Loth did not give me a room, he gave me a full suite. I enjoy a long bath in a smooth cavity dug into the very rock, then realize that Loth left me something to wear. I pass my hand over a long blue dress and corset of a very thick fabric over a long-sleeved white shirt. It looks practical and feels nice.
A part of me remains bothered that Loth knows my exact dimensions up to and including my breast size. It feels strangely intimate, in a way, but this part is silenced when I put on perfectly made boots. They are deliciously snug as they wrap my toes in their loving embrace.
Now dressed and ready for battle, I search the room for a message, which I find on a night table by the bed. Finding where I am before leaving is paramount when walking out of the wrong door can turn me into an extra crispy pile of charcoal before I can say ‘sun’. The message is laconic.
“Lass, join me in my office. Get out of your room and turn left, then the first right. It’s at the end of the corridor. Your Vassal is fine by the way. He is out hunting elk with my cousin Rollo. The one with the hairy arse.”
Thank you for keeping me informed, Loth, much appreciated.
I follow his directions through dim corridors lit by lanterns. The walls are sheer rock decorated with ancient, massive tapestries. Hand-woven, of course.
I knock on a massive reinforced door decorated with steel, and politely wait.
“Ah, you’re awake! And so early too.”
Loth wears a comfortable long jacket over a simple shirt and brown pants. He looks much like he used to when we lived together. The only change is a large amulet encircling a large ruby dangling from his collar.
“Would you mind telling me why your door is trapped with explosive runes?” I ask.
I did not trigger the spell, of course. It would have roasted a good quarter of the alley.
“The entire fortress is trapped to the gills. But don’t ye worry yer pretty head, it’s all under the control of old man Erikur.”
“The one who punched a bear?”
“And did it again when some cunt said it was bollocks. He was off his tits both times too.”
“I feel safer already.”
“Say, why don’t ah show you ‘round my gaff.”
“Careful, your Scottish is showing.”
“Does it, aye?”
I roll my eyes, but I trail him as he goes by. The Skoragg complex can only be referred to as massive. It is practically an underground city carved from the very rock, both solid and surprisingly cozy. We inspect a massive foundry where hairy, bare-chested men work in sweltering heat, a common room where people are already feasting, and even a hospital! As we move, those we come across salute him and smile at me.
“They don’t know that ye’re a bloodsucker. We kept your coming all hush hush, and the clothes help as well. You look local.”
Not really. There are Swedes, who are mostly blonde and tall but with slightly different features so that I still look like a stranger. The Dvergur are easily recognizable from their heavy-set frames, both men and women. Some Dvergur are more easy to discern than the others, and I wonder if they are mixed bloods.
“Wait, why are they always smiling at me then? Do they think I am your, ahem, side business?”
“What? Nae!”
Silence.
“Well, yes. It’s a common practice here. Lots of kids with mixed ancestry, myself included. Sometimes, the Dvergur blood reemerges in surprising places. Take Ibn Arfin for example. Here he comes. Hey Arfin!”
“Alaikum Salaam, boss man.”
We pass by an arabic Dvergur.
“Lad had a hard time finding us, I tell ya. But probably not as hard as Li Hua. Anyway, we have a lot of kids with humans so it’s nothing shocking.”
“You are not going to get married soon? Should you not remain celibate?” I ask, scandalized.
“Bah! I’ll knock Kari up good in no time, don’t worry about it.”
“But surely… is this normal?”
Loth turns to me and, this time, his expression is serious.
“Listen lass, there is one absolute rule for, errr, living arrangements for our kind. It’s to mind yer own business.”
I raise my hands in surrender. I am not here to judge.
“‘Course, it stops at violence and the like. You get my meaning.”
“How do you raise the kids by the way?”
“The clan has a reliable support system. Let me show you the nursery,” he tells me with a smile.
This one is rather close to the surface, so that the children can have easy access to sunlight. He has the roof aperture closed before I get in.
Inside, I find a nicely decorated room with rows of cradles hosting an army of toddlers under the watchful gaze of a human nurse whose smile appears to be glued on. I channel the Hastings essence to look like a mortal myself. Some would react poorly to a vampire around their kids.
“Oh, it is so nice to meet you. How do you like Sweden?” she asks me with a heavily accented voice.
“Hmm. Delightful so far. So… you take care of the children?”
“Until a parent returns, yes. Many have tasks to complete that require utmost concentration! Our facilities are designed to provide a relaxing and stimulating environment favorable to a healthy growth!”
Behind her, Loth rolls his eyes, but then he soon turns and smiles at the occupant of a cradle. Aw. I cannot wait for him to be a new dad.
“You are expecting then?” she asks as she happily jumps to conclusions, “Here, this is Mathys, he is my two months-old nephew!”
Arg, no! I react immediately and hold the toddler properly, one hand protecting the neck and head while the other supports the butt. He smells of Dvergur magic, though it is still nascent.
Loth turns and looks at me with horror. Ah, he does not know that my experience as a madame gave me some experience with spawns. This baby looks healthy. Hmmm.
For one moment, I consider how pliable they are and how much my kind could achieve with more intervention in education. The little one turns his gaze to me.
“Aguu.”
“Burp on me and I will eat your mom,” I singsong.
“Oh, you already know how to handle a babe! You do not need my help at all!” the nurse states. Is she constantly upbeat?
“I helped in raising kids in my previous position, but I never had one of my own. I am sure it will be fine, but you know men. Always worried about things they do not understand,” I tell her.
Behind the nurse, Loth blinks, flabbergasted.
“Oh yes, he’s a worrywart I’ll give you that. Oh, you are visiting, yes? Go and finish your tour then come and see me sometime, we will exchange tips.”
I nod and bring a little more red to my cheeks. The Hastings essence does not make me more human, it shows me how to act like one and I find the results hilarious. Especially now that Loth drags me out into a stone alley with a mighty frown on his brow.
I immediately drop the essence and make myself cold and immobile.
“Oh, that’s more like it lass, ye had me worried there for a moment. All bashful and delicate like a normal person.”
“Hey!”
“A true vampire would have said that the baby would make a fine sacrifice, haha.”
I keep my expression neutral.
“You… did not think that, right?”
“He did have a nice, potent essence.”
“Oi!”
I smile, he smiles, and we chuckle.
“I still abide by my code, Loth. No children.”
“I know.”
“So, where is your throne room? Do you have one? Is the throne made out of the skulls of your enemies?”
“Naw, we are not like that. We have a council table. Though, if you want to see the seat of my power…”
He winks suggestively.
I am not fooled.
“It is your workshop, is it not?”
“Got it in one! Come on, let me show you what I have been working on.”
Compared to before, Loth’s pace is faster and more excited than regal. We retrace our steps to the private quarters where my suite is, and I think I get a general idea of the mountain base’s layout. The heavily defended main entrance leads to barracks and the mess hall, with several wings branching out in every direction. The royal quarters are only one of the many complexes snaking below the skin of the earth, with many openings letting in the sunlight. We avoid those. Loth still informs me that they are made out of a crystalline substance that could block artillery shells.
I admit to being impressed. They even have a massive greenhouse. This place could stand a siege almost indefinitely.
Finally, Loth leads me to a vault door the size of a carriage. He removes a massive key from the recess of his jacket and inserts it in. A rumbling later, and the steel obstacle rotates on oiled hinges with nary a sound, revealing the treasure within.
I admit to being impressed.
I admit to being very impressed.
“Wow.”
“Right? Come in, come in.”
Loth’s workshop occupies a circular room with a high ceiling, and walls of sheer rock. Illumination is provided by a set of enchanted lamps giving off a powerful white light. Rails dug into the very ground lead to a pair of gates on opposite sides of the place, perpendicular to the entrance we took. You could fit a sloop in there.
In accordance to its owner's bubbling mind, the workshop is neatly divided into subsections.
Vertically.
Even now, slabs and constructs and armors and tables hang suspended into the air at various elevations by heavy chains, each one being a work in progress. I see a magical cannon like the one he made for his home back in Georgia, but twice the size. His black iron armor hangs on one side and another delicate cuirass his size dangles at the opposite end. Racks of axes and swords take an entire wall. The current setting shows that he was working on something that looks like a bathtub, but I suspect might be some sort of metal coating technology.
“What is that thing?” I ask, eyes filled with wonder.
“A self-heating bathtub.”
Oh.
“Let me show you something amazing.”
Loth lowers one of the many levers covering the walls, this one tucked snugly between sheafs of notes stabbed with a spear tip, and a coffee table with a half-eaten sandwich.
The beautiful work of art lowering down like an angel from heaven sends me into a state of pure delight. It has eight long barrels at the end of a rectangular body with a thin bar at the top. It shines with cooling and reinforcement enchantments.
“Is that…”
“A work in progress, for now. Repetition is not so much a problem as weight, recoil, overheating and so on. Now, with an efficient framework, we could get something that could fire a hundred bullets a minute… for five minutes.”
“Amazing.”
“It would be fixed, of course. Unless… the wielder had unnatural strength.”
Wink wink.
“By the Watcher!”
“Problem is that it’s too heavy for me, and I have to turn it all the time. Mind giving me a hand? Just like old times?”
I even have issues unsticking my gaze from this breathtaking piece of glorious engineering.
“Spare apron?”
“Behind you. Third shelf.”
One hour later.
“It’s Raz, then Mir, then Ko,” Loth explains in the calm voice reserved for those touched in the head.
“And how do you expect to close the outer circle then, genius?” I hiss. I balance the hundreds of pounds of steel on one hand and point at a circle near the firing mechanism.
“That’s not the outer circle. It’s the primer. The outer circle links to it via an Ogham conductor inside the casing.”
I open my mouth to reply and realize that… yes, it should work perfectly.
In fact, he just provided a brilliant solution to the energy efficiency problem I had seen coming.
“Fuck it, you’re right. And do try not to look so smug, no need to be an asshole about it.”
“Language!” he squeals in a comically high voice.
I point a claw at his chest.
“None of that. What I say in the workshop stays in the workshop. Or else.”
Loth crosses his massive arms over an equally muscular torso. He gives me a slow nod.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Fair enough. Help me turn — oh, bollocks.”
I hear it too. The entrance door opens with ponderous slowness. Kari walks in, looking quite fetching in an elegant forest-green dress. Her dark blonde hair is held in an elaborate do that highlights her aristocratic features. Her brown eyes smolder with barely contained fury.
She takes the scene in. Me with an apron and protective mitts holding the gun barrels in optimal position; Loth in a similar gear, with a helmet on, right eye covered with a magic detection lens. He holds a brush and a pot of scintillating paint.
She crosses her arms and takes a deep, rage-tinged breath. The kind that starts every screaming session. It does not happen, though. She blows it through her nose with the sound of forge bellows as her anger turns cold. She pointedly takes a watch from a pocket at her flank, and shakes it on its chain. Then, she turns around and departs with affronted dignity.
Another Dvergur woman pops her head through the opening and frowns at us, before shaking her head in disgust and leaving as well. The vault gate shuts with the clang of a sealed coffin.
“Something you forgot?”
“I, ah, we were supposed to join her in her office after the visit. So she could prepare you for the testimony.”
“Really. When was that?”
“Hum, what’s the time, lass?”
“Nevermind.”
Loth and I manage to finish the circle we were working on, then race to Kari’s personal chambers in record times. The lady of the house waits for us in a throne-like leather chair with the attendant we saw earlier, a stern woman with greying brown hair. She snaps a fan close as we come in.
Loth stands awkwardly with his hands behind his back like the big goof he can be sometimes. I, however, am a mighty vampire who does not need to justify herself so I stand with my arms crossed and looking at the side because I did absolutely nothing wrong and definitely do not deserve a scolding, so there.
“Honestly, I am unsure as to how I am supposed to react to the two of you.”
I frown. I am here to assist at the request of a friend, as a favor. I do not answer to her.
Kari must have felt something, because her expression softens.
“I apologize, Ariane. You are our guest here, and we have not been equal to the task. If only there was a thousand years old adult with a good knowledge of the situation who could act responsibly…”
“Alright, I get it,” Loth grumbles in turn.
“Good.”
Kari’s anger finally leaves her. Her attendant, whose name is Erva, brings chairs and we sit around a low table loaded with dried fruits and snacks. The Dvergur help themselves while I drink my host’s favorite infusion. Her room is much less cluttered than Loth’s space, with modern furniture made of dark wood. I notice that green is ubiquitous in her choice of decoration, clothes, and jewelry. A clan thing, perhaps?
“Ariane, the reason why I wanted the pleasure of your company today was to prepare you for the examination that you so kindly agreed to participate in. While we are grateful for your selfless help, I have to regretfully say that the council of clans will make no effort to be accommodating.”
“What she’s saying is that they’re a bunch of nasty old twats,” Loth adds helpfully as he skewers a meatball.
“I do not need translation dahling,” Kari hisses, finally out of patience. Loth shrugs.
“In any case, we have made the formal request to have our marriage certified. Normally, this would not be necessary, but the Isvalir will have no recourse if we have the council’s backing. They will be pushed out for good. This is where you come in. The only serious objection they made was that Loth was betrothed to a vampire.”
“That sure made the old cunts foam at the mouth, squealing about treason. Pure rage.”
“It would have been against tradition,” Kari continues, “and the council embodies tradition. Your timing could not be more fortuitous. My point is that they will ask questions with little regard to propriety.”
I take a sip of the warm liquid to give myself the time to think. My instincts are inherited from a man who normally repays insults by pulling the offender’s spine out of their own ribcage while they are still alive.
“You do realize that there are limits to how much I can tolerate?” I say.
“The council itself is no monolithic body. If one of them goes too far to provoke you, they will be censored by the other six. Or five. You only have to clad yourself in contempt while the offender reaps the consequences of their own actions.”
I have to ask.
“What if they do go too far and I eat them?”
Kari’s expression turns pained.
“If they insult you too openly under our roof and you attack, we will side with you. It means bloody war, however, so please keep it in mind?”
“Oh, and if ye do start killing, leave me that old cockless bugger Ragnar, lass. I want to strangle him myself,” Loth adds helpfully between two bites.
Kari massages her left temple with two fingers. Next to her, Erva sighs.
“I promise to do my best. I am here to solve problems, not create more,” I say.
That gets me an appreciative nod from both women.
“That is all I can ask. Now, what are vampire councils typically like?”
“In terms of what?”
“Everything.”
Why does she ask? Ah, I understand, she wants to manage my expectations.
“We gather with our seconds in a secured underground vault, around a modular round table of obsidian. The Speaker animates the reunion and addresses the issues one by one. We vote on decisions that do not reach consensus.”
“So, well-ordered and mostly silent?”
“An understatement. We do not move, nor breathe, and we are expected to remain unfailingly polite at all times. That includes a perfect control of one’s aura. Arguments are a rarity, because negotiations occur before the meeting starts.”
“No one raises their voices?”
“It has not occurred yet.”
They look impressed. Loth drops a chicken bone in a nearby trash can and cleans his lips. He is back to serious.
“This council is going ta be very different then. The decrepit old baggages will convene in our own council room around a table. Kari and I will sit there and present our case. Observers are allowed in benches on the side. Thing is, we have all known each other for a long time and we all have some faraway cousin who shagged their own faraway cousin and stole their chicken while they were asleep. Ye get the gist.”
“Is this a trial or a family argument?” I ask as a jest.
Alas. They do not laugh.
“Ye’re spot on. It’s both. And it can heat up fast. I was joking earlier, lass, I would also like it if blood were not shed. And they will insult you. At least some of them will.”
Dammit.
“We are perhaps overstating how offensive they will be. What matters is that you are prepared.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Now, Erva?”
“I suggest we retire to bedroom,” the brunette says in thickly accented English, “I take measurement for new dress while you teach customs?”
“Yes,” Kari replies, “that would work nicely.”
Loth is smart enough not to tell them that he already has my measurements.
We three leave Loth to gorge himself on snacks, and move to a side room hosting a palatial bed, as well as a small separation behind which I change into a shift. Erva then assaults me with a marked band while taking notes on a small book. Kari handles the Dvergur culture cramming session. The council consists of seven very old Dvergur, the oldest ones alive. I am taught their names and personalities, which can apparently all be placed somewhere on the ill-tempered and short-fused side of the spectrum. One in particular attracts her attention: Ragnar. He is close to the Islavir. He is also the kind of obtuse, rude jerk who has a very strict idea about everyone’s place in the world, especially his own. Anything that goes against his opinion is dismissed as false, or, when evidence is overwhelming, staged by his opponent to ridicule Ragnar’s genius.
I hate him already.
Our meeting finishes with dinner, where I join my hosts and Sheridan in the main hall as a guest of honor. Someone found half-decent coffee for which I am grateful, and we are entertained with music and beer. Soon, the festivities pick up in the expected fashion: everyone gets roaring drunk. I even consent to play a knife-throwing game, which I win handedly to everyone’s amusement. Sheridan gets his own attention after bagging an elk at three hundred feet in one shot. He soon leaves with one cute Dvergur lass under each arm.
He will definitely have much to say about European women upon his return.
As the night goes on, I finally isolate myself to practice with my Rose. I would consider myself almost recovered, and my new style slowly takes shape. I am almost at the point where I wield the whip sword better than the spear, though it will take a few more weeks of practice. I simply have too much to play with.
For the next two days, I mostly stay indoors. I help Loth around his workshop during the afternoon and roam around after night has fallen. The Skoragg fortress is set deep in the Scandes, surrounded by a dense forest that the clan spent lots of efforts keeping uninhabited. While most of the complex is far below-ground, many facilities keep close to the surface to offer sunlight to dwellers and plants alike. The flower greenhouse offers a perfect moonlight-drenched setting for a good reading session. Sadly, the other ones use manure as fertilizers.
On the third night, I leave through a set of massive gates to run for an hour, and climb atop a massive pine to look around, finding not one single light, one column of smoke to indicate the presence of humanity. The howling wind and creaks of evergreens form a melancholic melody to match the scent of sap. I enjoy this small moment of serenity before getting on Metis’ back to hunt something. The big girl is just happy to be running around without constraints.
On the fourth day, I wake up inside of my sarcophagus.
A curious thing. I trust the Dvergur hospitality without doubt, and so far I have slumbered in the bed they offered. And yet, the mere thought of one of them dropping the dress and seeing me lying there defenseless creates an instinctive response that compelled me to relocate to my trusted haven. They cannot have access to my unconscious form. No. Never. They do not deserve it. I only allow Torran to do so.
One more quirk to add to the list.
One smooth slide of a massive rail-mounted slab of reinforced steel and I am free to glare around for intruders. There are none. Instead, I am greeted by a new addition to my room: a dummy dressed in an extravagant dress.
Oh, it is lovely.
Erva must have made it with my nature in mind. The cloth is royal blue, my favorite color, with long sleeves and rather form-fitting. The fabric is thick and decorated with leaf patterns in mesmerizing arrangements. The crafty maker added a black cape with a white hermine fringe, giving a slight viking nobility feel paired with courtly charm. I am impressed. And I try it on immediately, only to discover that the part is not just comfortable, it is also armored around the chest. Perfect.
A small envelope has been left for my attention, directing me to ring a bell to call for Erva, which I do. The attendant immediately crashes into my lair as if she had been set against the door for the past hour. She starts fussing with my hair and manages to put it in a small braid which she ties around my head, freeing my neck. I am finally lent jewels for the occasion.
I should really get my own; I could hide some nasty enchantments in those. Practical and elegant.
Finally, we are done.
“You look very good and very fetching. Go impress the old wankers!” she says.
I should probably tell her not to quote Loth, at least not unless she feels like screaming insults. Ah, well.
The walk to the council chamber is short, but crowded. Gaggles of gossiping adults line the walls. They recognize me from the feasts and greet me with polite encouragements.
“Don’t let them push ya around!”
“Tell Ragnar he’s a flea-ridden bitch.”
Not the most diplomatic people around.
Eventually, I run out of stone corridors and find my destination, a heavy double-gate topped by the Skoragg name in Dvergur runes. Skjoll guards it with all the pleasant attention of a prison guard.
“They are in session. You can come in whenever you want.”
“Then let us get this over with.”
I am let in.
The council room is much more solemn than I expected. Tapestries depicting significant historical events line the circular walls in thick formations. Rows of chandeliers provide a clear light for the large round table occupying its center, an ancient wood construct entirely covered in scars, burn marks, and scrawls. A few seats have been placed at the corners for observers. On the left side, of course, I find Loth and Kari holding hands in an adorable fashion. On my right, however, comes a surprise. Leikny provokes us with her presence as Loth’s divorced wife. A man sits by her side in a vision of affronted pride, clearly a relative.
All four of them are silent. The humdrum of conversation comes from an assembly of ancient, wizened, bickering folks dressed in rich clothes too busy hurling insults at each other to realize that I have come in. I stand there, not knowing what to do. A glance at Loth reveals that he himself is quite lost, and more than a bit irritated. It takes a good twenty seconds for one of the two women present to raise her eyes to the ceiling after an ancient codger yelled at her in their tongue. When her gaze descends, it lands on me.
“All of you, shut up, you are embarrassing me in front of the cold one!”
One by one, the grunts of conversation die down until I find myself under the collective glare of centuries of stubborn hostility.
I feel at home already.
Following Kari’s instructions, I curtsey low enough to show respect, but not submission. I greet them in their tongue with the sentence I was taught. I am, unsurprisingly, interrupted halfway.
“Yeah yeah, come sit your butt, girl, we don’t have all day!” the oldest one complains in a voice broken by age, and probably spirit abuse.
I recognize him as Yngvar the Red-handed, the oldest Dvergur alive. He is almost two thousand years old.
“You claim to care about tradition, but you interrupt the child as she greets us?” the woman who had first noticed me now complains. They bicker. It has to be Minttu, his wife.
The others inspect me as I sit down with all the grace I am capable of, which is quite a lot. I present myself as graceful and harmless. To do so, I merely need to move slowly and fluidly while doing a few useless things such as repositioning my hands after I am seated. I have spent enough time around mortals to know how to appear demure.
The members of the council lower their guard somewhat, with the exception of a man with red and grey hair, who glares with barely contained outrage. That must be Ragnar.
“Enough of this!” Yngvar finally erupts in English, “We will proceed as I say. First, the cold one does not speak our language properly, so we will use English.”
Some grumbling.
“None of that! You all know the tongue, even you Sigvald, don’t try to piss me off again. We all know you eloped with that Essex girl!”
More grumbling, especially from Sigvald who bellows in Dvergur something along the lines of ‘brief’ and ‘divorce’. Yngvar ignores them.
“We get to ask questions one by one, starting with me. Also, this is an official event so I will ask an oath. Lass, what’s your name?”
“Ariane of the Nirari.”
“I shagged an Ariane once, in Greece,” one of the men announces, eyes lost in dreamy recollection.
“Nobody cares, Rolf, get those tits out of your mind!”
Rolf seems to consider the request for a moment, then he rests his head on a fist and a beatific smile blooms on his face.
“And we lost the old pervert. Fine! Ariane of the Nirari, we are here to determine if those two can get married without breaking some oaths. Waste of my fucking time, but what can you do? Anyway, can you please swear that you will say the truth, the whole truth?”
I expected it, and prepared an answer.
“I will swear to be entirely truthful, but I cannot promise to say everything, as I am bound by previous agreements.”
The Accords prevent me from revealing too much to rival political entities, and their council is one such group.
“Well, fine, that works too. But no empty words!”
He removes a monocle from a breast pocket and puts it on, inspecting me critically. It has to be magical.
“I, Ariane of the Nirari, swear on my essence to be truthful to this assembly for the duration of the council.”
The oath takes hold in a way that leaves my chest feeling cold and vulnerable.
Yngvar nods and places his monocle back in his pocket.
“Out of curiosity, what happens if you lie now?” Minttu asks.
“If I break my word knowingly, my essence will fracture. I would suffer the worst pain in existence for the brief moment that I still live.”
“Is her oath worth anything?” Ragnar insinuates with a soft voice, the snake. Yngvar dismisses the argument with a frown.
“The vampires are even more magical than us, you cauliflower-brained dunce. I saw the magic take hold on her with my own eyes. Now shut up. I ask first. Lass, are you betrothed to Loth?”
“No.”
That one was easy, and it should suffice to prove that the couple can marry safely. Of course, that unruly pack of codgers will not be satisfied until they have fully explored our relationship. They interrogate me one after the other.
“Were you ever betrothed?”
“No.”
“Have you two fucked a lot while you were in America?”
“I have never engaged in sex with Loth,” I say between gritted teeth. So… rude! Agh. I must remember that their culture is much more loose with physical intimacy than we are.
“Really? Why? Is he not good at it?”
Pah, are we really doing this? I stop and look around, thinking that the person asking (Rolf the pervert, of course) would get the righteous talk down he deserves. Alas, it does not happen. They all await my assessment of Loth’s sexual prowesses with detached attention.
Is it that serious?
“Come on lass, don’t leave us hanging! Not good enough for you?”
I sigh, and speak in a low, deliberate voice.
“Numerous widows of the town we lived in mentioned that he was, and I quote, a god. I believe that they were honest with their own assessment, and they, ahem, smelled and sounded like they meant it.”
By the Watcheeeeeeerrrrrrr get me out please.
The council aligns for the first time, in proud approval.
“Alright then. Next question!”
That one comes from Ragnar. He smirks, very pleased with himself.
“Would you mind explaining what you were doing on Loth’s territory to start with?”
Oh, implying that I hunted him down for my own benefit. He could prove that Loth is unfit, perhaps, or polluted somehow.
“No, I would not mind.”
They wait. I wait. We all wait and I find myself smiling.
“Next question, please?” I sweetly suggest. A few of the members guffaw when they figure out what I did while others complain. Ragnar erects himself from his seat, red with anger.
“You dare disrespect—”
“Sit the fuck down Ragny boy, afore I give you a proper walloping. She got you good. It’s your fault for trying to sound like a posh asshole. ‘Would you miiiiiiind’. Who the fuck are you, the Prince of Wales? Piss off, you’ll get your turn again. Next!”
“How long did you live together?”
“Around ten years, I could not tell you the exact time without some calculations.”
“Were you threatened into coming here?” Yngvar asks, since it is his turn again.
“Here, to Sweden? No.”
“Will you receive compensation for appearing here?”
I consider my answer for a while. Compensation is such a vague concept. I had better be thorough.
“I was not paid or promised services, or even a favor. I did receive hospitality, and I expect that I will be offered nourishment some time soon as well.”
“Do you have shares in businesses owned by the Skoragg clan?”
“Not to my knowledge. Some of my investments are through funds that I do not manage, so it remains a distant possibility.”
I am seeing a trend here. They are not satisfied, and will not be satisfied until they understand us.
“Why were you on Loth’s land when you met him? Why did you seek the King of Skoragg hall?” Rganar asks again as his turn comes.
Those are two questions!
“Answer them lass, so that we’re done,” Yngvar asks, out of patience.
Fine.
“We did not meet on his land. We met by accident during a hunt. And he was not the king of Skoragg hall at the time! Your understanding of our circumstances appears tenuous at best,” I coldly state.
“Perhaps, then, you should enlighten us,” the next member asks before Ragnar explodes. This one is the only other woman. She smiles kindly. A request, not an order.
I do not make a secret of my situation at that time. I guess I could share a bit, at least so that they do not hound us anymore with their ceaseless quest to find out the origin of our friendship.
I look behind me at Loth, sitting on the side. He is serene, and gives me a subtle nod. He supports my decision, no matter what.
I turn back and inspect the council. They are curious now, so curious, in fact, that they are silent.
“Oh, very well then.”
I take a deep breath. Sheridan is out there, making me more human, otherwise I would never agree to share my own feelings for the sake of a friend, no matter how precious he is. Even now, frustration at the perceived audacity of the council still whispers in my ears that they know enough to make a decision, and that I would be well within my rights to inform them that our friendship is none of their business. Alas, Dvergur are passionate and emotional creatures, and if I truly want to help Loth, I must address them in a language that they can understand.
So I swallow my pride and the distance I create with strangers because, in the end, I am here to assist someone I hold dear. Friendships are not always meant to be easy and free. It is quite telling that I would rather open someone’s ricage than open my own heart.
They are waiting.
Enough procrastination, I take a deep breath and try to forget my surroundings. I go back to those days decades ago when I was not free, mighty, and tightly woven in a dense network of allies and friends. I bring myself to remember those few hours of consciousness I had every night, that I had to spend finding blood and walking some distance before torpor inevitably made me defenseless. I can see her vividly, the younger Ariane. The one who endured only because of her unwavering belief that things would get better, if she only lasted for another night. I call upon her now.
“When I met Loth, I was dirty and wet. It was the end of summer in Louisiana. I had come to a swamp to hunt an alligator as part of a deal to get enough blood to last me the night. I had recently escaped from abuse and torture by feigning my own death. My torment had lasted for six months and I was six months old. Twenty, if you counted my mortal years.”
The silence helps me focus. I close my eyes and I can see him, clad in his iron armor. He looked like a giant bug, and his sudden appearance gave me quite the fright.
“Loth was there too for the same prey. From the moment I met him, I expected him to betray me and I prepared myself to fight or kill him. I was so distrustful that when the alligator did attack, it caught me completely off guard. Loth, of course, killed it in an instant with a bolt through the eye. After that, he… made a casual advance.”
Chuckles around the table. I do not look. I am almost there.
“I reacted badly. My captivity had been… a harrowing experience. Loth saw that. He did not ridicule me, or threaten me. He did not run away. He saw that I needed help and he offered it. He saved me, I think. Perhaps not my life, but certainly the heart of what I am.”
Silence has returned.
“In the following months, Loth was there for me. He was my first friend. The very first one. Even Jimena, the woman who helped me escape, became closer after a lengthy correspondence. Loth did not not just host me, he helped me grow. He taught me how to have a personal code, and how to handle mortals. He created a system to allow me to feed as a fledgeling without hurting the townsfolk. I owe much to his mentorship, including my love for design and smithing, especially if it relates to explosive ordinance or ways to deliver said explosive ordinance to faraway people I dislike. He taught me runes and forging and taking life with a grain of humor. There are only a handful of individuals on this planet that I regard with the same admiration and… love, as I regard him. All the questions you have asked me only showed one concern. Who is this cold one, and what is her game here? I play no game tonight. I am here, because Loth asked me to come here. He could have asked for an assassination or a bombing run or plain old piracy and I would have obliged, but he just wanted me to talk to you. So, I do. Loth is a friend in a world of politics and ancient horrors. It is enough for me.”
I do not believe that the council members have remained silent for so many consecutive seconds for at least a decade. Of course, it ends quickly.
“Say, girl,” Yngvar asks, “what runes would you use on the base of an artillery gun barrel?”
“Circled Tir Ko Og for reinforcement, unless you are going for single use and feel a bit adventurous, then you can go for an imposition glyph.”
“Sacrilege! Who would do this to a gun?” a man by his side asks.
“Shut up! I use those on Turkish bronze bombards so I did not have to wreck them when we left!” Yngvar retorts, spit flying over the pitted table.
“And how do you make proper black powder, hmmm?” Rolf asks, his mind finally away from whatever erotic recollection it had dwelled on.
“Three parts salpeter, then for the rest three-fifths softwood charcoal, either willow or buckthorn, and two-fifths sulfur. Mix and grind to fine dust, and add liquid so that it can form granules. I prefer pure alcohol and water, but I drop a pinch of my blood for special bullets. You can add graphite afterward to prevent it from getting too wet.”
“What about adding runed bones from magical beasts?” another asks. I roll my eyes. Loth bored me enough with this ancient controversy.
“It was proved not to work in a conclave of the clans two centuries ago. After lengthy experiments, I might add.”
“Hah! Even the vampires know about it, you decrepit fool!” another exclaims triumphantly.
“No respect for tradition!”
I let them bicker, but I clearly gathered their attention.
“Special bullets? How do you mean?” Yngvar asks with excitement.
“Silver and steel alloy for the body. I personally engrave each and every casing as well.”
“What do you use them for?” his wife asks with naked curiosity.
“Shield piercing and big game hunting. Either werewolves or my kin.”
“What runes do you use for piercing?” Yngvar asks in turn.
“You must be dreaming if you think I will share my recipe for free,” I retort, but with good humor.
“Hah! Hahaha, indeed! Alright. Enough questions. Sigvald, Aarne, enough with that conclave spat, it is time to decide!”
His gaze turns cold and cunning as he turns it to Ragnar, who was fuming in silence, then to Leikny and her relative.
“I cannot believe that I let you sponge-brained milksops talk my ears off with this purity and influence bullshit. You morons got it upside down! It’s not Loth who got vampired, it’s Ariane of the whatever who got Dvergured!”
The council is shocked by this strange revelation. As I am. I remember to close my mouth with a click.
“What do you call someone with honor, strength, and a propensity to apply scientific knowledge to blowing things up?”
“A friend!” Rolf roars.
“That’s right. Case fucking closed. Let’s get it over with so I can get myself a beer. All in favor of letting those two younglings bind themselves together through sacred matrimony?”
“Aye!” five of them answer, though Ragnar now turns red.
“Are you all mad?” he screams, but in vain.
“Then your union is approved by the council, may you regret it every day of your life like I do!”
Minttu socks him in the jaw and the poor fool falls backward and out of sight. Rolf leans to the side to remove pewter mugs from the Watcher knows where while another stands up to bang on a nearby service door asking for booze. I… supposed the council is over then?
Or not, because a shrill female voice soon pierces through the party preparations.
“I demand my last recourse!” Leikny screams, and to my surprise, the entire assembly grinds to a pause. No more screams or signs of merriment. They even stop moving as they look on with the mix of horror and fascination normally reserved for gruesome accidents.
“What?” Minttu asks, aghast.
“I am serious. I demand trial by combat! Ariane of the Nirari, I defy you!”
What?