by Barb Hendee
"I do not like the sound. You do not belong anywhere so … common."
Wynn shrugged off his hand. "Don't be a snob."
She reached the doorway and stepped inside before he could catch her. There she paused as Chane and Shade pushed through. At first she couldn't see clearly through all the pipe smoke swirling in the air and the numerous bodies packed around the tables. Wynn coughed and her stinging eyes began to adjust.
The room was large and dauntingly crowded. Dwarves of all shapes and walks of life sat drinking from large mugs of wood or clay rather than pewter or tin. Some tugged on short and squat clay pipes, sending rolling ribbons or great blasts of gray smoke up to the arch-supported ceiling. At the room's center, the only open and clear space, a large dwarf paced around a wide circular stone platform one step in height.
Some of crowd called out, cheered, or banged their mugs, but all eyes remained fixed on the one pacing dramatically before them.
He was quite stout but also tall for his kind, with steel-streaked ruddy hair and a curly cropped beard a slightly darker hue. A well-crafted chain vest covered him over a quilted leather hauberk. Steel pauldrons and couters protected his shoulders and elbows. Two war daggers were sheathed at his hips, and a double-sided war ax was sheathed upside down on his back, so he could draw it instantly over either shoulder.
"And then?" someone called out in Dwarvish. "What then, Fiáh'our? Finish already!"
Wynn glanced toward the voice, but couldn't spot the speaker. When she looked back at the warrior upon the platform, her breath stopped at one final detail of his attire.
A slivery thôrhk hung around the dwarven warrior's thick neck.
Its ornate loop, looking as if made of braids, was thicker than two of Wynn's fingers. Traditional flanged knobs, each as big as a sword's pommel, were mounted on its ends resting below his collarbone. But in place of round domes, those ends protruded like butt spikes on the hafts of war axes.
Not just a warrior—this was a thänæ, marked in honor with a thôrhk. What was he doing drinking and telling tales in an underside greeting house?
His voice was low and loud, like rolling thunder.
"After the goblin raid on the village of Shentángize, no one dared step beyond the stockade at night. I had no choice but to set out … with only my ax for company."
The audience roared, banged mugs, and slapped the tables in anticipation.
"What is happening here?" Chane whispered.
Wynn remembered he didn't speak Dwarvish. She tried to explain but stumbled over the storyteller's name. Its components were simplified truncations of dwarven root words.
"Uhm … Stag … Battering. … no, Hammer-Stag. He's a thänæ, a paragon among his people for virtuous accomplishments."
"Paragon?" Chane rasped in disbelief. "That bellower?"
Someone snorted, and Wynn flinched around to meet pellet black eyes. A dwarf seated an arm's length away tilted his head with an angry glare. He slowly set down his mug.
"Apologies!" Wynn spit out quickly in Dwarvish. "My friend is an uncouth foreigner … out of his element." She turned on Chane, switching to Belaskian in a sharp whisper. "Keep quiet, before you start something! Dwarven virtue differs from human cultures. He is telling them a story of his exploits."
"That is not virtue," Chane hissed, "only bluster."
"I found no tracks," Hammer-Stag continued, and his low conspiratorial tone brought the room to attentive silence. "But I could smell their passing."
He paused near one table. The room remained silent as he stepped off the platform.
Hammer-Stag reached across the nearest table. He dragged the mug of one patron slowly toward himself, as if waiting for its owner to object. But that dwarf and all others remained quietly still. Hammer-Stag hefted the mug, took a long gulp, and slammed it back down.
Wynn had no idea what this meant, but his audience roared as he returned to the platform.
"So, I tracked them," Hammer-Stag went on, tapping the side of his broad nose.
Chuckles and snickers rose briefly, likely at some jest concerning the stench of goblins.
Wynn stopped listening. Solving the mystery of the thänæ's presence here wouldn't help her find the Iron-Braids, and Chane's elitist contempt was only going to get them in trouble.
Standing close, Chane looked down and gave her a short, sharp shake of his head.
"Some of these people must live nearby," she whispered, ignoring his suggestion that they leave.
Quietly, Wynn slipped forward, trying not to interrupt the thänæ's story.
"Excuse me," she whispered between a pair seated on the outskirts. "Could you tell me where the Iron-Braids live?"
Dwarves were usually willing enough to help a lost stranger. If one of them knew anything, perhaps a quiet response would be enough.
The male to her right dropped his jaw in shock, and then gritted his teeth as if she'd committed some terrible offense. He spun back toward the platform, crossing his arms and pretending not to see her. Others at the table grumbled and followed suit.
The thänæ glanced over but didn't break stride in his tale.
"When the first three came, I took two heads at once!" he called loudly. With one hand, Hammer-Stag whipped the ax off his back into a level arc. It passed swiftly before those nearest, as if severing heads right before their eyes.
A cry of triumph rose in the crowd, and Wynn sighed. Clearly she'd chosen the wrong table, and she moved farther toward the back wall near the entrance.
"Pardon me," she whispered to a small group in the leathers of laborers. "Could you please—"
She was cut off in a gasp as someone grabbed the back of her robe and cloak.
Wynn was up on her toes as she headed unwillingly toward the exit. Shade burst into a loud snarl, and Chane began pushing toward Wynn, his expression darkening. Her heart sank as she flailed her hands before her, trying to wave them both off before this all ended badly.
Chane still had his hand on his sword hilt as Wynn's heels hit the floor. She spun about, wobbling a bit under her pack's weight, and came eye-to-eye with a wide-faced woman.
"If you want to act like a rude little turnip," the female warned in a baritone voice, "then at least be silent like one!"
The dwarven woman straightened and brushed off her muslin apron.
Chane looked about uneasily as a dozen irritated patrons turned in their seats. Shade stayed put and ceased snarling as the woman proceeded back through the tables. Although the thänæ never paused in his telling, his squinting eyes turned once in Wynn's direction.
"Then the pack was upon me!" Hammer-Stag shouted. "I thought to face fifteen or twenty of the half beasts, but they poured from the forest's dark spaces by the scores… ."
Wynn rolled her eyes.
Scores? Hardly! A rare pack of goblins had been known to raid far settlements beyond Malourné's eastern reaches. No more than a dozen had ever been seen at one time. Her frustration grew.
Someone here had to assist her, for where else could she go asking at this time of night? But no one seemed willing to speak during the thänæ's tale. By his overly dramatic manner, he might go on until dawn.
Chane jerked his head toward the door.
Wynn sighed and nodded, fighting down annoyance at the open relief on his face. For a homeless wanderer, he was such an elitist.
"I swung over and over," Hammer-Stag called, "cleaving the first ten who reached me. But in my brazen courage, choosing to face them alone, I was outnumbered by the beasts. I knew I would die there … but I would take many with me on my way to our ancestors."
He paused again, and as Wynn turned to leave, she heard him gulp from another mug.
"Then a white-skinned woman with wild black hair came at me out of the dark."
Wynn stopped and shivered as if dropped in a frigid river.
White-skinned … black hair … wild …
An image of Li'kän's pale, naked form rose in her mind. Magiere had locked
that ancient undead in the orb's cavern below the ice-bound castle … the place from which Wynn, with Chap's aid, had gathered the same texts she now sought.
Li'kän was one of the thirteen "Children" of the Ancient Enemy of many names … perhaps one of the first vampires to walk the world in the time of the Forgotten. Had she escaped? Was that monster loose, somehow crossing the world to this continent?
"She shouted at me in the Numans' tongue to ‘give room,' " the thänæ exclaimed.
Wynn spun in confusion.
Li'kän had been fascinated by the power of speech, but she'd been alone for so many centuries that she'd lost her own voice.
"Her blade was long and broad," Hammer-Stag went on. "Single-edged, and too weighty for her stature, but she wielded it as if it were light as a scribbler's quill. Sparks of bloodred ran in her tresses."
Wynn teetered on her feet. The thänæ was speaking of Magiere!
"Before I knew where the pale one came from or why, she charged in at my side… ."
Wynn shoved Chane aside, rushing back between the tables.
"Then came a silver wolf, taller than its kind, rending its way to give me aid… ."
Wynn's mouth opened, but she couldn't get a word out. Now, he spoke of Chap and tears welled in her eyes.
"And last, an elf with blunted ears dropped from the treetops and bolted in faster than I could—"
"Where?" Wynn cried, shoving forward toward the platform. "Where did you see them?"
Sudden silence filled the greeting house.
Hammer-Stag stopped midsentence, looking at her, and then gasps and curses exploded all around.
Wynn froze in place. She'd just committed some terrible breach, but she didn't care.
"Where?" she shouted more firmly.
"You broke my tale!" he barked, but his haughty tone was as overly dramatic as his telling. "Have you no manners … puppy?"
Then his gaze shifted aside and down. Wynn heard Shade's rumble as the dog pushed in beside her. Hammer-Stag straightened. As he stared, his broad face filled with stunned puzzlement. The crowd's hostile grumbles grew again into loud, derisive shouts.
Wynn cringed. But Hammer-Stag had spoken of Magiere, Leesil, and Chap. She was desperate to hear more, no matter what else she'd come here for. And she had just offended the locals, who might have helped in either pursuit.
"I … beg your pardon," she said quickly.
She couldn't be sure anyone heard amid all the noise. Chane's hand closed on her arm from behind, but she jerked free, trying to think of some way to serve all her desires.
"I came seeking the whereabouts of the Iron-Braids," she shouted. "But your tale was so engrossing that I spoke out of turn. Please go on. What happened next?"
Hammer-Stag blinked again. His astonishment at Shade vanished.
"Too late!" he shouted, and then snorted like a bull, swinging his arm to silence the crowd. "The tale is broken, the mood gone! So you must have a better one to take its place … if you wish to barter."
"What is he saying?" Chane demanded.
Confusion overtook Wynn, and she waved him off. Too much was happening, and she kept her eyes on the thänæ.
"Barter?" she asked. "Barter for what?"
"This is the way you seek my aid … our aid?" he challenged, smoothly changing to Numanese as he gestured to the gathering. "Do you think me some servant to fulfill your demands? Fair trade is our way, and rightly so, here and now. If you find my tale wanting, enough to cut it off, then tell me—us—a better one!" He smiled with a knowing wink to the crowd, spreading his massive arms wide. "Perhaps one of your own worthy exploits."
Wynn choked on smoky air and swallowed very hard.
"If your tale is as grand as your nerve," he added, "someone here might point your way."
Mixed reactions broke out in the greeting house. Someone laughed aloud, and that laughter spread, laced with grunts of disdain. Others shook their heads in disagreement, shouting in outrage at some young girl taking the thänæ's place.
Wynn felt small compared to Hammer-Stag's hulking stature as her mind raced for some way out of all this. Hammer-Stag raised his large hands in a gesture to quell the crowd.
"Of course, you must win the audience along the way," he continued, pointing to a large tankard resting before one soot-covered listener. "At any need, take your fill, if you dare … if the mug's owner finds your tale worthy so far. That is the way of a telling."
Wynn's stomach tightened, and a bit of the tram ride's nausea returned.
Even a stout human male would find dwarven spirits hard to bear. Would she give more offense if she didn't stop to drink? What if she accidentally sipped wood alcohol? Playing this game—this unknown custom—without knowing all the rules grew more daunting by the moment.
"Oh, dead deities!" she whimpered—another crass phrase picked up from Leesil.
But she was sick of all the hoops she'd been forced to jump through in the past year. Her guild superiors had looked at her with Hammer-Stag's same arrogant expression every time they dangled a carrot before her. Always one more proof of loyalty, obedience, propriety, always one more requirement, one more game.
Amid panic came anger.
She wasn't leaving here without learning of the Iron-Braids—and of the friends she'd lost in returning home.
"Wynn?" Chane whispered. "Do something."
"I am! I'm trying to think!"
"No more low-life nonsense!" Chane hissed, reaching for Wynn. "We find directions elsewhere."
She grabbed his wrist before he got a grip, but her attention remained fixed on the blustering dwarf.
"I can do a tale justice only in my own language," she stated clearly.
Hammer-Stag frowned as Chane's eyes widened. The dwarf scratched his beard thoughtfully and then called out to the crowd, "Skíal trânid âns Numanaks?"
More grumbling rose among the listeners. Chane heard "chourdál" uttered more than once.
"Done!" barked Hammer-Stag, and nodded assent to Wynn.
"No!" Chane whispered, but Wynn pushed him off.
"If my tale is enough," she went on, "will you also tell me more of the white woman, the silver dog, and the elf who isn't an elf?"
Surprise spread across Hammer-Stag's broad face. Then it was gone. A wry smile took its place, and Chane shook his head. Wynn had just upped the stakes before her tale had even begun.
Rumblings sharpened around the room, but she stood her ground.
Chane was at a loss. Would pulling her out of here start an outright brawl?
Hammer-Stag slowly began to laugh. His guffaws grew until it seemed tears welled in his eyes. Others began to chuckle as well.
"By the Eternals," he barely got out. "This must be some tale. Agreed, O mighty little one!"
Hammer-Stag stepped down and, with a wide sweep of his hand, ushered Wynn to take the platform. Shoving his way onto a bench at the nearest table, he dropped down, grabbed a mug, and clacked it once on the table with a shout.
"To the telling!"
Chane saw too many eyes locked on Wynn amid stony, disgruntled expressions filled with doubt. At more chuckling around the room, Hammer-Stag slapped his table.
"Silence!" he shouted. "And respect!"
The room went instantly quiet.
Wynn stepped up amid the crowd and turned slowly about. Shade trotted closer as well, perhaps unwilling to let her get too far away. All Chane could do was fight the wild urge to throw Wynn over his shoulder and haul her out of this detestable place.
Why had they ever come in here? What was she thinking? He could not believe she would succeed at what amounted to street-level theater. Wynn was a guild sage, the highest of scholars, yet she had made a bargain upon her word. He could not break that any more than she would herself.
Chane crossed his arms, waiting. Within moments, she would be jeered out of this commoners' arena, and he could finally take her away.
Wynn raised one hand and pointed to Hammer-Stag. Her voice
low and not quite steady, it still carried.
"This honored thänæ spoke of a pale woman, a silver dog, and an elf," she began. "These were my companions of old. In company, we faced horrors not imagined, things to make goblins into bed tales for children."
Hammer-Stag raised his eyebrows, and Chane groaned softly. Why did she have to begin with an insult?
Wynn held both hands out toward her audience.
"Five seasons past, we traveled to the top of the world, to a place of year-round ice on the eastern continent known there as the Pock Peaks. We searched for a treasure lost beyond history—but not for our own gain. We sought to keep it from the hands of a murdering villain and worse … one of the undead."
Chane's mouth went slack. Did dwarves even know about the undead? From what he had learned of the Numan Lands, such creatures were only fables and folklore here. Several dwarves fidgeted like children suffering in boredom, but all remained quiet. Wynn's low voice carried throughout the smoky room.
"He was what the people there called a Noble Dead, the highest and most feared of the undead … an upér, upír … a vampire, a drinker of the blood of the living. We struggled on in those white mountains, trying to find the treasure before he did."
Wynn's exaggerated accounts of trials and hardships built as she circled the platform, fixing upon the whole audience and perhaps purposefully ignoring Hammer-Stag. After a while she paused, and silence filled the room. She met the steady gaze of one female dwarf sitting at the back side of Hammer-Stag's table.
Wynn stepped down from the platform and reached past Hammer-Stag for the woman's mug.
Though she faltered, no one tried to stop her. She took a fast and deep drink, and slammed the mug back down like Hammer-Stag—or tried to. Compared to his pounding, it sounded like she had dropped the mug.
Ale sloshed out on the table.
Its owner frowned, shaking bits of foam off her stout fingers. Wynn quickly retreated to the platform while others at the table tried to stifle their amusement.
"One night in our search," Wynn began again, "I became lost in a blizzard. But Chap, the silver sire of my own companion"—and she gestured toward Shade—"found me. Together, we took refuge inside a stone chute to wait out the storm." Her voice rose slightly. "But we were fools to think a storm our worst enemy. We heard a sound at the chute's bottom. … We peered downward to see two of the Anmaglâhk, the Thieves of Lives, a caste of elven assassins, crawling up to murder us!"
