Dunstan roared, piercing the low din of the town hall, but he cared not. His knuckles, pale and tightly clenched, slammed on the wide mahogany table, disturbing a row of haphazardly stacked scrolls and parchments. Beads of sweat glistened on top of his almost bald head. Picking a silken handkerchief, he wiped and threw the soaked fabric indignantly.
Nearby, Ishild stood with cold unblinking eyes. He and only he alone knew the violent outburst of his companion. Lacking a wide imposing frame and any diligent skill for an honourable trade, Ishild, the slicer, earned his position as Dunstan’s right-hand man, by following orders -- irrespective of morality. Though, Dunstan, the Mayor of Kahlanwald, attributed it to sheer cowardice saturated with a penchant for lining pouches with quick coins.
Holding a parchment in his hands, the tip of Dunstan’s thin lips curled in deviance. He wanted to spit. Oh, he so wanted to spit on the parchment, its thieving contents and the one who audaciously penned it. And would have done so, were it not for the seal of Marquis Evenmist on the wax.
“He demands it.” Dunstan’s scream reverberated through the gloomy walls of his office, multiplying it tenfold. “Thieving magpies. All of them. Every noble is just a robber clad in fine silk stockings.”
Ishild's eyes darted to the far corner. The closed commode at the far end of the room held more appeal for Ishild than Dunstan’s outrage. Ignoring the Mayor, he deftly reached, opened and took a bottle confining the rich topaz-coloured liquid. Uninvited, he still generously helped himself to the finest brandy in all the realm. The resplendent aroma slowly permeated his inner self, making his stomach quiver in anticipation.
“Stop that. Now.” Dunstan had all the urgency of a hare facing a pack of hunting hounds. “That’s Vangere’s finest. You will not steal from me.”
A host of all things, dark and vicious, settled on Ishild’s face. His eyes narrowed predatorily till they resembled akin to slitted eyes of a venomous reptilian -- and held gaze at Dunstan.
The Mayor of Kahlanwald would not be denied. Not within the walls of his city, and inside the walls of his own office, but Dunstan reminded himself of Ishild’s moniker. Ishild, the slicer, they called in hushed whispers. All because of the way, the man settled his dispute over an alcohol-infused conflict. Sliced his opponent’s throat with a broken glass shard. With a deep sigh, Dunstan let the alacrity flow in him. He needed the focus.
“The Marquis demands Skeldell Villa.” Dunstan slumped in his official chair, wide forehead furrowed into more lines than Ishild could count. “Kahlanwald is my city, Ishild. The Kahlanwalders elected me to serve them.”
Raising the filled glass to his starving lips, Ishild suppressed a smirk. The Kahlanwalders elected him because either his opponents kept getting caught visiting the cathouses or conveniently found a new source of wealth to invest.
“This is personal, Ishild. The Marquis could have gotten a Villa in Sarenthill, like every other noble who wished to push their status. But he chooses Kahlanwald.” Dunstan stared intently at the oblivious Ishild, expecting him to say something.
Finally, catching the meaning behind the awkward silence, Ishild spoke. “Well, Kahlanwald actually is in the Marquis territory.”
“And he gets a share. Collects toll on the road. Levvies our merchants outside our walls and every year, we send him a cartload of our gold to his treasury.”
Finding Dunstan’s dour complaints spoiling the sublime taste of the ambrosial liquid slipping through his throat, Ishild shrugged in a vague attempt to liberate himself of any culpability.
Just as the ambience in the office aligned towards placidity, Dunstan had another outburst. “Skeldell Villa is officially still the property of High Alchemist Vangere. Even though he has not been seen in a few decades, there is no official report of his death. When he finds his Villa sold in his absence, who will he hold responsible?”
Huffing vulgarly, Dunstan continued. “The poor Mayor of Kahlanwald will be the victim. He will complain at the town hall and force me before the magistrates.”
“I think the Marquis wants a cut.” Dunstan’s voice lowered conspiratorially. “No. I am sure he wants the whole profit. He is not interested in the villa. He wants that which is beneath -- in the cellar.”
“It is a fine brandy...”
“Finest brandy.” Corrected Dunstan. “Take a cask to Valteburg and those sea elves will sell their own ship in return. Sell them all and you have a whole fleet, riches enough to buy a barony.”
A wicked twinkle suddenly found its way into Dunstan’s greedy eyes. Thoughts, full of intrigue and contrived, raced behind his portly face. It was this ability, an uncanny knack, to conjure plans that made him the brains of their operation. “I think I have it, Ishild. How we can get those casks out, right under the Marquis's own nose.”
There will be work for him. This much, Ishild was certain. Otherwise, why else would the tight-lipped Dunstan reveal anything to him?
“Were there not complaints about unsavoury elements lurking in our sewers, raiding the cellar of honest folks?” Dunstan grimaced with a vicious twist of his lips.
Such an event, by all accounts, was insignificant for Ishild to recall. The exarch rebellion of the dark elves had just reached a staggering end. Something that people, even in land-locked Kahlanwald, felt the after-effect. A separatist group calling themselves The Pruning Hands were harassing caravans on road and their drastic impact on the trade worried their merchants. Or some high-elven Paladin rallying his forces for some unknown cause, loosened a few tongues in the tavern with fantasy-filled premises. In lieu of all those substantial happenings, the crimes of goblins or kobolds, sneaking through sewers to steal cheese wheels and watered ale, is paltry at best.
“Goatherd Fenwick has three children, does he not?” Dunstan pinched the bridge of his nose, then slowly drew his pudgy fingers to scratch the back of his ears; a trait that Ishild, over the years, had learned to associate with Dunstan for the moment of revelation.
“Hold his daughter for a while, that auburn-haired one.” Dunstan cared not for her name nor did the colour of her hair bother him. In the meticulous plan of his, she was just one piece on the board -- a nameless piece, to further his goals. “Next time when she leaves to lead the herd, make sure she does not return home.”
Ishild, used to receiving and performing odd suggestions from Dunstan, cared not to question. He drowned the rest of his drink, relishing in the pleasant warmth imbibed.
“And Ishild,” Dunstan waggled a finger furtively, gaining Ishild’s undivided attention. “Keep your identity unknown to her and leave some trail indicating kobolds or goblins for perpetrators.”
The closed-door leading the way out of the suffocating presence of Dunstan beckoned Ishild. Only the tug of an ephemeral lurch of curiosity held him from leaving. “How do Kobolds and Goatherd Fenwick’s daughter help us smuggles barrels of brandy from Skeldell Villa?”
“Kobolds and Goblins have kidnapped one of our fine young women and as Mayor, it falls within my responsibility for hiring mercenaries to clear the cellars of Skeldell Villa.”
“Dunstan, mercenaries lead a vagrant life and when you lead a roving life, moving from town to town you pick a thing or two. What if they realise the worth in those barrels?” Ishild felt almost a smug sense of pride frothing in him. It is not very often that his comprehension discovers a chink in Dunstan’s armour.
The Mayor of Kahlanwald beamed a gracious smile, with contorted malice. “Not when one chooses the dullest tool in the shed. Fortunately, bravado and dimwittedness are plenty in the mercenary world.”
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Marilis sauntered past the crowd in the tavern. With as much speed as her stout legs could muster, she reached the dingy and ill-lit corner. The reputation of the seediest tavern in the region, did very little to shackle her movements. Even bereft of her armour and her weapons, she is still, very much, a member of the shieldmaidens. Drunken patrons and a few thugs with sharp blades would fare no better than children wielding twigs. But it is not her own abilities, that bolstered her courage but rather those who awaited her -- her Shieldwarden Baernis and her Shieldwall Eddyrn Rubyforged.
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Baernis twitched. The stench of cheap spilled beer mingled with the stench of raw sweat from the unwashed patrons, despite her iron constitution, made her stomach retch. The poor ventilation, the heavy woodsmoke from the kitchen and the callous fumes of low-grade tobacco, only served to heighten her irritation. For a very precarious moment, she felt the urge to scratch beneath the unruly patch of hair on her cheeks. Perhaps, she should just shave her beard. Abandon those useless decorum festering under tradition and adopt the practical trends in the fashion of the younger ones like Cosette.
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Despite its appeal, the thought of shaving her beard lanced a blazing spear through her heart. It felt more akin to shedding a part of her own identity. She is a dwarf; not a gnome or a halfling. Irrespective of her internally warring sentiments, deep in the recess of her heart, the knowledge thrummed that removing her facial hair would make her no less a dwarf than having a beard made her less of a woman.
“You should consider trimming it.” Eddyrn was not just her Shieldwall but also possessed an uncanny ability to read her thoughts as if they were magically engraved on her forehead.
It was a wonder, even a marvel, that the contours of Eddyrn’s own beard could only be described as a brush stroke from a master painter. Precise and sharp. Yet Baernis had never witnessed her Shieldwall spend more effort than the basic hygiene ritual every morning.
Smiling, Baernis, moved closer to let her voice reach her friend. “Eddyrn, you are the only one to carry the shield even while drinking.”
Gently, running her fingers over the sheeny surface, Eddyrn said, “My shield and me,” -- giving it a caress reserved only for a lover -- ,” this is the longest relationship I had. I have.”
Nearby, Soraya chuckled, dismissing her immediate worries to relish in the harmony of their banter. While the Shieldwarden and Shieldwall could consolidate a mellifluous atmosphere of light-hearted exchange filled with contorted mirth, her role in the Shieldmaidens denied her such liberty. As the Quill of the Shieldmaidens, the numbers and the logistics were her burdens to bear, and neither of those looked promising.
In more than one way, Soraya Gemtamer was the heart of the Shieldmaidens, or rather, what they represented. Not Honour. Not Valour. Those misplaced values were for those born privileged, with multiple suffixes and more than one prefix to their already elongated names. The Shieldmaidens -- clanless young dwarven women -- with a prospect to earn a fortune for a dowry. Lethally earned on a battlefield; to be given to their future husbands. A path willingly chosen!.
“If this keeps up, you might be forced to pawn your longest relationship to feed hungry bellies.” Soraya flicked her gaze to the two other Shieldmaidens, then quickly retreated back to the quiet obscurity of her own dwindling drink.
“You fret too much, Soraya.” Baernis cooed -- reassuringly. “Besides, we are in the land of men. There is always one Lord harassing his neighbour. I am sure decent work is just around the corner.”
“Shieldwarden, we are Shieldmaidens, first and foremost. They don’t need stalwart warriors. They need thugs sporting their surcoats. Cattle thieves, hooligans and trouble makers are what they would employ for mercenary work.” The bitter truth in Soraya’s words and the undisputable veracity it carried only served as a reminder of their rickety condition.
“Baernis, Eddyrn, Why did we flock together? We are not bound by a misguided valiant sense of chivalry. We are clanless.” Soraya finished the last of her drink and slammed the empty tankard hard on the table making a point. “Our purpose is singular -- to become respectable wives and mothers in whatever clan willing to accept our tocher. But every day we scrape by our lives and whatever meagre coin that lines our purse goes for punitive damages.”
Her suppressed anger surged forth before the only two other persons she could complain to. Despite the roar of laughter and the drunken bawdy songs sung in the tavern, Soraya’s heart was not tied to the moment, but rather to the perturbing nature of what tomorrow would bring.
“We should head towards westerleygates.” The calm demeanour with which Eddyrn suggested hid the dark tendrils of uncertainty clawing in her own inner self.
“The earning from guarding caravans will be a paltry sum to our needs. Even as Shieldgrandmothers, we will never meet our target quota.” Soraya Gemtamer had run those calculations meticulously, involving all variable factors, countless times. She would not relent to a mistake that her own father made, driving her well-known merchant house to ruin -- all due to a simple presumption and erroneous calculation.
Soraya grew up surrounded by decent wealth, allowing her to indulge in a moderate measure of luxury. But that was before the fall. Now, she could only recall fond memories, her family mansion, her very own chambers, and a coach to travel in style. Still, Soraya felt immense gratitude for her father and his foresightedness in arranging a private tutor with a focus on commerce and accounting as opposed to the usual poetry and music that wealthy young dwarven maidens were expected to learn. As if her father received a prophetic dream, predicting her future role in the Shieldmaidens.
“Why do I have a distinct feeling that you have thought this through? Please do tell me that you have a plan in mind, Soraya?” Eddyrn Rubyforged, one of the few Shieldmaiden who still had a family name -- who was allowed to retain a family name -- was unusually calm with a keen observant mind digesting all that she silently observed.
“I see three potential choices. The high elves are looking for mercenaries to swell their ground patrols, which I personally do not endorse. Thirty per cent tax and mandated liability insurance at forty per cent, we are risking our lives to add the numbers to some high-elf’s swelling account.”
Attentively listening to Soraya over the drunken bawdy song in the tavern, Baernis pushed her own drink towards Soraya in what was their usual ritual.
The Quill wordlessly accepted the drink to wet her dry throat. “Dellynthelaara of the dark elves always welcomes talented warriors.”
“Absolutely, no dark elves,” denied Baernis. “When Dellynthelaara turns her blade on the dwarves, our allegiances will be tested.”
“Then gaining fame at a tourney would be our safe and quick route. Powerful noble houses would employ champions as a mere sign of wealth and influence.” Her fingers tapped in a silent rhythm on the wooden surface.
“Well, are you asking one of us to participate in jousting?” Came the slurred voice of Inga from beneath their table.
As far as any Shieldmaiden could tell, Inga always slurred. Better a drunken, inebriated Inga than a sober, angry one -- many of their company sisters would fondly recall.
“Why? because we are women.” Cosette who was seated cross-legged beside Inga tightened her grip around her own drink and raised her voice -- laced with mockery. “Oh, girls are supposed to sit side-saddled. Never spread your legs. It’s immodest.”
“No, because we are dwarves,” replied Inga.
“We could ride our boars or war rams into jousting.” Cosette thought she was innovative.
“While we are at it, would you want the divider removed and headbutt the other mount?” Inga slurped her empty tankard, letting the vulgar sound reach the three seated above. “Though, by Allfather under the mountain, that would be a good bloodsport.”
“Even the wood-elves ride their big horned deer animal...” Cosette paused, eventually gave up on recalling her vocabulary and turned the question to Inga. “What is it called again?”
“Don’t know but it tastes great when grilled with salt and flavoured with the right amount of basil and thyme.”
“Inga, there is a high elf paladin who rides a unicorn. Do you know?” asked Cosette in a bubbly voice. Perhaps, it was her age, being one of the youngest of their company, that she was blessed with the uncanny ability to hop topics.
“I got myself a unicorn horn.” Inga slurred even more and after letting a hiccup, followed by another, she continued. “It is magiiiical during lonely nights.”
“Cosette, stop engaging her,” commanded Baernis.
“Were the dreams really magical?” Only sheer childish fascination spilled in Cosette’s tone.
“Please stop feeding her, Cosette.” Ordered Eddyrn.
Much to their chagrin, Soraya Gemtamer gave them both mischievous gazes, resigning them to sort their resident troublemakers. The Quill knew that neither Cosette nor Inga, especially Inga, could be reeled in.
Ignoring both the Shieldwarden and the Shieldwall, Inga rolled from under the table and wobbled towards the bar.
“So. like. was it like, dream really magical?” Cosette rose and followed a stumbling Inga. Her curiosity tethered her to her companion.
Watching both their diminutive form disappear into the crowd, Eddyrn leaned, lowering her voice with impish mirth -- a side of her that she only revealed to Baernis -- and she asked. “So should we tell her what Inga does with the unicorn horn?”
After a trepidatious silent moment, all three burst into a peal of voracious laughter.
“Chief, I see, merriment is provided by courtesy of Inga again.” Hopping effortlessly and with well-practised motion, Marilis hosted herself on the seat beside Soraya.
Baernis, ever the staunch traditionalist, had always given free leverage to Marilis, and for a good reason. In her humble experience leading their ragtag bunch, Marilis held a talent rarely seen and even less valued among mercenaries. To seamlessly blend in with any crowd and build a rapport -- even with distrusting villagers from isolated hamlets -- provided them with leads to a few quick engagements.
Without a hint of acknowledgement passing between them, Soraya Gemtamer thrust the tankard to Marilis. Among the shieldmaidens, the Quill held Marilis in higher regard. Ever engaged to her ledgers and numbers, she appreciated Marilis’s ability to save them the mandatory twenty per cent commission that most agents cut in.
“So, apparently Kahlanwald is seeking mercenaries and this time we have the advantage,” said Marilis with a smirk.
“What makes you say that?” asked Eddyrn while her one eye still lingered on Inga and Cosette. The two were involved in an animated discussion with a lanky man who bore enough scars, the result of one too many drunken escapades. For a brief moment, the Shieldwall was torn between listening to Marilis and observing the two. Try as hard as she could, Eddyrn could not stop the growing knot of anxiety from watching Cosette and Inga.
“The assignment is to pass through a cellar and exterminate some undesirables festering in the sewers. Some of us are trained in tunnel fighting, so we have an edge.”
“Assuming we get the contract,” completed Baernis with cynicism.
“From what I heard, the villa for the cellar in question was newly acquired by Marquis Evenmist, and the Mayor has taken extra precautions to make it safe. So, he is throwing money at it.”
Soraya’s eyes glittered, almost turning the colour of a golden mead, at the prospect of employment -- with a huge payment.
“He needs mercenaries with experience to fight in dark and in tunnels. We are the ideal choice.”
“Guess what.” The boisterous voice of Inga broke through the regular noises of the tavern. “I know a brothel where the girls provided the men with sheep bladder to prevent pregnancy. They called it condom.”
“I suppose that didn’t work well since you are still born,” taunted the lanky man receiving jeers, and jowls from his friends, complemented by banging of mugs and tankards on wooden tables. All done to celebrate his supposed victory over a drunken debate.
Arms crossed across and with a vicious smug smile of a trapper who cornered their prey, Inga replied. “No, but your father was too hasty to remove the bladder from the sheep first.”
And then the first swing came, followed by another and another.
The proverbial bar brawl broke out.
With resignation, Baernis exchanged a dejected glance with Eddyrn Rubyforged. Now, they are banned from one more not-so-fine establishment.