Zollin pulled the large bottle of wine off of Lilly’s rump; she had been loaded with most of their supplies on this trip. The wine bottle was still full and almost as wide around as the stump where the arm wrestling contest had taken place. Zollin sat it on the stump and said in a loud voice, “To the winner go the spoils.”
“Aye, that’s me,” said Jute. “It was a good contest, but the best man won.”
“You’re no man,” Mansel panted, “more like mule. You pull like one.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, highlander,” said Jute. “Now, let’s fine some cups and sample this wine. They say that wine won is far sweeter than wine bought.”
He disappeared into the cave, and Zollin was left looking at Mansel in surprise and disbelief.
“Can you believe it?” Zollin said. “First a dragon and now dwarves.”
“I can’t believe that little imp was stronger than me.”
Zollin tied the horses to a tree and left them pawing at the pine needles, hoping for some grass. He moved over to the stump and sat down. He was listening to the chanting song from under the mountain. There was a part of him that was restless. He wanted to continue their journey as soon as possible. Brianna was out there, waiting for him to come to her aid. But he had promised his father he would wait, and another part of him was excited about the dwarves. He wondered if more would come out of the small hole and drink the wine.
Mansel got up and brushed the dirt off his back as best as he could before settling in beside Zollin with his back to the stump.
“Is this where we’re going to wait for Quinn?” he asked.
“It’s as good as any,” Zollin replied.
“It’s off the trail; they may go right by us.”
“Perhaps, but we can build a fire; they’ll smell the smoke, even if they don’t see it. Surely they’ll investigate that.”
“You’re probably right.”
They sat in silence a few more minutes before Jute returned. He was carrying three metal cups, which Zollin thought would make the wine taste even worse. He wasn’t a big fan of wine that wasn’t mixed with something else. He preferred cider or ale, but he didn’t really have an option. Plus, he was anxious to find out more about the dwarves, especially the steel Jute had mentioned.
“Here we go,” he said. “Highland wine, that’ll be a nice change.”
“Change from what?” Mansel asked.
“Oh, we brew spirits, but mostly from roots. You ever try Shochu? It’s made from sweet potatoes.”
“Never even heard of it,” Mansel said, taking a cup from the dwarf, who was eye level with Mansel, who sitting.
“Ah, most highlanders haven’t. You prefer the wine, ale, or even mead, but we dwarves are hardier folk. I haven’t had wine since I was a youngster,” he said with a sparkle in his eye as he pulled the cork from the bottle.
“You live underground?” Zollin asked.
“Not underground,” Jute said as he sniffed the opening of the wine. “Under the mountains. We were the first mountain dwellers, and we’ll be the last. Some of my kind are as old as these mountains and as stalwart.”
“I believe you,” said Mansel.
“And so you should, dwarves are honest folk. We do not strive for power or seek to oppress those around us like you highlanders.”
“You don’t have a very high opinion of humans,” Zollin said.
“Well, I don’t mean to be offensive,” he said, sipping the wine. “Oh, this is well made. But you know, most endeavors highlanders undertake are hasty, and the results are less than desirable. We dwarves know how to take our time. But then again, you have such short lives. It’s all a bit mixed up, and philosophy goes over better with a good drink and a good smoke. You don’t happen to have any tobacco about, do you?”
“No, I’m sorry,” Zollin said.
“All’s well, all’s well,” Jute said amiably. “This wine is a fine treat for an old dwarf like me. Although I was hoping for ale. Perhaps there is a village or farmstead nearby that would trade. Do you know of any?” he asked.
“No,” Zollin told him, “I’m afraid we don’t, we’re not from around here.”
“Well, where are you from? Tell me some news from the Five Kingdoms. Are there still five?”
“Yes, of course,” Zollin said. “But I don’t know much news. We’ve been on the move quite a bit lately.”
“On the move, yet you have no news. Come now, wizard, don’t play coy with me. Never try to fool a dwarf, we’re much too canny.”
“Well,” said Mansel, who had already drained his cup of wine and was reaching for more. “There was the dragon.”
“Dragon?” Jute said with a note of alarm. “Where did you see the beast?”
“He flew down out of the northern mountains,” said Mansel. “There was an attack on a small village in the Great Valley by an army of Skellmarians. While they were attacking, the dragon swooped in and destroyed the village.”
“The shaggy men have a dragon?” Jute asked incredulously. “I don’t believe that. They couldn’t tame a baby goat.”
“They didn’t tame it,” Mansel said. “It was eating Skellmarian and Yelsian alike.”
“You don’t say? What did it look like?”
“It looked like a dragon,” Mansel said in a matter-of-fact tone as he smacked his lips.
“It was red, with darker stripes,” Zollin added.
“Big?” Jute asked.
“Huge,” Mansel said.
Zollin was nodding in agreement.
“Must have just woken up from hibernation. Their scales turn black from the sun and get harder than steel. Of course, dwarvish steel can still penetrate, but only the finest, and we rarely forge weapons in the sizes highlanders use. What other news?”
“We honestly don’t know much,” Zollin said. “We were pursued from our village by wizards from the Torr. We spent the winter in the valley and were preparing to leave when the Skellmarians attacked.”
“The Torr is still around, huh?” said Jute, not really asking a question. “They’re evil meddlers and the worst kind of wizards. Hypocrites, if you ask me.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Zollin.
“Because they seek to limit magic. They want to control every magic user, or slay them. They kill the innocent and drive everyone except you highlanders away. Don’t you know your purpose, wizard?”
He was talking loudly now, the wine having obviously gone to his head. He had drained several cups and was refilling his again as he spoke.
“You’re stewards of the balance,” he said, his voice slurring slightly. “You shape the world and have great magical power, but that power is checked by your humanity. Don’t you see? The Torr restrain magic for personal gain, even while they sacrifice their humanity. Vile men, they are. Hateful and cruel, you’d do well to steer clear of them.”
“One of them has our friend. We’ve vowed to free her,” Zollin said.
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Jute said. He was swaying on his feet now. “Just terrible. You should send your thick headed friend and save yourself the trouble. They’ll have corrupted her by now. And if they get their hooks in you, they’ll steal all that’s good in the world.”
“Hey,” Mansel said, he was feeling the effects of the wine as well, but he wasn’t as drunk as Jute. “My head’s not thick.”
“Oh, I meant no offense, highlander. We dwarves all have thick heads. You have to when you’re always banging them into stone ceilings.”
“Jute, why don’t the rest of your people come out and join us?” Zollin said.
“Oh, most dwarves prefer the softer light of the caves. We like a good, thick ceiling of solid stone over our heads. The open sky’s a bit too high, and much too bright. It makes you feel like you could go floating away at any moment. I, on the other hand, enjoy getting out and seeing a bit of the world, every now and again. The colors are vivid and the smells are fresh and clear.”
He swirled what was l
eft in his cup and picked up the wine bottle. There was only a tiny bit of the wine left, and he poured it into his cup, then frowned and tossed the bottle over his shoulder. It bounced on the soft ground without breaking, but Jute didn’t seem to notice.
“I believe I’m ready to turn in,” he said loudly.
“But it’s the middle of the day,” Mansel said, surprised.
“Not where I come from. Down below, there’s no sun, no moon, no clocks, and no reason not to trundle off of to bed whenever I feel like it. Right now, I feel like it. My head’s a bit light, and I’m afeared that I might float away. Best to get indoors, if you take my meaning.”
“Will we see you again?” Zollin asked.
“I should hope so, wizard. And bring back your friend; he’s a good sport and all that. Good drinker, too, I might say. But you’ll need ale if you want dwarvish steel. Half a dozen small kegs at least, more if you can manage it. Just call down the hole for Jute, and I’ll be along directly.”
He smiled and hiccupped, then went staggering toward the cave entrance. He was clearly inebriated, but he didn’t seem to mind. Once he got to the entrance of his underground home, he took hold of the sides of the opening.
“That’s better,” he said to himself, but Zollin heard him anyway. “It’s good to be home.”
And then he was gone, down into the dark. The cave must have dropped down steeply, and the hole was just big enough for Jute to walk through, a little wider and only barely taller than the little dwarf.
“He can’t hold his liquor,” Mansel said in a superior tone.
“You’d be an expert on that,” Zollin said with a sigh. “Let’s make camp closer to the trail. Then you can take a nap and sleep off the wine you drank.”
“I don’t need a nap,” Mansel said forcefully, but when he stood up, he swayed unsteadily.
“No, I’m sure you don’t,” Zollin said.
“Hold on, I’m just a little light headed is all.”
“I understand, no hurry.”
“Good,” Mansel said in a sour tone. “That little imp stole my wine.”
“He won it from you and shared it with you, too. There’s no reason to be upset.”
“You going to drink that?” Mansel said, pointing to Zollin’s cup.
Until that moment, Zollin hadn’t realized that Jute had left the metal cups with them. They were finely made, but metal cups tend to leave the taste of iron in your mouth. Zollin took another drink of his wine; it tasted fine, or at least as good as any other wine he’d tasted. There was no metallic after taste. He poured out the wine to look inside the cup.
“Oh, now you’ve gone and wasted it,” Mansel said sharply.
“It was mine to waste, leave it be,” Zollin said, ignoring Mansel’s reproving look.
Inside, the cup looked to be plain metal, but as he probed deeper with his magic he could tell there was something else to the cup, something bright and wholesome. It reminded him of the willow tree where he’d first learned that magic could reside inside other things. That was a time of fun and experimentation, when his magic seemed more like a gift, a key to a whole new world. The metal cup had a touch of similar magic to it. Zollin smiled and took Mansel’s cup from the stump where he’d left it. Then he walked over and picked up the wine bottle. He didn’t want to leave anything in the clearing that might draw attention to the cave.
Zollin gathered the horses and took Mansel by the arm and led them all back out to the road. There was a little patch of soft looking grass that was as good as any for making their camp. The air was still cold, but the sunlight warmed them all nicely, and the horses could graze while they waited for Quinn and Kelvich to come along. Zollin got them all settled and then retrieved the cups.
“Why are you fiddling with those empty cups?” Mansel asked.
“They aren’t empty,” Zollin said happily. “They’re full of magic.”
Chapter 23
They had sailed down the entire length of the Great Valley in just four days. The fisherman, Drogan, and his sons had taken turns steering the ship through the nights. They had whale oil lamps that they hung off the railing of the ship so that they could see what was around them, while the moon and stars offered their light to help them navigate the ever widening stream. Brianna realized that there was no chance of Zollin catching up with them anytime soon, and Branock had made it clear that he meant to sail south from Whistle Bay once they reached it. Her only hope was that they might go ashore to search for passage south, and that she might be able to escape, or, if Branock left her in the care of the fishermen, that she might be able to persuade them to help.
Unfortunately, they sailed straight out to a group of ships that were being loaded with trade goods. Branock bartered passage on the first ship they came to, and Brianna was hauled aboard by rough hands that belonged to rough looking men. They wore mismatched clothing that was tattered and looked to have been mended by the men themselves. They had long hair that they wore in thick braids. Most had beards, but their cheeks were clean shaven, and their mustaches were long and treated with some type of oil that made them glisten and hold fantastic shapes.
“They’re from Shuklan,” Branock said. “They are not virtuous, so don’t go wandering around alone.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
The sailors were staring at her, and she wrapped her overcoat more tightly around her shoulders as if it could protect her from them. The ship smelled of unwashed bodies and food cooked with strange spices.
“That’s nothing to worry yourself about,” Branock said in a silky tone. “Everything is arranged, and as long as you remain obedient, you have nothing to worry about.”
Then he turned and spoke to one of the sailors, handing him a small pouch of coins. He was sending the man to purchase supplies for their trip. He wanted wine and cheese and any fruit the man might be able to obtain. He also wanted news, which would have arrived with the first of the ships that had sailed north with the spring winds.
Brianna understood none of what was said. She looked around the bay, which was bustling with ships. How would Zollin know which one they had taken? The only people who had seen her were the fishermen that had brought them here. She felt an overwhelming despair threatening to rise up and engulf her. It would be no different than if she toppled over the edge of the ship and sunk beneath the bay’s frigid, green water.
She took a faltering step toward the ship’s railing when a hand grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise. She looked back over her shoulder and saw Branock, his one good eye was trained on her and seemed to burn with a fever of need. He would never let her escape, she knew that now.
“Let’s get you down below,” he said in an icy tone. “I don’t want you to have an accident; that would be of no benefit to anyone.”
“You can’t keep me,” she said in a quiet voice that betrayed her. Tears were stinging her eyes. “Just let me go.”
“Oh, don’t cry, my dear.” Branock’s voice mocked her. There was no sympathy in him. “Everything will be well in time. Your young Zollin will come to see that his place is here with me. He’ll have everything he’s ever dreamed of, including you, if he so desires. Now, come along and stop thinking desperate thoughts. It’s unbecoming.”
Brianna wanted to scream, but she knew it would do no good. She would get no help from the swarthy sailors, and no one else was coming to her rescue. She was all alone.
* * *
Mansel slept the rest of that day, napping in the afternoon sun. Zollin gathered fallen branches to make a fire. Then he gave both of their horses a good rubdown. Finally, once all the busy work had been done, he set about making their supper—a potato soup with some wild onions he’d discovered and bits of dried meat. It was the last of their vegetables, they would have to rely on dried meat and hard bread until they found a village or farm where they could trade for more food.
With the little pot of soup boiling over the fire, he finally turned his attention back to th
e cups the dwarf had left with them. There was something bright and hidden just inside the metal. He used his magic to delve into the cups, pushing deeper and deeper until he could sense the space between the elements. The metal was different than that of a weapon. It was, in fact, a mixture of different metals, iron and copper and tin and bronze, but the most compelling thing about it was the magic. The cups almost seemed to shimmer or sing in his hands. He knew the metal could never be used to harm someone, but it could be used to protect. He concentrated on the metal and watched as it swirled into a liquid state. Then he reshaped it, first into a metal breast plate, then into a gauntlet. Finally, he settled on a helmet. It needed a padded, leather lining, but polishing it gave him something to do.
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