Raymond Feist - Rides A Dread Legion

Alystan pulled up his mount before the entrance to the longhouse and dismounted. He unsaddled his horse, and put the tack over the hitching log, then quickly wiped down the animal with a rag from his saddlebags. It would have to do until he had time to take the animal to the stables and tend to it properly. Dwarves were not horsemen, and the only horses they did keep were draught animals, all of whom would be out in the fields this time of day pulling ploughs as the dwarves readied the ground for the spring planting.

As he finished, a dwarf emerged from the building. ‘Alystan of Natal!’ he said with pleasure. ‘What brings you our way?’

‘I come to see your grandfather, Hogni. Is he inside?’

The young dwarf’s grin split his long black beard. The dwarves were small compared to humans, but still broad of shoulders and powerful of frame, averaging a little over five feet in height. Nearing five feet, five inches tall, Hogni was especially tall for a dwarf. He had a merry light in his eye as he said, ‘Grand father refuses to take his rank seriously, as always. He says he’s still “new to this King business” as it’s “only been a little over a hundred years or so”.’

‘He’s down in the fields ploughing. Come along, I’ll take you there.’

He waved over a dwarven boy and said, ‘Toddy, take that horse to grandfather’s stable and see to him, will you?’

Alystan took his longbow off his shoulder and returned it to the familiar grip of his left hand. He wore a dubious expression: the horse had rendered stout service and deserved to be well treated and the boy barely reached three feet in height, topped with a shock of red-blond hair and an apple-cheeked grin; but if Hogni was confident that Toddy could somehow reach the gelding’s withers and groom him sufficiently, he wasn’t going to argue. The urgency of his news kept him from properly tending to the mount before seeing the King.

They quickly made their way through the village to the eastern fields where a half a dozen draught horses pulled ploughs. Crossing carefully over the new furrows, they approached a dwarf with a grey head of hair and a long grey beard. He was perspiring heavily as he wrestled the plough’s iron blade through the hard soil, compacted by a winter’s weight of snow and the morning’s frost. The horses, like their masters, were powerful but diminutive. They looked more like broad-chested ponies than true horses, yet Alystan knew that they were a special breed of horse, used by the dwarves for centuries.

Dolgan, King of the Dwarves and Warleader of Caldara, reined in the gelding pulling his plough and waved a greeting. ‘Alystan of Natal! Well met!’

‘Greetings, King Dolgan. Have you no liegemen to plough your fields?’

‘I do, but they’re busy ploughing their own at the moment, and I wish it to be done right the first time.’ He took a long, well-worn briar pipe out of his pocket and a contraption of flint and steel, a clever device traded from the Free Cities. A big spark ignited the tobacco in the pipe, and Dolgan took a long pull. He made a face and said, ‘This is a useful enough gadget, but that first taste of burning flint I could do without.’ He puffed again, looked more contented, and asked, ‘What brings you to Caldara, Alystan?’

Alystan held his bow with the tip on the ground, a mannerism that Dolgan knew meant the Ranger was choosing his words carefully. The gesture always allowed him a moment to think. ‘I bring word of something strange and troubling. I seek your wisdom and counsel.’

‘Well, that sounds serious.’ He tossed the reins to Hogni and said, ‘Finish up here, boy, and then go help your father. I’ll be in the longhouse with our guest.’

‘Yes, Grandfather,’ said the young dwarf with a resigned sigh. The King might prefer that the ploughing was done correctly the first time, but he also enjoyed chatting with travellers in the longhouse over a flagon of ale. The youth smiled, it was barely two hours past breakfast, hardly the time his mother would approve of her father-in-law tapping the ale keg, despite his royal station. Putting the reins over his shoulders, Hogni flipped them and shouted, ‘Ha!’ The horse threw one impatient glance backwards as if questioning the young dwarf’s seriousness; another flick of the reins told the animal it was indeed time to return to his labours, and the animal reluctantly returned to dragging the plough through the rich mountain soil.

Dolgan listened carefully as Alystan finished his narrative. The old dwarf was silent for a very long time, then said, ‘This is troubling news.’

‘You recognize this newcomer?’ asked the Ranger, before taking a long pull of the marvellous dwarven ale the King’s daughter-in-law had provided. She seemed irritated to the point of saying something, but held her silence before a stranger.

Dolgan shook his head. ‘No. Although I would not have recognized the so-called “mad elves” from beyond the Teeth of the World before they ventured down to Elvandar.’ He turned and shouted, ‘Amyna!’

Hogni’s mother appeared a moment later and said, ‘Yes, Father?’

‘Send Toddy to find Malachi. Have him join us here, please?’

She nodded once and departed.

Dolgan said, ‘Malachi is the oldest among us.’ He chuckled. ‘He was old when I was a boy and I’m nearing three hundred years, myself.’

Alystan barely concealed his surprise. He knew that the dwarves were a long-lived race, like the elves, but he had no idea they lived that long, or stayed as robust as they apparently did. The old dwarf seemed content to smoke his pipe, drink his morning ale, and chat of inconsequential matters, such as how his human acquaintances fared along the Far Coast and in the Free Cities, or the news from Krondor, or further afield. It was clear to the Ranger that Dolgan was keenly interested in matters outside his own small demesne, which given the dwarves’ long history was understandable.

An independent people, the dwarves nevertheless found their fortunes tied closely to those of their human neighbours and to a lesser degree, the elves in the north. Twice in the last hundred years, war had visited the west; first came the Tsurani invaders in the very valley where Alystan had seen the stranger, and later the armies of the Emerald Queen, from a land across the sea. The second struggle had involved the dwarves only indirectly, but its repercussions had echoed through the land for a long time. The west had been almost forgotten by the Kingdom for a decade, trade had been reduced to a trickle, and banditry and piracy had risen. Alystan’s grandfather had claimed that now things were back to the way they had been before the coming of the Tsurani; in fact, he had insisted life was better now, as the dark elves no longer hunted the Green Heart or the Grey Towers. Given the bloody history between the Rangers and the moredhel, Alystan was inclined to agree that his grandfather’s view had merit.

Time passed, but Alystan, like all Rangers, possessed patience born of generations of woodcraft and hunting skill. A fidgeting hunter was a hungry one, his father had told him many years before on his first hunt.

At last Toddy returned, slowly escorting the oldest being the Ranger had ever encountered. The dwarf moved with tiny steps as if he feared losing his balance. He was shrunken with age, so he barely stood a head taller than the boy, and he was slight of frame. In contrast to the robust stature of the other dwarves the Ranger knew, his appearance was startling. His skin was parchment-white and almost translucent, so the veins of his hands stood out over his swollen knuckles. He used a cane with his right hand, and the boy held him firmly under his left arm. His receding hair fell to his shoulders, whatever colour might once have graced his ancient pate now fled, leaving snow-white wisps. Cheeks sunken with age were marked with small lesions and sores, and Alystan knew this was a dwarf nearing the end of his days.