The dwarves of Canyonlance had been rejoicing. Their fortress had just celebrated its fourth year of foundation and the fifty citizens of the village feasted on lavishly cooked meals and finely brewed spirits.
The manager Sazir cast his copper eyes over the citizens of his growing empire with satisfaction. So far his plans had been successful. A humble fisherdwarf by trade, he had assembled his six closest friends to journey to this promising site and found a new outpost for the glory of his King and country. They dug, they built, they traded and they prospered. Under his direction their people had amassed considerable wealth.
Now it was threatened, for the one thing they had yet to do was fight.
Goblins had been captured attempting to infiltrate the fortress! The disgusting creatures were trapped in the cleverly concealed cages protecting the fortress entrance. So far they'd caught two of the filth, an ashen-skinned female with narrow red eyes and an olive-skinned male who'd loaded a tall body with incredible muscles. They'd stripped them of their clothes, leaving them naked and snarling in their cages like the animals they were. Sazir laughed to himself as he recalled that moment. He'd acquired a fine pair of giant cave spider silk trousers that day. Much better than the tattered old pig tail rags he had been wearing threadbare over the last three years.
The question had been raised about what to do with them. Some had voted for throwing them off the top of the main stairwell. Sazir felt proud of that feature of the fortress. He hadn't personally been involved in its construction; the idea had been the brainchild of the original architect and mason of his band Uvash, then carved into glorious reality from the living rock by Domas their miner. It was now ten stories deep, with new levels being added as fast as the branching rooms could be completed. Whilst bathing the four pillars that supported it with the blood of their enemies appealed to some, for Sazir it lacked purpose of thought. He was a practical dwarf, loathe to waste a resource when it could be channeled towards profit. Every lump of stone was to him a tradable bauble in the hands of a craftsdwarf; every caravan of goods a link in the chain that kept his community from crumbling to a swift end.
For Canyonlance's greatest strength was also its most deadly weakness. It was a city of artisans, creating beauty and wealth beyond imagination in variety and quality. Yet it paid the price for such high-minded pursuits by ignoring the mundane necessities of providing for its citizens physical needs. No seed had ever been planted in Canyonlance, no animal hunted, no fish caught. In all things comestible it relied on the mercy of the merchants with whom it traded. They brought their exotic meats, their succulent greenery, their dainty cheeses and above all their barrels of liquid golden ambrosia. In exchange they were repaid ten-fold, sometimes hundred-fold, with such items of quality as would make a king in all his finery equal to the lowliest peasant; all tossed pile upon pile into bins like they were trash fit only for disposal.
And now it was all threatened by the appearance of their ancient racial enemy. It had been agreed that these two could hardly be the last, and that soon the traditional goblin tactic of ambushing the trade caravans would begin soon, possibly even next season. For a city like Canyonlance this would spell utter disaster. Should the goblins drive away the merchants every dwarf in the fortress would slowly starve.
But Sazir was a practical dwarf. They had all the material resources they could possibly need for crafting a fighting force. Deep within the fortress lay stockpiles of steel begging to be put to use. He need only draft a work order and there could be armor for any who would wear it. No, that wasn't an issue. The greatest hurdle lay in the complete lack of any practical fighting skills among the populace. He looked at himself, seeing the model of the typical Canyonlance citizen: fat tending to obese from a rich diet of food created by dwarves that were more artists than cooks, viewing each meal as a chance to combine ingredients into increasingly lavish creations. In his wildest dreams Sazir had never contemplated such culinary alchemy, yet whilst the union of such illogically mismatched cuisine defied rational explanation, certainly the results spoke for themselves on a body whose waistline was bordering upon equatorial.
They possessed all the equipment and accouterments of warfare they may have wished. They lacked only the hands to wield it.
No, thought Sazir, hands we have. It's experienced hands we lack. We know the storm approaches. Time is our enemy here. Certainly many of our brave citizens would gladly bear arms to protect what we've created. But how can we take unskilled recruits and craft them into battle hardened veterans? How can we do this with but a season or two at most before the goblin horde descends?
With a heavy heart he watched his friends gather around the dining hall, chatting and laughing with not a single dark thought to trouble their minds. How easy it was to believe they were protected, safe within their walls. Nearby one of the children taunted the goblin prisoners with a handful of roasted meat. Sazir had eventually decided to order the cages constructed in the dining hall, that the prisoners might witness the bounty of their captors' tables whilst surviving on mouldering scraps and the vermin attracted to their filth. The child held out the meat, still dripping warm juice between the pudgy fingers which grasped it. Hunger was plainly written on the face of the goblin, even though it knew this game all to well. The child inched closer and closer to the cage, giggling while his father encouraged from nearby. Finally the goblin could take no more, throwing away the calm pretense of disinterest and hurling herself against the bars. She snarled and clawed, alternating between streams of abuse in the guttural goblin tongue and inarticulate animal noises. The child danced nimbly away, cackling with peals of impish glee as he tossed the food on the floor in a practiced movement, landing it tantalizingly close to the cage yet just out of reach. His father poured praise upon him for his bravery and quick reflexes, filling the young lad with predictions of his future as captain of the guard, hero of a thousand battles. Meanwhile the goblin clawed at the dust, straining to reach the morsel, her face already carved with the knowledge of her inevitable failure but her body refusing to deny the existence of something it wanted so desperately, needed so completely it was beyond reasoning. Eventually the father and son grew tired of the goblin's heaving sobs and wandered off seeking some more interesting diversion.
A light entered Sazir's eyes. The thought struck him like a cave-in. Oh the irony! He finally had his solution and it had been staring him in the face all along. The gloom vanished from his face, replaced by a feverish intensity. He was borderline fey in his newfound zeal. Oh, he'd need to see some people first before it could happen. He'd need to draft the production orders for the armor of course, speak to the mechanics to rig up the required systems, find those willing hands he was seeking, and track down a carpenter to discuss his plan with. But it would work, and what was most important was that it was so elegant, so perfectly wasteless.
"I see what you want Sazir, and I can make them for you right enough."
"What do you think? Tower cap? Fungiwood?"
"For what you want? Best's featherwood."
"A land tree?"
"Aye, but it's the weight that's the thing. Stuff's strong as tower cap but half the weight. Weight's your enemy for what you want."
"Fine, make me a half dozen straight away. Soon as you're done I'll send Domas and Logem to pick them up."
"Already? You sure got that set up fast."
"Just gotta know the right people to ask, my friend."
"Right enough. Still, I miss the blighter. Meals just ain't the same without him there."
"Oh, you could always see him again you know."
"Nice try Sazir. Maybe I'll take you up on that, but I'm gonna wait and see how Domas and Logem fare before I risk my neck on your crazy scheme."
"Tsk tsk, that's why they won't be engraving your name on any walls, Tholtig."
"Sazir, it's not them carving me onto the walls I'm worried about. It's them cleaning me off the walls I'm worried about."
Bax stared around this new room with suspicion. The fat dwarves had moved him out of the dining room several days ago, placing his cage in this smaller chamber. The only exit was a stairwell at the far end of the room but he knew the exit was blocked by a heavy stone hatch. Even if he could have somehow escaped his cage he would still be trapped.
They had done something to his cage, Bax noticed. Some strange assembly of gears now connected with the lock. He'd spent countless hours trying to pick the lock, all the while being jeered and taunted by the fat ones. It was no use of course. The lock was dwarven, far beyond his ability to master. The fat ones knew it, would tease Bax, give him bits of wire, shout advice, laugh at his frustration. How they laughed at his weakness.
Bax was not weak. He was strong. He had won more fights than anyone his age in his tribe. Killed more rivals than any of his equals. Power was the only true wealth. Only those with power can have anything else, otherwise someone else takes what is theirs and they have nothing. Bax was powerful. Strong. Fast. Smart. Strength to kill the weaker. Fast to avoid the stronger. Smart to know the difference.
Now Bax had nothing. No strength. No speed. No cunning. Only cage. A small cage, inside a larger cage. No power.
They came.
The fat ones came, covered in metal. Soldiers. Bax knew. He knew armor. Goblins had armor, would wear it for fighting big battles. Not for small fights. Single combat, one wore only clothes and trusted strength, speed, cunning. Not for executions. Bax knew, this his execution. Only answer. No power, no worth. Better to die.
Bax happy to die. Better than living now.
"Reckon he stinks worse'n before, Logem!"
"The lack of ventilation certainly does, ahem, accentuate his odor, does it not?"
Bax watched the fat ones talk. He listened. Old habits. Learn young to never stop listening, finding weakness. Something strange about these fat ones, Bax felt. Not like soldiers. Not like executioner. Like child with first dagger, not sure how to strike. Fat, ugly children playing soldier.
"You sure about this Logem?"
"Domas, I would not have enlisted was I not sure. Come, are you ready?"
"You're the boss commander."
Bax heard noises. Machines. Hated machines. Always machines mean death. Not able to fight, not able to run, not able to outsmart. So these fat ones would kill him with machines. Lowest form of death possible. Even in execution Bax humiliated. Hateful dwarves. Some day all will be destroyed. But Bax not see that day now. Meeting death.
The cage door ground open.
Bax free.
"Fat ones die!" screamed the goblin, shocking the two dwarves by speaking their native tongue. Naked and unarmed, outnumbered two to one, still he charged the steel clad soldiers, hoping that in death he might at least take one with him. Shields were raised and weapons drawn by his opponents, turning away the goblin's assault with little difficulty.
"Well dip me in tallow and call me a wambler, he speaks our language commander!"
"So it would seem."
"Crafty little devil. He never let on once!"
"I would suggest you focus less on your opponent's vocabulary and more on your attacks, Dumas."
The dwarves had cornered Bax, flanking him with shields raised. He glared at them defiantly, knowing any second the blow of their weapons would fall and take his life. He'd failed. Failed to even scratch them. There was a blur of movement, the shields parted, and two axes swung simultaneously downwards.
They bounced harmlessly off his chest, barely bruising the skin.
Bax stared in disbelief. The fat ones held toys. Wooden toys. Children playing soldier with wooden toy axes. Madness.
"Again Domas! Make him feel it this time!"
"Aye commander!"
Bax didn't know how long they fought. Hours, days, weeks. Made no difference. The fat ones would attack, defend, sometimes together, sometimes alone. Their toy weapons, light as a feather, never more than bruising Bax. They grew stronger, faster, smarter. Knowing how to fight. How to dodge. How to swing. But Bax had a secret.
Bax getting powerful too.
Hiding his power, pretending weakness. Smart, cunning Bax. Waiting for right time.
Time finally came.
"Argh! Commander!"
"Let go of his nose you filthy green Agakoggez!"
"It hurts! Oh, it hurts!"
"Enough! Unlock the hatch!"
Bax saw hatch open. A way out of cage. Run!
"He broke it, my poor nose... no commander! Don't touch- aaaaahHH!"
Bax running, away from fat ones, away from cage, toward exit, freedom so close!
CLUNK!
"Hello again Bax. It's been awhile since our last session hasn't it Domas?"
"Aye, gave commander Logem a right surprise last time didn'tcha! Couldn't walk for weeks after you bent his toe like that!"
"Come now Domas, that's all part of the game isn't it? I'm sure Bax here enjoys planning his little surprises for us each time we see one another."
The two fat dwarves drew their featherwood training axes and started tapping them against the cage.
"Now Bax, shall we continue?"
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Topic: What's going on in your fort? (Read 6108066 times)