by Jaxon Reed
Quent said, “Cap’n promote you?”
Stin nodded. “Third mate.”
“He said he would. You made him a wealthy man today. Far wealthier than he was.”
“I can see how this piracy thing can be lucrative. If only it weren’t so deadly.”
Quent grinned. “‘High risk for high reward.’ That’s an old Ageless Isles saying.”
“I like the reward part. Not so sure about the risk.”
They watched the game wrap up as the last round played out. Plinny roared in happiness as he won.
“Shuffle ’em again, lads! Luck is with me tonight. I’ll take all yer money!”
A few guffawed at the statement, and threw their coins into the pot for the first round of the next game. One stood up to leave, though.
Stin eyed the vacant spot in the circle, figuring out who would make the best marks sitting around it.
He said, “Well, I’ve enjoyed talking with you Quent, but I think I’ll try my luck against Plinny tonight.”
He began moving toward the group but stopped when Quent grabbed his shoulder.
“Officers don’t fraternize with the seadogs, Steck.”
Stin whipped his head around in surprise. He said, “What?”
“It’s true. Have you ever noticed any of the officers around, besides me? We play our own games, with each other. The captain’s fond of Table Battle. I’m a Nine Copper man, myself.”
Stin groaned. He was familiar with both games. They were two-player only and wouldn’t have the crowds for easy pickpocketing.
“You don’t play Table Battle for money,” he grumbled.
“Mm, that’s true. But wait until we get to Corsairs Cove. I think you’ll enjoy the gambling dens there. Some of the Primero games at the more fashionable houses start at a gold coin per round.”
“That does sound intriguing. And these ‘fashionable houses’ will let a new third mate in?”
“Yes. In fact, the more reputable ones only admit officers. You can lose a lot of money very quickly there. Or gain it. But they are very strict about magic and cheating, as you might imagine.”
Another sat down in the circle and a new game began. They watched as Plinny rolled his die. He roared in triumph. “Bwa-ha-ha! A six! I win again!”
The other men groaned as the giant emptied the pot into his leather purse.
Stin turned back to Quent and said, “You know, I think you’re right. If being an officer can get me into establishments that are as lucrative as you say, then I’m willing to wait until we get there.”
Quent smiled. They watched the men ante up again, each contributing a coin to the pot for the next round.
“I think you’re going to enjoy being an officer, Steck.”
Chapter 8
Prince Dudge walked out of a cave and into sunlight. The cave served as the terminus to an underground highway connecting several dwarven cities. Like most dwarves, he preferred the darker realm, and he squinted in the sudden brightness.
Strolling down a brick-paved road stretching from the cave, Dudge passed low stone fences guarding fields full of crops. He waved at the occasional worker. They waved back, and followed him with curious eyes under broad-brimmed hats. He was not from these parts, and word of his arrival had not yet spread. It seemed evident many he waved at wondered who he was and what dealings he had in the Farmlands.
Anonymity suited Dudge fine, for the moment. He thought the pomp and circumstance of royalty were best left to those who cared for it, such as his brother Pudge, the Crown Prince. When Dudge left Ore Stad, the capitol city of Norweg, his brother and their mother were busy making plans for Pudge’s wedding ceremony. After months upon months of searching, Queen Frum had finally found the perfect bride for her oldest son.
Dudge, as second born, would not receive such lengthy betrothal considerations. In fact, if he did marry, no one would give it a second thought if it happened to be a bride he picked out himself.
And that too suited Dudge just fine. He felt quite content to let their mother fuss and fidget and create a hullabaloo over his brother’s bride and the ceremony. It was all the talk of Ore Stad right now. After all, this bride of Pudge’s would be the future queen. She would hopefully deliver a prince or princess, or perhaps even both in due time.
Everyone in or near Ore Stad seemed to be obsessing over Frum’s choice, except Dudge. He didn’t even know the name of the lucky bride-to-be. All he heard before departing for the Farmlands was that someone had been chosen from one of the more prominent families in Norweg.
Dudge came out of his thoughts and found himself approaching a crossroads. To his right, a farmer labored over a cart with a broken wheel. He had a replacement wheel, and a long post leveraged on a stone under the axle, but it appeared that when he raised the cart up he would have no one to swap the broken wheel with the new one.
The pig harnessed to the cart grunted, impatiently. Dudge assessed the situation and quickly decided to lend assistance.
“Le’ me help y’ there.”
He jogged up to the end of the pole and took the farmer’s place, pushing down on it with all his weight. The front corner of the cart tilted up, the short end of the pole straining under the axle. The farmer rushed over and removed the broken wheel’s retaining pin with a mallet and quickly swapped it out with the new one. He motioned for Dudge to let up on the lever.
With all four wheels back on the ground, the farmer threw the broken one in the back while Dudge placed the pole in with it. Together they wrestled the stone the farmer had used as a fulcrum out of the way so the back wheels wouldn’t run over it.
The farmer said, “Thankee kindly, stranger. Wha’ can I do t’ repay ye?”
“You can tell me th’ whereabouts o’ Brewer Fret.”
The farmers face lit up in a smile. He said, “Aye, young Fret! Turrible shame ’bout ’is father. I knew Barley since we was bairns. Bu’ now young Fret ’as th’ backin’ o’ th’ Crown! ’E’s done bought up all th’ grain in th’ Farmlands for this mad push t’ make beer fer yumans. Crazies’ thing! Bu’ who ’m I t’ say no t’ royal silver? I sold ’im all m’ bushels, I did. An’ iffen ’e makes a cartload o’ gold from th’ yumans, i’ kinna happen t’ a better family.”
The farmer leaned back and clasped his hands together, smiling. Fret waited a polite moment. When the farmer didn’t volunteer any more information, Fret said, “So where might I fin’ th’ lad?”
“Aye! So t’ get t’ th’ Barley Family Brewery y’ needs travel through Clan Nugget’s land. Go down th’ road this aways until y’ come t’ th’ ancient mulberry tree. Tha’s th’ marker fer th’ clan’s land, y’ ken? Follow on ’nother thousand steps or so an’ keep a sharp eye out fer Widow Betz. She often works in th’ fields alone. Claims she feels close t’ her husband who passed so many years ago in tha’ field. Then . . .”
Dudge’s attention blanked out as the farmer continued offering him complicated local landmarks that may or may not be in place when he arrived. The worse were ones that used to exist but had vanished long ago. Evidently, all the locals still knew where they once had been. They were included in the directions as well.
Dudge gleaned a general idea of where he needed to go, though, and thanked the farmer profusely. The old dwarf had quite a bit more to say about several other topics, but Dudge extricated himself from the conversation as politely as possible and headed off in the direction the farmer pointed him. The aggie waved goodbye.
Dudge made it about a hundred steps when another thought occurred to the older dwarf.
“Stranger! I ne’er caught yer name!”
Dudge waved at him as if mistaking the shouted remark for a final farewell, and continued down the road without looking back.
Several hours later, after asking half a dozen more people he met for directions, Dudge came within shouting distance of a large wooden building with a thatched roof that he knew had to be the Barley Family Brewery.
With all the dire
ction asking he had managed to maintain his anonymity, until the very end. He asked a wife from the nearby village for confirmation that he was headed in the right direction. She carried a cute fat-cheeked young girl, who couldn’t be more than five years old. The little dwarf’s bouncy orange hair was tied up in pigtails. She calmly sucked her thumb and her dark, serious eyes never left Dudge’s while he spoke with her mother.
Finally, his directions confirmed, he smiled down at the little girl. She popped her thumb out and said, “Who’re you?”
The directness of the child took him by surprise. He said, “My name’s Dudge. Who’re you?”
“Frumera. I named after th’ queen!”
He smiled and said, “I think Queen Frum woul’ be very happy t’ know you be named after her.”
He patted her head and set out on his way again. But he knew the coney had escaped the bag, as the saying goes. At the mention of his name, the little girl’s mother had stifled a gasp of recognition.
News of Dudge’s arrival spread lightning fast. He swore it preceded him to the brewery, if that were possible. When he walked in through the large oaken door to the building, everybody inside seemed to know who he was. Several immediately bowed down low.
“Get up, get up. Dinna be foolish.”
He spent the next half hour disabusing anybody present that he held any notions of grandeur. When someone tried to bow or speak too obsequiously, he invariably waved them off.
“Save it fer th’ king. An’ I’m nay king.”
Finally Fret returned. When he walked through the door and saw the prince, his eyes lit up with joy.
“Dudge!”
He hurried over and the two dwarves hugged, slapping one another on the back.
“Wha’ news d’ye bring from Ore Stad?”
“Pffft. Fergit that. I came t’ sample yer beer!”
“Aye! Come along t’ me backroom an’ we’ll share some mugs!”
The remaining dwarves were left astounded and looked at one another with incredulous expressions on their faces. Fret’s reputation increased tenfold instantly.
One old worker said, “Aye, th’ royal gold was impressive. But I ha’ no idea ’e was bes’ friends wi’ th’ prince!”
A couple of others raced out the door to spread word in the village.
Later, the two dwarves carried empty pewter mugs while walking among rows of tall copper vats. Each vat sat on a small platform. Spigots down low on the vats were off the floor high enough to fill barrels easily, thanks to the platforms. Weak light filtered through narrow slits high in the walls. The only sounds were their footsteps as they walked across the cool brick floor.
“How long?” Dudge said.
“Six weeks t’ ferment. Then we cask it and it ages longer in transit.”
“And ye’ll have a thousand barrels?”
Fret nodded and said, “Aye, an’ more. Reckon t’ have near eleven hunnert.”
They came to the end of the row, turned a corner, and walked back along a new row of vats. These were shinier, reflecting more of the room’s dim light.
Fret said, “A large portion o’ yer gold went t’ new equipment. We were fortunate ye were able t’ find enough vats fer us.”
Dudge nodded and said, “It so happened a maker in Ore Stad had almost all y’ needed, an’ was able t’ quickly deliver th’ last few in time.”
“Aye. Tha’ lef’ th’ grain. Th’ price went up as ye might imagine.”
Dudge chuckled. “Aye. I suppose it would. But ye got enough, tha’s th’ important thing.”
Fret stopped at one of the new vats and motioned for Dudge to hold his mug under the spigot. He filled it with a little beer, then repeated the procedure with his own mug.
“It’s nay ready yet, bu’ we kin sample.”
They both tasted. Dudge nodded thoughtfully and said, “I ken nothin’ ’bout makin’ it. Jus’ drinkin’ it.”
“Aye, but I ken a thing or two. An’ I’m worried, Dudge. It don’ taste like Pa’s.”
“It’s a new vat. Mayhap th’ old vats taste different.”
“I’ve sampled th’ batches in th’ old vats too. It’s th’ same. Th’ problem is, I don’ have ’is magic. He could make th’ best ales in th’ land. An’ now ’e’s gone, an’ I kinna duplicate what ’e could do.”
Fret looked down at the brick floor, refusing to face the prince. Dudge nodded, thoughtfully. He reached over and patted the younger dwarf’s shoulder.
“It’s still good beer. Better’n theirs by far. Aside from th’ few people in tha’ pub, Fret, no other yuman in all their lands e’er tasted yer pa’s beer.”
Fret looked up, and Dudge noted a glimmer of hope in his eyes. The prince smiled encouragingly, his beard moving up with his lips.
Fret said, “Yer right! They’re nay gonna ken wha’ good beer tastes like.”
“An’ I’ll wager even yer worse be far better than their best. They’ll come back fer more next year, an’ ye’ll have a better batch ready. An’ where else are they gonna go t’ get quality dwarven beer?”
-+-
Workers scattered when a hazy golden globe appeared in the field outside Greystone Village. A moment later, Mita walked through and the globe faded behind her.
She had watched Oldstone perform the spell many times, and felt confident enough to do it herself. She could travel anywhere effortlessly now, provided she had been there once before.
Oldstone assured her that with a significantly sophisticated spell, she could travel to places new to her, as well. She could also soon begin experimenting with casting transport globes elsewhere, allowing others to come to her, much the same way as Oldstone brought wizards to his castle.
She looked around at the hubbub of activity in the field, ignoring those openly staring at her in her black leather armor and high heel boots. In the distance she spied Greystone using magic to move around chunks of broken metal men, many of which she had destroyed herself in the Battle of Greystone Village. She flew up in the air and headed toward the wizard, leaving the gaping workers behind.
Out in the wide open area which had served as a battlefield, Greystone levitated a broken metal man’s torso and set it down gently on a wagon led by a team of horses. The wooden planks and axles groaned under the weight. The driver cracked his whip and yelled, “Hah!” His horses strained in their harnesses and slowly the wagon moved forward, heading back toward the entrance to the village.
Another wagon pulled up and Greystone proceeded to load it with broken metal arms and legs. He stopped when he saw Mita flying toward him.
When she landed he said, “Perhaps you can help an old wizard out, my dear. I’ve got every blacksmith from Coral worth a lick working on these things. Just have to get the pieces to them.”
He pointed to a line of wagons, a dozen long, all waiting to be loaded.
She nodded and began flying around the battlefield, gathering up broken pieces of metal men in the air and bringing them over to the carts, using a spell to float them around. Soon, all the wagons were filled and trundling back toward the magical gateway to the village.
Greystone said, “Thank you, my dear. I’ve been doing this all day, and it’s starting to wear me out. They’ve got lots of people to help them unload, but it’s just faster for me to gather things up and load the wagons for them.”
Mita nodded. Looking around, she couldn’t find too many more pieces left.
No dead soldiers or villagers were evident, either. She knew they had been buried shortly after the battle in a long trench that Greystone had dug for the village’s defense. A slight rise in the ground’s elevation, a long low hill, marked the site of the mass grave.
Then she noticed other, more pleasant changes in the scenery. The long pathway through the woods had disappeared. She said, “The trees are back.”
Greystone nodded happily. He said, “Redstone has a way with trees, thank the Creator. He’s still working on it, but when he’s done the path the metal men made
to get here will hardly be evident.”
She smiled along with him. Darkstone’s metal men had ripped out miles of trees, creating an unobstructed path for his army. That all the damage could be restored, and so quickly, made her happy.
Mita said, “And when will the search begin for the Forlorn Dagger?”
“Oh, I’ve already found it. A simpleton by the name of Dirt has it.”
“A simpleton? Does he know what he has?”
“Well, he thinks it’s a very pretty knife. Besides being of small mind, he has little to no magic, so he doesn’t even realize the power-robbing capabilities of the dagger.”
“Is it safe to leave it with him?”
“Yes. For now, anyway. I’ve got a watch spell on him. And I’ve got wardens around the entire area. If Darkstone, or any other wizard for that matter, attempts to make a move, we’ll know in time. For now there’s no harm in Dirt holding on to the dagger. He’s, ah, guarding it quite well in fact.”
-+-
At the end of the day, Mita sat with the villagers at a large outdoor meal. Several of the men had roasted goats in a series of fire pits, and someone from the inn brought over casks of ale and loaves of bread. The workers spread out on the grass in small groups and ate their fill, laughing and talking as the sun set.
Raised as a princess, Mita had never eaten among such a large gathering of commoners before. Everyone minded their manners, though, and passed around the food politely, engaging in light conversation. She found herself growing comfortable, although the conversation seemed wanting. The peasant women she sat with discussed things like hemming dresses, cures for warts, and village gossip.
Mita found herself wishing to discuss ways to stop Darkstone, and plans for the next battle. But she smiled, and engaged in small talk. She knew a couple cures for different ailments that Cookie had taught her, so she was able to follow in the discussion on remedies.
For their part, the peasants were polite to Mita but they remained standoffish. Many had seen the battlemaiden in action, and knew of her immense power. Also, she was dressed completely different, in magical black leather armor.
