“Is it cursed!” said Nerdraaage worriedly.
Fearghas picked up the ring and examined it. “These are goblin tool marks,” he said.
“That’s what Theodore said!” said Dangalf.
“Where did you get this?”
“From a dwarf that was working for goblin slavers,” said Nerdraaage.
“Did you kill him?”
Nerdraaage paused. “Yes,” he said.
“Good,” pronounced Fearghas. “This world is a wicked place, filled with many wicked things. That is why dwarves choose to know of only dwarven things. But ignorance of a wicked thing is no protection against it. That is why we have lorekeepers. We know the wicked things so that dwarves be protected from them.
“We do not lock up criminals. When a dwarf commits a crime that cannot be forgiven, such as the murder of a dwarf, he is judged to be no longer of the dwarves. The process is called estrangement.”
“Strange dwarves!” interjected Dangalf.
“No!” shot back Fearghas. “A human misnomer. Strange, yes, but in every legal and moral sense no longer a dwarf. An undwarf. His name is stricken from the clan archives as if never born. But his name and bloodrune goes into a book that the lorekeepers maintain for reasons I have already explained.
“As part of the estrangement, his face is shaved as cleanly as a she-dwarf’s. And then he is banished from all dwarven lands. But because there is no record of this estrangement but for the decree of horning and the lorekeepers’ secret books, his shaved face is to alert all dwarves that this wretch is no longer of the dwarves. It is believed before he can grow a full, dwarven beard again, that all three corners of the world will have seen or heard that he is estranged.
“Unwelcome in human or elven lands, these undwarves make their ways to wilderness or border towns, where they can live among the other wretches and support themselves through scrounging and criminality. Sometimes these newly estranged are taken into criminal gangs of other undwarves. And the veterans, who have by now regrown their beards, call their new barefaced initiates ghostbeards.” Fearghas turned the Clan Ghostbeard signet ring around to face the others.
“The goblins have long employed undwarves as mercenaries,” continued Fearghas. “And we have tolerated this arrangement for centuries. There was never a concentrated use of undwarves that we could attack with any certainty, and finally because we hear whispers that the trolls are unhappy with the alliance between goblins and undwarves. And generally speaking, anything the trolls don’t like is good for the Alliance.
“But lately there have been ominous whispers, talk of widespread recruitment and organizing of the strange under one banner. These undwarves know our fighting methods and the secrets of our cities. They are bloodthirsty and ruthless, which is why most of them were estranged in the first place. They are angry and resentful of a dwarven family that has turned its back on them. There could be as many as six thousand undwarves.”
“Six thousand?” said Dangalf.
“Aye,” continued Fearghas. “But these undwarves are cowards also. And where the dwarven race rejects their immortality, these undwarves find no shame in living a thousand years or longer—well past the accepted limits on an honorable lifespan. We could be talking about a force of every undwarf since the process began before the great Schism. A force like that could tip the course of battle in favor of the Legion, especially if they were applied specifically to dwarven targets.
“You four have brought us the first concrete proof that undwarves supported by goblin gold are organizing themselves into a paramilitary force mimicking the very dwarven system that excommunicated them. It is a terrible warning. Let us hope we have not received it too late.” Fearghas told Nerdraaage he must keep the ring to present to others as evidence, but it would be returned to him in time. He signed all of their commissions for “meritorious service” and authorized payment to them.
Fearghas had some questions for the Keepers regarding their origins. As an honored and learned dwarf, they trusted him with their tale. He was fascinated to hear about the other world. How the contact between both worlds was ever made was one of the great mysteries, he said. “What is known,” said Fearghas. “Is the great balance that exists between the two worlds. Twenty-four hours in each day. Twelve months in a year. The trinity of the sun, the world, and the moon. A system of nine planets.”
“Our system only has eight planets,” said Ashlyn.
“What?”
“We did have nine,” she said. “But they decided that we only have eight planets.”
“There are ominous signs wherever we turn,” Fearghas said somberly before bidding farewell.
LXXXVI
“What a day,” cheered Dangalf. “We’ve performed meritorious service to the Alliance, we have more gold then we’ve ever had, and we’re in one of the greatest cities in the world.”
“The greatest,” said Nerdraaage.
“What do you want to do?”
“Beard wash!” shouted Nerdraaage.
“I’m in!” said Dangalf. And though they could have found cheaper accommodations, they stayed at The Wee Hours at the top of Bran Keep under the highest peak in the known world. It was a large, windowless room with a fireplace and four beds big enough for the largest humans. Tapestries of battle scenes covered the stone walls.
Doppelganger opened a small iron door opposite the entrance, and the wind that swept in was such that it almost snuffed out the fire. They did have to relight their lamps. They ducked through the doorway and stood close together in a small room open to the elements.
Their view should have been of the unmolested homeland of the gnomes and unicorns and other magical creatures, some not yet catalogued. Instead it was now Legion-occupied Nemetia. Fires of unnatural colors burned across the landscape, but these were not the comforting flames of hearth or camp. Wicked creatures howled in unseen wickedness. Directly below them they could see three more floors of rooms and, below that, sheer rock face down to the tree line.
Dangalf could only bear a minute of the howling wind before all four retreated back into the room, locking the door behind them. The Keepers slept briefly but were too excited to stay in bed, and they all awoke within thirty minutes of each other.
They rode the speeding mining cars down to the keep floor. It was a chattering, gravity-driven thrill ride that only stopped near the very end with the screeching of metal brakes and a celebration of sparks.
They explored the expansive capital. They found the Stonefist Inn, where Nerdraaage learned he could stay for free. They passed the great hourglass that was thirty feet high and turned over once a day in a very precise and formal ceremony, and they all agreed that they had to return some midnight to watch it.
They visited the human corner of the keep and were surprised to the see the Vinlandian Mint, which in the game was located in Vinland. The minting of coins was a human invention accepted by even the dwarves, who saw its superiority to sacks of ore previously in use for currency. But the Trollish Armada had been seen as a dire warning about the vulnerability of Vinland and its wealthy mint, and so it was relocated.
Dangalf impressed Doppelganger to go with him and pay their respects at the human embassy. In the other world, both would have forgone such formalities. Schmoozing or networking, ass-kissing even, is how they would have dismissed it. But Dangalf at least viewed it as worthy endeavor in this world, an obligation even, and they were greeted by a deputy of the ambassador who recalled reading dispatches about them. They chatted briefly over Aged Vinlandian while the deputy sized them up. Dangalf was quite pleased when the deputy found it proper to invite the humans and the rest of the Keepers to dinner when it could be arranged. How well into the Triangle of Achievement’s recognition level they would be to be invited to dine with the ambassador! “I’ll need a new hat,” said Dangalf.
Doppelganger and Nerdraaage checked in to the Red School. It was a large complex of buildings and walled-off “outside” areas. There were en
trances to this most human of schools in both the human corner and on the dwarven side. There each met and presented his commission to dwarven trainers. The typical dwarven skepticism to unknown commodities was somewhat alleviated by their documented achievements. And though the red dwarves viewed with suspicion Nerdraaage’s friendship with Doppelganger (they were fortunately unaware of his White School and elf friends), they viewed Doppelganger’s friendship with Nerdraaage as a sign of the human’s noble character.
Ashlyn and Dangalf paid their respects to the elven ambassador. And though they were admitted to the ambassador himself and the meeting was cordial, no dinner invitation was forthcoming. They returned to the Red School not long after Doppelganger and Nerdraaage had exited. Doppelganger stated he was going to stay at the Red School as the warrior trainer had been summoned to meet him. Ashlyn decided to visit the hospital because Dangalf and Nerdraaage were intent on pampering themselves.
There were several fine-looking establishments that advertised beard washing. Dangalf and Nerdraaage finally settled on the Wash and Brush-Up Company, which coincidentally had the cutest she-dwarves standing out front. The beard wash was a glorious experience. Dangalf and Nerdraaage sat in adjoining chairs. Both she-dwarves smiled and spoke softly throughout the process. Dangalf noticed them nodding to Nerdraaage’s arm, which reflected in tattoo that he had only taken one wife. In addition to the pleasant beard treatment, Dangalf felt the breast of his washer against his arm as she leaned over him. She smelled nice, and he covered his lap with his hands as his arousal was unrestrained by any garments beneath his robe.
The beards were combed out and powdered. Who knew the dwarves capable of inventing such luxury? Nerdraaage agreed to braiding. Dangalf declined. “Beard spikes?” asked Dangalf’s she-dwarf.
“What’s that?”
She showed him a book of aspects, each featuring a belligerent dwarf with different types of ferocious spikes protruding from his beard.
“It prevents the enemy from clasping your beard,” she explained.
“Oh, I want that!” said Nerdraaage.
“Gold or silver?” asked his she-dwarf.
“Gold!”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Dangalf. “How much is that?”
“Thirty sovereign per foot.”
They both realized that was more gold than the four of them had combined. “I’d better not,” said Dangalf. “Sometimes I sleep on my stomach.”
“Do you have anything cheaper?” Nerdraaage asked.
“There is silver and bronze as well.”
“How much is silver?”
“Er,” interjected Dangalf leaning over to Nerdraaage, “isn’t your class supposed to appear unassuming?”
“I forgot,” said Nerdraaage. “Sometimes I sleep on my stomach too,” he explained to the she-dwarf.
Dangalf’s beard was finished. He paid and told Nerdraaage he would see him back in the room or at the tavern.
“Tavern,” said Nerdraaage.
Dangalf went outside, where he collected Dusty and went forth feeling better than he had in a long time. He had come to love Acadia—the simplicity of life, the companionship of his honorable and gifted friends, the purposefulness of his labors, and the sheer pleasure of learning. And now he felt especially good because of some indulgent grooming provided by a sweet and pleasant-smelling she-dwarf. But perhaps the biggest reason for his good feeling was the lifting of a burden of which he was previously unaware. The sprawling keep, impenetrable from outside forces (even those that could swoop down from the air) and guarded inside by plentiful and stout dwarven guards, finally allowed him to relax completely for the first time since they had arrived in this world. Even the self-medication of drink and smoke had not completely banished the worry of being stabbed in the back by an invisible and black-toothed assailant or snatched up by a passing dragon as a quick snack. But there were no such fears here.
He stopped by the keep’s waterfall, and using a water cup, put there purely for ceremonial purposes he suspected, he drank of the crystal-clear and ice-cold water. When he was sure no dwarf was looking, he let Dusty have her fill from the cup.
Dangalf returned to the Keepers’ room, which was dark. Even the fireplace was out, and there was an unpleasant chill in the air. He lit the first lamp he could find in the darkness and looked about. On the other side of the room was a chair with a hoodie sweatshirt draped over it. He thought that was very odd because, even though he loved hoodies, he did not expect to find one in a twenty-thousand-year-old dwarven fortress carved into a mountain.
His mind flashed back to his childhood when in his darkened bedroom he saw his chair occupied by a bloodthirsty monster with murderous intent. He had been frozen in fear until he screwed up enough courage to shine a light on the monster, and it was proved to be only a hoodie draped over a chair. And that was the thought going through his mind as he approached this hoodie draped over a chair only to discover in the lamplight that it was actually a bloodthirsty monster with murderous intent.
LXXXVII
He was definitely in a sack. It had happened very fast, but now Dangalf could feel the cold wind penetrating the cloth as he was dragged through the doorway to the outside mountain wall. Then he was hoisted into the air, which gave him quite a fright because he knew how high off the ground the room had been. The sack moaned like demonic corduroy as it was pulled upward against the rock face.
Once at the top, he was dragged through the soft and chilly snow, and he first heard his abductors. He knew they were blackguards because this was the first sound they had made. The one he had seen in his room was a she-troll, but he did not recognize the language they spoke. It was a Trollish dialect that Evenson had not discussed. He then realized it was twin-speak, and his brain made the terrifying connection that he was taken by the deadly sister blackguards that Icil had described as “moving as one.” He screwed up his courage. “Why did you take me?” he asked in his best Trollish.
“Ah!” cried the first she-troll as the dragging came to a sudden stop. “Release him before he curses us!” Dangalf cried out as he felt the sack moving suddenly downward before it was stopped.
“Fool!” said the second she-troll. “Master said he is an elementalist!”
“He speaks Trollish!”
“Yes, but he screams like a human,” said the second she-troll.
And Dangalf and the sack continued the soft but cold ride through the snow. He decided to save his Trollish for a time after he was released from the sack and hoped that time would be soon.
He felt himself go up and down several hills of snow and around unknown obstacles, but they never strayed far from the sheer mountain face. Eventually they stopped, and the sack was released. He felt he could open the limp sack, but now his fear of being in the sack had turned to a fear of facing what was outside of the sack.
“Come out, Dangalf,” said a familiar voice.
Dangalf found the sack closure down by his feet and carefully spread it open. He kicked his legs out first and removed the sack like a nightshirt. The first thing he saw was crimson snow that led to the bodies of two dwarven guards.
He then looked up to the twin blackguard she-trolls a dozen feet ahead of him. They watched him with slightly bared fangs and hands on hips. They were clearly malevolent, and he wondered what it said about himself that he also found them to be incredibly seductive. He hoped he would live long enough to look back on his capture by these two wicked and lithe creatures as the erotic fantasy it could be if he wasn’t so afraid of being killed. Behind them were three black wyverns huddled against the cold.
And then finally, as if he did not want to reveal the sight to himself, Dangalf looked to a knight standing fearlessly at the precipice. He was huge, larger than Doppelganger, and he was covered in black armor that looked like it was cursed by the sun never to reflect light. It looked like the accounts Dangalf had read of black adamantine. And if so, it would be impervious to any of Dangalf’s fire spells. Things just k
ept getting better.
The black knight wore swords at each hip, and both were enchanted. One burned with flame, the other a vaporous frost. Akimbo the warriors called fighting with a sword in each hand. Even his cloak blew majestically in the harsh wind.
Not so majestically, Dangalf’s robe blew high, exposing his skinny legs. He held his crotch lest the harsh wind expose his frozen manhood to the unforgiving she-trolls. He did not know what was worse: the fear shivering or the cold shivering. He stood there dumbly until his hat blew off. “My hat,” he said, grabbing his head too late to hold his hat to it. He watched it skitter down the mountain face.
“He is worried about his hat,” the knight with the familiar voice said in Trollish.
“He speaks Trollish, Master,” said one of the sisters.
“Of course he does,” said the knight, again in Acadish. “I knew you would take to this place, Dangalf.”
The voice. Why hadn’t Dangalf made the connection yet? What was the point of his great mind and memory if he could not? But then he realized his error. It was not a voice of this world as he had expected. It was a voice from the old world. And not a live voice but a digitized voice from the Internet—from the team chat feature of Cronica. “Regicide?”
“You remember.”
“It’s only been six months.”
“Six months?” said Regicide solemnly. “Six months off the calendar in the old world, and I have been in this world almost twenty years.”
“Twenty years!” said Dangalf in disbelief, though it gave him comfort. They could conceivably return to their home world without having missed much.
“The two worlds are parallel rivers that speed up and slow down independently,” said Regicide. “Presently this world must be moving faster.”
Cronica Acadia Page 37
