The Forlorn Dagger Trilogy Box Set Page 5

  Altor yelped in surprise when a pixie appeared a few feet in front of his face. Trant and Greystone turned around in their saddles and smiled in amusement at the look of wonder on the lancer’s face.

  Soon, pixies flew everywhere, surrounding the carriage. Altor held out his hand in amazement. Three pixies hovered near it.

  “Why, look at ’em, Beet! Beautiful little women they are!”

  Tomlin glanced over at Altor. The three pixies hovering near his outstretched hand indeed appeared female, wings fluttering off their backs. One glowed red, another blue, another green. The others floating around them flashed the same colors. An occasional few flashed yellow.

  “Primary colors.”

  The other two lancers turned to look at him. Beet raised his eyebrows.

  “Come again, Cap’n?”

  “They’re shining in primary colors. You know. Red, blue, green. All the other colors are derivatives.”

  His men stared at him. He looked at them, and turned away. Then he looked again. They still stared at him. He laughed for the first time since the battle.

  “You two look like I just grew a second head.”

  “It’s alright, Cap’n,” Altor assured him. “We ain’t got the learnin’ you do.”

  Several pixies hovered around the carriage’s broken doorway. Margwen and Anabella watched them with a mixture of curiosity and wonder.

  “They’re so beautiful!” Margwen said.

  Deedles meowed. Margwen looked down at the cat in her lap. Deedles seemed to be able to see the pixies clearly.

  One grew bold enough to fly inside the carriage, and hovered near the cat’s face. Deedles reached out a paw and tried to bat it.

  The pixie seemed highly amused at this, and easily dodged the cat’s paw. Half a dozen more flew in beside it and began playing with the cat, trying to get her to bat at them. Deedles obliged, swinging her paw at the pixies flying around her face.

  “Look at that, Highness. They seem fascinated with the cat.”

  Margwen nodded, smiling. Soon, a dozen more pixies flew inside the carriage and surrounded Deedles.

  After a while, Tomlin noticed the path growing wider. Gradually it morphed into a genuine road. The trees and underbrush faded to the sides. In the distance, the road seemed covered in haze. Trant and the Greystone rode through the haze and disappeared.

  The first two horses pulling the carriage stepped through the haze, and they disappeared, too. Then the next two, and the next. Finally, the men on the driver’s seat went through as well, then the whole carriage had gone through. They were on the same road, but the woods were gone. In its place, a small town spread out before them.

  Trant looked over his shoulder and smiled at Tomlin.

  “Welcome to Greystone Village.”

  As the carriage neared the first buildings, it seemed to Tomlin the town would be filled with pixies. They flew about in clusters, examining things at random.

  As they rode into the village itself, Tomlin decided it seemed like many others, save for all the pixies flying about. He noticed shops selling food and dry goods. In the distance he saw a church, its steeple marking the highest point in town. He heard the tell-tale sounds of metal clanking on an anvil from a blacksmith’s shop. Barefoot children ran out into the street and followed the royal carriage, laughing and waving up at the lancers, peeking inside at the women and the cat.

  They pulled up to a large three story inn and public house, and Trant raised his fist again. Across the street stood a fine manor. Tomlin suspected the manor might be the most attractive building in town, and decided it probably marked the center of the village.

  He pulled the team to a halt and set the brake. Trant dismounted, and approached the doorway of the carriage.

  “Highness, your men may stay here at the inn at my expense. Wizard Greystone and I cordially invite you to his manor across the street as our guests.”

  Margwen and Anabella looked at each other. Anabella nodded her head again.

  “Thank you. I hope we are not an undue burden on your hospitality.”

  “Not at all. And, if you would like to dispose of the remaining equipment we salvaged, my men know of several merchants in town who will pay top coin. Tack, in particular, is almost worth its weight in gold around here. I suspect the lances and pikes may fetch considerable sums as well.”

  Margwen nodded.

  “Very well. Please have your men consult with Captain Tomlin regarding anything he may wish to keep.”

  While Beet and Altor went inside the inn, Tomlin picked out three saddles to keep along with three lances. The rest of the guard’s equipment he allowed Trant’s men to haul away and sell.

  Someone showed him where the stable was located, and he made arrangements for the princess’s six horses. The stable master knew of a competent woodworker who could reattach the broken door, and Tomlin asked him to see to it.

  About that time, two of Trant’s men returned with a large bag of coins from the sale of weapons and tack. It felt much heavier than Trant expected, and peeking inside he caught a glimpse of several gold coins mixed in with the silver ones. He thanked the men profusely. He offered a down payment to the stable master, but the man shook off accepting the money.

  “Lord Trant has you covered.”

  Making his way back to the inn and public house, he found Beet and Altor seated at a table eating supper. The dining hall seemed about half full, with locals swapping tales and a handful of guests scattered about. Tomlin sat and waved at the serving wench. She was a tall, stout, and unattractive woman with a large nose, short hair, and loose jowls. She brought over a plate of food and a tankard of ale. He dug into the bag of coins again, but she waved him off.

  “Lord Trant has already paid for you and your men.”

  As the Captain started eating, Altor finished off the last of his food and washed everything down with a big swallow of ale.

  “Ay, Cap’n! Look over there, will ya? Dwarves! This wood has everything, don’t it? Wizards, sprites, hidden towns, and now dwarves! Can ye believe it, Cap’n?”

  Tomlin looked across the room in the direction Altor pointed. At a far table two dwarves sat, silently eating and drinking from pewter mugs. Long brown hair fell over their backs, tied off in neat tails. Their brown beards were likewise carefully combed, decorated with little red ribbons.

  The smaller one wore a sheathed knife, probably equivalent to a shortsword for him, Tomlin thought.

  The older of the two lifted his head up and cocked a pointy ear in their direction.

  “That’s not polite, Altor. And I understand dwarves have exceptionally good hearing. They’re doubtless listening to us right now.”

  Altor’s mouth fell open in astonishment.

  “You don’t say! Those little fellers can hear me clear across this noisy room?”

  “Yes. They can see and hear far better than you or me. They’re also extraordinary fighters. Men tend to underestimate them due to their size, but it’s almost always a fatal mistake to do so. It’s said that one dwarf is worth ten men in a fight. Best you leave them alone, Altor. And I wouldn’t speak about them either, lest you offend one.”

  Barley allowed himself a smile, although it was a small one mostly hidden by his generous beard. The captain he noticed joining the two soldiers had indeed spoken accurately about dwarves’ abilities to hear and fight. Not all humans are stupid, he thought to himself. The captain seemed quite intelligent.

  Barley and his son had been there two days now, and so far the humans had mostly left them alone. The snide remarks and veiled insults not spoken to his face did not bother Barley, although he heard them all in conversations across the room. He knew were the situation reversed, humans travelling alone into Dwarven Land, they would have faced similar if not worse treatment from his kind.

  But the humans in Greystone Village were not too bad, in Barley’s estimation. Stupid or not, they seemed willing to take his gold as much as anyone. The innkeeper said nothing
when he paid for several nights in advance, showing them to a room that seemed just as nice as any. Even the serving wench wore a smile as she brought their food.

  The food was adequate. Not great, but adequate. It kept them full while they waited.

  His son glanced up at him from a half-eaten plate.

  “Coneys again.”

  Barley smiled.

  “I think th’ woods are filled with coneys, Fret. Th’ innkeeper probably has traps out somewhere. It would hold expenses down, an’ maximize profit. That’s how I would do it, anyway, if I ran an inn.”

  “No,” the younger dwarf shoved a spoonful of food into his mouth, chewed and swallowed.

  “The way t’ do it would be t’ raise a pen full o’ coneys out back. Then you wouldn’t have t’ run out an’ check yer traps all th’ time. Just grab ’em what y’ need fer supper.”

  Barley nodded, conceding the point. There was no use arguing with his son. There was no use arguing with anybody, in Barley’s estimation. The exchange had been one of the longest he and Fret had spoken so far on the trip.

  Fret swallowed a few more bites of food, then extended the conversation even further.

  “Do y’ think he’s comin’?”

  Barley nodded again, sipping from his pewter mug.

  “He said we’d all make a lot o’ gold iffen we listened t’ his idea. I’m willin’ t’ give th’ man another day or so. Findin’ this place can be difficult, I suppose, what with th’ magical gates. Let’s give ’im more time.”

  Margwen and Anabella walked through the manor’s doorway and gasped in surprise. Inside, the modest-sized house opened up into a huge country estate. In the entryway, marble tile in different shades of black and white made a checkerboard pattern. The ceiling reached up three stories above them to elegant skylights. Two grand staircases stretched out, like giant arms in a welcome hug. The steps were elegant, with elaborate handrails and carved wooden columns supporting them.

  Trant walked in behind the women, directing servants with their luggage who struggled with the trunks up the steps toward the guest quarters.

  The princess turned around in wonder.

  “It looked so much smaller from the outside!”

  “Greystone is a master at dimensional magic. If we get a chance I can have him work on your carriage, if you like.”

  Deedles strolled in, with five pixies riding on her back and a dozen more floating around her. She sat down on her haunches and bobbed her head, trying to see her new surroundings. The pixies started stroking her back, combing her fur. She purred in appreciation.

  Anabella snorted, and smiled.

  “She’ll get spoiled here, Highness. Look at her.”

  Margwen bent down and scratched the cat’s chin.

  “You really like it here, don’t you Deedles? This is the best place you’ve ever been since we left home.”

  The cat purred as the pixies continued grooming her.

  Greystone walked through the door and clapped his hands. Half a dozen young, attractive ladies came running in. All were barefoot, and each wore a servant’s dress, white and hemmed above the knees.

  They stood at attention around Greystone, smiling happily.

  “Show Princess Margwen and Lady Anabella to their quarters. You six are assigned to them for the duration of their visit. You will meet their every need.”

  All of them simultaneously said, “Yes, Wizard Greystone!”

  Greystone said to the women, “These are facsimiles. Good help is hard to find out here in the middle of nowhere, so we often have to make our own.”

  He chuckled as if the statement were quite humorous. The women smiled and nodded, not fully understanding what he meant.

  As they followed the servants upstairs, Margwen whispered to Anabella.

  “What’s a facsimile?”

  “I believe, Highness, he means they are not quite real.”

  “Not real? You mean not human?”

  “I think not. I think he created them himself. They look human. But I don’t think they are, really. It would involve some extraordinarily high magic, something only a wizard could do.”

  The princess stared at the attractive women leading them up the gently curving staircase.

  “You’re right, the wizard must have made them. They look like what a man would dream up for a serving wench.”

  Barley and his son stayed in the common room throughout the day, waiting. Fret took a nap in his chair, while Barley pulled out a book to read.

  Late in the afternoon, the door to the public house opened, and another dwarf stepped over the threshold. He scanned the room with a frown, ignoring curious looks from the few people present. Barley stared back at him in complete surprise. He shook Fret’s shoulder to wake him, then nodded toward the door. Fret’s mouth dropped open.

  When he spied the father and son, the dwarf’s frown deepened. He shut the door and walked toward their table, brushing off dust from the road as he went.

  Barley and Fret stood, and remained standing as he neared their table. Fret made a clumsy bow. Barley made a more practiced one.

  The dwarf climbed into a chair, a small cloud of dust poofing outward as he sat down. He waved at them in annoyance, and Barley and Fret sat down again.

  The serving wench walked over.

  “Food and ale, milord?”

  “Food, aye. Bring me an empty mug.”

  She shrugged at the odd request, returned to the kitchen and came back with a plate filled with coney meat, cabbage, and potatoes.

  The traveler withdrew a small copper coin from his purse and raised an eyebrow at Barley. Barley shook his head.

  He scowled, dropped the coin back in and pulled out a slightly bigger one. Barley shook his head again.

  His scowled deepened, and he pulled out a much larger copper. Barley nodded, and the dwarf handed it to the serving wench.

  When she walked out of earshot, the traveler said, “I am Dudge, second son o’ Nudge, o’ th’ Clan Ore.”

  “I am Barley, son o’ Wort, Clan Nugget. This is my son, Fret.”

  Dudge nodded. He knew who they were just as they knew him. He started eating the food. Barley reached under the table and pulled out a growler. He poured what was left of its liquid into Dudge’s mug.

  Dudge nodded in acknowledgement. Barley handed the growler to his son, and pointed his chin toward the stairs. Fret jumped up from his seat and raced up the stairs to their room.

  A few moments later he returned with the growler refilled and carrying two more just like it. He set them on the table and sat down again. Dudge continued his meal in silence.

  When finished, he pushed his plate back and grabbed the mug, quaffing it in one smooth motion. Fret opened a growler and refilled the mug. Dudge quaffed it again. Fret refilled it again.

  This time, Dudge took a few slow sips, wiped his lips on his sleeves, and stared at Barley, nodding slowly.

  “’Tis true what they say. Yers is th’ best.”

  Barley made a seated half bow in acknowledgment. Then he ventured a question.

  “An’ what brings His Highness t’ human lands?”

  Dudge snorted.

  “You and yer son, o’ course.”

  Barley raised his eyebrows in surprise. He glanced at Fret, who let his mouth gape open.

  Dudge took another sip before continuing.

  “The Trade Council got wind o’ yer plans t’ deal wi’ humans. They sent me t’ monitor yer dealin’s, since ye hadn’t th’ decency t’ inform them o’ yer plans before headin’ out t’ this Creator-forsaken wilderness.”

  Barley’s back stiffened. Several thoughts ran through his mind, chief among them the fact he had spoken of his plans to no one back home, save his wife. He wondered which one of her friends she had spilled the secret to. Doubtless everyone in the kingdom knew of them by now.

  He took a deep breath and forced down his irritation.

  “I dinna tell th’ Trade Council on account of I ha’ no pla
ns in place yet. This was t’ be an introductory meeting, t’ see if th’ idea is even feasible.”

  Dudge nodded, and brushed aside the other dwarf’s concerns.

  “Aye, I’ve no doubt yer intentions were pure. But th’ whole thing has exploded into a huge political mare’s nest.”

  He paused for emphasis. The use of the human term was not lost on Barley. Dwarves had little use for horses.

  “Rumor has it, this deal yer workin’ on will bring you a hunnert thousand gold or more.”

  Barley guffawed, partly in astonishment, partly in derision.

  “I said no such thing! I ha’ no clue how much gold th’ deal may bring. Aye, I’m hopin’ a lot, but I never put a number that large out there in all me speculations.”

  He looked over at Fret, who stared back, open-mouthed in shock again.

  “Close yer mouth, lad. I’m gonna have a long talk wi’ yer mum when we get home.”

  Dudge waved in a dismissive gesture again.

  “No matter, no matter. You know how rumors are in th’ capitol.”

  “Nay, Your Highness. I try to avoid Ore Stad if I can. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  Dudge leaned back in his chair, sipping beer, and thought for a moment before proceeding. He was younger than Barley, but older than Fret. Barley looked to be about a hundred and fifty or so. Fret was probably sixty years old. Dudge had just turned eighty.

  Yet, though half the older dwarf’s age, he was more politically astute. It wasn’t surprising, really. Most dwarves just wanted to be left alone, and cared little for politics. Barley’s sentiment toward the capitol was hardly unique.

  He took another sip of beer and decided to educate the other two.

  “Most on th’ Trade Council couldn’t care two whits about dealin’ wi’ humans. But, there’s concern we might be reachin’ th’ end of th’ Mighty Vein. And that’s got everybody in a tizzy.”

  Barley and Fret stared at him silently, their eyes widening. The Mighty Vein had been mined successfully for several hundred years. If it were ending, the kingdom’s primary supply of gold would be ending, too.