Unwanted Elves
Chapter 11
The rest of the morning was spent recovering from the unexpected excitement and the fulsome praise and apologies for all the trouble they inadvertently caused from Vesolmir and Salvarusha. I managed to persuade them that such occurrences were all in a day’s work for the Towermaster. After they had left Alvarek spoke to me quite seriously.
“Clan Veshol will never forgive you for the death of Babiarz as he is the nephew of Babniev the clan chief. If they can’t hurt you, they will hurt you through others if they can. Don’t ever go on their lands, although fortunately they lie some way away from the Capital.”
“Their behaviour doesn’t tally with what I know of dwarves, Alvarek.” I said with some puzzlement. “I always thought if a dwarf really didn’t like someone they would attack openly and not by treachery.”
“The Veshol clan have a bad reputation.” Alvarek explained. “In one of the Goblin wars, and don’t ask me which one, I was never that interested, and the scholars can’t even agree how many there were. In any case the then king and his closest kin were wiped out during a battle. It was thought that the Veshol clan who were supposed to bring reinforcements deliberately delayed to give them the throne. Vodiswav the Magnificent led a small band of griffon lancers who charged the goblin war chief and slew him and his picked warriors causing the goblin horde to break and flee. He’s the founder of the current royal line. The Veshol clan felt cheated that they couldn’t claim the kingship and they still feel it.”
“Lovely people.” I replied.
oOo
We were invited to a banquet to hear the latest work from the royal bard. I had been to several banquets before, but never a noontide one. Chessina, Silavara and I were at the high table with the royal family and other notables. Vesolmir and Alvarek were at positions of honour on the highest of the low tables. There was much delicious food, but fewer dishes than in a evening banquet. The amount of drink served was positively abstemious... for dwarves. The highlight of the banquet was the royal bard singing his latest work; The Lay of Babiarz Half Beard. This rendition is the best I can manage in translation. It sounds better in the original dwarvish.
Come, let me sing of the faithless spawn
Whose honour was nought, being quite foresworn,
He ended up with his beard all shorn
As he tried to cheat in a duel
Duel, duel
A dwarf left shaven and quite forlorn
When he tried to cheat in a duel.
Come, let me sing of Babiarz, who
Half-bearded, was made his deeds to rue
Because his honour was shown untrue
When he tried to attack the Towermaster
Master, master
By underhand methods from his cronies too
When he sought to attack the Towermaster
Babiarz Half-Bearded sought out a duel
With valiant Vesolmir, for a lust cruel;
For Vesolmir’s wife did Half-Beard’s lust fuel,
And he wanted to widow and shame her;
Shame her, shame her,
With foul cheating in mind, yet he looked like a fool
The Towermaster did not let him shame her
The mighty Towermaster, his honour is true
A brother and friend, but still not through and through
A Dwarf; so not trained, so with axe has no clue
So, thought Babiarz, easy for killing,
Killing, killing,
By demanding a duel by tradition ensue
Where Babiarz might have a killing.
See how the Half-Beard should snivel and weep,
When he’s facing no human like sacrificed sheep
But the Towermaster’s champion, slyer than sleep,
To punish the liar for lying;
Lying, lying,
In the juices of terror the traitor may steep
For his perfidy, cheating, and lying.
With his beard cut in half, and nowhere to go,
False Babiarz thought to use spite, with a throw
Of his axe at the Towermaster! Which was no go
For the Towermaster’s goddess protects him;
ʼTects him, ʼtects him,
And his axe was stopped dead by her word, in one go,
For the goddess of magic protects him.
Champion Chelloferg took Half-Beard’s head
With his beard gone, he shaved at his neck there instead,
In a welter of gore, scarlet sins bleeding red
As he paid for dishonour and falsehood;
Falsehood, falsehood,
And his clan is diminished, his cronies all fled
To pay for his dastardly falsehood.
oOo
Chessina had practically moved in with Neveslava, and who knew? Dwarven young women in company also giggle.
I suppose I should not be surprised as my dear little demon has always been a giggler. Chessina has also always been nosy as I found out late one evening when Chessina came into our suite bursting with indignation.
“I’ve been talking with Neveslava and she has a problem.” Chessina said. “The poor girl was very defensive at first, telling me that she really was a noble. I asked if there was any doubt. Apparently, her family are merchants and they were ennobled three generations ago. This enabled Neveslava’s grandfather to marry an impoverished noblewoman of the class that can grow beards. And then the real problem came tumbling out. Neveslava is being trained to take on the running of the dwarven trade town as she understands about trade. Well, she’ll be taking it on in some 30 to 40 years or so.”
“Dwarves are inclined to take a rather long view of things, being long lived.” I remarked.
“Huh, demons are immortal and they do things more quickly... usually. Anyway,” continued Chessina, “Neveslava is having problems with her mentor Gnevara who is running the trade town at the moment. She has been given the minor title of baroness so that she could give orders. Now Gnevara feels that she is being supplanted by a younger, prettier in dwarven terms anyway, woman. To make things worse, Neveslava’s family wasn’t much higher ranked than Gnevara’s and now Neveslava has managed to snag the crown prince. Gnevara isn’t married, isn’t all that good looking, and hasn’t got a beard, so her chances of getting a high ranking husband are pretty slim, so she is hugely jealous of Neveslava. What brought matters to a head was when Neveslava used her initiative to solve a problem, rather than bother Gnevara. Not only did Neveslava manage to come up with an innovative solution, but she was praised for it by a high ranking noble. Gnevara is angry enough to chew nails and now takes every opportunity to castigate and belittle Neveslava. Castamir, you have to do something.”
“No Chessina, you have to do something,” I said. “This is a quarrel between two women, you understand women far better than I, so I am gratefully putting the problem in your lap.”
“For a moment, Chessina’s mouth fell open. She then closed it and said, with a wry grin, “that’s cheating, Castamir, using logic and reason against me.”
She thought for a moment and then said, “I have an idea, I’ll go and tell Neveslava right now. She’s worrying she will let her husband, Thoromir, down.” So saying Chessina whirled off on her mission. How I loved that girl, from a selfish demon she had become partisan in defence of her friends.
Later Chessina told me that she had advised Neveslava to do precisely what Gnevara told her, no more and no less; and anything that hadn’t been covered by instructions, no matter how trivial, Neveslava was to query with Gnevara.
“The beauty of this is,” gloated Chessina, “that either Gnevara will get so frustrated that she will resign, or she will lose her temper and do something inappropriate and Neveslava can challenge her to a duel. Being a noble, Neveslava has had extensive axe training which I don’t think Gnevara has, so Neveslava ought to win.
“Will that work,” I asked.
“I don’t know,” replied Chessina, “but it will drive Gnevara wild. Should be great fun.”
oOo
I also spent some time with my friend Alvarek, whilst Silavara was sequestered with his wife Meghimira. I swear I heard more giggling. I played with Alvarek’s son, Alvarush, a nice little boy, who was just starting formal education. He showed me his first essay ‘on the meaning of the beard.’
I have no idea if it was unethical to glean knowledge from an innocent, but I confess I cast a surreptitious copying spell on his essay. It was simplistic and his knowledge of the subtle complexities would doubtless grow, but now at least I knew that the number of braids of the beard referred to the number of direct vassal families under any one dwarf, and that the number of strands in the plaits of those beards denoted their relative wealth or power. Which is to say, a dwarf with a nine-strand plaited beard was probably personally wealthier and more powerful than one with two braids each of three strands. I discovered that a dwarf who had two braids which subsequently joined had joined his family to his vassal house by marital arrangement or absorption if they were too weak to be called a house any more. It was fascinating, but I could peruse that at my leisure.
Alvarek also took me shopping for brocades for a formal court khontuz, as they called their open-sleeved coats. I was drawn to an attractive mulberry coloured brocade, but Alvarek looked shocked.
“You can’t wear that, Castamir!” he said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“The pattern is for a... well, a midwife,” he said, blushing. “A man would not wear such a pattern.”
“I liked the colour,” I said.
“Well, look here is one in the pattern of an alchemist in dark red; you can wear that, it is the closest we have to wizard,” he told me. “And as you are the Towermaster, a single wing over the sleeve,” he added. “We must make sure that other dwarves are aware of your consequence.”
I let him give orders for the making of the khontuz. It was easier than arguing. I purchased silvery-coloured squirrel hair for the lining, which I thought was a nice contrast, and apart from Harmon’s familiar, I have never known a squirrel I would not be happy to see as part of lunch and a fur coat, being little more than rats with fluffy tails.
I was glad to have such formal costume when I was invited to inspect a detachment of the famed dwarven griffon cavalry. A griffon is an impressive beast, easily six foot high at the shoulder, the feathered and beaked head several feet higher with folded wings making the powerful leonine body look even more menacing. Add to that the front bird-like feet were armed with wickedly sharp talons made for a very frightening creature. That was just one griffon, a dozen in an ordered rank were positively terrifying.
The armoured dwarven riders were equally impressive with their red and gold khontuze showing beneath their burnished armour. Each rider carried at least one axe, and the saddles on the griffons were festooned with bows, arrows and other projectile weapons. The wing decorated helms the dwarves wore, called sh'shak were enchanted with featherlight charms on to allow the riders an escape if their mounts are killed. The face guards were shaped in such a way that deflected most weapon blows to the face. As the wearers’ faces were almost totally concealed, it made them look disturbingly inhuman. Alright, disturbingly indwarven then, satisfied? Whether the intimidating effect was the main reason for them, or merely incidental to protecting moustaches, I didn’t know. Indeed I couldn’t even tell if the wearer was male or female; dwarven women, even those who grew beards, never grew moustaches. While walking along the line of cavalry I confess to a certain amount of trepidation. I don’t know about anyone else but walking very close to large beasts with sufficient natural weaponry to turn me very rapidly into a light snack was not the most comfortable of sensations.
oOoOo
The time came to present myself to Thebroval. I found him completing a circle of power. Actually, like the ritual room in the Tower, it was set into the floor, and he had lifted the stone flags which normally covered and protected it, and was now sweeping it absolutely clean. I thought it was made of orichalcum, and was duly impressed.
“Go into the ritual preparation room, unbind hair and beard, strip naked, wash all over, cleanse your mouth without drinking, and put on the ritual shift,” said Thebroval. Then he pursed his mouth as if he resented having used what was probably a whole month’s allocation of words in one go, in chagrin remembering that he had wasted some words since I had no beard and did not tie my hair back.
I meekly did as I was bid. The room was bare, with a stone bench, a running spring which was caught in a rock basin and overflowed into a stone drain. He had specified washing all over, so I did not neglect my scalp. I rinsed my mouth and spat delicately down the drain. He had said nothing about drying off, and there was nothing to dry myself with, so I put on the shift over my damp body. Fortunately there was plenty of room in it. Have you ever pulled on a shirt over your wet body? It sticks and is a flaming nuisance.
I blushed.
The ruddy shift was wide enough, and would come to the knees of most dwarves. On me it scarcely covered the salient points, as you might say.
I shambled out.
He sniffed and indicated the circle.
“Kneel down,” he said. I did so, trying not to lean forward too much, or back... too much. I resisted the urge to cup myself protectively.
“I’ve seen arses before,” he said. “And bollocks. Some rituals require nakedness.”
I resigned myself.
At least he wasn’t going to provoke any physical reactions like Chessina always did, and I firmly removed all thought of my wife from my mind.
Arcana knows what he would think if thoughts of her affected the hang of my inadequate garment.
In the circle with me was Demonslicer, I presumed, not fully reforged, just blade and tang.
He gave me the ritual cups and knife, and nodded. I gritted my teeth, and sliced across my hand.
It barely hurt.
I swear the bastard was grinning at my surprise. I dripped and drizzled blood into first one and then the other cup.
“Would it come to either hand if I slit both?” I asked. People do get injured after all, and even if I couldn’t fight, I could cut bonds, and cast Dragovar’s frost ray spell. I fancied that cast using a dedicated light opal, especially backed by the tower, it would be pretty spectacular.
Thebroval didn’t say anything but he passed me two more cups.
I duly bled in them.
He poured one of each into an onyx tray holding a brilliant white opal, which looked to be likely to become a pommel. The shifting colours of its milky, yet brightly-coloured depths, took on a slightly rosier hue as he chanted over it, invoking the name of Barakr, the Dwarven god of smithing and gem-crafting. He picked up Demonslicer.
“Don’t move,” he said. He mixed my blood into another container and painted it onto the runes about me, leaving the rest in the container. He took Demonslicer and heated it, ready for the final forging. My knees were cold and starting to go numb. I tried not to fidget. A ritual once begun must not be broken.
And then he was hammering Demonslicer with solid, secure strokes, singing as he did so, a song of power and ritual which had me swaying with its energies. I could hear the sounds of battle in my ears, the screams of the wounded and dying... I recognised that one, it was when I had dealt with Fishface in the halls of waiting. The dagger itself was offering up its song of deeds to the gods. And then, Thebroval was carrying it, held by tongs, to quench, and first he poured over it my blood.
The bloody runes around me flared, and I could feel that they were white hot, dulling through yellow to red before fading down to the dull gold of orichalcum. Water too quenched the dagger blade, and it, too, was cooling. I felt as weak as a kitten. Thebroval thrust something into the oven by the forge, and started the work of joining hilt to dagger, and the opal to the hilt. He poured the rest of the blood from that into the fire; and fiery sparks leaped inside the opal.
“You may leave the circle,” he said. “Your blood burned away on the runes; none is left, for the blade absorbed all of it. I fancy you will be able to leave this to your descendents to use in the same way, left or right handed. Your strength is exceptional.”
I didn’t feel like it.
“Careful,” I said. “You’ll use your word quota for the year.”
He went into a paroxysm of laughter.
“And you can still talk and make jests after that!” he said. “Go and wash off the sweat and dress, and when you get back we shall eat together.”
Apparently dinner was what had gone into the oven. And it was very welcome.
When we had eaten, he nodded to me.
“Call it to your hand,” he said.
Cautiously, I pictured Demonslicer in my hand.
And there it was.
The blade now had a pattern reminiscent of the claw which was a part of it, running along as if thin slices had been taken to place at the blade. Which, for all I knew, was what had been done.
It felt very friendly.
“What do I owe you?” I asked.
“Nothing; it is the king’s will that he gifts you with my work,” said Thebroval.
“I am in your debt as a debt of honour for the excellence with which you performed your work,” I said, formally. “Let you and your family call at need on the Towermaster.”
“That, as a gift freely given, is more than payment for my time and skill,” said Thebroval.
Then we got drunk together.
Not so drunk that I could not cast a sobering spell on my way back to our quarters. Chessina gets picky about things like too much drinking.
