Indomitus Est (The Fovean Chronicles) (12 page)

    
“Nah,” I covered.  “I would feel stupid if it was just me missing you.”

    
He seemed to accept that.  “But you aren’t staying?”

    
“Nah,” I told him.  “The ceilings are too low.”

    
He snorted.  We walked on for many long minutes in silence, finally finding a huge, open chamber called The Hall of Presence.  Stalagmites carved in Dwarven images or as tables covered its floor.  Above them, stalactites glistened and conveyed a unique characteristic where, when the Dwarves sang or had loud conversations here, they reflected an echo for a long time.  They considered this chamber a holy place where they could commune with their god.

    
They called him ‘Earth,’ just like my home planet.  They worshiped Him, whom they referred to as “The Wounded God.”  They seemed tight-lipped about their theology and I didn’t pry.  I had my own worries.

    
Dwarves packed the room, hundreds of feet across.  There must have been over one thousand, singing in their native language.  They sang of the war, of the eight who had fallen and how they would be missed.  They sang of the horror of so many dead for no reason, and for the champion on a white horse, Rancor.  Not even my real name.

    
The singing went on for about an hour.  Just when I grew bored of it, it stopped on a word.  Another quality of the Dwarven singing was that they didn’t write it beforehand.  They sang out their emotions until they were exhausted.  The Hall reflected the song back to them over and over – beautiful in its own way.  I saw why they felt that Earth sang along with them, using their own words.

    
The Hall droned on, mixing up the sentences as echo overlapped echo.  It ended in nonsense and then lowered to a drone.

    
Hvarl stood up and looked at me.  Kvitch stood next to him, a huge amulet on his chest, dangling from a gold loop around his neck, a sun symbol with a hammer in its center.  I had never seen it before.

    
“In our recorded time,” the King said, and all heads turned to him, “no Man has done for us what J’ktak has done.  No one from outside of these mountains has ever saved so many of our lives, asking almost nothing in return.”

    
Many Dwarves nodded.  Hrrech rubbed his shoulder against me.  I reminded myself that these
were
the Simple People.  Back home there would have been a huge, expensive ceremony and dinner, with flash bulbs and commentators.  Here they came in the clothes they wore every day, me coming straight from a workout and sweeping a dusty floor.

    
“We have gifted his horse better than we have him,” Hvarl continued.  “He sought our knowledge rather than our wealth, marking him among the Wise.”

    
More nodding. 
I just didn’t know what to charge
, I thought, keeping my face bland.

    
“Therefore, our contracts done, our debts paid, this Man and these Dwarves fulfilled, let it be known that the gifts from the Simple People are from the heart of the mountains, not the purse.”

    
Two Dwarves with long, gray beards and braided hair came from a side entrance with a suit of armor and a
Wilhelm
, a personalized helmet.  In the Dwarven style, the helmet had a nose guard rather than a visor, although cheek pieces had been added to protect the rest of the face.  The plates in the armor had been fluted, and looked like they weighed a ton.  The fluting, or corrugating, tripled the strength for almost the same weight of armor, just as corrugated pipe was stronger than straight.  Another Dwarf came after, carrying a padded undergarment for the armor.  This would make wearing it more comfortable and absorb more shock from heavy blows.  A younger Dwarf, her beard only a wispy stubble (and, yes, the females had beards here, just like the males), carried a proper sheath for my sword.  An image, a stallion rearing with the sun behind him, had been worked into the metal. 

    
They helped me don the body padding and the armor.  Of course, I had to shed my clothes first.  They had no concept of modesty.  Even the restroom facilities were open to passing Dwarves.  Being naked in front of so many made me feel horribly vulnerable, and several laughed as I scrambled into my padding.

    
The pad had front and back flaps to relieve myself.  The armor consisted of a
gorget
, or neck guard, a front and back plate tooled to loosely conform to my chest and stomach, steel sleeves and leggings and a chain mail skirt.  Chain mail is a system of interlocking steel rings, which is nearly as strong as steel armor but lighter and more comfortable to wear.  There were even steel covers for the tops of my boots.

    
I donned the Wilhelm, set with two goat horns for show, and the chain mail gloves.  All in all, it felt about half as heavy as I would have guessed and I could move very easily.  I set the sheath over my left shoulder so I could draw my sword right handed, and I easily sheathed the sword.  I turned to face Hvarl and to thank him.

    
The flat-bladed war spear in his hand should have alerted me, but I was totally unprepared for him to throw it and just stood there as it took me in the chest.  Hvarl is a powerful Dwarf – he had supposedly killed ten at the Battle of Two Mountains.  The spear whistled as it flew and the impact made me take a step back.  I looked down to see the spear fall to the ground, barely a mark on the armor. 

    
The hardened steel point, thrown as hard as he could, and at close range, should have parted the breastplate.  The Dwarves put up a shout, celebrating their own craftsmanship.  I really,
really
wanted a piece of Hvarl right then, but thought better of it.

    
“I appreciate and respect this gift,” I said, and the room quieted, “given from the heart of the Simple People.  Would that I had a gift as grand, which would show how you make my heart feel.  Instead I would, if I could, sing for you.”

    
Now all of the Dwarves nodded and smiled.  What I had done, as I had hoped, showed my appreciation for their culture.  I worried that I would be blaspheming in their Hall, but I had gambled and, hopefully, won.

    
Because I had stolen the idea from “The Little Drummer Boy,” who gave a song on his drum as his gift to Jesus because he had nothing else, I sang it for them.  I also knew all of the words.  I evolved the word
King
into
people
later in the song and
newborn
into
highborn
at the last second, but as the song echoed away, they were smiling and it seemed to have gone over well.

    
“We are touched,” Hvarl said, and I think I saw a tear in his eye.  Another quality of the Dwarves is they cried a lot, for joy or sorrow.  A part of their not being prideful, I’m sure. “For so large a Man, I would call you Dwarf with honor, J’ktak.”

    
“I am humbled,” I told him.

    
“Should you return the way you came, J’ktak, and then follow the Llorando, you would have your choice of Sental or Volkhydro to travel to.  We are aware that you have no destination and no homeland.  Which, do you think, will you visit?”

    
I really had no idea.  Sental seemed a little boring to me, but might be worth a look.  Volkhydro seemed almost cataclysmic in comparison, and I wondered if I was ready.

    
“Where my horse leads me, I think,” I said.  “In honesty, I am not decided.”

    
“Well then, perhaps a commission might be in order, J’ktak,” he said.  “Not that I would name you Ambassador, or Bounty Hunter, of course!”
     That earned a general chuckle.  I laughed, although I didn’t get the joke.

    
“What sort of commission?” I asked.

    
“The Dorkan attack is a transgression in international law and needs to be reported to the Fovean High Council, in Trenbon.  Should your wanderings take you there, I think we would be well-served by your representation.”

    
I had no idea what the Fovean High Council could be, but I couldn’t really say, “No.”  I bowed low instead; “To be associated in any way with the Simple People could only benefit me.”

    
Again, a chuckle, “Do not be too sure, J’ktak,” Hvarl warned, walking toward me now.  “Dwarves are not loved.  We are seen as miserly and rude.”

    
“Not by me,” I countered.  “But I see no point in arguing.  I will be delighted to convey any message you might desire to send.”

    
Hvarl nodded and handed me a scroll, sealed in wax and stamped with his signet ring.  He then handed me a leather tube, into which I inserted the scroll.  Another Dwarf stepped up, took the tube and drew out a long needle and a length of rawhide to sew it shut.  Afterwards, he would seal the seam in fat, which would dry as I carried it.

    
Hvarl then handed me a heavy bag of gold. “Your commission.”

    
I emptied the bag into the pouch I had taken from the Uman scout, and didn’t count it.  “Dwarven service pays well.”

    
“Again,” Hvarl warned, “don’t let them think you are a Bounty Hunter.”

    
I didn’t know what that was, but I assured him that I wouldn’t.  The meeting over, the Dwarves left or stayed talking in groups.  A few wanted to take the opportunity to punch my armor and commented on its quality.  One old Dwarf waited to one side until the others were gone.

    
I recognized the Dwarf as Lelekt, an armorer who had probably forged this armor.  I crossed the distance to him in one step and extended my hand, which he took, forearm to forearm in the local custom.

    
“Is this your handiwork, then, Lelekt?” I asked him.

    
He nodded.  “More steel than I cared to use, but my son was among the fallen.  I felt that I honored him in this way.”

    
I nodded.  “Was he a heavily muscled Dwarf with a heavy hammer?”  I asked.

    
“He was.”

    
“I owe my life to him,” I said honestly.  “He died saving me.”

    
Lelekt looked up into my blue eyes, his brown ones searching me.  I saw a tear run out from each side.  Dwarven children are rare and dear, and the Dwarves were never many.

    
“I appreciate your saying so,” Lelekt said, “and respect the courage to admit that to a father who has outlived his son.”

    
“I am wearing armor made by Fovea’s premier artisan,” I said.  “I have nothing to fear.”

    
Lelekt smiled ruefully.  “Oh?  I made it, Man.  I know where the chinks are, you know.”

    
“This is true.”

    
I felt it better to do this than to tell him that his son stood up at the wrong time and had died not paying attention.  No father should remember his son that way.

    
He went his way, and I went mine.  The path to the goat plains from their mountain home required that I be passed from Dwarf to Dwarf through a maze of tunnels.  By the time I arrived they had already saddled Blizzard, and he stood stomping and snorting, upset by so many other living things around him.

    
I saw Kvitch there, mounted on a small pony with a saddle like my own. We didn’t talk much.  There were other Dwarves heaping him with good wishes and compliments, and he pretty much just waved.  I jumped on my horse, which fixed me with an angry glare for the extra weight of the saddle and the armor, and turned him towards Sental to find Trenbon and the Fovean High Council, whatever that was.