Ven felt like he was doing some good in the world. But for the constant headache and the cold shoulder from his partner, he was happy. After a while, he decided to try to remedy both outstanding issues at the same time. After all, if anyone knew the cure for his malady, it was probably X’on. The big nerd knew just about everything else.
On the morning of the fourth day, Ven sat down with his bowl of ashy breakfast gravel and a glass of water across from X’on in the commissary. He guessed it was the morning, anyway, based on the dwarves who showed up for duty change and what he’d been served as a meal. Between the lack of sleep and the fairly consistent ambient light levels, he’d lost all track of time down in the caverns.
“You’re being weird,” he told X’on, crunching a beakful of masonry.
“'And you’re being naïve, not to mention more than a little foolish,'” X’on said, spooning what looked to be a passable attempt at porridge into his own mouth.
Ven gave him a wary eye. “Wait, what?”
X’on raised his eyebrows in mock confusion. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought we were playing a game where we repeated our last full conversation. That, or you were becoming a parrot.”
“Ha, ha, bird jokes,” Ven sulked. He chewed down another spoonful. “You and Abokei should compare notes. You know what the Day Shift’s been calling me? ‘The Bigjob Canary.’ He told them what the deep-downer called me while we were practicing with the auto-hatchets.” He grunted. “Look, that’s not what I’m here for. I just, I wanted to ask, are you doing okay down here?”
“I’m wonderful, truth be told,” X’on said between mouthfuls of his own. “The Historical Society is absolutely fascinating. I had no idea mining was such a captivating subject! I’ve learned fifty-three different ways to identify a copper seam alone! And how to differentiate from tin, because extraction methods between the two are so disparate... ”
Ven smiled. He couldn’t help himself. When X’on was lecturing, his good eye would go wide and shine with the light of Lath’shia herself. Ven realized he missed that sight. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said, cutting his friend off before the big guy really got going. “I would be, well. I would be very sorry if I’d wasted your time here.”
X’on placed a meaty hand on Ven’s shoulder. Despite the weight, the touch was gentle, and still a little strange. “I am anxious to see our quest to the finish,” he said. “However, I shouldn’t deny you the opportunities to... be yourself.” The left corner of his mouth turned up. “Besides, I’ve taken advantage of the unique opportunity in which I’ve found myself. The information I’ve gleaned from these folk has been invaluable. My time has not been wasted, my friend. As far as I'm concerned, it has been justified.”
Ven found relief in X'on's statement, which surprised him. His concerns and fears from just a few days before seemed to melt away. Even his headache throbbed a little less.
“That’s actually something I wanted to ask you about,” he said. He scraped his spoon around the bowl for any bits of dust left before he continued. “Doesn’t it seem, I dunno, odd to you, how many civilians there are in this military camp? Especially kids. Just running around, unsupervised. And, I mean, a Historical Society? Has there ever been an active duty encampment that had such a thing before? I’m pretty sure I even heard one of my officers talking about teaching at the school when this engagement was over! I just… I wonder how many of these dwarves are committed to the war effort.”
“That’s because they’re not all soldiers,” X’on said. “And this isn’t a military outpost. It’s a town. A small one, but a town nonetheless.”
If the commissary hadn’t been full of dwarves slurping down boiled rat and beer, there would have been dead silence for a close to a minute. Which Ven would have finally broken when he rasped out, “You are full of goatshit.”
X’on looked taken aback. “I assumed you knew,” he replied. “Dwarves don’t have standard military forces. Every municipality had a garrison of soldiers, but even those with training consider the position an incidental, not an occupation.”
“But, but th-they’re at war!” Ven stuttered. “They’ve been at war for a century! More! How does a culture just, just ignore that? Just accept that?”
“Their conception of war is different than yours,” X’on said. His lecturing tone crept into his voice. “Tell me. Until you declared it yourself, did Abokei or any of the others make mention of any further raids planned on their lower kin?”
Ven took a moment to think. “I guess not,” he said. “Not that I can remember.”
“That’s because none was planned. At least not in any amount of time we would consider ‘soon’. The dwarves have warred for as long as they have because months will pass between incursions. Vengeance, retaliation; these concepts are beyond their scope. They attack one another with primitive weaponry, kill each other with stone and cudgel, because it is in their nature to do so. When the dwarvish blood boils, when the haze of bloodlust sets in, one faction will attack another. It matters not who attacked last, or who last saw victory. This is no campaign for resources, or territory. There is fury, and there is release.”
Ven took a deep breath; exhaled. He felt a trickle of doubt, then. A spiked sliver of unease, a dent in his surety of purpose. His head, which had taken itself down to a dull ache for the first time in days, was pounding again. And with the pain came clarity. “Then what I’ve done here, it’s a good thing, right? The mudbu… the deep downers, the underneath: they broke tradition first. They brought us into this. I’ve given this community the ability to defend itself.” Why do I feel like I’m trying to justify myself all over again? I'm know I'm right. And I'm prepared to accept the consequences. He decided to change the subject. And then I’ll find a barrel of ale. And drown in it.
“Hey, apropos of nothing, I have had the worst headache you can imagine for a few days now. I know you’re gonna say its lack of sleep, but I swear I’ve gone without for longer before now and I never developed anything like this. Any ideas?”
X’on actually chuckled, deep and low in his throat. “I know your kind can survive on the minerals of the earth alone, Ven, but tell me… when was the last time you had meat? Or potatoes? Or anything besides silicate?”
Ven made a show of counting on his talons. “Well, X’on, if I had to guess, I’d say it was probably around the time we got stuck in that elvish bitch’s dungeon fun show.”
X’on’s chuckle grew to a full, good-natured laugh. “Cut out the junk food and get a real meal, my friend,” he said. “That should help matters.”
Ven joined him with a guffaw. It felt good to be laughing again, especially with this fellow whom he had already shared so much. “Yeah. I may take a shot at the boiled rat after all.”
“Master Canary,” Eitri piped up behind him, coughing into his hand. Ven turned, annoyance at the nickname etched on his face.
“Yeah, Goggles?” he retorted.
If Eitri was perturbed by his own moniker, he gave no sign. “Your armor is ready, sir,” he said, pointing the way.
Chapter 16
Ven could not have expected the sight that met his eyes when he rounded the corner into Eitri’s work studio. He’d figured on a hauberk and some studded gloves; maybe something to protect his shins or his feet. Instead, Eitri and his apprentices had forged an entire suit of armor, built precisely to his unique physiology.
The helm was open-faced, to accommodate his beak, with hollow replicas of his horns jutting from the back, which would slide comfortably over and around his own, protecting and augmenting them. The breastplate cuirass was polished to a high sheen, and reinforced with a mail shirt of bronzed iron beneath; both were cut low in the back, to accommodate the wings they assumed he had, and was garnished with a cloak of rich black moleskin. The gauntlets ended in long, curved digits that emulated his claws, and looked even sharper. The right arm guard was equipped with a wrist-mounted version of Ven’s lost crossbow, with grooves cut into the plate in a rising s
piral to accommodate ammunition. The legs were a combination of poleyn and chausses, jointed to give him full range of movement, and equipped with additional ammo receptacles for fast reloading. The armor for his tail mirrored that of his legs in construction; his feet would be protected by what appeared to be armored sandals, which would fit snugly into place over his soles. Ven gaped in naked admiration.
“Ath’nok torithlia,” he sang under his breath. Then he realized no one could understand him, and said, “This is, wow. This is too much, guys. I mean, thank you, but I, I don’t deserve this. No one else wears armor this nice. This must have cost a fortune, right?”
“It'd fetch a pretty penny on the bigjob market, aye. But we don't need it, and you lead us inta battle this day, Master Canary,” Eitri said, his voice solemn. “You must look the part.” Then he reached over to a nearby shelf, and from it pulled a stitched leather rucksack. “For yer other weaponry, ser. Th' Mine Lighters and th' like,” he said. He snapped his fingers. Another dwarf who was the spitting image of Eitri, only a couple of heads shorter--Isoldabine, Ven was pleased to see--ran forward, an oblong package swaying in her arms. Eitri took it, thanked the girl, and stuck one end in Ven’s direction. “One last surprise, eh? Open it,” he said, his brown teeth showing.
Ven almost couldn’t bring himself to do so. The generosity was overwhelming him; his emotions were threatening to submerge him as it was. But he took the package with a tentative talon and began to unwrap it.
Inside was the finest sword Ven had ever seen. It was a good two ax-handles in length, as wide as the palm of his hand, and shown red in the low light. The guard was a mix of iron, copper, and gold, and cast in the image of a dragon’s head, its mouth open wide, as though breathing the blade into existence. The hilt had a cross guard that suggested the dragon’s throat, and the grip was wrapped in leather boiled black. It smelled like gunpowder, sharp and ebony.
“This sword was me grand-da’s,” Eitri said. “Tallest dwarf this land ‘as ever known. Though the truth of it is, he may ‘ave been adopted. Anyway, tha’s neither here nor there. 'E's said to've scarred a dragon with this blade, then made the 'ilt to honor it. I wanted you to ‘ave it, seein’ ‘as ‘ow you gave us the arms of your lands and all. Blowin’ stuff up is all in good fun, but sometimes, it don’t ‘urt to have somethin’ pointy along as well, eh?”
Ven couldn’t speak. The emotions were too close, too raw; he was afraid that if he tried to express himself, a dam inside him would burst. He’d spent so much of his life fighting for his share, arguing and cajoling and grousing for what he earned. He’d never just been given something, and even when he had taken what was his, he’d been sure to portion off as much as he could spare to fill a debt he felt he could never repay.
And this little squirt and his little squirt crew were looking at him, beaming at him, waiting for him to say something profound or inspiring or something.
He gulped down a lungful of air. “I don’t, I don't have the words to tell you all what this means to me. The armor, the, the sword.” Ven paused, groping for words. “All of this, it’s too much. All I can offer you is my service. I can help you, today, defeat the enemies that have plagued you and your families. Together, we can show them what it means to be dwarves!”
It was a terrible rallying cry, and Ven knew it. But Eitri and the others around him threw up their fists and cheered anyway. Ven raised his own fist to the air in solidarity, then glanced behind him to where X’on was standing. His partner was leaning against the wall of the corridor, arms crossed, expression unreadable… though Ven would have sworn it was a smirk.
Chapter 17
The onslaught commenced a few hours later. Deepminer spies had brought Ven, Abokei, and the others intel that ferreted out the new encroachment point the enemy had chosen and, true to his word, Ven led his squad out into the point of incursion. Unfortunately, his new armor had not been constructed with stealth in mind, nor did it compensate for his height. Consequently, Ven banged, rattled, and clattered in a stooped saunter, while his unit marched in crisp formation behind him. The few advance scouts they met on their way to the area of incursion, although warned by Ven’s alarm bell of an approach, were nonetheless dispatched with alacrity by Ven’s whetted blade and the careful aim of the better sharpshooters behind him. It was a foreboding sign of the battle to come, and it made Ven uneasy. He couldn't help think back to the conversation he’d had with X’on a few days prior. But the weight of his armor felt good; it felt right, and it served as a reminder of the vow he'd made.
After an hour’s march, even Ven’s acute night vision was having trouble compensating for the darkness. After some deliberation with Abokei, he allowed the dwarf to lead the charge, keeping up with the party from behind by scent and the occasional flurry of motion instead of sight. His companions stank so much of the brackish, rosy blue mildew of bloodlust that they were almost impossible to miss. Not that Ven said that out loud.
It was another two hours before they began to approach the enemy’s gate: a wide hole in the ground that opened into a spacious pit below them. Ven slowed to a crawl several paces from the aperture, doing his best to ape the unseen actions of the dwarves before and behind him, only slower and more deliberate. Keeping the noise of his armor to a minimum.
Though he couldn’t see his own talon in front of his beak, Ven knew his battalion could read him. He pointed to the breach--at least, he pointed to the tacky bronze odor that wafted up before him, assuming it was the target--then motioned. All twenty of the dwarves pulled out their altered Seam Rippers, jerked the ignition cord, and launched them into the crater.
There was no light from the explosion. But the sound, a deep, throbbing, booming echo that shook and shivered up the sides of the tunnel and reverberated through their skulls, their teeth, was almost overwhelming. Ven thought he heard someone screaming, and wondered why his throat was raw. He realized a moment later that the scream was him, that the explosion had shocked him into a protracted howl. Lesson one: do not all throw the damn explosives at the same damn time! He tried to verbalize the thought, but all the came out was more scream.
And then the deep-down dwarves were on them, boiling up out of the crevice like a geyser of hot angry mud, yowling and gurgling curses, swinging their immense double bladed stone axes and ore-forged greathammers and flint arrows fired from wooden bows. And the new generation returned their volley with rapid-fire projectiles that rattled out of support magazines, piston-mounted bayonets that stabbed and gutted, and ubiquitous explosions, so many and so often that Ven was afraid the tunnel might collapse on them. For his part, Ven swung his sword in big, heavy arcs, chopping and hewing at anything that smelled wrong, unfamiliar, dirty. How ironic, he thought. He didn’t trust his own technology, not here. Without sight, and with so many of his allies surrounding him, he was reduced to decidedly low tech brawling.
The incursion was decidedly brief, and so easy it started to churn Ven's stomach. The devastating bombardment had weakened the enemy forces, and a number of the enemy’s initial response force were already wounded from the blast. He could hear the mountain dwarves fire bolt after bolt into combat, mowing down their enemy in waves; could feel the vibrations as they took turns tossing more explosives down the gate, answering any roar or cry with more munitions, heedless of whether those cries came from civilians. Ven's own blade grew heavy, slickened with the blood and ichor of a foe that seemed to cleave apart at its slightest pressure.
He couldn’t see, but after what felt like a lifetime, his nose told him all he needed to know. The combat theater reeked of the oily, onyx blood of their fallen foe. They had won. The battle had lasted all of nine minutes.
*
Six of Ven’s own soldiers took injury, mostly cuts and bruises; hardly anyone was disemboweled, and the most serious trauma was tended by Abokei’s first lieutenant, Golotill, who thankfully had some medical training. Isoldabine was uninjured; Ven caught her smiling maniacally, hours after the incursion, st
ill gripping spring shots in both hands. The group hastened back to their home with all possible speed, though their limbs ached and their breath was ragged and sharp.
After hours of foot travel, just as Ven was ready to pass out on the floor of the tunnels around him, Abokei burst into the cavern and proclaimed in a great booming voice that “the Canary’s artillery 'as made us supreme!”
Those in earshot whooped with joy, and ran to pass word on to the others. Ven found a bench and sat down, exhausted. The conflict had been short, the bloodshed minimal. But his armor was heavy, his conscience heavier. His heart felt thick, lopsided in his chest.
“Basking in the glory of triumph, my friend?” a deep, familiar voice asked behind him. Ven turned to face his accuser. His friend. X’on.
“They certainly think so.” He tossed a weary gesture to his celebrating men and sighed. “I did the right thing, didn't I? I know you were against this, but still… this was the right move? I haven’t… did I take it too far this time?”
There was a pause. Then X’on sat down next to him and said, “You made the decision that you felt was in the best interest at the time, both yours and theirs. That is all I can offer you. Well, that and dinner.” He gestured to the commissary. “Come on, let’s get some food in you. We need to be moving on.”
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