Soldiers of Avarice

by Stephen L. Nowland

  “You’re not hard to read, Aiden,” Nellise explained. “I have a knack for that sort of thing. I do apologize if I’m being too nosey, by the way. It’s nice to have some pleasant conversation for a change.”

  “It’s quite all right; I know what you mean.”

  At that moment, a small girl, roughly eight years of age, with auburn hair appeared behind the bar, carrying a plate of food which she placed on the wooden counter in front of Aiden.

  “Your breakfast is done, sir,” she said cheerfully. He thanked her and offered a brief compliment for the quality, and the girl’s beaming smile lit her whole face.

  “Now that’s service,” Aiden quipped, drawing a quiet laugh from Nellise as the girl hurried back to the kitchen. “Sorry to interrupt our conversation, but this plate of food and I have a prior engagement.”

  “Oh, of course. Enjoy your breakfast, for it may be the last decent one you have for some time.”

  Aiden’s fork stopped a few inches from his open mouth as he looked at Nellise and raised an eyebrow.

  “Word hasn’t spread yet, but the basement here flooded last night, ruining a lot of supplies,” she whispered to his unspoken question. “I’ve heard of a few other houses with the same problem, meaning our weeks of remaining food just turned into days. If Olaf doesn’t open up the gates soon, the townsfolk are going to start rioting.”

  “Olaf?”

  “The mayor,” Nellise clarified. “I spoke with him two days ago about opening the gates, but he flatly refused. He’s not usually this stubborn, to be honest. Very strange.”

  Aiden blinked at her, then slowly returned his focus to the food before him, which suddenly tasted like the best thing he’d ever eaten. He was nearing the end of his meal when a man strode up next to him at the counter and slammed down a large wooden mug. The distinct aroma of stale beer and body odor washed over Aiden.

  “Beer me, Tom,” the man said in a low, gruff voice. The innkeeper strode over to the counter from the bench where he’d been preparing food and looked the newcomer straight in the eye.

  “All right, but this is the last one, Colt.”

  “It’s the last one when I say it’s the last one,” the gruff man retorted. “Now fill ’er up.” Tom shook his head, but proceeded to fill the mug from a tap behind the counter.

  “A little early in the morning to be drinking, isn’t it?” Nellise asked Colt.

  “Since I never slept, I don’t think it matters,” he grunted in reply.

  “You can’t hide from your problems like this,” she counseled, her voice conveying genuine concern.

  Colt’s face, which had the sluggish, unfocused look of the professional drinker, suddenly focused on Nellise with alarming clarity. “You think I like sitting around in this bloody inn, getting drunk off my arse? It’s not like there’s anything else to do.”

  He quaffed his mug of beer quickly and slammed it down on the counter. “Another!”

  “I told you that was the last one,” the innkeeper reminded him, crossing his arms. He might have been past forty years of age and carrying a lot of extra weight, but Tom didn’t show any fear of a rowdy drunkard in his bar. Aiden hoped his confidence wasn’t misplaced, for he guessed Colt could probably make an innkeeper-skinned rug from the fellow if he really wanted.

  “Don’t start holding back on me now, mate,” Colt growled. “I’ve still got a ways to go before the room starts spinning. So keep ’em coming, I say.”

  “No, you don’t seem to get it,” Tom informed him patiently. “I’m not holding back because I think you’re getting drunk.” In one movement, he hefted a keg onto the counter and pried open the top. “I told you it was the last one. As in, we’re out of beer.”

  Colt’s eyes suddenly grew wide with understanding. He leaned forward and looked into the keg, then back at the innkeeper.

  “Hang on a moment. Are you telling me you’re out of beer?”

  “Yes, and out of just about everything else too,” Tom added patiently. “Was expecting a shipment from Culdeny a few days ago, but of course, the town is sealed. So if you’ve got a problem, I suggest you take it up with the mayor.”

  With that, he turned away to where the little girl was chopping up tired-looking carrots near the kitchen.

  Colt watched him go, and then slumped down in a seat, appearing thoroughly dejected. After a few moments of awkward silence, Aiden decided to break the ice.

  “So, what’s your story?” he asked, smiling faintly to show he appreciated the absurdity of the question. Colt turned a pair of baleful, bloodshot green eyes toward him, ignoring his smile.

  “And you are...?”

  “My name’s Aiden. You're Colt, which I assume is a family name?”

  Colt remained silent. The burly man was unshaven, with short dark hair and a heavy jaw, but his age was difficult to guess. He was dressed in grimy leathers, dyed green and brown in various places.

  “Is there some special reason you’re talking to me?” Colt finally responded, his voice hoarse from too much ale. Or perhaps not enough? It was hard to tell. “If it’s companionship you want, I’m sure Nellise will talk your ears off, and she’s a lot better looking than I am.”

  “Better smelling, too,” Nellise observed quietly.

  “I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you —” Aiden continued, but was interrupted by the belligerent man.

  “You are. Bugger off.”

  “Charming,” Aiden murmured, sensing the end of the conversation. He noticed the small girl looking expectantly at him, so he took out his coin purse and tossed two copper pieces onto the counter.

  “Thank you, and have a nice day,” she declared in the uncertain voice of someone new to dealing with customers.

  “That was well done, Aislin,” Tom called to his little girl, who ruined the professionalism of the moment with a delighted giggle, a stark contrast to the leaden mood of just about everyone in the common room.

  “It’s been nice chatting with you both, but I have a prior engagement to attend,” Aiden announced as he stood, silently eager to be away from the smelly oaf seated next to him.

  “About time,” Colt grunted, evidently feeling the same way.

  “Lovely to meet you, Aiden,” Nellise said with a meaningful look at Colt, who seemed oblivious to the point she was trying to make. Aiden gave them both a curt nod and headed for the door, raising the hood of his longcoat as he went.

  The streets had been reduced to a quagmire of mud, which was uncommon at this time of year. Most of the buildings in the area had been built higher off the ground, and those that weren’t made extensive use of sandbags to keep the waters at bay.

  By now, the mid-winter sun was beginning to appear over the eastern horizon, the only glimpse of it anyone in town would have for the rest of the day. The rain was light yet unrelenting, and a faint wind sent droplets spattering into Aiden’s face.

  His destination was an ordinary house not far from the inn. It was a large building by the standards of Bracksford, two stories high and featuring a beautifully carved wooden entrance that retained most of its original elegance, despite the apparent age of the place. He had been waiting for this day for weeks, and so it was with a great deal of anticipation that Aiden stepped under the veranda and knocked on the door.

  “Good morning, who is it?” came a weathered voice as the door opened and an old man peered through. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles, a fine blue tunic and trousers, and sported a neatly-trimmed white beard. His skin was fair, and his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm for some project he was working on.

  “Good morning Dale; it’s just me, Aiden. Again,” he responded.

  A look of recognition passed over the old man’s features as he focused on the young man before him.

  “Ah, you’ve returned. Nice to see you again, my boy; do come in.” He pulled the door back and Aiden stepped inside, shaking off his longcoat and draping it on the nearby coat hook.

  “Dreadful weather,” Dale observed, closing
the door. “Probably the wettest season I’ve experienced since settling here eight years ago.”

  “Indeed,” Aiden answered politely, focused as he was on more interesting topics of discussion. “You’re no doubt wondering why I’m here.”

  “Ah, yes; well, I imagine you’re still after that book?”

  “If you still have it,” Aiden confirmed.

  The old man nodded and headed back to the dining room. “I’m not exactly turning customers away, you know,” he chuckled.

  Upon entering the lounge, Aiden was taken aback by the sheer volume of books lying on every available surface, turning the simple old house into something of a library, or more appropriately a museum.

  A musty smell permeated the place, made worse by the fact Dale kept it closed up to protect its contents from moisture. The curtains were drawn, and only an assortment of lanterns kept away the gloom.

  Other curios were dotted around the place, odd trinkets and contraptions beyond Aiden’s understanding, the largest of which was a clear glass cylinder adorned with metal plates, two yards high, standing next to Dale’s large desk.

  A clear pathway along the floor was the only way through to the desk where Dale went about his work, and then through to the fireplace, and the kitchen, both of which were understandably devoid of flammable — and valuable — materials.

  “I see you’ve tidied up the place since I was last here,” Aiden observed with dry humor.

  “Oh, you noticed? You’re a sharp one,” Dale replied without a trace of sarcasm, turning briefly from his task of sorting through a small mountain of books. “Ah, here it is. I knew it would be near the surface somewhere. Now, there is the small matter of the price. I trust you’ve managed to find the coin I’ve asked for?”

  Aiden nodded and handed over his coin pouch, the contents of which Dale shook into his hand. A small fortune in silver formed a pile in his palm, representing practically all of the money Aiden had acquired in recent months.

  “Splendid! I knew you wouldn’t have any trouble finding good, honest work to pay your way. Anyway, the tome is yours, sir. I do hope you can read Olde Aielish, though, or you’ve just bought yourself a rather expensive paperweight.”

  “I can, actually,” Aiden assured the old fellow.

  “Where on earth did you learn it?” he asked, with a measure of incredulity.

  “Self-taught. Any time a merchant passed through Coldstream with an old book or two, I’d be sure to buy it. History was a favorite of mine, but anything with an arcane bent was always my goal. You’d be surprised what you can learn on your own if you devote a lot of time to study.”

  “Yet another skill to your repertoire,” Dale remarked with admiration. “It’s rare to find such passion for learning in one so young. Did you have a particular motivation for it?”

  “Yes, actually,” Aiden responded. “I encountered a strange magical object years ago and wanted to learn more about its origin, so I read as many books as I could find on arcane lore.”

  “Do you still have it? The object, I mean,” Dale asked with obvious interest. “I’ve heard of such relics, and would love a closer look.”

  “Only a tiny piece I’m afraid,” Aiden answered, revealing the glass shard hanging around his neck.

  “That’s a shame; I would have paid you handsomely for it. In what way was it magical?”

  “It showed me a vision,” Aiden quietly explained, vividly recalling the events of that day.

  “What sort of vision?” Dale inquired curiously.

  Aiden hesitated before replying, as he was normally unwilling to speak of it. “Death,” he finally responded, with a catch in his voice. “Would you mind very much if I stayed here for a while to read? I really need to study it, and the inn has nothing but distractions.”

  “By all means; stay as long as you wish,” Dale said after an awkward pause, obviously wanting to know more, but sensing Aiden’s distress on the subject. “Head in to the kitchen and find yourself a chair.”

  The kitchen was not unlike the rest of the house. Aiden had heard it said that a messy house was the sign of a creative mind, and if so, his host was very creative indeed. Aiden quickly cleared a pile of unwashed plates and pulled up a chair, opening the book as he did so, and beginning to read even before he sat down.

  Alcott’s Treatise on Artifacts Most Ancient was written in gold ink upon the ancient cover. It was immediately evident that the pages were quite brittle, so he turned them with great care. Although not fluent, he had learned to pick out the important words in the language.

  The first few chapters seemed to deal with Alcott’s travels, and the things he had discovered along the way. The man had a knack for finding ancient sites of civilizations long since vanished from the world, and offered varying degrees of analysis of the devices he’d found, from the vague to the excruciatingly detailed.

  None of the listed relics had any of the information Aiden was looking for. Before it had shattered, Aiden had noticed strange symbols etched onto the glass sphere he’d found in the cave, but he had yet to encounter these symbols in any of the arcane writings he’d studied over the years. If it was a language, it was unknown to any sage who’d lived over the past two hundred years.

  Hours passed as Aiden continued leafing through the delicate pages. The assortment of discoveries the man had made was astonishing, though few of them would be considered magical. The ones that were listed as “sorcerous in origin,” or “crafted of artifice most dark,” did not exhibit the obscure script he had seen on the sphere. So far, the book had revealed to Aiden seventeen relics, recorded in six different languages, and not one of them was helpful in his task.

  When he finally reached the last chapter, it was as if he had suddenly started reading a different book. The language changed to one Aiden was unfamiliar with. Bewildered, he turned back a page and carefully read the ancient writing to find out what he had missed.

  As best he could make out, Alcott had been conferring with a colleague, with the odd name of Cylferth, concerning a relic that had been recovered from an excavation. It seemed the rest of the book was written in this strange language, and there was a diagram that piqued Aidan’s interest.

  The ink had faded terribly over the years, but enough of it was still legible enough to give an idea of the relic’s true shape. It was a small box with tiny doors that opened up on each side.

  He was about to turn the page when he saw something familiar in the corner. The diagram indicated that on one side of the box were engraved symbols, and to Aiden’s shock, he recognized them as being similar to the ones from the glass sphere.

  Excited, he peered closely at the page and compared the marks there to the faint symbols on the shard hanging around his neck. There were some notes in Cylferth’s handwriting that seemed to be related, though Aiden, of course, could not read those either.

  Resisting the urge to scream in frustration, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “Dale, do you have a moment?” he called into the other room, where the old man had been examining the cylinder.

  “Yes; did you need something? I’m afraid I don’t have much food, in case you were hungry.”

  “No, I need your professional opinion on something,” Aiden explained. “Take a look at this.”

  “What seems to be the trouble? If you’re concerned about the faded writing, I’m sorry, that’s just how the book was. No refunds.”

  “No, not that. Do you recognize this language?” Aiden gestured at the strange script before him.

  Dale took a few moments to gaze at the writing. “Oh, yes, I do believe it is the language of the dwarven peoples,” he answered. “Not the most common language, but you’d be surprised how often it’s used in the relics and whatnot I deal with.”

  “So you can read this?” Aiden asked, his heart leaping at the prospect.

  “After a fashion,” Dale confirmed. “Is this the page you’re having trouble with?” Aiden nodded. “Let me see... The object w
as dormant when first recovered, but during my first examination, I accidentally pressed one of the nodules inwards, causing glowing writing to appear on one side of the device. The writing appeared to change every thirteen seconds, and then vanished after a minute — sixty-five seconds, to be precise. How remarkable.”

  “Does he mention anything else about the device, such as what happened to it?”

  Dale continued reading, flipping the page back and forth a couple of times as he went. “I’m afraid he changes topic after a while. He did mention that the device required further study, and he would write more about it eventually. Is this of particular interest to you?”

  “It certainly is,” Aiden confirmed with restrained excitement. “I’ve been searching for something like this for years. Is there anything else at all that you can tell me?”

  “I’m afraid not. I can’t see any further reference to this discovery. I imagine you’ll need to start looking for his next book if you want to find out more.”

  Aiden was crestfallen. “Who was this person writing in dwarvish? Where did he live?”

  “A dwarf, I imagine,” the old sage chuckled. “They’re always digging around, uncovering God knows what. As for where he lived, this book is probably over two hundred years old, therefore he most likely dwelled in the old underground dwarven city of Ferrumgaard.”

  The name wasn’t familiar to Aiden, but if he could find out more information about this object, he was going there. “Where is this place?” he inquired. “I need to pay them a visit.”

  He wasn’t prepared for Dale’s reaction, which bordered on surprise. “The city used to be in what we now call the Calespur Mountains, northwest of here. I say ‘used to be’ because, I’m sorry, my boy, but Ferrumgaard was destroyed nearly a century ago.”

  Dale’s tone was almost apologetic. Aiden was dumbstruck. “From the histories I’ve read,” Dale went on, “the place was flooded when the dwarves struck an underground lake. Most of the population was drowned, and only a small percentage managed to escape in time. A terrible shame, really, for they were such accomplished artificers and engineers.”