by Rachel Ford
Arath, meanwhile, watched them collect their meager bounty. He shook his head. “Nothing worth anything, Jack. I already checked.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jordan checked in shortly after that. Jack didn’t dare bring up his conversation with Richard – not knowing that William would almost certainly be listening in. So he complained about his in-game experiences so far – about Arath, and the hags, and the goblins.
She gave him coffee, which helped a little, and spent a good half an hour talking to him about nothing in particular. Then, she laughed and shrugged, and apologized for wasting his time. “I should let you get back to the game. I know how much you want to be done with this.”
Then she left, and the game resumed. And despite stinking like something had died on him – which it basically had – he finished the trek to the stream with a smile.
Which vanished as soon as he stepped into the water. Grimlik had called it cool, which was an understatement in the way that calling lava warm, or war unpleasant, or the Kobayashi Maru challenging would be. He was pretty sure the temperature was a few degrees colder than freezing. And if not – if it remaining in a liquid state wasn’t some trick of videogame physics – it sure felt like it anyway.
Still, he gritted his teeth and soldiered on. He couldn’t take this stink – not for the rest of the game. So, hyperventilating as he did, he plunged his entire body into the water.
Grimlik and Grem’tha shrieked on the shore, insisting that he must come out at once or the river would carry him off to his death. Here, at least, Jack had nothing to worry about. The current was swift, certainly; and to creatures as small as the goblins, it no doubt would be deadly. But to Jack, it proved nothing more than an inconvenience.
So he bathed and hurried out again as soon as he could. They resumed their journey and walked until the sun started to set. Karag made a fire, and Jack got out his alchemy station. He toyed with ingredients, making a few poisons with the items he’d recovered from the hags. He also spun up half a dozen fire resistance potions from the yokai hair.
Grem’tha clapped her big hands together. “Skilled, he is. Very skilled.” Then, a cunning look lit her face. “Good Jack is goblin friend?”
She projected about as much charm as a used car salesman at the moment, but Jack fought the urge to shiver. “Uh…sure.”
She patted his arm encouragingly. “Good, good. Grem’tha Jack’s friend. Friends share, yes?”
Jack frowned. “Sometimes, I guess.”
She flashed her yellow teeth at him. “Friend Jack let Grem’tha make potions?”
“Oh, is that all? I mean, yeah, of course. Because we’re friends.”
Grem’tha clapped her hands together and got straight to work. Grimlik joined her, and soon the pair were brewing a whole host of concoctions, all of which smelled appalling. Then, when they’d finished and she drained the last of her creations into a battered flask, she spit into the brewing pot and wiped it with a filthy rag. “Good as new, it is. Even cleaned, Friend Jack.”
The journey took the better part of a week. They passed two more yokai encampments on the way and were attacked once by raptors. “The dwarven steel, it draws them,” Grimlik explained. “Hate the dwarves, they do. Hate them more than goblins hate dwarves.”
Jack avoided any kind of serious damage, though he did take some painful wounds against the hags. Still, they got through alright. And he managed to keep Richard at bay, too – the intern was too busy checking and re-checking William’s work to think too much about his reasoning.
So on the sixth day, he found himself staring at a sheer rock face. The goblins hissed and cringed. “Arrived, we have. The dwarven gates, Jack.”
Jack frowned, staring at the bland mountain rock. “Where?”
“There, there.”
“There’s magic here,” Karag said. “A heavy veil of it, all over this place. I can feel it.”
Jack nodded slowly. Either the goblins had lost their minds, or the magic was very thick indeed. Because he could see nothing at all but the mountainside. “Okay…how do we get in?”
Grimlik hissed and cowered. Grem’tha trembled and cast her gaze away from the empty mountainside.
“Come on, you vermin,” Arath said, shaking his fist at the pair. “You promised to take us to the dwarves. Well, I don’t see no dwarves, do you?”
Grimlik bared his teeth at the ranger, and Grem’tha made a whining sound. “Kill us, they will. Dwarves are wicked, yes, good Arath, very wicked.”
Three dialogue options popped into Jack’s thoughts.
Enough cowering. If you ever want to lay your filthy paws on that dwarven sword again, you will keep your word.
Listen, vermin: you gave your word. Now unless you want me to cut out your lying tongue, you better keep it.
And,
You needn’t fear, friends: if you are with me, no one will harm you. You have my word.
Jack chose the third option, and the siblings moaned and cowered. Then Grem’tha spoke. “A man of his word: that is Friend Jack. Show him the way, we will.”
Grimlik nodded miserably and walked along the rock face. When he’d covered about half the bare stone, he put his hands on the mountainside and said something in a language Jack didn’t know.
And at that moment, a veil lifted from his eyes. The wall vanished, and a pair of gates stood before them, high towers on either side. Dwarven archers in matching uniforms stared down at them from parapets high above. One or two had arrows trained on the party.
Arath gulped. “Well now, they don’t look particularly friendly, do they?”
“No,” Jack agreed. “Not very.”
“I could probably take the gate down,” Karag said. “But I’m not sure that would win us any friends.”
Jack nodded. He wanted to try the carrot route before he thought about bringing out the stick. So he cupped his hands and called to the gate guard, “Ahoy there, good sirs. My name is Jack, and I’m on a mission to stop Kalbidor. I need to speak to King Delling.”
The dwarves exchanged glances, and conferred for a moment in low, suspicious tones. There was a great deal of eyebrow waggling between them. Then, one of the dwarves called down, “The king is expecting no visitors. Be on your way, or we’ll shoot you where you stand.”
This time, the game determined Jack’s responses. It gave him four to consider:
Listen here, shorty: unless you want to be taking orders from a demon by this time tomorrow, you better let me talk to your king.
I have news of an imminent attack on Ivaldi’s Hall, my good dwarf. I must speak to your king.
My companions have turned to stone, and I need them to stop Kalbidor. Your king is the only one who can help me.
And,
Get your boss, short stack. This is above your paygrade.
Jack considered his response for a long moment, and finally settled on, “I have news of an imminent attack on Ivaldi’s Hall, my good dwarf. I must speak to your king.” He figured that an attack on his homeland had the best chance of investing the dwarf in his mission – much more so than frozen companions.
The same process repeated – the dwarves conferred, wagging their beards and frowning fiercely. Then the spokesman of the group said, “And why should I take the word of a human – much less a human who keeps company with goblins?”
Grem’tha and Grimlik whimpered and clung to Jack’s leg. The game offered three responses.
I am a friend and companion of Prince Migli, Delling’s son, and were he not trapped in stone he would vouch for me.
I am the man whose intelligence might save your king’s life. Stop wasting time, and let us in.
And,
Because I’ll put an arrow through your head if you question me again, dwarf.
Jack picked the first option, and he immediately surmised that it had been the correct one. The entire mood of the party on the wall changed at the mention of Migli’s name. They murmured together again, and the spokesman c
alled, “Well, if you are Migli’s friend, the king will most certainly wish to speak to you. Enter, please, and welcome to Ivaldi’s Hall.”
The great gates pulled back, and it seemed the mountain itself opened to them. A city appeared before them, carved into the stone. A ceiling rose far, far overhead, but the city was not dark. Magical orbs of light floated through the air, casting the entire landscape in a gentle, golden glow.
Short, stocky figures bustled through the streets. Some were soldiers, clad in the same kind of rose-gold colored chainmail and red and black tunics the wall guards wore. The civilians seemed to span the social spectrum, from lords and ladies to common laborers. Some dressed in silks and fine furs, while others wore rough spun tunics and aprons. Some had flame red hair, and others ebony black; some had muted chestnut streaks in their beards, and others had hair the color of dull gold.
But there were some constants across profession and social strata. The men all seemed to have beards – great, long beards. And everyone was short and broad, like Migli.
At first, no one noticed them standing at the gates. But as Jack and his crew stepped through, a few heads turned their way – and a few lips turned up in sneers.
“Goblins?” a well-dressed woman spat out.
“Humans?” her companion said, a scowl spreading across his face. “What are they letting humans in here for?”
A laborer in a blacksmith’s apron glanced over, his attention transfixed by Karag. His jaw sagged, and something like terror crossed his face.
Then a breathless dwarf raced out to meet them. Jack recognized him as the spokesman from the wall. “Sir Jack, welcome again. My name is Varr, and I am the captain of the guard.”
Jack offered a respectful greeting and took the opportunity to get a good look at the other man. He was short and stout, as all the dwarves were. Once, his hair had been some shade of blond. Now, it was mostly gray, with faint touches of gold remaining here and there – mostly, in the great, braided beard that reached well below his waist. He carried an axe on his back, and a sword on one side and a dagger on the other.
“Well met,” the dwarf said. “Come, I will take you to the king. You will need to surrender your weapons before you can enter the hall – all of you.”
Jack nodded. “I understand.”
Varr glanced at the goblins. “And they – they’re not permitted inside.”
The pair started to squeal, so Jack spoke quickly. “They’re my companions. I would not have found my way, if not for them; and I promised them safe passage as long as they are with me. If your king wants to know the fate of his son, they come with me.”
Varr grimaced, studying the cowering pair with contempt. For a moment, Jack thought he might have pushed too far. But then the dwarf shook his head. “Fine. But – you’re responsible for them. If they ply their wicked trades, it’ll be your neck that answers.” He paused to consider, then shrugged. “Theirs too, of course. But you’ll share their fate.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Captain Varr led them through the great dwarven city by the main road – a smooth, broad path carved into the mountain stone like everything else around them, and worn smooth by years of long use. They passed homes and shops of every size and shape. Some rose many stories high, and others lay broad and squat, monopolizing large tracts of land. Still others spread and climbed. These, Jack came to realize, were the wealthiest homes. Servants bustled in and out, and ladies and lords in fine clothes and more precious metals than could be found in a jeweler’s shop meandered through exquisitely manicured grounds.
The single-story homes that occupied a good deal of real estate seemed to belong to the middle classes. Here, he spotted servants, but in more modest numbers; and the owners dressed well, but not quite as well. They wore chains of silver and gold, and shimmering gems embellished their tunics and gowns. But they weren’t carrying around enough treasure on their persons to make up for skipping the weights at the gym, either, like the upper crust.
The thin, multistory buildings housed the poorest dwarves – and quite a few of them at a go. The structures were squares or rectangles, and occasionally circles and hexagons, that occupied as little surface area as possible. They looked like they couldn’t be much bigger than a one-bedroom apartment – and, in some cases, a studio apartment. Each floor housed separate families. Jack saw laborers bustle in and out. He saw weary women and haggard men, dirty children and crying babies. And poverty – a lot of poverty. There were no gems here, no bands of silver and gold, no weighty necklaces or heavy, jewel-encrusted collars. The dwarves looked gaunter and more harried, too, as if they had weighty matters on their minds. They barely glanced up at his band as they passed.
The same could not be said of the upper classes, though. Many fine ladies and noble gentlemen – gentledwarves? – peered disapprovingly over upturned noses. Many curled their lips in disgust, or turned away, apparently unable to go on looking at the riffraff sullying their streets.
Varr talked as they walked. He was a nervous man, Jack thought. He didn’t have a conversational style, exactly. He just jabbered, seeming to put to words whatever thought entered his mind. Sometimes, it would be useful trivia about the city.
“That’s Ivaldi’s Bridge. The Kalven River passes through here. Good fishing off that bridge, although…” He threw a glance around, as if checking to make sure no one might overhear them, “not strictly legal. Just wait until the evening guard makes their patrol, though, and you’ll be fine.”
Other times, his thoughts seemed to spring from only the most tenuous connection to some passing landmark or point of previous conversation. “Old Dain fell into the Kalven, four winters back. Poor bugger. They found him downriver, all smashed to pieces. The falls are none too friendly, I can tell you.”
Sometimes, Jack had no idea at all how they got onto a topic. “There’s a festival three nights hence, to mark Ivaldi’s death. There’ll be much festivity then, I shouldn’t wonder. Although I suppose I’ll have to miss it. Again. I’ve got gate duty.
“Again.”
Eventually, after a good twenty minutes of random narration – it was far too one-sided to qualify as conversation – they reached the palace known as Ivaldi’s Hall. By which point, Jack had learned the marital history of no less than five dwarven families; or, rather, he’d learned that marriages tended to be less permanent among dwarves than other races, for he’d quickly lost track of the tangled web of who had been married to whom at one point or another. He’d learned half a dozen legends related to the early days of the kingdom.
He knew what to say if a ghost appeared on Ivaldi’s Bridge at midnight – and what to say if it appeared at midday. “Say the wrong thing, well, you’ll never be heard from again,” Varr had warned.
He’d learned that the king loved wild game. “But boar – nothing like a freshly roasted boar to put him in high spirits.” He likewise learned that the queen detested swine’s flesh. “Won’t so much as touch it. No, the lady prefers venison, or cattle, or even mutton.”
He’d learned that Varr’s favorite beer was brewed in a little place downriver, by an old man with one eye. He learned that Varr himself was five hundred and thirty-eight years old. “Too young for all this gray hair, I can tell you.” And he learned that he’d never seen a goblin before. “Not up close and personal. I see them scuttling along on the mountainside, sometimes. But never close enough to put an arrow in.” Which had earned the dwarf a snarling hiss from Grimlik.
In short, Jack had heard so much, he would have been profoundly glad to reach his destination even if it had been a hovel. But Ivaldi’s Hall was no hovel. A great hall of exquisite workmanship rose before them, seeming to sprout out of the mountain stone. There were no blocks here, piled high to make walls. The pillars didn’t have seams denoting where one column of stone met another. The entire building had been wrought in one, incredible piece – pillars, windows, balconies and all. Standing outside the great wooden doors – like the glass in t
he windows, some of the few pieces of construction that had been added after the fact – he marveled at what he saw. The interior, he supposed, would be the same: all the rooms and halls, the stairs and cellars, the attics and maybe even secret passages would be carved out of the mountain.
He couldn’t imagine the work – the skill – that would have gone into such an endeavor. A single mistake might have sabotaged the entire project. One over-weary workman, one careless craftsman: that’s all it would have taken.
He might have gone on marveling at the intricate carvings, the complex dwarven runes and iconography, the brilliant reliefs and friezes, the endless embellishments and details. But Varr wiped his palms against his tunic and said, “Right. Well, here we are then. You’ll have to surrender your weapons. Don’t worry: they’ll be returned to you when you leave.”
Jack nodded as the game gave him two options:
Carry on, Captain. [surrender your weapons and proceed]
And,
I’m not ready yet, Captain. I still have a few things to do. [retain your weapons until you’re ready to proceed]
Jack figured the second option was for players who wanted to explore the dwarven city before they completed their objective to speak to Delling. There were probably quests or shops or other attractions that might be inaccessible once he stepped over that thresh hold – the sort of thing dedicated players could while away hours and hours on. If his life hadn’t been hanging in the balance, he would have been one of them. But it was, so he picked the first option. The game informed him,
Your party has surrendered your weapons. You are unarmed.
It then proceeded to run through the list of everything he’d lost.
Removed from inventory: blow gun
Removed from inventory: death bramble darts x 34
The thoughts crashed into his awareness in a cascade, one after the other. Varr rubbed his hands against his tunic again and said, “Right. That’s that then. Well, I suppose we’d better go on inside.”
The lack of enthusiasm in his guide’s tone didn’t escape Jack, and it drew his attention from the palace as they stepped over the thresh hold. He saw it all in passing, of course; and it was as grand as he supposed it might be based on the exterior. The floors were lined with marble, the walls set with gems. Chandeliers of precious gems hung from high ceilings, glistening with magical light. Everything seemed inlaid with jewels and precious metals – from the gilded furniture to the statues clothed in robes of spun silver thread.
