It was Atir who first spotted him as he arrived from the west. A hulking brute, covered in shaggy fur, with the head of a raging ox, the horns with tips sharper than swords. It bellowed to the heavens as it entered the territory, charging through the trees, ramming massive fists into everything within reach. Then in paused, sniffing the air with its head arched skywards. It a heartbeat, it turned in Atir's direction, who had taken cover behind a tree.
Then it charged. Atir made a dash for the fortress. She managed to turn away just in time to hear a great splintering, the sound of wooden furniture being ripped in half. She dare not look back.
The minotaur gave chase through the western hills. Atir bellowed as she ran, hoping the workers would clear out and the military would respond in time. She saw dwarves scatter in all directions as she came within sight of the entrance. One, a craftsdwarf named Lorbam Titthalatir, didn't run fast enough. The minotaur lost interest in chasing Atir and turned its feral gaze upon Lorbam.
It happened almost too fast. The beast tackled Lorbam to the ground and followed her down. The downed dwarf tried retaliating with her fists, but her strikes didn't faze the brute. It retaliated with its own fists, pummeling Lorbam's limbs and chest. Then it took hold of a knee and bent it sharply in the wrong direction. Lorbam's cry of pain would have distressed even the undead birds of Crownhammers.
Inod Ableletes, a miner of the Union of Souls, ran outside in the commotion. She had heard the alarms. She also knew that the military would take forever to ascend the fortress staircase and rid the territory of this monster. So she took matters into her own callused hands.
Her pick went through the minotaur's arm like it was dirt. It didn't even flinch. Its other hand moved to Lorbam's throat, squeezing, crushing the life from her. Inod doubled her efforts. She rammed the pick through the creature's knees. It buckled, but kept on strangling. Now the head was within reach. With one mighty heave, she swung. The minotaur went limp.
Inod wasted no time. She tried to shove the monster's massive body off Lorbam, with some success. She tried to help Lorbam to her feet. The dwarf wasn't responding. She was pale and still. The flesh of her throat was a hideous purple. Inod tried to shake her, slap her, trigger a response of some sort. But she was too late.
The military arrived but moments later.
"Surely we have to do something about this, Admiral," Atir said. She had found the weathered dwarf out by the shore in the aftermath of the attack, gazing at the blood-tides. She still couldn't understand why he did it.
"Aye, lass," he replied, eyes still fixed oceanward. "Get Bembul and Perseus ta consult with th' commander. We needs us a barracks what's closer ta th' surface."
"Yessir. What about this Father Wolfe? He was spouting propaganda about this Church of Armok thing."
"I'm aware o' that," the Admiral replied. He was still gazing at the bloody waters. "I spoke to 'im afore. Wants him a place o' worship. I think I've found a spot fer it."
Atir couldn't understand that particular line of reasoning. "Admiral, may I be frank?"
"Ye'd damn well better be, lass. I'm no dictator."
She sighed, took a moment to collect her thoughts. "Well, it's just that the ideology of this Church of Armok seems... wildly incompatible with our own. Theocracies, banning women from the military, chosen race and whatnot. I spoke to Perseus about it, and she's with me on this one."
"As am I." For the first time today, the Admiral wasn't speaking in a monotone. "An' I find their belief tha' we were created 200 years ago to be pure hogwash. But who are we to deny others a place o' worship? 'specially after all what we suffered ta get our own beliefs to be accepted. T'is nae right, I tell ye."
"I understand, sir," she said. "But something tells me we should keep tabs on them just the same."
A powerful voice came from behind them. "Well, tha' goes wi'out sayin', dunnit?"
Atir turned to see Bembul cresting the dune and descending the beach toward them. He gave her a quick swat on the backside as he passed her. It's not like the Admiral was looking anyway.
"Construction proceeds a bit ahead o' schedule, Cap'n," Bembul declared. "What's more, I heard tha' the loony down below 'as finished his werk. Looked pretty patriotic fer a helm."
Taran simply nodded, waiting for Bembul to continue.
"Most o' the fortress residents are whinin' aboot a lack o' doors on their chambers. I've told the masons ta get on it. I put in an order fer new sets o' clothes afore we all have ta walk aroond with our willies danglin' in th' breeze. I've also noticed a strong adherence to th' Church o' Armok among the farmhands. Not sure wha' that's all aboot."
"Solid work, Bembul," the Admiral replied. Atir thought this would be a good time to bow out and get back to work, so she excused herself and went back to the constrution site. Bembul continued the status update until she was out of earshot. Something about dwindling hooch supplies, lack of workshop space, insufficient farming facilities.
It was only once Bembul was sure he was alone with Taran that he spoke his mind.
"Ye can hear again, can't ye?" He asked. "The Whalesong. Tha's why ye're always here."
"Aye."
"Ye really think she's still oot there?"
"I'm startin' ta think so."
Bembul sighed. "Ye do know tha' it's bloody well unlikely, aye? I mean, it's been so many years."
"I know, Bembul," the Admiral replied, finally turning to face his friend of a thousand voyages. "But I can feel it. I can hear the sails in the Song. Every bleedin' hour o' every bleedin' day. Callin' to me. Beggin' me ta leave this place behind n' swim until I find 'er."
"Bleedin' 'ells, Cap'n. We dinnae return here for that. And what if it's the Sunken One feckin' wit' yer 'ead? Wouldn't be the first time."
Taran shook his head. "T'is the Whalesong. I know it is. Even in this dead ocean. Ye'd hear it too if ye still 'ad an amulet."
"I cannae make one," Bembul replied. "There's no whales here. I 'aven't even seen one o' the buggers since... well, ye know when."
Taran nodded. The two old sailors turned to gaze at the distant horizon, beyond the waves and the tides of blood. A thin crimson drizzle fell from dark clouds. They stood in silence for a time, each lost in thought.
Bembul piped up after a time, when the drizzle was beginning to turn into a downpour. "Should we tell th' Preacher aboot his ludicrous beliefs, ye think?"
"Nae. Let him live in ignorance. Wouldn't believe us anyway."
"What year d'ye s'pose it is back home?"
"Bugger me, I've no idea."
The constant rain of blood slowed its pace as spring gave way to summer. The elk birds in the cages were slaughtered for meat and bones. A team of miners descended the central staircase with their implements in hand, ready to dig out a place for the worship of Armok within a layer of diorite. Another team sat by the surface construction with Bembul and Atir as the older dwarf pored over a mountain of blueprints and schematics, trying to find a place to throw in the new temple. They hadn't solved the matter of the new training facility either.
It was at this point that one of the construction workers came running to them, bringing news. A human caravan had been spotted approaching from the south. Atir, being the broker, made a beeline for the depot, leaving Bembul alone with a pile of the Admiral's plans.
Bembul felt he was being watched. He showed no sign of it. He'd had that feeling for several months now. Someone was stalking him and the other Whalers, though he had yet to figure out who it was. Any of a number of dwarves could be out for their necks. Was it Xan, who seemed to have eyes on every major player in Crownhammers? Alast? Balor? Was it one of Hef's dwarves, or one of Illevaihcam's? Or something else entirely?
By the time he was done with his musings, Atir was giving the humies a cordial welcome. If everything went according to plan, she'd buy out most of their crap with a handful of enormous silver corkscrews. That would include a glorious heap of food, and hopefully a bit of fish. It had been too long since Bembul had sunk his teeth into the bounty of the sea.
Bembul went over the maps again. At this rate, they'd never be able to relocate the military. Then it him him. The abandoned room on the surface. It already had a cabinet and everything. It was just a matter of tossing the soldiers in there and call it a day until they could find a more permanent solution. In the meantime, they could start drafting more soldiers to defend Crownhammers. Crossbowdwarves in particular. The military had no ranged support.
Again the feeling of being watched. He'd have to prod Atir about it later. If she felt it too, then perhaps his lessons weren't wasted on her.
Balor went through the ledger again. She redid her math, consulted previous logs, even walked through the fort looking for the stuff. At last, she was certain. A number of items were missing, vanished or otherwise misplaced. How did that happen on her watch?
She counted the numbers again. Numerous bars of lead were missing, along with an anvil. Out of over ten thousand wooden logs, over twenty were unaccounted for. Nobody she talked to had seen the stuff being hauled around, and lead wasn't known for its light weight.
Apparently, Crownhammers had a thief. A thief with a taste for heavy objects.
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Topic: Crownhammers, the #1 undead, murderous bird sanctuary in the world (Read 69500 times)