Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (34 page)

             
“So, that’s the great hope for us all,” Flatfoot said, nodding thoughtfully. “Oh, dear! He looks just like his father, doesn’t he? You know, I always suspected Braemorgan never had much faith in Agnar. He was always keeping an eye on Jorn, like he was certain all along the bastard was the one after all. My, how he would go on and on about the boy’s potential. Remember? Well! The exiled Thane Ravenbane doesn’t seem so grand to me now that I see him for myself. What a shabby cloak! I suppose the old dog has kept the lad in the dark about the whole business?”

             
“Aye. He thought it best,” Ironhelm said.

             
“He’s likely right,” Flatfoot said. “What do you tell a lad in a situation like that? ‘Congratulations, you’re the chosen one in whom all the future hopes of light and goodness depend, your coming prophesized millennia ago! Oh, and do try not to fuck the whole thing up if you can possibly avoid it!’ The poor son of a bitch. Well, I need a drink, and I don’t mean bloody morning tea.”

             
Flatfoot went over to a small cabinet in the corner of the room. He opened it, producing a crystal decanter and a pair of silver cups. He placed the cups on the table next to the tea set, pouring some reddish-brown liquid from the decanter into the cups.

             
“This is a bit of the local whiskey, illegal across the border in Brithborea but perfectly legitimate here in the fair Kingdom of Llangellan,” Flatfoot said. “It’s every bit as strong as anything you’ve ever had, only much smoother.”

             
“I was afraid you’d grown soft in your old age, laddie.”

             
They raised their cups, drinking the whiskey down in one quick movement. It was just as Flatfoot described it, smooth but strong with a smoky after-taste that lingered on the tongue long after the drink was swallowed. It tasted expensive.

             
“What is it you dwarves say?” Flatfoot said, refilling both mugs. “Let’s me think: ‘A strong drink at breakfast is no bad thing.’ Yes, that’s it.”

             
“Aye, tha’s it,” Ironhelm said, putting his cup back down. “So, will you be joining us or not?”

             
“You remain as direct as ever,” the gnome said. He poured himself more whiskey and started to take a sip but put it down. He began pacing back and forth, his arms clasped behind his back.

“I’ve listened to your tale with a great deal of alarm and it presents me with something of a dilemma,” he said. “On the one hand, I
am
retired. I haven’t disarmed a bloody trap in its natural setting in twelve years. Think of it! Twelve years out of the profession!”

             
“No one’s a better trapbreaker than you, laddie,” Ironhelm said. “Aye. And you’ve worked Guardian ruins many a time, you have.”

             
“True enough, on both counts. No one outside the Guardian Order itself knows more about the bloody traps they build than I. But that’s not all there is to the matter. I have so much to consider, and even more to lose. I have a business, not to mention lands and other ventures. I have a family! Children! I have everything to lose if…”

Flatfoot paused, lost in thought.

“…I have everything to lose,” he said again. “If I do
not
go with you.”

             
Ironhelm groaned. The gnome would be going along on the quest, but he first had to be as dramatic about announcing the decision as he could.

“I am a
most humble
gnome, as you well know,” Flatfoot went on. “Yet I still pride myself on being a reasonable individual. You know, I’ve been reading the Luthanian philosopher Gromarius of late. Fascinating fellow, a logician of the highest order. He advocated a rigorously logical approach to all ethical questions. It is all very mathematical, actually. Gromarius asserts that if you break down a problem to its most elemental and mathematical level before converting it back to everyday language, the proper course of action will be readily apparent. We only fail to do the right thing, he argues, because our thinking is clouded and needlessly complicated.”

“Ach. Get to wha’ you’d say, Sal,” Ironhelm said. He picked up the bottle and poured himself another drink.

“Oh, rest assured I’m getting there. Gromarius’ method is instructive when applied to this particular moral dilemma. Given: you need an expert in the disarming of traps. You cannot possibly succeed without one. That would be the second given. The third given is that I am such an expert, certainly the only one of any ability you’re likely to find in time. The fourth given is that if I don’t go with you, your mission fails. That is the ultimate result of my refusing you. I must ponder, therefore, the consequences of that ultimate result. What are they? If the mission fails, the hordes of Amundágor shall sweep down into Llangellan. Most of my holdings are to the west of here, right in the likely path of the invasion. Moreover, Barter’s Crossing is the key strategic point in the area sitting as it does at the conflux of two major rivers. The enemy will push hard to capture it, you can be sure of that. I stand to lose virtually everything I have worked so long to build if Llangellan is overrun.”

             
Ironhelm grunted agreement.

             
“It all comes down to a question of probabilities,” the gnome continued, barely pausing to breathe. “If I do
not
go with you, it is a virtual certainty that everything I have worked for will be destroyed. If I
do
go with you, there is at least a chance of preventing all that. Maybe a one-in-five chance, but that’s much better than the alternative. I don’t see how I have any choice, when all is said and done. I’m not about to let those sons of bitches destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to build! No damned bloody way!”

             
“Good,” Ironhelm said, rising. “We should make ready to –”

“I tell you, Durm, I’ve felt unchallenged as of late,” Flatfoot interrupted. “This quest, it may be just the thing that I need. One last adventure, the greatest of them all! Do you suppose the king will reward us? A knighthood would be grand. Sir Sal, Knight of the Realm! You know, I rather like the sound of that.”

“We’ll have to leave as soon as possible, laddie,” Ironhelm said.

             
“I can be ready to leave tonight, I suppose, but certainly no sooner,” Flatfoot said, “No, not even then, now that I think about it. We should set forth tomorrow morning.”

“No, we must leave at once,” the dwarf said, shaking his head.

“Tomorrow morning,” Flatfoot said. “That’s the best I can do. You may all stay here tonight to rest up. In fact, I insist you spend the evening as my guests. Now, why not bring the others in? I’m anxious to finally get a chance to meet the Child of Storms after all these years.”

“Remember he knows nothing of tha’ Sal,” Ironhelm cautioned.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Flatfoot said. “I’m not a bloody idiot, you know.”

_____

             
Jorn met gnomes before Sal Flatfoot. About once or twice a year since as far back as he could remember, a gnome trader or entertainer would visit Falneth.  Jorn and Thulgin would watch with wonder as the odd little creatures with the curly hair and pointed ears hawked their strange and wondrous goods. Sometimes they sold the intricate locks which men were always eager to buy. Other times they brought jewelry and plates of silver. Jorn and Thulgin’s favorite, however, was when the gnomes would come in their wagons loaded up high with their amazing clocks. The clock-sellers would lay their contraptions out on tables in the marketplace and crowds of fur-clad Linlunders would come to gawk at them.

Looking back, Jorn had to wonder how many customers in Falneth the gnomes expected to find. Orbadrin, however, would buy one of the clocks every time, fascinated by the turning dials and the bells going off every hour. Perhaps that one annual sale to the thane was enough to make the trip worthwhile.

Jorn couldn’t help but smile when he was introduced to Flatfoot, remembering the clocks on the shelf in Orbadrin’s council room. Jorn’s favorite was a particularly complex clock which displayed the phases of the moons and the position of the constellations. Jorn also loved a beautiful clock featuring little tin dwarves who struck tiny bells with their hammers to signal the arrival of each hour.

             
Flatfoot was average-looking by gnome standards, a little shorter than Ironhelm but far less stout than the burly dwarf fighter. He seemed rather nimble, despite a growing paunch around his middle and the look of someone long grown used to a comfortable lifestyle. He had the prominent chin his race was famous for as well as the typical gnomish nose, thin and very long. He wore no whiskers on his lip or chin, either, his face as smooth as an infant’s. A pair of large ears, large even for a gnome, gave him a slightly comical appearance. Yet Jorn also detected a certain dignified air about him. Jorn wondered if he was as soft as a casual glance might tend to indicate. He introduced himself, with more than a hint of pomposity, as Salonius Quadrinius Flatfoot, and then quickly urged them to call him “Sal”.

             
“Lord Ironhelm has used his exceptional interpersonal skills and graceful manners to convince me to join you in your endeavor,” the gnome told them.

             
Ironhelm muttered a curse under his breath.

             
“We thank you,” Jorn said.

             
“Thank me when we pull it off,” Flatfoot said.

_____

Flatfoot admired the polished mahogany case on the table in front of him. He took a last sip of whiskey, contemplating the day’s events. So much had happened so quickly, all of it worrisome. It was a delightful dinner, at least, getting to know his new companions.

They’d feasted upon a fine array of foods, perhaps the last truly decent meal they could expect for some time. His housekeeper procured a pair of wonderful hares in the market which she prepared to sublime perfection. Then there was the roasted squab and the creamed eel. That was preceded by the heaping plates of river oysters served Llangellan-style, ice-cold and raw with just a pinch of lemon. There were also ample platters of cheese, freshly-baked black bread, and plenty of potatoes seasoned with turmeric and saffron from Shandorr. The spices cost plenty, but Flatfoot ordered his cook to spare no expense. And so it was an elegant feast, especially considering the short notice.

Flatfoot decided his new friends were all fine fellows he would enjoy spending time with. All save Ronias, that is, who struck him as a terribly gloomy sort. The elf barely touched any of the dishes put before him, hardly saying a word. Jorn, by comparison, went on at length about gnomish clocks, admiring the pair sitting atop Flatfoot’s mantle.

Flatfoot put aside his cup and slowly opened the mahogany case. The inside was lined with the finest cotton cloth dyed a bright scarlet and edged with gold stitching. Resting within was a short sword of the finest dwarven make, a marvelous example of craftsmanship. Flatfoot’s eyes ran over the gleaming blade. It was a perfectly-forged example of the highest-quality steel honed with precision. A delicate pattern of interlocking vines ran along the blade, etched carefully by some dwarven craftsman of old. Flatfoot’s hand reached out and took hold of the handle. He picked it up and held it aloft, admiring the way the light of the wizard’s lamp hanging from the ceiling in his upstairs bedchamber reflected on the gleaming steel. He could only wonder at the many secret alloys and ancient techniques used by the dwarf smithies to craft such a weapon.

Whirling around, he slashed the air in front of him, first side-to-side and then around in a circular pattern. It felt like he was wielding a feather, the blade so strangely light. Smiling, he slid the sword back into its sheath, a worn old leather thing. He placed it atop his old green cloak, a faded and torn garment. The cloak lay on the table next to his battered leather armor and his cheap-looking leather boots. All of the gear before him looked as shabby as possible. It was by design, of course, meant to discourage brigands.

             
His gaze fell next upon the cloak. It was patched and torn from decades of travel in all sorts of weather, the genuine article rather than another fake designed to make him look poor. The cloak shielded him from driving rains amidst the wastelands south of Vandoria and from the brutal snows and merciless winds of northern Linlund. It had been with him since the very beginning of his career. He picked it up, feeling its heavy wool fabric as his mind wandered.

How long ago had it been since he first donned the cloak and left home, breaking his mother’s heart? He paused a moment, counting the years in his head. It was sixty-eight years since he turned away from the lands of his birth by the shores of the Arfordir Bay in that gnomish realm of Faerfachen and began an intrepid life of trapbreaking and adventuring alongside wizards and warriors. No matter. His mother now lived in pampered comfort back home thanks to her illustrious son, her tears long since forgotten.

Flatfoot pitied the vast majority of the world, poor souls who never took a real risk in their entire lives and so never really lived at all. He’d taken many risks in his day, his outstanding luck always pulling him through.