And then what will we do?
He pushed the question away. If it came to that, there'd be time later to consider it. For now, all they could do was hope otherwise.
Emerging from the boulders, the great hall rose with an unveiled view. Garin's initial look had still made it seem smaller than it was as they approached. It was no Coral Castle or kintree, but it was the grandest building they'd seen in the East thus far. Garin wondered just how many dwarves lived in Vathda, and hoped again that they took kindly to travelers.
At the door, at least, a merry dwarf awaited them. By the shortness of his beard and youthfulness of his features, Garin guessed him to be barely out of adolescence, at least by dwarven reckoning.
"Trader Chalerem said you'd be coming," the doorman chattered as they tied up their stors in the stables and filed past him. "But aren't you the damnedest group to wander the Hyalkasi in winter?"
Garin only smiled back uncertainly, too distracted by his surroundings to think of a reply. Inside the hall smelled of ale and pine. Long tables were arranged in rows, with benches for sitting before them.
And at the tables sat dozens upon dozens of dwarves.
Glimpsing a handful of the Stalwart Bloodline was one thing; seeing an entire clan together was altogether another. Garin barely kept his mouth from slipping open at the sight. Every one of the men had a beard, and most seemed to take fastidious care of it. Their long facial hair, often reaching down past their bellies, was braided and groomed and intricately decorated with beads and bone and delicate chains. Master Krador had sported a beard, but his had looked nowhere near as ornate as those before Garin now.
The women were nearly as stout as the men, and twice as boisterous. As he watched, one lass — evident by her leaner build, which was to say still thicker than Garin, and whiskerless face — surged onto the tabletop and drained a horn, a bit of the liquid inside dribbling down her chin. When she finished, she raised her arms, to a general cheer at the table.
But at the entrance of Garin's party, the dwarves ceased their disparate activities to turn and stare at them. The clamor faded to silence. Garin stood stock-still under the force of their collective gaze, desperately hoping they hadn't made a grave mistake.
"Strangers!"
The call came from the opposite end of the hall, which Garin had not yet closely observed. There, a platform rose above the rest of the assembly, hosting two tables much like the rest, but with chairs only lining the far side. In between the tables was arranged a black stone chair that very much resembled a throne, and a dwarf standing before it.
Garin immediately picked out the dwarf as the Clan Chief. If his position in front of the throne hadn't clued him in, his bearing and clothes might have. His cloak, dyed charcoal black, was fine and lined with white fur. His boots were polished so they shone even from where Garin stood.
And, most telling of all, an iron crown sat atop his head.
"Strangers, be welcome," the chieftain spoke from across the hall, raising his thick arms. As he moved, the cloak fell back with a dramatic sweep. "You have come to Vathda, haven to the Hardrog dwarves."
Hardrog. Garin tried to recall where he'd heard of the clan before. Was it the one Tal had a quarrel with? Or perhaps something from the stories of Markus Bredley?
"Thank you, Lord Dathal," Ashelia responded. Garin guessed she had learned his name from the merchant. "Your hospitality is most welcome after our travels."
"Indeed. Our settlement's generosity is renowned far and wide."
Garin almost frowned before he caught himself; after all, it wouldn't be polite to be caught frowning at their host's words. Yet something in the clan leader's tone seemed to hold a note of irony. His earlier nervousness resurfaced, and he found himself scanning the chamber for any signs of a threat.
Ashelia was looking around too, a slight crease to her brow. Garin noticed she kept Rolan close by her side with a firm hand on his shoulder, ignoring the dwarves nearby ogling at the boy. It did little to put his nerves at ease.
"As Trader Chalerem might have informed you, I am Peer Ashelia of House Venaliel."
"Elven nobility," Lord Dathal commented. "I'm honored you grace us with your presence."
There was no mistaking it now; the dwarf was mocking them. And indeed, a few chuckles sounded throughout the hall, though they were muffled. Anger smoldered inside Garin, but he kept his expression flat. No good could come of showing offense, as Ashelia had earlier warned.
"I have news that may be of interest to you," Ashelia continued, not seeming flustered by the chieftain's attitude. "And a request to make. When might we be granted a private audience?"
"A private audience?" The dwarf glanced around the room. "Haven't you visited dwarves before? This is as private as we get — even in our bed chambers!"
The laughter came louder now. A glance at his companions showed that few of them were taking their treatment well. Aelyn and Wren openly wore scowls. Helnor frowned, as did Falcon. Rolan looked uncertain as to whether he should laugh as well as he looked to the others. Only Ashelia and Kaleras remained unruffled.
The warlock had barely stirred throughout the exchange, a statue in his stillness. But now, he stepped forward to stand next to Ashelia, sweeping his hood back and scattering droplets of melted frost on the floor behind him.
"Lord Dathal," he said in a tone that brooked no amusement, "I am Kaleras, formerly a Magister of Jalduaen's Circle. I knew your uncle, Lord Yardin, before his death."
"Kaleras." The smug humor swept from the dwarf's face. "Kaleras the Impervious. I remember you."
"Good," the warlock responded. "Then you may also remember the services rendered to your clan during my stay."
The chieftain nodded, the gesture almost respectful. "Dwarves have long memories, warlock. But none could forget your vanquishing of Khaovex'das, 'The Darkness From the Water,' that plagued our copper mines. A hundred lives it had claimed before you came and put an end to the terror."
Garin stared at the warlock. He knew his sorcery to be potent, had witnessed it in Elendol, and heard tell of several of his acts. But to have slain a beast who killed so many, and gain the respect of these dwarves — he supposed there was far more to the man than he'd initially guessed.
And he's your teacher now, he marveled.
Kaleras, for his part, seemed nonplussed by the recounting. "Your uncle claimed to owe me a debt. I invoke it now, as I must call upon your goodwill. Winter is harsh in these Hyalkasi mountains, and we have an urgent errand. Provide me and my companions with assistance now, and only mutual gratitude need remain between us."
Lord Dathal stood in silence for a moment, returning Kaleras' stare with his own black one. Garin could almost feel the resentment radiating from the clan leader. The dwarves glanced among themselves, while their party all looked to Kaleras, hardly daring to hope this last effort might win what Ashelia's peerage had not.
The dwarf, Lord Dathal, raised his hand and gave a careless wave. "Very well, warlock. Honor remains among dwarves in spite of the fickleness of humans and elves. I will grant your audience later this afternoon. My seneschal will show you to rooms where you might rest until I summon you again."
Kaleras kept his gaze for several moments longer before nodding sharply. Then, without a word, he turned and strode past the rest of their company and out of the door. He spared Garin a brief glance. Garin only hesitated a moment before turning after the warlock. He didn't pause to bow or give the dwarf chieftain any sign of respect as they exited. More and more, he was beginning to understand Tal's derision for inherited authority. Of the leaders he'd met, only Queen Geminia had been deserving of the deference given her.
Only after he'd exited into the blustering winds outside did he wonder if the indulgence might hold future consequences. But even if it did, he found it hard to regret. In the wilderness of the East, one had to find pleasure where one could.
A dwarf emerged after them, looking as if he had hurriedly donned his cloak. Garin
guessed it was the steward.
"This way," he said in a slightly breathless voice, then began leading them away from the great hall.
Fetching his stor, Garin followed with the others after the dwarf.
Supplication
The messenger didn't come for them until dusk.
At the knock, Garin bolted to his feet, and Wren followed suit with a droll smile. The others scattered around the room rose just behind them.
He refused to be embarrassed. Nerves and frustration at being made to wait left no room for childish feelings. They had eaten a simple meal, washed in the bathhouses — where the genders were separated, to his relief — and thawed their toes next to the fire hours ago. Since then, there'd been little to do but idle in the room the steward had given them. Despite all the walking he had been forced to do over the past week, Garin found himself pacing, only relenting to sit at Wren's insistence.
There could have been numerous reasons for the delay. Being the chieftain of a clan of Reach dwarves in the East could not be an easy task. Perhaps Lord Dathal had other, more pressing engagements. Perhaps an emergency had cropped up.
But Garin knew the truth. Lord Dathal hadn't enjoyed having his arm twisted behind his back and his show stolen from him. He'd resented Kaleras reminding him of his uncle's debts. The warlock seemed to think that, despite his pettiness, the chieftain would hold to his promises of aid. Garin wasn't so sure. He might not explicitly break an oath, but he had no doubt that Dathal would take any opportunity he could to weasel out of their arrangement.
The dwarf who stood at the door was bundled from head to toe, the wind roaring in past her. It seemed their reprieve was over, and the winter storms had returned. Part of Garin hoped that Tal was forced to brave it somewhere out in the wilderness for all the trouble he was putting them through. But as much as he had to blame the man for, as much as he might call him a fool, he couldn't truly wish the East's foul temper upon anyone.
Except, perhaps, upon their duplicitous host.
"Follow me, please!" the messenger shouted over the gale. "And if you please, leave behind your weapons!" Her dispatch relayed, she promptly absconded back outside.
There was a brief scramble to bundle up in their layers, then Garin and the others filed out after the dwarf. Aelyn, who came last, had to use the whole of his slight weight to wrench the door closed. His scowl, already pronounced from the weather, grew deeper at his House-brother's grin.
The walk was short to the great hall, yet as they entered inside the sweltering chamber, Garin breathed a sigh of relief. Despite the questionable integrity of the dwarf chieftain, he was glad to be out of the storm for the night.
But more important matters were at hand. Trying to think past the numbness of his nose, Garin focused on the room. Dathal sat on his throne, his head resting against a hand like a bored child. On either side stood several elderly dwarves, their beards gray and white. He guessed they were advisors, here to participate in the deliberations. He wondered just what the chieftain thought the request was that it required so many in attendance. More worrisome still were the guards stationed in the corners around the room. Garin counted eight in total. Not so many that their party couldn't handle, he assumed — after all, two of them were the greatest magic-workers he knew of, and he had witnessed the deadliness of Helnor, Ashelia, and Wren firsthand. But the possibility of blood was enough to set his heart racing.
"Come closer, my honored guests." Dathal sat up in his throne only to slouch against the other arm of the chair. "Let me hear this request that is so dear to the Warlock of Canturith."
Ashelia coaxed Rolan to stand with his uncle, then approached the throne with Kaleras by her side. Garin stood in the back with Aelyn, Falcon, and Wren. It occurred to him that Aelyn had just as much of a right as Ashelia to stand before the others, as he was also a Peer. But if the mage gave the arrangement any thought, he didn't show it. Though prickly if challenged in his areas of expertise, Garin was learning there were whole domains of life that the mage simply ignored.
"Thank you for granting us this audience, my lord." Ashelia acted as if the chieftain hadn't insulted them at every turn since they had walked through his door. "Your hospitality has been welcome after our travels."
"How could I deny it when it was so graciously requested?" Dathal's eyes slid over to Kaleras. "But enough bandying of words. What do you want, warlock?"
Kaleras waited a moment before replying, his reticence reproachful like a parent's silence before a child's tantrum. "We are searching for a man who might have passed through here. He may go by another name, but the one he last called himself was Tal Harrenfel."
The advisors, who had been quietly chattering among themselves, fell silent at this proclamation. The name hung in the air for a long moment.
Then Dathal let out a braying laugh.
"Tal Harrenfel! Tal Harrenfel?" The chieftain shook with laughter. Overcome by mirth, he seemed unable to drown it with anything but a long swig of ale from his horn.
"The Man of a Thousand Names," Dathal continued, his tone taunting. "Ringthief. Red Reaver. Devil Killer. The human whispered of around firesides and on long nights all across the Westreach. You're telling me that is the Tal Harrenfel you seek to find?"
"The very one," Kaleras replied, his every word slow and measured.
"Then I cannot help you, nor can anyone in the East, be they Hardrog or Imperial! You can't find a man that never existed, old fool."
Garin bristled at the insult. Kaleras was a legend in his own right, and a mentor to him now. Yet he didn't speak up in his defense. If Dathal dared to openly mock Kaleras and Ashelia, he would never listen to a word from a mere human youth.
But he realized he'd seen something cross the chieftain's face in that moment before he'd laughed. His eyes had grown sharp and considering, and the laugh had sounded too loud, too forced, and come a moment too late to be genuine.
He knows something.
Garin wondered if he'd encountered Tal. He could easily imagine the fickle chieftain hiding such information, debts to Kaleras be damned. Yet for the moment, there was nothing he could do but continue to watch and wait, and hope more solid evidence would manifest.
Ashelia and Kaleras exchanged a glance before the Peer answered.
"Your honesty is appreciated," she said, a hint of irony lacing her words. "With your permission, we will remain in Vathda a few days to hunt our legend."
Dathal waved a hand. "If another folly is the price to repay my uncle's. Very well — seek your wraith, and may luck walk with you."
The chieftain's dismissal was clear. Ashelia and Kaleras gave insincere nods of respect, and Garin bobbed his head perfunctorily with the others before filing toward the door. Unpleasant as the weather was outside, he found it preferable to remaining indoors with the egotistical dwarf.
Besides, they had a man to pursue. And Garin had a feeling he finally knew where to begin.
Confession
He didn't know which he resented more: the darkness or the cold.
The room the dwarves had thrown Tal into was halfway to being a cell, though he suspected it had served as a shed at one point, and a domicile at a time before that. The stench of manure and mushrooms were redolent in the stuffy air. In the brief instances of light he'd been afforded, and by feeling around blindly, he'd taken in his surroundings. Little filled the room: a smelly pile of rags serving as a bed; a cold, ashy hearth; a bucket for the necessary deposits. The only ventilation was through the flue, which was hidden within the stone, and did nothing to lighten the room. Beyond the stench of his own waste, he faintly smelled earthy soil and the musk common to caves.
But that was all he could sense. So he sat in his cell like a mole in the ground, blind and shivering. He waited.
The hours melded into one another. He didn't know if he had been stuck there one day, or three, or an entire week. A stoic guard had checked in on him twice, bringing a cup of water each time, but issuing no food or news. E
ven of his impending execution, he was kept in the dark.
Three times, Tal had yielded to the temptation of his sorcery, and each occasion he'd regretted it. Even a trickle beyond his dam was enough to make his skin itch as if with rash and his head feel as if too much were stuffed inside it. Yet he had persisted in trying again and again, first summoning light, then seeking comfort in lisk, the ice spell channeling heat into his body. Besides the brief remittances from the gloom and his shivering, his conclusions from the experiments were grim.
His sorcery would fail if he depended on it to escape.
The canker, if it was what Pim claimed, had grown worse, not better, with his repression of the World's blood. Calling forth lightning, as he had against the ijiraq, would likely break him now.
You're the supposed heir to the Worldheart and challenger to Yuldor, he thought with a bitter smile, and you can barely summon a spark.
Most of the time, he simply sat with his regrets — and more poignantly, his questions. Had Pim meant to set him up by bringing him to Vathda? Tal suspected the mysterious elf had known more than he'd let on. But what had inspired such treachery, he could scarcely imagine. He doubted he would have a chance to ask.
He wondered, too, about karkados. As he mulled over the nature of it, his mind searched back to memories of his time with his old warlock tutor. Magister Elis had once warned him against attempting spells of too many words before he'd properly trained and worked up to them. The result, the old warlock had said, was a "miasma," a poisoning through an overabundance of sorcery. In severe cases, apprentices had been known to die from it.
Fool that Tal had always been, he'd usually ignored his mentor's advice, and had somehow never suffered any consequences for it. Before his first encounter with the Thorn, when he'd acquired the Heartstone shard in his side, sorcery had come as naturally as breathing to him.
An Emperor's Gamble (Legend of Tal: Book 3) Page 8
