Blue Diamonds (Book One of The Blue Diamonds Saga) (7 page)

Pall, Jevon Hammerheart's only son, opted out of “diggin in the mud” with everyone else the moment they arrived at the mountain. It may have been sacrilegious, but he was a dwarf who didn’t care about building anything at all. He fancied using weapons far more than making or selling them, and mining was definitely low on the list of his desires.

“Why do we need to sell anything? And why do we barter with the people we say we can’t stand?” he’d defiantly ask his father, never receiving an answer.

Ashamed, he already knew the answer. Greed. It was a fire his people may not have started, but lately everyone seemed to be burning with it. Pall couldn’t understand wanting all that money. He’d rather have a life rich with adventure, or at least for now a tasty, red trout.

He stuck the end of his fishing pole into the ground, between a large piece of driftwood and a rock, and then pulled a small silver bell from his tackle box to fasten at the top of the rod. Lastly, he checked every angle of the rod several times just to be sure it wasn’t going anywhere.

“Perfect,” he said, before plopping down onto the grass, finally satisfied with the setup.

Just as he began to put his hands behind his head and relax Pall tensed and sat deathly still, facing the lake. His nerves were screaming something fierce in his skull. Nearly a minute passed as he scanned the span of the lake slowly from left to right, searching for anything. Nothing moved, but the dazzle of sunlight energizing the lake. Everything looked normal, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. He briefly scanned the beaches once more for movement. He only found rocky shores that rose out of the water and into a faltering pine-tree line, the same as it ever was. A bird let out a rapid pulsing of what seemed half chirp, half whistle. Whatever bird it was, Pall took it as a good omen and was at ease once again.

Pall found this treasure of a lake to the west of Loyola, hidden between two small hills. This side of Loyola caught the brunt of the draft that rushed down from the top of the mount. The constant breeze kept the hottest of days bearable, but also filled the air with a restless orchestra of stressed wood and flapping leaves.

He didn't feel much like lying down now, so instead he strolled into the trees, casually grabbing the handle of his heavy, double-bladed axe from where he’d left it leaning against a sapling. Passed on to Pall by his uncle Burt Hammerheart, the massive axe was even more massive in reputation. His uncle had a whale of a war story to match each of his four hundred and eighty seven years of being alive. That would give the axe four hundred and eighty two years of action, considering uncle Burt claimed to have wielded the axe at the tender age of five.

The axe had cut down orcs by the hundreds, giants by the dozens, and was never on the retreating side of a battle. The stories were suspect, but the axe had definitely done its job when Pall needed it most.

Today Pall was going to use the prolific orc slayer to carve himself a canoe. He wanted to reach deeper parts of the lake sure to be full of tasty fish just begging to be fired up. His mouth watered at the thought of crisped skin, just off the fire and squirted over with a little lemon.

He just needed to get himself a nice log, split and hollow it out and presto, he’d be on his way to endless fish feasts. He was still undecided as to what method he would use for this hollowing to happen. The humans bored out their dugouts with hot coals, turning the core of the tree into embers that they would scrape out before the burn spread to the outer ring of trunk. It was a good technique, but if you fell asleep on the job, you wake up to a pile of ash instead of a boat.

After searching the landscape for a good fallen log without result, he instead chose a perfect fir growing thirty paces into the tree line. Pall circled around the tree several times in inspection, approving of the thick, straight, healthy trunk. He then measured where the first chop would best be placed. He spread his legs and wiggled into a stance suitable for a powerful swing before a sweet musical voice interrupted him.

“Don’t you think that’ll be awfully painful?”

Pall was startled, but not frightened. It could only be one person in the entire world, his best friend Kala. Kala was a Redwood Elf.

“Actually, no Kala, this won’t hurt me one bit,” Pall said, as the corners of his lips very slightly curved into a smirk. He had a feeling that it was her he sensed earlier.

“You know I’m talking about the tree silly,” she said with a giggle. The slender wood elf materialized before him, leaping into the scene from somewhere just outside of his peripheral sight. He imagined she must’ve been standing somewhere to his left.

Elves in general are the most private of creatures, and shunning other races was often the norm. Kind, jovial, and happy were all common words often used to describe the stealthy ones. These descriptions were false. Better to use the words fair, mindful, and forever unobtrusive. They are the end result of pretty people breeding for millennia. They only look happy, as all beautiful people look happy.

The truth is that if an Elf had to choose between saving his garden or a human, it wouldn't be that difficult of a choice. Then, after the human’s body began to decompose the elf would use the carcass to fertilize his tulips. Once an elf decides someone doesn't sum into his or her equation, that same someone will probably be missing in the not so distant future. Kala, on the other hand, was a rare exception. To her, every creature summed up to something no matter what the race, and didn't believe that it was the forest and the elves against the world, as is how most elves see it.

“Couldn’t you use a fallen tree?” she said.

“I could, but I don’t see one around, and I’m not fer dragging a darn tree through the woods. Plus, it’d be a waste of having a perfectly sharp axe,” he answered.

Then Pall swung his axe wide, hitting the trunk squarely. It wasn't the hardest strike, but the axe blade bit a full third of the way into the bark. Dwarves had a natural repulsion to magic personally, but there was strong magic in the weapons they forged, infused through ancient smelting techniques. Techniques said to bring alive the very soul of the metal, and Pall's axe was one of those weapons.

“Well, I guess I can forgive you this time."

"Oh thank the gods!" joked the dwarf. Kala winced as Pall put a foot to the tree and yanked his axe free.

“Ha ha, very funny. You know what isn’t funny? That I've been watching you since you tossed your line,” she teased, "you need to practice."

Kala had been trying to teach Pall "the sight" for the last few years. It's the skill of looking into the forest and focusing the way elves do, which is not only how elves are able to see each other, but according to Kala reveals in nature an entire universe of life unseen by mortals.

“Cast. Since I
cast
me line,” corrected Pall.

"Whatever, you know what I meant," she said. "But aren't you a little happy that I'm not upset about the tree?" She’d been quite happy with the strides she’d made with her dear friend. In the past he would never have looked for a fallen tree, let alone walk thirty paces in order to find one that didn’t seem too young. Kala taught Pall about the life of the forest, while he taught her the pleasures of being crude and carefree.

When they first met they were both children in respects to their race's lifespans. Pall was in his twenties and Kala was in her fifties. To a human they would be closer to midlife than childhood but as a dwarf and elf they were merely young teens. It was how they met that led to such a close friendship.

Ol’ Brook has many secret entrances to the city, all attached with a universal rule, these tunnels were only to be used with permission or in times of extreme emergency. But Pall was a Hammerheart, a true Hammerheart uncle Burt would say, born full of defiance and curiosity. And thanks to that defiance and curiosity, one day he found himself stuck at the opening to one of these forbidden tunnels, his leg caught in a bearwolf trap. If it weren’t for the young elf girl skipping through the forest that afternoon he probably would have ended up bearwolf food.

Despite all of the hatred Kala's father spat about the dwarves, she compassionately freed his swollen ankle and helped him home that night. Her family was traditional and stuck to the woods, and it was her first time into the city. Pall and his kin were so different from her own people that she was mesmerized, and it was likewise for him whenever he spent time with her in the forest.

“Great! I’m so happy yer for forgiving me, because I don’t think I’d be able to sleep otherwise. How long’ve ye been out here anyway? Ye get tired of spying on yer big boyfriend?” He got in another good chop on the tree, grinning.

“Long enough to see you’re no fisherman Pall Hammerheart. And he’s not my boyfriend, yet.” She was blushing, but went morbid white as the tree went down on the third chop. She would never get used to the sight of a tree being killed. She swallowed hard before continuing.

“Shomnath asked me to come and find you,” she said.

Pall turned from his tree, a smile spreading across his face. He was an interesting dwarf to look at. Although his father hated his choice in attire, clothes weren’t the biggest issue Jevon had with his son. Pall had golden blonde hair that he kept in a ponytail that fell over a black leather headband adorned with seven silver crescent moons. Kala had made it for him. Seven was the most revered number according to the dwarves, but the silver crescent was a symbol synonymous with elf-kind.

What was worse than the elfish headband, was that Pall chose to keep clean-shaven instead of growing a beard, which was utter blasphemy to his kin. It was a right of manhood for dwarves to wear a beard (male or female), but Pall couldn’t care less.

In addition to his strange hairstyle and headband, you could always count on him to wear his favorite white fur coat and leggings, also put together by elfin hands, which were sewn with thin silver chains instead of thread, with chain link buttons to match. On his feet were thick block sandals of iron that he swore was the secret to keeping balance when swinging his huge axe.

“So, what adventure does our man have planned for us this time?” His smile had mischief written all over it. According to Pall, going anywhere with Shomnath was synonymous with having a grand old time. You never knew what would happen next.

“He wouldn’t tell me,” answered Kala with a shrug.

“No, Really?” Pall’s face beamed even brighter. “Must be something real good.”

“Good like his bright idea to peep on giants mating, and barely escaping as they heaved boulders at us? Or good like the time he wanted to steal a bearwolf cub for a pet, not knowing that bearwolves travel in packs?” she teased as she pranced around Pall and hopped onto the fallen tree.

“Well, it don’t get much better than being outnumbered by bearwolves twenty to four,” he said petting his axe. “I had a good story to toast to for a long time.”

“Too long, if you ask me. The last time you told the story we were outnumbered one hundred to four. Or was it two hundred?” Kala was twirling on top of the felled tree, with one foot extended out above her head while balancing on the tip of her big toe. Elves can be as light as the wind on command, and Kala loved to flaunt her acrobatic skills. Most of the city elves lost these unique skills with lack of practice, but in rebuttal they would tell you that they were now civilized, and had no time to waste dancing in the woods like their ancestors.

Watching her move was like watching a butterfly in a dream. Everything seems to go still while in the presence of such a sweet and innocent looking girl like Kala. Though she was a young elf, she was ninety-three in human years. She donned the appearance of an eighteen-year-old human girl. An athletic, slender, six-foot tall human girl, with pointed ears being the main visible difference.

Pall always said that her youthful smile was one of her deadliest traits. Enemies seemed to lower their guard a little when approached by her in combat, possibly because when in combat she was always smiling. She relished the thrill of a fight as much as anyone he knew, and he knew better than anyone that lowering guard to this girl was a mortal mistake.

“Ye calling me an exaggerator?” said Pall. He looked up for an answer but she was gone. Pall knew that only meant one thing. Someone else was there.

“Who in the blazes are ye talking to?”

Pall turned around to find his uncle Burt standing several feet away scratching his bushy beard, a puzzled look on his face.

“Nobody uncle, just talking to meself about where to start with this canoe.”

It was always easy to distract his uncle. Uncle Burt thought himself to be the all-knowing presence in their clan, and could never resist the opportunity to teach how to do something the right way.

“Don’t let yer father know ye would rather build a darn boat over yer new home,” Burt peered around Pall at the log for a moment, which made Pall a little nervous, “but if ye want to know how to make a real boat ye only need to ask yer Uncle Burt,” his uncle said, chest puffed out proudly.

“Uncle, ye know ye’d be the first on me list to ask fer help,” he lied. Pall had become quite good at saying those words with a straight face. Not that his uncle hasn’t helped him out before, but his advice wasn’t always perfect, and got less so as the years passed.

“Well, I won’t tell yer father what ye’ve been up to, but he asked me to fetch yer butt. Sounds important, so don’t dilly dally,” he said. Uncle Burt loved to give orders. It reminded the old dwarf of his warrior days when he was commanding over three hundred soldiers on a daily basis.