Short Story – “A Discussion among Dwarves”
The old dwarven saying was true; in each mine, a king, but all must bow before the High Mountain. For it is here, on this long stone table that sits beneath the tattered banners, that decisions are made that don’t just affect the livelihoods of thousands of dwarfs living across Everfall, but of thousands more who don’t even know it. D’Onigan Cider knew it, though, knew it too well, which is why today he had brought a dagger to the meeting with him.
They each shuffled into the room and took their seats. Elderly dwarves who came from the eight strongest clans within dwarven reach. They sat, shuffled papers, organised their quills, and waited patiently for a dwarven server to pour the finest of ales into their ceremonial tankards. Then they would begin discussing the affairs that affected Doomgar, and turn decisions, compromises, and disagreements into action.
D’Onigan patted the dagger on the inside of his robes, making sure it was still there. Most of the patriarchs and matriarchs, kings and queens of their mines, had already arrived, but the seat opposite him remained empty. That wasn’t a surprise. It belonged to Dunforr Dural, one of the more prominent figures in the dwarven parliament, and he liked to arrive fashionably late under the pretence that he was always busy.
‘Have yer ‘eard about the coronation?’ The elderly dwarf, who may just well be the oldest amongst them, leaned into D’Onigan’s ear from the next seat over. Dwarves pride themselves in their beards, but no beard was finer than Dullin’s of the Krikt Clan. Braided and brushed, with the many office stones and gems woven between the strands. ‘Rousing success, wouldn’t yer say?’
‘I ‘eard,’ D’Onigan muttered, although he wouldn’t have used the word success personally. It seemed he was the only one counted amongst the parliament that was not interested in starting a war with the north these days. He brought the cup to his lips and took a tender sip of the honey-sweetened ale. It was a fine brew.
BANG! A gavel crashed down at the other end of the table, ceasing the hushed conversations instantly. Every dwarf in the room turned at once. The hammer was perhaps a little larger than what should have been used, even going as far as to have cracked the table, but the dwarf holding it did not look like one that would particularly care for damaging an ancient work of stone. He was massive, both in height and width, with a curling beard that wove around and joined at the back of his neck. Dentterifkangardian of the noble Dobluss Clan called the meeting to order. D’Onigan sat up quickly. Den, as most called him, had a fierce temper and wasn’t shy of throwing a warhammer or two to grab people’s attention.
‘Right-o, shall we bloody get started before I’m sick o’ the lot of yers,’ he rumbled. ‘Where’s Dunforr?’
As if on cue, the stone doors screamed open and in marched a dwarf to fear. Sunken eyes, a scraggly black beard weighed down with all the precious stones and gems he had won in the war, and a jacket that trailed behind him like a wedding gown. Dunforr snorted before he took his seat, spitting on the floor and smacking his tankard on the table. ‘Whenever you’re ready!’ he demanded of the meek dwarf boy in the corner, who rushed to the pitcher at his call.
D’Onigan glared at him from his seat opposite.
‘Why the fuck are yer late?’ roared Den, but he retracted his annoyance easily with a sigh and a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘Oh, who gives a shit. Let’s get started.’
‘First item on the agenda.’ Dorra of the Bishon Clan stood up, stroking the handles of her stark white moustache with both hands as she addressed the gathered leaders of the dwarven parliament. ‘Dispute over the Old Keeper mine. It seems we have three clans that have a right to dig up stone there, but only one of them holds the rights to—’ A tankard, out of nowhere, suddenly struck the dwarf in the side of the head.
‘I don’t give a shit about that!’ shouted Den. ‘Let’s discuss Wolf Garden already. That’s what we’re all here fer.’ D’Onigan patted the dagger as Den cleared his throat, pointing for the speaker to sit down. ‘Are we goin’ to war or not?’
Silence captured the room. The dwarves all looked at each other nervously.
‘We gave peaceful negotiations a try,’ Den continued. ‘Quite frankly, that’s gotten us nowhere near our goal of uniting the Further Kingdoms. Now we’ve got to march. It’s been fifteen years since the war ended, and while we still hold the largest military force in the world, that’s an advantage that ain’t gonna last forever…and now, with Aldor being weakened by the mishap at the coronation, it’s the perfect time to get a move on.’
There was some nodding and murmuring to accompany that last line, mostly agreement. Not from Dunforr, D’Onigan noted, who sat and merely observed the other seven dwarves. Their eyes met. D’Onigan continued to glare at him from across the table, and his stare was met with a similar reply.
‘I’m of the mind that we should be marching north,’ said Dorra, rubbing the quickly forming lump on the side of her head. ‘Make it quick and easy, with the least number of casualties possible.’
‘If we started the campaign soon,’ said Dullin eagerly. ‘And we start it hard, with our full might, by the time we reach the farthest north, they’ll be begging to sit down to negotiate. Within three years, the clans could have claimed the seat of Aldor and reunited the realms in peace.’
‘What do you say, Dural?’ Den called over the table. ‘As the patriarch of our largest force, what would you say to marching north?’
‘I think me opinions are known.’ Dunforr didn’t break eye contact. ‘As I stated in our last meeting, we will need to sure up our allies. Keep them loyal by any means necessary. That is why an occupation of dwarves in the human city of Wolf Garden is essential. From there, we can manoeuvre our forces to the north and make good use of those wolf riders they’re so proud of.’
‘Does anyone disagree?’ Den opened the statement to the table, looking from one clan leader to another.
D’Onigan licked his dry lips. ‘I disagree.’ Their eyes were on him even before he had finished the sentence. A curious eyebrow rose from Den while Dunforr kept his steady gaze upon him. ‘I do not believe we should be marching anywhere, but especially not into the peaceful lands of the north to reign terror over the innocent. I believe our goals can still be found in negotiation and compromise.’
Den groaned loudly, enough for it to be rude. ‘You make it sound like we haven’t even tried that. We’ve been at it for fifteen years, lad. A good three years longer than we promised we would, I might add. With every passing year, we lose our advantage.’
‘They’re bitter about their losses in the war,’ D’Onigan said calmly. ‘A war, I might add, that we didn’t commit forces to until the very end.’ He narrowed his eyes towards Dunforr. ‘Thanks to some of us.’
‘Let’s put it to a vote then.’ Den was the first to raise his hand, quickly followed by Dullin, Dorra, and Dunforr. The remaining half of the table seemed hesitant to join them to say the least. One such individual wore a pointed hat with a hanging star and had been observing the proceedings through his half-moon spectacles. Wilward the Wise let out a roar of laughter and slapped the table.
‘Always divided by ‘alf, aren’t we, eh?’ He roared. A second later, he shot a piercing frown in D’Onigan’s direction. ‘Two hundred magical seals broken. Shattered, even. Seals that had been cast by the most powerful of mages over a thousand years ago. Things not easily damaged.’ Wilward, as he often did in serious discussion, pulled out a long pipe and lit it with a flame on the tip of his thumb. ‘It started the whole Dondros war, and whatever managed to pull it off is still out there. It’s powerful, deadly, and worst of all, it’s failed once and learned from that mistake. Fifteen years it’s had to put itself together.’ The strange dwarf took a long draw and blew out the smoke slowly through his nose. ‘If we ain’t united by the time they get their act together, it could mean much worse than dwarves going north.’
Wilward put his hand up.
‘Right, that’s settled then!’ Den said with a huff. ‘Dunforr, you’ll go to Wolf Garden with a small force and make sure they’re ready for war. Do anything necessary to ensure they remain loyal to High Mountain…’
D’Onigan didn’t hear the rest. Somewhat defeated, he sat back down and looked upon the faces of his dwarven brethren. One hundred and three years. That’s how long he had sat amongst this table’s kings and queens. All the right they’d done now seemed all for nothing in the face of this one wrong. He missed the good old days of bumbling bureaucracy, where the most pressing concern this parliament had to deal with was too many bears in the mountain woods.
Reaching into his robe as another squabble broke out, D’Onigan pulled out the dagger — careful to hide it beneath the table. None of the others had been there during the war, so none had seen it. D’Onigan had, though. His forces had been backed into a corner by the treacherous fiends of the Dark Lands to the south, with death at the end of the devil’s axes. They had detoured to save one of the towns and evacuate its people to safety.
D’Onigan had smiled when he had heard the trumpets. In all their stalwart strength, the Dural Clan came storming through the town on the backs of boars. Dunforr had led the charge, of course, obliterating all opponents with his crossbow as he rode across the land towards the enemy. However, the joyous moment soon turned to terror as the Durals cut through the innocent to get to the demons. Butchering them and anything that got in their way during the chaos. It was a cruel and callous exercise that won them the day but at the cost of the town. When D’Onigan had confronted Dunforr about it, the dwarf had shrugged. It’s war, he had said with not an ounce of remorse. People die in war.
With the dagger held tightly, the dwarf propelled himself into motion and leapt over the table towards the twisted Dunforr. If it was going to be war, he could make sure it wasn’t designed by the most barbarous and devious mind amongst them. Evidently, his old bones were no match for Dunforr’s younger ones. With quickened reflexes, Dunforr slapped the dagger point away from his chest and grabbed hold of D’Onigan’s forearm. In one swift motion, the dwarf was flipped over and roughly brought into a headfirst meeting with the ground. D’Onigan spluttered spit before Dunforr’s massive fist came down on his head and sent him dizzy.
‘Right, we’ll call it there for today.’ Den slammed the gavel down on the table, ending the meeting. There was an audible break. No doubt the corner had been battered off again, and it would be some poor stonemason’s duty to put it right. D’Onigan coughed and spat as the various clan leaders left the grand hall until it was just him and Dunforr without another soul in the room.
Dunforr looked down at him. He didn’t smile or frown, which was unnerving, even for him. D’Onigan tried to remember when there had last been an attempted murder in the dwarven parliament. It must have been just before the war, or maybe during it? It was usually left as a last resort when it came to dwarven politics. Of course, if you failed in the assassination, that meant it was your head on the chopping block next at the discretion of your intended victim.
‘I’ll see you when I get back.’ Dunforr stepped over him, allowing his long coat to trail across his face. ‘By then, I hope you’ll have worked on your lunge, Cider. I’ll bring you back something from Wolf Garden…maybe a wolf’s head.’
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