by A. S. Etaski
Dual fits of hunger ate at me for what seemed an eternity as I walked, and this road was empty and quiet. Scuttling flashes of movement were too abrupt for me to think about stalking or pouncing, and I didn’t run into anything more substantial than my palm in any case. My reflexes and instincts were not at their best, to say the least.
Fortunately, even had I been throttling myself between my legs right then, I’d have heard that pickaxe when I rounded a curve. Dwarves could never be silent. Whether from their endless array of tools and armor or from their simple plodding on wide feet with dense bodies, they were not made for stealth. But which kind of Dwarf would I see, a Tragar or a Ketro?
And why do I hear only a single pick jabbing at the stone? They’re always seen in clumps.
Praying my next mating clutch wouldn’t hit me while I reconnoitered the scene ahead of me, I bent lower and padded very soft, watching for loose pebbles or slick moss, testing the ground beneath my bare toes. The focus on a tangible threat helped push my lust back into its proper place, and I crouched behind a convenient stone. I hoped, when I peeked over it, the Dwarf would be within my Dark Sight’s range, but not I would not be within his.
That was another reasonable expectation: the Dwarf would be near-sighted, and he’d be male. Female squatters seemed to appear only if forcibly dragged out of their holes like a queen insect, and Davrin could see farther than the short stone-diggers. I had the advantage if the Priestess spell didn’t fuck it up for me.
The Dwarf proved just on the edge of my vision when I looked. He even seemed to flicker, to swim in and out of focus as he moved here and there. Nonetheless, I could hear his every step, scrape and tink with his tools as he shifted around, studying a lay of stone and working at it as if to release something.
I squinted to take in detail. Darker skin, not light grey. A bald head but a short, white beard. Somewhat sinewy but still very strong, with endurance enough to work without end. I knew what it was.
Tragar. Fuck you, Braqth.
This was the dangerous race of squatters, rarely kept as working slaves like the Ketro. Ironically, if there was a race known to care less about enjoying life than even the dourest Ketro, it was the Tragar. There was a jest that to see one smile meant only that he had trouble passing gas. They were said to be grim, bitter, and jealous of other’s wealth. Their only pleasures were to push around those weaker than them and to work their captives to death. Meanwhile, they never ceased toiling themselves; they expected it. They made sure just being alive was a difficult task, and their measure of strength depended upon how much rock one could move in their lifetime.
Work. Dominate. Punish. Work more. Die.
There was nothing the Davrin respected about them except their notable viciousness and that an unknown percentage of them had distinct talents never to be underestimated. Tragar did not make good slaves for one excellent reason: All it took was one in a group with those mental powers similar to the mind-flaying Ornilleth, and the bald, dark Dwarves acted like one Abyssal Beast with multiple arms.
One of the more recent cautionary stories at Court had been about a Trade Mistress rejecting an offer made by a Tragar and foolishly turning her back on him. A fist-sized stone flew straight from the ground to the back of her head while the stern Dwarf moved not a muscle. No warning, for no one had tasted the magic in the air. It hadn’t been magic as the Davrin knew it.
Legend had it that these abilities in Tragar were thanks to the Ornilleth, an entire race of mind-talent mages that even the Davrin had cause to fear. The tentacle-faces had enslaved more races than even my own kind. The rumors of their experiments, of changing and creating new and warped forms of the natural races as they exercised a telepathic grip on their victims, certainly lent itself to suggest the source of a Tragar’s eternally bad temper.
So, does this one have mental talents? Why is he working alone?
I had been sitting for long enough that if any others were working in the surrounding caverns, I’d have heard them. I knew Tragar sometimes scouted into our territory looking for gems, and, like a social insect having found a new food source, they would return to bring reinforcements. Listening to a Palace Guard talk about contacts in the Valsharess’s Army, it was endlessly irritating keeping the pilferers out. I pondered whether to take out this scout before such a thing could happen, then grimaced, looking down at my turgid nipples and lack of any armor or poison or weapon with any range.
I’m not stupid.
For being so short, these Dwarves were still quick, muscular, and did not hesitate to kill. Charging him now and hoping to get the drop on him was not an option.
I could smell his sweat after a time as I sat there, and I was aware of the increase in heat in the area. His last bath was far less recent than mine, and Dwarves in general always had an oily heft to their musk, layered with soot and ash, grit and mineral. Dwarves smelled to me like bags of grease and earth, and this one was no different. I remained behind the boulder and stewed, then bit down on my lip and squeezed my thighs together.
Goddess damn it!
Another wave of arousal claimed me. It lasted for too long, far too long as I trembled and I chose to hold my breath and let it out rather than struggle with the husky gasps that tried to escape. Sweat popped out on my forehead, and I gripped my dagger in its sheath, in serious consideration right then to pump it into my slick slit regardless of how dirty it was or how it scraped me inside.
No! Fucking shit, no!
Quivers of fear mixed with the lust. These episodes were not lessening in strength. If this were a permanent affliction, I would not live much longer, inside or outside Sivaraus. Depending on who discovered this weakness first—the closest one being that Tragar—my death could be a singularly creative one.
I bit down on the sheath of the dagger as I waited for the fit to pass. If this is permanent, I refused to die yet. Not until I got the Priestess who’d done this.
The Tragar paused; he was still as my mind cleared partway, while I tried to catch my breath as quiet as I could be. If I’d thought to take him unaware, it was too late now. He sensed another presence, though I would wager he would not have seen me even had I stood straight up. He’d hear me, perhaps even smell me, but he’d not see me.
I peeked back over the stone, tensing as my body flooded with sensation. The Tragar had gathered up what I was sure were raw gems just harvested, and he moved over to his pack a few paces away. He added the stones to a pouch tied to the outside of the bag, reached to lift and don a simple, steel helmet that had been near his feet. The headpiece didn’t have a nose or mouth guard and barely protected his cheekbones. He stood perfectly still, listening, far quieter than I’d have believed a Dwarf could manage.
I focused on the pack and saw there was a swollen water skin tied to it, slightly damp with condensation. It was a reasonable leap of logic to suppose there would be food inside that pack as well. Now I had a personal reason to confront him. He was pilfering in Davrin territory, I could suppose, but I wasn’t the Border Guard, and it wasn’t my responsibility, especially naked with only a blade. However, it was a great temptation to try to take that food and water from him. I wanted it more than he did. If he was a scout, he could hike back and get more. I, on the other hand, was on my own.
My only resources would be what I could find, or what I could claim.
I would have to get closer somehow. In other circumstances, maybe I’d consider bargaining with him, but I honestly had nothing to barter away. I would not give up my House’s blade, and I hadn’t anything else on me.
I imagined an obvious jest, made by anyone at Court, to suggest killing two salamanders with one stone: to bargain sex for food and take care of my intense need at the same time. I would gut someone for even suggesting it. At least a Sathoet was half-Davrin. I’d not fuck a Dwarf, and any Squat would not consider slaking his occasional lust with an Elf.
We would kill each other first.
Th
e Tragar inhaled through his big nose, filling his barrel chest. He let it out. Neither of us moved for long, stretching moments. He scowled in my direction but was not looking right at me. I saw his eyes; they had no pupils. The blank, milk-white eyes resembled those of an Ornilleth, at least as I’d seen in colored drawings.
“Wrundeg, Davrin,” the Dwarf muttered, deep and aggressive. “Ichen blikrow.”
So guttural. It sounded like Dwarves were hacking and spitting up their own language. Nonetheless, I got the gist. He knew I was here, and he didn’t like it.
He’s as wary as I am. He doesn’t know I’m alone.
If I wanted the food and water, it was time to take control. Or run away.
“Surely you speak Trade, Tragar,” I said, standing up slow and steady. He seemed to look right at me but, as I had predicted, he couldn’t see this far. He squinted but didn’t hold my location for long before his gaze wavered. He was estimating the distance.
The Tragar nodded once, a short, gruff gesture. “I do. Quit hiding, Elf. Come out.”
“Mmm, no,” I replied with a playful lilt to my voice.
If Dwarven brutishness could intimidate me, then Elven theatrics could unnerve him.
My answer and the silence which followed baffled him, and his face grimaced in a hideous shadow of anger as he gestured with his pickaxe. “Frolicking whores. Try to slave me, I wrench you all open from crotch to neck.”
That was a pretty good threat, and I believed he would.
“Leave your pack, then,” I said, projecting command to my voice as it bounced off the rock. “Those gems aren’t yours. Leave everything here, we give you a chance to run.”
The Tragar glanced at his pack, his face hardened further, and he shook his head. “You lie. You chase when run. I not outrun you.”
“Try,” I bluffed. “Leave your pack, and we are even.”
He had a very firm grip on his pack as he scowled even more deeply, and I frowned, feeling my first twinge of frustration. Surely, he didn’t have anything in there for which he wanted to die or become enslaved for? Was he a fool?
“Leave our territory, scout!” I repeated as my stomach rumbled impatiently. “This is your only chance!”
The bald Dwarf kept quiet, and I saw the doubt cross his face. Damn my hunger; I’d pushed too hard, too quickly and squandered the chance to bluff him and avoid a fight.
“Davrin don’t give chance,” he said quietly, hefting his pickaxe and his pack, biceps bulging. “They attack when strong, or they trick when they not win by strength.”
Fuck me. Bluff called.
He grinned, showing full, blunt teeth as he closed his white, blank eyes. He started to vanish before my gaze.
How the fuck?
“No, you don’t,” I growled, drawing my blade and sprinting toward his fading outline. Just before I lost him, I stopped, braced my legs, and pitched the naked blade in a lethal spin.
No holding back.
Sparks flew when the blade struck and careened off his helmet. There was a loud clang of metal, and the Tragar stumbled, becoming visible to me again as I also noted where my dagger landed.
“ULKHEIN!” he bellowed in rage—I was sure it was an insult—and a stone the size of his fist hurdled itself from the ground toward my chest at incredible speed.
It had my full and undivided attention.
Fuck!!
The stone clipped my shoulder as I dodged to the side, but I stayed in motion as the rock ricocheted against the wall of the cavern behind me and did not return. My shoulder was going numb, and I had to end this quickly. I was not in a position to toy with anyone and expect to come out on top.
A charge, a successful feint to tempt his swing of the pickaxe, followed by a jumping kick to the face. My heel struck flesh, but my ankle hit hard metal.
Ow!
I rolled away and dove for my dagger.
“Shuz reg!” he barked, spinning around to follow me, his arms drawn up, prepared to pin me to the floor with his pickaxe. Only that heavy pack slowed him down.
Chink!
Goddess, that was close!
I launched myself up like a serpent with fangs poised, yet even my second dagger strike did not kill him as it should have. He twisted, I missed his vitals, and the sharp edge drew a long line up from his hairy pit. I heard the pickaxe drop, and he staggered back clutching his arm.
“Fluqsie!” he exclaimed, perhaps like me, cursing his own deity.
I shoved the handle of the pickaxe farther away from him with my bare foot and brandished my weapon. There wasn’t an easy opening to get him through his armor, and although he’d just realized I was naked, it didn’t seem to move him beyond a sneer. Maybe he expected Dark Elves to show up naked and crazy.
“Give me your pack,” I said again in Trade, not sure what I expected to happen.
The Tragar stood weaponless and bleeding dark fluid from a deep wound. He glared at me as he said nothing, made no sound after that first cry, just gnashed his teeth.
“Give me your pack, thief,” I demanded. “Enough games.”
He growled, a bit of froth at the corner of his pale-bearded mouth. “No. Will see you speared.”
The Tragar blinked his eyes, looked away from me, and I heard the pickaxe shifting closer as if it had a will of its own.
Uh-oh.
The grey Dwarf’s head was just the right height, so I attacked as he looked away. I turned, spun, and kicked him with the heel of my foot, connecting with the bridge of his nose this time and sending him back onto the bulky pack still strapped to his back. Blood spurted across his face, and the pickaxe stopped moving. I panted, realizing I must pull what I sought out from under him.
Hmph. Stupid Squat, what’s in that pack worth a slash and two kicks to the face?
I listened as the quiet returned after the scuffle. Had we drawn unwelcome attention? Were his own kind coming to investigate? I shouldn’t waste time. I kneeled to roll him partly onto his side and to work, yank, and shift his heavy pack from his body. It was quite a chore and took more energy than it should have.
Tragar are so dense, in mind and body.
I fumbled to get the water pack untied as soon as I was able, sniffing the spout and huffing a laugh. It was water alright, but it was mixed with mushroom ale. Or rather, it was mushroom ale heavily diluted with water, enough to replenish oneself but not prevent a dull buzz and soothe sore muscles. This would be the drink an ever-working Dwarf would carry.
He might have been buzzed when I found him.
“Better than nothing,” I muttered as I looped the strap across my shoulder to let it rest at my waist. Then I started unlacing the leather ties securing his pack.
As I pulled out items looking for anything edible, I ran across a variety of small, nicked tools that, even if I didn’t know what they were for, seemed like the essentials for any scout. They were each wrapped in oiled cloths that repelled moisture and were flecked with rock, earth, and dust; obviously well-used and—where applicable—repeatedly sharpened.
He must have been using this same set for decades.
That or he was not the only one to have used them. I set them aside. They were heavy, and I had no interest in excavation tools.
About a dozen raw, unpolished gems were inside as well. Despite what I’d told him about them not belonging to him, I really didn’t care about those, either; I set them aside and continued my search. Stuffed in an inner pocket was a package which gave under my touch, and I lifted that out. Enclosed in an oiled leather wrap this time, I smelled what I’d bet was animal fat and tugged at the string tying it closed.
Inside was a dense, pressed block of something that I presumed was the Tragar’s dinner. I could smell deep nuts, mushrooms, salted fish, cave fruit, and oil of unknown source. It had all been ground up and smashed together into a compact, portable meal. It was very crude and nothing you’d ever see on the dining plates of the Court, but I wasn’t c
hoosy now. Adequately rationed, this one block filling my entire hand from heel to fingertip could last me two cycles of marching.
I took a bite, chewing slowly to taste it first then swallowing more hastily. It wasn’t to my liking, far too musky and heavy, but I could live off it.
My first food in more than a cycle.
I took another few bites, and then a swallow of the ale, careful to not start guzzling that. Slowly my hollow middle ceased its incessant demands and quieted.
I found nothing else of interest to me after I emptied the pack. He had no weapon equal to my House blade, and I could not wear his boots nor any of his clothes or armor, which consisted mostly of studded leather braces, heavy shin guards, and a thick chest piece that would take a magical blade to stab through it. His single blanket was shabby, coarse, and smelled unbearable. Overall, he was poor in matters of wealth when compared to the Noble Houses. He possessed what he most used as a laborer.
There were only two other things I considered taking with the food and water: his cloak and his belt. The grey cloak would be short on me but would obscure part of my form and provide warmth. The belt would also give me something from which to hang the sheath of my dagger to free my hands.
I decided to kill him after stripping those things from him. A simple cut across the throat or blow on the head with the pickaxe. I did not want him tracking me, and we could do with one less Tragar hacking at our tunnels. I removed his helmet.
Cloak and belt first, then dispatch the Dwarf.
The cloak also took some doing to get it out from under him, the massive beast that he was. I panted and muttered obscenities as I somehow yanked it free without tearing a hole in it. It smelled of smoke and grease and made me wrinkle my nose, but it was also of durable weave and wasn’t as rough as the blanket. I draped it around my bare shoulders, and it fell to my lower thighs. I could picture Elder D’Shea now, pitched over laughing if she saw me like this.
Bah!
I shook my head free of the distraction and kneeled again to roll the Tragar full onto his back and take hold of his belt buckle. It took some figuring out; it wasn’t just the clip I was used to, but something that threaded through a wide metal ring and folded back on itself.
