Mat'tock stared into the flickering fire.
He saw shapes in it, that looked like half-familiar faces, but they changed and melted before he could ever recognise them. Sometimes, the flames looked like swords-like his sword-and like the pole weapon that the strange dwarf, Carbuncle, carried. At other times, the fire took on the shape of a distant battlefield, and then the faces and swords twisted into monsters...
Mat'tock turned away. His gut rumbled sharply as he thought of dinner, but he pushed the thought away.
He'd been sitting, barefooted in front of the fireplace, for well over an hour, warming his feet on the hot pavers, head pleasantly fuzzy from the strong alchohol. He used his rucksack as a cushion, having filled it with an old, ripped blanket that Morion had dropped by with, on his way to slaughter a goat.
It had definitely seen better days-and the old dwarf had admitted as much-but Mat'tock was very grateful to have it. Mat'tock had had a blanket of his own, ofcourse-three good ones infact-but they had been lost the last time Mat'tock crossed a river. An enormous fish with mad yellow eyes had tried to overturn the raft he'd been on, and it was only by the combined efforts of the polers and passengers that it had been driven off.
His blankets, a length of rope, a pewter mug, and a small iron pot he'd used to cook in, were casualties of the event, pulled into the stream which had been swollen with the spring melt.
He'd been very lucky, all things considered--the beast-fish latched quickly onto the leg of one of the passengers and dragged her under, not two feet from Mat'tock, even as the polers had beaten at it.
The polers had warned them of such fish before they'd set off, but little could be done about them with the water so high, and they'd all agreed to cross, despite the danger.
One of the passengers-her companion-had fired several arrows into the water with a shortbow he carried, but it seemed to make no difference, the fish was gone. The raft-master had been kind enough to refund the man's fee, and Mat'tock and the polers helped the quietly weeping man build a little shrine to her, along the riverside. He'd walked together with the man for a ways, both taking a certain cold comfort in the other's company after the vicious attack.
The man was a scout, returning home from a skirmish with elves to the west. Nothing too serious, but he'd taken several wounds in an ambush, and because it wasn't all that serious, he'd been sent back home to mend, his duty done. The woman had been his sister, who lived ten miles or so from their father's farm. She was just traveling with him for a ways, to catch up, and to see her brother safely home.
The fact that she had been young and healthy only made it more of a tragedy. The distraught man dearly wished it had been him instead of her, and even objectively, not knowing his sister or sharing their relationship, Mat'tock could see his point. Women just weren't that common, in any family. One in maybe ten or twelve births was female, and ofcourse many of those didn't survive to their twenty-fifth year.
Aside from all the other dangers involved in growing up, there were childhood diseases that would kill a female, but leave males relatively unscathed. Noone knew why. It was just Nature, as cruel and senseless as the fish had been. Were it not for the gods-some of them-and the faith of men, we'd all be dragged down.
Mat'tock had seen the man home, and then had been on his way--a hot meal in his stomach from the grateful family. If he hadn't been there, they'd likely have lost both kin. The man had talked of following his sister, of vengeance on the fish.
The mad, helpless words of grief--they were not unexpected.
It had been the last hot meal that had passed Mat'tock's lips.
He stood and stretched, back and shoulders crackling to beat the fire. Mat'tock pressed his ear against the hole in the wall, but still no dinner bell. Opening the other hole to expose the drain, he pissed long and loudly into the dark depths inside.
Alchohol always did that to him, along with mellowing his mind, untangling his tongue, boosting his energy and confidence.
Mat'tock shook himself and wondered if there was a place around here to wash up. He could more than do with a bath... He began rearranging his rocks on the shelves, the idle thoughts occupying his head helped him to ignore the whinings of his stomach.
He'd heard once that strong drink made some other species-goblins and humans-crazy, but he didn't believe it. He'd never met either folk, but what could there be in a mere drink that would drive a person insane? Too many horrors and wonders in the world already--too much joy, and far too much grief, for madness to grow from already.
A properly drunk dwarf was far likelier to be sane, in his experience. Harder to anger or sadden, far less likely to lie, or to harbour an evil intention, as the brothers had well known.
He picked up a chunk of pink granite, unable to decide whether to place it next to a bit of pyrite or behind a cloudy quartz crystal that was almost exactly the size and shape of the last joint on his right thumbus. At that moment he heard the tinny sound of a ringing bell.
Atlast!
Dropping the rock with a *thunk* on the stone shelf, he quickly pulled on his boots and headed for the door.
He checked the fire to make certain there was nothing close enough to catch a spark, and then peered out into the dim, broad hallway.
Spotting Tol'brek, the big, friendly-looking dwarf from earlier walking up the hall, Mat'tock called out a greeting.
"Hallo, strange'ar," said the dwarf in his low gritty voice, accompanying the hello with a bright coppery grin. "I'uz gan tar warsh ap, hef ya'd care tar be accomp'nayed. We 'ave a few mom'ants afore din'nar. Thar Mar'nork, hey insists fer close cleanins, 'ta tar table."
"My thanks," said Mat'tock, after he'd puzzled out the dwarf's strong southern accent. Mat'tock was glad he'd spotted the other man. He wasn't yet comfortable, walking around the Fortress alone.
They washed their hands and faces in the icy runoff outside.
Hands scrubbed clean and face numb, Mat'tock spent a moment admiring the magnificent view of the distant mountains.
From where he stood, Mat'tock could see three snowcapped peaks, the tallest of which he recognised. It was called 'Grandfather's Chimney' by the villagers who lived at it's base, and they claimed that on the coldest days of winter, a trickle of smoke could often be seen coming from a crack in the side of the mountain.
Some of the village elders suggested a dragon lived in it's depths, but noone alive, or their parents, had ever witnessed proof of that. Even dragons had to eat every so often. Atleast, Mat'tock thought so, anyway, although he knew next to nothing about the creatures, and the villagers seemed to know even less.
In any case, he was glad to be well away from the sinister sounding place, although he found it quite spectacular to look at from this far vantage.
Tol'brek joined him after a moment, whistling sharply. "Ay've nev'ar been thas far nort', nor thas far up in tha arr, in ma laff. T'is a lat'tal antima'datin', aye?"
Mat'tock nodded his agreement. Tol'brek grinned and then shouted "WHAAH!"
The sudden sound echoed and rebounded off the rock walls. Mat'tock felt his eyes grow wide in startlement, but then he began to laugh. The sound of the laughter echoing in the clear air, as well. It somehow seemed to break a lot of tension that Mat'tock had been carrying around for longer than he'd been aware of. Tol'brek chuckled too.
"Tol'brek, how long have you been here? in 'RingingDeep'?"
"Abut onn tarn a tha gil'dad moon, tha onn we namm 'Austrive' in tha sout', so'as...hammm...o'er t'ree months? Tharabut. Afore that, I-uz in tha sout'..."
The man's cheerful face visibly clouded as he mentioned the South, and Mat'tock understood that he was reluctant to discuss his origins. His smile returned just as quickly, however, and he continued, "Ottar dan th' Foun'dar-an may th'Gods keep am above't or th'Ground keep am below't-I'uz been here long'ast 'o an'ayone."
"The Founder?" Mat'tock asked. Tol'brek shook his head, his face growing overcast again. Mat'tock decided it was best to drop the subject, atleast for now.
Tol'brek waved Mat'tock back towards the entrance, "We'd bast bay gattin' back ta din'nar, aforin' thar Mar'nork miss'as us. He'd be thar bast cook in thays parts--Et'was I-uz invay'tad im ere tar liff with us, ham an' iz lit'tal ones not a'haffan a'nothar place tar go."
Mat'tock listened while quickening his step, spurred on by his righteously indignant belly.
Mat'tock wondered how the two men-both from polar opposite childhoods, and probably backgrounds too-had met. The mystery of the Monarch deepened, and who was this 'Founder'? Obviously not the original founder of this Fortress, it was far too old, so the title must be yet another honorific.
It was almost becoming a kind of game, atleast for him. Mat'tock shook his head. The mysteries and intrigues of his new home would have to wait awhile. His belly took precedence. It seemed that Tol'brek was hungry too, as the two men kept apace with each other.
He wasn't disappointed, when they reached the massive dining-hall.
Where there had once been enormous tables of carved stone that ran the length of the gigantic hall, there were now two small, crude wooden tables that had barely been smoothed of splinters, with treestump stools around them.
They'd been set up on the broken remains of one of the original tables, and Mat'tock would have liked to examine the remains under other circumstances, but the most important thing in the room right now were the piles of food. Steaming heaps of warm, glorious foodstuffs.
The food was served in large clay bowls that were decorated only with the fingerprints of their maker.
One was filled with a hot salad of fresh asparagus, hardboiled eggs, and mushroom caps that looked to have been fried with a little bacon or saltpork. From the smell, it had been doused with vinegar as well. Another bowl was filled with some kind of porridge that smelled of apples and honey. There was a pile of honeycakes too, stacked on a smooth wooden board-smoother than the table it rested on, anyway-and a smaller pile consisting of little wheels of fresh goat's-milk cheese.
These were all grouped around an entire roasted goat that had been cut into pieces, with gibbets of rare meat laying next to slices of various organs. Most of the large bones had been removed.
The slices of liver, kidney, heart, and sweetmeats had been cooked separately with some kind of green spring onions. The head of the goat was sitting slightly apart from the rest, next to a tiny dish filled with coarse red rocksalt.
In the center of the table, there were two tall amphorae filled with pale beer, and a clay cup filled with springwater was sitting next to each chair.
It wasn't a huge amount of food for ten hungry people, truth be told, but Mat'tock found that his mouth was watering, just looking at it all and taking in the wonderful aromas.
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Topic: The Birth of an Artifact (Read 20218 times)