by Ember Lane
It was possibly the first time that someone had told him the truth about Flip. Alexa had spoke highly of him, of his help, but Lincoln had seen little else than a man consumed by his own self. At least Cronis had confirmed it, and now Lincoln didn’t have to take Flip’s wayward attitude personally.
“So, Allaise,” Cronis said, his gaze falling on the half-elf. “What do you think of Lincoln’s fair city?”
“I’ve never been in a city that’s fair, in any way, shape or form. They’re all festering corruptions. But, at least this one’s stench hasn’t billowed up yet.”
“Damming, but fair,” Cronis acknowledged. “I can see that you’re going to like Joan’s Creek better. Belzarra, what about you? Are you just here for the fun or the long haul? After being a recluse for so long, you might find all these folks a…pain?”
Belzarra drew back, regarding the old wizard. “Just what are you up to?”
Cronis grunted. “Just being pleasant, welcoming,” the old wizard muttered into his ale.
“Exactly,” Belzarra said. “We’ve known each other what? Two hundred years?”
Lincoln spat his ale out.
“More,” Cronis grumbled. “And you haven’t changed a bit—still a strange one.”
“Two hundred years, and you’re suddenly pleasant—just what do you want?”
“Ah, that. I want to show you something; I want your take on it.”
Belzarra took a swig of her ale, reached into her leather coat and brought out a pipe. “You got leaf, old man?”
Cronis grinned, “Sure, I’ve got some.” He handed her a pouch. “So, will you?”
“The great Cronis asks for my opinion on something? How on earth could I turn that down? Question is, what could puzzle him so?”
“I hear you have your own puzzle,” Cronis said, his eyes challenging her.
“So, what’s yours?”
“A stone table,” Cronis told her. “We’ll need a barrel and some food. I have the leaf.”
Belzarra nodded and got up. “Why not,” she said, and cast her gaze down on Allaise and Lincoln. “These two could use some time to themselves, and mysteries should always be figured out before they fester.”
Cronis smoked his own pipe, his muse firmly settled on the witch from Tanglewood. “It’s time you stepped up,” he told her after a while.
Fully expecting Belzarra to launch into some tirade, dissolve into laughter, or just walk out, Lincoln was surprised when she bowed her head and mumbled, “I know,” as if Cronis was her superior. In that fleeting moment, Lincoln suspected that something had passed, some unspoken agreement made. The witch soon looked up. “So, grab the barrel and let’s get going, old man. We’ve been a long time waiting.”
Cronis hopped off his stool like he’d suddenly got a burst of agility, and Ozmic passed over a barrel of ale. Cronis walked away, leaving it on the counter.
“Nothing changes,” Belzarra muttered under her breath, and hoisted the barrel onto her shoulder.
Lincoln was left with Allaise and Pete. They were both expectantly looking at him. “I think I’ll show you both Joan’s Creek,” and he drained his ale, suddenly impatient to get there.
An hour later, the three of them were through the tunnel and in Joan Creek’s vale. It seemed like an age since he’d been within the embrace of its red-rock arms. Pete walked forward a dozen or more paces, put his hands on his hips, took a deep breath and bellowed. “We’re here.” Lincoln looked down at Allaise, and he knew she’d found her home. Tears welled in her eyes, her mouth quivering.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, and fell to her knees, burying her face in the long grass, breathing deeply. “It’s a secret worth defending with your last drop of blood.”
It took the three of them until dusk to get to its tiny settlement, and compared to Sanctuary, Joan’s Creek was indeed now tiny. They ambled along the track toward the bridge, each side now edged with a bramble bushes, the trail itself meandering like a lazy river. As they walked down, they saw the fire pit burning bright, glimpses of amber from the cottages, and sparks flying up from Thumptwist’s chimney. Closer, they heard the babble of voices, and a hundred yards before the bridge, a boy ran out to greet them. Lincoln soon recognized him as Robert, the crafter’s son.
“Are you a giant?” he asked Pete, and Pete told him yes, picking him up and swinging him onto his shoulders.
Ardreth, the leader of the tree elves, Gillian, Jack, Jin, and Elleren were all on the tavern's stoop, and before long, it seemed as though Allaise and Pete had always been there, even more so when Pete announced he was going behind the bar, and no one could stop him.
“No dwarves,” Jin told Lincoln with a devilish grin on his face. “All partying with your betrothed.”
“Betrothed?” Allaise asked, and Lincoln told Allaise all about Griselda’s intentions.
“We’ve been covering their shifts in the quarries all day,” Ardreth told Lincoln. “From what we’ve heard, they’ll be no use for a while.”
From what I’ve heard, I’m in trouble!
Lincoln couldn’t tear the smile off his face though. True, there were a few folks missing, but Allaise and Pete had been the first folks he’d met, after Finequill, and now they’d found their home. Nothing could ruin his night, and for once, nothing did.
Later that night, as Allaise and Lincoln walked along the lake and back to his cabin, Lincoln wondered how Alexa Drey was getting on, how Glenwyth was. He wondered about Mezzerain too. Was the man really an enemy? He hadn’t seemed that way, in fact, not a hint, not an inkling that anything was wrong. Lincoln had been around long enough to know he was a good judge of character, and long enough to know when someone was up to something, yet he hadn’t felt that with Mezzerain.
Lying in bed, his arm around Allaise, he thought about Joan, about what she’d make of it all, but really he wondered whether she’d forgive him for letting his renewed vitality get the better of him. He smiled as he saw her face staring down at him, her lips telling him not to be so stupid, but he still saw sadness in her eyes, tearful regret for what could have been.
This was her place, really, her idea, and it was her achievement, no one else’s, that Allaise and Pete had found their home.
“You’ve done what you set out to do, love,” he whispered in the dark. “You gave them a home,” and he drifted off to sleep, with a smile on his face, and a tear meandering down his cheek.
8
The Arrival of a Celebrity
The first of the dwarves spilled out of the mountain around noon. Five long blasts on a deep horn sounded over Joan’s Creek to announce them, and from the tavern’s stoop, from Thumptwist’s roof, or from high up in Joan’s Creek’s blessed tree, you could see their colorful train meandered down through the foothills, toward the lake, and ever closer. The beat of their drums sounded out, Lincoln tried not to think of it as a death march, tried to get into the spirit.
He felt curiously calm. That type of calm you get before the hangman kicks away the stool you’re standing on, or was it the calm before the storm? The storm was certainly approaching. Rank upon rank of dwarf flowed out, like a never-ending, reasonably colorful, snake.
At the head of the snake, Dunaric was unmistakable. Next to him, Thumptwist took pride of place, his diligent work of the past night having earned him the right to be there. With the help of the tree elves, a fabulous litter had been crafted. Thumptwist had shod the carrying poles with precious scarletite, he had leafed the roof with silver, and had adorned the wood with numerous, glinting, gold pins. Four dwarves forward, and four dwarves at the rear, bore the litter at shoulder height, which in truth, wasn’t that high, but nonetheless it looked fairly impressive.
“Can you see her?” Lincoln asked Allaise. It was typically foolish of Lincoln, given that Pete was on his other side and nearly half as big as both of them. Though if he had, Pete would have had to say no, as the litter was curtained off, and what it held was a secret, a promise, yet to be revealed.
“She’s making a meal of it; I’ll bet she’s unbearable,” Allaise replied.
It was a conclusion that Lincoln was fast coming to.
What kind of a person needs this amount of adulation?
But he’d had no choice but to go along with Dunaric’s plans. Even Allaise had agreed that he hadn’t, but it was Elleren who had told him he was being a grouch.
“Go with it. How many celebrations have we had since we’ve been here?” she scolded him, and she was right. They had this idyllic place, this growing community, and they should celebrate it, every day, every day until war darkened their doorstep.
The dwarf train soon breeched the edge of Joan’s Creek, and Lincoln felt the beat of their drums. It was more than just a sound; it was deep, resonant; he could hear them, feel them as they thrummed through his chest. It brought a smile to his face, even though his legs were on the verge of giving way through fear alone—fear of what was to come.
The train came to a halt by the tavern, the head of it parting to let the litter through. As it was carefully set down a few yards away from the edge of the stoop, everything fell silent.
“She’s milking it,” Lincoln whispered in Allaise’s ear.
“Sure is.”
Silence.
A rustle from within.
The slight creak as the litter’s little door opened.
Finally!
Raucous cheers erupted, soon turning to wild whoops, and the drums beat out a heavy rhythm, horns blared out over the vale, and they all waited for Griselda Ironfist to emerge from the shadows of her litter.
But she wasn’t the first thing to appear.
The head of a great mallet poked through the doorway, clearing its frame by a fingernail’s width. The tavern shook as it tipped onto the ground in front, the hammer’s handle springing upright. The head of the giant mallet was clearly made of black-speckled granite; the great wooden handle of turned redwood, with golden bracelets clamped around its length.
The assembled dwarves roared, “Griselda! Griselda! Griselda!” Then slightly quieter, “Griselda! Griselda! Griselda!” And again until it was no more than a whisper, which they called in time with the beat of Lincoln’s thumping heart.
He saw her helmet first; its bronze glinting in the noon sun. Her shoulders followed, angled at forty-five degrees to squeeze through the doorway, and they were clad in shimmering bronze as well. Then Griselda seemed to blur, as if the plug of her shoulders had freed the rest of her body, and before Lincoln could blink, the dwarven champion was standing on her mallet’s head, holding its redwood handle in her immense hands.
She was, Lincoln had to admit, curiously beautiful, though part of her face was hidden. Her blindingly white hair fell straight from her helmet, flowing over her shoulders. Her eyes were hidden by a black mesh which spanned her bronze cheek guards, yet even though they were hidden, Lincoln could sense her gaze scanning around, taking everything in. Gleaming, white teeth glinted from between her thin lips, and she raised her substantial arms aloft and twisted around, waving to her adoring crowd. Griselda’s emerald tunic shone as though it had metal woven into it. She began to stamp her heavily booted feet, pumping one fist in the air. The dwarves began to grunt in time.
“Griselda! Griselda! Griselda!”
Both arms now aloft, Griselda clapped her hands together, and each time they came together, a crack, like thunder, sounded out. It was an incredible sight, a moving sight, and Lincoln found himself tapping his foot in time. Allaise took his mug of ale from him, and he began to clap with her.
“Griselda! Griselda! Griselda!” the dwarves cried out. “Griselda! Griselda! Griselda!” the rest of the village cried, and Griselda stamped her feet and clapped her hands, beaming, drawing in the whole crowd.
Lincoln watched as she brought her arms down and grabbed the hammer’s handle by its end and then she spun upward, her powerful arms straightening until she was upside down, perfectly balanced. Slowly, one of her hands let go, and her arm swept out at ninety degrees.
“Griselda! Griselda! Griselda!”
Griselda Irongrip held her upside-down pose for what seemed like an eternity, until she suddenly vaulted down, landing on her feet right in front of the tavern's stoop, seamlessly falling to one knee. Out of the corner of his eye, Lincoln saw an ax flying toward him. He heard Allaise scream. He froze as it streaked down on him. Griselda shot up, her hand darting out, snatching the ax from the air, bringing it thudding to the ground, as she knelt back down before Lincoln, her head bowed.
The dwarves went wild, jumping up and down, throwing their helmets in the air, dancing around, slapping outstretched hands. Griselda looked up, grinning from ear to ear, and then jumped up, skipping up the stoop. Lincoln kept seeing the ax flying toward his head.
“’Bout time I had some of that legendary ale.” And she pulled him into the tavern.
As soon as she was inside, in the half light of the tavern, she took off her helmet and veil, dumping it on the closest table and hopped onto a stool. Pete jumped behind the counter and started pouring the ales as Allaise and Lincoln hovered behind her. Pete passed the mug to her.
“So, Lincoln the Builder, let’s see what all the fuss is about.” She raised her mug. Lincoln hardly heard her; he was still quivering from the ax incident.
Silence fell.
Lincoln watched as Griselda brought the mug up to her lips. His nerves were on fire, muscles tense; his world polarized on those thin lips. She tipped the mug forward, her big blue eyes closing. Lincoln’s mouth opened, his own eyes on stalks. Allaise squeezed his hand. The mug tilted farther, Griselda’s head tipping with it. Then it reached its cusp. Lincoln imagined the mug draining, the ale swooping down her throat. She brought the mug back down with a crash, but just froze, looking through Pete, looking past the tavern’s wall. Her lips teased to a smile, and her voice boomed out, “That is one mighty fine ale.”
Another cheer went up from outside, and relief coursed through Lincoln. He grabbed Allaise, hugging her close. Griselda stood on her stool, leaned over the counter, and hugged Pete, and the true party started. As the dwarves, elves, humans, mantilees, and even the odd fairy, piled into the tavern, Lincoln, Griselda, and Allaise took to a table at the back.
“Good enough?” Griselda asked Lincoln. “I thought I’d show you what a true dwarf celebration looks like.” She leaned in. “You lot think we just drink and crush heads. So, when are we going to get this castle cleaned out? I’ve cleaned my axes, sharpened my knives, and brought my favorite hammer. Apart from the ale, what are you going to bring to the party?”
That question caught Lincoln unawares. He quickly cycled through his stat sheet. Discounting level-1 pickpocketing and his level-2 concealment, he struggled to find anything that might impress. Surely level-14 close-q-fighting would cut it?
“Divination,” Allaise said. “He’s got divination. We have a day to prepare, and that’s what we’re concentrating on. If he can see through into the level under, think of the advantage.”
Lincoln wished he’d said all that. He also wished he’d thought of it too, but he was mighty glad Allaise had.
“You’ve got divination?” Griselda gasped. “What cap?”
“Twenty-five,” Lincoln muttered after quickly checking. He was also wondering why she hadn’t just read his stat board. His concealment wasn’t all that.
Griselda was openmouthed. “Do you know how rare that is? For a dwarf, that would be enough of a dowry to take ten wives. Is he taken?” she asked Allaise.
Lincoln looked at Allaise for help, his eyes pleading. Was she being serious? He was still relieved Belzarra had sloped off with Cronis. Before he could panic too much, Griselda winked at him and smiled.
“Well, I doubt he’d like the bowels of the land too much—he looks a bit…outdoorsy.” She took another draft on her ale. “So, who are the others? It’s been an age since I’ve cleared an ancient relic. Last one was…” Drumming her fingers on her lips, Griselda
nodded her head as if discounting a few scenarios. “Bollastergargh—the secret citadel of the goblin king, Murrwhal. That was some deep, dense rock that was carved into. Took three of us a full two cycles to burrow through to its armory and another to start clearing it.”
“Why had they abandoned it?” Lincoln asked.
Thinking about it, he hadn’t seen a goblin, nor heard much about them—apart from the fact that they lived deep, deep underground.
Griselda laughed. “They hadn’t. We just needed it for…strategic purposes. It had a vast hot spring that filled a huge, idyllic lake, which pooled in a cavern illuminated by glowing, giant fungi. Other pools teemed with all manner of food, some even lined with white sand. It was quite the take. We’re still holding it now. They’re testing us, but, who’s gonna give up the best baths in the land’s core?”
Not you, Lincoln thought. “Were there many banes? Any traps?”
“A couple thousand goblins—man they can scream—and yeah, they booby-trapped the place as they left, mostly spike pits, mutated insects, huge great worms, and the odd spike-spitting, flesh-eating plants. Nothing too shabby.”
It sounded very shabby to Lincoln, but the way she described it, well, he fancied joining her, questing with her. Mindless violence: Lincoln was up for a bit of that. Joan’s Creek made him way too introspective. Tanglewood had given him the taste, the taste for battle, for facing demons, vanquishing them and then drinking ale.
“Sounds great,” he muttered.
Allaise nudged him. “Sure does, been a while since I cracked any heads other than drunken ones. I could be persuaded to play first reserve. Done a bit of ranged support, and my stealth’s right up there. Being a half-breed in Brokenford taught me to stick to the shadows.”
Lincoln wondered if he was the weakest soul at the table.
“So,” Griselda said, lowering her voice. “You never answered; who’s on the team? Allaise is obviously first reserve now…the rest?”
