Charomera

The 15th of Thargelion

The Year 4631 in the Era of Mortals

The fury of Grimmolt Sidergrothia did not rage like an inferno or burn like cold steel. It did not express itself in mindless destruction or make itself known through venomous words. Instead, as Lyssa stood before the dwarf in the dwindling light of the setting sun, she bore witness to a kind of rage she had never known before. A rage that throttled a soul and made it wholly new.

“That beast attacked my clan. I will see it dead.”

Every word rang with the calm assuredness of a heliast delivering a decree.

“And how many more lives will you spend to see that judgment placed?” Gigator rumbled.

They had gone back and forth on this point for half an hour, turning the basecamp’s planning tent into a verbal battleground. Enough for the sky to turn from blue to orange to purple.

“Every life. I will spend every stone-cursed life to avenge my kin.”

Grimmolt did not back down from Gigator, despite being less than a third his size. Gigator, meanwhile, had been trying to talk the dwarf down from sacrificing the rest of his clan in a petty desire for vengeance. The change that had overcome Grimmolt was remarkable and strange to Lyssa. Upon her arrival, he had been level-headed, if furious. He had understood the situation and reliably directed his clan to act. Now that the threat was not immediate, his rhetoric had turned raving in an unnaturally calm way.

“When your family is turned to stone and crushed into gravel, you can dictate to me the reason of my actions, lizard. Until then, my people are my own.”

“Our people,” Lyssa corrected, joining the conversation for the first time since it started. “I may not have been as close to your dwarves as you, Grimmolt, but they were citizens of Myriatos. I mourn with you.”

“Save your mourning for the weak, elf. My kin will rest easy in the halls of memory when the monster that slew them is dead.”

“And if you join them instead? Who will avenge you? Who will send you to your rest? Who will read your rites and sing your songs?”

Grimmolt scowled, anger burning into his countenance. Strangely, the effect was almost a comfort to Lyssa. Anger was familiar, a manageable emotion. The rage displayed earlier was far more disconcerting. It aroused memories in her that were better left forgotten. Memories of a boisterous hunt in the Sylv some ten years ere.

“I will not sit here and be lectured on my people’s customs by an elf.”

“Good, I am no lecturer,” Lyssa said flatly, meeting Grimmolt’s eyes. “I have every interest in hunting down that basilisk. We can either formulate a plan to do so safely or I can have my guards withdraw, let you run your entire clan into extinction, and we can figure out a way to kill it after you’re dead.”

Grimmolt’s scowl deepened but, beneath her answering glare, he was the first to break eye-contact.

“Curse it thrice. I take it you have a plan, Archousa?”

“I do. We track the beast down and kill it. Its gaze is deadly but I believe I have injured one of its eyes. We must find a way to engage with the beast without meeting its remaining eye.”

“Can’t you ambush its other eye like you did the first?”

“Unlikely. I was lucky to make the shot I did. There is too little chance I will be so lucky again. We did not have time, before. We have time enough, now.”

“Bring the mages in, then. I hear your healer woman, Odelia, has skill with gaiamancy.”

“We will send for her,” Gigator said. “Though I do not expect her to render aid in that capacity. She has made clear that she intends to heal only and does not wish to contribute to further fighting.”

Grimmolt’s face twisted into a snarl.

“Six hours,” he said. “You have six hours before me and mine take our vengeance. Make whatever plans you will.”

With that, the patriarch of the Sidergrothia clan left the tent. Gigator took a deep breath and watched the dwarf leave.

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“His grief is making him foolish.”

“And who among us can blame him,” Lyssa replied. “It’s a wonder we were able to stop him at all.”

“He does not want his people dead, despite his words. Nor does he wish to appear weak. Having an elf as an authority cannot be easy for him, no matter how sound the judgment and advice.”

“Cannot be easy for him?” Lyssa echoed. “The conflicts between our people were settled millennia ago. It is nearly out of the memory of my own people and there are still those alive today who fought in those wars.”

“Dwarven experience is wholly different. You elves may have long memories, but the dwarves are longer still. Mountain and stone remain long after your forests have thinned away. Unlike your precious wood, a stone cannot change what it is. It always remembers.”

Lyssa frowned.

“I am surprised they elected to remain with Myriatos at all, if that is the case.”

Gigator gave a grim smile.

“And where else would they go? The mountain homes they abandoned? Ship’s Shape, the city that claims to be tolerable to all and yet would abuse them at every turn? I think not. They have thrown their lot in with you, Archousa, but that does not mean they have to like it.”

Lyssa rubbed two fingers against her brow.

“Do you know many dwarves, to be so wise to their ways?”

“My childhood home was neighbored to a kingdom of dwarves. There was great sympathy between our peoples.”

“Sympathy?”

“Anything that is too ‘other’ is degraded in the world of humans. Ask your friend Abraxios if you doubt my words. My people relocated themselves at the dawn of the Era of Mortals to a land where they would be free to cultivate themselves outside of the reach of men. Deep in the marsh and bog, away from marching armies.”

“And yet you stand here.”

Gigator smiled.

“And yet. If you will excuse me, Archousa, I have a runner to send.”

“Of course, Captain.”

Lyssa exited the tent and looked up at the sky. The sun had crept behind the horizon, though there was still purple in the west. Selene was bright and full, but Agrotera was barely a crescent in the dark, giving the land a sapphire tinge. Lyssa grimaced. Agrotera was lucky for hunters, but that moon wouldn’t grow full again for another seven days. Much too long to wait before they faced their foe.

Lyssa’s gaze landed on the mouth of the mine, where four guards watched for threats, two looking inward, two outward. Close to them stood a group of nine dwarves, foremost among them was Grimmolt. He spoke to his clan but turned and caught her eye. She did not approach, not wanting to intrude. After a few moments, Grimmolt separated from his kin and joined her near the cliffside ledge that looked out over the valley.

“I hate you for what happened, elf.”

Lyssa said nothing. There was nothing she could say that would change his feelings on the matter, but the anger was something she understood. She had made the decision to use the dwarves to create the mine. She had haggled down their guard accompaniment, knowing that the work was dangerous. She was the leader of the village. She held threefold the blame.

“I hate you,” the dwarf repeated. “And at the same time, I am grateful to you. You saved the rest of my kinfolk. Three lives were lost, but three were saved. Without you, all six would be dead.”

“Without me, all six would be spared. The mine would not exist.”

“Neither would the village. The beastmar would have hunted us for sport. I am not blind to my own part in this mess, there is hate enough to be shared. Do not argue with me when I show my gratitude.”

Lyssa arched an eyebrow but otherwise said nothing. Grimmolt grumbled wordlessly for a moment, then produced a small pipe. He took the time to fill it, light it, then huff it before he spoke again.

“You acted as a leader. I respect that – but I am a leader, too. My people have died for yours, now. I would have that debt from you.”

“Your people are my people, Grimmolt,” Lyssa said. “You are Myriatosians, the same as I and everyone else in the valley. I will grieve your fallen and avenge them with my own hand. If there are ways sacred to your remembrance, I will follow them out of respect. You have trusted me and I will honor that.”

Grimmolt huffed his pipe for several seconds, blowing a cool cloud of smoke into the night air.

“I did not expect you to arrive so quickly and without escort,” he said. “Nor did I expect you to enter the mine without support. When you did, I could not fathom your purpose. You are an elf. You could not save my kin.”

Grimmolt grumbled unintelligibly for a moment, clearly struggling to voice his thoughts.

“I could not fathom an elf risking their life to save a dwarf. I have heard your big words about your hopes for Myriatos but I never before believed that you factored us into those dreams. After today, you have convinced me. While I hate you for what has been lost, I am grateful to you for what has been saved. These things are true.”

The last words were spoken with such finality that it sounded less like a statement and more like a capstone. Grimmolt, however, was not done.

“You have said that you will join our hunt, that you will fight this creature with us personally. Is this still true?”

“It is.”

“Then, upon our success, I will name you a friend of my people. The first elf to be so in Sidergrothia Clan’s history. What say you, elf?”

“You honor me, dwarf.”

Grimmolt grunted and continued smoking his pipe. The silence stretched out before them as they stared over the valley. The lights of Myriatos were like fireflies in the distance. Small and twinkling but shining bright against the dark forest beyond.

Myriatos. A city to last ten thousand years. Her home.

A lovely dream threatened every day.