Footwizard

by Terry Mancour

  That was, perhaps, the greatest lesson of the tour: the profound endurance and resiliency of the Kilnusk. They were a tough people, whose culture prized that toughness over other matters. The young warriors practicing before me were adept at absorbing incredible punishment, shrugging it off, and continuing to fight. It was painful to watch, at first, and then a sense of admiration began to blossom. If Lilastien was admiring of humanity’s resilience, I had to respect the incredible endurance of the Kilnusk after watching them beat the living hells out of each other.

  Perhaps the Dradrien had better armor. Perhaps the Karshak had better endurance. But the Kilnusk took the prize for being able to both absorb punishment and deal it out. I’d nearly put them up against a dragon, if need be. Their ability to accept damage and laugh it off – literally – was awe-inspiring. I could not even blame magic for it, in the realm of the jevolar. It had to be some innate quality that kept the young Kilsnuk warriors going in the face of adversity. Indeed, they seemed to welcome the punishment as some vindication for their effort.

  The Kilnusk. Stupid, but brave.

  “So, you like the valor of the Kilnusk?” the prince inquired, as we strolled through dozens of pairs of naked, fighting dwarves.

  “It’s impressive,” I admitted. “I have recently been at war – with the gurvani,” I informed him. “Many long years of war. I’ve seen tens of thousands die upon the battlefield, prey to gurvani, maragorku, Nemovorti, dragons, and fell magic of all descriptions. I’ve seen the Dradrien in war – wielded against me. If I had even a tithe of Kilnusk, I would have triumphed – without magic.”

  “We are few,” he said, pleased by the praise. “Especially since the creeping death. Some of the best of our houses were decimated. But we have bent our will to improving ourselves, to making children bent on triumph and victory. These lads,” he said, indicating the young Kilnusk warriors, “are our pride. They contend with the worst the valley can produce, and they triumph. When they do not die,” he added, wistfully.

  “Has that been a concern?” I asked.

  “This is a savage land,” Prince Husadri shrugged. “Danger lurks around every corner. Two in ten die, before they reach majority, as they patrol our frontiers. Our youth are dedicated to the protection of the mountain. They contend with all manner of beasts from the north. It is a brutal duty, but our warriors keep the mountain safe from the horrors of the Vale of Pillars. It has kept our skills sharp.”

  “This seems a profitable exile,” I murmured. “As one experienced in exile, I encourage you to appreciate the benefits such austerity. Our enemies may rationalize their punishments as justice; I prefer to see them as opportunities to advance ourselves.”

  “We have a common perspective, then,” Prince Husadri agreed, quietly. “Since I came into my majority, I have sought to train my warriors to the peak of their abilities, despite the deficits our exile has imposed upon us.”

  “I could not agree more,” I declared. “In contending with the Nemovorti and their minions, we have found our strength; we are more than a match for our peers, now.”

  “The emissaries have told me much about what you have accomplished in such a short time,” he said, thoughtfully. “The gurvani. Sheruel. The war. Korbal and the Nemovorti. And what you have done to advance your craft. As well as how you have assaulted the good order of the universe by allowing the Malkas Alon the dignity and respect of Karshak.”

  “You object?” I asked, curious as to the young prince’s perspective on the matter.

  “No,” he shrugged. “When we ruled the clans, we tried to balance each of them equally in council. The good of the Malkas weighted against the good of the Dradrien, or the Karshak, and so on. Without the Kilnusk, there is no force to keep that balance, anymore. The clans fractured, with the Dradrien and the Karshak dominating the others. No one prospers, as a result.”

  “An interesting system,” I nodded. “And an intriguing result. I merely gave the Malkas an opportunity to use their craft for some of my projects. And paid them well for it,” I added.

  “Ah, another area in which the Kilnusk are missed,” he said, shaking his head. “We regulated such commerce between the clans and kept any of the six from cheating the others in trade. We ensured the trust and the accountability between the clans,” he boasted. “If it hadn’t been for your patronage, I think the Karshak would have starved. And the Malkas along with them.”

  “In confidence, I favor the return of your folk,” I told him, quietly. “As splendid as this mansion is, there are bigger things going on in the world. Things that the Kilnusk could participate in, to their glory.”

  “Even if we are permitted to return from exile,” he sighed, “it is unlikely that the other clans will accept our kingship over them. My grandfather was harsh, and he made many mistakes. But they might allow us to return to our homes and make our way in the world as equals. Until we won our kingship back again.”

  “Do you think that could happen?” I asked. “In humani society, when a noble line loses favor and the faith of the ruled it is often permanent. Sometimes lethal.”

  “If the glory in war or craft is admirable enough, mayhap,” he considered. “Our kin all respect and admire that. It is in our nature.”

  “Well, I have a bunch of intractable enemies surrounding me, and I would give your folk both a home and a war worth fighting,” I proposed. “If you seek a chance at glory, I have the perfect opportunity for you to demonstrate that.”

  The young prince considered, startled at the offer. “You would have us fight the gurvani?”

  “I need warriors,” I pointed out. “Someone to face off against the Dradrien renegades and the gurvani. And the occasional siege worm. And other things,” I said, pointedly not mentioning dragons. “Korbal is in a state of deep rest, after I wounded him. He is decrepit and weak, at the moment. I seek weapons to take advantage of that weakness. The Alka Alon already fight alongside us,” I pointed out, without mentioning how controversial that was to many. “If the Kilnusk should take the field, even defensively, it would give us great advantage.”

  “And it would give us purpose, if our kingship is denied us,” Husadri agreed. “That is a very interesting proposal, Count Minalan.”

  “We wizards are fond of making interesting proposals. I’ve always admired your people: their industry, their ethics, and their craft. I see in the Kilnusk the epitome of those things. Your service could help conclude my war. Think on it, my friend,” I said, as we came to the door to the next chamber. “Should the Kilnusk return from exile, there are great, glorious deeds to be done.”

  “These are a strange folk,” Alya said, as we were preparing to dine with the king. “I’d grown used to the Karshak and even the Malkas, but it’s as if the Kilnusk are a mixture of both . . . magnified,” she said, frowning.

  She had spent the day amongst the Kilnusk women, attempting to form some sort of common bond with them, but as they were most proud of their crafts – spinning, weaving, dying, and sewing – and Alya despises the textile arts, it had proved difficult. It had, however, given her some insight into our hosts.

  “I’ve never met more arrogant bastards,” I agreed. “But I understand them, I think. Which says a lot of uncomfortable things about me, I suppose, but I’ve been talking to their prince all day. He’s quite intelligent and ambitious. He could be a good ally for Vanador.”

  “But he is not the king of the Kilnusk. King Charak is. Let’s see of what mind his royal father is,” she counseled, cautiously. “And see if Suhi and Azhguri are willing to recommend ending their exile.

  I started to respond, reflexively, and then stopped myself. While it was true that Alya had spent the last few years out of her mind, I had to credit my success in part to her ability to detect subtleties that perhaps I had missed. Her instincts when it came to her position on the Sevendor Town Council, as my representative, had kept several projects and policies that might have hurt the town – or my interests – from bearing fruit.
Likewise, when she had favored a proposal or procedure I had no opinion of, she had largely been correct. Not always, but her instincts had proven trustworthy when mine had little to say.

  Particularly now. Alya was sounding more like Alya than she had since Greenflower.

  “We will listen and observe,” I agreed. “This is not our mess, but theirs. Of course, if we can take advantage of it . . .”

  “And send a legion of Kilnusk warriors at Olum Seheri?” she asked, sharply. “I understand the appeal. But I think this situation may be more complicated than we know. Courting the Kilnusk could alienate the Dradrien and the Karshak. Who, by the way, thought the Kilnusk were more trouble than they were worth. Let us tread carefully.”

  “I defer to my lady wife’s judgement,” I shrugged. “Are you ready? Dinner is soon,” I reminded her.

  Dinner with His Majesty, Charak, King of the Mountain, was a magnificently ornate affair. The heads of each family in the clan were invited, and all wore what I assumed was their finery for the occasion. I suppose state dinners are rare, here in Anghysbel. Considering the dwarves are the only sub-species of Alon who prefers to wear clothing, even when there aren’t humani around, it was an intriguing chance to see dwarven formal fashion at work.

  The garment preferred by both male and female was a kind of long tunic, surmounted by a mantle, with the males preferring to show off their muscular calves with knee-length hems. Luxurious but angular patterns were embroidered at hem and sleeve. Shoes were a kind of leather slipper, richly decorated, and both lord and lady wore thick metal belts from which hung pouches, sheathes for daggers, and even ceremonial tools.

  There was a plethora of beautifully wrought ornaments of gold and occasionally silver woven into beard and mane. Jewelry was common for both genders, from earrings to necklaces to bracelets or bracers. But no headgear was worn by either sex, save by the king and prince. Every golden mane was coiffed to brilliance, including the sprinkling of shiny minerals into them and brushing them to a sparkling luster.

  The hall itself was a foundation of the dinner’s magnificence. Known as the King’s Hall, it was the throne room, court chamber, and dining hall for official state functions. As such, it bore the marks of a creative people’s frustration. The pillars, windows, and doorways were impressively carved with blocky, regular abstract patterns cut with instances of incredibly intricate ornamentation in a very small area. Stone, wood and gemstones were woven into incredibly potent instances of art.

  Above our heads in the lofty hall was an ingeniously contrived and beautifully appointed chandelier. It was a series of concentric brass rings, the largest at least twenty feet across. Both sides of each one was lined with scores of oil lamps behind lenses of crystal and translucent quartz. A massive uncut stone, which glowed from the reflected light, hung from the central axis, with a second tier of lamps suspended on wire rotating around it.

  The entire thing moved, and at first, I thought it was some clandestine magic the Kilnusk had managed. But on closer examination I saw that the mechanism was an elaborate clockwork powered by a great spring. It was a beautiful thing, when you realized what kind of engineering had gone into it to achieve the effect. With the elaborate sconces that lined the hall every ten feet, the hall was illuminated nearly as well as a magelight.

  The statues of ancient, honored ancestors were everywhere, as support pillars, stand-alone effigies, or busts set on elegantly simple pillars of stone. Weapons of especial pedigree were given their own displays, often with symbols I assumed titled them and denoted their histories. The walls between the supporting pillars and windows were painted with impressively stylized historical scenes, often of Kilnusk defending their people, dueling each other, or contending with strange-looking monsters. Other sections were clearly celebrations of the various crafts, which all dwarves held in high esteem, but whose glorification it appeared the Kilnusk was particularly eager to celebrate.

  Indeed, for a clan exiled from their people, the noble Kilnusk appeared to be more willing to acclaim the achievements of the clans than the clans themselves.

  I got some better understanding of the matter once we were led to our table, near the royal table, which I assumed was a token of high honor. What humans would call a High Table, where the king and his kin sat, was near the gloriously impressive mosaic wall depicting a heroic Kilnusk leading six nearly-as-heroic dwarves against some unseen enemy. Our table was off to the left; to the right, before the seven tables representing the leaders of the seven clans, was a table reserved for what the humani would term the “clergy.”

  I knew precious little about the dwarven society, and what little I knew made me an authority on the subject, in contrast to the rest of humanity. They were a secretive people, regardless of clan; I had been Master Guri’s employer for years, now, and I still had little idea of the customs of his kin. Twice I’d been asked to participate in an advancement ritual for his lodge, after they came to Sevendor, but I had little idea of the meaning or significance of my role. I assumed it was “asshole client” and spoke the strange words in the ceremony with what I’d hoped was sincerity.

  But our dinner with the King of the Mountain was more educational about all the clans than my entire experience with Master Guri had been. Or even the Dradrien. For a people who do not share a collective term – each insisting on their clan with “alon” to rationalize their importance – the dwarves of Callidore were best represented by the one clan they had exiled from our knowledge. While the Karshak and the Dradrien, and their subsidiary clans, were reluctant to credit the others with dignity and respect, the Kilnusk clan seemed determined to advance the importance of all the clans (with themselves in leading positions, of course) to Callidore’s greater society.

  It was a telling and effective piece of propaganda. There was glory, in the Kilnusk’s art. But it was not theirs, alone.

  That is where the table filled with old, clearly revered golden heads near the High Table took significance. I inquired of the Kilnusk nobility assigned to our table, and they confirmed my suspicion. That particular table was reserved for the zaklinak – a body of learned sages and important officials that was in charge of keeping track of . . . everything.

  The zaklinak were technocrats and record-keepers, counting men and sages. Told out by their blue hooded mantles, the zaklinak were the body who had kept the dwarven society balanced. I learned, through casual conversation, that their interpretation of the inter-clan rivalries had kept the peace and ensured the prosperity of the clans, until the Beldurrazeko and subsequent exile.

  The zaklinak were responsible for mitigating the executive order of the king, and the needs of the clans at large. I was surprised to see that not all of them were Kilnusk, There were representatives of the Karshak, the Dradrien, the Malkas, and the other clans among them. Most were old, even ancient. But they had accepted exile along with their chief patrons, the Kilnusk, and I got the feeling that the other clans had suffered as a result.

  Without their traditional nobility, the Dradrien and the Karshak felt liberated. But without the zaklinak that the Kilnusk sponsored, dwarven society had plummeted in both culture and function. The dwarves had not just exiled their nobility, but their purpose and institutions, as well. Sure, the Kilnusk were assholes – but they were assholes who wanted to rule the best-functioning peoples in the world. Without that structure, both the Dradrien and the Karshak were floundering, culturally and politically.

  Or, at least, that’s what I was able to surmise, after one formal state dinner.

  King Charak was presented to the assembled by ritual after the first course, and the immensely obese old monarch waddled to his place at the High Table followed by his wife, his ministers, and important members of the court. He muttered a pre-written speech about the importance of inter-species cooperation and respect – utterly generalized, for a state dinner – along with a thinly-veiled plea to the emissaries to repeal their exile.

  King Charak did not look well, at least
from the perspective of an alien observer of Kilnusk health. He was very old, a stark visual contrast to the vitality of young prince Husadri. His face was sallow and wrinkled, and his great golden beard was streaked with the silver of age, as much as the silver used in ornamentation. He used an ornate cane to move his great bulk to his throne, assisted by the two honor guards who accompanied him. His wife was younger and seemed more hale.

  There were seven courses (of course), each ascending in flavor while shrinking in portion. That wasn’t a bad idea, I decided, around the fourth course. The Kilnusk ate heartily, and their food was laden with both protein and starch. I was squirming with fullness by the fifth course; by the seventh, I was ready to swoon.

  The music was surprisingly good, too. The minstrels played a kind of square harp, as well as drum, horn, and a sweet-sounding pipe. The rhythm-heavy songs they played were quite elegant, and occasionally one of the Kilnusk would stand and sing in their deep, throaty voices.

  After the debacle at Lakeshire, I was sparing with my drink, sticking to ale and avoiding the rum. Alya was, too, I noticed. The dwarven nobility, however, seemed to view any such occasion as an excuse to drink heavily. They were swilling down rum by the pint, like it was ale, and showed only the mildest effects.

  Yet I thought it might be the ale when I heard a voice boom out over the hall.

  “I bear a message for Minalan the Spellmonger!” The demand echoed across the hall; it was spoken so loudly. It was a dwarven voice, but it spoke in Narasi.

  The chatter in the hall fell silent. The honor guard flanking the king pulled their great axes to the ready and stood protectively around their monarch. Everyone looked toward the source of the hail. Their eyes soon met with the dark figure who had spoken. It was a Karshak, I saw, not a Kilnusk, and its face and head were bare. He wore the same black robe I’d seen him in at Midmarket, but he stood with more purpose this time.

  It was Davachan. The Betrayer.