“Will you name them?” Caltor asked. “The daggers, I mean.”
“Nah. Like I said, you do good work.” His mother grinned. “You can name them – just make sure the name doesn’t suck.”
“Then I name them the Fangs of the Mountains,” the dwarf said solemnly. “Names have power, elf, and the name I have given them is a mighty one. The mountains we live in are called the Broken Mountains, but these Fangs will never break, and they will never fail you in battle. Just as we dwarves have endured the worst this world can throw at us, so too will those Fang conquer the worst foes you will face.”
“Not bad. I guess I’ll keep the name.” She nodded at Spot. “We’re going to head off for today – I’ve got stuff to do – but I know Spot asked you to make something for him. We’ll be back for it later. If you need our fire for other projects, let us know, but it’ll cost you.”
“Fair enough. I’ll have some ideas ready for when you return.” Caltor grinned toothily. It was a smile that Spot liked. It was a smile full of vengeance. “You’re off to fight the goblins again, right? Kill as many of them as you can.” He patted his chest, and Spot remembered the scar he’d shown him. “All of us dwarves carry scars of one sort or another. It’s about time the goblins had some too.”
“Scars?” His mother laughed. “They won’t have scars, dwarf. We’re going to kill every last one of those sons of bitches. By the time we’re done with them, the only thing you’ll have to worry about is getting rid of the bodies.”
Spot roared at his mother’s sentiment. He couldn’t wait to fight the goblins again.
* * *
Old Man walked through the city. He was not an especially tall man although even in the lands west of his homeland, where people tended to be taller, he was still tall enough to be considered average in height. Here, however, he towered over almost everyone. It brought a smile to his lips when young dwarf children – those too young to have left the safety of the mountain and the city – ran up to him in curiosity. They had seen humans before since certain traders and merchants were allowed into the city and they had frequent dealings with Everton, but old humans were something of a rarity in the mountains. The thin air and the rugged terrain could challenge even young men, so the elderly were wise to avoid unnecessary trips. Moreover, few of his people ever made it this far west.
It was sights like this that soothed his heart. He could remember, in the long ago days of his youth, the effects of constant raging war on him and the other children. They had not played with sticks as children were wont to do because they had known that all too soon they would be holding real swords. The seemingly endless battles and the brutal training he’d endured had turned him into perhaps the greatest swordsman to ever live. Sadly, though, his skills had come at great cost. The same war that had made him a legend had cost almost all of his friends and family their lives. Here, at least, he and the others had a chance to make things right, to prevent an awful repeat of the tragedies that had befallen the dwarves in the past.
Once, he had been called a Sword Saint, a man so gifted with a blade that people believed that only the gods could have given him such skill. He smiled thinly. In the end, things had gotten far messier than he would have liked. He hadn’t been able to save everyone, but he’d saved as many as he could. His lips curved up into a faint smile. He was lucky to have found new friends and a new purpose so late in life. He was not as strong as he had once been, but there should still be enough strength left in his old body to save these people.
The city was filled with optimism. For the longest time, the dwarves had been a people awaiting the hammer blow of a full-fledged goblin offensive and the long, harrowing battles that would follow. The fall of Diamondgate had seemed like the prelude to that disaster, the first step on a long, bloody journey to oblivion. Now, though, a goblin horde had been slaughtered, its leaders killed, and its denizens put to the sword. Timmy had lost perhaps five thousand of his zombies, but most of those were from the ranks of his lesser zombies, and they had already been replaced by zombie goblins. In return, the goblins had suffered roughly seventy thousand casualties. Such a victory was more than a chance for a brief respite. For the first time in centuries, the dwarves could take the offensive – and they would, with Timmy’s forces leading the way.
Old Man had yet to learn what Timmy’s plans were, but he knew the necromancer would have at least three or four in mind. Certainly, Timmy and Katie had been hard at work, spending hour after hour cloistered in a makeshift laboratory while dwarves hurried to bring them all manner of equipment, chemicals, and more esoteric objects. They wore special masks and clothing, and only Spot ever ventured in without full protection. Whatever Timmy had planned, it was likely to be glorious in the way only the plans of a Grand Necromancer could be. More startling was what Timmy had asked of the dwarf king.
For the upcoming offensive, he had asked for only one thousand of the king’s finest troops. A mere thousand when the city could field at least five thousand with many more available from the other dwarf cities if they could have time to assemble. It sounded like an incredibly small number, but Timmy had no use for disposable soldiers. His zombies could fill that role. Instead, he needed the best – soldiers who could adjust quickly and follow orders precisely, soldiers who would never break or falter regardless of the odds they faced. Although perturbed by the request, the king had eventually agreed, but only after the number was increased to two thousand. He felt the extra numbers might be needed to deal with his ‘idiot brother’ who had again been spotted in and around Diamondgate although what he was doing there – and how he had managed to evade capture – were anybody’s guess.
The king had also said something that impressed Old Man.
“One thousand?” the king had boomed. “I will not have it said that we dwarves huddled in our cities while others reclaimed our territory for us. Two thousand. No less.”
Turning down another street, Old Man smiled. He’d finally reached his destination. This cavern was far larger than some of the others the city used, and with good reason. The dwarves had many people in this city, so food was a constant concern. In friendlier times, they had farmed outside on the slopes of the mountain and on some of the flatter areas. However, the constant threat of goblin incursions – and endless goblin raids – had put an end to such practices. A farm was easy prey, and the goblins were at their best when they could strike quickly, put their superior numbers to work, and then retreat before more stalwart resistance arrived.
The dwarves traded with other nations for food, but they wanted to produce as much of their own as they could. In times of war, traders and merchants rarely braved the mountains, and relying on outsiders for food was a recipe for disaster. An increase in food prices could see all of them starve, and a bad winter that closed off the winter passes could easily do the same. To survive, they needed to grow their own food, and this was where they did it.
Here, far from the warmth of the sun, the dwarves had built massive terraces where crops of all kinds could be grown. To provide sunlight, the dwarves used special magical gemstones to capture sunlight aboveground and then release it underground. Pipes carried water throughout the terraces, and all manner of mechanical and magical innovations helped the crops reach their full potential. Old Man would happily admit that he didn’t understand all of it although the general details seemed plausible enough. Through painstaking research, the dwarves had discovered how to enrich the soil and how best to rotate the crops to maximise their yields. The magic used to foster plant growth was exceptionally rare amongst the dwarves despite their best efforts to increase it. It had always been far more common in elves, just as magic dealing with metal was far more common in dwarves. Instead, the dwarves had been forced to rely primarily on endless hard work, tireless research, and constant experimentation.
The few dwarves who did possess magic relating to plant growth were greatly respected and held positions of great power as they plied their craft with expert care. Perhaps
the greatest boon for the dwarves, however, had come from rare plants purchased from a small cadre of sympathetic elves centuries ago. These plants, which were difficult to cultivate and required constant care and attention, exuded an aura of growth, similar to that produced by the older trees in the elder woods ruled by the elves. A single such plant of sufficient size and age could increase the productivity of an entire field by a quarter or more – a great boon for a people who struggled to grow enough food.
“Welcome,” one of the dwarves standing watch at the entrance said. As one of the heroes who’d helped save the city – Old Man had fought on the ground, and he had cut a bloody swathe through the goblins trying to assail one of the forts before teleporting into the midst of the goblins’ mages and dealing with them too – Old Man was permitted to see this most important of places. Even so, there were a dozen guards nearby ready to intervene should anything threaten their precious crops, and the street he’d walked down had been heavily patrolled too. “Are you interested in our crops?”
“Oh, certainly.” Old Man smiled. He’d learned, as he’d gotten older, that approaching people as an old man rather than a swordsman was usually more productive. People who were worried about elite swordsmen were only too happy to talk to a harmless old man. “I find you methods fascinating if somewhat different to what I’m used to. However, I was wondering if you grow any bonsai trees.” It might have seemed like a silly question, but he was a bonsai tree collector, and it never hurt to ask. Why, he’d picked up one of his favourite specimens after sharing some tea with a fellow traveller during one of his jaunts into the twilight realm of the dark elves. They hadn’t been the most welcoming bunch, the dark elves, but they did know a lot about plants.
The dwarf looked at him oddly for a moment. “You know… you’re the first person to ask that since I became a guard here. As a matter of fact, we do have some.” He glanced at his superior for approval, and the older dwarf gave a curt nod. “If you’ll follow me…”
As Old Man followed the dwarf, he took a few moments to admire the diligence of those working on the crops as they carefully removed weeds, added fertiliser and other nutrients to the soil, and did all of the hard work required for steady food production. It was a testament to the industrious nature of the dwarves. They had to fight tooth and nail for what many took for granted. It made them rough folk, but they were also strong and hardy, not willing to trust easily but unfailingly loyal to the few they considered friends. He had not met many dwarves in his homeland – the constant warfare had driven them to stay aloof in their mountain fortresses – but he owed his life, at least in part, to a dwarf he had befriended by chance many years ago. Hopefully, his old friend was still enjoying that pleasant cabin by the lake full of carp. He probably was. Dwarves tended to live at least twice as long as humans, and there were few foolish enough to challenge a spirit tender in his own territory.
They eventually reached a bonsai nursery, and Old Man removed his hat. This was a fine place indeed. The dwarf ushered him in and stood guard outside. Mindful of his surroundings, Old Man walked amidst the orderly rows of bonsai trees. “So many…”
“Aye. They aren’t the same as the ones you’ve likely encountered, but they have many useful properties. We dwarves are not blessed with healing magic very often, so we rely heavily on poultices, potions, and other such methods.” The speaker was a dwarf woman. Unlike many of the dwarves here, her clothing favoured the colour green, and there was a tree-like symbol stitched onto her dress. “These bonsai trees have saved many lives with their leaves, sap, and roots. However, they require great care to cultivate, and even the smallest change in conditions can harm some of them.” The dwarf gestured at the nursery. The temperature within was different than that outside, as was the humidity. He wondered if they used magic to do it, or perhaps a combination of magic and cunning mechanical devices. “I had heard that one of the people who helped us was a collector of bonsai trees. If you have any advice or any bonsai trees that you could share…?”
Old Man smiled. “Let us have some tea then, my friend. In my homeland, it is customary to discuss such matters over a soothing drink.”
While the dwarf woman enjoyed some wine – dwarves consumed alcohol far more frequently than humans and could handle its effects far better – he enjoyed a cup of freshly brewed tea. He always carried some around with him, a fact Gerald appreciated, although Katie found it a bit odd. He supposed it was a dichotomy. Brewing tea was such a civilised pastime, cutting people down by the dozen was considerably less so. Still, it was nice to have a piece of civilisation with him wherever he went, and one of his favourite instructors had once told him that no situation was so bad that a cup of tea could not improve it. It had proven to be sound advice over the years although the specific blend he favoured had changed over time. In his youth, something invigorating had generally been his choice. Now, however, he preferred subtler blends that were best suited to quiet reflection and easing the occasional ache in his bones. Not surprisingly, Spot had yet to grasp the finer points of tea although the ninja rats had tried to explain it to him. Less surprisingly, the dragon had developed a fondness for hot chocolate.
It did not take long for any awkwardness caused by their different perspectives to vanish. She might be a dwarf and he might be an old man who was very, very far from his place of birth, but they were united by their love of bonsai trees. He began by inquiring about some of the different varieties she had before mentioning some of the ones he possessed. She was delighted to find that he had many varieties she was unfamiliar with, some of which had very useful properties indeed.
“So you have one that can be used to purify water?” she asked. Her eyes gleamed. “That would be most useful indeed. Fresh water can be hard to acquire, and we must always be cautious about using any streams or rivers that pass through goblin territory. Goblins are a cunning lot, and they’re good with poisons. It’s how they kill so many of us. Even a scratch from a poisoned blade can easily become infected and turn deadly. I’ve heard of towns that have been wiped out because goblins were able to poison their water.”
“It was something I found in the lair of a basilisk,” Old Man said. “It was quite a chore retrieving it, but if you grind the leaves into powder and dissolve them in the water, the water will be safe to drink. A single leaf can easily purify a barrel of water, and with the right care you can safely harvest several such leaves a month.”
“I see.” The dwarf nodded. “I don’t suppose you have it with you, do you?”
Old Man nodded. “You may have heard of one of my friends. He has a knack for storing things. I acquired the bonsai tree many years ago – it was one of the first I found during my travels – and I’ve been able to cultivate several over the years. He carries one with him at all times in case we need to purify water.” He smiled. “I would be happy to leave it with you once our mission here is done.”
Her eyes widened. “You would?” She shook herself. “Then I insist you at least take cuttings from some of the bonsai trees we have here. Surely, there are some that catch your eye.”
Their discussion continued for quite some time, shifting from the different varieties of bonsai trees to the various techniques used to grow them. Old Man had relied primarily on the teachings he’d picked up in his homeland, along with experience and the occasional word of advice from fellow enthusiasts he’d met during his travels. The dwarves, though, had approached growing bonsai trees the same way they approached most challenges: with vigour and an almost ruthless experimental approach.
When he eventually left, it was with a spring in his step and with promises to provide either full-grown plants or cuttings of varieties she didn’t have in exchange for cuttings of varieties he lacked. He was surprised by how many useful bonsai trees he had since he collected them as much for their aesthetics as for their applications. Of course, it was easy to lose track of them since he rarely need their help. It had been some time since he’d met an opponent who could se
riously injure him, and the group had ample access to healing in the form of healing potions, Spot’s healing fire, and the considerable talent the rats boasted amongst their healers, clerics, and apothecaries. Indeed, he’d once visited one of the labs the rats maintained, and it had been amusing to see so much advanced equipment scaled down for their use. Katie, of course, kept a close eye on their research, and her keen mind had already helped the rats advance several of their projects. Likewise, the rats often consulted with Timmy about research matters since the Grand Necromancer knew a great deal about a great many subjects.
With his trip to the bonsai nursery concluded for the time being, he went to find Gerald. In a few days at the most, Timmy’s preparations would be complete, and the next phase of their mission would begin. One way or another, they would be dealing with the goblins. It was possible that Timmy would simply drown them beneath wave after endless wave of zombies, but he had a feeling the necromancer had something a little more… interesting up his sleeve. And frankly, Old Man was glad his enemies had never had someone like Timmy on their side during the war that had consumed his homeland. Timmy might not be the most dangerous person Old Man had met when it came to personal combat – and the necromancer was certainly no slouch there – but he had demonstrated over and over again that if he was given time to plan and adequate resources, he was an absolute menace.
* * *
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
Gerald glanced up from his book as Katie and Timmy walked into the room he’d converted into a makeshift office. There were so many things for a bureaucrat to do here, and he’d finally begun to make inroads into the mountains – literal mountains – of paperwork that had built up. The constant warfare had rightfully tugged the dwarves’ attentions away from paperwork, but he needed to take a thorough accounting, so he could report correctly to Councillor Winters and to the king. King Barin had personally asked him to oversee the effort to catch up on paperwork now that they had some breathing room from the goblins. Gerald might not have been a great general or tactician, but he knew how important logistics were, a point Timmy had stressed repeatedly during some of their discussions of the situation.
Two Necromancers, a Dwarf Kingdom, and a Sky City Page 36
