Margaret Weis - Elven Star

Those in the bar sniggered and exchanged grins at the dwarf’s garish clothing. If they had known anything at all about dwarven society and what the bright colors of his clothing portended, they wouldn’t have laughed. The dwarf paused in the doorway, blinking his eyes, half-blinded from the bright sun.

“Blackbeard, my friend,” Roland called, rising from his seat. “Over here!” The dwarf clumped into the inn, the black eyes darting here and there, staring down any who seemed too bold. Dwarves were a rarity in Thillia. The dwarven kingdom was far to the norinth-est of the humans’ and there was little contact between the two. But this particular dwarf had been in town for five days now and his appearance had ceased to be a novelty. Griffith was a squalid place located on the borders of two kingdoms, neither of which claimed it. The inhabitants did what they liked—an arrangement that suited most of them, because most of them had come from parts of Thillia where doing what they liked generally got them hung. The people of Griffith might wonder what a dwarf was up to in their town, but no one would wonder aloud.

“Barkeep, three more!” called Roland, holding aloft his mug.

“We have cause to celebrate, my friend,” he said to the dwarf, who slowly took a seat.

“Ya?” grunted the dwarf, regarding the two with dark suspicion. Roland, grinning, ignored his guest’s obvious animosity and handed over the message.

“I cannot read these words,” said the dwarf, tossing the quin scroll back across the table. , The arrival of the barmaid with the kegrot interrupted them.

•Mugs were distributed. The slovenly barmaid gave the table a quick, disinterested swipe with a greasy rag, glanced curiously at the dwarf, and slouched away.

“Sorry, I forgot you can’t read elvish. The shipment’s on its way, Blackbeard,” said Roland in a casual undertone. “It will be here within the Fallow.”

“My name is Drugar. And that is what this paper says?” The dwarf tapped it with a thick-fingered hand. ,. “Sure is, Blackbeard, my friend.”

“I am not your friend, human,” muttered the dwarf, but the words were in his language and spoken to his beard. His lips parted in what might almost have been a smile. “That is good news.” He sounded grudging.

. “We’ll drink to it.” Roland raised his mug, nudging Rega, who had been eyeing the dwarf with a suspicion equal to that with which Blackbeard was eyeing them. “To business.”

“I will drink to this,” said the dwarf, after appearing to consider the matter. He raised his mug. “To business.” Roland drained his noisily. Rega took a sip. She never drank to excess. One of them had to remain sober. Besides, the dwarf .wasn’t drinking. He merely moistened his lips. Dwarves don’t care for kegrot, which is, admittedly, weak and fiat tasting compared to their own rich brew.

“I was just wondering, partner,” said Roland, leaning forward, hunching over .his drink, “just what you’re going to be using these weapons for?” …

“Acquiring a conscience, human?”

Roland cast a wry glance at Rega, who—hearing her words repeated—shrugged and looked away, silently asking what other answer he might have expected to such a stupid question.

“You are being paid enough not to ask, but I will tell you anyway because my people are honorable.”

“So honorable you have to deal with smugglers, is that it, Blackbeard?” Roland grinned, paying the dwarf back.

The black brows came together alarmingly, the black eyes flared. “I would have dealt openly and legitimately, but the laws of your land prevent it. My people need these weapons. You have heard about the peril coming from the norinth?”

“The SeaKings?”

Roland gestured to the barmaid. Rega laid her hand on his, warning him to go slowly, but he shoved her away.

“Bah! No!” The dwarf gave a contemptuous snort. “I mean norinth of our lands. Far norinth, only not so far anymore.”

“No. Haven’t heard a thing, Blackbeard, old buddy. What is it?”

“Humans—the size of mountains. They are coming out of the norinth, destroying everything in their path.”

Roland choked on his drink and started to laugh. The dwarf appeared to literally swell with rage, and Rega dug her nails into her partner’s arm. Roland, with difficulty, stifled his mirth.

“Sony, friend, sorry. But I heard that story from my dear old dad when he was in his cups. So the tytans are going to attack us. I suppose the Five Lost Lords of Thillia will come back at the same time.” Reaching across the table, Roland patted the angry dwarf on the shoulder. “Keep your secret, then, my friend. As long as we get our money, my wife and I don’t care what you do or who you kill.”

The dwarf glowered, jerked his arm away from the human’s touch.

“Don’t you have somewhere to go, Husband, dear?” said Rega pointedly. Roland rose to his feet. He was tall and muscular, blond and handsome. The barmaid, who knew him well, brushed against him when he stood up.

“ ’Scuse me. Gotta pay a visit to a tree. Damn kegrot runs right through me.” He made his way through the common room that was rapidly growing more crowded and more noisy.

Rega put on her most winning smile and came around the table to seat herself beside the dwarf. The young woman was almost exactly opposite in appearance from Roland. Short and full-figured, she was dressed both for the heat and for conducting business, wearing a linen blouse that revealed more than it covered. Tied in a knot at her breasts, it left her midriff bare. Leather pants, cut off at the knees, fit her legs like a second skin. Her flesh was tanned a deep golden brown and, in the heat of the tavern, glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. Her brown hair was parted in the center of her head and hung straight and shining as rain-soaked tree bark down her back.

Rega knew the dwarf wasn’t the slightest bit attracted to her physically. Probably because I don’t have a beard, she reflected, grinning to herself, remembering what she’d heard about dwarven women. He did seem eager to discuss this fairy tale his people’d dreamed up. Rega never liked to let a customer go away angry.

“Forgive my husband, sir. He’s had a little too much to drink. But I’m interested. Tell me more about the tytans.”

“Tytans.” The dwarf appeared to taste the strange word. “That is what you call them in your language?”

“I guess so. Our legends tell of gigantic humans, great warriors, formed by the gods of the stars long ago to serve them. But no such beings have been seen in Thillia since before the time of the Lost Lords.”

“I do not know if these … tytans … are the same or not.” Blackbeard shook his head. “Our legends do not speak of such creatures. We are not interested in the stars. We who live beneath the ground rarely see them. Our legends tell of the Forgers, the ones who, along with the father of all dwarves, Drakar, first built this world. It is said that someday the Forgers will return and enable us to build cities whose size and magnificence are beyond belief.”

“If you think these giants are the—er—Forgers, then why the weapons?” Blackboard’s face grew shadowed, the lines deepened. “That is what some of my people believe. There are others of us who have talked to the refugees of the norinth lands. They tell of terrible destruction and killings. I think perhaps the legends have got it wrong. That is why the weapons.” Rega had, at first, thought the dwarf was lying. She and Roland had decided that Blackbeard meant to use the weapons to attack a few scattered human colonies. But, seeing the black eyes grow shadowed, hearing the heaviness in (he dwarf’s voice, Rega changed her mind. Blackbeard, at least, believed in this fantastic enemy and that was truly why he was buying the weapons. The thought was comforting. This was the first time she and Roland had ever smuggled weapons, and—no matter what Roland might say—Rega was relieved to know that she wouldn’t be responsible for the deaths of her own people.