Dan Willis - The Survivors

“Mark my words,” she said. “We’ll soon be rid of those cursed priests. And the council will have you to thank.”

A cold knot dropped into Bradok’s stomach. He’d worried that Arbuckle had some nefarious purpose in the task he’d given Bradok, and as he thought about it, he realized that Sapphire was right. Those who didn’t object to the presence of the street preachers were likely to be believers or people at least sympathetic to the believers. He was compiling a list of all the believers for Mayor Arbuckle, Jon Bladehook, and all those who lined up with them.

His eyes dropped back down to the daily report he’d been preparing. That very page contained the names of every member of several families who didn’t object to the preachers, where they lived, and how many were in their households.

In the wrong hands, Bradok’s lists could cost lives. The thought made him sick.

“What’s the matter, boy?” Sapphire said, still preening in the doorway. “You look a little green.”

“It’s nothing, Mother,” he said, straightening his papers and making a show of going back to work.

“You didn’t know,” Sapphire guessed. She barked out a raucous laugh. “I should have known you didn’t have the stones for this. Well, I think they will reward you, just the same.”

“That will be quite enough, Mother,” Bradok said, rising.

He blotted the fresh ink on the paper then folded it carefully and put it in the breast pocket of his coat. “I’m going out,” he announced.

“Going to warn your new friends at the temple?” she asked, still smiling like a wolf.

“Of course not,” Bradok said, brushing her out of his way. “I am going to do my duty and deliver the daily report to Mayor Arbuckle.”

Bradok turned down the hallway and passed out into his grand foyer. Behind him his mother’s laughter echoed down the hall, mocking him.

But Bradok did not intend to go to Mayor Arbuckle’s house, as he said. Instead he wandered through Ironroot, down past the Artisans’ Cavern and into the Undercity.

Down one of the many side tunnels stood a decrepit facade built of wood that covered a great hole carved in the rock. A warped, wooden sign outside read The Butcher’s Block in faded green paint. The wooden facade hadn’t been repaired in generations. It leaned away from the edge of the cavern, making it possible for Bradok to see into the tavern’s interior. As seedy as the place was, the Butcher’s Block had the best ale in the city, and Bradok needed something stronger than his usual beer just then.

An hour later he had nursed his third ale down to the bottom of the mug, and he still had no answers. He wanted to believe that Arbuckle’s motives were innocent, but at the same time he knew he had been duped. The council was plotting against its own citizens.

Bradok turned on his stool, surveying the tavern, as if answers could be found in the hardened faces of the dwarves around him. The bar stood against the back wall of the room and was stained black and pitted with years of hard use. Oft-repaired stools stood in front of the bar in a ragged row, occupied by a bunch of patrons. In the middle of the great room sat a stone hearth over which a metal shroud and flue hung. A fire crackled cheerily, spreading a dry warmth through the cool, humid air and filling the room with the scent of burning pine.

Bradok had taken the stool at the far end, by the kitchen. A barmaid with a face as haggard as the bar leaned on her arms, attempting to draw the men’s eyes away from her face by exposing ample amounts of cleavage. All of the dwarves at the bar were drinking with abandon, so none of them noticed anyway.

Bradok finished his cup and pounded on the bar. The pitted-faced barmaid brought him another drink efficiently enough, but with a disinterest bordering on disdain. Bradok took a swig, but he had drunk his fill; the liquid soured in his mouth. He pushed the cup aside and stared at the fire.

Next to Bradok sat a mountain of a dwarf. Seated on his stool, the red-bearded dwarf was easily a head taller than Bradok. He’d been pounding back ale and muttering darkly to himself since before Bradok arrived, and still he showed no sign of slowing. The dwarf wore a thick leather apron of the kind smiths wore, but his clothes and boots were far too fine for such a profession. As soon as he noticed Bradok had paused in his drinking, the big dwarf slammed his mug down, sending its contents launching out of the mug and splashing on the bar.

“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded testily. “You look like a dwarf, but you sure don’t drink like one.”

Bradok sat up as if he’d been struck by lightning. Glaring at the red-bearded dwarf, he raised his tankard and drained it in one gulp.

“No one ever accused me of being a teetotaler,” he said with a growl, slamming his mug down on the bar. “Now leave me alone.”

He turned back to the bar, but the red-bearded dwarf would not be dismissed so easily. With a roar of laughter, he pounded Bradok on the back so hard that the stool beneath him cracked ominously.

“I like you!” the fellow said. “You’re different than most of the rest. You’re not afraid to say it like it is.”

“Yes, I am,” Bradok said in a low voice he intended only for himself.

“So you didn’t tell off those crooks on the city council,” the dwarf said matter-of-factly. “That’s all right by me. Being prudent with your tongue doesn’t make you a coward.”

“How did you know that?” Bradok demanded, seizing the big dwarf by the arm.

“That’s nothing.” Red-beard shrugged. “You’re that new councilman from the upper city. It stands to reason you wouldn’t want to say more than is prudent on your first day.”

Bradok narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “That’s not what you said. You said something about … me disagreeing with the council,” he finished. He scratched his head. What had the red-bearded dwarf said? He wasn’t sure. His head was clouded with drink.

The big dwarf grinned sympathetically at him. “You’ve got an honest face,” he said. “It’s the kind of face you only get from hard work and fair value. I can respect a face like that.”

Bradok couldn’t hold the penetrating gaze of the red-bearded dwarf’s crystal blue eyes. The dwarf’s eyes seemed to look into the very depths of his soul, and Bradok turned away before they found the thing that all the ale in the bar couldn’t drown.

“I’m not worthy of anyone’s respect,” Bradok mumbled, motioning to the barmaid for a fresh mug.

“Why is that?”

Bradok frowned. Why, indeed? Because what he suspected about Arbuckle and Bladehook made Bradok shudder just to think of it. He no longer doubted that the lists he had been innocently drawing up for the council were intended for some kind of drastic action against the believers. Bradok himself didn’t care a whit for the believers, but it just wasn’t, well-dwarflike.

“Are you a believer?” Bradok suddenly asked the big dwarf, daring to look into those probing eyes for a moment.

The big dwarf laughed. “My name is Erus,” he said, raising his mug to Bradok. “And you might say I’m the ultimate believer.”

“Then I suggest you leave Ironroot while you can,” Bradok said glumly, staring into his mug. “Take anyone you love and get out.”

If Bradok’s warning fazed the big dwarf, he gave no sign.

“So you think that anti-preaching law was just the beginning?” the red-bearded dwarf said in a conspiratorial tone. “That there’s more to come?”

“Something like that,” Bradok said.

“What about you? Are you a believer?” Erus asked.

The question almost made Bradok laugh. Then, all of a sudden, he felt like weeping, which was all the more surprising.