Book 6: Chapter 40 - Invitation (RAW)

The stone vases of the Dwarves are a quiet boast of their craft. They start with deep stone, hollow it by steady hand and sight. They read the veins, turn flaws into patterns, and polish until it wakes a deep, dark shine. The shapes soften into the curves that will hold their Ancestor Gold, a symbol of the flowing Earth-blood that lives within fire mountains. 

- The Fanciful Travels by Beron de Laney, 376 AC.

Estaza, your place is not with me in these talks… these negotiations,” I told her, and the words dragged like a chain. “If you wish to explore the city, I will arrange for escorts and guards.” My armor had never felt so heavy as in that moment, and I could not help but release a quiet sigh.

“But I do not wish to go with rough men, Gilgamesh. I wish to go with you. I wish to walk these new places with you, a few memories shared, is that not too much to ask? Larynda and the Lady Aserac will be with you, yes?” She clasped her hands, eyes bright with hope and filled with trouble.

Why did women always have to complicate things by wanting more and more? Why could things not remain simple, like in the beginning? Relationships, it seemed, were an eternal fight against the inevitable. With time, the cup of wants grows. You pour and pour, and still they ask you to fill it once more. You had to keep putting in effort until, eventually, what you put in no longer equaled what you got. It was inexorable, like ivy creeping up a wall.

It was time to use logic, though I had long learned that such a weapon was highly ineffective when used against the fairer sex. “I’m not the most welcome soul in Bronzegate,” I said. “In my company, you would not be safe.” She frowned, unconvinced. So I shifted the blade in my hand and wedded it to emotion. “Your safety matters to me, Estaza. I can do what I must only if I know no harm touches you.” I softened my voice. “Do not think I’m ashamed of you. I have shown you honor, have I not? Let me go and do my duties. When I return, we will see what can be done.” I touched her arm and gave her a smile I hoped would hold.

The frown eased a finger’s breadth. The gambler cast his bones, and for once, they fell kindly for me. I could see that I had passed my speech check.

“I will be patient… I will bide for now,” she harrumphed prettily, and I had to master the fool urge to kiss her. Moments like that are the moments that men live for.

The “trick,” I had found, was to make them believe that you wanted something, not necessarily the thing itself. I half expected this world to reward me with a point of Wisdom for the insight, but I was not quite that lucky that day.

“Do that, my dear, and I will be back faster,” I promised.

At the tent flap, my hand found the long Dwarf axe, its black metal glimmering with a promise of vicious murder. It would make a statement, yes, but I suspected not the one we needed. No sense waving Dwarven failure beneath Dwarf noses, and the thing was awkward besides. The swords at my hips would be statement enough.

“I will see about lodgings in the city,” I told her, turning back. “Perhaps you are not comfortable… what with being in a tent for so long.”

Divert and distract.

“You needn’t. I am comfortable here,” she said, all soft smile and summer light.

“No—I want to. A woman such as you deserves it. I will be back later, make sure the twins do not get up to too much mischief in my absence,” I made the words sound true, filling them with as much genuineness as I could muster, and let the flap fall.

Elwin once told me a thing about treating ladies like whores and whores like ladies. The exact turn of phrase was lost to me, but the sense of it has served well enough.

Outside, the camp was bustling with morning activities. Men hunkered by cookfires, the smoke smelling of grease and damp wood. There, I saw a man smoking a pipe—the ignorant fool probably did not realize he was inviting cancer or some other disease of the lungs. Then again, I wondered how access to Health potions might shape a soldier’s outlook on such things. He was, after all, only human, his life a fragile thing. Who was I to judge what he did with his body? For all I knew, he could be dead tomorrow if this talk went poorly.

The escort waited by Damien’s command tent: ten men, a Scale in the sellswords’ nomenclature, bright as coin newly struck. Mail and plate scrubbed to a near mirror finish. Not uniform, for each man was responsible for his own armor, yet near enough to pass for it. The look was of strength without the aura of threat, which was the look we wanted.

Damien drew me aside, a mild frown on his face. “You know what it is that I’m going to say.”

“I can guess. My presence serves you well, but my tongue will best serve you in its silence.” I grinned.

“That’s what I like about you, Gilgamesh. You’re sharper than most.” He clapped my shoulder and gave me one of those courtly smiles that plays well in any hall. From another man, it would have stunk of patronizing condescension.

“We won’t be offered courtesies in our cups today,” he warned, the smile thinning. “We are here for their Saint’s Silver and the promises of more. I can stomach a few hard words. I ask you to do the same.”

I nodded with a shrug.

“Very well,” he called more loudly, “let’s go meet the little people!” A ripple of laughter answered him.

The Wing Leaders, Nassain and Raedric, stepped forward at once, boots biting the red grit. Their salute cracked the air—sharp, practiced—before they dipped their chins to Damien. They were the sort of commanders left behind to keep a camp from sagging: steady men, the kind who checked sentries and made sure discipline was maintained. In Damien’s absence, the weight of order had plainly rested on their shoulders, and they would bear it well.

Damien returned their salute with a curt nod, no flourish, no wasted breath. A few low words passed between them, business spoken like nails driven true into wood. 

Nearby, a small group of Dwarves awaited. They traded greeting and remarks with the Commander in a thicker burr, their consonants clanking, coarser than the speech of Earl Horothric and his guard. 

The escort consisted of fifteen dwarves, nearly as wide as they were tall, which was not saying much. They bore rectangular shields, and their purplish armor was dark and heavy: well-made plate and fine scales over riveted mail. They were thoroughly protected, save for the open faces beneath their peaked metal caps. According to my Identify spell, their kit consisted mostly of good steel.

Outfitted like that, they were little more than walking sacks of experience points if I chose to let loose Rust. I let a wicked smile creep across my face; a few caught it and promptly looked away.

I almost felt like a bully delighting in the prospect of new prey… almost. But it could be so satisfying—this feeling of having power over others. So very, very liberating. Very cathartic.

They led us through the gates of Bronzegate, and for long minutes I feared treachery. Feared was too strong a word; suspected was nearer the truth. We kept our tongues, boots in lockstep over the smooth-laid stone of streets. The Dwarves asked no questions and answered none of ours. The men with me were on a mission, nothing else, and the sellswords proved more professional than most soldiers I had met thus far. They kept their eyes forward, hands near steel, minds on the work.

Past the bustle we went, through markets that hushed as we passed. Locals gave us space as if we carried a sickness. Overhead, there was no sky, only weight—the roof of the mountaintop pressing down. The cavern was vast, yet a twinge of claustrophobia crawled down my spine. We drew closer to the city’s heart and halted before a yawning tunnel, broad enough for four large carts abreast, its throat sloping into the deep.

There, the guard changed. Fresh Dwarves took our measure as they relieved our escort, little men in red-hued metal trimmed with gold. My idle curiosity flickered; Identify answered. They wore yet more steel, making them non-threats in my eyes.

Gesel Shieldtunnel - Deeptaker [Dwarf lvl.23]

Health: 546/546

Stamina: 54/57

Mana: 9/9

A second casting on their lead man had brought back yet more information: level 23 “Deeptaker.” What passed for an “elite,” if I was not mistaken.

From them, only a few words were passed—only gruff warnings not to wander. My bleak presence kept them polite, or at least restrained in their dealings with us. No doubt, news of my accomplishment must have flown far and wide by now. 

With these new Dwarves leading, we pressed on. The tunnel corkscrewed downward, side passages darting away like diggings of some great stone-worm, but our path was a spiraled descent. We passed by silent servants, dour in their demeanour. What few women I spied were willow-slender, unlike their Dwarven male counterparts. Their forms were swallowed in swathes of color from head to toe to preserve their modesty. They slid by like silk over silk, granting us only the barest dips of the head in their passing.

The Zajasite crystal lights that were set into the walls were not the rough shards I was used to seeing, but smooth stone that poured a steady, blue light. Why were the stones I had encountered before “uncut” as they were? It seemed to me that these shone just that little bit brighter.

On and on we went, the air cooling. Tapestries now took the walls where naked rock had shown before—great swathes of thick dwarf-weave, heavy with age. Gold thread stitched out lines of the mountain that rose like serried ranks; silver picked out their snow peaks. Not this mountain, not Bronzegate, I thought in conclusion. In another piece of quaint art, this one a mosaic, smiths in red-loomed glow beat suns from iron on anvils big as temple altars; in another, a line of squat warriors dragged a chain about the throat of some deep-thing with too many teeth and too many limbs. The Dwarven script of Runes bordered every scene, blocky yet elegant, marching along the edges, a litany of boasts. 

Here and there, niches had been cut into the stone and dressed with finery: squat vases of black and green-veined stone, filled obscenely with gold coins with faces of long-dead kings that none would dare take. As we continued, the floor underfoot changed to fitted blocks polished by centuries of boots, geometric and exact.

A few minutes after my ears finally popped, the passage yawned wide, swallowing our footfalls, and ended upon a pair of imposing doors. They rose three times a tall man's height, ribbed in steel, bossed in bronze, their faces crowded with more of that cunning spiral-work that tugged at a man’s gaze. Another honor guard waited there, still as statues, the blue light skating along their dark red plate and the gold metal trim of their harness.

As one, the honor guard drew the doors wide for us, and they swung inward on hidden hinges, smooth as breath, with neither creak of wood nor cry of protesting metal.

Inside, what greeted our eyes was the great hall of this mountain king.