They had a precise destination since leaving Mason’s Ford. Jaymes wanted to get his hands on the supposedly explosive compound invented by the brilliant dead gnome Brillissander Firesplasher. How he knew about this supposed invention, Jaymes refused to say (even Dram didn’t know)-but Jaymes believed it would be very useful and profitable, if such a thing really existed.
Thus far the compound, with its smoky fizzle, had proved to be a major disappointment, and Carbo and Sulfie had conflicting ideas as to the reasons for the fizzle. Both insisted that it had worked in the past, that their brother, Salty Pete, would know how and why. But Salty Pete was lost to the lizardmen in the Brackens, so it was up to them to recreate their father’s formula. The first step was to find the necessary ingredients.
Sulfie had described the essential ingredient, a yellow and chalky stone that emitted a foul stench when heated, which she called “sulfir.” They needed to find a store of this material; she didn’t know where her father had acquired it. Dram Feldspar thought that he knew such a place, and it was he who had led them westward across the flatland.
“Yep, we’re getting close,” Dram said, studying the twin flat-topped mountains with a critical eye. “When I was here before I heard about this rock. There are dwarves who mine in this area, but the ones we have to keep a lookout for are not so much miners, they’re more like scalawags, outlaws, who will sell anything for a price. They have lots of these yellow rocks just lying around, and as far as I know don’t have any use for ’em.”
Jaymes frowned. “I’m not worried about outlaws, but we’ve come a long way if you’re wrong.”
The female gnome shook her head. “Don’t blame me. I told you we need to get some more of the yellow rock for a new batch of the compound, but I didn’t say anything about walking a thousand miles to get it. And I don’t cotton to outlaws.”
“Hmph!” Dram said sourly. “It wasn’t a step over four hundred miles, and if we need to find a bunch of yellow rock, then here’s a likely place. The only place I know of, anyway. Just follow my lead and we’ll get in and out of here without too much trouble.”
By now the dark layer on the foothills was recognizable as lush pines sprouting in a luxuriant blanket over meadows of green grass. Wildflowers popped through the grass, blue and red and purple and white speckles waving back and forth in a cool breeze. Most delightful, clear water-in the form of a rapidly flowing brook spilling out of the narrow valley-offered welcome refreshment, a wonderful change from the brackish, muddy trickles that had marked every sluggish waterway on the whole, vast plain.
That first night in the mountains they made camp in a narrow grotto next to that stream and shared a dinner of fresh fish around a cheery fire. Not only had firewood been generally lacking on the plains, but even when they found pieces of driftwood they had been unwilling to build an evening campfire, for the light would be visible for miles. Here, steep stone walls to either side and tall trees up and down the valley masked the illumination.
As the dwarf and gnomes made themselves comfortable in mossy bowers, even Jaymes allowed himself to relax. The soft grass soothed his muscles as he lay back. The sky was bright with stars, and when he slept he wasn’t troubled by dreams.
The morning dawned clear and dry. They rose quickly and started up the mountain valley, following a twisting, steeply climbing road that looked impassable to anything like a cart or wagon, and would have provided a challenge to a sure-footed mule. Dram led the way and Jaymes brought up the rear. The two gnomes were more cheerful and talkative than ever:
“This place reminds me of Dungarden,” Sulfie explained. “It was like this in the Garnet Range-cool, and smelling like pines. I like the sound of the water splashing over the rocks. It would be a good place to live.”
“Just be alert,” Dram said, his eyes scanning the rising bluffs to either side of them. “There are those who already live here. It remains to be seen if they’ll be glad to see us.” He fixed Jaymes with a stare. “Are you ready to do this?”
The warrior merely nodded and continued on. Dram’s hand rested on the head of his axe, but-at Jaymes’s insistence-he kept the weapon tucked into his belt, instead of ready in his hand.
As the small party made its way through a narrow bottleneck between two huge boulders rising to either side of the trail, Dram came to an abrupt halt. Sulfie bumped right into him, the dwarf cursing at the impact. His hand clenched around his axe but then, with an almost visible effort, he let his arms drop to the sides.
“We’ve met the locals,” he reported.
They found themselves confronted by a half dozen dwarves, similar in size and whiskers to Dram but wearing soft deerskin trousers and shirts instead of the dark woolens and chain shirt favored by the Kaolyn dwarf. Five of them carried crossbows, and these held their weapons leveled at the four travelers, while the sixth stood belligerently, fists planted firmly on his hips.
Small pebbles clattered down from above. Jaymes looked upward, quickly spotting another dozen or so dwarves coming into view atop the large boulders to either side of the trail. A quick glance behind showed that yet another group of the valley’s guardians had slipped into position to block their retreat. All told, a good twenty or more arrows were aimed at the four of them.
“We come in peace,” Dram said, holding both hands, empty, up before him. “No need for any shooting… Hiya Swig,” he added, his tone of attempted familiarity somewhat inhibited by his clenched teeth and the fixed grimace of his expression.
“Dram Feldspar,” said the dwarf called Swig, the one with his hands planted on his hips. He was grinning now, with an expression that mingled amusement with cruelty. “I never thought you’d have the guts to show yourself in these hills again. I wonder-what’s to keep me from putting an arrow through your heart, right now?”
“Now, that would be a bit of an overreaction, Swig,” Dram argued. “At least let us tell you why we’ve come.”
“And delay the pleasure of watching your blood running onto the ground?”
“That would end up costing you a lot of money,” Jaymes interjected, stepping forward.
Swig stared appraisingly at the warrior, who returned his wary look with a cool, neutral expression. The two gnomes looked around nervously, sidled close together, and held each others’ hand. After giving a good, long impression of a person wrestling with a really difficult decision, Swig finally nodded and made a gesture. The rest of the dwarves in his party raised their weapons so that the arrows were no longer sighted directly on the travelers.
“Money, eh? Ah, you speak to my heart, stranger,” the dwarf said to Jaymes. “Very well-you four will come with me. We’ll share a mug around my hearth. You’ll have ten, maybe fifteen minutes to tell me why I shouldn’t have you killed and your bodies dumped in the garden as fertilizer for next year’s hops.”
Swig Frostmead was a hill dwarf chieftain, every bit as proud and vain as his cousins, the mountain dwarves. Here, north of the Newsea, the traditional rivalry of the two dwarven tribes was more removed than in Thorbardin. There, at the time of the Cataclysm, the mountain dwarves had sealed the gates of their underground fortress against their hill-dwelling kin. That perceived betrayal was a three-century-old wound that left a still-bleeding scar.
But dwarves are ever stubborn, and there was clearly no affection wasted between the hill dwarves of the Vingaard Range and the mountain dwarves of Garnet, which included Dram-one of the Feldspar clan from Kaolyn. Jaymes took note of the hostile looks exchanged between Swig and Dram as the four travelers were escorted to Swig’s hall, a stone-walled house in the center of a village high in the valley of the Vingaard Mountains.
This was clearly a prosperous community. The buildings were mostly of stone, though they often had ornamental woodwork on the eaves, around the doors and windows. The narrow streets were clean, paved with cobblestones, and the few oxen they noticed in a streamside pasture were fat and sleek, clearly well fed and cared for. The mountainsides beyond the village were dotted with the dark mouths of mines, and several tall chimneys rose from an area of foundries and smelters just beyond the houses. Still, the air was clean, as the mountain wind carried the smoke up and over the adjacent ridge.
Within the hill dwarf’s hall, they seated themselves on benches before a broad hearth, Jaymes made a point of sitting between Dram and Swig. The chieftain clapped his hands, and several young maids-rosy cheeked, smiling, and pleasantly plump-emerged from the kitchen, holding large mugs in each hand.
“Welcome to Meadstone. So, you tell me you have a way for me to make some money,” Swig declared, after the cold mugs of bitter ale had been served to himself, his score of armed guards, and even-surprisingly enough-the four prisoners. “What’s to stop me from just stealing it off your bleeding corpses?”
“Well, we don’t have any money,” Jaymes replied. “Not now, not yet. Of course, you could have the
