Vignette: Difference12th Malachite, 352Danielle peered at the strange stone contraption set on her desk. It appeared to be a squat chalk box, half the size of her filing chest, with a series of stone tiles along the bottom and a row of ten cylinders across the top. The cylinders were set end-to-end into the device, bearing digits engraved into them. All the cylinders currently had '0' facing the viewer. The stone tiles had the digits '0' through '9' scribed on them and a small variety of mathematical signs. They looked to be depressable. There was a lever on one side.
"And you call this what?" Danielle asked Fath, who was fidgeting on the other side of the desk.
"I call it me new engine for working out the difference 'tween numbers, lassie," exclaimed Fath proudly.
"Which in dwarven means?"
"It does sums! Addition, subtraction, it even does division and multiplication with logarithms! Here, look. Yon types in yon number yon starts wi', then't 'addition' sign, then't next number." Fath quickly typed numbers into the engine, causing the little cylinders to flick around to the correct places, displaying the number on the rack of cylinders. When he pressed the addition sign, the cylinders all flicked back to zero.
"Hey!" said Danielle. "How is it going to add the number if it's gone like that?"
"Ah well, it
remembers them, lassie. Tha's the beauty of it. Then y' type in the nex' number an' it gi's y' y' answer." Fath's accent thickened to the point of syrup as he became more involved, giving Danielle some difficulty actually understanding what the highmountain dwarf was saying. She did watch as Fath pulled the lever on the side and the cylinders spun around to the correct answer to the sum.
"So it's an abacus," said Danielle carefully, "that doesn't require you to actually think?"
"Well, aye, I guess yon could put i' like that. The machine does the thinkin' for yon."
"Except that I can work out a sum in my head faster than it takes me to type all of that in by hand."
"Well, aye," admitted Fath, "bu' not all dwarves can do that. If you're not so good at sums, this could be very useful. I could make it smaller if I had metal to make the gears wi', though. Like brass," he added hopefully.
"I've explained this before, Fath, we can't get any forging done until the western shaft is complete. Thank you for showing this device to me, though. It's not really a thinking engine as such though, is it?"
"No?" Fath frowned. Danielle shook her head.
"Well, it doesn't learn, it doesn't perceive the world around it. It just grinds numbers. If you want to make an engine that thinks, maybe you should start by making one that thinks for itself, rather than for us?" Fath pondered that.
"Aye, lass, you may be onto something there." He picked up the device and waddled out of the room with it, Danielle watching him leave. As the door closed, she glanced at the long list of numbers on the day book in front of her and calmly jotted numbers down at speed along the right hand side, popping a firecap from the nearby fingerbowl into her mouth as she worked through the sums.
Vignette: War Stories - The Spider's Left Hand17th Galena, 352Broose leant against the barracks wall with a flask of gin, watching the fight in progress. Unlike the other fighters, Broose was excused from sparring by an old war injury to the neck, but he had enough competence as an axedwarf and wrestler to get by, so nobody gave him lip about it. Datan also had taken a seat on the floor near Broose, awaiting his turn.
Ragna stood calmly at one end of the barracks, sword sheathed and hands pressed together before her whilst Jora saluted with her sword, waved it in a dramatic flourish and charged with a great bellow. The swordsdwarf rushed towards her teacher at speed, raising her sword for a fell swoop - and finding it gone from her hands and clattering across the room. A split second later a rain of blows came down on her from behind and she ducked and rolled, dodging the flurry of strokes from the Captain, who was moving with impossible agility. In less than ten seconds it was over, Jora pressed on her back with the Captain's weight on her. Ragna casually drew her short sword and rested it on Jora's neck.
"Yield," she commanded. Jora tapped feebly on the ground.
Later that evening, over drinks at the Beerhall, Datan posed the question of where Ragna had learned to move so quickly.
"I learned from the Old Elven Masters," answered Ragna, to the laughter of Jora and Datan. Broose frowned instead.
"I do not doubt your word, but I find it worrying that you were so close to the Elves," he said. "The Masters do not train just anyone."
"What?" said Jora. "I thought she was joking. You're telling me there is actually such a thing as an Old Elven Master?"
"I don't believe it," chuckled Datan. "The captain and the sergeant are having us on, Jora. We all know the myths; ancient elven druids from the beginning of time that possess ultimate skill in combat!"
"They aren't druids, by definition," said Ragna. "The myths get that one mixed up. The druids don't fight. That's not their role."
"So what are they?" asked Jora.
"Old hands," said Broose. "Soldiers that got so good at staying alive they never died. They guard the hearts of forests, and they can kill armies if roused to. I've seen it happen. I want to know how you managed it, Captain."
"I'm an old dwarf," sighed the Captain, "and my memory is not what it was-"
"Round of bourbon for the Captain," shouted Jora to the dwarf manning the liquor kegs. She leant back and grinned smugly as the tankard was brought over, passing the dwarf a couple of the firecaps that were in so great a surplus they were being used as currency.
"Nothing jogs the memory like booze," chuckled Ragna. "Very well. It was many years ago..."
There was a war on. There was always a war on, but in that day it was with the goblins and not the elves. They had been set against the standards of the Granite Spider, led personally by their demon master Slakga Burybad, who was known as the Branded Oblivion. Ragna's detachment had been sent out specially to intercept a troop of goblins transporting one of their military's higher ups; a priest-general supposedly at Slakga's left hand. Their orders were to capture the goblin commander and return him alive for interrogation, or else to kill him if no other option presented itself. They stalked through the forests of the Elven nation The Fin of Saints, with whom a tenuous peace existed between both dwarves and goblins. In the depths of the neutral forest, they spied their quarry.
The parade of goblin soldiers marched through the forest, stamping the grass flat as they went. A relatively small band, about twenty unarmed slave shock troops, backed up by three hammerers and three marksgoblins. Their prize, a sedan coach covered with purple velvet drapes, was borne aloft on steel poles by four goblins who were supremely well-dressed by comparison to their fellows, sporting polished steel armour and fine longswords at their belts. The dwarves silently moved into position ahead of the retinue, their footsteps masked by the layer of soft earth and leaves in the forest. As the goblins marched into position, Commander Rimblazes shouted the order and the marksdwarves let loose their bolts. Nearly half the entourage went down with the first volley, a lucky bolt even dropping one of the swordmasters holding up the sedan. With a battlecry, the axedwarves charged into battle and the goblins strode to meet them. In the first ten seconds blades clashed, bolts flew and a much younger lieutenant Ragna drove her axe through the chest of the last remaining marksgoblin. In another ten seconds the goblins were halved again, though the swordmasters had struck down three dwarves in the fight, and ten seconds after that the last swordmaster was riddled through with bolts. The sedan sat abandoned in the middle of the glade.
The marksdwarves quickly dragged the bodies away from the sedan as the axedwarves set up a containment ring around it. "Show yourself!" called out the commander. "We have you surrounded, give up without a fight and you will be taken prisoner!"
There was a rustling of the sedan's drapes and the axedwarves tensed themselves for a possible fight. The marksdwarves cocked their bows. To their great surprise, what stepped forth from the sedan was not some battle-ready goblin champion, nor a richly-robed dark priest, but a wizened and rather frail-looking old human in faded yellow lintgrass robes and a long grey beard. A pair of round spectacles perched on his hook-like nose gave him all the appearance of a rather surprised owl. He smiled peaceably at the confused dwarves. Commander Rimblazes, for want of imagination, went with the mission he had been given.
"Human," he called out, "we do not mean to kill you. Surrender any weapons you possess."
"I have only my walking staff," replied the old human, sheepishly, reaching into the sedan and producing a rather gnarled oak staff. He leant on it heavily. "You would deprive me of this, when you wish me to walk so far with you?" Rimblazes considered this for a moment, then nodded.
"Keep it then, old man. We were sent here to capture a goblin leader, the left hand of the Branded Oblivion. You will tell us where he is."
"I will?" replied the old man with a puzzled expression. "Well, if you say so, but I should say that I already have."
"What nonsense is this? Tell us where he is, human! We do not wish to harm you, but if you do not comply with our demands, we shall be forced to."
"All I am saying is that if you do not believe your own eyes, why should you believe what I can say?" Rimblazes looked first bewildered, then incredulous.
"You mean to say that
you are the goblin leader we seek?"
"Well, as you say. Here I am, here you were told to go, and it does appear that I am leading some goblins. So what do you suppose?" Rimblazes harrumphed loudly at that; he was no dwarf for playing games.
"Then you will come with us," he snapped shortly. "You are our prisoner and will be treated fairly, unless you provide resistance."
"Ah," smiled the old human. "Yes, I can see how that might become a problem. You see, I'm very fond of my freedom and I really must insist you change your mind on this."
"Not going to happen, old man."
"Very well," sighed the human, planting his staff in the ground and raising his hands. "You can't say I didn't try, can you?"
"No, I can't," grunted Rimblazes. "Keep your hands there, and one of my dwarves will bind them. Since you've been so co-operative, we'll even bind them
in front so you can eat your dinner like a civilised being, rather than the trough we had planned for the goblin."
"I am ever so grateful," said the human with another peaceful smile. "Tell me, where will you be taking me?"
"Sir?" called Ragna from behind the captain, who waved her off.
"Not now, lieutenant. Also, our destination is none of your business, prisoner."
"Oh, come now," said the human. "I have been very compliant. Who will it hurt, hm?"
"Sir, I-"
"Later, lieutenant!" snapped the captain. "Bind his hands, since you're so eager. As for where we're taking you, we'll be heading north to rejoin with the army, where you'll be interrogated by our generals. I shall tell you no more than that."
"Thank you for that courtesy at least," replied the old man.
"Sir!" shouted Ragna.
"What in Gigin's name is it, lieutenant?" barked Rimblazes, spinning around to face her.
"Look at his feet, sir!"
Everyone's eyes turned to the ground around the old man. In a near perfect circle, emanating outward from the point of the staff embedded into the ground, the blood-soaked grass was drying up and crumbling to ash. The wizard smiled cheerfully and raised two fingers and a thumb. Placing the index finger firmly on the thumb, he gave a cheerful exclamation.
"I'd like to thank you in advance for the entertainment, captain. I'm afraid I won't get the chance afterwards."
The old man snapped his fingers and Captain Rimblazes exploded in a blast of fire, gore and bone. From that moment on, chaos reigned and fire rained. Trees twisted and blackened as the human-looking entity brought his arm in an arc, wreathing dwarves in sheets of potent flame. Ragna did the only thing she could when faced with such a horror; she ran. She ran as hard and fast as she could as behind her the shrieks and screams of her companions echoed through the forest. So energised by terror was she that she ran for nearly a mile before she realised that the flame had touched her too, searing her back with horrific burns. She staggered forward, falling into the dirt and into darkness.
She awoke six days later in a soft, gossamer hammock, her wounds treated and armour and weaponry stripped from her. The first thing she saw was the ring of elven faces staring down at her.
"And then what?" prompted Jora excitedly. A small crowd had gathered around the table now to listen to Ragna's old war story. The captain laughed and leant back with her mug, tapping her nose knowingly.
"That, young scoundrel, is a tale for another time and another keg of bourbon." There were moans from the audience, but the atmosphere remained friendly and most of the listeners moved away to their various businesses. Datan stared at the captain, eyes narrowed.
"I don't believe you," he declared. "Humans that shoot fire? Rescued by elves? Don't take this as an insult to your honour, captain, it's been a great story, but that's a little too far-fetched."
Ragna drained the rest of her bourbon slowly, then stood up. Datan flinched as she reached for her scabbard, then relaxed as she unbuckled it from her belt. Turning around, she lifted the back of her shirt.
"Do you believe me now?" she asked.
Datan could say nothing. Not an inch of skin remained untouched upon her back, scarred as it was from ancient burns.
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Topic: Olonkulet - Bloodlines (Read 62465 times)