Dan Willis - The Survivors

“What do you want?” Bradok stated more plainly.

The taller of the two dwarves stepped forward. “Begging your pardon, Councilman,” he said in a slightly jittery voice. “We’ve been sent to summon you to the council chamber.”

“At this hour?” Bradok demanded before he realized he had no idea just what hour it was.

“Yes, sir,” the second dwarf said. “The mayor has called an emergency session on account of the, uh, riot.”

Bradok’s head snapped up, and the fog left his weary brain. “What riot?” he wondered.

“There’s a riot going on outside the temple,” the first guard said. “We’ve been sent to ensure your safety, Councilman. Please hurry.”

“Can I dress first?” Bradok asked.

The guard nodded and Bradok stepped back so they could enter his foyer.

“What’s the meaning of this,” Sapphire’s voice floated down from the balcony above. “Why are there armed dwarves in our home in the middle of the night?”

“Go back to bed, Mother,” Bradok said, climbing the stairs two at a time. “It’s council business. I’m needed.”

His mother protested as he passed by, but he was too dazed to pay her any mind. He threw on whatever clothes were handy, and five minutes later he was back in the foyer.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The guardsmen went first, walking shoulder to shoulder, with Bradok in their wake. He had checked his watch when he dressed; the hour was four. Normally at that hour of the morning the streets of Ironroot would be deserted save for the night watch and the occasional tradesman trying to get a jump on the day.

That night, however, the city was awash in activity.

Even before Bradok reached the main cavern, he could hear the hum of a crowd. The acrid smell of smoke reached his nostrils as they emerged into the main cavern. A large, angry crowd had gathered in front of the temple.

Skirting the crowd, the guardsmen led Bradok along the far edge of the cavern to the steps of city hall. A large number of armed guards ringed the building, watching the crowd near the temple with nervous glances. All of them had their hands on their weapons.

“We’ll leave you here,” his escort said. “They’re expecting you inside.”

Bradok watched the guardsmen as they turned and headed back into the city, presumably to fetch another council member.

If the outside of city hall was in chaos, the inside was pure frenzy. It looked to Bradok as if the majority of the councilmen were already there, most yelling, while some were pounding on their desks. On the high seat, Mayor Arbuckle sat, his chin resting on his hands, clearly having lost control of the proceedings.

“There he is,” someone yelled, and the chamber went suddenly, frighteningly quiet.

All eyes turned to Bradok and for a long moment a pregnant pause hung in the air.

“There,” a voice hissed.

“Traitor,” came another.

“Silence!” Arbuckle’s voice cut through the room like thunder.

“What is going on here?” Bradok demanded. He was still fuzzy-headed but felt certain something was terribly wrong.

“You brought this trouble upon us,” Councilman Auger yelled.

“The riot?” Bradok asked, trying to keep his voice even. “I know nothing about that. I have just woken up and arrived here.”

“It was you who thought up that law,” Auger yelled. “The law that has sparked the riot. You probably plotted this whole mess with your oh-so-reasonable solution to our problem.”

“It did seem reasonable, didn’t it?” Jon Bladehook cut in. “Only an unreasonable person would object to it.” Bladehook walked out into the center of the floor, drawing full attention to himself. “But no, we shouldn’t fault our new comrade for being reasonable,” he said, his voice smooth as butter. “It is the believers who are being unreasonable. I warned you they were dangerous.”

“I beg to disagree. They are not dangerous or unreasonable,” a new voice said.

All eyes turned to the entrance, where the high priest of the temple stood.

“Sarru,” Mayor Arbuckle said, a note of forced joviality in his voice. “Welcome.”

Sarru Firebrand had the thick, muscular kind of build one usually associated with a bouncer in a seedy tavern, and the polished wooden staff he carried did nothing to soften his image. He had red-gold hair that he braided in two thick cords on either side of his head, and his beard was held in place with three descending gold clips. His robes were crimson with gold trim and an amulet of Reorx, wrought in steel, hung about his neck.

“I seriously doubt that I am welcome here,” the priest said, his eyes sweeping over the room accusingly. “What do you mean by restricting the religious freedom of the good dwarves of Ironroot?”

“We did nothing of the sort,” Bladehook said, his voice sounding suddenly less confident than it had been a moment before.

“He’s right, Sarru,” Mayor Arbuckle said defensively. “The law simply requires that preaching be done in the temple, where it belongs.”

“That’s right,” Bladehook said, trying to regain his superior footing. “It keeps the preaching off the street. I should think you’d relish the idea of us eliminating the competition for you.”

At that a scowl crossed the priest’s face.

“I do not know why Reorx chooses to send these messengers here,” the priest said after a long moment’s pause. “I wonder if perhaps he is displeased with me. Regardless of the reason, however, I will not hinder his will, and neither will you.”

“That sounds like a threat,” Bladehook said complainingly. He opened his mouth to continue, but Arbuckle cut him off.

“Nobody’s trying to prevent these people from being heard,” the mayor said with all the dignity he could muster.

“Really?” Sarru answered him. “Did you know that since you passed that ordinance, over forty dwarves have been arrested? Are you aware that the Goldspanner family is in the city jail right now for praying over their food in a tavern? One dwarf was taken right off the street for saying ‘Reorx bless you!’ when someone sneezed!”

Mayor Arbuckle looked shocked; then his face reddened slightly. “Uh,” he said, clearly trying to form a coherent response to Sarru’s assertions. “Well, uh, it seems our city guard has, uh, misinterpreted the spirit of our ordinance,” he muttered.

Bradok noticed the mayor cast Jon Bladehook a dirty look. Then he remembered seeing Bladehook drinking with the captain of the city guard that very afternoon.

“Misinterpretation or not, the people won’t stand for it,” Sarru declared haughtily. “There are several hundred dwarves over at the temple who I’ve convinced not to burn city hall to the ground. Right now they’re willing to listen to me, but I don’t know how much longer that will last, with their friends and families in jail.”

“Of course, of course,” Arbuckle said, taking out a piece of paper and scribbling on it. When he finished, he dribbled wax onto the paper and stamped it with the seal of Ironroot.

“Here,” he said, waving a guardsman over. “Give this to the captain of the guard”-he glanced irritably at Bladehook-“and tell him, in no uncertain terms, that he is to release all the prisoners arrested in violation of the no-preaching ordinance.”

The guard reached out to take the paper, but Arbuckle pulled it away before he could grab it.

“And tell that fat-headed buffoon,” the mayor added, loud enough for his words to carry throughout the chamber, “that if he messes this up, he’ll be a street sweeper before lunch.” Arbuckle handed over the paper, and the guard departed.

“It will take more than that, I’m afraid,” Sarru said tersely.