The following is not a part of the orderly novel I'm working on, but an unrelated story set in the same world. It takes place about fifty years earlier, during the Dwarven civil war.
“...merely being a king, makes one a tyrant, and therefore there can be no kingdom without tyranny!”
The common room of the South Wind erupted in cheers and the clunky sort of applause created by banging empty mugs on old wooden tables. The loudest voice in the audience belonged to a relatively tall man with a short black beard. The rest of the room was filled to capacity with stout and bearded men, who paid little attention to him. He had a deceptively open and honest look to him, so he had been rapidly accepted by the people of pattkirk.. I say he was relatively tall, because by an empirical measure he just under four and a half feet tall. But the Inn was build for people of that size. The bar, the tables and the stools; everything except the the heavy steins were dwarf-sized. Not that these were dwarves, though they do accept outsider's term for them. Among themselves, they were just men. Men who were in the middle of a vast cultural shift that found unpleasant expression as political turmoil.
The climate of fracturing, feuding states tends to bring out the men. The brightest philosophers, the most clever engineers, the most breathtaking artists and the most flawless artisans are the results of ages of disorder such as this. It was also the perfect climate for swindlers.
The front door of the South Wind burst open with such force its hinges nearly pried off the wall. Soldiers and policement, whatever their nation, do like to make an entrance.
“Dethyoon Samagh!” the lead soldier, a skinny looking lieutenant in a well-cut chain and leather tunic, shouted to a confused room. “You are under arrest for crimes against the crown of Maghnahara!” Three other soldiers quickly filed in and surrounded the tall man with the short beard. He had no time to react before they clamped him to his stool. The soldiers were about twice his size, in width if not in height.
“These include enlisting under a false identity, desertion, impersonating an officer and a nobleman, theft of a prize stallion and intruding on the king's boudoir (although not necessarily in that order).”
The tall man stood up, slowly. The soldiers moved with him. “Are you quite done, sergeant?”
The lieutenant tried to growl menacingly, but it was not all that convincing.
The prisoner scanned the common room slowly, trying to look each man in the eye. “You might just want to consider your surroundings before you go on arresting honest men.
“Friends!” the tall man addressed them, “countrymen, you, like I, have no love of tyrants. Here are their minions! Would you let them work unhindered on your fellows? Stand!”
The room paused. No one breathed. The bartender, a rotund, likable fellow named Dunique, peeked up from behind the bar. He had a face that was mostly beard and a heart that didn't mind extending credit. He cleverly decided to keep his head down.
Across the room, a chair squeaked as it was pulled out. It could not have reverberated more if a cannon were fired over the Grand Canyon. Its owner stood up slowly. He was huge for a dwarf. His face looked like it was cast in bronze and a black beard just painted on, but no one would dare comment on how thin it was. Every eye was on him when he spoke.
“Before you take him off, search him. He owes me thirty quid.”
The prisoner was stunned. He'd chosen this bar quite specifically. “I, I thought you hated kings and all their work...” The soldiers started to look more menacing, now. The lieutenant carried an expensive reloading crossbow – the sort that reload themselves with a level action – and they all had swords at their sides. They didn't wear uniforms, really, but each man found a predominate place in his clothing to display symbols of their king and their rank.
The big man answered for the room, “I've nothing particular against Maghnahara.”
Someone with a little less nerve added “love live the king!”
“Queen.” the lieutenant corrected. No one replied. On of the soldiers produced a set of hand-irons and began to clamp them around their prisoner's wrists. They screwed into place, so the prisoner's hands had to be held tightly behind his back before they would lock. The iron squeeked as it advanced.
No comments:
Post a Comment