At the start of the summer, Taran had claimed an office two doors down from Balor's in the administrative district. It barely saw any use. The Admiral had spent most of his time sawing planks and assembling furniture down at his carpenter's workshop, and conducted all business there. With his project nearing completion however, he could finally afford to conduct business in the office.
It was to this office that he summoned Balor, welcoming her with a smile and offering her the one chair. The sparseness of the room surprised her. Equally surprising was the lack of wooden furniture. She'd figured a legendary carpenter like Taran would prefer to sit in an office full of masterful furniture that he'd built with his own hands.
Seating herself across from Taran, she raised an eyebrow and waited for the admiral to speak. It was a habit that she'd gotten into in the capital; it was much easier to avoid giving away unnecessary information if you let the person who'd called the meeting tell you why they'd done so. Eventually, Taran cleared his throat and began.
"Well, me an' th' other Whalers have been noticing some unusual events 'round here. Now, I know meself well enough ta unnerstand that it could be paranoia an' nothin' else, so I thought I'd bring in a fresh set o' eyes on th' subject. An' yours are th' only non-Whaler eyes I trust 'round here."
Balor eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Not many people would admit to trusting me after the work I did in the capital," she said. "Though I've noticed that a few bits and pieces have vanished with no record of who took them or why. Logs and lead bars, mostly. I've been trying to find them in our record, but there's nothing detailed about them."
"Ah. Well, that's nae as unusual as ye might think. Bembul had ta abscond with some lead ta forge parts o' th' buildin'. I told him ta be discrete, but t'would seem he went a wee bit overboard."
"I see. Well, I suppose I can't expect everyone to have respect for the bureaucracy."
"What can I tell ye? Bembul hates paperwork as much as Insane hated elves." The Admiral shrugged. "Any other oddities? Dwarves actin' strange? Stranger than Whalers, at any rate." Taran smiled at his own jape.
"This Father Wolfe you've agreed to build a church for. Taran, I spent years looking for threats to the safety of the Matched Silver- the real Matched Silver, not the parody Uzol is running- so that when we rise again we won't have the same lunacy to deal with. Just watch out for him. He hates anyone who follows a religion other than his, and don't fool yourself into thinking you've won yourself any favours by helping him. Wolfe will kill you if he gets the chance and wipe your religion out with you. Mark my words."
Taran flashed her the most predatory grin she'd seen in years. "Oh, I know. Why d'ye think we built his wee church?" Balor arched an eyebrow. Taran just kept smiling. "It gives Wolfe that wee edge he needs ta be overconfident. Sloppy. Doonright foolish, even. Bugger me, dumb git tried ta poison me with a boot. A boot, of all things! Oh, dun ye worry too much aboot that, lass. Father Loon is th' least of our problems."
His smile finally left him. "That Xan fella. Somethin' buggers me aboot him. He's one o' yers, innit? What can ye tell me?"
"I'm keeping an eye on Xan for now. Just don't say anything to him that you wouldn't say to the king and I'm sure you'll be fine. I might be able to tell you more later, but for now I'm working on him."
"Alright, I thank ye fer th' time, lass."
No reply. She felt too woozy to reply. Her vision swam.
"Balor? Are ye feelin' alright, lass?"
Balor swayed in her chair, eyes half-lidded. She looked paler than she was at the start of their meeting. Taran went around the table to steady her.
She crumpled into him. Taran shook her by the head, tapped her a couple of times on the face to see if she would wake up, but she wasn't responding. He checked her pulse. It was shallow.
Taran's mind raced. First things first, he had to get them out of the office and into a place with better air flow. He gathered Balor in his arms and threw her over one shoulder. He hurried to the door and threw it open. Once outside in the empty hallway, he shifted Balor into a bridal carry and bore her toward the hospital. Rounding the bend into the living quarters, he spoke aloud and in an unfamiliar human dialect, addressing nobody in particular.
"Search my office. I suspect foul play. Let no one enter until you are done. Leave the door open to ventilate."
Bembul would be scouring the office within minutes.
Taran sat on a chair in the hospital, taking the point of a short knife to a massive thigh bone dangled across his lap. On the bed beside him was Balor, finally beginning to stir. Taran waited until she opened her eyes to speak.
"Been oot of it fer o'er an hour now," he said without looking up from his work. "Yer doctor friend says ye'll be fine. Prob'ly some sort o' gas or another."
Balor pinched her nose and shifted to a seated position on the bed. She had the pall of a dwarf facing a monstrous hangover. "How come you're already up?" She asked, groggy.
"I dinnae go down in th' fairst place, lass," he told her. "Fresh sea air cleans th' lungs. Livin' in a fortress' neath the airth doesn't. I'll wager that has somethin' ta do with it, but ye're the doctor. You tell me."
Balor sighed, rubbed her face in her hand. If she didn't look hungover before, she certainly did now. "The only thing I can tell you is that the poisoner was incompetent. I'll need a sample of the air in your office to identify whatever they used, if it hasn't dissipated already," she sighed. "In any case, I think the first thing we need to figure out is whether this was targeted at you or all of our offices. If it's just you, then who wants you dead? Someone could even be trying to frame you for killing me." Balor frowned. "I'm going to have to take some blood from you and anyone else who's been in your office recently. I'd prefer to know if there are any long term effects before I feel them."
"Dun think th' air sample will help," Taran said as he carved a notch on the bone. "Left th' door open ta ventilate. Nothin' ta really steal in there anyway. As fer th' blood, well..." Taran beckoned Doctor Zas over and called for a vial. He handled the matter of blood sample collection by stabbing himself in the finger and letting it flow into the container.
"I'll ask Bembul ta come do th' same as soon as he can. He's th' only other one who's spent any sort o' time in me office recently." He stood up and cradled the thigh bone under his arm. "Ye keep yerself safe until then, lass. Th' attack could've been meant fer you, fer all we know. An' I may have ta call on ye some time soon."
Taran had walkd most of the way to the hospital's door when he glanced over a shoulder to address her again. "Fer all our sakes, lass, I hope there are no lastin' effects. I dun think Crownhammers can afford ta lose ye."
The Admiral assembled the Whalers inside the long wooden building on the final night of summer. They gathered in the dead of night, when the normal denizens of Crownhammers slumbered and the shadier dwarves conducted business in forgotten corners and twisting mine shafts.
He said not a word to them. He stood in absolute silence, hands clasped behind his back, staring at them. His cold, piercing eyes made Atir feel like a naughty child awaiting punishment. Her own gaze was fixed on the polished wooden floor beneath her feet, a million questions racing through her mind.
After what must have been an hour, Taran nodded to nobody in particular. He walked toward the door at the back of the room, the one with the staircase leading to the upper floors where the public members of the Whalers would soon reside. Atir glanced at Perseus and Reg. They looked as confused as she was. A sharp gesture from Bembul caught their attention, and he motioned for them to follow. The Admiral opened the door, stepped inside and disappeared in the gloom. Atir understood why when she reached the doorway. A new flight of stairs went downward beneath an upturned leaden floor hatch, into the earth. It hadn't been there a few days ago when she and Bembul had hauled up their new set of furniture. The wooden steps were roughly carved, yet damp and slick with moisture. One hand on the wall to steady herself, Atir descended behind Bembul and Reg. Perseus brought up the rear, locking the door behind her.
The walls of damp earth gave way to a shoddy-looking lead railing bolted to the staicase. An eerie glow emanated from below. Atir thought she smelled fungi and cave moss and, most curious of all, fish. After the second bend in the stairs, the wall ended, leaving only the railing. The sight of the cave took her breath away.
The clay walls were irregular but smooth. The floor of the grotto was at least another three turns of the stairs away. Cavern shrubs and at least one fledgling tower-cap grew amid patches of luminescent fungus. At the far end of the chamber, near two pools of scintillating water, five shapes loomed in a line. Statues, forged of a dull grey metal. Lead, as far as Atir could tell, though she couldn't make out the details of the statues.
The Admiral was already in front of the center statue when Atir reached the bottom of the stairs. He faced away from them, as was his habit, silently waiting for them to take up positions behind him. Bembul stood off to one side, feet facing the statue, his head craned around toward them. They lined up beside him without a word.
Taran turned around. The pale light of the chamber cast creeping shadows across his face. It made him look even older, even more weathered by sun and wind.
"Welcome t' our grotto," he said in a dull yet powerful monotone. "T'is th' closest thing a Whaler 'as to a place o' worship. Here we speak ta our gods, here we assemble when called. An' here I give ye answers ye've been wantin' fer a time."
"Fairst, it's time ye meet th' gods o' sea an' sail. Our gods. Nae gods o' creation like Armok, but gods o' that which was created."
He pointed toward the center statue with his head. It depicted a hunchbacked dwarf wearing ratty clothing and leaning on a thick cane. A strange, rotund fish was carved at the statue's feet. The craftsdwarfship was exquisite. Every wrinkle on the dwarf's face was clearly defined. He looked more ancient than even Taran would look in his twilight years. Atir could almost make out individual strands in the long, flowing beard, the knots in the wood of the cane. Even the fish was clearly detailed, though it seemed to have no scales. Was that meant to be a whale?
"This b'hind me is th' Ol' Dwarf o' th' Sea. Th' fairst dwarf ta ever set sail from long-forgotten shores. He's sailed ev'ry tide o' ev'ry ocean an' visited ev'ry land what ever was. He is our guide upon th' waves."
He motioned to the first statue on the left. A human woman with flowing hair and a mother's gentle face, standing straight with delicate hands clasped before her chest. She looked concerned. A demure dress clung to her figure down to her ankles.
"Th' Lady o' Shores," the Admiral continued, "patron o' sailor's wives an' husbands. Her lovin' gaze follows us at sea, seekin' ta protect us an' our loved ones from harm an' grief."
The statue to the Lady's left depicted a jolly barrel-chested man with a knotty beard, wearing nothing but a loincloth. He was gazing skyward and roaring with laughter, fists planted squarely on his hips.
"Galemaster. Lord o' winds an' tides. He is th' wind in th' sails, th' wave 'gainst th' hull. He brings calm an' th' storm as he pleases. A capricious fella with a short attention span. He'll do as ye ask fer only as long as it suits him."
Taran gestured now to the first statue on the right. It was meant to be a male, though it was hard to determine if it was a human or dwarf. His body was an odd amalgamation of various creatures. Parts of him were shell, others were scaled, others smooth. There were slits on the side of his neck, likely gills. One arm was an octopus tentacle, the other was the armored claw of a shellfish. His lower body was a sea serpent. Only the head itself, clean shaven except for the cropped beard of algae, was entirely human.
"Sire In th' Waters. From him stems all life in th' seas an' rivers. T'is his children we catch in our nets an' hunt with our harpoons. Ta him we pray fer bountiful trips, an' ta him we give thanks when th' nets're full."
The final statue on the right was a slender woman, naked, with delicate wings for arms and a hair of feathers. She was crouched in a nest atop a crag. A dozen eggs of different sizes and shapes rested at her feet.
"Th' Skymother. All bairds an' creatures o' th' air descend from her, from th' guidin' albatross to th' fisher's friend, th' osprey. E'en th' fell undead crows o' Crownhammers were once her proud children. T'is not fer us ta hunt them, but ta respect an' lairn from 'em. They were fishin' far afore any of us."
Taran's voice turned to ice, and he adopted a vicious scowl that chilled Atir to the bone. She stole a glance sideways and saw that Reg and Perseus looked just as stricken.
"There're many other gods o' th' sea an' the sails," he said. "But there is one that ne'er pray to. Ta attract his attention is ta invite disaster, ta deal with him is ta bargain what ye cannae afford ta lose."
"We call 'im th' Sunken One, or Th' One 'Neath th' Waves." The Admiral's eyes were fixed on nobody in particular. He seemed to be staring through them, through time itself, decades into the past.
"He was once mortal, t'is said. A vicious monster in th' shape of a person. He was buried at sea, but he was nae yet dead. At th' bottom o' th' waves he lingered fer eons, growin' in hate an' in power, until he infected an' corrupted all 'round him. This poisoned ocean is his doin'. Th' undead crows could be his agents. All who consort wit' him are bound ta his will, an' his will is guided by th' blackest o' hearts."
The Admiral's face softened again, though not by much. "Ye've met our gods. Now it's time they met ye. Strip an' step ye into th' pools."
Bembul walked to Taran's side. They stood together, waiting for the new Whalers to follow their orders. Shame coloring her cheeks, Atir began to disrobe. The other two did the same. She tore her gaze from the floor for a moment to check if she was being stared at. Bembul and the Admiral seemed content to contemplate the far wall of the grotto. She guessed that they had done this many times before. Another naked body, male or female, was probably nothing new to them.
Most of her clothes were gone. She noted the slight, nigh-imperceptible swell of her belly. Bembul's words came to mind, and she felt a twinge of fear. She still didn't know what he had meant, and this unknown cast her mind into a maelstrom of dark possibilities.
The sound of splashing made her look up again. Reg had descended into one of the pools of water. Perseus was approaching the other. That left her for last, though she wasn't even fully naked yet. She moved her arms to cover her modesty without a thought to what she was doing.
A muscular hand clasped her shoulder. Bembul's. "Dun be afraid, lass," he whispered. "Only th' brave can withstand th' seas, an' ye're braver than ye ken."
His reassurance was all she needed. She stepped out of the last of her clothes, waited for Reg to come out, then walked into the water. It was chest-deep and frightfully cold, enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention. Yet she somehow felt welcome in the water's embrace. Fear and shame dissipated, and she ducked her head beneath the surface.
Atir emerged from her dip feeling oddly refreshed and full of strength, and the Admiral clapped her on the shoulder as she climbed out of the water. His smiled brimmed with pride. She walked back to her pile of clothing with more confidence than she knew she possessed.
The Admiral waited in silence as his followers dried and dressed themselves. He spoke again when they began to dress. "Now that ye're all true Whalers, I suppose t'is aboot time ye come to know more aboot yer commandin' officers."
"Bembul an' I hail from a different continent, far to th' south. We were born in a wee island town, far from th' wars what plagued th' mainland. Far as we know, th' place was settled by th' fairst dwarven sailors. The airth was poor in ores an' gemstones, yet th' surface was a dense forest an' th' seas around us provided an endless bounty. Unlike most dwarven settlements, we thrived on wood an' fish."
"There were fewer than a hundred of us. We had no true military to speak of, nor did we need one. What we did have was a shipyard. A massive wooden construct extendin' over th' water what could be filled an' drained as needed. T'is there that we built ships. There that I built th' Osprey."
"We also had a tradition. Every dwarf must know how ta sail, an' every dwarf must travel th' seas fer years afore returnin' home. We'd go out an' see th' world, returnin' decades later ta finally start a family."
"Bembul an' I left when we were twenty. Fer over ninety years, th' Osprey was our home. We werked as whale hunters an' transporters an' smugglers. We werked fer dwarven coastal fortresses an' human navies. An' somewhere along th' way, we noticed that every sailor, whether hume or dwarf, followed th' same gods. Our gods."
"We were startin' ta consider returnin' home when a calamity struck th' mainland. Thousands were displaced, members of all races turned ta refugees. Navigators an' mapmakers of every race what had them came together in search of a new land they could sail to, much as our ancestors had done."
"What they found was this land. Th' Ageless Plane. This was in th' year 652. Two years later, nigh on a thousand ships carryin' members of all races set sail nor'wards, th' Osprey among them."
So that was why the Admiral thought Father Wolfe was wrong about the dawn of dwarvenkind. In his own land, dwarves had six centuries of recorded history.
"Most o' th' ships never made it here. Freak storms an' lack o' supplies claimed hundreds o' vessels o'er th' long months o' journey. We were lucky enough ta be on th' Galemaster's good graces fer once, an' a solid navigation chart guided us along th' southeast coast o' th' continent."
"Fer many days an' many miles, we could find nae a single place ta make port. Weather was gettin' worse, an' our supplies were dwindlin'. Then, ta make matters even worse, we ran out o' good ocean ta sail. We entered th' Brash Seas o' Fat. This accursed ocean, where it rains elf blood an' what few fish are still alive jus' so happen ta be poisonous. It begins ta th' far south o' here, by th' nor'eastern shores of our old homeland."
"No captain, no matter how good, can keep a ship runnin' when th' food runs oot. An' it did."
"Our passengers started droppin' like flies. This wouldnae be so bad if it weren't fer the ever-bleedin' elves. They were goin' loopy in th' blood rain, as if months aboard a vessel made o' their sacred fuckin' trees wasn't bad enough. Loopy an' hungry, on a ship that was slowly fillin' up with dead. Ye can see where that's goin'."
"Everythin' went belly-up then. Most o' th' passengers lost it an' started eatin' th' dead. We tried ta stop 'em, but there were too many o' them. Chained Bembul an' I ta th' anchor an' threw us o'er th' side."
"We sank ta th' bottom o' th' sea, so far doon that th' light could nae reach us. We were crushed 'neath th' sheer weight o' th' water o'er us. An' at th' bottom we lingered, for only th' gods know how long."
"We could nae move nor breathe. Could nae even wimper. Yet we did nae die, not from pressure nor water in th' lungs. We remained in th' black depths fer an eternity. I tried countin' days, but soon that ceased to matter. Starvation dinnae take us, but th' sensation o' hunger was there."
"Th' chains deteriorated eventually, as do all things. One day they broke, an' we were free. I've no idea how long it took us, but we somehow mustered th' strength ta move, ta swim upward, toward th' light. Me head felt ready ta explode. When at last we emerged, we were here. On these very shores."
"That was twenty years ago. We've since come ta find that our gods are followed in this land as well, presumably because o' th' sailors from our continent. We went back ta work, got ourselves familiar with this new world. Enough ta realize that dwarvenkind has fallen off th' deep end."
"There's an ol' legend aboot what happn'd ta us," he went on. "Drowned. Sailors what were supposed ta die, but were spared by th' sea gods. Fer what reason, I've no idea, but th' tale is clear. We owe a life ta th' oceans. We cannae create our own."
"Now, fer one final thing afore we move on ta business. The Whalesong."
He got that distant look in his eyes as he spoke. "Far 'neath th' waves, yet above th' blackness where monsters dwell, there roams a species o' whale that no sailor could ever hunt. They are impossibly gigantic, greater than th' mightiest whalin' ships. These are th' whales o' th' gods."
Taran reached into the collar of his leather shirt and pulled out the amulet. It was a weathered old circle of whalebone, its surfaced covered in miniscule nicks and scratches. Etched upon the circle in vivid, lifelike detail was a ship. It rode a wave in a stormy sea. It wasn't hard to imagine ragged sailors climbing the rigging on the carving, tucking the sails away from the wind.
"Any sailor what got their hands on a piece o' whalebone would make an amulet," he said, holding it up between thumb and forefinger, "engraved with a likeness o' somethin' with personal significance. T'is through our amulets that we would hear th' Song. A glorious sound, though few ever get ta hear it, even with amulets. Bembul an' I fairst heard it afore th' migration. I haven't stopped hearin' it since I returned. Me fate rests in this place, though I've no idea what it is."
The Admiral put the amulet away and threw his commander face on. "Bembul. Have ye examined Fikod and Thob's babby?"
"Aye, ser. Ins'far as I can tell, wee Nish is a normal newborn lass. No oddball inclinations or erratic behavior. Perfectly normal dwarven anatomy."
"I see." The Admiral nodded before continuing. "Atir here is with child," he said without so much as a hint of reproach. "Presumably through Bembul. However, as I said, Bembul is Drowned. Now, this could mean one of a few things, and ye'll have ta trust me when I say that t'is nae worth woryin' over until we get there. Atir, I'm goin' with ye ta see Balor at th' hospital some day soon, get ye an' th' child inspected. Now dun ye worry, she's trustworthy."
He turned to Perseus. "Lass, I'm gonna need ye ta train as hard as ye ever have. I've nae much confidence that we'll win th' next election. We'll need yer skill at arms ta keep us safe, particularly from loonies like Wolfe an' his flock."
Perseus replied with a grave nod. The Admiral had made no secret of the attempts on his life. Not to the Whalers, at least.
"Reg, continue yer work as normal. When th' next migrant wave comes, find a likely dwarf or two an' try ta get them on our side. That'll be all."
They filed back up the stairs with Perseus at the front, ready to defend them in case of ambush. A bit paranoid, certainly, but a necessary precaution. Though the Admiral hadn't mentioned it during the meeting, he didn't have to. They had all been through it recently.
They had all felt like they were being watched.
The social event of the season was about to begin. Some of the locals called it the Autumn Silver Corkscrew Blowout. Those versed in the arts of commerce called it sheer economic genius. Aitr, being the broker, simply called it dwarven caravan season. She welcomed the merchants to the depot and went over their wares with a critical eye, looking for the best deals and mentally calculating how many enormous silver corkscrews it would take to buy everything the merchants had that was worth paying for.
Then she saw this thing.
She bought all their metal, all their animals, all of their hooch and all of their food. She paid for the merchandise in standard Crownhammers currency - seven of them, to be exact. When she questioned one of them about the lack of a liaison, all she got were nervous stares.
Sakzul emerged from the workshop at last, looking quite pleased with herself. It took her over an entire month, but it was done.
She was too content to bother thinking about the physics of a chain made of gemstones. She was not too content, however, to notice the throng of dwarves walking toward the staircase, murmuring among themselves. She followed them, seeking to sate her curiosity. After stopping in the booze stockpile for a swig, of course. She'd been working for an entire month.
Quite the throng had formed outside the safety walls. They looked in awe toward the massive wooden structure that Taran had been building since the start of the year. The Admiral himself sat atop the building's peculiar tower, legs dancing over the edge, that winning smile of his dancing on his lips.
"Residents o' Crownhammers!" He bellowed to them in a voice that could have been heard over the most violent of storms. "Allow me ta present ye th' newest addition to our everyday lives!"
"Welcome one and all," he shouted, "Ta th' Cloudsculler!"
It was at this point that many of Taran's usual crowd understood what a ship looked like. Many headed for the underground entrance to the structure at Bembul's behest, chatting and murmuring along the way, unsure of what they would find inside.
Very few were expecting a new dining hall. Those that questioned why it was all made of wood were quickly led to understand that it would be an excellent bit of psychological warfare if the elves ever came by to siege.
There had been soap in Crownhammers for several months now. Very little of it had seen any use. The undead birds that plagued the territory had slowed in their incursions, and the military had made full use of their surface barracks to spot and intercept them before they could swoop down on the heads of innocent haulers.
The crows had done their damage, however. All it really took was a deep enough scratch, or a delay in reaching the hospital. The doctors would do everything in their power to treat the injured, but their effectiveness was limited without soap. And several months after the fact, the consequences made themselves apparent.
Immigration Ledger
27 Sandstone
Mid AutumnLokum Alathtoral, Fish Dissector (f)
Lorbam Lorbambecor, Herbalist (m)
Lokum Ableliklist, Gem Cutter (m)
Kubuk Sigunablel, Dyer/Siege Engineer (m)
Nish Monangmedtob, Jeweler/Soldier (f)
Likot Limularban, Trader (f)
Led Mafolrigoth, Dyer (m)
Dodok Zuntirzulban, Weaver (f), Led's wife
Shem Dedukgemsit, Trader (m)Total: 91 Piglet (f)
1 Poult (f)
1 Chick (m)
1 Horse Foal (f)Total: 4
Exodus, pick thy dorfs. I'll finally choose a new dwarf for the Whalers when you're done.
Author
Topic: Crownhammers, the #1 undead, murderous bird sanctuary in the world (Read 69818 times)