by Doug Niles
“Shouldn’t you be coming down a little faster?” the female dwarf called worriedly from her seat on the wagon.
“Don’t you worry about that, Sal,” replied the leader of the small group of miners. Dram Feldspar swaggered along with every appearance of extreme confidence, sparing not so much as a glance over his shoulder at the dark entrance of the mine. “Freddie’s getting pretty damn good at setting those fuses just—”
The sentence was never finished, as a spurt of smoke and flying rocks erupted from the mine entrance, spraying the little valley with a wave of debris. A second later, the sound of the explosion—a dull boom that shivered the very bedrock of the place and echoed from the cliffs like thunder—swept across the four dwarves, knocking them over and sending them tumbling in a tangle of boots, beards, and flying tools.
The four miners picked themselves up rather slowly and dusted each other off, checking for broken bones. Fortunately, none of the flying rocks had struck flesh.
“Er,” Dram noted sheepishly, acknowledging the crimson flush sweeping across his wife’s round face as they limped up to the wagon. “Maybe we do need to be a little more careful.”
“Well, if all you hurt was your pride, then you can go ahead and set another charge—might knock some of the pride out of you!” Sally Feldspar huffed, hopping down from the wagon, using the tail of her shirt to blot—none too gently—at a scuff on Dram’s nose, caused when that impressive proboscis had slammed into the ground.
“Ah, geez,” the dwarf said, blushing. “It ain’t nothing, Sal.”
“Can we go back to New Compound now?” she asked, ignoring his protestations as she licked at the corner of her shirt and used the moist cloth to wipe the dust from her husband’s forehead. She looked at him hopefully, though she suspected the answer.
“Of course not!” he objected. “We’ve got to get back in the hole, as soon as the dust settles, and see how well the blast worked!”
“I suppose so,” she sighed. She gestured to the wagon. “Well, you fellows better have a tankard to wash out the dust. And I brought along a hunk of ham and a few loaves of bread.”
“Thanks, Sally. I mean it,” Dram said, resting his hand on her shoulder. He smiled, his white teeth gleaming through the dusty tangle of his beard. “And I bet you brought the ham from Josie’s smokehouse too.”
“I did—but how did you know?” she asked, pulling back the blanket, which she’d had covering the sumptuous feast.
“I could smell it from twenty paces away,” he said with a chuckle.
It was late in the afternoon before the four dwarves reemerged from the “hole.” Coated with gritty dust, they evinced pleasure in shining eyes and beaming grins as they made their way down to the wagon. Sally, meanwhile, had caught an impressive stringer of trout, which she had packed in a chest and covered with snow that she had scooped from a nearby, shady swale. She hitched the mules into their traces as the miners reappeared and had the wagon turned and ready to roll by the time they reached her.
“Good news, I take it?” she said drolly, taking in their obvious delight.
“You wouldn’t believe the crack we put in that seam of ore!” Dram declared, hopping onto the bench beside his wife, ignoring her attempt at evading him as he planted a sooty kiss on her cheek. “Why, there’s enough digging to keep a team of a dozen working around the clock for the rest of the season!”
“Well, I’m glad for that, but I do wish you’d be a little more careful,” Sally said, getting the wagon rolling with a cluck of her tongue and a quick snap of the reins. The other dwarves settled themselves in the back as she expertly steered the two-mule team onto the rutted, descending track. She kept one hand on the brake and, with a lot of jostling and bouncing, slowly guided them beside the tumbling stream, until the steep little valley spilled into a wider, more pastoral area.
The wagon forded the little stream with a splash that doused them all—Sally declaring the rinse-off did the four miners a world of good—then rolled onto the smooth road that would take them the rest of the way to New Compound. The bumps vanished, replaced by tightly meshed paving stones, the slabs laid with dwarf precision.
Soon the road crossed the river, and there a span of three stone arches made a gentle rise, with the middle arch set high enough to allow the passage of a good-sized boat underneath. From the crest of the sturdy bridge, the dwarves got a nice view of their destination.
New Compound had changed dramatically from the muddy, wooden-timbered frontier town that had sprung up, practically overnight, when Dram relocated his manufacturing operation to the Garnet Range. Though most of the residents—including Dram’s wife and father—were hill dwarves from the Vingaard Mountains, they had made the migration across the plains with relatively little grumbling.
Under the orders of Jaymes Markham, then lord marshal of the Solamnic Army, the entire town and manufacturing operation dedicated to the production of the explosive black powder had been obliged to be moved there, to be closer to the war. And, in fact, the powder—and the tubelike bombards Dram had invented—had proved decisive in winning that war, driving the barbarian half-giant Ankhar from Solamnia with the remnants of his scourging horde.
The great factory complex occupied half of the town, which was situated on a flat plain along the water where the river pooled into a lake before spilling out of the valley and down onto the central Vingaard Plain. Five tall smokestacks dominated the flat area, and two of them belched black smoke into the mountain air as Dram and his fellows watched from the wagon; a stiff wind, cresting across the foothills, carried the smoke away in the direction of Solanthus, leaving the sky over New Compound generally clear. Steam swirled around the great, stone firehouse, where boilers remained hot and sent their warmed water throughout the manufacturing complex, as well as providing service to some of the larger houses near the shore of the lake.
The greatest of those, through no accident, was the domicile of Dram Feldspar and his wife and child. As the wagon trundled off the bridge and onto the streets of the town—which was not protected by a wall or any other defensive positions—the mountain dwarf felt a proud, glowing sensation in his belly. He thought of that house, of the dwarf woman and their precocious child, and he could not restrain a chuckle of deep, genuine pleasure.
“What is it?” Sally asked, shooting him an amused look.
“Ah, just … I guess I never imagined I would so much enjoy coming to a place like this, having a real home, a real family.” He blushed and glanced back to make sure that none of the three miners in the rear of the wagon could hear him. No worries: they were happily toasting each other and the day’s work, their sloshing mugs half full of the ale they continued to draw from the keg Sally had so thoughtfully brought along. Dram looked back at his wife, his expression serious, his voice low but sincere.
“I owe it all to you, Sal. And I want you to know I’m grateful.”
She squeezed his knee, looking at him through shining eyes. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.” She giggled. “For starters, you stood up to my father when he wanted to rip your liver out and cook it on a spit!”
“Well, that was just man-business,” Dram said, embarrassed. He touched the knob on his skull, a bump inflicted a week earlier during the course of some “man-business” with his estimable father-in-law, Swig Frostmead.
“I mean, you make me proud, the way you don’t give in to him. You’re the only dwarf I’ve ever known that could take his measure.” She looked away, and he thought he heard her sigh slightly. “I wish … I wish … someday …”
“You wish I’d stand up to Jaymes, don’t you?” Dram spoke seriously, knowing his wife’s mind all too well.
She looked at him again, and he felt as though she were looking straight through him, straight through to his soul. “I don’t mean it like that. I know what he means—what he meant—to you … for all those years you were living like outlaws. And I know that the work you’ve done for him has been in the name of
a good cause. You’ve united Solamnia, and that was no easy task. And the barbarians have been driven out, for good … I hope.”
“Aye, all true. But he’s changed, hasn’t he? I’d be blind not to see it,” Dram declared softly.
“Yes, he has. And sometimes … I worry about the future.”
“You and me both, wife,” Dram replied gruffly. “You and me both.”
The cool stone walls of the house were pleasing, and Mikey squealed with pleasure as Dram and Sally entered the front hall. The little boy toddled from the nursery to greet his parents, while his grandfather stood back, beaming with pride.
“Mums! Dada!” Mikey chortled as Sally kissed him, and Dram nuzzled his son with his bristling beard. As usual, the lad was consumed by giggles at these ministrations.
“Thanks for staying with him, Dad,” Sally said, going over to Swig and kissing his furry cheek. “Any problems?”
“Not a one,” the grizzled hill dwarf said, beaming. “That little fellow is a real prodigy—why, he was using my pocket knife like a pickaxe, digging in the backyard. And today I showed him how to make two fists!”
“Uh, thanks, Dad.”
“Don’t mention it. You can call on me any time.” Swig glanced at his son-in-law and cleared his throat. “But you got a visitor waiting. Rogard Smashfinger came down from Kayolin to see you. He’s set up at the inn.”
“Well, we’ll send a message and have him come for dinner,” Sally said quickly before Dram could head for the door. Her husband had been known to take six or eight hours, sometimes, when he went to personally fetch someone from the inn.
Sheepishly, the dwarf nodded. “I’ll send one of the men down with an invitation. Tell him to come over as soon as he can.”
“Good. I’ll see to the kitchen,” said the dwarf maid, bustling through the dining room, Mikey rolling along behind.
“Did Rogard say what he wanted?” Dram asked as Swig drew a couple of mugs of ale from the keg that rested in an alcove in the front hall.
His father-in-law handed him one of the foaming vessels and shrugged. “Nah. He seemed kind of out of sorts, though. I suppose it’s the usual—he wants us to buy more steel.”
Swig’s guess proved prescient when, not long after, the mountain dwarf arrived. Rogard Smashfinger wore the fur cape and bejeweled bracelets, rings, and necklaces that marked him as a noble merchant of no small station, and in fact they knew that he was a cousin of Kayolin’s king. It was Rogard who had provided the incredibly strong bands of spring steel that had allowed the bombards to finally be rendered functional. Three years ago he had been the master forger of that dwarf under-mountain realm, but his activities and dealings with New Compound had allowed him to take off his leather apron and don the splendid merchant’s togs.
Rogard’s gray beard was split by a grin that was just a little too friendly, and the gleam in his eye looked as if it had been placed there more by design than by genuine emotion. Even so, it was a relaxed trio of dwarves who retired with their cold ales to the sitting room.
The mountain dwarf from Garnet leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and fixed Dram with a determined look. “So, now. I have ten wagons of steel bands forged and finished, ready to roll down here. When do you want ’em?”
“I’m not sure that I do want ’em, to tell you the truth,” Dram replied. “I haven’t been doing much work on the bombards lately. The emper—Jaymes, that is—still has three of them, and I think they’ll be sufficient for the time being.”
“You can’t be serious!” objected Rogard. “Will you be content to be just another dwarf mining town, here in the Garnet Range?”
“There’s veins of gold and silver in these hills,” Dram allowed grudgingly. “Turns out I’ve got kind of a nose for the stuff.”
“Well, listen. If that’s your purpose, then the king will have to take a little bit more interest in your operation. Seems likely that you’ll owe him some taxes, seeing as how you’re digging in his mountains!”
Swig sputtered so hard that he blew the foam off of his mug and all across his trousers. He leaped to his feet then made an effort to hold his temper when Dram calmly held up a hand. “Now, Rogard, I am a loyal subject of the king, having been born in that great city under the mountain. But I know where Kayolin is, and I know where we are. There’s a lotta miles between us, and the king doesn’t have any claim to these valleys around here.”
“Are you going to tell the king that? Knowing his majesty like I do, I expect that’s more the kind of decision he’ll want to be making himself. After all, you led him to believe that you’d be taking this steel off his hands. He’s been busy forging up there, while you were poking around in the hills, digging up nuggets and ore. I can’t say he’s going to be happy about it.”
“How dare he tell us what to do?” demanded Swig, stepping forward and balling his fists. “Why, if that mountain dwarf mole ever stuck his nose out from under his mountain, he’d know—”
“Now, now, Swig,” Dram said, standing and placing a restraining hand on his father-in-law’s shoulder. “Let’s mind our manners.”
“Manners?” Swig spluttered. “Why, you’re just as—”
“Dad?” Sally chirped sweetly, sticking her head through the door to the kitchen. “Oh, hi, Rogard,” she said, offering a dazzling smile.
“Hi, Sally,” the mountain dwarf replied, beaming at her then warily glancing back at Swig.
“Can you give me a hand in here, Pop?” she asked. “I need someone with a little strength …”
The hill dwarf looked angrily at the master forger then turned an appealing expression to his daughter. “But—we’re just—I was gonna—I have to—”
“Go ahead, Swig,” Dram said cheerfully, using his hand to steer the muttering hill dwarf out of the room, flashing his wife a grateful wink. Only when the two had disappeared into the rear of the house did he turn back to his visitor. Before speaking, Dram took a moment to refill their mugs, carefully sculpting the foam into a perfect head on each glass. He handed the drink to an appreciative Rogard.
“That old hill dwarf has a temper,” allowed the guest.
“He’s set in his ways. But he’s true to his soul, and he’s as brave a dwarf as you could ever hope to find.”
“Don’t doubt it. But it makes me wonder who’s in charge down here.”
“You just saw who is in charge,” Dram argued. He meant himself, of course, but he had a momentary thought that it might have actually looked as if he were talking about Sally. No bother, that. It was close enough to the truth, anyway.
“Now, there might be some more of those bombards coming. I really don’t know. I’m going to be sending Swig back to the Vingaards to bring a load of sulfur over the next few months. When I get that in, I’ll be able to take stock.”
“You’re not going yourself? Don’t you want to see the emperor in Palanthas?”
“He knows where to find me,” Dram said with a shrug. “So no, I like it here just fine. And one way or the other, I can find a use for some of that splendid steel around here. Just not sure it will be ten wagons.”
Rogard glowered but nursed his ale for a while before replying. Finally, he set the empty glass down and rose to nod stiffly to his host. “I’ll tell the king that you’ll have an answer for him in two months, then. I think he’ll be willing to wait until then.”
“He’d better,” Dram replied, lowering his voice to a growl. “We’re not without allies, or weapons, here in New Compound.”
“Now, now, Dram. I’m sure there’s no need to be thinkin’ along those lines. At least, not if you can keep Swig out of the room. Good day.”
Dram was holding his own mug, barely touched, when Sally came in a few minutes later. She looked around the empty sitting room. “He’s gone? What about dinner?”
“Turns out he didn’t have much of an appetite,” Dram said sourly. A moment later he brightened. “But I do,” he concluded, following his wife into a room full of won
derful aromas.
CHAPTER SIX
APPLE FORD
Blayne Kerrigan slipped through the marshes on the north bank of Apple Creek, no longer churning the waters, instead gliding like a reptile through the shallows. The haste spell continued to propel him with unnatural speed, but it would wear off soon—and by then, he was determined to reach the shelter of the grove along the dry ground just beyond the stream.
Father! He thought of Jaymes Markham’s treachery with anguish. With a backward glance as he raced toward the river, he had seen the bloody blade of the Freeman emerge from the lord’s back. He wished he had imagined it, but the image was too clear, too real.
Lord Kerrigan was dead.
Soon the protective canopy loomed overhead, and the young knight slipped behind a gnarled trunk and rose to his feet. He peered through some branches and saw the men of the Palanthian Legion in their red tunics, probing along the riverbank. A few unarmored footmen pushed into the water, but the muddy bottom prevented them from making much progress, and they quickly floundered back to the far bank. By that time Blayne had already slipped deeper into the grove, wringing the water from his tunic as he padded along in his bare feet—having kicked off his boots when he first entered the water.
He trotted along, still fired with energy. Apple trees surrounded him. Within moments he came upon an archer dressed in a green leather tunic. The man nodded at him as he passed, then looked questioningly over the young knight’s shoulder.
“Lord Kerrigan and the others were taken. The emperor broke the parley,” Blayne said coldly. “I saw my father cut down by one of the emperor’s guards. I think the duke is killed.”
