Amyia’s brow rose in amazement. “Eight hundred years?” she exclaimed. “I’s wish I’s was’s a dwarf, then I’s toos live a long time and find more happis-ness.” The effect of several measures of mead clearly evident in Amyia’s gesticulation and parlance.
Deggart smiled sincerely and leaned on the table and spoke earnestly to Amyia. “We dwarves might live a good number of years compared to ye short-lived humans, but not a day passes me by when I see a woman or man in my inn that I do not admire. With shortness of life comes passion and vigour, young bairn, that is so vast ‘tis almost impossible to comprehend. In the span of a few years ye lot can achieve feats we only dream of; we may live longer, dear one, and create a many a wondrous thing, but ye, ye have the ability to pour fire into ye lives, to rage magnificence at age that would make the mountains themselves weep with rocks that take near lifetimes to move. So nay, bairn, do not wish to be enduring for many years, for if ye are wise and determined, ye can live longer, better and merrier in those short years than the turn of many centuries.”
Amyia harkened to every word, their meaning was to become clear one day, perhaps in the morning when the fog of mind was to give way to clarity of thought, or perhaps in a decade or two when wisdom and time saw fit to do so; regardless, the words of the innkeeper would hardly be forgot.
She nodded in an arc that caused her entire body to jiggle along with her head. Placing down the mead she stood and left the table with the fancy of going over to dandle Tac’quin - a dangerous act indeed.
Deggart smiled and watched Amyia as she left. “Mayhap a cup ‘o mead too many,” he declared. “Best not let the lass become too accustomed to the brew.”
Cezzum responded softly. “She has been through much good inn-keep, but an eye we shall keep on her; for this one eve perhaps it best to let the mead allow her to succumb to a better, blissful rest.”
“Sincere and honest words, Cezzum, you do her proud,” agreed the innkeeper. “Mayhap we speak in Valaku now as your child of women has gone to best the dragon.”
“Knowing the wont of our dragon friend I think she shall return presently,” Cezzum teased. The two dwarves and veiled goblin laughed, but the glee was cut off at the hocks before it could lope, much to the felicity of Cezzum whose heart had quickened by the thought of the dwarven tongue.
“Deggart!” screamed a shrill voice from behind the table. “Get ye good fir naught beard back ‘ere. The guests be wanten their spiced tabac!”
The innkeeper’s face transformed into mock chastisement as the words clung to the air for an unusually lengthy period of time. He then smiled broadly. “The knell dost toll for me, friends. ‘Tis like the famous dwarven architect and writer once wrote: ‘marriage is the end of romance,’ and don’t ye be forgetting that Palodar; ye, Cezzum, have naught to fear being a dwarf of the cloth.” All three chuckled. Deggart placed an iron key on the table. “Third room on ye right, up the stairs. Has four beds and a pallet for ye dragon friend. I will bill ye uncle the next time I be seeing him.”
“And he shall be happy to pay,” said Palodar, grinning deviously with dramatic effect.
Deggart slapped the tabletop once more. “Right, I be off! Fare tidings to ye all.”
“And to you,” echoed Cezzum and Palodar. The innkeeper stood and left, the lingering scorn of his wife humorously filling the torpid air for all to hear.
Cezzum and Palodar drained both the dregs of the drinks and the remnants of the meal before taking the key from the table and crossing over to the hearth. A sight of a wondrous nature met their eyes. Palodar grinned at his beloved friend, but before he could speak, Cezzum said, with a smirk on his face: “Another wonder! Mayhap one that drubs the rest.”
“I could not agree more,” replied Palodar.
Lying together before the hearth was Tac’quin, the surly dragon, with its paw gently holding the sleeping figure of Amyia curled up next to it. Never before had the child or the dragon appeared so peaceful; it was a remarkable scene, both their chests rising and falling in a slow cadence, flowing rhythmically to the gentle marching of the drum that was their shared life.
“I think I should travel without you for a time, brother; you are still a wonder ahead of me,” jested Palodar holding Cezzum’s shoulder. Little did Palodar know the truth of his statement that was soon to come to pass.
Palodar bent down, tentatively moving the dragon’s paw, and gently picked up the sleeping girl and carried her ever so carefully up the staircase. With a light pat of his brow, Cezzum roused Tac’quin, who slowly opened an eyelid, followed by a quick succession of membranes, and rolled its serpentine pupil upwards, fixing it upon the goblin. Cezzum gestured towards the flight of stairs. Walking side by side, the two companions left the raucous merriment of the main floor and retired to their room.
Chapter XI
A Humble Farmer’s Gifts
F inding the farm had proven fairly easy, the journey only taking up a short portion of the morn. Palodar insisted they had made fair time, but Cezzum doubted the validly of the statement and quietly thought that the dwarf had taken the odd incorrect turn; despite the lengthier stroll, Palodar had led them well to their destination. The companions had traversed the vast passageways which were at the heart of any dwarven settlement. Oil-fed torches, through a vast network of pipes, had lit every tunnel. Palodar explained that while dwarves could move using other senses in complete darkness and could see things quite well in very little light, ample illumination made the commonalities of the everyday that much easier, especially for non-dwarves; he had even went on to explain how dwarven children were often sent away to Shadow Camps where they were instructed in the fine art of orienteering in absolute darkness.
Since leaving the village of Daranbar at the break of dawn, their journey had been uneventful, merely hours filled with walking through the dwarven warrens without any sights to see. The odd early riser who had business elsewhere passed occasionally, but on the whole, it had proven to be quiet, apart from the sporadic groan sprouting from Amyia’s lips as she nursed the ill-effects of dwarven mead. A few minutes before finding the farm, the tunnel had begun to slope downwards at an angle too uncomfortable to be gentle and not as taxing as to be considered steep. All at once, after rounding a small turn in the passageway, the tunnel opened up into a cavern.
The space, which stretched the length of five significant grain fields, was in similar design to that of the village, albeit the roof was without adornment and was arched no higher than twelve feet from the ground. The shaft of light was present in the roof and projected its beam directly onto a prism sitting atop a stone farmhouse resting in the centre of the farmland; the fields stretched out in every direction from the homestead. Save from a handful of paths leading to and from the house, and an idyllic garden enclosed within a low, stone wall that served as a touch of familial greenery between the home and the sweeping fields, the entire cave-farm, as Cezzum thought of it, was filled with thriving crops. The fields were all slightly slanted, no more than a few degrees, away from the stone house; dwarves could be called many a thing, and so they had, but in the intricacies of construction, few surpassed them, although many a loran would surely take great umbrage to any fellow who might state such an absurdity.
Early morning light pervaded the entire vista, its source emerging from a sheer plethora of masterfully placed pieces of reflective stones sown into the cornices of the cavern.
A single dwarf with a buttoned white shirt and dark tweed coveralls was crouched down, just off the path that wended towards the farmhouse, busily attending a lane of crops. His beard was full, but trimmed short and expertly maintained; the powerful control of his raven beard bolstering the well-defined muscles coursing down his arms. Manual labour could not have found a better dwarf than the farmer to display its ability to sculpt perfection from the clay of flesh. He bore a wide-brimmed, cloth hat upon his crown, lending itself to his bucolic bearing. The leafy stalks of the crops, appearing to be some dwarven equiva
lent of maize with kernels the size of large peanuts, towered the dwarf at almost six feet, lending to the burly dwarf a most amusing appearance when held in comparison. He was chewing a strand of straw as the party approached him, and catching sight of them in return, mainly due to Amyia crying out to him, he quickly ceased tending the lofty plants and crossed the wagon-wide path to begin tending a new field of young seedlings.
“Ah, pride,” cackled Tac’quin. “It is good that dragons are beyond such things.”
The others snickered at the irony of their winged companion’s statement.
Cezzum, seizing the moment, added, “Fortunate then that arrogance and pride are as estranged as oil and water.”
Tac’quin unexpectedly smirked at the rejoinder and sent a leering eye at the goblin. “Indeed.”
Unknown to the dragon but the words that Cezzum had spoken to it that day in the forest had begun to worm their way into its consciousness, or at the least its unconscious; like any being set to certain predilections or ways, it would take much time to assail their walls.
All four companions stood abreast one another as they came to stand before the farmer. The dwarf forcefully pulled a bung from a varnished wooden pipe, sending water slowly flowing into a network of furrows, before theatrically standing and making a show of dusting his knees. Purely by chance - or perhaps due to anxiety in each of them welling up at exactly the same time at the prospect of the next stage of their quest being so near - the four compatriots burst out simultaneously:
“Farmer of the Dale?” said Cezzum.
“Gilly?” asked Palodar.
“Dale?” queried Amyia.
“Dwarf,” suggested Tac’quin.
The dwarven farmer looked at them in shock and cried, “Fie! Four names you call me and yet not one of you can say my proper name? Ah a sad day indeed when a farmer cannot get the only thing that is certain in this world said correctly! But alas all call me Dale, thus if you whelps add to that din it matters not.”
Palodar laughed at the dwarf and the wide eyes of his friends; what they lacked in understanding Valaku was made up for by the farmer’s tone. With a nudge of his head, Palodar indicated his companions; it was the universal sign of those not blessed by the dwarven tongue.
Dale looked around suddenly as if worried to be seen by others. Shaking his body swiftly, he doffed his hat and said, more commonly: “I do apologise for that tirade, friends; it is not my wont. But you must understand that no milk has been delivered this morn and a farmer without breaking the fast is a disgruntled one.” The farmer’s countenance betrayed his surprise at the four odd visitors greeting him, noticeably his weariness of Tac’quin; however, his friendly manner was far from rent. With a fleeting glance over each of their faces Gilly said, “A pleasure to meet such a fine assortment of persons; the glory that peace brings is always incalculable in uniting all peoples! Much the same way my crops feel when they are free from pests.” The farmer glanced quickly to ensure the irrigation system was flowing well and then turned back to his guests. “Now what can I do for all of you?”
“We were told to seek you out, Gilly. We need your help,” answered Palodar with a timbre of eagerness.
Gilly fiddled with the straw in his mouth. “Seek me out did you?” His eyes took a surreptitious tone to them as he said, “I am but a farmer, dear friends, if you are in need of a bushel of vegetables or a barrel of finely flavoured tabac certainly I could see you all replete to your hearts’ content; beyond that I cannot fathom why one would tell you to seek me out.” For a moment Gilly thought he glimpsed a hue of jade beneath the hooded dwarf’s cowl, but brushed off the fleeting concern.
Palodar grinned knowingly. “Lauret and Casena sent us.”
Nothing was betrayed on the dwarf’s face; it remained kind and yet somehow impassive at the same time. “You speak unknown names to me kin, I think perhaps you have found the wrong farmer. Now if you would care for some wares, I would be more than fain to help all four of you, but the day is wearing on and a farmer’s tasks are never done; the saplings beg for attention and I have a milk fetcher’s neck to wring.”
“I thinks you lying,” said Amyia, coming forward and looking knowingly at Gilly.
“Now wait just a moment there you brash bairn, I may be a lot of things in life, I am even covered in rotten dirt most of the time, but the one thing I am not is a liar. The only thing a farmer has is his word, and our words are as strong as these stones around us! Better than that oak as is said in ænglix”
“Then we are mistaken good farmer,” conceded Palodar, a flurry of surprised looks assaulting him from his companions. “But before we leave might I shake the hand of such a prestigious farmer? For it was not but a few hours ago that Deggart sung praises to your name.”
A tincture of haughtiness pulled the ends of Gilly’s lips into an ascending smile. “Well now, what a fine inn-keep he is, bless his warm soul. These soil nurturing hands would know no greater pleasure than to shake another’s.”
The farmer extended his hand and Palodar took it in both of his and shook firmly; Palodar subtly twisted his wrist so that the top of his right hand snatched the attention of Gilly. The Farmer of the Dale’s face became grave, his eyes rapt by the coruscating golden ring upon Palodar’s finger.
“By my oiled beard!” he exclaimed, “Paladins!”
Palodar nodded and let his hand slip from the introduction. Amyia, Tac’quin and Cezzum’s cowl all gave the slightest of nods in support.
“You were all standing there knowing full well who I was and yet still led me through my little guise. Oh, you are cunning tricksters,” cried Gilly, whose face was now a fusion between the sudden realisation of the gloomy nature that his duty spoke of and the fading humour that had just befallen him.
“We have journeyed far from the north to be here, kin,” said Palodar; “we are keen to be underway to the east.”
“It makes sense now - the shipment of wares that our commissary brought to my stead a few days ago. He was told to await those knights who would come to claim the goods. I must confess I was expecting a cadre of humans and lorans, not dwarves and a lass, but if this is what Lauret and Casena devised then I shall not question it. Now let us make hast brothers, the commissary awaits you inside. And between us, the sooner he takes his leave the more fain I shall be, my coin-purse has a hole in it from the amount of mead that dwarf had drunk. Please, follow me.”
Gilly turned towards the stone house, his shoulders rolling like ocean waves with each step he took. Palodar walked a single pace behind him while the rest of the companions brought up the rear. As they strode along the road Amyia asked quietly, “What is a Paladin?”
Cezzum laughed softly at his complete absence of mind, for not since meeting Amyia had either he or Palodar mentioned the Paladins. In the minute-or-two walk towards the farmstead, Cezzum explained about the order of the Paladins and their knighting ceremony within the Barrow of Arcun’son. The skin around Amyia’s eyes pulled tightly, producing one of those infatuated and enchanting smiles that are more eloquently expressed through a careful manipulation of the eyes rather than the altering of the lips.
Amyia looked at Tac’quin as if to confirm the existence of the a surreal fellowship of people that maintained peace through the land in this Order of the Paladins; it was not from any doubt of the validity of Cezzum why Amyia asked, but rather a humane instinctual response in hearing something so wonderful to the mind that it becomes all that much more potent when confirmed by another. The dragon validated the goblin’s story with a faint nod. Amyia’s face was aflame with glee. For certain moments, and it was assuredly one of them, when the memory of her family’s slaying briefly fleeted from her mind, she managed to find a kind of happiness in the grand tales, deeds and happenings of the world and even the fables of old she knew; the more she partook of each day seemed to be swelling the truth of them as well.
Amyia faced Cezzum and asked excitedly, “Are theres” – Tac’quin looked admonishingly a
t her but the reprove was lost to the ether – “anys girls and women in the Paladins?” She looked thoughtful for a moment then hastily added, “Can I become one?”
Bending over in order to observe the jade face beneath the hood, Amyia caught sight of a pair of lips blanketed with sincere mirth of the deepest admiration.
Cezzum spoke earnestly with a reverent intonation. “Palodar’s and my feet would not tread this ground if it were not for the deeds of a courageous lady Paladin. She sacrificed her life in order to grant us escape from our foe. And it was a loran knight-captain named Casena that gave great resolve to our journey and bore heavy burdens of this world upon her back in order for the denizens of this world to live their lives in peace; she does so with a haunting grace that has no equal. Indeed Amyia, not only do women serve in the Paladins, they are counted as amongst the most gallant.”
Amyia could not begin to construct the reason as to why her body swelled with warmth of an almost motherly comfort; the truth as to why perhaps infinitely unimportant. Nevertheless, Cezzum’s words about the Paladins pranced around profoundly within the young girl, or rather the budding woman, caressing dreams and assuaging antiquity that was as recent as her own memory; the possible splendour startling vivid when she closed her eyes, and it was as poignant as the first foundations of a great empire put in place a thousand years before; it was the keystone of a better one.
The companions and their agrarian guide drew up to the building. A construction that was further testament to dwarven prowess, as the simple farmstead was wrought with such precision as to bring the most indifferent of edifice observers to deepest appreciation. Stone blocks, while cut irregularly and in all manner of round and circular shapes, rose up powerfully, locked together in carefully sanded and finished mortar. The stones then seemed to have been chiselled and refined to a degree where no one rock jutted out any more than the other, bequeathing to the structure both the strength of endearing might and texture as to let the eye become tenderly wooed by it. Two round windows stood astride the door, but any glimpse into the abode was abruptly impeded by closed wooden shutters.
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