That had been over a week ago, and now they were very close to the mountains. The excitement of finally reaching Windswept made it hard for Tartum to sit still. He began to pace up and down the wagon looking out the windows, hoping to see the gates to Windswept come into view. It was almost noon when Oldrake announced that they had arrived. Peering out the window, Tartum saw that the road they were on led them directly into the face of a mountain. He saw no gate or walls; just the solid, unyielding stone of the mountain that towered over their wagon. As the wagon came to a halt a little ways from where the road ended, Tartum heard one of the drivers call out something in dwarven. He had no idea what he was saying, but the reaction from the mountain gave him all the explaination he needed.
Three thick black lines began to run up the face of the mountain originating from the point where the road met the mountain. The lines were evenly spaced ten feet apart from one another. The center line ran straight up the rock face, while the two outside lines curved inwards until all three met at a point twenty feet above the ground. The outline they left in the mountain crudely resembled a door. He gasped as the wall began to move outward hinging on the pivot points created by the outer lines. Tartum didn’t try to hide his bewilderment as four foot thick slabs of rock slowly swung open revealing the entrance to Windswept Keep.
As the massive doors finished opening fully, the drivers whipped the horses, and the wagon began rolling into the dwarven stronghold. He watched as the doors swung closed behind them creating a thunderous boom that echoed all around them. Tartum glued himself to the window as he tried to absorb everything.
When he had first started his jouney, he imagined what Windswept Keep must have looked like; how it would feel to live underground. He had assumed it would be dark and foreboding, full of danger and grime. He had imagined narrow tunnels that dripped brackish water with torches used to light the poorly constructed walkways. The reality couldn’t have been more opposite of his assumptions. Magnificently crafted pillars arched into the well-lit ceilings that made up the entryway of the keep. Solid stone roads led in infinite directions with signs dedicated to helping travelers find their way quickly towards their destination. Buildings that had been carved directly out of the mountain were arranged in artistic intelligent rows that flowed with the roads allowing for optimal traffic flow and easy access to the businesses that made up this area of the keep.
Numerous races made their way up and down the roads in orderly fashion, while small formations of impressively armored dwarven patrols walked from one street to the next, keeping order and helping to direct those that were lost. Tartum was captivated by the armor the dwarven patrols wore. It was bronze in color and closely resembled the thick full plate armor worn by the city guards of Saroth. Both had been cared for and polished until it shone brightly in the light of their respected cities; however that is where the similarities ended. The armor of the dwarves was far more ornate and had arstically etched runic symbols adorning them, leaving almost no smooth surfaces on the suit. So skillfully had the runes been etched onto the armor, that Tartum almost mistook them to be embellishments rather than enchantments. The plate armor of the guards in Saroth looked dreary in comparison. The most amazing feature of the dwarven armor were the jagged blades and needlelike points that jutted out of the armor. Their gauntlets were adorned with multiple long spikes that had been shaped to look like dagger blades. The more ornate suits were designed to look like dragons or griffons with the bodies of the armor rippled with feathers or scales whose edges gleamed with keen edges and helmets that had been shaped to resemble beaks or teeth that all looked more than capable of tearing a man’s head off. The countless edges that protruded along the suits of armor had been honed to such a fine edge that Tartum had no doubt that even the lightest touch would cut a man to the bone. Never had he seen such a perfect combination of death and beauty in his life. Oldrake climbed up next to him and saw the amazement on his face. Pointing at the patrols he began explaining the armor to him.
“Ach! I see ye be impressed by our armor. Aye, lad, that armor be known as Oireann Stialladh, which, in yer tongue translates into shredding suits. You see, lad, there was a time that we dwarves fought just as the other races do with weapons and armor. A few generations ago, there was a war in which a great weaponsmith was forced to watch his sons be cut down by weapons he had created. He vowed that no dwarf would ever have to endure that kind of pain and designed this suit of armor that perfectly blends offense and defense into one impressive package. As ye can see the suits themselves are made from an alloy of metals that give them an incredible bronze appearance and the edges along the design of the armor are sharpened into such a fine edge if ye were to drop a single thread of the finest silk on them it would be cut into a thousand pieces before it hit the ground. The weaponsmith made his design available to any dwarf that wished to create his own suit which caused a quite an uproar amongst his fellow clansmen.” Seeing the confusion on Tartum’s face Oldrake explained. “Ye see, to give away the secrets of a clan’s craft for free is considered the epitome of folly amongst me race, and for the weaponsmith to do so…well, lad, they believed it would weaken their standing amongst the other clans of their guild.” Oldrake sighed and looked down at his feet.
After a moment, he looked up and continued, “The guild master himself tried to reason with the weaponsmith, but he refused to be swayed, and his clansmen rallied against him, attacking his forge in an attempt to steal the plans to his design, or failing that, to destroy the prototype and its creator in the process. Donning his own Oireann Stialladh, the smith fought back and slew every member of his clan before finally being laid low by a well aimed cannonball. The carnage and destructive ability he demonstraited before his death was more than enough to convince the smiths of the other clans to embrace his design and now you see almost all of our warriors wearing Oireann Stialladh instead of carrying around a separate weapon and armor. Some dwarves, Varnar for example, still carry around axes and hammers, but it is now considered a novelty amongst my race, as it has been proven the Oireann Stialladh are a superior option for fighting. In battle wave after wave of Oireann Stialladh suited dwarves charge into the enemy lines, punching, kicking, and flailing into their foes, relying on the suit to protect them while they cut down their enemy. The armor itself is almost impossible to penetrate with anything other than a masterworked dwarven blade, and since our smiths rarely make those anymore, the armor has become the top of the rock when it comes to warfighting gear.” he explained.
Tartum couldn’t help but be impressed with the ingenuity of the dwarven smiths. “There isn’t a version available for casters is there?” he asked with a grin. Oldrake smiled and leaned close before responding, “Don’t tell anyone I told ye this, lad…but rumor has it the tailors and leatherworkers of the keep have joined forces to create a version of the armor for use of archers and casters. I don’t know if the thought of making a suit to fit a human has been considered, but ye may want to ask around if ye have the coin.” he said. The idea of wearing a robe crafted to resemble the dwarven armor held no real interest to Tartum. His magic was more than enough to keep him safe from most threats, and he was far too fond of his staff to sacrifice it for such a dangerous looking suit of armor. He did admit to himself that if the opportunity ever did present itself, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to decline it.
Looking at Oldrake, he smiled, “Thank you for the information, my friend.” he said quietly. Oldrake winked at him as they both returned to staring out the window.
Looking away from the streets, Tartum’s attention was drawn to the architecture of the wall and and ceilings that housed Windswept Keep. He marveled at how well lit the city was, if he didn’t know any better, he would have believed the dwarves had somehow crafted another sun and placed it somewhere inside the mountain to shed light upon its citizens. It didn’t take him long to determine the source of the underground lights. The balls of light that housed the bright beetles in Oldrake’
s wagon were everywhere in the cathedral that was Windswept. In comparison to Saroth, Windswept’s overall design made the human city look like a chaotic mess, rather than the pinnacle of human engineering. It was as if the dwarves’ engineers that designed Windswept had been given a magical canvas to design the perfect city on. Not only had they done so beautifully, they had also managed to improve upon the definition of perfection in the process.
Oldrake began pointing out places of interest as the wagon made its way down the road. “That there be my Pub! You see? The sign that resembles two barrels?” He pointed towards a large four story building that had been chiseled from the side of the mountain. Tartum thought his pointing was unnesaccary considering it was the largest building they had come across so far and was so extravagantly lit that his eyes were naturally drawn to it. The sign he mentioned, Tartum thought was very clever. A small barrel had been placed on top of a much larger one and they were attached to the outer wall of the building. Written in multiple languages were the words, The Bottom Barrel and Tartum could see from the wagon it was a very popular pub for both locals and travelers to gather for a drink. Every floor was abuzz with activity as people from all walks of life were busy either enjoying the merriment available at the establishment or busy providing said merriment. He saw multiple bards playing fast paced, adrenaline inducing songs that had the patrons in an uproar singing along and cheering on the music. The building was forty yards away but once he felt the beat of the music coming from the pub Tartum felt the desire growing in him to join in on the singing and dancing. Seeing Oldrake chuckling into his beard Tartum realized he was tapping his foot to the beat and humming along to the tune coming from the building. Laughing, Tartum looked at his friend, “Are we heading there now?” he asked. He didn’t try to mask the eagerness in his voice.
Oldrake chuckled before responding, “Bah, not yet, lad. Business before pleasure, let’s get ye to Varnar before ye drink away all of yer money.” He clapped Tartum on the back as they made their way past the pub. With a grin, he returned his attention to the window, and Tartum followed his gaze.
He was grateful to Oldrake for taking him to Varnar, but he was also disappointed at the delay it caused. Now that he had seen The Bottom Barrel, he wanted nothing more than to join in on the merriment that was to be had there. The guiding voice in the back of his head chided him for his lack of discipline and Tartum suddenly felt ashamed of himself. Rememebering his reason for coming to Windswept in the first place and the power he would have by obtaining the ring renewed his resolve. He was very grateful to have met Oldrake in that moment. If it hadn’t been for his sense of duty he very well might have drank away all of his money at The Bottom Barrel and ended up leaving the keep broke and no closer to his goal than when he started.
To get his mind off of the pub Tartum began watching the people walking along the roads that spider webbed across the city. Humans, Elves, Dwarves, and a few races he couldn’t identify all roamed the city each race interacting with the others as if it were a common occurrence. Tartum realized for the citizens of this city, it most likely was. He began to feel like an unrefined outsider and resolved take a queue from their mannerisms and acustom himself to interacting with other races while he was here. The deeper they traveled into the mountain, the fewer the other races became, until the population they passed was almost completely comprised of dwarves.
“This is the area we refer to as Baile le Haghidh Fola, or homes for blood, in yer language. To live here, ye must be a dwarf that be natural born within these mountains.” Oldrake explained. Looking around, Tartum saw thousands of stone homes stacked one on top of another made to look like pillars that stretched from the ground to the ceiling hundreds of feet into the air. Long rows of stairs spiraled around the homes that functioned as a means to enter or exit the homes. The stairs were wide enough for ten dwarves to walk shoulder to shoulder on, and there were rails along the edges that prevented anyone from accidentally stepping off the side and falling to their deaths. At each level, a large patio area stretched out, providing an area for the families to gather together to cook or have gatherings with friends. Some of them also provided connections to bridges that linked the pillars of homes together that were used as a short cut between the homes so the dwarves didn’t have to walk all the way down to the ground floor just to climb up another set of stairs to visit their neighbors residing in another pillar. The efficient use of space to house such a large population impressed Tartum. The use of patio’s as bases for the bridges impressed him even more. Everything he had seen of the dwarven city had been the epitomy of efficiency and intelligent design. This underground kingdom was the most impressive society he had ever beheld, and he was very grateful to have been allowed this visit.
Tartum saw that many of the dwarves that walked around this area had animals with them that were so odd they demanded his attention. Some had large snakes wrapped around their bodies that seemed ready to strike at the slightest provocation. Others rode large hairy spiders like they were small horses, while others had small hordes of rats that flowed around like some kind of squeaky carpet. The most interesting of these animals,, and the one that caught his attention entirely, were pony sized three headed cats that he saw many of the dwarves lead around by a leash. Their bodies were covered in thick fur that closely resembled their feline counterparts, and their coloration was as varied as any house cat. They had three tails that moved independently of each other, and they moved with a grace that made them appear to be gliding down the road rather than walking on it. Tartum got the impression that the animals were guiding their masters rather than the other way around. Their temperaments ran the gamut between docile to hostile and Tartum began to want one terribly. The sound of growling caught his attention; looking behind him, Tartum saw that Buddy had climbed up on the table next to them and was now looking out the window and growling at the cat like creatures with a hatred Tartum had never seen in his pet before. Stroking his fur, Tartum tried to calm him down.
“Relax, Bud! They aren’t going to hurt us. Shhh! Easy boy…easy…” he said, to no effect. He kept repeating his words until Oldrake’s laughter distracted him. Tartum gave him an irritated look, Buddy’s foul mood was no laughing matter. Oldrake caught the hint and held up his hands in apology.
“There’s no helping it, lad. Dogs and cats naturally hate each other, and mishies are no exception. It would be best to keep an eye on yer pet though. Mishies are a lot tougher than the housecats Buddy is accustomed to fighting. The smallest adults weigh around one hundred twenty pounds, but most of what you see out there are probably closer to one eighty. I’m afraid yer friend would find himself sorely outmatched in such a contest.” he explained. Looking at the three headed cats Oldrake referred to as mishies, he saw the wisdom in his words.
Tartum took a hunk of meat from the table that had been left over from lunch and offered it to Buddy. He hoped the meat would distract him long enough for them to make there way past this section of the city. The ruse worked beautifully, and soon Buddy was under the table, happily chewing on his meal, all thoughts of the mishies gone from his mind. With a sigh of relief, Tartum returned his attention to the window.
They were now deep into the mountain, and the sound of hammers falling on steel grew louder the further they went. The balls of bright beetles were no longer present on the walls of this area, but it didn’t matter. Hundreds of forges burned brightly, their fires reflecting light off of cleverly placed mirrors that covered the walls and ceilings of the domain he found himself in now.
Oldrake grinned, “This, lad, is the heart of Windswept. We refer to this area as Croi Bhrionnu, or in the human tongue, Heart’s Forge. This is the place where master smithies ply their skill to shape the fruit of the mountains into works of art so amazing, entire kingdoms have gone to war to possess them. The treasures created here have shaped the course of the world by winning wars, protecting cities, and solidifying marriages that unified entire countries! Some say that
one day, an artifact will be forged here that is so powerful it will usher in an era of unprecedented peace and prosperity to the world.” Oldrake wiped at his eyes quickly before continuing, “People come from far and wide offering our craftsmen fortunes for a single piece of impenetrable armor or for weapons so powerful that the gods themselves fear their sting. Ye will never see a finer work of art then what ye’ll find here, lad.” Oldrake said, with no lack of pride in his voice. “The dwarf ye seek, Varnar, he is one of the best smithies in the city. His clan operates the top guild of Windswept, which makes him a man of some influence! Ye have made some powerful friends, lad, show them respect so that yer friendship may last a lifetime.” he finished with a wink.
Tartum nodded his understanding. Varnar had made mention that his father had defeated their main competitor in a guild war when he had asked about his axe. He had said he was one of the best smithies in Windswept, but Tartum had no idea he was so influential. He hoped he remembered him, now that he was almost at his door Tartum realized their chance encounter might have been forgotten. If that were the case, he hoped that his bag of gems would be enough to sway the dwarf to make his ring for him. If he met with Varnar and was turned away, he didn’t know what he would do. The thought of failing just as he was starting made his stomach turn. A cold feeling began to creep into his belly as trepidation began to grip his heart. Summoning his will, Tartum forced the feelings away and focused on his goal. He would make Varnar forge the ring he needed, or he would find another dwarf to do it. In a city such as this, there must be hundreds of dwarves willing to do this work if Varnar refused him. With his confidence bolstered, Tartum focused on his task. Running his hands over the pouches on his belt that contained his spell components, he smiled, as he felt the pouch that held his snake skins.
The Jade Mage: The Becoming: Volume 2 Page 32
