Spot made a sound of agreement. His mother had warned him that although goblins were mostly weak and stupid, he shouldn’t get careless. They were cunning, like rats. He’d been a bit worried when he’d heard that. The ninja rats were very cunning, so if the goblins were even half as cunning, he needed to be careful. His mother had told him not to play around too much. If he saw a goblin, he should kill it quickly and tell the others. A dead goblin was a safe goblin, especially if it was one of the special goblins that was bigger, smarter, or could use magic. He should kill those ones right away. A living goblin would definitely try to hurt him, and it might know some tricks. A living goblin could also call for more goblins, which could be bad. He might not be very old, but he knew even strong people could lose if they had to fight lots and lots of weak people. It was how animals like wolves brought down stags. As the idiot often said, it was better safe than sorry.
Killing goblins would also help the dwarves, and Spot had started to like them. They had good food, good metal, and they even had good drinks too. Drinking contests were fun as well, especially since he’d won the last one he was in. It was a pity he wasn’t allowed to bet gold. Otherwise, he’d have even more. Fortunately, the dwarf had taken his loss well. Spot had run into him earlier in the morning, and the dwarf had smiled and asked him for a rematch one day. Spot had agreed. He could respect someone’s desire to challenge him. It was a very draconic thing to do. Spot had also tried singing toward the end of the feast. He hadn’t been very good at it, but the dwarves hadn’t minded. Maybe it was because they were awful too. However, his mother was great at singing, which made him wonder why she didn’t sing more. Hopefully, she would sing more if he asked her to.
The city they were in was also nice. It was so different from all of the other cities he’d been too. It was inside a mountain, and almost everything was made of stone. Not much was made of wood. It probably wouldn’t burn down if he breathed some fire here and there. He would have to put effort into it if he wanted to burn it down. It would have looked boring – dirt and stone usually did – but the dwarves had put up decorations and painted things in different colours. His favourite decorations were the little figures made of the stone the dwarves put in their windows to show how many people lived in a house.
The house they’d just passed had two adult dwarves – the mother and the father – along with three smaller dwarves that had to be children. They had a figure of a little dog too. Spot might have to try carving some of his own to put in the rock garden he was making back home. There would be one for him, one for his mother, one for Chomp, one for Mr Sparkles, and one for each of the others too. Oh, and he couldn’t forget Alicia, the maid who baked cookies for him all the time. She was important too, and then there were the rats. He’d have to make some of them as well. His brows furrowed. He’d have to practice first. At the moment, he was good at clawing things to death but not so good at using his claws to carve things. He could ask Old Man for help. The swordsman was always carving things, and they always looked good.
As they continued to make their way through the city along one of the paved streets – it was a lot bigger than he’d thought considering it was inside a giant cave – they found themselves in an area that smelled nice. It smelled of fire and smoke as well as metal and coal. It reminded him of dreams he sometimes had, of a land covered in fire with volcanoes that belched smoke and ash into the sky all the time. He’d asked the twerp about the dreams, and she’d asked the idiot, and the idiot had explained that it was an ancestral memory – a memory all dragons had, just like there were some dreams all elves had. But when he’d asked his mother about her dreams, she’d said she didn’t have the same ones as other elves. Instead, she dreamed of somewhere dark and cold that was suddenly filled with light and fire. And sometimes, she dreamed of falling out of the sky and breaking the world. It made sense to Spot. She didn’t have the same dreams as most elves because she wasn’t lame like most elves. She said so all the time.
As they got closer to one of the shops, Spot picked up the sound of metal striking metal. It was a pleasing sound, a sound he’d come to associate with finely made weapons and armours. Those always tasted the best. He nudged his mother with his head, and she smirked.
“These are forges, Spot. Dwarf forges.”
He tilted his head to one side. His mother had an expression of admiration on her face, which was not an expression he saw a lot. Are they good?
“Are they good?” his mother threw her head back and laughed before reaching down to the scratch the top of his head. He preened and gave a happy wag of his tail. Nearby, Chomp sniffed the air. He also approved. This place reminded him a bit of the place where he’d been born before he’d ended up in the labyrinth where Spot’s mother had found him. “Spot, say what you want about these short bastards, but I doubt there’s anyone alive handier at the forge than the dwarves. When it comes to working with metal, their skills are second to none. I’m thinking of getting a few things made while we’re here, and although you don’t need any weapons…” Spot grinned. What need did he have for weapons when he was a dragon? The gods had given him claws and teeth sharper than any sword or spear and fire that could melt stone. “Maybe you’ll see something you like. They don’t only make weapons.”
Something he liked? He should get one of those figurines a lot of the villagers and other people had. They were supposed to represent the gods, and they often prayed to them if they couldn’t visit a temple or a shrine. Spot was a dragon, so he had gods of his own. He knew it as surely as he knew the sky was blue and meant for his wings. He’d dreamed of the god of dragons before, a dragon with prismatic scales and wings so wide they could envelop the world. He knew that dragon was real just as he knew, somehow, that it was the first dragon, the one they all came from. Maybe someone could make him a figurine of it. If Spot ever prayed for anything, it would be to grow big and strong and for all the people he liked to be kept safe. But dragons did not pray. Instinct told him that the only way to earn the favour of his gods would be through battle, through his claws, his teeth, and his fire.
“Hey, you!” His mother pointed at a nearby dwarf who was running past. The dwarf was small, even for a dwarf, so he must be young. He was also covered in soot, and he was carrying several pieces of metal. “Who is the best smith in the city?”
“Uh…” The young dwarf looked about frantically, but no one seemed keen to come to his rescue. Spot wondered if it was because of his mother. She was really nice, but lots of people were scared of her for some reason. “If I had to name one, I’d say Caltor Hammerhelm.” He pointed. “Go down that street, take the first right, and then keep going until you see the sign. You can’t miss it.” He paused. “Um… do you read dwarf?”
“Do I look stupid to you? Of course, I can read dwarf.” His mother glowered, and the dwarf boy scuttled off. She marched down the street, and they all followed her.
Dwarf? Spot asked the twerp.
She giggled. She must have found the way the young dwarf acted funny. “I’m a bit surprised you haven’t noticed it already. Dwarves have their own kind of writing.” She pointed to some of the signs, and Spot frowned. The writing on them was different from the writing he was used to. “It tends to be straighter and simpler since it was originally designed to be carved onto metal or stone. All dwarves can read the common script too, but they generally only use that when dealing with outsiders. In their own cities or amongst themselves, they usually use runic script.”
Their own writing… Spot scowled. He was still learning how to read normal writing, so the thought of there being even more kinds of writing to learn was not a pleasing one. Everyone should use the same kind of writing. It would be much simpler, and he wouldn’t have to spend so much time learning it. When he said that to the twerp, she giggled again.
“You’re not the only one who thinks that, Spot, but I doubt it will ever happen. In the meantime, you’ll just have to make do – and don’t forget, the dwarves aren’
t the only ones with their own writing. Elves, gnomes, vampires, lizard people, werewolves – almost every race has its own language and writing.” Spot made a horrified sound, and she patted him on the back. “And if you think there are a lot of languages now, think about how may there used to be if you include the ones from ancient times.”
Too many! Spot huffed. People were stupid. Having so many languages would only make things harder, not easier. One day, he’d make everyone understand that. He was a dragon. He’d be able to do it once he got big and strong enough.
It didn’t take them long to find the shop. In fact, it took up a large portion of the street. Spot made a pleased sound at the heat it radiated. It wasn’t as hot as dragon fire, but the forges here were hotter than the ones they’d passed. Maybe he could crawl into one and take a nap? It would be nice. As they entered, they got plenty of curious looks, as well as looks of awe from the dwarves outside. Some more dwarves showed them past a place where other dwarves were hitting pieces of metal with big hammers to an enormous forge where a grey-bearded dwarf was working on a piece of metal.
Spot, who had learned about different kinds of metal from the idiot, grinned. This was flow-steel, a metal that could be forged into different shapes. With the right magic, it could remember those shapes and switch between them although it was usually limited to two or three shapes at the most. Spot liked it a lot because it tasted like chocolate-chip cookies, but the idiot had told him he couldn’t eat it too often. It was rare and expensive, and finding someone who knew how to work with it properly was hard. The idiot had a shovel made from flow-steel, but he didn’t like to bring it with them on missions since flow-steel couldn’t handle as many runes and seals as other materials, and he needed those for his earth magic. However, the flow-steel shovel could turn into a sword and a spear, so it wasn’t a bad weapon, simply one he couldn’t use all the time.
“What do you want?” Caltor growled. He didn’t look away from his work for even a second. His arms were thick too, and he was built so broadly he made the other dwarves, who were all broad shouldered, look slim in comparison.
“Are you the best smith in this city?” his mother growled.
The dwarf didn’t flinch, which was new. Spot grinned. This dwarf was brave. “Maybe I am. What’s it to you?”
“I need you to make something for me.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy? Come back in a month.”
“A month? Not a chance, you hammer-wielding bastard. I need you to make something for me now.”
“Bah!” You’d have to pay me triple what I’m being paid to make this.” Caltor pointed at the flow-steel. It was being made into a spear. “And there’s no way –”
“Done!” His mother almost belted the dwarf over the head with a sack of gems she’d taken from the compound she and the others had attacked while Spot was with the idiot and the twerp. “Look inside, stupid.”
The dwarf did. His eyes widened. He set the sack aside and finished the spear before turning to them. “Aye… that’ll do it, all right. What do you want?”
His mother smirked. “I want you to make me a pair of elf long daggers, the kind the rangers use. I can show you a picture if you’re not sure what I mean.”
“Bah!” The dwarf pushed the sack back. “Ask one of my apprentices. I’m not going to waste my time making something so boring.”
His mother cackled. She must have a surprise up her sleeve. She always did when she cackled like that – Spot had seen it plenty of times when she played cards. She wasn’t good at lying like the idiot or the people eater, but she was lucky most of the time. “I haven’t told you what you’ll be making them out of yet.”
“And what could you possibly have that would interest me, elf?” Caltor gestured at the flow-steel. “I have worked with adamant, flow-steel, and every other metal I care to think of. Unless you can give me something I haven’t worked with before, you can find someone else to make your damn daggers.”
So his mother told him, and Spot chortled. Caltor’s eyes had gone so wide that they looked as though they were about to pop out of his head. Fortunately, they didn’t. It would be hard to make anything without eyes although Old Man and the rats could fight perfectly well blindfolded. Spot was trying to learn how, but it was hard. “How about that?”
“Impossible!” Caltor growled. “Nobody can work with those materials! You’d need a dragon just to make the alloy. And if you want to forge it properly…” He trailed off as he noticed Spot. “He’s a dragon, isn’t he?” His mother nodded and smiled. It reminded Spot of a shark. “And you… you’re the elf who helped kill Black Scales, the one who wiped out most of the goblin leadership with a few attacks, the one they call the Demon Elf – the dragon in the form of an elf. Is it true that your fire can match dragon fire?” His mother nodded, and Spot trilled in agreement. Even now, his mother’s flame was hotter than his. The dwarf rubbed his beard, lost in thought, and then he banged one hand down on the counter beside him. “I’ll do it! No smith alive would dare refuse such an opportunity! But I’ll need you and your dragon to come around regularly until it’s done. I will put everything else aside to work on it, and I swear I will get it done. I will work day and night and call upon all my skill! No other dwarf will ever match the daggers I will make!”
Over the next several days, Caltor worked like a man possessed, hardly eating or sleeping as he used the components Spot’s mother had given him. He and his mother spent much of their time at the forge. There was a bit of a delay when their combined fire melted the forge – prompting cries of amazement from the dwarves – but they threw together a stronger one, and his mother was careful to better contain and concentrate their fire. Soon, Caltor was mixing together the ingredients and then hammering and tinkering away.
Spot paid close attention. He didn’t need more weapons. His teeth and claws were finer than any weapon. But he found the process the dwarves used to shape and tame metal fascinating. It reminded him of watching the castle’s most skilled cooks. Watching someone who was an expert in a craft was exciting even if he didn’t need that craft himself. The only thing better was watching Alicia work since he got to eat some cookies afterward. He also brought up his idea of a dragon figurine with Caltor.
“Can you describe it better, laddie?” Caltor asked. “I’ve not seen more than a handful of dragons in my entire life, and you’re the only one that hasn’t tried to eat me.”
Spot didn’t mind being called laddie. It meant young boy, and he was certainly a young boy, albeit a young boy dragon. And as gruff as Caltor could be – he yelled even more than his mother – he also had plenty of advice for his workers, and he always brought along a few treats for Spot. He tried to describe what he’d seen in his mind to Caltor, but he couldn’t find the right words – words were hard. Finally, as he grew more and more frustrated, he tried something he’d seen the people eater do. He blasted the image in his mind into Caltor’s mind. Caltor dropped to the ground like a sack of iron ore, and Spot worried that he might have melted his brain. Spot looked about furtively. Nobody had noticed yet, so he nudged Caltor, breathed some of his healing fire on him, and got the dwarf back onto his feet. The idiot had joked about Spot accidentally melting someone’s brain because he wasn’t as skilled as the people eater. He should have listened to him, and Spot needed to ask the people eater for some lessons.
Caltor gulped down some water and leaned heavily against a table. “What was that, laddie? I’ve never heard of a dragon like that. It was so big… and the colour of its scales…”
The first dragon. Spot grinned. The god of dragons. The oldest and mightiest of us all.
“The god of dragons, eh?” Caltor chuckled. “Aye. I’ll make that figurine for you. How could I not after seeing that?” He shook his head. “But it’ll have to wait. Your mother’s order comes first. Still… there are some prismatic metals I could use. They won’t capture the colour completely – I doubt any metal could – but it might come close.” He scowl
ed. “But next time, warn me before you shove a thought into my head, laddie. I can’t do anything if you make my head explode.”
Spot winced. Sorry.
The dwarf chuckled and patted his head. “You’re not the first lad to make a fool of himself.” He pulled up his tunic and pointed to a large scar that ran across his chest. “I got this when I was only a boy. I thought I’d make a name for myself and kill a lot of goblins. I was lucky to survive. I would have died if my pa and some of his friends hadn’t gone after me. It turns out, I’m not much of a warrior.” He smirked. “But I can make a warrior’s weapons.”
Goblins taste bad.
“I’m sure they do.” Caltor’s gaze hardened. “Can you do something for me, laddie?”
What?
“Kill as many of those bastards as you can.” Caltor’s fists clenched. “They’ve had us on the back foot long enough. With you and the rest of your friends… don’t just bloody their noses, laddie. Tear their damn heads off.”
I can do that.
It took a week, but his mother’s new weapons were finally ready. Spot watched closely as his mother tested them. They were incredibly well made. He might not be an expert on weapons, but his senses were keen enough to let him gauge their sharpness and durability with ease. They were as sharp as a dragon’s claws and every bit as durable too. Spot’s scales were incredibly tough, but even they would not be able to ignore a blow from these daggers, not that his mother would ever attack him. His mother sliced through a succession of lesser weapons with ease and eyed the daggers with obvious delight.
“You do good work, dwarf.”
“Aye.” He gave his mother a sombre look. “You’ll be using those against the goblins, right?”
“Yep. I’ve got to test them in combat, and killing goblins is a good first step even if it isn’t very profitable.” She growled. “Those jerks didn’t have anything worth taking.”
Two Necromancers, a Dwarf Kingdom, and a Sky City Page 35
