by Alon Shalev
When he reached her, she put her arms around him and shivered from his cold body. Unsure, he put his hands around her waist. Her body was deliciously warm. She gasped from his touch.
“Here’s the deal,” she whispered in his ear. “I want to drink wine, but I don’t want to die of hypothermia. You’re going to help. Do you understand?”
Ahad stroked her lower back and nodded. He didn’t trust himself to say anything, lest his voice crack. She continued.
“If my body goes under the water, it will turn from smooth to pimply and would be cold and unwelcoming, as will I toward you. Believe me?”
Ahad nodded. “That would be a tragedy,” he whispered.
“Good,” she said. “Now, insist that I leave the water with you. Hold my hand and drag me out. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“How?” Ahad regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell you about this mineral that was found near the Shorian cliffs. It has amazing properties, and you don’t know about it.”
Ahad laughed. She wasn’t just super-cute, but also super-smart. He deftly scooped her up in his arms and walked out of the water, back to where Phineus was lying with the other girl.
“Hey,” the Prince objected. “Someone didn’t get wet.”
“My fault,” Ahad interjected. “I kind of enjoy her warm.”
He dropped down on the huge blanket and poured a cup of wine. He passed it to Tarica, who joined him and laid her head on his thigh.
“How was your visit? How is General Tarlach senior?” Phineus asked.
It was the way that Tarica turned her head to listen. Everything about her up until now had been so relaxed and lazy. This subtle but obvious movement had not.
Ahad was glad he hadn’t started drinking. So Tarica really was too good to be true. He wondered if she was working for the Prince or the Emperor. Was there even a difference? The net was closing, and he felt snared.
FIFTY SEVEN
When Seanchai and Ballendir entered the Great Hall, the room was already bustling. The galleries were packed with spectators, the rows behind the clan delegations were filled, and anticipation permeated the air.
All eyes turned to Seanchai when he entered. He had insisted that Shayth, Ilana, Sellia and Rhoddan be present. He was determined that this time he would have his own delegation. Ballendir couldn’t understand the reasoning, but Seanchai wanted to show that he was bringing more than just himself to the table.
As everyone took their seats, Shayth and the elves stood behind Seanchai. He hoped that their height standing added to his seated would emanate power.
When all were settled, the master of ceremonies entered and struck the ground with his thick staff. Seanchai was used to the sparks that shot off the floor, but struggled to keep a straight face at Rhoddan’s awe-filled, whispered, “cool.”
The King entered and regarded Seanchai and his friends as he walked around the other side of the great stone table. When he sat, the other delegations resumed their seats. The King looked over at the elves and humans.
“Seanchai,” the King said evenly as he sat. “I wish to know the names of your companions so that I may welcome them to the Clansfelt.”
Seanchai stood. “High King of the Dwarves, this is Ilana, Rhoddan and Sellia of the Elven Resistance.” He turned to Shayth and let tension build momentarily. “And here stands Shayth, son of the late Prince Shindell.”
A murmur went through the crowd and Shayth obliged with his best scowl. Seanchai wasn’t sure for whom the scowl was intended. He rather suspected it might be for him.
The King smiled. “Welcome, then, Ilana, Rhoddan and Sellia of the Elven Resistance. Welcome, Prince Shayth.” This title only served to deepen Shayth’s glare, but the King had looked away. “Dwarves of Hothengold, delegations of the Six Clans, we have debated at length with regard to the dilemma before us. We have debated publicly and in clan council.
“The armies of General Tarlach approach our mountain range. Two options have I given the council. I asked them to decide whether we should attempt a negotiation, or whether we should stand and fight. A diplomatic or war council will decide the parameters of either negotiation or war. The clan leaders will each cast a vote for their people. If there is not a two-thirds majority, either I will add my vote to decide, or we shall begin discussions again. But I warn you, my fellow dwarves. We do not have the luxury of time to conduct further debate. Let our decision be quick, and may the gods judge it to be correct.”
With that, the King raised his majestic axe and thumped the stone table with the handle’s hoof. He turned to Renggal, head of Clan Den Zu’Garten.
Renggal sighed deeply before he spoke. “Your Majesty. My council has weighed our options carefully. Here, in the heart of our mountain, in our great city, the battle will take place. We recognize the grave danger facing us and everything we stand to lose. Nonetheless, Clan Den Zu’Garten votes for war.”
A buzz went around the room. Seanchai had thought their vote was already with him, but a glance between Rothendir and Ballendir suggested they had not been quite so certain.
The master of ceremonies banged once with his heavy staff, on the stone floor and an expectant silence descended. The King turned to Renggal. “Your wisdom is great and known throughout the six clans, Renggal. I am sure this decision was not taken lightly.” Then he raised his voice. “I call upon Clan Den Zu’Reising.”
Rothendir rose slowly. “My clan has already felt the steel of the Emperor’s rule. Many brave dwarves from our clan feast in the halls of our ancestors because of the attack unleashed by General Tarlach’s armies. Clan Den Zu’Reising cries out for revenge. We vote for war.”
The King turned to his other side.
“Lord Natague, what say Clan Den Zu’Chantague?”
“Your Majesty.” The stout, well-dressed dwarf leaned forward and cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, our council has debated long. We maintain good relations with the Empire and believe that, as long as we can be strong in trade, we can protect our independence. We would, of course, extend such influence to protect all clans.
“Clan Den Zu’Chantague therefore votes against war. We put our trust in negotiations.”
Seanchai felt a wave of panic. Clan Den Zu’Chantague was extremely wealthy and would surely influence the other clans. Again, the master of ceremonies banged his staff on the stone floor, silencing the murmurs.
The King turned to Clan Dan Zu’Ornagen. “Master Ziskagen. What say the scholars?”
Seanchai had to resist biting his nails. He was about to pay the price for bettering Master Ziskagen before the Clansfelt.
Ziskagen rose and bowed to his King. “Your Majesty. Our council stayed up all night. We evaluated the history of our race and tried to discern relevant patterns. As such, we believe that the dwarf race cannot defeat the Emperor’s army. Clan Dan Zu’Ornagen votes against war and for negotiation.”
He sat down heavily, staring at a ripple in the middle of the stone table. Seanchai felt that Ziskagen was not proud of his council’s choice. The big elf squeezed the arms of his chair. He had counted on the scholars to offset the traders and religious zealots. Ballendir patted Seanchai’s arm, but couldn’t help his other hand from twisting his long beard in frustration.
“Master Craftsman,” the King said without emotion. “Dugenminsk, what say Clan Dan Zu’Ulster?”
Dugenminsk rose from his chair. He looked defiantly around the table. “An artisan cannot pursue his craft in servitude. Only in freedom can we aspire to the excellence we strive for. Clan Dan Zu’Ulster votes for war and freedom.”
Seanchai sighed with relief. He had feared that the smaller clans would side with the traders, especially given that they needed to sell their wares to survive. But perhaps there really was more to dwarves than the pursuit of wealth.
“The vote stands at three to two. We turn now to those who serve our gods. High Priest Zu’Altan, what does Clan Dan Z
u’Reiltan say?”
All eyes fell upon the tall masked priest as he gripped the table and pulled himself to his feet. Seanchai could tell that the mask was staring in his direction.
His breathing sounded labored, or maybe, Seanchai thought, he was struggling with the decision his clan had made. There was a deal in place, an agreement not to expose the assassination attempt on the King. But with the opposing side holding a three to two advantage, he could renege on the agreement and claim that any accusation was just bad blood on the accusers’ side.
“My King. You and Clan Dan Zu’Reiltan hold similar roles, for we lead our people in different ways. The priests guard against any intrusion from above, not in defense of our lives, but in defense of our race.
“We have seen the destiny of those who went above ground and mingled with the long-legged. They are now slaves, sacrificing their souls and slaying good, gods-fearing dwarves at the whim of a despotic leader.
“Lessons should be learned from what happens when one strays too far from the path laid out by our gods. Therefore, we call upon all dwarves to defend our races at this dire time, so that we may secure not only the lives of our people, but also the destiny of our race. In service to the gods, Clan Dan Zu’Reiltan votes for war.”
A cry went up as the Great Hall erupted in a cacophony of discussion and surprise. The master of ceremonies allowed this to continue a few moments before bringing his staff crashing to the ground once, twice, three times until the will of the people died down and all eyes went to the King, who stood up and stared around the Great Hall. Then he turned to Seanchai.
“Rise, Wycaan Warrior,” he said, and Seanchai rose to his feet, though he could barely control his breathing. “Many centuries have passed since a Wycaan stood before the Clansfelt and pleaded with us as you have.
“Now, as High King of the Dwarves, I give you our answer. Dwarves are the most ancient of races. Our history is rich with tales of honor and great battles fought for freedom and dignity. Too long has the land of Odessiya been bound by the hate of man, of callous dictators such as the Emperor and his nefarious ancestors. Too long have the dwarves stayed underground.
“It is fitting that a Wycaan comes to raise the banner of freedom for dwarves, elves, and men. It is right that you stand in this, the Great Hall of Hothengold, and rekindle the flame of the Alliance.
“Therefore, I respond as is the will of this noble council. In the weeks to come, many of our finest will die and feast in the great halls of our ancestors. They will be grieved, but they will go to their fate with pride, knowing that when Odessiya cried out for freedom, the dwarf nation answered with one resounding voice.”
He turned to his people and raised his golden axe. His voice rose and filled the cavern. “We will honor the oaths of our ancestors. The Wycaan has called and the dwarf nation answers: THE ALLIANCE STANDS ONCE MORE: FOR FREEDOM AND THE ALLIANCE OF ODESSIYA.
“TO WAR!”
“TO WAR!”
“TO WAR!”
FIFTY EIGHT
Seanchai maintained his stoicism even as the Great Hall erupted in chants. He noticed that even dwarves from the two clans who voted against war were cheering. Now that the decision was taken, the dwarves did indeed speak with one voice.
It took him awhile to leave the hall. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to shake his hand and clap him on the back. Finally, together with his friends and the delegation of Clan Den Zu’Reising, he made it back to their residence and only there did he let his emotions show. He hugged his friends and thanked Ballendir again and again. When Rothendir entered the compound, all stopped and turned to receive her. Seanchai pushed forward.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Clan Leader Rothendir,” he said, bowing.
“Thank me?” she replied, her voice was hoarse from debating and her eyes swollen from lack of sleep. “I serve the dwarf nation and Clan Den Zu’Reising. My clan was attacked, and we grieve the loss of our priestess and many elders. You have nothing to thank me for, but you can repay me by doing all that is in your strength to bring us victory and revenge. For now, go rest. You will soon be called for.”
“Called for?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Did you think we were just going to wait and see what General Tarlach sends our way? There is a war council. You and Shayth will be there.”
“Me?” Shayth asked.
“Yes,” Rothendir turned to him. “You’re a human and have a relationship with the general. It makes perfect sense.”
Seanchai saw Shayth turn red and was about to intervene when Sellia appeared at the human’s side.
“Remember your destiny, Shayth,” she whispered. “If the dwarves say they need you, you must answer their call. Go to the council and help with the battle plan. Go as a free man, and as one who turned his back on the Emperor’s ways.”
Seanchai received his summons the next morning. Ballendir would also be joining them. Shayth was brooding and didn’t say much as they ate breakfast, but Seanchai bombarded the dwarf with questions about Hothengold, dwarf defenses, and the surrounding countryside.
“Do yeh have some ideas?” Ballendir asked on their way to the palace.
“I do,” Seanchai said, “but I want to listen to what others think before I make any suggestions.”
“Very wise,” Ballendir said. “But don’t wait too long. We need to organize this considerably faster than the Clansfelt.”
“Otherwise,” Shayth added, “we risk forfeiting our decision to Tarlach.”
When they entered the hall of the war council, Seanchai stared around him. These were not the dwarves who had sat around the table in the Great Hall. They were bigger, rougher, and more muscular. The politicians had stood aside for the military to take over, and Seanchai was impressed.
In the middle was what looked like a sand box, elevated two feet above the ground and resting on a huge slab of stone. But what impressed Seanchai was the model inside of it, an exact replica of the mountainside and the surrounding area. In various areas, the walls were cut away to allow an inside look.
“There are more,” Ballendir said and pointed around the room.
Some were of adjacent areas, and one was Hothengold itself, split in half so that both sides could be examined from the inside.
“This is amazing,” Seanchai whispered. “Who does this?”
“A team of sculptors is employed to maintain their accuracy. Impressive, huh?” He had turned to Shayth.
“Indeed,” Shayth replied, though his tone did not back his words. They both stared at him. “I have seen the halls that my uncle maintains, each for a different state within the empire. They are intricately detailed.”
A large dwarf banged a nearby table. His voice was deep and authoritative. “Come, everyone, and sit. The time to talk is over. Now we plan.”
As they all took seats, Seanchai noted that there were no clan divisions or preferential seating. The only dwarves he recognized were Dugenminsk from the artisan clan of Dan Zu’Ulster and Ziskagen, the scholar he had bested, from Clan Dan Zu’Ornagen.
“Have you had a chance to burn in the pipe?” Dugenminsk asked, leaning forward.
“I’m frightened to let him try,” Ballendir answered. “It might end up a cinder, he’s been so uptight.”
There was a round of relaxed laughter. This was going to be far less formal than the Clansfelt, Seanchai thought. The large dwarf dragged a piece of slate over. It was covered in Dwarvish with arrows connecting and crisscrossing.
“My name is Rus’ik Armsgarten of Clan Den Zu’Garten,” the big dwarf said, stroking his large black and white beard. “I have trained and led our army for three decades. The King asked me to bring you together and form the war council.”
“Looks like you already have a plan,” Ziskagen said, pointing to the board.
“I have been planning the defense of this city for many years and, while the Clansfelt was politicking, I was receiving intelligence and adapting my original plans. After we vote in a W
ar Council Chief, I request the opportunity to explain this, though I admit it is an insufficient strategy for what we face.”
Dugenminsk turned to Seanchai. “With respect, Wycaan, I believe that the War Chief should be a dwarf.”
“I agree,” Seanchai replied.
“Then,” Dugenminsk turned back to everyone, “I propose that Rus’ik Armsgarten be the head of this council. He has more experience than most of us and this is his clan’s capital.”
“Seconded,” Ziskagen said. “Let’s not waste any more time.”
There were murmurs and nods of agreement around the table.
“Thank you,” Armsgarten replied. “I’m honored by your trust.”
He launched into a long explanation of the writing on the slate board, pointing out how the city had been built with a number of layers, each of which would provide an opportunity to kill many soldiers without unduly exposing the dwarves.
As he continued, Armsgarten glanced more and more frequently at Shayth, whose expression was darkening by the minute. Finally, Armsgarten stopped.
“What is it, Prince Shayth? Speak your mind.”
“I am no prince,” Shayth growled. “I have renounced my connection to the royal house. The only ties I want with them involve my bow or broadsword.”
“I mean no offense,” Armsgarten replied. “But your body language suggests this is not the reason for your anger.”
“I live and breathe by my anger,” Shayth replied. “In a few days, you will be happy to see how I express that rage. But you are correct: my problem is with your plan. It is meant to wear down an enemy too powerful to meet on open ground. That would make sense, but Tarlach won’t care how many soldiers he loses. He will not be worn down. He will never submit. He will throw more and more soldiers until we exhaust our arms, our options, and our soldiers.”
“And we have not begun to discuss his use of dwarves or explosives,” Seanchai added. “Rus’ik, is there a good place away from here? Can we engage their army and lead them through the mountains?”
