When we last left our heroes…the HOB GOB KILLIN’ MOB fled before the onslaught of the Red Hand horde! Our heroes licked their wounds in the little hamlet of TARLEYTOWN, where NUTMEG got a sick tattoo of some dragons he’s killed and or maimed. Following a desperate conference with the beleaguered captains, our heroes decided to head for the HAMMERHAND HOLDS, to seek (or buy) the allegiance of the dwarves…
Table of Contents
- Chapter 1 – In Which Four Dwarves Meet Each Other
- Chapter 2 – In Which a Bargain is Struck
- Chapter 3 – In Which Pierre Enjoys His New Bed
- Chapter 4 – In Which Nutmeg Steals the Show
- Chapter 5 – In Which Gel Resents Yordath’s Decorating Choices
Chapter 1 – In Which Four Dwarves Meet Each Other
Nutmeg stood on the ridge, looking south. The midday sun was high overhead; there were turkey vultures in the western sky. The lands of the south vale were a wide-ranging prairie, the golden grasses rippling and waving in the summer breeze. To the south, the Wyvernspine range of mountains rose jagged and sharp, toothsome against the sky. He could now see, at last, the Hammerhand Holds, or at least their outskirts. Towers of bronze glinted in the sun, protruding from the rocky mountains like splintered bone from a battered body. A few scattered farm fields stood distinctly green against the yellow-gold of the prairie grasses, and there were stone keeps and towers dotting the landscape around the road. The Holds looked to be nestled in a little valley, where two arms of the Wyvenspine range stretched out, shielding the keeps and farms.
The dwarves. A whole valley of them. And more within the mountains, no doubt, dwelling in the ancient halls.
“What do you think?” asked Gel, from behind Nutmeg. Nutmeg turned.
“What the fuck?”
Gel had put the Hat of Disguise to work again, it seemed. A female dwarf stood before Nutmeg, similar in appearance to Morlain the smith from Tanner’s Crossing. She was dressed in Gel’s black leathers, and wore Gel’s swords, but it was a she-dwarf otherwise. A little mustache on her upper lip. Thick black hair.
“I’m thinking I should use a disguise,” explained Gel.
“Uh”
“And so I thought I should be a dwarf.”
“Uh. Why?”
“I assume a bunch of dwarves won’t like an elf.”
Nutmeg paused. “I mean. I suppose that could be the case. But I don’t know man. This feels a little disrespectful to dwarvenkind. And women.”
“Does it?”
“I – maybe? For some reason, yeah?”
“It’ll be fine. No worries. I’ll attract less attention this way.”
“Won’t it be way more complicated to have to maintain a disguise the entire time we’re here?”
“Nah it’ll be easy.”
The discussion continued in much the same fashion as they returned to the wagon, where Sister D was waiting with the horses. They’d taken about three hundred gold’s worth out of the sacks from Lady LaRue and stashed it in their personal effects, but the remaining payment was still ready for delivery.
“Sister D, you can’t possibly think Gel’s disguise is a good idea.”
“I don’t know. He looks convincing to me.”
“Thank you.”
Nutmeg snorted. “Fine. Alright. We’ll see.” He hauled himself up into the saddle – no easy feat, even with his small pony – and kicked his heels, trotting ahead of the others. The other two horses pulled the wagon, with Gel and Sister D riding in the back, but Nutmeg was free to charge ahead towards dwarven-kind.
Before an hour had passed, Nutmeg paused, peering forward. Yup, sure enough: dust rising from the road. Riders approaching. He let the others catch up while he adjusted his axe, shifted his breastplate around, and generally tried to make himself look more presentable. More dwarfy.
The riders, when they arrived, proved to be a pair of heavily-armored dwarves riding shaggy ponies. Their plate armor jangled and clanked as they approached; their faces were covered by masks of bronze displaying sneering dwarven features. Each carried a steel axe, and their breastplates were emblazoned with a sigil: a hammer in a clenched fist.
“Halt!” called one, his voice echoing beneath the mask. “Declare your intentions!”
“Hey, what’s up, my name’s Nutmeg, Nutmeg Sanchez, just a normal dwarf like you guys, looking for an audience with uh what’s his name, the guy in charge.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.” The sneering mask now matched the dwarf’s tone. “There’s hobgoblins in the hills and hell-hounds baying in the night, and now strangers come down our road asking to meet with ‘the guy in charge?’”
“Yeah, Nutmeg, let me take this one.” Gel raised a hand in greeting from the wagon, still disguised as a dwarven woman. “Hiya fellas. Gellette here. We’re here to meet with Yordath Axebreaker.”
“Oh shit,” said the second dwarf. “Babruk, I think these are the guys we’re supposed to keep an eye out for.”
“You’re meeting with Yordath?” asked the first dwarf, Babruk. “Wait. Are you the ones from the city? LaRue’s people?”
“Yes,” said Gel, quickly, before Nutmeg had a chance to speak. “Yes, that’s right. Lady LaRue sent us. Lots of coin and gems for Yordath. And a message.” Gel-as-Gellette held up the letter from Lady LaRue, waving it around. “For his eyes only.”
Nutmeg bristled – this wasn’t exactly the plan – but said nothing. The two guard dwarves looked at each other and conferred in the dwarvish tongue. Nutmeg caught snatches of it, but their dialect was weird, and he only really knew street Dwarfese anyway. Not this palace Dwarfese or whatever.
“Alright,” said Babruk, after some deliberation. “Yordath’s been expecting you. You’re late. Come on, we’ll take you straight to the Gleaming Keep.”
The guards led them down the main road. Nutmeg fell back until he rode alongside Gel and Sister D.
“I think that went well,” said Gel.
“Not really? I mean I thought we were forgetting this Lady LaRue shit and just hiring them to defend the city.”
“Yeah but you heard them,” said Gel. “Seem pretty suspicious. If saying this stuff lets us get to talk to the man in charge, then whatever, we can be more straight with him.”
“Maybe! We don’t even know if Yordath is the guy in charge, though. Back in Humber, the dwarves talked about a Hammermaster. Is that Yordath? We don’t know! Because you just committed to this plan without checking first!”
“I think you’re just pissy because they like me better as a fake dwarf than you as a real dwarf.”
Nutmeg thought for a moment.
“Yes. Correct.”
Chapter 2 – In Which a Bargain is Struck
They traveled for an hour down the main road, and then turned off, following the guard-dwarves to a keep in the shadow of the mountains. It sat alone in a grassy field – no farms here, just open plain and prairie, although dozens of ponies grazed in rough pastures surrounding the keep. A low stone wall ringed the keep, and a few other homes and outbuildings were gathered in its shadow. The keep itself was in fact Gleaming, as the dwarves had promised. Sheets of beaten metal were affixed all over the stones of the keep, creating a glossy, shimmering effect, reflecting the sun at all who approached the keep. The closer they got, the more obviously shabby the metal plates became. They were at odd angles and of varying sizes. What at first had appeared to be a solid metal cocoon now looked more like a patchwork quilt of scrap metal, affixed with mismatched nails to the raw stone beneath.
“Behold!” declared Babruk. “The Gleaming Keep!”
“It’s lovely,” said Gel. Nutmeg shot the dwarf-elf a dirty look. “The headquarters of the Gleaming Blades, I assume?”
“You assume correctly, Gellette. Gellette. Not a name I know – what clan are you?”
“Oh, I don’t have a clan – I was born in a faraway land,” said Gel. “But I’m the best a man can get.”
“Ah, a Diasporant.” Babruk’s companion nodded sagely. “Welcome home, then. Here in the Holds, all dwarves can find the glory of the old empire.”
“Yeah that sounds awesome” said Nutmeg. “Especially for real dwarves like us, you know? Real dwarves who have been waiting all our lives to finally get to experience pure dwarven culture and would really hate to share the spotlight with anyone else.”
“That’s why I’m staying relatively quiet,” added Sister D, who had in fact said very little.
“Excellent,” said Babruk. “Well – your horses and wagon will be seen to at the gatehouse. Yordath awaits inside.”
“I – I might stay with the wagon, actually,” said Sister D. “There’s a lot of coin here, and we’ve already had some trouble on the road.”
“Works for me,” shrugged Babruk. “Come on then. Gellette and uh whatever your name was.”
“Nutmeg,” said Nutmeg, bitterly.
The interior of the keep was just as gaudy as the outside. Dwarven work, no doubt, clever bas-reliefs and beaten metal, with a few woven rugs and tapestries in austere, abstract shapes. There were even works of beautiful dwarrowbrass, the long-forgotten metal of the ancient empire. But it was just sort of strewn everywhere, with no real order or sense of place. Walking through the foyer and hallways of the Gleaming Keep felt rather like being in the pockets of a kleptomaniac – things collected for the sake of collecting things, regardless of meaning or taste. It depressed Nutmeg.
Babruk led them to an audience hall, decorated with just as much slapdash abandon as the rest of the keep. A few benches and short tables lined the walls, and dwarven warriors sat drinking, eating, and throwing dice, talking in a low rumble of voices. At the far end of the hall was a high dais, and upon the dais a throne, and in the throne a dwarf. Yordath Axebreaker was a large dwarf, thick as two barrels. His beard was black and tangled and wild, as was his hair, which was bound up in a topknot. He wore gauntlets and greaves and a shirt of chain, over which was draped a tabard displaying the hammer-and-fist of the Holds. He was deep in conversation with another dwarf, a woman with flaming red hair and a gap-toothed smile; her tabard displayed a hand with one golden finger.
Yordath looked up as they entered. “Babruk!” he called, in a voice hearty and rich, “who’s this? What’s going on here?”
“My lord Axebreaker, these are the emissaries we were expecting.”
“LaRue’s pets,” said the dwarven woman. “Finally.”
“Good! Excellent! And a pair of dwarves, none the less!” Yordath bellowed a laugh. “Wonderful! Come, come. Babruk, bring seats for them. And Redda – you as well.”
Nutmeg looked around at the other dwarves, hoping to catch a friendly eye. Most seemed disinterested, although he caught a few roving eyes evaluating the axe of Dolgatha strapped to his back. He felt a surge of pride. That’s right. I’m the cool dwarf.
Seats were fetched, and ale was produced. Really, really good ale. Nutmeg drained a cup in one swig – this was the stuff. Gel – still Gellette – sipped at it in a fashion that Nutmeg felt was entirely too elfin.
“Introductions, please!” demanded Yordath. “It would be rude to not know who drinks my ale and brings my gold!”
“I’m Gellette,” said Gel. “The best a dwarf can get.”
“And I’m Nutmeg. A uh, a real dwarf.”
“As are we all,” said Yordath. “Me – well, you know me. But if I may be so bold: Yordath Axebreaker, heir to the Hammerhand Clan, brother to Hammermaster Guthrik Hammerhand, Commander of the Gleaming Blades, Lord of the Gleaming Keep, slayer of Felgahoth the Wicked and Norx the Many-Fanged in the Battle of Deep Kurbalun.” He paused, grinning at them, letting them absorb his greatness. “And beside me – Redda Gemcutter, heir to the Goldfinger Clan, as lovely as she is brilliant.”
“Well met,” said Nutmeg, who kinda wished now that he had listed some of his accolades. He weighed for a moment the option of popping his breastplate off and displaying the new tats, but decided to put that on hold.
“We come with a call for aid from Barrendell,” said Gel, carefully.
“Indeed, indeed. I’m not surprised. Their little lion guards can mop up a few bandits, but if there’s trouble coming, it’s wise to turn to our axes for aid.”
“We could use more than just the Gleaming Blades,” said Nutmeg. Gel shot him a look, but Nutmeg continued. “The news is getting worse. There’s a whole army of hobgoblins coming out of the west. They’ve crossed the Hestor already. We could use even more military companies, if there are any willing to fight.”
Yordath frowned. “LaRue mentioned none of that in our correspondence.”
“Recent developments, unfortunately,” said Gel. At least he was willing to play along here. “Any chance your brother would be willing to send soldiers, too?”
Yordath snorted with laughter; Redda imitated him. A few other dwarves chuckled at their tables. “My brother? Guthrik? I doubt it very much. He won’t turn his eyes out from the tunnels. Hasn’t for decades.”
“Not the leader we need,” said Redda, sadly, although Nutmeg caught the quirk of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
Gel met Nutmeg’s eyes. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? thought Nutmeg, as hard as possible. Gel, as a dwarf, was inscrutable.
“Perhaps the Lady LaRue could offer assistance there, as well.”
“Perhaps it’s time, then.” Yordath’s voice had grown quiet, but he now stood from the throne and called out to the dwarves in the hall. “All of you! Blades! Give me the hall! Return tonight for a war-feast the likes of which would make even Moraz jealous!” The soldiers cheered, then departed, clapping each other on the shoulders and singing lusty dwarven war-songs. Nutmeg longed to go with them. Instead he remained with Yordath and Redda, these two dwarves who seemed just as false as Gellette.
“We’ve spoken of this option in our correspondence,” said Yordath, when the hall was empty. “The Daggers. Do you – represent her interests there, too?”
“We certainly do,” said Gel.
“It’s not a course of action I relish,” said Yordath. “My brother – Guthrik has done much for the Holds. Truly. He’s restored many of the old tunnels, opened up the vaults of Thundrogar, driven the Pukall back into the darkness – but he has no foresight. He’s missing all the wealth of the Vale – and the opportunities it offers.”
“Perhaps you’ve heard my name in passing,” added Redda. “I don’t know what council LaRue keeps in Barrendell, but Clan Goldfinger has many dealings with the good Lady, and some measure of our gold and iron flow directly to her. In secret, of course, because Guthrik imposes heavy duties and tariffs on outflowing trade.”
“This option,” continued Yordath. “It is…dire. I love my brother.”
“But you’re the heir to the clan, and you get to decide the Hold’s policies and positions if he passes on,” offered Gel.
“It’s only sensible business. Guthrik has ruled for nigh on a century. Have we been safe? Yes. Have we prospered? Not as much as we could have.” Yordath leaned in, his eyes gleaming. “If you can deliver the ruling Hammer to me, I can deliver nearly a thousand dwarven warriors to Barrendell for the Lady. Not merely my two hundred – mind you, my two hundred axes are the best warriors in the Holds. But hundreds more could be at my command, if only my brother would draw his last breath.”
“That’s why we’re here,” agreed Gel. “We’ll do it.”
“Excellent! Wonderful! Oh, by the bones of the forefathers and the blood of Kalakoz himself, a great day is coming! Hammers will ring on anvils once more! You guys have to come to the feast tonight!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Nutmeg, hollowly.
Chapter 3 – In Which Pierre Enjoys His New Bed
The Lord of the Gleaming Keep gave them quarters in the guest wing. The beds were done up with silk coverlets, and plush rugs covered the cold stone floors. On one wall, above the fireplace, hung a dramatic tapestry depicting a great army of dwarves stomping and slashing through some group of weak-looking humanoids – humans, gnomes, hard to say. Two great pitchers of ale were already set out. Gel and Nutmeg had barely been in the room a moment when Sister D joined them – “I let them have the money,” she said, making herself comfortable in one of the easy chairs by the fireplace.
“Maybe we shouldn’t let them have it,” said Nutmeg. “Apparently it’s blood money.”
“Oh yeah?” Sister D looked up, surprised. “How so?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Gel spoke the command word, and the odd-looking dwarf finally changed back to the odd-looking elf. “We’re paying them, and then we also offered to do an assassination in exchange for even more help. So I don’t know if it counts as ‘blood money.’”
“We offered to do what?”
“We didn’t offer to do shit.” Nutmeg set his pack down and opened the little flap for Pierre. The blue lizard poked his head out, inspecting his new surroundings, then scurried over to the largest bed and slithered beneath the covers. “Gel here decided to ‘yes and’ himself into us killing the Hammermaster of the Holds.”
“Come on. I was just keeping him talking. Crazy that he would just, like, openly plan his brother’s murder with some people he just met, right?”
“Seems like you were pretty dead set on the murder plan.”
“Pun intended?”
“Yes. Don’t distract me. I just think it’s fucked up to offer to kill the guy who’s been preserving dwarven culture out here for a century.”
“I think it’s fucked up to assassinate someone in general,” offered Sister D.
“Eeeeehhhhh,” said Nutmeg.
“Yeeeeeahhhhh,” said Gel. “Listen. He gave away so much! The Daggers? That was just a name I got in passing. Lady LaRue smuggling dwarven gold into Barrendell? This shit is crazy!”
“He does not have good op sec,” agreed Nutmeg. “But I’m not entertaining this ‘kill Guthrik’ thing.”
“Well hear me out. Hear me out.” Gel spread his arms wide. “It seems like we’re looking to break the Red Hand at Barrendell, yeah? In a big siege? And that’s in service to our mission here: stop the Red Hand from reaching the Hegemony. So we need Barrendell strong. It seems like this Lady LaRue has more power than Lord Marth, even though Lord Marth is currently the uh Lord or Mayor or Chieftain or whatever. And she’s got this existing relationship with Yordath over here. We make Yordath Hammer King, we make Lady LaRue the ruler of Barrendell, suddenly we’ve got the dwarves and whatever strength The Daggers can offer. We slow her down…well, maybe she’s going to try and fuck with Marth. You saw the thing in her letter about her ‘Rightful Station.’”
“You’re saying,” said Nutmeg, “that we should hand over Barrendell to this Lady we’ve never even met, a lady who appears to control organized crime, because there’s a chance that she’ll be a better bulwark against the horde than the current administration?”
“Yeah, I’m just saying, we could do a little light regime change out here for our government’s interests. That is kind of our job.”
“That’s only very kind of our job. Very kind of. And what you’re suggesting is super fucked up.”
“Says the guy who pissed all over that wizard’s stuff.”
“The what?” asked Sister D.
“Uh.” Gel met Nutmeg’s eyes. Nutmeg felt the rage building in him. Gel was crossing lines left right and center. “Nothing. I mean back in Dwarroway. A thing Nutmeg did. I’m just saying – I think we’ve done some fucked up stuff in our time. This isn’t that far off.”
“I’m not comfortable with it,” said Sister D, flatly. “I’m sorry, Gel, I’m not. Murder? Murder of a prominent local ruler who seems to be holding things together fairly well?”
“I’m not fucking doing it,” agreed Nutmeg. “And Gel – you’re going too far, man. I warned you about that disguise shit. It drives me up the fucking walls.”
Something in Nutmeg’s tone must have finally struck home. Gel let his arms drop to his sides and sat heavily on the big bed. “Alright. Hey. I’m sorry. I respect you.” He paused. “I don’t think I can drop the disguise now, though. Gellette is known to them. Gel isn’t.”
“Yeah, I think that’s true,” admitted Nutmeg. “And I think you could maybe chat Yordath up a little as Gellette. You know? I don’t like that fucker at all. You could probably mess with him good.”
“Or steal his correspondence,” offered Sister D. “Get some proof of his communications with Lady LaRue. Maybe we can warn Lord Marth when we get back.”
“Shit, that’s a good idea, D.” Gel nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. I can work on that.” He gave Nutmeg a careful look. “We cool?”
“Almost. Pierre, yellow!”
From beneath the covers, Pierre fired off a bolt of brilliant blue electricity, scorching a hole in the silk. The bolt struck Gel, who yelped and flailed, leaping off the bed and arcing his back in pain.
“Okay. Now I’m good.”
Chapter 4 – In Which Nutmeg Steals the Show
Nutmeg spoke the command word and watched his breastplate change in the mirror. Upon their arrival in the Holds, he’d gone for a classic, weatherbeaten look, plain steel slightly marred by age. But now he went a little bigger. The time for subtlety was past. The breastplate was now shining steel, freshly burnished. A collar of bronze ringed the top of the breastplate, and illusory sleeves of elfsteel chain covered Nutmeg’s arms. On the front of the breastplate, emblazoned in bronze inlay, was the mark of Dolgatha the Smith, matching the mark on Nutmeg’s axe. Dolgatha’s mark looked like half a tree, in Nutmeg’s opinion: a stick with two little angular sticks coming off one side, set inside a pair of concentric circles. He left his pack and belongings in the bedroom with Pierre to guard them, but took his axe, carrying it in his right hand. He was showing the fuck up.
Gel and Sister D were already at the festivities. Yordath had pulled out all the stops. No fewer than seven roast pigs were rotating on spits, and an entire wall of the great hall had been devoted to casks upon casks of ale. Loaves of soft brown bread were set at every place, beside tureens of goat’s butter and some other reddish sauce Nutmeg did not recognize. There were at least two hundred dwarves in the hall, singing and bellowing and doing odd little jigs. Musicians were playing in one corner of the hall. At least, Nutmeg assumed they were musicians. That was the only explanation for the group of about a half-dozen dwarves banging on slabs of rock with wooden clubs, creating a constant percussive thudding rhythm with just the barest soupçon of tinkling melody from the thinnest, smallest stones.
Gel – as Gellette – emerged from the crowd, holding two tankards of ale. “Yo! Nutmeg!” Gellette paused. “Uh. Nice duds.”
“Yeah you clean up nice too, you lovely bitch. How’s our host?”
“Drunk and drunker.” Gel nodded towards the head of the hall. Yordath was standing on his throne, leading a group of hairy warriors in a lusty ballad that did not quite match the tempo, melody, or rhythm of the song being played by the musicians. “I thought all dwarves could hold their liquor like you, but I think you may have some natural gifts that escaped these guys.”
Nutmeg wasn’t quite sure whether he felt proud or lonely. He shrugged and took one of the tankards from Gel, quaffing it in a single go. “Mm. Mm oh yeah. That’s some good stuff.”
“They do know how to brew it here, I’ll give them that.”
“Alright. See if you can get into Yordath’s quarters. I’ll keep em busy.”
“You got it.”
Nutmeg strode across the room. By the time he’d crossed the hall, he’d downed another three tankards of ale, all taken from eager, enthusiastic, double-fisting dwarves. None of them seemed to notice or recognize the mark of Dolgatha, to his disappointment. Yordath finished his song to a raucous cheer, and the lord of the Gleaming Keep dropped down to lounge in his throne. A few other seats had been pulled up beside the throne, and Redda Gemcutter sat beside her lord, eyeing everyone in the room with a careful, evaluating look. She was nursing a tankard, and Nutmeg suspected it was still her first.
“Nutmeg!” called Yordath. “Good of you to finally join us! And by Moraz’s beard, that’s a winsome battle-suit you’re wearing. Hardly a scratch on it, eh? Not seen much action?”
Dwarves chuckled. Nutmeg counted backwards from five, then replied.
“I thought the Lord of the Gleaming Blades would recognize this mark.”
Yordath squinted. “Uhhh. The letter ‘D’ in the old runes? For what, dwarf?” He chortled at his own joke.
Redda’s eyes went wide, however. “Oh. Oh! Gods. I do know that mark, but only from books and scrolls. Is that truly…?”
“The sigil of Dolgatha, the Smith-Lord of Khaddakar,” confirmed Nutmeg. “You’re darn tootin.”
“Who? What?” Yordath was bemused. “What child-stories are these?”
Nutmeg felt a vein pulsing in his temple. “Khaddakar? Dude? You serious? One of the old strongholds? Like uh whatchacallit Durnehvaaz?”
“Oh – the old strongholds. Certainly.” Yordath chuckled. “Those are some provincial names, though. Wasn’t Durnehvaaz the ‘little bastard’ of the empire? Farthest from the capital? Out here we remember loftier names – Azbarridal, and Angorlan, and of course Vennazav and Vahallidar – and our own home, Thundrogar.”
“Dolgatha’s Armory, though…” Redda nodded appreciatively. “That’s no meager treasure. Where’d you come by that breastplate?”
“Same place I got the axe,” said Nutmeg, flashing the blade of the axe. “Off a dragon. No big deal.”
“You? Killed a dragon?” Yordath snorted. “A likely story. Dragons haven’t even been seen in these parts for – well, they’re rarely seen.”
“Not for long.” Nutmeg peered towards the back corner of the room. Gellette was slipping out, almost completely hidden in shadow. Now was the time for a distraction. “There’s a war coming,” said Nutmeg, raising his voice. He pitched it loud enough to silence a group of singing dwarves behind him. He hoped most folk were turning his way. “A war for the Vale – and the world itself. There’s uh an ancient evil rising in the west, and a great army of hobgoblins. They crossed the Hestor not a few days ago. There’s a chance to do some pretty bitchin’ deeds, accomplish some real feats of heroics. Do some stuff worthy of the name of the old empire.”
A small cheer went up from a few of the dwarves, but most just looked bored and/or confused. Yordath chief among them.
“A lot of talk, Nutmeg of Khaddakar. A lot of talk. But are you the warrior you claim to be?” Yordath stood suddenly from his throne, brandishing his own weapon – a two-handed sword with a wide, bright blade. “Come, let us engage in barazlibik.”
“What, in front of everyone?”
“Barazlibik!” proclaimed Yordath. More dwarves took up the chant: “Bar! Az! Li! Bik! Bar! Az! Li! Bik!”
“Listen, I don’t know what that means.”
“Oh-ho! Not such an old-timey imperial dwarf now, are you? Don’t even know the customs?” Yordath seemed immensely pleased with himself. “Barazlibik! The Red Dance! We spar for one minute without drawing any blood. If you draw blood before the minute is up, you lose, dishonor – baraz-ush, poor blood. But after the minute is up, the first one to draw blood is then the winner – baraz-gab, great blood.”
Nutmeg’s first instinct was to say “that sounds moronic,” but he stopped himself. This had better be worth it. “Fine, good. Let’s go. Barazlibik to you too, man.”
A circle was cleared for them in the middle of the hall. Redda hurried over to the musicians. After a quick conversation, she called over: “Let it begin! Barazlibik!” The musicians took up an urgent rhythm on the stone drums, and the dwarves called out a count in Dwarfese. Nutmeg at least recognized the first few numbers – one, two three… They were counting out a minute. Fine. Good. Great.
Yordath circled him, hefting his wide-bladed sword. For a dwarf it was a greatsword; on a taller fighter, it might’ve been a one-handed weapon save for the weight of it. Nutmeg brandished the axe, following Yordath’s circle.
“Hey man,” he said. “This seems kinda stupid. Can’t we just not swing at each for the whole first minute?”
“A coward’s play!” retorted Yordath. “Libikush, the poor dancer – just as dishonorable as baraz-ush!”
“Oh, fine, for fuck’s sakes.” Nutmeg took a long, leisurely swing at Yordath; the Lord of the Gleaming Keep parried the blow with ease. Lightning-fast Yordath replied; he would’ve drawn blood from Nutmeg’s arm had he not stayed the blow at the last moment. A cry of admiration went up. Twenty-eight, chanted the dwarves. Almost halfway done already.
“Oh so that’s how it’s played? Oh, easy shit.” Nutmeg whirled the axe. Yordath blocked it with a good parry, but Nutmeg was ready for it, and reversed grip, swinging the axe back around the other side. Yordath cried out and clapped a hand to his head.
“You drew blood! You did!”
“No I didn’t, you little baby. It’s just hair.”
Sure enough, a few tufts of Yordath’s black hair had been scattered across the floor by the blade of Nutmeg’s axe. Yordath put his hand to the spot, but the hand came away dry. No blood.
Yells of disbelief and dismay echoed out from the crowd. Forty, chanted the dwarves. Almost there.
“A cheap trick. You’re not even a real dwarf, Diasporant. Playing at being a dwarf.”
Yordath stabbed out with the greatsword. Nutmeg could easily have dodged it – it was a shitty blow, clearly meant for the charade. But Nutmeg twisted forward, catching the sword in his unarmored side. It hurt like a motherfucker. He bellowed in pain as the blood spilled forth. A hush fell over the dwarven crowd. They had not yet reached sixty seconds.
“Baraz-ush!” cried one voice, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Sister D’s. Other voices took up the cry: “Baraz-ush! Baraz-ush!”
“Hey no fair,” whined Yordath. “He did that on purpose.”
Nutmeg decided he’d had enough of the Lord of the Gleaming Keep. Blood rushed out of his wound, but hey – that was just what victory looked like, apparently. Stupid game. He hefted the axe over his shoulder and took a proffered mug of ale from one of the crowd. “Sucks to suck, loser. Thanks for the lessons in dwarfsmanship.” He took his leave from the party. Surely that was enough time for Gel. And if not – well, Gel could go fuck himself.
Chapter 5 – In Which Gel Resents Yordath’s Decorating Choices
Gel was delighted.
The dwarf disguise had worked perfectly. Not a single warrior in the Gleaming Keep had questioned Gellette the she-dwarf; she was allowed to pass wherever she pleased, and everyone greeted her in Dwarfese. Yordath, that randy little fucker, had been all too eager to whisper the directions to his private chambers in Gellette’s ear. “And the key’s hidden behind a loose stone. Let yourself in, dearie. I’ll be up shortly.” Gel thought he had showed great restraint in not making a joke about Yordath doing everything shortly.
Yordath’s chambers were a mess, as Gel had expected, but there was a desk, and there were papers, and that was all he needed. He sifted through the detritus – lots of correspondence with various smiths and artisans about this sword and that new art piece and the regular burnishing schedule for the many plates of metal affixed to the walls of the keep. Seemed like it was in fact very expensive to have your entire castle covered in shiny bits of metal without looking like a penny that had been trodden on.
But there – yes, a sigil Gel recognized. The dagger with the lion pommel, in a circle. And names he recognized: Lady LaRue. Redda. Yordath.
He sat and read a good number of the letters. He was a quick reader. Had to be, in his line of work. Best to memorize things quickly if possible. And the tale was spelled out clearly. Almost too clearly. These were not careful people.
From the letters, he worked it all out: Lady Ventresca LaRue, a noblewoman of Barrendell, was looking to depose Lord Carlan Marth. She intended to do this with the support of the Hammerhand Holds, but the current Hammermaster, Guthrik, was reluctant to do business outside the Holds. Yordath – there was lots of flattery for Yordath in the letters. Lots of it. Oh, you’ll be such a good ruler when your brother is gone! You’ll do such great things as Hammermaster of the Vale! You’ll have such an important role in my administration, Yordath.
Gel did admire this LaRue lady. She had guts. And clearly was much, much smarter than Yordath. Her letters were dripping with sarcasm:
“To the esteemed Yordath Axebreaker,
“Let me express first my gratitude, unending, for the lengthy recounting of your battle in Deep Kurbalun. I can scarce believe your bravery in the face of overwhelming danger, and was nearly faint from the descriptions of the terrifying foes you faced. Truly I am corresponding with one of the great warriors of our age. Fortunate am I!”
She was careful, too, rarely mentioning her own plans directly. But not careful enough:
“To the esteemed Yordath Axebreaker,
“My apologies for the delay in responding. Matters in Barrendell have grown wearisome. Lord Marth may allow such bureaucratic waste in his administration, but when I am Lady of the city, the mail will be delivered on time and the streets will be clean. I promise you that! Ah, but you care not for the matters of Barrendell, great warrior. Tell your companion I will be sending a company of black-cloaks to the regular meeting point to receive the latest shipment.”
The doorknob rattled.
Gel snapped back to reality, papers in hand. Shit. He’d been reading too long.
“Dear Gellette, please – open the door. Your champion is here!” Yordath sounded drunk, and a little adrenaline-spiked, and definitely ready to go. Fuck. Gel looked desperately around. The window was the only option. But they were five floors up – he’d have to be at his best.
He was out the window, letters stuffed into his sack, just in time. He clung to a panel of burnished metal, his fingers digging into the edge of the plate, as he heard the door open. Yordath stomped around the room, grumbling about “being teased by that wench.”
Gel hung precariously. His feet were braced against the wall, but had nothing to stand on, and the metal was slick. It would be a long fall down. A very long way. He looked down. There was another window below him, slightly diagonal. He could drop and catch the ledge. If he was quick. If he was good.
He dropped.
He did not catch the ledge.
He scrabbled against the metal panels, the stupid stupid decorative metal panels, as he fell. What kind of moron decorated his castle like this. What kind of stupid way to die was this. What –
WHAM.
He groaned. Pain lanced through him like fire through a dry wood. He writhed, trying his best not to scream. Both of his legs were broken, he was sure. Maybe his back.
The world started to blur at the edges. He blinked furiously. No, no. Couldn’t feel tired. Not yet. That was what it meant to die. Oh, this was so stupid. He hadn’t survived three dragons and a horde of hobgoblins and all the other dangers he’d faced to die like this, like an idiot, falling out a window.
But the world started to go black anyway, and there was nothing Gel could do.
The Chaotic Neutral Chronicles 