Chris Evans - A Darkness Forged in Fire

At this the dwarf cocked a bushy eyebrow, a feat made all the more spectacular as it disappeared under the rim of his shako. "Indeed? How is it then you come to be part of this jolly band of brothers? My sad story is too long to recount here, poor Alwyn there suffers from the stupidity of youth, no offense, lad, you'll grow out of it, and the rest of these ragged scarecrows," he said, waving a hand at the section sitting around the room, "are highwaymen, robbers, and thieves-all falsely convicted, no doubt, and press-ganged into the service. But what about you, eh? Maybe it's time we all got to know each other a bit better, seeing as we're all one big family now."

Inkermon sniffed and spat on the ground, nowhere near Yimt, then spun around on his heel, bent low, and stomped away up a tunnel.

"Another time then?" Yimt called after him. The other soldiers laughed and sent a few catcalls of their own after the farmer. Yimt waved them to settle down. "All right, let him be. Every man's got a right to think what he will, and that goes for the lot of you, too. But with rights comes responsibility, and one of them is to keep a good chunk of what you believe to yourself."

There were a few puzzled stares, Alwyn's included. Yimt shook his head and gave an exaggerated sigh. "Use what little intelligence you haven't drunk away, lads. Think on it. This army has got more races than a dragon has scales, and each one's got a way of looking at the world different from the next. Take our major up there. Not only is he an elf, he comes from the other side of the ocean. And you know who lives over there, that elf-witch the Sha-"

"Do not speak Her name!" The whole room jumped as Inkermon scrambled back through another tunnel to emerge in the room, a small white book clutched in his hand and held against his breast. "She is a pretender to the throne of the Great Father, creator of the world. To speak Her name is to call Her near. How can you sit idly by while Her abominations crawl over the earth again! Do you not see, the end is near!"

Murmurs rose. Alwyn looked at Yimt, who was sitting very, very still. When he spoke, it was in a whisper that carried around the room like lead shot.

"The only end that is near is yours if you keep talking like that. Your so-called Great Father is a great human father who created man in his image, not the rest of us."

Yimt slowly rose to a standing position. Alwyn gasped as the dwarf slowly pulled his drukar from its scabbard. Inkermon saw it, too, and held the little white book out before him as if it would ward off the blow.

"You're one of them Pure Order believers," Yimt said, his voice never rising as he took a step forward. "I figured you to be just a puritan know-it-all, but it goes deeper than that, doesn't it?"

"I believe in the One Creator and His vision of a pure, ordered world for the peoples who live in it," Inkermon said, his voice quavering, but his eyes burning with an intensity that bordered on madness. "It is clear that His order is being challenged even as we speak. It is up to His true believers to put things right."

"Is that so? And in that little book of yours, does it mention dwarves, orcs, and folk like that as true believers, too?"

Inkermon sneered. "There was no need to list the lesser races, for they were not created by Him. That is why the world today is polluted with magics and cults and evil. Only He should wield such power, sayeth the scripture!"

Alwyn thought Yimt would decapitate Inkermon then and there, but instead the dwarf actually smiled.

"So you admit your creator was nothing more than a flouncy wizard? Way I hear it, a couple hundred years back, he and a few of his sorcerer buddies went whoring and drinking one night and made the whole thing up to impress the gals in the brothel."

Inkermon sputtered with rage. "Blasphemy! You dirt-born slug! How dare you slander Him!"

The drukar whistled in the air between them and stopped an inch from Inkermon's neck.

The other soldiers were frozen. It was clear to Alwyn no one was going to stop Yimt. He was on his feet and beside the dwarf before he knew what he was doing.

"I think you should put the drukar down, Yimt," he said. The blade hung perfectly still, a black shadow on Inkermon's shoulder. A large vein in the farmer's neck throbbed and Alwyn imagined the blood gushing out, splattering the ceiling.

"The world would be a better place without the likes of him." Yimt's knuckles grew white as he gripped the hilt of the drukar.

"And you'd be hung, and then who would lead our section? Besides, you said everyone was entitled to an opinion, and this is his. I'm not saying I agree with it, because I don't, but if everyone started killing people they disagreed with there wouldn't be many people left, now would there."

Yimt blinked, then turned his head slightly and looked him in the face. Several seconds passed in complete silence. Inkermon's eyes darted wildly between him and Yimt and then down to the blade that hovered beside his neck. Finally, Yimt nodded and slowly lowered the drukar, never looking at Inkermon.

"Go pray to your creator," Yimt muttered, turning his back to the farmer, who scrambled down the tunnel and out of sight.

Yimt looked at each soldier in turn, then at Alwyn. He reached out a hand and patted him on the elbow.

"Ally, not that I'm going anywhere, but if I did, I can't think of a better man to lead this section than you." With that, the dwarf sat down, leaning back against an impressive pair of carved breasts, and began taking apart his shatterbow while the other soldiers hooted at Alwyn as the next king of Calahr.

"Leave the poor boy alone, now," Yimt said, squinting one eye and looking down the right-side barrel of his weapon. "You all know he's got the smarts, lot more than you lot put together."

"What about me, then?" a soldier asked, his cheeks puffing out two enormous muttonchops of brown scraggly whiskers.

Yimt looked over the barrel to his questioner, one eye only, his eyebrow threatening to disappear again under the rim of his shako. "Buuko, you couldn't dump piss out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel."

"I can read well enough," Buuko said in response, sticking his chest out with pride and hooking his thumbs in his suspenders.

More laughter greeted this, and Alwyn couldn't help but join in. Buuko, not much taller than Yimt and as scrawny as a winter chicken, opened and closed his mouth in apparent outrage, then shrugged and started cleaning his musket.

"Make sure you do 'em right," Yimt said, addressing the entire section. "In a climate like this, the moisture will have your musket rusted away to dust inside a week if you don't get at it every day. As me grandmare used to say, keep your musket and your pecker clean and you're likely to live to a ripe old age."

"She said that?" Alwyn asked, finding a place to sit down between Teeter, who was puffing steadily on his pipe, and Alik, who seemed to be having difficulty holding his musket and cleaning it. Alwyn leaned over and helped him steady it, getting a smile and thanks.

"Too right she did. Full of wisdom, she was. Knew more about this world than you lot put together. Reminds me of a time once a way back. Still gnawing on sandstone and chunks of pottery. Seems there was a young miner who…"

Alwyn smiled and began cleaning his musket as Yimt rambled on. It was a comfortable feeling. He let his gaze drift around the room and was amazed that the carvings were losing their effect on him until he saw one in particular that might or might not have included a goat. He grabbed the pricker hanging from a lanyard on his jacket and bent over his musket, working the thin steel needle into the touchhole and digging out bits of dirt. If the hole was plugged there would be no way for the spark in the pan to ignite the charge inside the barrel. It amazed him something so small could make such a difference. He looked over at Yimt and was pleased to realize that went for people, as well.