Nafiel turned in his saddle and addressed the group with wide arms. “Welcome, good dwarves, to Gallian. Here you will find lodging suitable for such esteemed guests, and food and ale to replenish your tired bodies.”
“Tired, eh? Who be tired?” Philo yelled. Nafiel only laughed and led them on to their lodging.
Gallien, like most elven villages, was made from living vines, stone, and trees. Vines wound together to create walkways and bridges where the water split the land. The woven vines grew together to create domed abodes and buildings. Many of the dwarves had never seen nor even heard of such strange architecture, and did nothing to hide their speculation about the structures’ strength. Nafiel assured them to the contrary, giving examples of the structures’ surviving oceanic storms and even tornadoes, but the dwarves seemed unimpressed.
Soon they reached the vine domes that would house the dwarves for the night. The horses were led to stable, and the dwarves wasted no time tapping their ale barrels. Lunara greeted many of her people with Tarren in tow. The boy introduced himself in Elvish before Lunara had a chance, gaining many smiles from the elves.
Elves had begun to crowd around the travelers, murmuring to each other as they eyed the dwarves with a mix of delight and apprehension. Likewise, the dwarves eyed the strange-looking elves, but with much less delight. Roakore noted this but shrugged it off. They would warm up to the elves soon enough. He hoped that Nafiel would make good on his promise of strong spirits.
Even as Roakore thought it, there came thin crystal glasses which were passed all around until everyone had one. Bottles also traded hands until all had filled their glasses. The dwarves looked at their too-small glasses and the yellow-white bubbly liquid therein.
“To friendships made anew and bonds forged between the races,” said Nafiel. Roakore coaxed his men to cheers with a bellowed “Hoo-rah!” And drink rose skyward. The dwarves responded with a booming retort and slammed back their drinks one and all, while the elves sipped from theirs. Roakore soon learned why the elves only sipped from their glasses. The elven liquor was so tart that the dwarves all puckered their faces with slanting eyes as the afterburn of the strong spirits made them feel as if flames shot from their mouths and noses.
“Ahh!” came Tarren’s scream, followed by Helzendar’s hearty chuckle as the boy ran around in wide circles, holding his throat. Somehow it seemed the young lad had gotten a glass and quietly joined in on the cheers. Tarren blindly ran screaming and slammed into the dwarven supply cart that held a number of barrels of ale. He frantically pulled back on the spout of an already-tapped keg and lapped up the pouring beer as a dog would water. The dwarves erupted in belly-shaking laugher at the spectacle. Bottles began to float among the group again, and this time some dwarves didn’t bother using the crystal glasses.
Lunara took the panting boy by the shoulder with a scowl. “Come, we will find you some water. I will not be healing you of your stupidity.”
“Ugh-huh,” Tarren could only moan sickly.
The dwarves tapped their barrels, and frothing mugs were passed to the elves. Cheers were made and the mood became light. The dwarves took up their instruments and began to sing songs of old. The elven spirits had put them in a right jolly mood and together their deep booming voices and melodic chants gained the attention of all nearby elves. Dwarven drums brought to mind mining picks and falling hammers and the deep heart of dwarven mountains. Hatchets clanged in rhythm and pots were struck; even barrels of ale were used as the music grew steadily louder. Philo began a melody upon his miitar, bending the strings and plucking out a busy progression. Wind pipes moaned and fiddles danced as the elves too joined in and blended perfectly with the melody. Beautiful elven voices rose up to join the dwarves’ booming ones, and dancing began all around the company as more and more elves poured in to get a glimpse of the king of Ro’Sar and his hearty dwarves. Elven flutes and whistles, fiddles and horns joined in the merrymaking, and together the dwarves and elves sang to the heavens.
As the first song ended, Roakore stood high atop the supply cart and with outstretched hands began the old dwarven song, “The Beauty o’ the Gods.” His dwarves came in and the elves joined too, and soon a version of the song never heard in all the lands rose up and rang out for miles.
The rivers they be pretty, and the lasses they be too.
The mountains set me heart to singin’, and me love, so do you.
There be one thing that stands above, high atop the rest
And no, it ain’t a cold-filled pint, nor fair bouncing breast.
It be a thing o’ eternal beauty, it be fire in me soul.
I’ll search it to the mountain’s heart, till me hands be dead and cold.
It be the shining in me eyes, it be the heart at me core.
Gold and silver and gem and jewel, and it be so much more.
The beauty o’ the gods, lo
The beauty o’ the gods.
The demons tried to hide it away
The beauty o’ the gods.
The beauty o’ the gods, lo!
The beauty o’ the gods.
I’ll search it out till dyin’ day.
The beauty o’ the gods.
The crowd joined in after a few choruses and the song went the length of three. Holdagozz bowed to Lunara, who laughed as she too sang for the entire world to hear. She bowed slightly as she beamed at her friend. The night had become intoxicating—the instruments and harmony, so many voices singing as one. Holdagozz bellowed laughter as he spun Lunara round and round, twirling through the streets of dancing elves. The dwarven dance had quickly been taken up by the clever elves, and now hundreds laughed and sang and danced. Smoke from dwarven and elven pipes floated higher with the song. Ale flowed freely from dwarven barrels, and the elven spirits made many rounds.
Chapter 15
Bandits on the Road
Long into the night Dirk rode. He did not rest until an hour before dawn. As soon as the sun broke the horizon, he began again on a steady pace. Before him the Ky’Dren Mountains grew with each of the horse’s steps.
During the night he had come to a crossroads and taken the pass road. The road to the Ky’Dren Pass was much wider than the last, and it was kept up much better as well. This was a major trade route, and it was kept in good shape for the wagons. Though trade had slowed, and there were many more road bandits about these days, heavy traffic could still be found.
He soon came to the remains of a burned-out fire and the telltale signs of a camp. Dirk studied the ground for a few minutes and determined the party to have been few. A cart, two horses, and no more than five men, he estimated from the tracks upon the soft earth. By the depth of the cart tracks he knew that they carried a heavy load. He doubted that they were farmers, as the Ky’Dren Pass was the better part of a day away, and no one would be hauling food that far with a starving countryside in every direction. Likely they were a group of bandits, robbing the countryside to amass enough money to live out the winter to come. Either way, Dirk needed to catch up to them. He needed to eat, and though he could hunt, or better yet have Chief catch him live game, he had no time for all that.
He urged Frostmore on faster as noon approached and his stomach growled. Within the hour he came upon the wagon and horses. He saw them many miles off from on high, at the crest of a ridge that opened into a wide valley of forest and stream. He suspected that well-armed lookouts traveled behind and before the wagon. He had not seen but he had heard through his enchanted earrings the faint but distinct sound of horse’s hooves. The sound grew fainter as it traveled away from him: he had been seen. Likely the trailing lookout was off to report Dirk’s approach to his comrades.
Dirk withdrew the wolf-shaped bone trinket and called to the spirit wolf once again. “Come, Chief.” Within seconds a smoky mist emanated from the trinket and took the form of the huge timber-wolf ghost. Chief looked Dirk over for a moment, then sat lazily on his haunches and began to groom himself.
“Listen up, fe
lla!” said Dirk. “There is a wagon ahead, three men upon it, I suspect, and two lookouts both before and beyond. I have been spotted by one of the lookouts; he now rides to warn his friends.”
Chief continued to groom himself and ignore the assassin. He yawned and looked as bored as a wolf could look.
Dirk went on. “I need you to hunt down the horseman and keep an eye on him.”
Chief’s ears perked up at this, the mention of hunting. He opened his maw in a panting smile and wagged his bushy tail slowly back and forth. The spirit wolf’s ears perked and began to scan the surrounding forest independent of one another. Dirk now had his full attention.
“If the lookout or any of his friends attempt to harm me, kill them. If not, leave them be and stay out of sight. If I require your aid, I will make this call.” Dirk whistled a quick chime. “That is to be your call from this day forth. Understand?”
Chief barked his acknowledgement and Dirk chuckled at his intelligence. “You will make for a good companion.”
Again Chief barked.
“Go on then, boy! Good hunting.”
With that, Chief darted into the underbrush and soon disappeared. Dirk urged Frostmore on once again toward the wagon and a likely ambush.
He had determined that there were no more than five men in the group, three upon the wagon and two on horseback. Still, he could not know how many might be atop the cargo. He decided that if he came upon the wagon and saw fewer than three people on or near it, he could expect an ambush. The two horsemen, he knew, were on lookout duty, so if the wagon contained only two men, a third was most likely hiding, no doubt with an arrow nocked and ready.
Dirk came upon the wagon as it slowed before crossing a short bridge. The rider and driver jumped down from it and began to unhook the horses to drink from the slow river. Dirk could see as he approached from a few hundred yards that the big-wheeled wagon was not made for human transport. Its wooden sides came up no more than a few feet, and a leather tarp covered whatever cargo was beneath.
Dirk approached the wagon slowly. With the help of his enchanted earrings, he could hear as the lookout slowly stalked him, now on foot. And beyond that sound were the quiet steps of Chief, stalking the lookout.
He raised a hand in greeting as he came closer to the two who acted as if they were not aware of his presence. Dirk played along.
“Hello there! Hello!” he yelled.
The two men flinched as if they had been startled by him. “Hello!” the burly driver called back. His tall and lanky rider rested his hands atop the canvas nonchalantly, no doubt inches from a hidden crossbow or blade.
“You mind if my horse shares the river with your fine steeds?” Dirk asked as he dismounted. The driver rubbed his beard and nodded permission while eyeing Dirk’s horse. Dirk knew that he was puzzling over Dirk’s lack of baggage. The rider inched his hand closer to the tarp flap and eyed Dirk. Chief quickly moved from the tree line behind Dirk and back again, giving him the would-be ambusher’s location.
Dirk stroked Frostmore as the horse drank, and addressed the men with a pleasant smile. “I am in need of food and coin if you have it, and I will swiftly be on my way. Tell the men in the woods to lower their bows and come out peacefully and I will spare your lives.”
The rider’s hand froze and he looked at Dirk, dumbfounded. The driver, however, eyed Dirk with renewed interest. He looked him over once more, seemingly noticing his attire for the first time.
“What are you about, stranger? Ain’t no men in the trees. Alls there is is all ye see of our company. We want no trouble.”
“What am I about?” said Dirk as he continued to stroke Frostmore. “I am about to spill blood, unless your rider quits reaching for his weapon under that tarp, and your men come from the woods.”
“There ain’t no men in the woods, I said once, and I ain’t gonna—”
Dirk cut him off with a loud whistle. A snarl and a scream tore through the woods to their right, first one man’s scream and then another. In an instant the rider had thrown back the canvas and had a crossbow at his shoulder.
There was a twang and a bolt came rushing at Dirk. He turned and pulled both sides of his cloak out wide, causing the bolt to skid harmlessly across and to the river. The rider cursed and reloaded with trembling hands as another scream ripped through the quiet day. A bloodcurdling howl followed, and Dirk threw two darts in rapid succession, one at the rider’s neck, the other the driver’s. The two men fell with a thud.
Chief came bounding out of the woods and leapt atop the unconscious men. “You’re a bit late for those two,” Dirk told him. Chief cocked his head and regarded Dirk curiously. “Never mind. There is one more of them, in the woods or on the road ahead. See that he doesn’t surprise me.”
Chief crossed the bridge, sniffing as he went, already on the trail. Dirk checked the pockets of the snoring men. He took what coin they had and pocketed it. It would be sufficient for his needs.
Under the bench seats of the wagon Dirk found bread, but it was stale and hard. He went to the back and uncovered the tarp. Below he found half a dozen wooden shovels still caked with dirt. He turned back the tarp further and found lanterns and iron crowbars. The men’s personal effects were mingled with ten large chests. Dirk took hold of a crowbar and smashed the lock upon one of the chests. It took many blows but it finally broke; it was a cheap lock, made by human hands, most likely. Within the chest he found many watches, bracelets, rings, and jewels.
Grave robbers, thought Dirk. The men must have been on a long quest to have amassed such a pile of jewels. He could not imagine how many burned towns they must have sacked, or how many graves they’d robbed. A fortune was laid out before him, and Dirk wondered why so few men were there to guard the wealth. Likely the party had consisted of many more, but they had slowly been thinning out the group, making each slice of the pie larger.
It was now clear that the thieves had not been traveling to the Ky’Dren Pass. They would have been seen for what they were with a wagon full of family heirlooms, gems, and jewels. Dirk surmised that they were either still on the hunt or headed back to their base of operations, wherever that may be.
Dirk found their food stores among the cargo, and loaded Frostmore with two packs of them. Footsteps approached from the woods behind him, and he could tell that the person limped. The slow, singing sound of a sword being unsheathed came through his enchanted earrings. He turned toward the sound and saw the man hiding beyond the underbrush. Neither moved as Dirk held his gaze and the man’s eyes passed over his two fallen companions.
“You will not get away with this, thief!” yelled the man.
Dirk threw back his head with a laugh. “Ironic, that is, being called a thief by a thief.” He moved to the wagon and folded back the canvas. “How many died for this bounty?”
Angrily the man countered, “I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’, you—”
“You have been injured by my wolf. You drag your leg and trail blood. The beast likely snapped your bow; you have a few blades but no strength. I could kill you within the minute. So please, I tire of these games. Come out from the woods and have a word, or you will die.” Dirk looked to the opposite side of the road and yelled to the other hiding man, “You too there, in the brush behind the tall oak. Come out or die—you have one minute!”
Dirk turned from the cowards and took an apple from the wagon. With a satisfying crunch he began to eat while he hummed a tune and waited. Soon the two men came hobbling out of the woods, swords sheathed. One of the men had found a stick to help himself along. Both had a bloodied leg and torn pants. One wore only one shoe. They hobbled over to the wagon and grudgingly waited for Dirk’s instruction. The assassin looked them over but did not speak, merely ate his apple to the core. The sun finally broke through the clouds and shined warm light upon the road ahead.
“Ah! But it looks as though it will be a pleasant day after all,” he told the men nonchalantly and fed the apple core to Frostmore. From the wagon
he found what meager medical supplies they had and threw them to the men. “See you tend to your wounds.”
The men tore the cloth into strips as they eyed Dirk suspiciously. “What are you playin’ at, stranger? You need someone to drive the team and wagon, is that it? Well, I’ll tell you what! Viggo Varrox ain’t gonna be too pleased you meddled in his business—”
Dirk sprang from the side of the wagon with inhuman speed and had a dagger to the man’s throat before the sentence ended. Surprised yelps escaped the men.
“Your next word will be your last,” Dirk whispered into his ear. He looked at the other injured man, who was backing away slowly.
“You there, fetch a barrel from the wagon.”
The man complied without a word and set the barrel down at Dirk’s feet. “Put your right hand on the barrel both of you, one on top of the other,” Dirk ordered, and released the loudmouth.
The men looked at each other and at the barrel. Grudgingly they obeyed. In a blur of movement Dirk stabbed his dagger, Krone, through both of their hands. The men cried out in pain but soon became placid as the dagger’s effect took their minds. They looked at Dirk with empty stares.
“You and your friends will turn this wagon around and head straight to the barricaded town one day’s march east and south. You will give the contents of this wagon over to them and tell them that it is a gift from Whill of Agora. You will then offer yourselves to their service and live out the rest of your days glad that you did not die here today. Do you understand?”
Both men nodded agreement. “I understand,” they said in unison.
Dirk retracted the blade and the men clutched their wounded hands. “Tend to your wounds and prepare to leave.”
Just then Chief came back across the bridge, dragging a screaming man by the ankle. The spirit wolf stopped at Dirk’s feet and he gave him a pat on the head. “Good boy.” He grabbed the shaken man and put his hand atop the barrel. “Chief, if he moves, I want you to rip his throat out.”
Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords Page 15
