Rise of the Blood Masters (Book 5) (9 page)

“Just keep the drinks comin’, lass,” Skemtun said. “As soon as you see I’m gettin’ empty, bring me another round.”

She nodded. “All right then, enjoy yer supper,” she said as she walked away, moving on to the next hungry customer.

He pulled a sharp little knife from his waistband and wiped it on his sleeve. Then he sliced a corner of fat, swirled it in gravy and took a bite. The first taste was so good that he barely paused to chew.

He carved more meat and popped it in his mouth, relishing the way the fatty bits melted with the saucy mushrooms in his mouth. Juices dribbled down his chin. He wiped them off with his hand, not stopping for a moment. With every swallow, he felt better.

Silently, he finished off the last of the meat, washed it down with beer, and pushed his empty plate away. He felt much better after the meal—at peace somehow. Skemtun started humming a happy tune.

It was then that he realized someone was watching him. He scanned the shadiest corners of the hall, squinting into the hazy darkness. In a corner near the fireplace, he spotted a tall human man. Skemtun ventured a quick glance at the stranger. He stood with shoulders squared and hands behind him, his face shadowed by the flickering torch on the wall.

They locked eyes for a few seconds before Skemtun snapped his head away. He didn’t have the energy to deal with any humans right now.

The man walked straight toward him. Skemtun held his breath.
What does this person want?
The man stepped closer and closer, and Skemtun hoped he would walk right past him as if he weren’t there. Humans always brought problems.

But he didn’t pass by. Instead, the stranger stopped right behind Skemtun and tapped him on the shoulder. “Pardon,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt your meal, but I’ve got to speak with you. Where can we talk?”

Skemtun turned to study the man’s shadowed profile. The stranger wore a thick cloak with a hood drawn down, slightly covering his face. He was tall, with curly dark hair visible at his neckline. Skemtun frowned. He
really
didn’t need this today. It was hard enough dealing with his job and coming off a long shift. But he decided to be polite. “Well, neighbor, you’re welcome to pull up a stool and have a seat.” Skemtun’s voice rose slightly as he spoke.

“Not here, if you please. Let’s speak in private.” The lines around the stranger’s mouth grew deeper. His expression was serious.

Skemtun eyed the man. A few tense moments passed. “So… do I know ye?” he asked, examining the man’s face. He didn’t look familiar.

“No, I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

Skemtun shifted in his seat. The man had the dark skin of a gypsy peddler. That wasn’t uncommon around these parts. Gypsy merchants came through the dwarf kingdom quite frequently hoping to trade their goods. “Are ye a merchant?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. “Because ye’re not allowed t’ solicit here. The merchant rules are strict—they’re posted right outside the doors. If ye’d like to inquire about metal tradin’, ye’ll have to make an appointment with me durin’ the day.”

The man shook his head. “Look, mate ...I’m not trying to sell you anything. I just want to talk.”

Skemtun’s eyebrows crept up. “About what?” his hands fidgeted nervously with his knife. The way the man stood, towering over him, gave Skemtun a queasy feeling.

“I can’t go into details, but it’s very important that we speak.”

Skemtun feigned disinterest and tried to dismiss the stranger with a wave of his hand. “Look, I’m sure this can wait until tomorrow. I was just startin’ to enjoy my evenin’ meal, and now ye’ve spoilt it. Just leave…
please.
I want to be alone.”

The stranger said nothing, but Skemtun could feel his glare.

The man folded his arms and didn’t move. “I’ve traveled a long way,
Skemtun Shalecarver!
Even if we have to sit here all night, I’m not leaving until you speak with me.” The stranger leaned down, cupping his hand over Skemtun’s ear.

The dwarf’s back stiffened, but he didn’t move. The man whispered, “The wizards of the Crystal City sent me.”

Skemtun’s jaw dropped open, and he spun around in his seat. “
Miklagard
sent you? The High Council of Miklagard?”

“Ssshh! Keep your bloody voice down, will you?” The stranger hissed, glancing nervously around the room. He grabbed Skemtun’s shoulder and pulled him up from his seat.

His previous weariness forgotten, Skemtun replied in a hoarse whisper, “Okay, okay…come with me.”

As Skemtun walked out to leave, a cry of protest rose from the other tables, one dwarf shouting, “Hey! Where ye goin’, Skemtun? Don’t leave yet!”

Another dwarf yelled, “Aye, the party’s just begun! Don’t be a wet blanket, old man! Stay a while longer.”

Skemtun opened his mouth to reply, but then thought better of it. If he tried to argue, his friends would only try harder to convince him to stay. And that was mighty tempting, even with this potentially serious matter on his hands.

He ignored them and scurried out of the hall. The stranger followed him out. Skemtun looked around to make sure no one was following them, and then took a sharp turn into a dark corridor. They traveled down the passage and up a set of winding stone stairs before turning into a short causeway. After crossing over a large metal pipe, they stopped outside a dark, narrow tunnel.

Skemtun paused to light a stub of candle. “It’s always dark up here; there’s no torches in this area.”

The tunnel was only a few spans wide, and the stranger had to walk sideways like a crab in order to move through it. At the end of the passage was a much larger cave, filled to the ceiling with empty crates. “We used to store grain in here,” Skemtun said, “but all our stores are gone. Lately, there hasn’t been any extra to store.”

They walked up a short row of steps that led to a small cave. The entrance was decorated with polished stones, each a different size and shade. Small runes were engraved onto their surfaces.

Skemtun drew back an animal skin that covered the opening. “We’ll talk in here,” he said, motioning toward the room. Skemtun could still hear a faint sound of music drifting up from the hall as they stepped inside.

It was a small space, filled with moldy-smelling air. “Wait a second, I’ll light this lamp.” Skemtun went over to the table and picked up a dusty globe filled with an oily yellow liquid. He touched the candle flame to a charred wick inside. There was a flash. The flame sputtered and then steadied. Skemtun adjusted the wick until it burned as brightly as it would without smoking.

The man released the cover back over the entrance and stepped inside. “Is it safe to talk in here?” he asked, surveying the room. The dim flame revealed four stools and a simple stone table. A dirty rope hung on the wall, but there wasn’t much else.

“As safe as anywhere in this mountain,” replied Skemtun, nodding toward the walls. “There’s spies everywhere.”

They sat down at the table. The stranger flipped his hood back and leaned into the flickering light of the oil lamp, revealing deep marks on both cheeks. Calm gray eyes gazed steadily at him. He folded his hands in front of him and waited.

Skemtun pointed at the man’s face. “Those scars on yer cheeks; I’ve seen ‘em before. A slaver’s knife made those, right? Now I’m
sure
we’ve never met before. I would’ve remembered those scars.”

The stranger nodded slowly. “Yes. They’re flesh merchant’s scars. I was slave, once. I was kidnapped by slavers when I was a child. I escaped my masters when I was a teenager.”

Skemtun looked surprised. “How did ye escape? Slavers are usually pretty nasty.”

The man looked away. It was obvious he didn’t want to talk about it. “I was lucky. I was beaten daily, treated like an animal. Finally, I could stand it no more. I stole money from my master and ran into the desert.” He finished softly, “That’s all in the past. A lifetime ago.”

Skemtun looked pensive for a second before he blurted out, “So, now that you’re here, who are ye? And what do ye want from me?”

“My name is Kathir. I’m a mercenary ...of sorts. A soldier for hire. I’ve been working for Miklagard for several years.” He stretched his collar open, revealing a neck free of tattoos. “I’m not an outlander, though. Don’t lump me in with bounty hunter filth.”

Skemtun calmed down a little. Now he was more curious than afraid. “Who sent ye? And why are ye here? But don’t lie. Ye can’t trick me. I’m good at readin’ people.”

“I wasn’t lying when I told you why I’ve come here. The wizards of the Crystal City hired me to come here and meet you. Miklagard is quite concerned about your welfare and safety.”

Skemtun shook his head.
It didn’t make any sense.
“But why? What could the High Council want with me? I’ve never even spoken to them, except maybe in passing.”

“You and Bolrakei are the only surviving clan leaders in Mount Velik. Your king is on the edge of death. Miklagard believes that your life is important enough to safeguard, so they sent me here to protect you, and also to give you a warning to share with your people.”

Skemtun scoffed. “King Hergung is sick, but he’s not dyin’ yet. And I can take care o’ myself. I’m a decent fighter.”

Kathir smiled, his thin lips twitching. “Calm yourself, Skemtun. I meant no insult. Your king’s worsening health isn’t even the worst news. There’s more. A military threat has crystallized against you in the west. The orcs plan to assault Mount Velik before winter. The orc king greatly desires this territory for himself. If the greenskins start their war march now, they’ll catch you unprepared. The orcs will destroy your people. And this isn’t like before. There will be more orcs in this army than you can possibly imagine.”

Skemtun shrugged. “Aye, I’ve heard a few rumors, but nothin’ that serious.”

Kathir’s expression turned sour. “They’re not just rumors! The danger is real, and it’s close upon you. The orcs are definitely planning an attack.”

“Do you have any proof? Who’s your source for this information?”

“Miklagard assured me that the intelligence was reliable,” said Kathir.

Skemtun leaned back and touched the fingertips of his hands together in front of his face. “I need more proof than
that
if I’m going to go to the dwarf council with this story. I can’t cause an uproar on your word alone. I don’t even know ye!”

“You can’t just sit back and do nothing. You must warn the other clans. The dwarf council doesn’t listen to outsiders. They won’t take any advice from me, or from the Crystal City. I know that much. You’re a clan leader, so it’s your job to be responsible, at least for the sake of your own people.”

Skemtun spread his hands. “Well, what can I do? I’m just one man. I’m not even a soldier, I’m a miner. Why would they listen to me?”

“You have influence. You can still warn the council, and you can tell your people to prepare for war.”

Skemtun balked. “Prepare for war? On the basis of a
rumor?
I can’t do that! It’ll cause a panic, especially after everything that’s happened.”

“You’re just being stubborn. Or perhaps you’re afraid. A timely warning could save this mountain. Think of your people.”

              Skemtun squirmed in his seat. “Look, I understand there’s some danger. But I can’t just stick my neck out like that. If I go to the council talking about threats of war without any proof, then they’ll think I’m crazy! They don’t want to hear about distant threats. The council doesn’t take me seriously. They don’t listen to me. They just tell me what to do. Besides, they’re too busy arguin’ over the Vardmiter revolt. The whole council is still pretty upset about that.”

“These are
not
distant threats. Nothing is more important than what I’m telling you now,” Kathir said wearily. “Your council must take heed. War with the orcs is imminent.”

Skemtun raised his hand. “I disagree. If the orcs aren’t actually marchin’ in our direction, then I think such talk is a
wee bit
premature. Ye’ve got to understand how things work around here. It’s not like the human realm. Dwarves don’t make quick decisions like that, even when the whole world wants us to. We like to
deliberate
on things.”

“Deliberate faster. By the time the orcs start their march, it will be too late for you to prepare.” Kathir said.

Skemtun shook his head. “The orcs have always been a threat to us, and they always will be. If they attack, we’ll find a way to get through it, same as we always have.” Skemtun wasn’t about to budge, especially over some rumors from a human stranger.

Kathir paused and decided to take another approach. “You’re not being completely truthful with yourself, are you? Things are very different than they were in the past.”

Skemtun stiffened in his seat.

Kathir could tell he had hit a nerve, and continued. “Life at Mount Velik is more precarious now, isn’t it? Your population has been cut in half. When the Vardmiters left, they took all their able-bodied men with them. How are you going to fight the orc armies with only half your men? You’ll be totally unprepared.”

Skemtun snorted. “Bah! The Vardmiters! We don’t need
them
to beat a few greenskins. We’re gettin’ along fine without those buggers!”

Kathir kept pressing. “If you’re getting along fine without the Vardmiters, then why grow so angry at the mere mention of them?”

Skemtun huffed and crossed his arms. “I’m not! We’re makin’ do. Besides, those turncoats wouldn’t be any help to us anyhow. They can’t fight worth a damn.”

“Are you so sure about that? Your leadership has consistently underestimated the strength and resilience of the Vardmiters. You seem to believe that simply because you have a few skilled warriors, you’ll be victorious. If war comes to your front gate, Mount Velik will be at a considerable disadvantage without their manpower.”

“Nay, that’s a load of rubbish! The Vardmiters don’t have any proper fighters. We have lots of trained soldiers. Lots! They don’t! I’m tellin’ ye—we don’t
need
the Vardmiters. We’re doing fine without ‘em.”

“That’s not true. The Vardmiters might lack resources, but they’re very industrious and capable of surviving tough conditions. Mount Velik is at a considerable disadvantage without them. I mean…don’t they even have their own spellcaster now? One that serves them willingly?”