The Jade Mage: The Becoming: Volume 2

by William D. Latoria

  Tartum saw that the guard had recovered and was now cocking back to hurl a stone chair at the back of Quaray’s head. Tartum judged that with the density of the chair and the size of the dwarf throwing it, he meant to kill the old dwarf. The voice in the back of his head thundered for him to stop the dwarf; without hesistation, Tartum infused the spider leg he held and thrust it towards the guard.

  “Swa-swa-swyth. La-lateedo!” he commanded. A mass of sticky white threads flew from his hands towards the guard. Tartum had been just a fraction late with his spell and the big dwarf was able to hurl the chair at Quaray. The trajectory of the chair and was off, possibly due to the fact half of the guard’s face was swollen, setting it into a collision course with Tartum’s spell. As the two projectiles met, Tartum’s web encased the chair instead of the dwarf he had aimed for. The inertia behind his spell was far greater than the force that propelled the chair, and as the two became one, the mass of stone and web headed straight for the big dwarf who stood dumbfounded as the cocoon slammed into him. The resulting crash left the big dwarf mangled and bleeding in the corner of the pub; a twisted wreck of web, broken stone and torn flesh. Again, Tartum couldn’t help but laugh at the big dwarf’s misfortune. Low growling from Buddy reminded Tartum that Quaray was still a threat. Turning back to face him, Tartum found the old dwarf was now standing just a few paces away. He was surprised to see that the angry expression was no longer on his face. Instead one of cold contemplation had taken its place, and once again Tartum found himself standing there waiting for the dwarf to come to a decision.

  After what felt like an eternity, Quaray smiled and walked towards Tartum until he was standing toe-to-toe with him. Tartum would have backed up, but the voice in the back of his head forbid him to do so. He kept his eyes on the old dwarf. Standing so close to him, he could tell that the man was ancient. His completely grey beard hung so low it would have dragged along the ground if it wasn’t braided and wrapped around his body. His face was so leathery and wrinkled that it had taken on the texture of the very stone they were surrounded by. He wore a thick white cotton shirt that was covered in stains from food and drink. His pants were also made of cotton, but they had been dyed black and had four pockets sewn down each leg that were secured with buttons. His boots looked brand new and had been crafted out of supple brown leather. He wore a thick solid gold chain around his neck that was heavily embellished with runic symbols. Tartum wondered if the jewelery was actually magical or if it was purely decoration. His body was thinner than most of the younger dwarves Tartum had seen, but as was evident when he punched the guard, he was still more than capable of defending himself and very strong. His eyes were a piercing green color, Tartum could see a vast wealth of wisdom and intelligence inside of them he had never seen in any other man, dwarf or human. He no longer needed the voice in the back of his head to tell him that this was a dwarf to be respected, and if possible, to befriend. Tartum felt humbled in his presense and had the sudden urge to apologize for something. Refusing to make a fool of himself, Tartum stood stoically before him as he waited to see how this played out.

  Quaray held out his hand and snapped his fingers. The sound echoed around them for a moment before all was quiet again. Almost immediately, Tartum could hear the footfalls of someone running towards them coming from hallway behind the metal door Quaray had emerged from. A female dwarf came running out of the door, the look on her face was pure determination to reach Quaray; seeing that, Tartum had no doubt she would kill to get there. He wasn’t surprised to see that she was fat, what did surprise him was how beautiful he found her. Her body was large, to be certain, but the way she carried herself made Tartum’s heart race. Her features reminded him of a flawless porcelain doll which she had enhanced with makeup to accentuate her feminine charms. Her beauty rivaled that of many human women he had known and gave him hope for the females of the dwarven race. She stopped next to Quaray and curtsied deeply. As she stood, she handed them both mugs full of a thick black liquid that moved around inide of them like syrup. The mugs were exquist works of art made of solid gold. Each of them depicted a dwarf fighting to defend another dwarf that had been gravely wounded. He couldn’t help but to admire the precision of the mugs, they reminded him of the tankards he had stolen from Adonna. In comparison, however, these mugs made his tankards look like pathetic mistakes. The weight of the mug in his hand surprised him. He had never held so much gold at once before, and he knew that the mug must have been worth a fortune. Movement from Quaray caught his attention, and all thoughts of the mug were banished from his mind.

  Quaray stepped back before raising his mug to Tartum. “Let it be known that this man before me acted in mah defense and saved meh from a most dishonorable death.” he announced. His words echoed along the walls, as every patron in the pub held their drinks towards Tartum. With a nod to the people saluting Tartum, Quaray continued, “Give us your name, caster, so that we may know to whom we own our gratitude!” he said. His words were sincere, but Tartum also detected an underlying tone of command that he dared not disobey.

  Tartum thought he understood what was happening. He had saved the life of the owner of this pub, and he was clearly grateful for it. He assumed he was doing him a great honor by making this speech in front of everyone, and Tartum seized upon the opportunity to gain status amongst the people of these halls. He hoped that with a little luck he might be able to use this as a way to garner some small amount of runic knowledge.

  Standing as straight and as confidently as he could, he answered Quaray. “My name is Tartum Fuin!” he said loudly. He wanted to make sure everyone heard his name and remembered it. As he had discovered in Yucoke, a little bit of fame went a long way with the people. Quaray nodded once again and raised his mug higher.

  “You are named to us then, Tartum Fuin! Let it be known that from this day forth, Tartum Fuin is as much a part of mah clan as me own son and daughters, with all the rights and priviledges such title grants!” Quaray declared. As his words echoed off the walls around them, Tartum saw the look on the old dwarf’s face become stern. “Is there any that stand amogst us that would contest this man this honor?” he challenged. Tartum was shocked, this was far better than what he had expected. To be granted status for saving someone’s life like this amazed him. He would have been happy with a small reward or free drinks for the night. For Quaray to adopt him into his clan like this was more than he could have dreamed of. He wondered what rights he would have with his new status. He looked around the room, wondering if anyone would challenge Quaray’s offer. No one did.

  “Do you accept this offer, Tartum Fuin? Do you accept the priviledges and responsibilities such an offer of kinship comes with?” he asked. Tartum was no fool; he wanted desperately to accept but knew better than to blindly enter into an agreement without understanding it first. He learned that lesson well on the first day he joined the thieves guild.

  “I mean no disrespect, Quaray. I am new to your city, and what I did was what anyone would have done, I’m sure. Before I can accept, I must know what responsibilities are expected of me. I will not blindly accept your offer, sir, and I apologize for my ignorance.” Tartum said as humbly as he could.

  His words were well received, a crooked smiled spread across Quaray’s face. “Fine words, lad! Smart! By accepting, you become an honorary member of mah clan. We will teach you our secrets of how to brew our lesser brews if you desire. As an honorary member of mah clan, you’ll always have a place to stay while you’re here as long as you remain in good standing, and you will be treated better than common visitors. Being part of our clan also means that we will fight to protect you, just as you’ve fought to protect me, you will become part of our blood, and we dwarves defend our blood with our lives.” Quaray explained. His voice was strained with age, but still clear and as commanding as any man of authority or power should be. He winked at Tartum before continuing, “Accepting mah offer will also allow you to marry a dwarf if the opportunity is presented. Carefu
l though, lad, our women can be a bit much for a human to handle!” he said with a chuckle. The crowd that had been silent up to this point rippled with controlled laughter. They quickly returned to silence before Quaray continued, “In return, we expect the same from you. Offer shelter to fellow clan members, aid us in anyway you are able, and if the clan goes to war you will be asked to fight with us.” he explained. Now he stood there, looking at Tartum, waiting for his reply.

  Tartum was disappointed. He had no interested in learning how to brew ale. He didn’t want to have strange dwarves staying in his home unannounced. He had VERY little interest in getting married to anyone, let alone a dwarf, but most of all, he didn’t like the idea of being dragged into a war that had nothing to do with him. He was about to state as much to Quaray when he saw the looks he was getting from the throng of people that still held their mugs up to him in salute. In their eyes he saw envy, he saw jealousy, and he saw respect. It was plainly obvious that to turn down Quaray’s offer would be a terrible, possibly life ending, mistake on his part. He suddenly felt as if he was trapped.

  “I accept your most gracious offer, Quaray!” Tartum announced, as he held his own mug up towards the old dwarf.

  Quaray’s smile disappeared. Taking a deep breath, he spoke in a voice that was extremely deep and somber. The old dwarf’s words captivated him.

  “Mo theaghlach, mo onoir, mo brod, mo shoal!” he said. His voice boomed inside the pub, and the patrons repeated the words back.

  As the last echo of their chant went silent, Tartum looked at Quaray in awe. “What does that mean?” he asked.

  A strong look of pride came over the old dwarf, and Tartum watched as he seemed to stand a little taller before answering. “It’s the oath of the Bottom Barrel clan, lad. In your language it means “My Family, My Honor, My Pride, My Life”. Those are the four cornerstones of the clan that our guild is founded on. We believe that if you live your life striving to keep those cornerstones strong, then you will live a truly rewarding life. However, if you fail to keep these four things sacred, if you allow one of them to crumble to dust then the other three will quickly follow, and you will live a life of misery and failure. No songs are ever sung of men that neglect the cornerstones of their lives. To remind ourselves of this, we speak the chant during occasions such as this one, when a child is born, when we create a new batch of ale, or when we toast amongst members of our clan. It is our motto, our creed, and our strength. Now, Tartum Fuin, it is also yours.”

  Quaray’s words touched Tartum in a way he’d never felt before. He felt confident, proud, excited, and eager; at the same time he felt humble and modest. The sublime way the words made him feel centered his mind and cut through his defenses. He felt safe amongst these men, his new brothers, and the serenity that washed over him almost overwhelmed him. Two tears ran down his face, unchecked, as he raised his mug higher. In a voice that was bolstered more by pride than by magic, Tartum spoke the oath of his new clan.

  “MY FAMILY, MY HONOR, MY PRIDE, MY LIFE!” as he said the oath for the first time he felt his spirit soar and all sense of doubt and fear left him. He wasn’t sure if the words were some kind of ancient magical spell, or if simply by speaking them, they naturally boosted his overall sense of well-being. Whatever the reasoning was, he had little time to think upon it as the people around him repeated his oath before downing the contents of their mugs.

  This left only Tartum and Quaray still holding their mugs out towards one another. As one, they drank from their mugs. Tartum found the thick black liquid to be extrememly bitter and remarkably potent as it slid down his throat. It was all he could do to force the contents into his belly and then a huge effort of will in order to keep it down. Once he was sure he had his stomach under control, he slowly lowered the mug and locked eyes with Quaray. The old dwarf stood there smiling at him as the patrons of the bar cheered his name.

  Tartum smiled as the roar of the crowd washed over him. “My family, my honor, my pride, my life…hmm…I like that.” Tartum thought to himself. “I like that very much.”

  …

  Over the next month, while Varnar worked on his ring, Tartum spent all of his time with Oldrake and Quaray. Together, they taught him the basics of brewing which he took to rather quickly. At first, Tartum had no interest in being taught the skill, he wanted his ring to be finished so he could continue on with his quest. When he discovered it would take a month for Varnar to finish making it, he decided he might as well take them up on their offer. If nothing else, learning to brew ale would give him something to do. As it turned out he was enjoying himself; brewing ale required very little; a few simple ingredients, some boiling water, a watertight wooden barrel and just a touch of patience would result in a drink strong enough to daze a full grown man, yet tasty enough that you didn’t have to give it away. They only taught him the most basic of techniques to create his simple brews, but already, he knew with the skills he’d gained here he would be able to make a very comfortable living selling barrel after barrel out of his home in Yucoke. While the thought of becoming a brewmaster didn’t appeal to him as a new occupation, it did open up oppurtunities to fund his magical endeavors. As it was, he’d already spent a large portion of his fortune just to have the ring’s foundation made. He still had much more to collect, and with his new rudimentary skills, he at least had a means to fund it.

  Learning to brew ale wasn’t the only way he passed the time. With Varnar busy, Tartum spent a lot of his time with the members of his adoptive clan. He learned that Quaray was almost two-thousand years old and that he had known Varnar, who was only about twelve hundred years old, since he was a boy. The two had fought together in the guild wars Varnar told him about when they first met outside of Saroth. Quaray glazed over the war stories, he seemed to dislike rememebering them, but talked at length about their friendship and of how they both eventually became the leaders of their top of the rock guilds. He learned that Quaray’s wife was once Varnar’s betrothed, he didn’t fully understand how the switch occurred, but he could not get anymore details out of him than that. Not wanting to be rude or fall out of favor so quickly after being accepted as a member of the clan, Tartum let the subject drop. He did find out that Oldrake, at one hundred and ninety-seven years old, was the oldest of twelve; seven male, five female, siblings none of which were old enough to be allowed this close to the upper levels. Apparently, the heart of the dwarven society was far below them, where the outside world could not affect them. It was dwarven custom that a dwarf did not leave the bottom levels until they were at least seventy years of age. The custom blew Tartum’s mind, a human was lucky to reach seventy years, and the ones that did usually didn’t have much time left. A dwarf had to live a lifetime before their lives could begin. He felt cheated by the idea that as his life ended there were dwarves whose lives were just starting. The whole concept seemed completely unfair.

  One day during his stay Quaray surprised him. As a special treat, he’d arranged a tour of Windswept’s defences that had astonished Tartum as much as it impressed him. The first thing they showed him during his tour was how cunning dwarven engineering could be. Just like with the slots on Oldrake’s wagon that had hidden ten crossbows, the defenses that protected the mountain were just as sinister, maybe even more so. Using the natural composition of the mountain, the dwarves carved holes out of the walls that allowed them to see their enemy approach and fire their war machines at them while keeping their exact position masked from their enemy’s retaliation. Shrewd placement of boulders, moss, and coarse grasses that naturally grew on the mountain side made some of it possible while runic magic provided for what nature could not. Yet, as extraordinary as the subterfuge was, it was nothing compared to the warmachines the dwarves created to defend their home.

  One of the first machines Tartum was shown was called a ballista. Basically, it was a huge crossbow that fired javelins the size of two men, that could penetrate folded steel at over one hundred yards. The entire construct was
made of stone with the exception of the spun metal cord that attached to the javelin and launched it at its target. The bow of the machine was made up of hundreds of thin stone sections that were sandwiched together and covered with runes. The resulting configuration allowed the bow to provide all of the elasticity of wood with all the durability of stone. It took three dwarves to operate and fire the machine, but the destructive power it provided them was well worth the effort. Oiled stone wheels made the warmachine portable and easily redeployable in the midst of battle. Quaray explained that a well placed shot could skewer up to a dozen men in full plate armor when lined up in battle formations. The thought sent tingles down Tartum’s spine.

  The next warmachine he was shown was a catapult. He had seen these in Saroth, but they had been made of wood and fired chunks of rock that were to be salvaged from broken buildings if the city was sieged. They had been unwieldy machines that were bolted into the ground and had a complicated system of ropes and pulleys the city guards had to manipulate in order to fire them. Six men were needed to operate and fire the contraptions, very much unlike the dwarven one he was introduced too. Just like the ballista, the catapult was made completely from stone and was heavily engraved with runic symbols. There was a large cup where the warmachine’s team of three dwarves loaded stone balls that perfectly fit into the curvature of the cup. The stone ball had one large runic symbol etched into it that seethed with an ominous red glow. After the team loaded the projectile into the machine, they would aim it so that the ball would arch perfectly through the hidden opening of the mountain and devastate any enemy foolish enough to attack them. As an added bonus the dwarves fired one for him. As the projectile soared into the practice field just outside the dwarven gate, it began to blaze red, it reminded Tartum of one of Rashlarr’s fireballs. When it hit the ground some two hundred yards away, it exploded with so much force the debris that was thrown into the air rained down for a full minute before revealing a crater that was at least ten feet deep. Tartum was astonished after the demonstration which seemed to be the reaction the dwarves were looking for.