Fovean civilization centered itself around an area about the size of the Mediterranean. The central body of water, called “Tren Bay,” had been named for the ‘Plains of Tren,’ that had existed before it. Trenbon is an island in the center of it, home of the mysterious Uman-Chi, supposedly the foremost Wizards on the planet. Northernmost, to the east of the Dwarven Nation, cradled between the Great Northern Mountain Range and the Forgotten Sea, lay the nation Dorkan, whose people I had already encountered. Normally, they held an active trade of goods and provisions for gold and iron with the Dwarves. The Dwarves had recently increased their prices, however, precipitating the invasion, probably more of a warning strike. The government of Dorkan, as I had guessed, existed as a patrician class maintaining a stranglehold on the education system, creating a plebian class almost unable to elevate itself. What they called education really only reaffirmed the necessity of the class structure and had been effective for generations.
South of us could be found highly neutral Sental, an Uman nation. The Uman were somehow related to the Uman-Chi and a popular intelligent life of the region. They were long lived (a Dwarf might see 150 summers, while an Uman could expect 230 or more), slender, not as strong as a man and more emotional. Being lighter, they were quieter and considered more intelligent than brutish Men.
Sental existed as a collective of Uman. Those were Kvitch’s words, not mine, and I had no idea what he meant by that. As an agrarian society, the Sentalans produced the bulk of the “farmed goods” in Fovea.
Volkhydro lies to the West of Sental and is a collection of free cities, much like ancient Greece, except that they had a king. Hvarl is the Dwarven King. Kvitch, oddly enough, served as a foreign Ambassador. Because the Dwarves maintained no foreign embassies, they held a largely honorary position, although Kvitch was readying himself even now to go to Dorkan.
Volkhydro had once been the two human nations Volkha and Hydro. Humans here were called ‘Men,’ even though males were called ‘Men.’ That could be confusing even when I got used to it, although it didn’t seem to bother the Dwarves at all. Farther to the east of Volkhydro lay Conflu, also a land of Men, which had threatened to overwhelm Volkha until it had formed a permanent alliance with Hydro. Together they had formed a united front, which had held off the Confluni expansion. Now they were a nation divided, ever bickering internally.
Those caught within Conflu’s borders never returned. This meant that there were no maps of the nation and little could be said of them.
South of Conflu lay the Andoran Plain. Clans of herders roamed it freely and maintained only two large cities. Conflu had never expanded there permanently only because the Andarans, also Men, were excellent horsemen and the Confluni army an infantry.
This made sense to me – the mounted warrior held an advantage on the battlefield. Fighting with a lance or even a sword, his weapon had the momentum of a greater mass moving faster, and thereby struck deeper than the infantry.
The forest and the people between the Eldadorian and Andoran nations called themselves the Aschire. Loose tribes of a mysterious people lived there.
King Glennen ruled Eldador. Hvarl considered Glennen to be a strong man but a poor ruler and the cities in his nation were more like free cities than parts of a greater nation. Internal bickering arose mostly between the apartheid-style rule of noble Dukes and Barons, mostly Men, over the Uman majority, who resented it.
The punch into my rib cage reminded me that I needed to be cleaning, not daydreaming. I grunted at Hrrech and pitched in with the broom I held.
He laughed and joined me. The Dwarves are a clean people, which is odd because the most pervasive factor about living underground is the incredible dust. It gets in everywhere and on everything. The harder the stone, the more dust it leaves.
I swept the smooth floor and put the sizeable dust pile into a receptacle. The receptacles were regularly emptied and the contents dumped outside. Over centuries, just with these sweepings, the Dwarves had paved a white sand road running miles from their mountain nations towards the Tears of the World.
I had woken up beside that lake when I got here. It has some religious significance that the Dwarves didn’t like discussing. Regardless, if you drank the water long enough, you would go into a deep depression and die. The Llorando ran south from it and, if you travelled many miles downstream, you could drink the water.
“So how much longer am I stuck with you, Man?” Hrrech asked me as we left the chamber. The Nation consisted mostly of a series of tunnels and chambers converted from mining to habitation. As the Nation explored more of the mountains for gold and iron ore, as well as coal and other treasures, it expanded. There were likely ten thousand Dwarves spread out through the mountains.
“Seeing as I can kick your butt at will, not too much longer, Dwarf,” I told him, smiling. He laughed and nodded. They were not prideful people and they were blunt. Hrrech seemed unwilling either to admit that I had a name or to get close enough to me to use it. The first day I had met him we had wrestled and he had bruised my ribs against a wall. I had slapped both of his ears at the same time (nearly killed him, I hadn’t realized that the differences in Dwarven anatomy made a move like that very dangerous) and knocked him out. While healing the next day he had admitted to the creativity of the move and decided he could train me when he and I had the time – for about eight hours a day every day.
He had spent hours with my sword, as well. He swore it was divine in origin and that the Simple People needed nothing to do with it. No hammer could dent its finish; no forge could melt or even really heat it. Nothing even adhered to its surface. Although he admired the workmanship, he didn’t see a point in adding it to the Dwarven arsenal.
Hvarl had proclaimed me an honorary part of the Simple People because of the tactics used at what they called The Battle of Two Mountains. They named me J’ktak, the Good Man, because I put their needs above my own. It was useful but I didn’t like the title. I had caused as many of them to die as their enemy had, all in their efforts to keep me alive, and while without my idea they might all have died, but it didn’t make me feel better.
My horse grazed on a small goat plain they kept and had been fitted with a saddle and bridle. He didn’t like them at all. The Dwarves had made him “barding” also, consisting of a coat of rings that covered him to his knees, but he bucked constantly as they tried to put it on him, and I decided against it, settling on a thin plate across his rump and around his noble neck. His strength was in speed and this would protect him without hindering him.
I had decided to call him Blizzard – fast, powerful and deadly. Naturally, he didn’t respond to it. Still, I didn’t feel right calling him “the horse.” Fully fed as he had been for the last week, he’d filled out and ran even faster than before. The Dwarves had explained that the plains to the north were the home of the “Herd that Cannot be Tamed.” Like Blizzard, they were bigger than other horses, and they tended to be mean. Men had tried before to catch and tame them, but the animals were too swift to catch and too bold to break. Colts usually died if they were taken into captivity, and those that didn’t die had to be put down, too violent to tame. He couldn’t explain why Blizzard came to be different.
I had trimmed his mane down to a stiff bristle from his long, flowing locks; and cut about three feet of hair from his tail. This left him with a crew-cut mane and another three feet of tail to poke out from the back of his armor. I had the feeling we would see combat in his future and, if so, the hair would get in our way.
Hrrech and I were walking through the tunnels beneath the mountain. Buttressed with stout timbers, walls carved smooth and polished by Dwarven hands, every tunnel had been a mineshaft, and now every one of them had a name and a meaning to these people. I had spent several hours with a master craftsman, Kuruul, who had explained a little of what it took to turn mine shafts into personal dwellings, both above and below ground. Yes, there were some Dwarves who lived in fine, stone dwellings on top of the Dwarven Mo
untains, either as goat herders or farmers or watchmen. Just as some tunnels were “founded” by certain Dwarves, and some were named for certain important events, some parts of the land above had special names and significance for them. The Simple People were Earth’s children, and they held all of His creations precious.
From experience, I knew I would be lost here if I were left alone.
Dwarves like Kuruul formed widened areas among the tunnels into rooms, chambers and homes. The Dwarves had no doors and no locks, not even for their king. They shared all wealth and sought all ideas, which is why they took my advice so easily.
“You know, no one will complain if you stay longer, Man,” Hrrech said.
“Going to miss me when I go?” I ribbed him.
He looked up at me with those soulful, brown eyes. “Would that be so bad?”
I had likely made a really insensitive comment in his eyes. He and I had spent a lot of waking hours together. Likely he would miss me.
“Nah,” I covered. “I would feel stupid if it was just me missing you.”
He seemed to accept that. “But you aren’t staying?”
“Nah,” I told him. “The ceilings are too low.”
He snorted. We walked on for many long minutes in silence, finally finding a huge, open chamber called The Hall of Presence. Stalagmites carved in Dwarven images or as tables covered its floor. Above them, stalactites glistened and conveyed a unique characteristic where, when the Dwarves sang or had loud conversations here, they reflected an echo for a long time. They considered this chamber a holy place where they could commune with their god.
They called him ‘Earth,’ just like my home planet. They worshiped Him, whom they referred to as “The Wounded God.” They seemed tight-lipped about their theology and I didn’t pry. I had my own worries.
Dwarves packed the room, hundreds of feet across. There must have been over one thousand, singing in their native language. They sang of the war, of the eight who had fallen and how they would be missed. They sang of the horror of so many dead for no reason, and for the champion on a white horse, Rancor. Not even my real name.
The singing went on for about an hour. Just when I grew bored of it, it stopped on a word. Another quality of the Dwarven singing was that they didn’t write it beforehand. They sang out their emotions until they were exhausted. The Hall reflected the song back to them over and over – beautiful in its own way. I saw why they felt that Earth sang along with them, using their own words.
The Hall droned on, mixing up the sentences as echo overlapped echo. It ended in nonsense and then lowered to a drone.
Hvarl stood up and looked at me. Kvitch stood next to him, a huge amulet on his chest, dangling from a gold loop around his neck, a sun symbol with a hammer in its center. I had never seen it before.
“In our recorded time,” the King said, and all heads turned to him, “no Man has done for us what J’ktak has done. No one from outside of these mountains has ever saved so many of our lives, asking almost nothing in return.”
Many Dwarves nodded. Hrrech rubbed his shoulder against me. I reminded myself that these were the Simple People. Back home there would have been a huge, expensive ceremony and dinner, with flash bulbs and commentators. Here they came in the clothes they wore every day, me coming straight from a workout and sweeping a dusty floor.
“We have gifted his horse better than we have him,” Hvarl continued. “He sought our knowledge rather than our wealth, marking him among the Wise.”
More nodding. I just didn’t know what to charge, I thought, keeping my face bland.
“Therefore, our contracts done, our debts paid, this Man and these Dwarves fulfilled, let it be known that the gifts from the Simple People are from the heart of the mountains, not the purse.”
Two Dwarves with long, gray beards and braided hair came from a side entrance with a suit of armor and a Wilhelm, a personalized helmet. In the Dwarven style, the helmet had a nose guard rather than a visor, although cheek pieces had been added to protect the rest of the face. The plates in the armor had been fluted, and looked like they weighed a ton. The fluting, or corrugating, tripled the strength for almost the same weight of armor, just as corrugated pipe was stronger than straight. Another Dwarf came after, carrying a padded undergarment for the armor. This would make wearing it more comfortable and absorb more shock from heavy blows. A younger Dwarf, her beard only a wispy stubble (and, yes, the females had beards here, just like the males), carried a proper sheath for my sword. An image, a stallion rearing with the sun behind him, had been worked into the metal.
They helped me don the body padding and the armor. Of course, I had to shed my clothes first. They had no concept of modesty. Even the restroom facilities were open to passing Dwarves. Being naked in front of so many made me feel horribly vulnerable, and several laughed as I scrambled into my padding.
The pad had front and back flaps to relieve myself. The armor consisted of a gorget, or neck guard, a front and back plate tooled to loosely conform to my chest and stomach, steel sleeves and leggings and a chain mail skirt. Chain mail is a system of interlocking steel rings, which is nearly as strong as steel armor but lighter and more comfortable to wear. There were even steel covers for the tops of my boots.
I donned the Wilhelm, set with two goat horns for show, and the chain mail gloves. All in all, it felt about half as heavy as I would have guessed and I could move very easily. I set the sheath over my left shoulder so I could draw my sword right handed, and I easily sheathed the sword. I turned to face Hvarl and to thank him.
The flat-bladed war spear in his hand should have alerted me, but I was totally unprepared for him to throw it and just stood there as it took me in the chest. Hvarl is a powerful Dwarf – he had supposedly killed ten at the Battle of Two Mountains. The spear whistled as it flew and the impact made me take a step back. I looked down to see the spear fall to the ground, barely a mark on the armor.
The hardened steel point, thrown as hard as he could, and at close range, should have parted the breastplate. The Dwarves put up a shout, celebrating their own craftsmanship. I really, really wanted a piece of Hvarl right then, but thought better of it.
“I appreciate and respect this gift,” I said, and the room quieted, “given from the heart of the Simple People. Would that I had a gift as grand, which would show how you make my heart feel. Instead I would, if I could, sing for you.”
Now all of the Dwarves nodded and smiled. What I had done, as I had hoped, showed my appreciation for their culture. I worried that I would be blaspheming in their Hall, but I had gambled and, hopefully, won.
Because I had stolen the idea from “The Little Drummer Boy,” who gave a song on his drum as his gift to Jesus because he had nothing else, I sang it for them. I also knew all of the words. I evolved the word King into people later in the song and newborn into highborn at the last second, but as the song echoed away, they were smiling and it seemed to have gone over well.
“We are touched,” Hvarl said, and I think I saw a tear in his eye. Another quality of the Dwarves is they cried a lot, for joy or sorrow. A part of their not being prideful, I’m sure. “For so large a Man, I would call you Dwarf with honor, J’ktak.”
“I am humbled,” I told him.
“Should you return the way you came, J’ktak, and then follow the Llorando, you would have your choice of Sental or Volkhydro to travel to. We are aware that you have no destination and no homeland. Which, do you think, will you visit?”
I really had no idea. Sental seemed a little boring to me, but might be worth a look. Volkhydro seemed almost cataclysmic in comparison, and I wondered if I was ready.
“Where my horse leads me, I think,” I said. “In honesty, I am not decided.”
“Well then, perhaps a commission might be in order, J’ktak,” he said. “Not that I would name you Ambassador, or Bounty Hunter, of course!”
That earned a general chuckle. I laughed, although I didn’t get the joke.
; “What sort of commission?” I asked.
“The Dorkan attack is a transgression in international law and needs to be reported to the Fovean High Council, in Trenbon. Should your wanderings take you there, I think we would be well-served by your representation.”
I had no idea what the Fovean High Council could be, but I couldn’t really say, “No.” I bowed low instead; “To be associated in any way with the Simple People could only benefit me.”
Again, a chuckle, “Do not be too sure, J’ktak,” Hvarl warned, walking toward me now. “Dwarves are not loved. We are seen as miserly and rude.”
“Not by me,” I countered. “But I see no point in arguing. I will be delighted to convey any message you might desire to send.”
Hvarl nodded and handed me a scroll, sealed in wax and stamped with his signet ring. He then handed me a leather tube, into which I inserted the scroll. Another Dwarf stepped up, took the tube and drew out a long needle and a length of rawhide to sew it shut. Afterwards, he would seal the seam in fat, which would dry as I carried it.
Hvarl then handed me a heavy bag of gold. “Your commission.”
I emptied the bag into the pouch I had taken from the Uman scout, and didn’t count it. “Dwarven service pays well.”
“Again,” Hvarl warned, “don’t let them think you are a Bounty Hunter.”
I didn’t know what that was, but I assured him that I wouldn’t. The meeting over, the Dwarves left or stayed talking in groups. A few wanted to take the opportunity to punch my armor and commented on its quality. One old Dwarf waited to one side until the others were gone.
I recognized the Dwarf as Lelekt, an armorer who had probably forged this armor. I crossed the distance to him in one step and extended my hand, which he took, forearm to forearm in the local custom.
“Is this your handiwork, then, Lelekt?” I asked him.
He nodded. “More steel than I cared to use, but my son was among the fallen. I felt that I honored him in this way.”
Indomitus Est (The Fovean Chronicles) Page 8
