Chương 43: Book III - Chapter 43 - New Recruits

"Drink!" The hermit clapped his empty tankard against the scarred bartop. The bartender took no notice, nor did anyone else. The stools were short and Sufferen's hoary head did not quite clear the bar top. If this was meant to be a hint, the old Dwarf soundly ignored it. Once Sufferen made up his mind to be somewhere, four or five men were generally required to displace him. He had a better claim to this place than anyone.

No one here was old enough to know, but he'd laid the stones beneath their feet, long before the time of their grandfathers' grandfathers. No one remembered, and no one showed him any respect. Humans were fools. Sufferen lived high in the bleak peaks where strange beasts roamed. The mountains abounded in galena and antimony, cinnabar and ruby, sulfur and quicksilver. Black smoke and hot cinders blew down from the Brimflame Mountains. In some seasons the Rainbow River caught on fire.

The river water had a strange taste and kept the barbers busy. Women who stayed here too long soon began to grow beards. Sufferen didn't mind, though it made him a twinge homesick. Five times, this tavern had been destroyed and rebuilt. The owner and name changed, but Sufferen stayed the same. He still mourned the first owner, Nuno the Albarian. He was a rare one. Nuno spoke little, meant much, and kept his word no matter the cost. Around ten tankards deep, Sufferen tended to grow maudlin and reminisce.

Nuno and Sufferen met by chance, foes on either side of a massive tavern brawl. Each was surprised when his opponent took his best shot and fought on. When the fight was through, friendship grew around a shared love of strong, dark ale, short, angry women, and things built to outlast their makers. Had Nuno been born a Dwarf, no one would have thought twice. Instead he was a seven-foot tall tribesman who never fit in anywhere. Together, Nuno and Sufferen went on many adventures.

They found and squandered great fortunes, survived all sorts of scrapes and dangers, and pummeled countless would-be-wits who snickered at the odd pairing. Those were the greatest days of Sufferen's life. Time took her toll. Nuno got old and had to retire. He chose Bitterlittle Valley, a podunk backwater in the foothills of the Brimflame Mountains. The river tasted strange and the ground shook daily, but miners were always thirsty. Nuno knew a place with a hidden spring. Sufferen lent his hammer.

Together, they dug deep into the mountainside. They built a cellar stout enough to keep their priceless font and precious casks intact. To begin their inn, they built a taproom of thick logs, and drew up plans for an unbreakable stone building that would stand against the aeons. Alas, the Dwarven ways were slow and human spans were short. Nuno never saw his great plan through. His son, Yinnin, was a dunce who had no use for Sufferen's good advice.

The boy took his inheritance and expanded the inn into an extravagant mansion with a theater and a fighting pit. He used the cheapest masons and labor. The ill-made place shook itself to pieces in the first big quake. Yinnin sold Nuno's arms and armor to rebuild the place, then gambled the inn away on a single hand of roke. For years, the tavern passed between a clan of skinflint Ibexians. They were run out of town for blasphemous acts.

The tavern passed to a pack of halfwit Morians who eventually got strung up for tax evasion. None of these owners thought to ask themselves why the old cellar never faltered while all else fell to bits. They all watered their ale and overcharged. Sufferen held his tongue and bided his time. It was the only tavern in town. The tavern's latest incarnation was named Capite ad Calcem. The owner was an Anvillian dope who'd stuck a shrine to the Emperor onto the west side of the inn.

He built too close to the tailwater of Maladescen Falls. The shrine caught the oily mist from the cascade and glistened at sunset like a fish's belly. Pilgrims oohed, but the planks were already black with rot. When fire season came around, the whole inn would go up like kindling. Sufferen wondered if anyone would be left to rebuild it this time. There was evil on the wind. For a season, the tavern had grown busier until Sufferen could scarcely find a seat at the bar.

If the bards could be believed, half the world was at war, and the rest was next. Tonight, dusty drivers lined the walls, sallow miners filled the tables, and shifty foremen filled the booths. Loudmouthed traders mobbed the bar and a slew of fuzzy floozies crowded the stage. As the night wore on, more and more patrons piled into the place. Soon, only Sufferen had the space to swing a dead cat. Sufferen did not know if his elbow room came from respect or disgust, either would suffice.

Dwarves grew stronger as they aged and Sufferen worked the forge every day. Fresh spark-pocks spattered his cheeks like freckles. There were pale moons around his eyes where his goggles had protected him. Above the glove-line, burn scars criss-crossed his thick arms. Sufferen's life had been devoted to beating on the hardest things anyone could find. It was best to let old dogs and old Dwarves lie. It was wise to never let an old Dwarf's throat get too dry.

"DRINK!" Sufferen's voice shook the bartender from his stupor. The distracted tapman bustled over and artlessly filled the tankard. He was a witless git, more concerned with the stranger on the stage than his task at hand. Sufferen scowled at the foamy head but said nothing. He'd come to expect no better from these apes. Thirst whetted, he turned around on his stool to see what the fuss was about. He was too short to see over the sea of shoulders. With a sigh, Sufferen stood upon his stool to see who was on stage.

Charinge the Bard wore the most overwrought outfit Sufferen had ever seen. He stood on the stage in silence and his eyes glittered a mischievous green. His outfit was a diamond motley of gold-edged jade and plum-trimmed lilac. When he smiled at the audience, strands of auburn smoldered in his pleated beard. Women drew near to titter at the ruby buttons on his brocade vest and the lacy purple picodil that bloomed from his collar like a daffodil. On the stage were two leather cases with golden clasps.

From one, Charinge produced a marvelous lute. It was an inlaid, ten-course wonder with gleaming golden frets. Anticipation ramped in the taproom as he set the lute in tune. Sufferen ogled the bard's gold. This gaudy minstrel must be a fighter, otherwise he'd have been robbed on the road. Likely, he had a bodyguard or two around the room. Sufferen knew his game. Charinge strummed and a sweet chord rang out. He perched upon a stool and threw his wine-dark cape over his shoulder.

Applause riffled the room and an expectant silence fell. From the first, the bard's skill was undeniable. Sweet notes filled the inn, faster and faster until Charinge's rings flashed like sparks. His voice washed over the audience, warmer than the hearth. Sufferen saw eyes grow wet everywhere. This crowd was half-pickled and pliant as tin. After a few ditties to draw the dolts in, the bard came around to his true aim. Just as Sufferen expected, this Charinge was a recruiter.

He'd come on the behest of some second-rate brigade to convince nitwits to enlist. He sang of their campaign: clashing with Goblins along the Viridian river, saving villages, rescuing damsels, triumph after triumph. Among the fluff were bits of awful truth. For the first time, Sufferen heard of the Doom of Dagbellow Dell, the Siege of Sweetwater Keep, and the mutiny of Duke Yomone. The world was falling apart faster than ever. Next, Charinge sang of the Miracle at Macamill.

He told of the way the Hawkmoon Elves and Stonesthrow Shieldbearers fought alongside Imperials to defeat a far superior foe. Utter, fanciful rubbish. Elves and Dwarves would never serve under one banner. Too many betrayals, too much bitter history. Yet the fools in the taproom lapped it up.

"Bah!" Sufferen grunted. A woman shushed him and he seethed. How could she not see? This hogwash was meant to suck rubes into some doomed boondoggle. Suckers would set down their picks and enlist, only to wind up in some raven-picked roadside grave. Sufferen really ought to say something about it. He had never cared much for what humans called music. It was naught but flash, flicker, and flare, fleeting as a hare. What about a good old mining song, sung by seventy stout voices in the space between strokes?

These fools would never know how it felt. Sufferen decided he'd had his fill of weak ale and tall tales. He'd rather hear the sweet ping of his hammer against an anvil than this drivel. Before he could make his exit, another brace of miners shouldered through the door and packed the place. Might as well have another beer. He banged his tankard and told the bartender he wouldn't pay full price for half-foam this time. To his delight, the bartender gave him a free refill to shut him up. A slight improvement.

Things were looking up. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings. Yet as Sufferen quaffed, the bard's song grew more outrageous by the bar. Familiar names tugged at his ear, Breakbow, Stonesthrow, Prescote. When Charinge sang of Wintermore Fortress, Sufferen could take no more.

"BAH!" Sufferen bellowed as the others clapped. To the fools, it was just a tale to pass the evening. To Sufferen, it was a mortal slight. As a conductor sniffs out a sour note, Charinge's green eyes quested through the audience. They found Sufferen and twinkled with impertinence.

"I sing truth, friend. Aravitrimore is slain. A new day has dawned."

"They never slayed no Drake!" Sufferen brayed. Some of the youngsters were annoyed, but many of the older patrons rumbled in agreement. It was quite a claim.

"I must have overlooked you at the battle," Charinge quipped with a grin.

"Tell us, friend." He held out a palm and invited the Dwarf to speak his piece. Perhaps he expected Sufferen to shrink from the crowd. Sufferen drew a deep breath. He was no bard, but his voice could ring above the din of a hundred hammers. He would not be cowed.

"Battle? I'll tell you of battle. I was at the spark of it all. My name is Sufferen, I have no other. Before your mayfly kind ever infested this land, I was Forgemaster of the Great Bore, sworn to Blagg the Seer King. The Ashbringer came, just as Blagg prophesied and chaos flamed across the world. While fiends frolicked and the coward Elves cringed in the south, we sealed ourselves inside the mountain. With our stores and stories, we rode out the ten-year winter and emerged into the gray waste that remained.

All was ashes, but Dwarves are never daunted. Look about you, bard! Every flower and tree you see came from the seed we stored. Our strong hands laid the lanes you traipse. Our picks broke through the gray crust of years and let spring bloom anew. Where were you, when we made this world? Where are your thanks, ingrate? And when that great labor was through, we prospered as none have ever prospered before. No idle elves, no vile Goblins, no meddling wizards. We knew no misery, no mutiny, no hunger.

From peak to peak, Blagg's Pax was all you could see. Those were golden days." Throughout the room, eyes glittered with want. Sufferen was no crooner, but his words came from deep. The truth rang sweeter than any lute.

"You speak of antiquity, friend."

"I do, and I'll tell you why: it's so you all know how strong we were when Aravitrimore came. Three mountains united. Three armies, armed with the finest weapons ever forged, clad in the mail of old. I was there. With my own eyes, I watched our great phalanxes scattered like chaff by the lash of his tail. I watched ballista bolts and catapult loads bounce off his diamond hide. His bladed breath cut our legions to ribbons. Ten thousand of us took the field. A scant hundred survived. None was ever the same.

That is why I name you liar. Aravitrimore is invincible!" Sufferen banged his fist on the bar with a tremendous bang. He expected the bard to scoff, or squirm, but Charinge was made of sterner stuff.

"I know your tale, Sufferen the Mastersmith. Bards sing of you and your unfortunate son."

"Sing it not, if you would leave here alive," Sufferen warned. All around the room, hands went to weapons. There was murder behind his words. Charinge took a pause and raised his palms.

"As you wish. You bless us with your words, Mastersmith. I would hear more, after the performance. As for the Drake, hear my oath: I swear by the stars that never fade. Aravitrimore was slain by the Heartbroken Brigade," Charinge swore. He held up three fingers to the guiding stars. It was custom for every inn to nail three golden stars to its rafters. The coins were always oriented to Bion, Ioni, and Ziam, the three fixed stars that made the arc of the Lover's Chase. An inn without them wasn't worth a whit.

Some of the crowd shifted visibly. It was a serious oath. A bard would travel by those stars all his life.

"The word of a bard." Sufferen crossed his arms over his chest. With a smile, Charinge set down his lute and took up his flute case. He held every eye in the tavern as he lifted the lid. A line of brilliant fire blazed on a bed of black velvet. It was a faceted fang, as long as the bard's arm.

"The tooth of a Drake," Charinge countered. Howls of amazement roared around the room. Sufferen's cheeks blazed. He couldn't have played a better claqueur if they'd planned it.

"Let me see that!" Sufferen plowed through the crowd. He was sure the fang must be a fake, but from even five paces away he could feel the ancient dread curl at the nape of his neck. The diamond fang was cold as a grave, for all the fire inside. Sufferen took the fang and held it to the light. A million, million reflections danced inside. There could be no doubt.

"By the Stars. It is true. Aravitrimore is dead," Sufferen breathed. He returned the fang to its case, glad to get it away from him. Charinge seized the moment and swept in.

"A change is coming, brothers. This great victory is the first of many to come. Under one banner, all true hearts shall unite. You told of Blagg's Pax. It has come again, friend. Elf and Dwarf stood together with men to thrash the Gorelord filth. You want news? We've retaken Blagg Bore. The mines will ring again. The great fortress shall be rebuilt. Together, we will purge the land of darkness and make it clean again. Peace will bloom. It is coming."

Sufferen stood in silence, wanting to believe it could be true this time. Excitement blazed through the room. Young men's eyes grew glassy with thoughts of glory. Old men tugged their beards and wondered if, perhaps, they had a battle or two left in them. Sufferen tried to shake the spell, but the fang blazed on, undeniable. Charinge met his eyes.

"I confess, I hoped I might find you, Mastersmith. They say you have no equal, that you alone know the secrets of the Mail of Old."

"I know nothing. I am nothing but an exile," Sufferen growled.

"I know another exile: Burbak Breakbow. The Hero of Aravitrimore. Did you know he scaled Aravitrimore? Climbed right up the wyrm's neck, spry as a monkey. He bled from a thousand wounds, but struck true, and buried his axe in the eye of the Drake. Breakbow lives! His body will mend, his spirit will never bend, but his arms and armor are finished. I have sought high and low, no one is equal to the task. I seek a smith of old. I seek he who can make mail from the scales of the Diamond Drake."

"I am not a smith any longer. It is forbidden," Sufferen grumbled, bitter as poison.

"Forbidden by who? Shining Peak has fallen. Ten years hence, there won't be a single son of Uld left in power. The bickering kingdoms will fall, one by one. The horde is coming. The priests who stripped your name cannot pray the danger away. The old gods do not listen."

"It is law," Sufferen said.

"What good is a law when the people are gone? The Goblins will not keep your traditions, Smith. They will fornicate in the places you hold sacred. How long have you languished in exile, shuttered up in some Brimflame cave like a wild beast? You look out from your lonely mountain, you see what's become of your great labor. How can you be satisfied with this? How can you stand it?"

"I can't," Sufferen admitted with both hands clenched into tight fists.

"I hate it! I loathe the fools who threw me out! The weaklings who lost everything! They let us slide into this slow, smoldering destruction! I hate the traitors who gave themselves to chaos and corruption! I hate the endless night, the breaker of days! I spit on the Devourer! I'll fight! I'll fight! I'LL FIGHT!" The old Dwarf roared and the inn roared with him. In two day's time, a column of men set off from Bitterlittle Vale, headed for Blagg Bore. Sufferen was at the fore with his hammer in his hand.

* Great battles raged across the landscape as the Heartbroken Brigade rebuilt the great Bore Fortress. Over the ancient ramparts of Blagg Bore, a Dwarven banner flew for the first time in centuries. Square and severe as the ones who'd raised it, the Dwarf flag was a black mountain against a field of crimson. For the first time ever, an Elven banner flew beside it. The black pennant of the Hawkmoon was a long arrowhead embroidered with delicate silver calligraphy. A human flag flew as well, another first.

Instead of the Hammer of the Emperor, the Imperials chose the golden half moon smile of Potboy's Halberdiers. It was only right. The day had finally come. With pride, Sufferen the Mastersmith presented his glittering masterpiece to the Hero of Aravitrimore, the Sharddrake Plate. Wide-eyed as a child, Burbak Breakbow stripped down at once and donned the invincible scales of his greatest foe. He hefted the unbreakable double-bladed axe whose edge was so keen the wind cried against it.

His grin was a wicked thing to see. The other Dwarves beheld Sufferen's handiwork with awe. Suferen watched their bearer with worry. There was a fury in the scarred berserker like none he'd ever seen. If Burbak Breakbow were to lose himself now, who could stop him? Suferen told himself he'd grown strange and afraid in isolation, that he fretted for nothing. These were dark times, chances had to be taken. There was much to be done, an entire army to outfit. He threw himself into the work.

There were many would-be smiths to train, even humans and Elves came to learn from the Mastersmith. With Shining Peak lost, Sufferen could no longer see the use of secrecy. War raged all around the mountain. Soon it would be on their doorstep. They would all stand together soon. Still, he felt out of place and missed the solace of his Brimflame forge. The sweet mountain air sung around the Fortress as warp and weft hummed with portents. Everywhere, Sufferen saw the harbingers of divine meddling.

He eyed the scarred Halberdier simpleton, clearly touched by the gods. He watched the deepening bond between Elf and Dwarf, a course that inevitably led to disaster. He listened to the grand plans to lead an army north and save Lastgate. He watched human children cavort in the ancient halls of the Bore. He shook his head, if only they knew the black history of this place. With distaste, he marked the way Elves and Dwarves ran about with an almost human sense of urgency and purpose.

As the army prepared to move, Sufferen was sure and surer they were marching towards disaster. But no one asked him.