R. Salvatore - The Bear

Mcwigik led the songs, the first of which spoke of times long past when the bloody-cap dwarves dominated Corona. Numbering in the millions, their kingdoms ruled supreme in every land from Behr to Alpinador and on the islands across the great Mirianic. Even those places now considered wilderness, like this very region across the Masur Delaval had been, according to powrie lore, once tamed under the armies of the dwarves.

But Sepulcher, for all of its rejuvenating magic, was a practice of inevitable decline; any dwarf lost whose heart could not be reclaimed could not be replaced. What's more, Sepulcher produced only male powries; even a female dwarf heart would yield a male child, one that looked much like its predecessor but was undeniably male. The dwarves had never been prolific breeders in the traditional sense, and, alas, there remained no female powries to be found in any event.

This was the lament of the songs as the dwarves, locked in a huddle, arms across each other's shoulders, moved to the second act of their ritual. The lament drifted to the recitation of heroic feats of heart retrieval, mostly at sea, as the determined dwarves steadfastly refused to let their race pass from the world. Among the powries no heroes stood taller than those who would dive into the cold waters to secure the lines to a sunken barrelboat and her lost crew.

The final act was a call to the powrie gods to grant a woman from the Sepulcher and was followed by the melodic and droning song of the warrior, the final, resigned acceptance.

Put me deep in the groun' so cold I'll be dead 'fore I e'er get old Done me fights and shined me cap Now's me time for th'endless nap Spill no tear and put me deep Dun want no noise for me endless sleep Done me part and stood me groun' But th'other one won and knocked me down

Put me deep in the groun' so cold I'll be dead 'fore I e'er get old Spill no tear and put me deep Dun want no noise for me endless sleep

"Aye, but they're coming," Captain Shiknickel informed the singers, and all eyes turned to the wide river. In an ultimate act of defiance, the powries had decided to create their mass Sepulcher directly across the river from Palmaristown on the western bank of the Masur Delaval and in full view of the city lights across the way.

"They'll find our boys," one dwarf lamented.

"Nah, but the dopes ain't for knowin' nothing about Sepulcher," Mcwigik replied.

"Yach, but what's yerself knowing about what they're knowing?" the other asked. "Ye been on a damned island for a hundred years!"

"I'm knowing that if they knew, they'd've cut the hearts after staking our boys. Cut 'em and burned 'em, and we'd be down a fair number o' dwarves."

"Aye," many others agreed, including Shiknickel.

"Mess it all up, then, and no cairns," reasoned Bikelbrin. "If they're not knowing that we buried something here, they'll not be looking."

"Summer's on, ground's soft," a different dwarf warned. "Not hard to see that the ground's been turned."

Bikelbrin grinned wickedly and looked to Mcwigik, and then the two of them turned to Shiknickel.

The dwarf captain laughed. "So we buried our waste, eh?" he remarked. "Dig them holes back halfway to the hearts. Had a hearty dinner meself…"

That was all he needed to say. The dwarves excavated two feet of dirt. As was customary in Sepulcher, the hearts were down twice that. The dwarves did their business, laying a layer of shite into the holes once they were opened. They then filled the holes, scraped the ground, and tossed stones and branches about haphazardly.

"As fitting a cairn as any powrie'd e'er want," a satisfied Mcwigik announced.

"Boats ain't far. Arrows'll be flying in soon," a dwarf near the water warned.

The powries retreated up the riverbank to the north, where they had beached their barrelboats. They didn't immediately climb aboard and put back out, though, for the sailing ships didn't hang around on that side of the river for long. The dark of night favored the powries, who could see the silhouette of sails clearly enough against the starry canopy, while their barrelboats would be almost completely invisible to sailors on Palmaristown ships.

More than one of Shiknickel's boys pointed that out as they watched from a rocky point. They were hungry for revenge and eager to ram a few warships after burying the hearts of their fallen.

Shiknickel held them back. "Boats're already out, pedaling across the gulf," he reminded them. "Our boys'll be paid back in full order, and soon enough, when all the boats o' the isles come forth. Oh, but there's human blood to be spillin', don't ye doubt, and I'm tellin' me own shiver to know that they're killing more than any others."

The cheer was muted out of necessity, but there was no missing the enthusiasm from the powries at the proclamation. The Palmaristown stakes had gone too far; the folk of Honce, though they didn't really appreciate it yet, had declared war on the powries.

And to a one, the ferocious dwarves were more than happy to oblige. You do wrong by me, King Yeslnik," Father De Guilbe protested at a private meeting between himself and the ruling couple. "To associate me with Artolivan and his ilk insults me profoundly."

"I have done you wrong?" Yeslnik replied, dramatically placing his open hand over his chest and setting the timbre of his voice to express surprise and injury, and, on a subtle level, a measure of a threat. Clearly, he was calling for De Guilbe to recant, but the priest, a veteran of battle and policy, a huge brute of a man who never shied from a fight and never spoke anything less than that which was on his mind, smiled and nodded.

"You look upon me with contempt, as does your wife," he said.

Queen Olym gasped in exasperation, even gave a little wail.

"I see it and I do not blame you at all, given the horrible treatment the Order of Abelle has shown to you," De Guilbe explained. "You scarcely looked at me on the docks, other than a single sneer."

"You would elevate yourself to the level of Laird Panlamaris, then?" the king asked incredulously. "Or that of his son, who conquered a third of Honce in my name? You believe that you, a monk who no longer even has Artolivan's ear, is as important to me as those two?"

"More important," De Guilbe said matter-of-factly, his barrel chest puffing out.

King Yeslnik seemed less than impressed. Queen Olym gave a bored sigh.

"An army might win a man's body by either breaking it wholly or forcing him to inaction," De Guilbe explained. "No doubt your great armies will sweep the land with the banners of King Yeslnik and Delaval City. But it is the church and not the state that keeps peasants truly in line. Would you have your entire reign be a matter of destroying one revolt after another?"

"You presume much."

"I have seen much. The folk of Honce-of any land-need the reassurance that their miserable existence will lead them to some place better. They need hope in eternal life and justice. The Samhaists provided that, albeit harshly, but they are of little consequence now. Because of the war, because of the healing powers of our gemstones, the Order of Abelle has become ascendant. We are the guardians of eternity and the partner you will need if you hope to keep the peasants in line."

"I mean to kill Father Artolivan. You do understand that, I hope."

"I would kill him myself if the opportunity ever arose."

Yeslnik didn't immediately respond, other than to tilt his head back and study the man more carefully. After a long silence Queen Olym remarked, "He wants Chapel Abelle for himself!"

"Ah," Yeslnik agreed, as if she had obviously hit the mark.

"We cannot wait for Chapel Abelle to fall," Father De Guilbe replied.

"We?" asked Yeslnik.

"You have already announced that you will march to Ethelbert's gates first. You will tame the land around Chapel Abelle to isolate Artolivan and Gwydre and their traitorous followers. You will not return before the end of summer, surely, and you will not camp your army on the field throughout the Honce winter. Nor do I expect defeating the chapel will come easily if you assembled a hundred thousand strong warriors for the task! Her walls are thick and tall and her brothers skilled at the use of gemstone magic, as Laird Panlamaris will surely attest."