bear fat. He scowled as he watched the men’s fire blazing high into the sky, crackling and spitting. No doubt, it was an attempt to deter wolves and cougars and bears, but all it did was attract a dwarvish patrol—most likely from Strongbur—and him.
“I am impressed,” Bu whispered.
“By what, sir?” Ban Chu asked.
“That they made it this far,” Lieutenant Bu replied. “Most of them died as they ventured into the mountains through the Western Tor. The rest, save for one group, died along the Southern Mountains.”
“The men traveling with dwarves?” Ban Chu asked. “They are the ones that survived?”
“Aye.” Bu nodded. He ground his teeth and groaned silently. They were the ones that had gotten away. They were the ones that pompous prick Lieutenant Sorben Phurnan let slip through his hands.
“Did they really kill two trolls?” Ban Chu asked.
B
u simply nodded.
Bu watched this dwarvish patrol. They looked like scouts, from what he could see. They were soldiers, certainly, but probably tasked with following and that was it. He doubted they would attack unprovoked. That complicated things. Dwarves were sturdy warriors, adept in the art of war. Even the basic dwarvish foot soldier would be better trained than most Golgolithulian soldiers. And Bu could not very well attack these men—these mercenaries in service to the Lord of the East—without then inciting a response from the dwarvish scouts. Even though his men were well trained, he doubted they would get out of a direct fight with half a dozen dwarves without any casualties. They would have to sneak up on the dwarves, take them by surprise, kill them without exposing their position, and then kill the mercenaries. But it would not be easy.
“So, we attack the mercenaries?” Ban Chu asked.
“And expose our position?” Bu snapped. He didn’t mean to sound harsh. Ban Chu was a good soldier, but the answer seemed obvious and the question foolish. “No. We attack the dwarves.”
“Attack the dwarves?” Ban Chu questioned.
“Yes, but quietly,” Bu said with a nod of finality. “We will assassinate them by cover of darkness. Hopefully, we can kill them without alerting our location to those fools in service to the usurper. We will wait until they fall asleep and slit their throats.”
“Are you worried about more dwarves hidden somewhere?” Ban Chu asked.
“No,” Bu lied.
Truly, he didn’t think there was another dwarvish patrol nearby, especially if they didn’t know Patûk Al’Banan’s forces were close. Certainly, the dwarves were aware of the General’s presence by now, but the majority of his soldiers were confined far east of where Bu and Ban Chu scouted. But he didn’t know for sure. He had scouted the area thoroughly, but dwarves were crafty bastards, and they knew these mountain forests better than anything else.
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