Book 2: Dirt Diver’s Dance
Just Dessert, I’m Pretty Full Ch: 8
Out in a craggy mountain vale, far from anything and inaccessible to most flightless beings, Iznitz smelled dwarf… or maybe man…? Either way, meat was meat and he needed to feed. Trapped in the little wooded valley, unable to climb out, he was slowly starving… and had been for so long.
Moths, grubs, squirrels, bird’s nests… even tree bark… he’d eaten everything he could find, dig up or catch as he wandered through the mountains, maimed and broken.
Only through dumb luck, by falling from the heights, had he discovered this sheltered vale and the grove of trees standing by a spring fed pool.
The hickory nuts he rooted for among the leaf litter and fallen debris failed to do more than keep him alive; but it was all he had, so he nested there and slept.
Late that day, when the burning sun was up, the wind shifted and he smelled meat! Faint, barely detectable and strange to his senses, but he needed it so badly.
He followed the scent up a slope, skidding and sliding on his feet… since he had no arms at all… Again he cursed the goblin king… that sneaky, cruel little turd.
He’d found that little town of goblin girls, fair and square, leaping over their palisade and snatching one or two up for some fun and a snack was his right… They were meat and flesh, he was troll.
When the single goblin male had challenged him he’d been cross over the distraction… Nobody liked to be interrupted while he was busy eating one girl and enjoying the pitiful screams of the others…
That was the night everything went wrong for poor, hungry Iznitz. The night he learned to fear and what it meant to be powerless.
He shook off those dark memories… called up from the past by this scent. This smell was vaguely like that tall, terrible goblin’s… more than vaguely perhaps.
He disregarded that thought and climbed on, struggling his way up the mountainside with naught but two feet and his mouth.
More than one scraggly bush bore the tooth marks of once mighty Iznitz… as he struggled to keep from slipping down the slope.
In a fissure of stone he found the smell, a trail of repeated passings; protected from the wind and weather by a tunnel of worked stone, hidden in the cleft. He crept down that bare tunnel of cut stone, until it ended at a blank wall of immovable rock. Somehow, the meat passed by this obstruction, and would probably emerge again soon, by the scent lingering on the stones. The trail smelt recent, crossing over itself again and again. Canny and clever, he settled in to lurk and wait and scratch the awful, painful lumps lodged deep in his body.
#
Fourthday was his ‘day off’, according to the Craft Masters, one day to pursue his own crafts and arts unsupervised. If he could find the resources and get access to a workshop; without being ordered into some drudgery by a higher ranked apprentice or journeyman.
One day a week was all he had to himself, if he could avoid being roped into doing another’s chores or duties. At fourteen years old nameless, kinless and still without an official apprenticeship, everyone outranked him, even little kids that were still deucing their drawers…
He learned the art of stealth and moving unnoticed quickly, living under the thumbs of the entire hold. Someone always needed mending, sewing, laundry, boots repaired or a pot re-tinned.
Evading random chores was a skill he struggled to master, though he did manage to steal some time occasionally.
Materials for his crafts posed different challenges. Finding stone, metal and small gems was simple, only silver and gold held the Masters’ and clan lord’s attention, just as only rubies, sapphires, diamonds and such could distract them from the precious metals they loved.
Iron and mild steel, copper, bronze, brass and tin were plentiful, he needed only scavenge for low grade ore and painstakingly smelt and purify it, or scavenge from the smelt bins by the forges, when no one was paying attention.
Opal, agate, jade, so many minor, flawed and semi precious stones sat around in dusty bins, filching those was simple too.
Lumber was always a problem; every stick of wood was jealously guarded, traded from the lumbermen who made the trek up the mountains with their precious stuff to trade for dwarven tools, arts and crafts.
He’d never seen those humans, or even heard their voices, since he was always ordered to work in the lower mine levels on the rare market days.
Even when the traders came on Fouthday, his supposed ‘day off’ the Craft Masters always found him before he could get past the apprentice’s gate.
Today would be a productive trip, he had marked the trees he would harvest, planning for this with care for weeks now.
Gandree reset the seals on the inner doors and began working the outer seals, slowly drawing the slabs back with his will and a small amount of his blood, shaped and empowered in the potent, ancient rune forms that his ‘Craft Masters’ had long forgotten.
Silent and ponderous when opening, the slabs rotated up and back in their smooth polished grooves, not even the faintest rumbling sound accompanied the movement.
That marvelous working of the old, forgotten masters saved his life, as he heard something scramble toward him from the tunnel mouth. The doors swung closed much more swiftly, when he released them from his Will.
With a terrible crunching and a wet, noisome splat, the young dwarf found himself looking at slightly less than half of a troll, brutally pinched off at the hips, with a ragged and horrifying ruin of wet, bloody… stuff dragging behind, as it inch-wormed toward him with a ravenous look in it’s eyes.
Almost as horrifying as the ruin of its lower half; the being’s shoulders ended in old puckered scars rather than arms.
The broken, armless, legless and barely alive thing was too wrecked to do more than creep toward the young dwarf, emitting pitiful, hungry moans.
The lad made a snap decision, seeing a glimmer of his own situation in the pathetic wretch. With quick, sure moves, he drew the signs on the walls in his own blood, from his still bleeding thumb. Traps and wards older than any living memory of dwarfkind slowly sprang back to life, drawing a trickle of energy from him, through those traces of blood.
He felt something inside, as he drew more magic from himself and slowly fed it into the runes. He felt his Mana pool empty and pushed on past the familiar ache and empty feeling in his stomach, seeking more; there had to be more… there was always more when he really needed it.
He found it, deep inside; answering his call. He drew the balance of what was needed from a swelling and suddenly very present part of himself… deep in his ribcage.
As a strange, welcome warmth bloomed inside his heart, the creature’s slow attack halted. The floor beneath the creature sank down, dropping as it scooted forward on its chin, ever so slowly. Only a narrow walkway on the side of the hidden pit remained, allowing passage down the tunnel.
Wards and runes appeared on the walls of the shallow pit, binding, restraining and isolating the thing from the world in an invisible jar of magical force.
“Can you speak, creature?” Gandree asked the slavering wretch, as he pulled a long handled woodsmans’ axe from his shadow. “You look less like a beast than I would expect.”
“Come closer, meat… Iznitz needs your flesh…” It gasped, through ragged and torn lips slashed by its own jagged fangs, lips that healed even as the young dwarf watched.
“You’re a troll… aren’t you? Is that your name? Iznitz?” He asked. “What happened to your arms? I thought your kind could grow back any lost limb.”
“Feed me, meat!” It howled, thrashing and crawling around the circle seal trap; the creature mewled and scrambled, gnashing with its fangs at imobile walls of magic, force, art and craft.
“No.” He answered coldly, finding less in common with this thing than he’d thought. “Tell me of the outside world and perhaps I’ll find something for you.”
The creature spat and snarled, howled and moaned incoherently, so the lad went about his mission. He slipped past the imprisoned monster and out into the little hidden vale.
Smaller trees were scattered around, broken and uprooted; the pool was cloudy and muddy, the stones bordering the neat and tidy pond scattered and overturned. The fish were gone, eaten or lost over the falls, no doubt. Those trout were a huge loss. He’d been feeding the fish hickory nuts, mushroom meal bread and scraps, tending them with big plans for his escape in mind…
He sighed at the mess the beast had made of his hickory coppice. He’d been cultivating the little grove for two years in secret, providing the wood needed for his personal crafts, since the craft masters watched those precious commodities with jealous zeal.
Any theft of lumber would be discovered instantly; even scraps or remnants larger than a toothpick were precious enough to draw their ire.
Discovering the forgotten tunnel and hidden vale with its tiny grove of slender hardwood trees was a huge deal for the, then twelve year old dwarf lad. It remained a resource he would kill to protect. He salvaged what he could, replanted the trees he had hope might survive and harvested the pieces he’d come for.
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A few of the tough saplings would provide what he needed; a spear shaft, a hand axe handle and some random odds and ends. The thick bolled yellow pine he’d been planning to let grow for at least another year needed to come down too. The creature had stripped and eaten the bark from its former head height, down to the ground… that tree was dead.
Six hours later, Gandree staggered back into the tunnel, exhausted and filthy, but with more than he’d expected from the trip, stashed in his shadow, hidden where the Craft Masters would never find it.
When he returned, the creature’s lower half had healed into a smooth stump, with no traces of its ruined legs to be seen at the bottom of the noisome pit. It resumed its loud demands for meat and that he step inside the trap and submit to being devoured…
“Shut up, asshole… Did you eat your own legs and tackle? Gross!”
“Meat is meat is meat… meat!” It wailed, before renewing its demands that he climb between its jaws and feed his rightful master.
Slowly, the hidden working of the trap began to move, raising the pitiful creature back up to the tunnel floor.
“Yes! Submit, submit and feed me!” Was all it could say, before his long axe flashed out, taking the top of its dome off and spilling troll brains all over the floor.
He stomped the gooey gray lump flat, then started the grisly work of actually killing the filthy thing for good.
Cutting through the tough hide, he skinned it as carefully as he could, surprising himself with a very intact hide.
“Huh… I can do this too…” Gandree mumbled, as he collected every scrap of the creature… Bones, hide, heart and entrails, every piece of the monster had some value… It was true, meat, bones and flesh were just meat, bones and flesh, once the motive spirit fled. Oddly he found a few small lozenge shaped sherds of worked obsidian jammed deep in the creature’s body… Fragments that had been shaped and inscribed with a curse of festering and un-healing wounds. That was interesting.
“You were right about the one thing you knew, asshole.” He murmured as he packed away his messy loot.
The clan lord’s table always complained about the scarcity of meat… often accusing him of stealing the precious stuff… which he absolutely did, whenever he could get away with it.
He’d been working kitchen duty since he was old enough to stand… and still had never tasted many of the dishes he’d learned to make. Unranked apprentices survived on mushroom meal bread, cave lettuce salads and the occasional bit of meat deemed unworthy of the higher tables.
In a clan where even the toughest, least desirable cuts were too precious for the lowest of the low, meat remained forever out of his reach, even as he worked with the stuff every morning and night.
He’d stolen the scraps to make gristle and fat pies, sinew soup and bone broth to get even a taste of meat…
The thought of eating that thing disgusted him, but the stodgy, cranky old masters… They would find their meat pies and glazed roasts teased their jaded palates in some slightly new ways, once their cookslave was back at work…
His smile became a little cruel and vicious, as he considered the fair swaps and even trades he would be making over the next few weeks in the kitchen.
“Meat is meat, indeed.”
#
“Things were pretty uneventful after that, until the day before my twentieth birthday, when I would become ClansWard…” He paused for a moment and smiled up at the graven image above the on the stone, smiling benevolently from behind her mask that was featureless, aside from that smile of warm, loving acceptance and delight.
“Or rather I would have been made clan slave, for the rest of my life.”
“What happened that day?” She murmured softly, right into his ear. She had crawled over and curled up on Petunia, and was resting her tiny chin on his shoulder, completely engrossed in his tale.
“Tell tell, boy who is silent when he should speak, yet speaks to trolls.”
#
Gandree finished cleaning up the kitchen after his breakfast shift, under the watchful and suspicious eyes of the Master Chef, whose skills the young dwarf had long since mastered, expanded on to their logical end points and disregarded as less than useful.
With the brisk efficiency of long practice, he packed away the victuals and supplies. Flour, salt, precious sugar and butter, all traded from the men who lived somewhere below the mountain hold, were jealousy guarded. The canisters were watched closely until he set them in the secure pantry. Likewise pepper, tea, chilis, dried lowland vegetables and of course, meat were all monitored from the Master’s high seat, until he’d finished and all that was left was the dishes and scrubbing.
“Clean this shameful mess, Foundling. It had best be neat and clean as a maiden’s beard when I return for luncheon.” He smirked and pointed to the remnants of his own breakfast lying cold on his desk.
“You may enjoy the bounty of my goodwill… once you are done scrubbing up.”
He surveyed the mess and sighed. Cooking for the upper tables and journeymen was the worst parts of his day, second only to the cleanup. He cursed at his growling guts and got to work. It would be just like Master Honraek to creep back in, hoping to catch him disobeying orders.
He worked on and on, cleaning up the mess he’d made in his labors. He loaded up food waste, cut offs, cast offs, floor sweeping and all the trash into the metal garbage canisters and sealed them up tight. Then he got to scrubbing the dishes, plied up mountain high.
An hour and half later, he was scrubbing the lord’s own fine china dishes, imported from afar at terrible cost. They were always last, washed in fresh water and buffed dry before being stowed away securely.
He smiled at the empty counters. Not a single dirty pot, kettle or dish remained. The kitchen shone, not a single tool, knife spoon or cup out on the counters or lying about. The floor was spotless, as were the stove and counters… he dropped the last metal canister onto his kitchen cart and started the long journey to the waste pits with a smile on his lips.
#
“I finished my duties that morning, pulled out my flute and marched my happy ass through the hold, straight to the forbidden gate. I waited for a curious or bossy dwarf to stomp up, popped it open and started the whole thing popping off… on my terms.”
“That’s a strange ending to your tale…” She mumbled, dissatisfied and a bit grumpy about it. She reached out and tugged his ear gently. “Finish is needed… so I can sleep sleep.”
“Well, I got dressed after showing my ass, flipped ‘em the old double bird and started marching. I wanted to be well away by lunchtime…” He sighed happily.
“A smart boy might have waited ‘til after lunchies, or perhaps not done their scrubbing that day.” She shrugged and smiled. “Interested… tell tell.” Her breath on his ear was… pleasant. He’d had a lot of people breathing down his neck all his life, this was the first time it felt nice.
“That was the afternoon before my twentieth birthday…” He sighed, sounding like an old man. “Happy birthday to me.”
“Oooh, so now tell how you met the beautiful princess and her doggies!” Daisybelle chittered softly, wriggling a little closer.
The warmth of the day had eased into his bones, slowly melting them into a soft, gooey and comfortable pile, so he rambled on, enjoying her attention and basking in new things.
“I scampered down the road, but nightfall caught me on this narrow, windy, barren rock. There wasn’t a space I could encamp, so I sheltered under this stone and worked my arts to conceal myself from any angry pursuers…” He smiled up at the beautiful stone face above them.
“Her gaze inhibits some of my gifts, so we’re safe here, but I can’t use some of my arts under the lady’s eyes.”
“Pursuers? Do they hunt the banished ones for food? Your tribe is strange.” Daisy was wide awake and listening closely to his every word.
“They will certainly be hunting me for food. I robbed the kitchens, storehouses and workshops of all I could carry on my way out.” He smiled warmly up at the lady Cowl. “They’re probably stumbling mad and wondering where all that stuff went.”
“Did you pitch their goods down a mountainside?” She gasped in delight. “Wasteful wicked boy… We’ll salvage it!”
“Nope, it’s all securely tucked away. I just can’t get to it… there’s a lot.” He sighed and slowly wriggled out from under her.
“It’s lunch time. Let me step out and get you something.” He mumbled with an embarrassed smile.
“Faugh, you have no foods, my doggies know. Just say you need to make poops and go.” She grumbled, watching him as he headed for the edge of the overhang. “Jasmine, Nightshade, go with him.”
“Uh…” He mumbled, on the edge of the strange effect covering the makeshift camp. “I need to be alone and unobserved.”
“No good, boy. Troll dumb is a special kind of numbskull… he will come backsies, double mad and stupid hungry.” She shook her head. “I’ll go with you… won’t look… Promise!”
When he stubbornly refused, she grinned sweetly.
“Boy is a super shy pooper…”
“Gods above and below…” He sighed. “Just close your eyes, all of you. Except Cowl… she can’t.” He huffed in annoyance and turned his back, slipping just out of sight into the bushes.
When he returned a moment later, Daisy grumbled. “No good comes of forcing it so quickly… Did you even bury your scat? shameful!”
In his hands he had a basket of dishes and lidded metal pans, a clay ewer stopped with a cork and a… shovel? Daisy shook her head and sighed. Maybe he’d dug a shithole already.
He leaned his shovel against a low boulder he’d been sitting on, and started opening up his metal pans. A rich, meaty aroma spilled out, savory and warm.
“I’ve never actually had one of these., I’ve just tasted the parts while making them… and only enough to get it right, or chef would beat me.”
Each wide, shallow pan held a golden, crusty meat pie, still steaming hot from the oven. The scent set the wargs to grumbling and whining, while thrashing each other with their tails.
He dished one pie up into a pair of earthenware bowls and set three more out for the massive wolfhounds. He broke the crust on top for them and stirred the buttery pastry into the meaty stew inside.
He poured bowls of cold, crystal clear spring water from his jug and smiled as his companions attacked the food.
“I really hope it’s good… we’re eating the clanlord’s lunch.”
#
It was good… so good… the boy neatly packed all the tins and dishes away in his basket, stoppered his jug and stepped out for a moment. When he came back, it was all gone.
“You leave dishes and food things outside and you will draw growlybears. They are sniffy and always hungry.”
“Your friends didn’t smell them, neither will the bears.” He sighed confidently as he picked up his shitshovel and put it in his lap.
“You hold your doo-doo-diggy weirdly close… boy who poops swiftly.” She giggled at the fool. “Do you worry you might need to diggy a hole right here?”
He brushed his fingers over the weird handle and… music came out. A little metallic and strange, but sweet, clanging and sharp… just like a poo-pit-positioner should sound… If it were a musical instrument!
She squinted in the too too bright daylight and saw thin, shiny strings and a nested tangle of very familiar markings all over the tuneful toilet tool… but king papa never made something like this!
The boy opened his mouth and began to sing a strange song…
I lit out from Reno…
I was trailed by twenty hounds.
Didn't get to sleep that night,
Till the morning came around…
Daisy pulled her hoop drum from Nightshade’s ruff, joining his song on the second measure, thudding along and learning the changes as she went.
I set out runnin' but I take my time,
A friend of the Devil is a friend of mine…
If I get home before daylight,
I just might get some sleep tonight!
His song wound to a soft close, under the smiling gaze of this new goddess, as the strange girl plopped down beside him on his rock and leaned her back against his.
#
*twenty four hours earlier*
In a deep mountain stronghold, secured against trespass by unassailable crafts older than the memories of even the oldest dwarf, the Craft Masters and Clan nobles sat down to luncheon and… nothing arrived.
Furious, the lord ordered Master Delgrath into the kitchens. “Go, go and beat whoever is at Foundling… Er, I mean at fault!”
Delgarth stomped down the short hall and into an empty kitchen. Master Honraek stood there, in his immaculate white coat and apron of office. The secure storage pantry hung open, the locks picked and wards cut. Trash barrels of rubbish sat where bins of luxuries and precious things once sat…
Chef stood there poleaxed and silent, in a spotlessly clean kitchen that was entirely bereft of any foods, pots, pans, knives, dishes or even a worthless…
“Foundling…!!!”
In his fury and confusion Delgarth forgot for a moment that he himself had just helped strip, shave and cast out the very foundling he shouted into the vast kitchen for, promising dire punishments.
All around the hold the cries went up as workshops found not just valuable and rare things, but also many common, everyday items were simply gone, as if spirited away.
The alarm bells rang out all through the hold… They had been robbed, thoroughly and completely!
#
“They can probably scrape up enough tools and supplies to get through til market day… if they can share. I didn’t leave anybody un-burgled and I didn’t need that many hammers and picks…”
“You speak as though you pilfered some mighty trove of goods…” She yawned and snuggled closer, beside him on his rocky seat.
“I might have run off with a bit of loot…” He said with a wicked smile. “No more than I could carry, though.”
He played his shov-ulele for a while, until the girl started to snore, still leaning against him and smiling.
#