Chapter 4
“It be a good thing that thee petitioned the great Mother with thy words. In the dark hours, I be more likely to swing first, speak after. State thy business here, standing like as ye be on my doorstep at Windsrest Carrig.” It pointed the club at Danai.
Lunasa’s light revealed a seamed and whiskered face, a shock of silvery hair bushing out from under a rounded cap to match the long silver beard. It was hard to discern where eyebrows ended and hair began. A dark loose-fitting tunic fell to mid-thigh, waist-cinched with a wide belt clasped by a glimmering buckle of intricately wrought gold. Baggy leggings disappeared into heavy-soled boots laced just below the knee.
Swallowing hard, she stepped forward and bowed. Tipping her head back to see his face, she realized she barely stood to his knees. “Good sir,” she hesitated, scrambling for the correct formal words. “We apologize if we intrude on thy home. We are sprytes on a quest for truth, and halted here to spy out the peak named Pyre Tor towards which we journey. No discourtesy was meant, we assure thee.” She wondered if she should have spoken about their search.
“Sprytes, hey, thee says? Hmmm. Had forgotten what short things ye are. Long has it been since any have crossed the ridgestone of Tlarg’s hearth.” He pondered, studying them. Then flashed a brief smile. “Would ye like a bit of a sup? Night is not the best time to be out for small wingless ones. Even short folk such as mine self are well advised to be inside.”
With the question directed at her, Danai had no choice but to speak for her podmates. “Thy kindness would be most welcome good sir. And how shall we call thee?”
“Tlarg,” he grunted. “Of the Troich. And thee?”
“I am Danai of Goldyn Vale.” The others then stepped forward and introduced themselves.
When Tatia spoke, Tlarg chuckled. “Ho, ho! And was it thee who shrilled like an angry cricket to disturb the night, so loud that I heard it down my vent hole?” He turned away, not waiting for an answer. “Come. There are easy steps along here, for all thy smallness. I will wait for ye below.” He slipped over the edge, and only a crunch of boot on stone proved he was not a dream shadow.
“Are you crazed?” whispered Tatia. “He may just want to eat us.”
“Now who’s talking about eating?” Joson said. “Do we really have a choice? Danai has accepted his hospitality. So down we go.” He took a deep breath and started over the edge.
“But what is he?”
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to find out. Hey, remember it’s four against one.” Aaron grinned, stepping forward. For a moment his golden head shimmered above the stone. “And for Lunasa’s sake, please Tatia—no more shrieking.” Tatia muttered something under her breath, then followed.
Danai stood alone on the ledge like a stranded shard of silver. Far off, Pyre Tor flamed blue-white under Lunasa’s glow. It seemed immeasurably distant. With a sigh, she clambered over the ledge. Below she could see Tlarg waiting.
“Wondered if we’d already lost thee to some hungry one,” he joked. “Come, it is but a quick step to my tunevich.” He gestured them through the stone door. As they hastened inside, it swung shut, blocking any possible chance of escape.
Tlarg stumped along, following a well-trod path faintly lit by luminescent stones. They hurried behind, thankful he was only perhaps five times their height and not walking too quickly. In a few moments, a trembling reddish light could be glimpsed down-tunnel. Tlarg’s stride lengthened, forcing them into a quick trot.
“Welcome, thrice welcome, friends.” He had halted at a rough-hewn entryway and turned to motion them inside. “Come. Seat ye by the fire—my table would be too high—and I’ll bring ye some foodstuffs.” As he spoke, he put his knobstick in a nook by the entry, its metal shod foot tinging as it brushed against stone. A darkly grained wood, it sheened in the firelight with the polish of untold seasons. Then he turned and released a heavy hide to curtain the entry.
The well-lit cave was filled with cozy warmth. As they moved towards the hearth, they gazed about in wide-eyed wonderment. Near the left side of the hearth, a pile of coarse-shaped many-hued stones glowed dully, placed within easy reach of a bench laden with some sorts of tools, a tray, and an unfamiliar treadle wheel-driven object. Beside the tray lay brilliantly polished gems that scattered back firelight in rainbow fragments.
In the opposing corner, a rumpled bed sleeve snuggled atop a pallet of dry grasses. Several stools and benches lined the walls. A faint trickling came from behind the tool bench, where a pool of water collected in a deep basin carved from living rock, and was then carried off in a channel over to another basin beside which Tlarg stood preparing food, humming softly, his beard tucked neatly into his belt. Nearby stood a shelf, intricately carved from some dark knotty wood that held an assortment of clayware and other items.
“Ye looks like it has so far been a trying journey,” he remarked, glancing at them. “If ye wishes, I can prepare a bowl of warmed water in which to refresh thyselves.”
Tatia was the first to jump up and accept his offer. “Good sir, thank thee for thy courtesy to unknown wayfarers such as we be.” She scurried over to where he set the bowl, considerately placed behind a wide bench leg for privacy.
By the time Tlarg had readied the meal, they were washed and refreshed. It felt good to rinse off the stickiness and sweat of the past—could it be only three days, Danai thought. They gathered on the woven hearth rug, comfortable against buttocks more recently accustomed to stone and damp wood. Tlarg brought forth a laden wood trencher and set it beside them, then returned with fey-sized mugs of water. Clearly not all Tlarg’s guests were his size, Danai decided. He made a final trip, gathering up a short stool and a large mug that gave forth delicate odors of summer flowers and sweet honey. “Eat, eat, my friends,” he urged, waving the mug over their heads as he settled near them. “I will talk meanwhile, as I would guess from thy many stares ye has not seen the likes of me before.”
A large smile appled his full cheeks as the four sprytes eagerly served themselves from the seeds and thinly-sliced fruits. “Well enough. I be of the Troich, in the common tongue Gem-Dwarves. Ah, I see ye has heard of us, if only from thy taletellers, eh? We be harvesters of gems, the beautiful tears cried by the Mother in her joy at giving birth to the world. See ye those stones piled hither and yon? I delve them from the rocks and dirt, sometimes alone, other times with my brethren. And then these old hands shape and cut to reveal the beauty therein. Many are those that come for the well-wrought gems of Tlarg—even among thy Feyree folk. Ah—surprised be ye? And where didst ye think the stones came for thy Lord and Lady’s crowns worn at the High Seat of Revelstoke on feast days?” He paused, took a long swig, then settled the mug back on his knee. “Lucky were ye that yon maiden shrieked at eventide. I choose not to go out much in the day—it bothers mine old eyes, although the youngsters will brave the light—and often go not out into the wide world for a season or two. Those seeking Tlarg come to me. Happen that I wanted to see the face of Lugh this night, or ye still would be there on my doorstep.” He gave a deep throaty laugh. “Now that ye have taken the edge off thy hunger, tell me more of thy tale.”
The sprytes glanced at each other. Joson and Aaron’s mouths were full, and Danai knew Tatia would not have the nerve. Wiping her mouth, she adjusted her position to properly face Tlarg. He nodded and occasionally quirked a bushy eyebrow as she recounted their short journey. What was not told—Danai preferred to delicately sidestep some of the more emotional moments—was still unwittingly revealed to some degree on their faces. Tlarg was a long-lived dwarf; much could he see of that unspoken.
“So on the morrow, good Tlarg, we will continue our journey to Pyre Tor and the Well of Truth.”
“Um,” he grunted, mulling her tale as he took another swig of mead. “Be a long journey on short legs. What say ye to a shift in plans that will bring ye to the Tor, yet perhaps be a change in thine adventures? A change for the good I hazard.”
Aaron’s head snapped up. The fire’s warmth and good food had nudged him towards drowsiness, but Tlarg’s suggestion sparked him awake. “Sir?”
“My folk, like thine, are long of this realm. Yonder bright stones require much delving in the Mother’s heart. Many be the chambers and tunnels that weave through the hills between here and Meall Clarsair, as we call thy Pyre Tor. It will at least be an interesting journey, mayhap the likes of which ye have never seen, and I shall perchance see some friends along the way.”
There was a muffled snort. Tlarg’s eyes opened wide at Danai’s shaking figure as she tried unsuccessfully to control her mirth. Tears streamed from her eyes as she gave in to laughter.
“Danai, are you all right?” Embarrassed, Joson reached over to shake her shoulder.
“Ye-e-e-s, oh, oh,” she gasped, the storm subsiding into chuckles as she palmed the tears away. “Oh Tlarg, forgive me. I was not laughing at your, uh, thy offer. But truly, this whole journey has been the likes of which we have never seen!”
A wry smile fissured the dwarf’s face. “Youngling has a sense of wit.” He chortled, then shook his head. “I forget that my winters are not thine, and much that is old to me is new to ye. Even so, we will go on march morrowmorn, and continue thy journey.” Heaving up from the stool, he trundled over to the shelf, and returned with soft coverlets which he spread over the hearth rug. As the sprytes snuggled under the rumpled folds, he banked the fire then moved towards his sleeping pallet. “Sleep deep under Lugh,” he bade them.
“May the Mother guard thy dreams,” they chorused. Soon, gentle sighs ruffled the air, punctuated by an occasional crackle from the glowing hearth, and a throttled snore from the corner.
* * *
Tlarg was already bustling about preparing for the journey when they awoke. “At most four days march,” he answered Aaron, “at least as the Troich amble.” The sprytes quickly downed the fruits Tlarg had set out, then refilled their kuis, and tidied up. The dwarf finished wrapping up packets of foodstuffs, and tucked them into a lumpy dirt-stained rucksack. A stoppered water sack already lay on the bench. Once the sprytes had stepped through the entryway, he dropped the cover, and made a quick downward gesture with two hooked fingers, murmuring what Danai guessed to be a guardian spell to prevent unwelcome visitors.
Setting a steady pace that sometimes forced the sprytes into a trot, Tlarg tromped into the hills. The path, smooth-worn by countless boots, twisted its way like a carelessly tossed vine, with the glowstones, as Tlarg called them, revealing dark side-arches that the dwarf explained led to old private workings.
At times, only the soft thud of feet and sharper clump of boots interrupted the quiet. “Tlarg,” Aaron asked during the first rest, “how do thee keep any sense of direction, with no sun or shadows to guide thine eyes?”
“Can thee not smell the differences?” the dwarf asked in surprise.
“Smell?”
“Aye, smell. ‘Tis common knowing that each turning point of the land, be it west or east, north or south, is possessed of its own smell. Eh, I see thee knows nothing of what I speak. Well enough, now is a good time as any for some teachings. Now breathe—no lad, through thy nose! Breathe deeply.”
The sprytes obeyed, their noses twitching like rabbits’. “Smells like dirt to me,” Joson blurted.
Tlarg laughed hugely. “Well, aye, there is that for sure. Expect thee aught else when under earth? Nay, I will guide thy nose. Smell for metal. Has a sharp, sourish scent, different from dirt. Here, sniff this—it will start ye on the right road.” He held forth his blade, pulled easily from its thigh sheath. Each spryte sniffed gingerly. “Now smell again the air; hold thy mouth slightly open as well. Our folk call it ‘tasting the air.’”
“I smell it!” Joson fairly hopped on one foot with excitement. “It’s faint, almost like, like...” he grappled for the word, “like the taste of winter water scooped from the mountain streambed.”
“Good, good,” Tlarg beamed. “Are smelling the north, the direction in which we march.”
“What smells are the other directions?” Danai asked.
“I will ‘smell them’ to thee until thy own nose recognizes the scents. West be a burnt smell, much like last season’s burned wood after a rain. East smells of grass fresh-plucked, clean yet faintly sweet, like berries nearly ripe. South is of hot sun on old flowers, almost too sweet. The smells, they shift and blend as one marches the tunnels. See ye. All turnabout and walk a few steps from where we came.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Tatia, who had been mostly quiet. “I smell kingcup and lily bells.”
“Good! Now all turn very slowly, and smell as ye turn.”
As she concentrated, Danai marveled at the shifting patterns of odors that filtered up her nostrils. She saw that the dwarf was right about smells being more pronounced if she held her mouth ajar. Flowers, grass, metal, fire. “Does this work above ground as well?” she asked.
“Aye,” nodded the dwarf, re-shouldering his sacks. “But there on the outside, it is harder, with so many other scents hurrying about on the back of the breeze.” He winked at her. “Happens our tunnels are not known for their flowers and grass.”
Direction sniffing kept them busy on the next leg of the march, and the sprytes competed for Tlarg’s approval. At what the dwarf said was mid-day, they halted by a sluggish underground creek. The sprytes were thankful for the break, and there was much rubbing of tender feet and tight leg muscles. As they ate, at Danai’s request, he shared with them a bit of Troich lore.
“Hearken ye then, to the true tale of the Tuil Mor. Troich have been here perhaps longer than most other folks,” the dwarf began, settling himself more comfortably on a humped stone. “The Mother called us forth at the dawn of the world to help shape her creation. The Troich-eldrich, the elder dwarves, were larger than us nowadays, and worked unflinching in the sunshine. We lived mostly above the earth then. Some say the Mother made us smaller when our work for her was done, others...” Tlarg frowned, then continued.
“The Troich-eldrich worked with the Mother for many upon many seasons. For a time, she gave them the power to call forth forces to carve the mountains, scrape basins out to cradle lakes, to chisel and crack the rock face, to mound and shape the earth. Forces of great power they were—wind, lightening, storms, rain—but always under the final command of the Mother. Hamorg was the Maighstir—master in thy tongue—and each morn, he reviewed the fruits of the previous day’s labors and planned that day’s work with the Mother.
“She saved our realm of Lughadon for the last, sparing no detail in crafting a place beyond beauty. Soft were the swelling green hills, noble the climbing mountains, bright the flowers that danced among the meadows. No water compared for sweetness, no breeze carried such fragrances, no soil brought forth so much bounty.” Tlarg paused, his eyes seeing something beyond the tunnel walls.
“And so the seasons passed and passed, and once our work was complete, the Mother blessed us for our labors, and let us free to delight in the land we had helped craft. But as often happens when there is too much good and life is easy, some Troich grew restless and desired to create change for change’s sake.”
“Morathag, who traced his lineage back to Hamorg, felt beauty was not enough to live by and called a Comhairle—a gathering of elders representing each clan, for our folk gathered in groups much like thy vales. Morathag bespoke a vision from the Mother commanding he lead the folk under earth for a great water was forthcoming. Yet none would at first believe his prophesy. He ranted on the crest of Shamargadon—a great chambered cairn high-risen above a golden plain—and swore by all we honored that his was not a dream but a true vision.”
“The folk doubted, wavered, wondered. Was he not in the right line of descent from Hamorg? And a storm arose even as they debated, and lightening flared, and wind wailed, and a strange sickly green fire flickered down from the clouds and darted among the grasses. Morathag cried out that it was even as the Mother had foretold him, warning that the waters would come soon after. ‘To earth,’ he cried.”
“And a panic devoured us, and we scrambled down inside the great cairn, and we pleaded with the Mother to grant us life, and we vowed to do her all honor, even as Morathag directed. And we named him Maighstir, and swore to obey him as high Chief Tain.”
“He ordered us to dig, and delve under the meadows, probing ever farther up into the hills, seeking out the beautiful gifts of the Mother—gold, silver, and gems. And our smythes wrought these into things of great beauty. Goblets carved from a single gem, crowns twisted with carnelian, topaz, and sapphires, blades runed with cunning scrollery and hilted in gems.”
“For many seasons we did as ordered, creating a new realm within the darkness. Morathag permitted only his chosen few to leave, and forbade our digging more than a few exits, ever cautioning of the impending waters, even as he built a marvelous dwelling atop Shamargadon. But most found that out only later, for we were kept away from the cairn in our tunnels, and stepped out only to hunt and food-forage. There were murmurs of how the mead flowed, and gems were gifted, and of the revelry as he hosted gatherings among many folk. And Morathag crafted a craving among these folk for wealth and boughten beauty. And they in turn took up pursuits so that they would have barter and desirable commerce for Morathag.”
“Often I wonder that none of these folk seemed to question from whence came the many treasures of Morathag, nor asked about where his kinfolk lived. Yet he was ever a great speaker and most likely told them a pretty tale. And all the while, as she does always, the Mother was watching. Watching her beautiful world warp into one where folk celebrated and fought for the joys of ownership, instead of savoring the gifts of life given.”
“Seldom does the Mother speak. Hence many feel a need to put words into her mouth, even as did Morathag. But there comes a time she will speak. It may be a creature she raises above all others, often marked in a way not at first understood. Or she will call the great Powers forth to remind all who indeed created this realm, who gifted them life.”
“Be wary of thy untruths for they will haunt thee in the days to come. Such is a saying among my folk. And so did Morathag’s much-heralded vision finally come to pass. Came a spring of rain. Seeping rain. Creeping rain. Pushing the great waters that surrounded Lughadon before it, slithering down the mountains’ slopes to pool, swelling lakes, covering shrubs and small plants, gurgling up the sides of trees until their roots floated free, and they toppled. And soon the lakes joined hands with the great waters, and the land began to drown. On the flatlands south, our tunnels collapsed. Only the lucky ones escaped into the high mountains, pursued by the hungry waters. Well do I remember the sucking sounds made as the water gargled up those tunnels, ever closer to those of us huddled in unheeded prayer in our highest tunevich. Others likewise escaped into the highest reaches, but many died. Many, many died.” Tlarg halted. Behind him the water gurgled and gulped, echoing a tragedy past.
“And Morathag?” Danai whispered after some moments had elapsed. “What happened to him?”
The dwarf started, then a slow grim smile oozed across his face. “One who preaches false visions must be prepared for when they come true. Morathag perhaps did not believe the truth when he saw it. He perched upon Shamargadon, like a bird of ill-omen, fleeing to the highest tower, and waited. Waited until long after it was too late to come down, for the tunnels were flooded. And under the hungry wash of waters, the cairn dissolved and collapsed into itself, swallowing Morathag, all his fripperies, and his toadying court. None have ever returned willingly to that cursed spot, though some say that he and his dwelling remain entombed within. It is known as Marbh Cnoc, the dead hill, and lies south of thy Goldyn Vale.”
“How long did the waters stay?” Joson asked.
“Long enough that my beard half-changed from black to silver. Long enough that we invited other folk into our tunnels, and we helped each other to survive, sharing skills and knowledge. It was then that I first met the Fey folk. Long enough that when the waters finally retreated, they left behind a land so buried in mud and barren of living things, it was a place unknown.” He shook his head sadly. “Lughadon was gradually reborn in the seasons after the Tuil Mor, the great flood, but only as a memory, a paler shadow of the glory it once had been. The Troich created a new home among the hills and mountains, with the wisdom to carve doorways out to the Mother’s world and stay in contact with the other folk. And they vowed never again to grant any the title of Maighstir, nor to give any complete power as we had Morathag. Now, it is the Comhairle who must choose by vote, and every Troich may speak his piece. None are higher or lower than the other, and greatness is earned with deeds, not words.”
Tlarg heaved himself up. “Come. We are near Dumarg’s tunevich, and I think it likely he will let us bide this night.” Leaping lightly across the glowstones moored in the streambed, he strode onward. The sprytes scrambled to catch up, slipping and splashing through the water, shouting for him to wait.
* * * * *