Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (33 page)

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Ironhelm hated Barter’s Crossing.

It was worse than almost any other human city the dwarf ever passed through, and he’d passed through plenty. The whole stinking placed seemed to him little more than a filthy tangle of whores, drunkards, thieves, mercenaries, and murderers. Every town official had his hand held out for a bribe. There was no beauty of any kind to be found anywhere inside its walls, either, only the smell of shit and stale vomit emanating from every narrow, twisting alleyway. There was nothing to be found but a teeming mass of brothels, bars, and beggars, scores of pigs and goats underfoot everywhere.

Ironhelm and the others passed through the south gate into the city soon after dawn. Hungover guards in chain mail hauberks and shields painted with the orange and blue colors of the city stood on either side of the just-opened gate. The guards barely glanced at the strange group as they rode into the city. Three well-armed men, an elf, and a dwarven warrior all traveling together didn’t raise their curiosity in the least. They looked like a fat and lazy bunch to the dwarf, just the type of guards willing to look the other way on practically anything for a few silver pennies. Barter’s Crossing personified.

It’d been a long night on the Dragon’s Back. They’d decided it was best to wait until a few hours prior to dawn before heading out for Barter’s Crossing. If they were lucky, the Saurians might have given up and left. So they set up camp in a small cleft near the summit where they could keep out of the wind yet still watch the path up the mountain.

As the sun went down it grew cold. They pitched a pair of tents and hoped to get what rest they could. Jorn, Willock, and Ironhelm would crowd into one tent while Ailric and Ronias took the other. Ronias was annoyed at the prospect of sharing at all, and vowed to purchase his own tent in Barter’s Crossing the next day. He mumbled something about the cold, picking up stones.

The elf quietly built a circle out of the stones, digging out a small bowl in the center as though he were going to build a fire.

“Ach! No fire tonight, laddie,” Ironhelm said. “We’d be seen from miles away.”

“There are other ways to keep warm, dwarf,” the elf said.

When he was done building the ring, he placed several large stones in the middle. Holding his hands on them, he closed his eyes.

“Aéth-bin a Dooatha, Aéth-bin a Dooatha,
” he muttered. The others stood around the elf, staring at him. Only Ironhelm seemed to know what was going on, nodding briskly.

After a few moments, Ronias felt a gentle heat growing gradually in his shoulders and pulsing down his arms. It felt almost like warm water pouring over his back, but on a much deeper level. He willed the warming energy down his arms and
through his fingers. He opened his eyes and pulled his hands away. The rocks were glowing a very dim red but throwing off tremendous heat. It was at least as warm as a rather sizeable fire but with barely any light whatsoever. The others sat close around the rocks, smiling and holding their own hands over it.

“It is but a simple spell, but very useful” Ronias explained. “The rocks will burn magical heat until well-past dawn. Find small stones and place them on tin plates. I will cast the same spell on them and your tent will be warm the night over.”

“This’ll make traveling over the Barriers more comfortable,” Ailric observed.

“Indeed it shall,” Ronias said. “I have no desire to freeze to death. These northern latitudes are so…uncivilized.”

Jorn laughed. “You should visit my homeland.”

They huddled around the stones, using them to heat up some slabs of salt pork which they ate with pieces of dried cheese and a bit of bread. The hot food cheered them as the night deepened. The great moon blue Arnos was not out that night, but the tiny white moon Ithlon appeared not long after sunset. Its tiny sliver was barely noticeable against the vastness of the night sky.

“Arnos will not begin waxing again for a week,” Willock said. “When we see its sliver appearing just after dusk, we will have two weeks until the double full moons.”

“Three weeks in all till we’d best be done,” Ironhelm muttered. “Ach.”

_____

Jorn was impressed by Barter’s Crossing. The city was a large one, at least three miles from end to end. Built where the River Feth flowed up from the south and joined the River Tam, the city was protected by water to the north and to the east. A mighty wall of stone thirty feet high protected the city from attack on the landward sides. The imposing towers of the city’s citadel rose atop a small outcropping of granite rising above the surrounding area precisely where the Feth met the Tam. It was the highest place in the city.

             
"The fortress of the Lord Governor of Barter's Crossing," Ailric said, pointing it out. "That would be Lord Eurdwic, first cousin to King Geirwen.”

“He’d have to be,” Willock snorted. “He’s in charge of
collecting the customs fees in the city on behalf of the crown. Few men leave their tenure in that office impoverished."

“He is said to be an honorable man!” Ailric protested.

“Of course he is,” Willock said.

“What do you mean by that?” Ailric said.

“Let us just say Barter’s Crossing runs by different rules than men like you are accustomed to,” Willock said.

______

             
Flatfoot sat down at his breakfast table next to a large window overlooking the courtyard around back of his house. It was small, barely fifty feet long and only half as wide, surrounded by tall brick walls on all sides. Its focal point was the small fountain in the center, bright autumn flowers all around it. It was hard to believe, looking out at the little garden, but he was in the center of a bustling and overcrowded city.

Even a little garden like his was expensive in Barter’s Crossing where land was dear, but the gnome judged it well worth the cost. At least he had someplace quiet and green amid the tangled confusion of the chaotic city outside. 

              His servant, a human woman in her middle years, brought out the pot of tea and poured his cup. The pot and cups were fashioned of finely-wrought silver ordered all the way from Moonstar. It was expensive, crafted personally by one of the premier whitesmiths of that city, but Flatfoot would tolerate nothing but the very best. The tea itself was from Shandorr, anything less completely unacceptable.  Sipping it, he looked through his morning’s correspondence. It all dealt with business matters. There were two new orders he glanced at, very lucrative and high-priced commissions which he put aside to examine more carefully later. There was also a positive report from the manager of his vineyard regarding this year’s harvest.

             
The servant returned and put a breakfast of muffins and eggs before him, Flatfoot nodding and smiling at her before turning back to his correspondence. He leafed through the letters again. There was no letter from his wife or children yet again. He sighed, reminding himself that they must be enjoying themselves at the country house far too much to have had any time to write these past few weeks.

             
Flatfoot barely began eating when he heard someone at the front door whose loud and grumbling voice called to mind rougher, tougher days gone by. Flatfoot recognized the voice at once, rising.

His doorman, a nearsighted old gnome with a bad disposition, was feverishly arguing with the intruder.

“But Master Flatfoot cannot be disturbed,” the manservant protested.

“Wha’?” the intruder growled. “Ach! You go tell ‘Master Flatfoot’ to get his ass down here right now.”

A pair of Flatfoot’s bodyguards appeared. They grasped their weapons, not sure what to make of the heavily armored dwarf with the long black beard and fierce appearance demanding to see their employer. Flatfoot knew well the scowling forehead, the bulbous nose, and the hideous scar running through what was once the dwarf’s right eye.

             
“Durm Ironhelm,” he said, smiling. “What a wonderful surprise to see you here. Gentlemen, please, allow my friend to enter. Thank you.”

             
The bodyguards nodded, parting and allowing Ironhelm through. The manservant shut the door, clearly annoyed at allowing such a clearly uncouth and profane dwarf such as this into the house.

             
“Welcome, Durm,” Flatfoot said, stepping forward and clasping the dwarf’s hands warmly. “I see your manners have not changed in all these years. Have you eaten? I was just sitting down to my morning meal.”

             
“Ach!” Ironhelm said. “I need to speak with you, laddie. Right now, no breakfast.”

             
Flatfoot studied the dwarf, reading the tone in his voice and the stern expression on his face. Ironhelm always looked either annoyed or angry, but Flatfoot knew when the dwarf was serious about something.

             
“Of course,” he said. “Let us step into my study.” He glanced at his bodyguards. “You may leave us, gentlemen.”

             
Ironhelm had rarely seen such luxury as the gnome’s study off the main hall. There were ornate bookshelves built into the walls on either side of a fireplace of polished marble which featured prancing unicorns carved with such fluid skill as to look almost alive. Hundreds of leather-bound volumes filled the shelves and an ornate clock hung on the wall above the fireplace, its long pendulum swinging back-and-forth steadily. On the opposite wall, a pair of tall windows flanked by thick drapes looked out onto the street. A pair of high-backed leather chairs, well-stuffed for maximum comfort, flanked a small table in the center of the room. A large picture of some august-looking gnome in full armor hung on the wall between the two large windows, gazing down on Ironhelm with a look of distinct contempt. The gnome in the portrait held a sword in his hand and had one foot planted atop the severed head of a dragon. Ironhelm recognized the dragonslayer as Flatfoot himself. He groaned and shook his head.

             
“Please,” Flatfoot said, shutting the double doors behind him. “Do sit.”

             
The dwarf sat down in one of the chairs, Flatfoot in the other.

             
“It’s been many years, Durm,” the gnome said. “What brings you to Barter’s Crossing? I hope you aren’t here at the bequest of Braemorgan. I’ll have nothing further to do with him until I have received full payment for services rendered, plus interest.”

             
“Ach. Gruks will fly before you see a farthing of payment,” Ironhelm said. “You know, laddie, Braemorgan never forgave you for retiring. Aye, you were the best he’d ever seen, you were, and you gave it all up while still in your prime.”

             
“And why should he blame me for that? I gave him decades of risking my bloody rump in all manner of Gods-forsaken places, hunting this artifact or that magical item for him. I owe him nothing! In fact, he owes me the not-insubstantial sum of -”

             
“Tha’ may be so,” Ironhelm interrupted. “But you picked up your fair share of gold along the way. Aye, and you look to be doing well now.”

             
“Indeed I am,” Flatfoot said. “And that’s part of the reason why I gave it all up. I was most fortunate throughout my career, Durm. At some point all that good luck would have run out. You might say that
I
ran out before my luck did. If that old fool Braemorgan wants to take that as betrayal, then let him. It’s no excuse for withholding payment due.”

             
The door suddenly opened. Flatfoot’s manservant entered, bearing a tray with Flatfoot’s silver tea set on it as well as a small bowl of the breakfast muffins. The servant placed the tray on the table, pouring out steaming cups of tea before placing down the teapot, bowing, and leaving the room. He closed the door and they were alone again.

             
Ironhelm ignored his tea. He never much cared for the stuff, anyhow. It always tasted too much like watered-down tree bark for his liking. Flatfoot picked up his cup and took a sip.

             
“I need your help, laddie,” Ironhelm said.

             
“On a job? I told you, I’m retired. I don’t crack traps any more, I build them. Unless you happen to have a chest with you, in which case I’d be happy to open it as a favor. It would be a good teaching tool for my apprentices.”

             
“Listen to me first.”

             
“I’m out of the game, Durm. Out of it.”

             
“Ach! Just listen, damn you!”

             
Flatfoot nodded, leaning back in his chair. Ironhelm eyed the gnome carefully. Slowly and carefully, he told Flatfoot everything. He detailed the coming invasion and Braemorgan’s plan to snatch the blood quartz vessel. It took the better part of half an hour to tell it all, right up until yesterday’s ambush.

             
“We all thought it best if I came in and spoke with you alone,” Ironhelm said. “Aye, the others are waiting outside.”

             
Flatfoot rose from his easy chair, walking over to one of the windows. He pushed the drapes aside very slightly and peeked out.