Fikumin

& the gods perverted pleasure

(Aftermath III)

The tunnel went on for hours, fake splits and exits abound right along the way, the dark only beaten back by their burning torches. There was sulfur mixed with lime in the ones Norec had handed to them, the fumes almost toxic, it burned your eyes something fierce. They finally reached another large cave; this one had its walls smoothed over and smaller caves dug in and turned into lodgings. More buildings at the center of the huge cave were made out of stone, cut into even square pieces, sometimes two stories high. A small town built inside the mountain, Fikumin thought, admiring the architecture of the biggest of those structures Norec and Lorfouna led them to.

Various statues of prominent members of the Folk carved out of stone, build taller than any dwarf Fikumin had ever seen, some armed with weapons, others carrying tools of trade, were standing on each side of the large hall and they were staring at them behind thick stony brows, as they approached the throne of their white haired, armour-wearing leader. For all intends and purposes, he thought. The huge throne was made of finely ornamented stone, there was plenty of it around, but the old dwarf had also a small gold stool in front of it, to rest his legs and help him climb up.

“Is that a golden stool?” Stiles asked, breaking the awed silence, while Norec talked with the old dwarf in hushed overtones.

“Be quiet. Don’t ask anything stupid,” Fikumin warned the former pirate and most recently a slave of Lord Reeves.

“It’s a legitimate query!” Stiles protested, but in a subdued voice.

The old dwarf leader, set his dull olive eyes on them. He’d a long pendant, whole thing made out of silver, hanging from his neck; the square tool and a set of compasses engraved on it. A symbol of the Masons Guild.

“Me name is Ostruki Graycloak, Master Fikumin,” He said, nothing frail in his baritone voice, long white beard dancing under his chin. “We haven’t had a dwarf from Jelin visit us, in a hundred and thirty years,” He pointed to one of the statues on their right. The big dwarf was depicted ready to strike, braided beard in a thick tail sprouting down his square chin, steel helm on his head hiding his face, plate armor underneath and a prominent warhammer in hand. “Not since Dubrot Snowguard came here, wit that fool Ebenezer Framtond in tow, before they journeyed to Wetull and nobody heard from ‘em ever since.”

“They made it back,” Fikumin replied, the mention of the noble Northern dwarf shocking and he examined with renewed interest his statue and the famed Snowguard, his warhammer. A gift from a Zilan Queen, the ancient dwarf still carried with him when he went missing, along with his now celebrated friend. A weapon for a king, he thought. Lost in history.

The reason for their journey to the lands of Wetull vague and mysterious, almost ridiculed, if one were to believe the gossip of the time.

“They tried to find another way to reach the lands of the Wyvern, is the word,” He said, a lump in his throat, the story as fresh in his mind as the first time he’d heard it forty years back, a mere youngling then. “A manner to avoid the Plague Isles and the servants of the Painted God. Find Mistland in the end of it, by circumnavigating the Realm,” He sighed, the eyes of Ostruki Graycloak and the other dwarves present, following his words with interest. “He chose Kadrek, in the Duchy of Sovya as his unlikely starting point, and that was around seventy nine mind you; anyway, they sailed straight east into the Great Dark Ocean and the unknown, and this time got lost for good in the attempt.”

“As I said,” Ostruki pointed, hint of smirk on his lips. “A foolish notion.”

Fikumin shrugged his shoulders.

“Perhaps.” He said finally, not wanting to outright disagree with him.

“Perhaps, your friend will wake up as well,” Ostruki said, all serious now. “Have you more potion?”

“Nay, I don’t,” Fikumin replied, clenching his jaw. No more of the healing flower was found, despite his thorough searches of the caves.

“Bah, we have lots of it,” Ostruki answered the latter for him, greatly enjoying their conversation. “Our people are very diligent in gathering everything they find.”

There it goes, Fikumin thought with a glance at his waiting behind him friends. They had left Glen outside the big hall to the care of Lorfouna. Marcus frown showing his concern, with Stiles more interested in the riches below Ostruki’s feet.

“Well?” Stiles asked him an hour later, after they’d just about finished a good meal under the watchful eyes of Norec. “Fuck were ye talking about?”

Fikumin sighed, combing his long beard with his fingers.

“They will provide healing for Glenavon and supplies,” He started, treading carefully. “A way out of the mountain and into the plains.”

“The plains?” Marcus probed.

“The northernmost source of Yeriden.” The great river had three of those and these tributaries, large enough to be named rivers of their own, met up at a place called Esterlams Crevice, near the large stone Threeriver Bridge. “It’s easier to head towards the plains, than travel towards Rida.”

“How far do their tunnels reach?” Marcus asked impressed.

“I reckon the whole mountain range.”

“Wow, ‘em little fellows sure love diggin’.” Stiles decided, slurping down the rest of his meat soup, straight from the bowl. He used a piece of crusty bread to wipe whatever was left inside clean, before pushing back on his chair satisfied. “Pretty impressive cooks as well, I’m half in the mind to find meself a dwarf lass and settle down.”

Fikumin started coughing almost drowning in his own spit, Marcus thunderous laugh impressive enough for Norec to crack a wide smile himself, after checking around for any sign of Lorfouna.

“Anyway,” Fikumin said, when everyone calmed down. “They prefer the plains, as they used to trade with the Cofols since the days of the Empire.” He explained.

“It makes sense,” Marcus retorted. “I didn’t even know they were real.”

“People know of us in the North,” Fikumin said. “Alas, the three kingdoms are quite bigoted in their dealings with the Folk.”

To put it mildly.

“And the Cofols aren’t?”

“They are, but not as much. The Horselords never cared for our mountains.”

Marcus frowned at that, but he couldn’t really find a counter, himself quite bigoted and gave up with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

“You said used,” The ex-sergeant noted next, showing surprising perception. “What happened?”

“The Khan moved his army closer to the border and the mountains,” Fikumin replied. “Sent a host through Hellfort’s Pass as we well know,” Marcus nodded at that. “More are heading towards Yeriden’s tributaries intending to either cross into Raoz, or go south and attack from the desert. More soldiers, more mounted patrols, forced the bandit rebels and warbands of the steppe to retreat in turn. Some headed north into the frozen forests, few headed south across the desert to Gods know where and others came here—”

“To the Northwall Heights,” Marcus murmured, sensing where he was going with this. “What do they want Fikumin?”

“A trade, as all Folk do this world over,” He replied, with a grin that found no warmth in the experienced sergeant’s face. “They want the road, such as it is, opened again.”

“Wait,” Stiles intervened, finally realizing what they were talking about. “What does this have to do wit us?”

In a manner of speaking.

“All ‘em supplies ‘n good will,” Marcus answered, spitting under their table after clearing his teeth thoroughly. “Don’t come for free.”

“A trade is a trade and a deal,” Fikumin added, phony smile plastered all over his own face. The well known motto of all the respected Guilds since their inception. “Can’t be broken, once ye shake on it.”

Marcus nodded in agreement, finding no fault in that, but Stiles, himself akin wit more unsavory guilds that frowned upon such commitments, stood up to protest vehemently; his words telling.

“That’s fuckin’ bullshit!”

A week later found them on the other side of Northwall Heights, after they’d traveled non-stop through a maze of tunnels and at least another two small dwarf villages. The mountain range shaped like a scythe had its bend here, steeps slopes to the west and south, the woods thick until they reached the Snake’s Spine and its forbidding walls of risen earth.

They were set on heading the opposite way to the southwest, climb up those slopes, find the bandits without having to cross the mountains, reach a solution of sorts –as much a darn hard quest, as it was vague, if ever there was one- and return to pick up Glenavon, who Ostruki had agreed to help nurse back to health, if it was possible.

Just waking the boy up would be a victory at this point, Fikumin thought walking fast, but watching Lorfouna out the corner of his eye keeping up with him with ease, parts of her hair blowing backwards under her steel nasal helmet.

“Eyes to the front master Fikumin,” She warned. “You need to remember the way back.”

“Was just admiring your crossbow,” He replied with a grunt, turning a bit red in the face.

“It’s like yours,” She murmured with a frown. “I’ve made ‘em both.”

“Excellent craftsmanship, was my meaning.”

And so they walked, Stiles complaining for more breaks and getting none, Marcus keeping a silent comfortable rhythm despite wearing the most armor of them all, his years in the Legion helping him and the three dwarves being in an unsaid competition, over who was the fastest.

Forty hours of grueling climbing over rocky terrain, they’d left behind the last of the trees and their damp rotten leaves, all kinds of colors there, but mostly vivid purple and burning orange turning to a dull grey, when they reached the plateau. Norec called for a break at last, much to Stiles delight and Fikumin who was leading them for the last couple of hours collapsed on his arse with a groan, having outdone himself in the effort.

Losing wasn’t an option.

“Hmm, it wasn’t a brag then,” Lorfouna hummed, plopping down next to him. Her skin sweaty despite the chill, flushed a deep red contrasting to the blond hairs that made her freckles pop even more.

Damn it, Fikumin thought and looked away, but deep down he was excited just being near her.

“Witch’s cat got yer tongue?” She teased, her voice though earthy, the finest tune to his ears.

Fools are the darlings of reason.

“I’ll never lie to you,” Fikumin blurted, before he could stop himself.

Luthos chuckled.

“Just me? Hmm, what made the boy sick?” Lorfouna asked.

“An assassin’s blade.”

“No blade can do that to flesh.”

And love-struck dwarves are the biggest fools of all.

“That’s the Lord of Altarin,” Fikumin croaked not wanting to lie to her, so soon after his boast. Forgetting he already did. “He has many enemies.”

“You’re his friend then?” Lorfouna sat back on her elbows, and stared at the setting late afternoon sun. “A northern dwarf traverses the Shallow Sea, makes friends wit big Lorian Lords and agrees to open the trade route for us again.” She sighed and removed her helm. “We might have to fight for our lives soon.”

Let’s hope we don’t, he thought, his lips saying something else.

“If it comes to that.”

Lorfouna threw back her golden head and laughed at his sureness. It was a rich laugh this, as only a Folk could deliver, vibrant and unashamed.

“Fikumin Flintfoot,” She said, working his name in her mouth, one syllable at a time, so Fikumin would know she was flirting with him.

And he could court her, in turn.

Fikumin wished the moment could last forever, but the Gods find their own perverted pleasure in making sure, all fools get put in their places.

“Ayup,” Marcus said interrupting the two of them, getting up on his feet, a touch of steel in his voice. He pointed at the five men coming down the slope armed to the teeth. “That’s a ruffian’s face, if I ever saw one,” And seeing Stiles all tensed up next to him, he added not wanting to sour an ally before a scrap. “No offense my lad.”

Stiles weather beaten face scrunched into a grimace, a little surprised at the sentiment; then with a grunt and a nod of the head answered nonchalantly.

“I’ve been called worse.”

And that was that.

Three Cofols wearing leather armour led the group, armed with sabres and bows, a Lorian clad in a rusty chainmail following them, two swords strapped on his waist. The last man, or woman, was hidden behind a roomy cloak, a hood covering the head and was tall, at least by a head over the rest of them.

The Cofol leading, worn out leather armour patched up in several places, face narrow, a thin goatee accentuating a pointy chin, stopped seeing the dwarves in the group and brought his hand to the handle of his sword. Moved it away right after, when Lorfouna raised her armed crossbow and pointed it to his chest.

“Don’t,” Fikumin whispered to her, as Marcus stepped ahead to greet the newcomers.

“Where are ye goin’ lads?”

The ruffian blinked. “We… have camp near here.”

“Where is that?” Marcus probed, a little too aggressively for Fikumin’s likes.

“At the mouth of the plateau,” The Cofol answered after a glance back to his hooded friend. There was a foul aura emanating from him that made Fikumin uncomfortable and his fingers clenched on his crossbow, he hadn’t armed yet. Reaching for a bolt now, would have been nigh awkward, so he stilled his eyes on the aloof character standing further back from the rest of them, a large wooden staff on his right hand, the exposed naked arm painted white to the wrist.

“That’s a lot of walkin’ ye did there,” Marcus replied.

“We have horses,” The Cofol smiled nervously. “You are friendly with the Folk?”

“Yer not?”

The ruffian shrugged his shoulders.

“There may have been problems—”

“You murdered two merchants last month!” Lorfouna snapped, cutting him off and Fikumin flinched surprised. “Taken their baby!”

What? Fikumin turned to glare at her. This wasn’t a detail Ostruki had shared. A strange omission as it was extremely difficult for the Folk to procreate, and no one took it lightly. Losing a youngling was devastating for a tribe.

The hooded man clicked his tongue, to stop the first Cofol from answering.

“Ye can fix this now,” Marcus started, measuring his words. He was wearing his segmented Legion armour and he was easily the biggest warrior present, at least in size. “First order of business would be to return that baby,” He gave them a glare. “Hearing you took it in the first place, was nigh disturbin’.”

“What if we don’t?” The hooded man asked, his voice shrilling and unsettling, the sounds coming out all wrong. Fikumin gulped down nervously and reached for that bolt.

“Grogoceq, this is not the place,” One of the Cofols said, shaved head sweating despite the coolness of the plateau. Fikumin glanced towards Lorfouna at the mention of the name, saw fury, but no recognition on her pretty face and then turned his eyes on the hooded man again, realizing Grogoceq was staring at him with interest.

There are no coincidences, he thought remembering the talk he had with Ostrukin.

Darn you Luthos.

“Listen to yer colleague,” Stiles urged the lanky man, as Fikumin, his heart full of dread, got a bolt out of his quiver and pressed it in the crossbow. The Aken pushed his hood back revealing his face and Fikumin heard a collective gasp escape the lips of his friends. Those snake eyes warned him to put his crossbow down, half of his face, from the nose down to his neck, painted white, his bald skull the color of red-copper.

He couldn’t do that of course. Fikumin Flintfoot was a well-read dwarf, a lover of history and the great adventures of the past. Dreamed of becoming one since he was a youngling. The first book every aspiring adventurer always reads of course, was Beyond Elauthin and in there, the accursed Aken were described, with the most disturbing of details.

“They killed it!” Fikumin snarled through clenched teeth, loud enough for everyone to hear and raising his crossbow fired, aiming for Grogoceq’s chest.

Alas, the solution to their quest wasn’t going to be diplomatic.