Summer went on, and the dwarves of Crownhammers settled into a comfortable routine of building the Admiral's edifice, expanding the living areas, and being harassed by the local undead wildlife. Soldiers were periodically stationed at various points on the surface to protect the civilians, but still one or two dwarves managed to get themselves mangled by long-dead birds. Those with lasting injuries were carried to the hospital to await Balor's ministrations. Taran soon came to realize that there was no soap to be found anywhere in Crownhammers, nor was there a well on hand. He set about to correcting these mistakes immediately.
It was in the final days of Malachite that they came, arriving from the south, presumably on the same path as the human merchants from a month before. A group of dwarven exiles, seeking refuge. The first dwarf they approached was Bembul. He greeted them with a warm smile and a promise of a new home. By the next day, half of them were assigned to military squads.
Immigration Ledger
25th of Malachite
Mid Summer
Nish Alathatol, Milker/Swordsdwarf (m)
Ducim Kakdalkol, Carpenter/Macedwarf (f)
Zas Ustuthmishos, Doctor (m)
Ushat Bunematis, Wood Burner (m)
Sazir Avuzbim, Tanner (m)
Kol Thosbuttun, Gem Setter (m)
Tobul Emaledem, Soldier (f)
{b]Total: 7[/b]
1 Keet (m)
1 Puppy (f)
2 Puppies (m)
Total: 4
The Admiral was telling his stories again. Most of the dwarves of Crownhammers were gathered in the dining hall to hear their current overseer tell another one of his fascinating tales over the evening meal. One of the few absentees was Sakzul Vudtharstinthad of the Legion, who had been taken by a fey mood and locked herself in her jeweler's workshop with a pile of gems, rocks, leather and assorted rubbish.
Taran took a swig of ale to clear his throat before getting started. Anyone who was used to his normally dour demeanor welcomed his tales with open arms. He was a different dwarf then. His voice still rumbled of age, but where it was normally grave and hollow, it was now filled with life and vigor. He sounded decades younger, though no dwarf save Bembul could put an age to him.
"Oh, she was a fine ship, our Osprey," he began, a brilliant gleam in the eye. "I'd know. Built 'er meself. Nigh on fifty years we sailed 'er, Bembul n' I, through storm and whale and war, n' never did we 'ave to retire her, nor watch as she sank to th' bottom o' th' ocean. I'd wager she'll outlive me, 'ad I the slightest notion where she was."
"What happened to it?" One of the dwarves in the crowd asked.
"Her, lad," Taran corrected. "Ships is always a 'her'. On account o' human language, ye unnerstand. Humies 'ave no word fer 'it'. Ev'rything's male or female. Ships are female. Like it or not, humans invented the boat, so we adhere to their terminology."
"But I digress. Truth be told, I dunno what happened to 'er. Me last journey with 'er is a tale fer another time."
Taran took another swig of ale, raised his mug for a refill. "Fer now, I'd tell ye of how she switched from a whalin' ship to a warship. Stay with me now, t'is an odd tale indeed."
"We were in th' employ of a human city in them days, a capital" he said, casting eyes over his spectators. "O'er half o' th' crew were humes, an' they paid damn well fer whale oil n' ambergris in that town, so we stuck 'round an' enjoyed th' prosperity. Whalin' trips were short, an' we were th' only crew with experience huntin' the majestic creatures, so we racked up a small fortune by ourselves. Had us a private wharf on th' waterfront an' everything."
"O' course, we're sailors. Good fortune never lasts long enough for our lot. Less than a year o' good luck, an' already troubles were brewin' on th' horizon. We came to learn that th' goblins 'ad conquered a human town some sixty leagues north, an' were usin' th' harbor ta build their own ships an' terrorize th' open waters. They sunk an entire fishin' fleet afore anyone knew what was happenin', an' a scoutin' ship had spotted the bastards headed toward th' capital."
"Well, there was no point ta goin' whalin' if yer port gets blockaded while ye're gone, so the lads n' I just sat twiddlin' our thumbs an' doin' nothin' o' value. That is, until th' human general came by with a far purse and orders ta arm all sufficiently large sea-worthy vessels in preparation fer war. So there we are a couple days later, loadin' a squad o' humie archers n' pikemen aboard our vessel. I dun think the humies were used to naval warfare o' any sort, 'cause most o' the soldiers were clad in iron armor. That kind o' weight will only get ye drowned."
"So I go an' have a talk with their commander, a fella by the name of... huh. Oy, Bembul!" Taran hollered to his old companion, who was seated at another table with a flagon in one hand and a ledger in the other. "What was that lackwit's name?"
"Stathra, ser," Bembul replied, looking up from his papers for the briefest of moments.
"Stathra, that's it," Taran nodded. "Aye, man was a complete idjit. Ye dun have to be a military genius ta unnerstand that armored pikemen are the dumbest possible choice fer a marine. Pikes're too bloody long ta wield effectively on a deck, an' heavy armor just makes ye sink easier. But that loon would have none of it, so we set sail with him, fifty bowmen and fifty unfortunate sods who'd be screwed if we actually engaged th' enemy."
"O' course, like I told ye before, a sailor's luck never lasts long. We ran into a goblin ship on the second day o' the scoutin' trip. They weren't no scouts neither. T'was a full-blown warship. O'er twice as large as th' Osprey, I tell ye, with a deck so full o' greenskins ye'd think ye were lookin' at a sea o' heads. Buggers started headin' in our direction th' very moment they saw us."
"T'was all hands on deck then, I tell ye," he said as he swept his wild eyes through the crowd. "Never had I seen me own crew haul arse so bleedin' fast. There was no gettin' away from 'em in that tide and those winds, so straight on we went, tryin' to pass 'em broadside. Th' archers nocked arrows, the pikemen formed up. Arrows flew from th' Osprey in their dozens, comin' down on the goblins' 'eads like a rain o' iron. They dinnae fire back. As we were passin', their ship suddenly turned towards us. Bleedin' 'ells, I thought they were crazy enough to try an' ram us. We turned away, tried maneuverin' oot o' range. Their ship kept comin'. In th' end, they didn't ram us, but they were damn close. Close enough to board."
"Piles o' greenskins jumped from their deck ta ours, brandishin' weapons an' screamin' in their foul tongue. Th' pikemen 'ad no room to fight. Half the poor bastards were dead afore the goblins were even done boardin'."
All eyes were on him, fascinated by the tale. One young dwarf, a farmer by trade, spoke up. "How did you get out of that one, Admiral?"
"Oh lad, ta this day I dunno if it were quick thinkin' or pure chance. But I went n' did somethin' so bloody insane, it jus' had ta werk. I tried sinkin' me own ship."
He paused for dramatic effect there. The dwarves of Crownhammers were giving him the exact same look as his crew had given him back then. They thought he was out of his addled mind.
"I'd trained me crew ta tie themselves ta th' riggin' in case o' sea storms, so I bellowed for 'em to do that. Then I steered th' Osprey like a drunken loon. I turned the helm every which way, gave th' most ridiculous orders ta th' crew. Afore th' fightin' on deck 'ad developed enough fer th' gobbos ta turn on me crew, we were careenin' sideways. Th' deck was so slick with blood an' sea water that anyone an' anythin' what weren't nailed down started to slide right off."
"I remember havin' th' presence o' mind ta yell fer the human soldiers ta grab on ta somethin' or stab th' deck. Many of 'em were smart enough ta listen. Them what weren't went o'er th' side along with th' gobbos. So that was one problem mostly solved. That left th' goblin warship, an' we were in no condition ta take on her crew." Taran grinned like a madman. To this day, he was surprised his hare-brained scheme had worked. Especially this last part.
"So we rammed 'er. Sheer bleedin' insanity, I know. But I been buildin' ships since I was a beardlin'. I ken how they werk, an' how ta make 'em stop werkin'. Turned th' helm straight t'wards 'er belly an' braced fer impact. There was a massive splinterin' o' wood as our prow went through their hull. We hung on fer dear life as th' Osprey took th' impact like a champ. The gobbos started takin' in water, and afore too long, they was sinkin'. Some o' them tried ta jump ship an' swim away. Thing is, they couldn't really swim."
Taran went on about how they were received like heroes and madmen back on land. The sound of chatter rose all around as dwarves commented amongst themselves on the tale. Some stayed at Taran's table, asking the old dwarf questions.
"Have you ever killed a goblin before?"
"With me own hands on a weapon? Nae. Me crew would get to 'em fairst."
"How many whales have you caught?"
"Fifty-seven."
"What does a ship actually look like?"
Taran grinned. "Well, lad, t'is hard ta describe. But if ye can wait 'nother month or so, I wager ye'll see fer yerself."
They lay in his bed together, her head resting on his chest, savoring the afterglow. What with the Admiral's project nearing completion, Bembul and Atir finally had some time to themselves. Now that the fun part was over, it was time for Atir's usual barrage of questions.
"You know, I still can't figure out where you and the Admiral are from."
"How d'ye mean?"
"Well, you know. You two just don't strike me as being dwarves of the Matched Silvers."
"Ach. Was it th' accent what gave us 'way?" Bembul smiled. "Aye, we're nae from here."
"Where are you from then?"
"Tha's a tough question." He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "We're nae from this land, if tha's what ye're askin'."
"Yes, you just told me that."
"Nae, I dun think ye unnerstand. The Cap'n n' I are from another continent entirely."
Atir craned her head upward to look him in the eye. There was no look of mischief there, so he didn't seem to be lying, but that was quite the farfetched answer. Another continent?
Bembul sighed. "Look. It's a long bleedin' story, and ye'll get ta hear th' whole thing quite soon anyway."
He was dodging her again. Damnation. Atir continued her inquiry. "How old are you exactly? You keep telling me you're too old for this and that, but you look barely a hundred and ten."
This was new. For the first time since she'd met him, Bembul looked nervous. "See, now tha's nae easier than th' first question. And again, ye'll know aboot it soon."
It was Atir's turn to sigh. "Why can't you tell me yourself? And what do you mean I'll know about it?"
"Because th' Cap'n's project is nearin' completion." If Bembul was aggravated, he gave no sign of it. "An' when it's finished, he'll be callin' a gatherin' o' th' Whalers. Then he'll explain th' whole story. Afore that, none of ye may know th' answers. Now, are there any questions I can actually answer wi'out crossin' the Cap'n?"
"I hope so. Lately, I've been getting this feeling. Ever since the election in fact. That we're being watched, or something. Do you get that too?"
Bembul stroked her chestnut hair, a bright smile dancing on his lips. "Ah lass, now ye done this ol' sailor proud. Aye, I felt th' same. No bleedin' idea who's watchin' or why though. I suspect we'll find out sooner or later."
"Why?"
"There's 79 dwarves livin' in Crownhammers, an' most of 'em ain't bright enough fer tha' sort o' werk. So we go by process o' elimination. Now, unless I mistake that glint in yer eyes, ye've more ta say. Out with it."
She hesitated more than usual. This was a touchy subject, touchier than any other she'd badgered him about before. She started by mumbling, then rephrasing her mumbling a couple of times. She tried speaking in sentence fragments. "Slow down an' think, woman," Bembul told her. "Ye're beginnin' ta worry me."
The longest ten seconds of her life passed by before Atir could properly express herself. "My... cycle stopped a couple months ago. I... I think I'm with child."
She had never seen Bembul like this. His eyes widened in alarm, but he sounded calm as ever when he spoke. "Ye're certain o' this?"
"Mostly, yes. Why?" Atir tried to hide how broken she felt, but she was certain Bembul would notice. Nobody in Crownhammers knew her like he did.
He eyed her gravely. The words that came out of his mouth did nothing but make her feel worse.
"Because I'm sterile, lass. Have been fer years. An' ye're too smitten with me to sleep around, so it would have to be mine. But it can't be."
Atir fought back tears. How could he possibly sound so cold when he said that? Did he really feel no attachment to her? She struggled with the urge to punch him in the loins.
He cupped her chin in his scarred, tanned hand. Though his words were harsh, there was a note of concern in his tone. "Save that fer later, lass. There's somethin' far more important than our emotions at werk here."
He disentangled himself from her then and went about collecting his clothes, dressing in a hurry.
"Where are you going?" She asked him.
"Ta find th' Cap'n. He needs ta know. Right bleedin' now."
"What? Why?" She stood up, started gathering her own clothes. Bembul was halfway dressed by now.
"Like I said, this is important. More than ye know."
"Can you at least tell me why you're so certain you're infertile?"
"Because I'm Drowned, lass. The Drowned cannae create life."
She paused halfway through putting on her trousers, unsure of what she had just heard. She tried to make him explain, but a flat "What?" was all that came out of her mouth.
"The Cap'n'll explain later. Right now, we hafta go."
They weren't even done dressing when Bembul ran out the door, putting on his shirt as he went. Atir could do nothing but throw her own dress over her shoulders and run after him. They were halfway to the Admiral's workshop when she overheard two dwarves gossiping about the resident couple, Fikod and Thob. Apparently, they'd had a baby on the previous day.
"Ach, SHITE." She guessed Bembul must have heard it too. He ran faster. Atir struggled to keep up with him.
They found the Admiral sawing logs into planks, as he'd done almost nonstop for months now. Bembul tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. He leaned in close and whispered something in the Admiral's ear. Atir tried to read his lips, but couldn't make out a word of it. He was probably speaking in a human language.
When Bembul finished whispering, the Admiral turned to face her. "Atir, 'ave ye shagged anyone else?" That was one question she never thought she would hear without a tone of judgment, but the Admiral managed to pull it off.
"No, sir," she replied immediately. Taran nodded, then turned to Bembul. He said something in a low voice, again in a human tongue. Bembul nodded and headed back toward the staircase. Atir went after him.
"What was that all about?" She asked.
"Guess ye'll be findin' things oot a wee bit sooner than antecipated, lass. Fer now, we get back ta werk."
"That's it?"
"Fer now, aye." All the usual joyful warmth was gone from Bembul's voice. He sounded like a different dwarf. "Ye'll have yer answers soon, lass. But I cannae promise ye'll like 'em."
Insanegame27: I'm not sure I understand your request. You want me to buy up every animal in the caravan? I did it anyway just in case. Regarding future members of the Might of Killing, that won't happen during my turn. Not sure where we can pin requests for future overseers.
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Topic: Crownhammers, the #1 undead, murderous bird sanctuary in the world (Read 69823 times)