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have a tale to tell you,
young ones. Come sit down by the hearth.
(excited chatter as the dwarflings settle themselves around the narrator)
Are your mouths closed and your ears wide?
(every small head nods vigorously, eyes sparkling at the traditional phrase –
something of a trick question, because if they answer aloud they obviously do
not have their ‘mouths closed’)
Then hear and learn from the story of the Midnight Morjual.
(the narrator allows himself a smile at the children and begins, in the
rolling formal style of dwarven tale-telling)
In the Thrumgolz Clan of the Low Fore Mountains, just westerly of the Ancythrian
Sea, there lived a dwarf lad whose name was Bruk. Bruk he was named but
Ungerthom was he called – ‘Plain-headed’ or ‘Ugly-faced’, that is – for his
countenance was not of the most pleasing to look upon.
His brow was broad as a dwarf’s should be, but high and bulbous to boot. His
nose was an insignificant half-shroom, not much more prominent than a human’s,
and his chin gave promise of only a scraggly beard rather than the bushy glory
which defines a male Thergerim’s face. Nor was his stature much better. His
shoulders were not thick with muscle as the other youths’, nor his chest the
deep breathbox that a dwarf should boast. His build was bony and lanky, with the
big dwarven hands at the end of surprisingly long gangling arms...in short, no
Thrumgolzim lass had cast her eye upon Ungerthom, nor seemed likely to.
To make it worse, perhaps because of his humanish stature, he had not the
coordination which dwarven craftsmanship requires, combined with an uncanny
ability to attract bad luck. His clothing invariably was out-of-elbows or torn
at the seams, double-sew it though his mother would, and his boots down-at-heel.
He would trip over the slightest pebble on the cave floor – but instead of
merely scraping his knees, he would land poorly and break a finger. Fine tools
such as carving knives and jeweler’s hammers would turn in his hands and bite
him, or thump his thumbnails. Other dwarves would not work in close proximity to
him at the mineface, for though he could get through quite a few peds in a day,
and his pickaxe never actually flew from his grasp, it seemed to spray chips of
stone at the strangest, most eye-threatening angles.
Now at this time of which I am telling you, Ungerthom and his fellow youths were
a scant eighty or so years and had but just achieved their Baregozar – their
time of passage from adolescence into maturity. The girls of their generation,
as TrumBaroll oft seems to will it, had gone ahead of them by some few years and
were waiting impatiently for the lads to catch up, so that they might all enter
into the ceremony of adulthood together.
And, so that they all might, the elders of the clan set the time of the
Wirrutharoon, where each dwarven youth would bring his or her masterwork as a
showpiece of skill and dedication. They would have a year to prepare themselves,
whether their gift be baking or art, forgework or carving, embroidery or
singspeaking. Over and over again they measured and cut, delved and hammered,
ground and sliced, practicing or making a start on the Wirrurt itself.
The young weaverlass - for whom many of Ungerthom’s friends had an eye – set up
her loom and began combing and spinning her finest fibers. Her twin, prenticed
to the Foodtenders of the clan, spent her time tending her own underground
gardens, making preserves and salting away foodstuffs. The smiths’ lads
scattered to the farthest edges of the diggings, seeking ancient tunnels or
fresh ones, hoping for a seam of rarer ore or a fine deposit of crystals that
they might craft into bright weapons and ornaments. Several others went out
Aboveground night after night, honing their tracking and hunting skills,
bringing back game for the table but always searching for the most elusive or
dangerous quarry they could hope to find in their area.
Ungerthom had never shown any particular gift. Unlike his quiet cousin (his
mother’s brother’s son), whose Direction-sense was so strong as to almost
palpably radiate from his body, or his own brother, a broadchested warrior with
sleek coordination, the gangly young dwarf seemed to lack competence. When he
left childhood at about thirty years of age, by default he was given a place at
the rock faces, swinging a pick, and while the exercise had given him true
dwarven stamina, it never seemed to build up his frame – nor to encourage his
interest in the glittering ores and jewels that the clan might find among the
deep veins of the Fores.
So as the Wirrutharoon drew closer, the elders of his clan watched with some
apprehension. The young dwarf continued to work stolidly in the tunnels, return
home to the dark springs each dawn, wash and break bread with his peers as he
had done for the last fifty years – but never a sign of effort to a Mining
Wirrurt did he make. He laboured at the minefaces, paid his customary visits to
the Morjualerons Mews, where his girlcousin (father’s twinbrother’s daughter, in
this case) was training as a Singspeaker, did his devoirs faithfully with the
Denirim, took whatever classes the Elders directed his agemates to, but put not
one iota of extra energy to creating anything on his own.
He was not surprised in a new element, either – not carving delicate lovespoons
from eur’oak as another minerlad was, nor was he found in the babes’ moss-pit
teaching them HumanTaal (and that particular lass, whom most had thought a shy
thing, once set under the Speaker-to-Others’ guidance, blossomed to become a
translator and negotiator with the Aboveground Folk, and won her clan much
income - but that is another story. Back to Ungerthom we must go…) In short, the
boy seemed hopeless.
His folk were not able to understand it either, and many were the meals that
were accompanied with acrimonious chiding, rather like this…
His mother, gruffly peering from under her silvered brows:
“Bruk, lad, hast taken any thought to what showing ye might make for the
Wirrutharoon?
Bruk, making no answer, chews on his roast kajor. His mother, gruffer still:
“Withouten a Wirrurt, ye know, ye stay a child another ten years. An’ your
friends leave ye behind, in working an’ wedding an’ bedding.”
Bruk’s father coughs, shooting his wife a glance which clearly says, ‘Let it
alone, yehlithinn…’
His ‘dear one’ ignores her, seeing Bruk continuing his meal in seemingly sullen
silence.
“We won’t be feeding a child at this table for ever, ye know! Ye will be making
a choice and a try at your Wirrurt or it’s out with the next bachelors ye go –
better soon than later!”
Here Bruk’s father attempts to intervene again, but he is overridden by his
wife’s raised voice,
“Ye’ll be a Yabarrah and ye know it… masterwork or no, there’s nay a lass in
this cavern will take ye for a mate!”
Ungerthom bore this and subsequent suppers in his usual glumness. He had never
been vastly articulate, but under the nagging of his mother, the goodnatured
contempt of his agemates, and the unvoiced but weighty pressure of the elders’
opinions, he became positively mute. His habits changed not, even to the hours
he worked and the bread he broke with his family – despite the constant
monologues. And the month of the Wirrutharoon drew nearer...
Still the Plainfaced had nothing
to show: no skill practiced, no project begun. His tunnel lines were as crooked
as ever, though they ran deep, and he found no more nor less than the other
miners each work day, meeting his quotas with sheer doggedness. But bad luck
haunted his tread just as persistently; in fact, it became downright dangerous
to be anywhere near the lad. And the week before the Wirrutharoon was to begin –
well, perhaps we should tell you in detail just how much misfortune befell young
Bruk.
On the first day of the workweek - Hunden or Homeday - Ungerthom was helping the
mushroom harvesters; the plump Sulcho had sprung up in record quantities over
the restday before and would grow woody and tough if not picked quickly. Indeed,
although every dwarven youth not otherwise spoken for, down to the children, was
gathering, it seemed that the mushrooms were growing back up under their
fingers, so thickly did they cluster. Dawn came, and the weary miners returned
for their suppers, but the harvesters picked on - late into the day they worked,
until the Timeclock’s lightspot glowed full noon. The Foodtenders finally shook
their heads, looking at the overflowing baskets.
“Come on, lads and lasses, there be more but we’ve no room for them! The cold
cellar is already full and the drying caves will be up to the top of the racks
as is. Bring the baskets along to the main cavern and we’ll process them on the
morrow – but then to bed with ye all!”
The procession of young dwarves, each bearing their bounty of Sulcho, came
wearily down the wide stone steps into the main cave, where the great fire on
the communal hearth had long since been banked for the day. Ungerthom,
unfortunately, was near the front. As he set his foot down on the last step, a
shroom rolled from his laden basket and dropped under his boot. It squashed most
dramatically, and the youth’s foot slid on the pulpy mess, sending him skidding
backwards. His basket soared upwards, spraying more mushrooms over the
staircase, and in three ticks of a hobbit watch, the entire line had lost their
footing, toppled over each other, and sent Sulcho rolling throughout the cavern.
Mashii Sahyeh, the Chief Foodtender, widened her already-huge eyes, sighed, and
set her hands on ample hips. “All right, younglings, no use whining about it.
Get the reed mats from the babes’ play area and scoop up all the shrooms
quickly. They’ll take no harm if we leave this batch to dry by the hearth as is
– and tomorrow you’ll be up at the break of dusk to pick the fresh ones we need!
Except YOU, Bruk!”
Tahunden – Forgeday – did not go much better. Ungerthom trudged off to his
default task of clearing rubble from his current tunnel assignment, and the
support timbers – checked only three days ago – cracked through. Normally this
would have made no difference as the wood was considered to be a secondary
safety precaution: the Low Fore clan, like most Thergerim, prided themselves on
the way in which they could remove rock to create useful and sturdy spaces. But
the rock pillars which were supposed to have been actually supporting the tunnel
roof simply crumbled like limestone, nearly filling the tunnel and trapping
Ungerthom for about four hours. I say ‘trapping’, younglings, but of course he
kept his head and began digging himself out from his side just as soon as the
dust settled and the anxious tapcode from the other miners in his section died
down. It took nearly another four hours to get the new rubble clear, so that was
that for the day.
Heorden (Storage-day) Nothing appeared to happen during the work-night, but as
the tired and dusty dwarves discovered at the end of their shift, the bathing
pools had drained dry, every one of them. By this point even the most patient
elder was looking askance at “Bruk the Bane”, as the other youths were calling
him, and it didn’t take long to discover that in the process of doing a simple
errand for his mother – enlarging a bookniche in the side of the Scrolls and
Tablets cave – he had managed to crack through into a water channel and divert
the hot spring’s source. The water hadn’t reached even the lowest niches, and of
course the tablets were unhurt, but a basket of imported elven scrolls (on
forestry management) that had been awaiting shelving were completely washed out
and would have to be replaced at some point. The masons took their time before
dinner to repair the wall, but even so the pools would have to refill overday,
and people had to sponge themselves down from cauldrons with much grumbling.
Kagozden (Generous-day)
“Oi, Bruk-Bane! Plainface! What’re y’ doing today?”
Ungerthom swung his head to look suspiciously at the young dwarves who were
hailing him.
“Reshelvin’ some tablets for the Denirim,” he answered briefly. He kept walking
towards the old priest’s cavern, carefully skirting the clusters of decorative
glow-shrooms and the Nose-whacker, as the heavy stalactite outside the Denirim’s
archway was nicknamed.
“Just asking, y’ know, so we can work the other end of the clan,” the same voice
continued, “cos we’d be safer with the pitdamp!”
“Or the Drell infestation they found yestereve!”
“I’d take the Drells and the pitdamp, so long’s I could have a hot bath after…”
“Don’t bash your face now, laddie…” one of his year-mates called after him,
snickering, ‘y’ might bring the Deni’s cave down atop him!” Ungerthom twisted
his mouth sourly, making no response, and plunged past the threshold into the
warm sand floor of the priest’s cave, with the guffaws of the other dwarves
ringing in his ears.
Alas, while he had successfully avoided the Nose-whacker, the Denirim was
immediately and unexpectedly in his way, and Ungerthom’s rising leg caught the
old priest across the shins. Both dwarves crashed to the floor in a tangle of
limbs, ripping cloth, and spraying sand.
The Denirim sat up ruefully, looking at the rent from hem to knee in his
rockmoss robe.
“This cloth is tougher than I, young one. However did ye manage to tear it
without a knife, hum?”
Muttering apologies through the sand in his teeth, Ungerthom rose and offered
his arm to the elder. The Denirim began to pull himself up, but as he let his
weight shift to his legs, suddenly gasped and sank back down.
“I am feared that my ankle has twisted, Bruk lad. Would ye fetch a healer, I
pray?”
Ungerthom allowed himself one silent groan of dismay before wheeling to sprint
for help. Further investigation proved that the ankle was indeed twisted, and
the healer (yet another cousin of Bruk’s, this one a generation older) thought
that a bone-thong might even have torn inside as well. She gave the downcast
young dwarf a tongue-lashing for his carelessness, not failing to point out that
the Denirim’s services would be much in demand over the next month of
Wirrutharoon celebrations, while his, Ungerthom’s, were not only generally
unhelpful but positively hazardous.
The Denirim, assisted by some healing magery, a tight bandage, and a stout
stave, was hobbling about before bedtime, and courteously but cautiously
accepted Bruk’s further apologies and assistance in sorting the tablets he had
originally planned to have moved.
Enduring Day: As luck, or at least Bruk-luck, would have it, this fifth-day of
Mearkden was the once-a-month celebration of YehHutden, as the Low Fore clan
practiced it. Ungerthom, having no especial dwarvenmaid to court, usually
performed his Hutden service for his father’s-sisters and mother’s-sisters, or
assorted female cousins. He successfully brought a fresh bucket of clay in for
his potter aunt, replenished his mother’s stock of Moorgul sauce by bartering
with one of the grannies, and without incident stirred the ash-water for a
dubious Mashii, who was making soap and needed an extra pair of strong arms.
The trouble started when he attempted to clean out a Morjual midden for his
Singspeaker cousin and somehow set every bat in the cavern chitting with frenzy
before they swarmed out of the concealed exit crevice. Communications were
interrupted for the next half-night as the upset Morjualerons flitted back one
by one, and several important messages from the Mitharim clan were garbled or
lost altogether.
On Rearden (Waited-for-day) Ungerthom did not even make it out of his sleepniche
before ill luck tracked him down . He awoke to the scent of hot Kao‘shroom, sat
up eager to break his fast, and cracked his skull against the rock above him.
His father measured him with a wary look and assured him that no, he hadn’t
grown two thumbspans overday, but Bruk swore it was either that or the ceiling
had crept down while he was sleeping. He ate his breakfast and then announced
that he was going back to bed until Lithdem and the start of the Wirrutharoon.
“Unless the roof does smother me in m’ bed, Huttol mine mother, and then at
least nothing worse can happen to the rest of the clan…”
And the dusk came without further
mischance, ushering in Lithdem (Love-of-family-day) and the celebrations. The
hapless young dwarf swung carefully out of bed, pulled on his rocktrews and
simple tunic, and was about to leave the cavelet when his mother caught his
shoulder with a disapproving grunt.
“It IS the Wirrutharoon, my lad, and ye will wear the new yellow shirt I
‘broided for you with the Human wool. It looks as well as anythin’ can on ye, so
put it on. And the umber boots t’ match, if ye please.”
“Mother,” Ungerthom groaned, “it will make no difference t’ no one whether I
wear broidered wool or horsehide t’day. A Yabarrah with sharded luck and a face
like a gerrezt’n above-grounder… no dwarf will prentice me, let alone wed me.”
It was only what she had been saying all along, but a mother’s privilege is to
be the only one to criticize her child, and so she was quick to change her
strike-facet.
“No, no, my Bruk, don’t ye be thinkin’ that way now. Put on the yellow tunic,
then, and the belt and boots, do, lad. Ye may as well make a good showin’ for
the family, and if ye must go Above-ground with the rest of the bachelors, well,
every Wirru there are two or three. Tis the way we are born, with more men than
maids to go round. An’ at least the Humans will see a dwarf with some brains in
his head, heh?”
Ungerthom donned his finery in silence, letting her soothe on. Breakfast was
ready, and the family ate together and did a few simple household tasks before
leaving the homecavelet together for the gathering hall.
The cavern of the hall was the Low Fore dwarves’ showpiece of stonework –
perhaps not the most spectacular compared to the masonry of other clans, but
beautifully crafted nonetheless. All around the exterior circle, unique columns
of living rock sprang from the inlaid stone floor, widening at base and top in
organic shapes as if they had flowed rather than been cut. Giant stalagmites
rose between them, in frozen waves and drips of rock polished to a high shine,
like a long-burning candle. In the very centre of the hall was a raised circular
dais, also still attached to the motherrock and surrounded by one encircling
step, so that it could be reached from any direction. In the very centre of that
dais was the clan’s Timeclock, on a still-further raised pedestal, a shaft of
moonlight striking through from the tiny hole pierced in the ceiling far above.
Its pale silvery beam was a contrast with the other lights in the cavern; warm
orange torches and oil-lamps set in niches around the space, and watery blue and
green glows from the various phosphorescent mosses and mushrooms planted here
and there.
Row after row of simple rockmoss cushions had been placed on the lines of the
inlaid floor pattern, radiating outwards from the centre with thin aisles
between them. More than two-thirds of the seats were already filled, dwarves
sitting cross-legged with their wide backs upright and their beards flowing into
their laps. Everyone, children and granthers alike, would be here for the
starting ceremonies, which would last the 'day' and officially begin the month
of the Wirrutharoon, so there was plenty of noise in the cavern. Twins were
nursing at their mothers’ freely-offered bosoms, younglings were chasing each
other in the aisles, and the young dwarves ready to become adults were nearly
panting in their eagerness to get to the dais when their names should be called.
It was nearly full midnight, and their time would come.
Walking just behind his parents, Ungerthom’s mournful gaze took in the space –
for the last time, no doubt, he mentally noted – and the many excited faces. He
felt a deep sickness in his belly, and as he seated himself inconspicuously
beside a stalagmite pillar near the back, the whole cavern seemed to move and
shudder before his eyes. No one else seemed distressed, though, and he
surreptitiously wiped away the beads of sweat on his bulbous brow with the
sleeve of his new tunic.
He had no gift to present. He had no skill to display. He had nothing to show
for his years of life among the clan. Had this ever happened before in dwarven
history? Had even the most clumsy dwarf stood before his Elders and his Denirim,
his Gornegron and the other chiefs, the whole of the clan… emptyhanded at the
Wirru trials? He was sure that he would not merely be allowed to leave quietly
with the other bachelors. Doubtless he would be expelled from the cavern,
branded as truly undwarven, outcast from the Thergerim forever. The Humans and
other Above-grounders would know his shame. He would have to go and live with
the ….what were they called again? M-something, swamp-dwellers. Mewlips,
Muddogs….Mullogs, yes, and eat frogs and frent for the rest of his miserable
days.
In his brooding he did not hear the Denirim take the dais and begin with prayer,
nor the Gornegron affably welcome the whole clan and begin the announcements. It
was only when his father squeezed his forearm and nodded grimly forwards that
Ungerthom’s daze cleared and he realized that his yearmates were all rising and
ascending the dais. He rose, managing to rip the edging off his cushion with his
too-stiff new boots, and stumbled forwards up the now-endless aisle to join
them.
His face flushing behind its scanty beard, his hands hanging limply by his
sides, he found a place in the circle of youth, facing outwards to the clan with
the elders behind them in the centre. He stared out into the dim light, seeing
the dwarven faces as mere pale blurs. Somehow he had come up at an angle, so his
family were no longer in the segment of the circle in front of him, but that was
of no moment now. The Denirim – still hobbling, Bruk’s ears told him guiltily –
was coming around the circle to stand with a hand on the shoulder of each youth
in turn, presenting him or her formally to the clan and announcing their chosen
calling or ability. He did not know what the old priest would say when he got to
Bruk. Perhaps, he agonized, only the nicknames he had accumulated: Plainface,
Tanglefoot, Bruk-bane… The sneering titles drummed hotly in his head, drowning
out the various introductions and the cheerful tongue-clacking of dwarven
applause.
Then the clacking stopped, and the Denirim’s limping step as well. The old hand
fell gently on his shoulder and paused there. The priest was silent for long
moments – long enough for a mutter to begin in the cavern. Ungerthom was certain
that he could hear the nicknames moving around, mouth to ear to mouth again,
hissed through beards and echoing from stone.
“This is Bruk of the Low Fore Thrumgolz,” the Denirim began, and his deep tones
instantly hushed the whispers. “This is Bruk, he who always has a hand ready to
lend when a dwarf needs help. He comes to the Wirru with his generosity, with
his time…”
The young dwarf felt his ears flame up, and a darkening in his vision. He knew
immediately, sickeningly, what the Denirim was trying to do; soften the hurt of
rejection with the simple platitudes he was voicing.
Oh, not that the old priest wasn’t sincere, but his attempt to soothe the
announcement he must make sooner or later only scraped Ungerthom more bitterly.
The truth was that he had brought nothing, had no talent to give to the good of
the clan. He could not listen to this longer and retain any self-respect that he
had left. He would leave on his own terms, and tell them all they could burn in
Trum-Barol’s orefires.
Ungerthom shook off the Denirim and turned in one swift movement. His back was
to the audience now, and he was facing the elders in the central circle. Beside
him, his agemates’ eyes flickered, widened, some even going so far as to turn
their heads for a better look at the unexpected movement.
The gangling dwarven youth opened his mouth to speak, and what he had to say
would doubtless have had him banished in reality as in fantasy, but for a timely
interruption. The shaft of moonlight passed across the exact second of midnight,
triggering a mage-sounded ripple of bells, and at the same time a Morjual darted
across the cavern’s dome, skimming above the circle of gaping youngsters and
falling spent into one of the elders’ hands, the Master Singspeaker and
Bat-Tender to whom Bruk’s girlcousin was apprenticed.
Its velvety wings fluttered and its tiny breast beat rapidly. Ungerthom winced,
thinking this one more of the scattered victims of his well-meant Hutden
service, and by the glare the elders fixed him with, they agreed. The bat should
never have come anywhere except back to its perch in the Morjualeron Mews…But
nonetheless it seemed a minor distraction, and the Gornegron gathered himself to
shoo the lad back into the youth circle, still with his usual benevolent
‘chieftain’s smile’. He was halted by the upraised hand of the Singspeaker,
whose fixed stare and flared ears showed the intensity of his concentration upon
the small morsel still panting in his hand.
The ‘chits’ of batcode are almost inaudible, as you know, younglings, but some
of you talented ones can already hear them even without the marvelous
Singspeaker tools, and the Master certainly knew the codes by heart. The message
must of necessity have been short, but to everyone there in the hush of the
gathering cavern it seemed endless, all eyes fixed on that central circle with
its odd break and its strange small guest...
Bruk himself could only hear the
hammering of his strong dwarven heart, leaping against his ribs like the
Morjual’s wings, it seemed. He, like everyone else, was frozen in place by the
sudden solemnity of the moment, his choler roiling his belly but unable to rise
and spew its angry words into the quiet.
The bat trembled, its throat throbbing with the message it was conveying; it
paused for a moment, panting, and began again, as the Master’s head bent closer
to it and his brow furrowed with effort.
Then the soft wings fluttered once more and went limp, the small dark body
looking like a clot of dirt in the strong pale palm of the Singspeaker. A soft
sigh went round the circle of youths, by now all unabashedly turned to face
inward, but before the stir could spread to the cavern of watchers, the
Bat-Master raised his head. His eyes glittered weirdly in the cold blue beam of
moonlight surrounding him, and he spoke.
“This Morjual came, if my ears be not in error, from the mountain caves of
Zaramon itself. It bears a message from the Archmage LuuKa Groundwoven, the high
master of the Earth Tower in the great Academy of Ximax, and,” he paused, his
glance meeting the Gornegron’s briefly before flashing around the cavern, “it
summons one of our own to the Tower.”
The unified gasp and rising rumble of voices went round the cave walls like a
distant rockfall, not easily hushed by the Singspeaker’s moonlit glare. He stood
stone-still, his broad hand still immobile before his chest cradling the tiny
bat-body, but his brows and lids spoke for him, and slowly the noise dwindled.
“It calls,” he went on - deliberate and rumbling, his deep voice building in
power to almost a chant - “ it calls one of our own to train and learn the ways
of earth-magery, to raise and control the stones of the earth, to master his own
hidden gifts and show them forth with strength, for the praise of the clan, the
will of the Thergerim, and the glory of TrumBarol! Bruk, called Ungerthom, stand
forth!”
Bruk came back to himself with a frantic heart-thud that felt more like a mallet
strike to his chest, gulping the sour dryness away from his mouth. His gangling
legs seemed asleep, his knees locked and feet tingling with a shooting pain. The
gentle touch of the Denirim, still patiently standing by the youth’s shoulder,
was a jolt that broke the paralysis and allowed him to lurch forwards, nearly
falling to his knees in front of the elders. In complete disbelief he stared at
the long-bearded, deep-eyed faces in front of him, each one seeming to glow with
a weirdly-wrinkled map of their character as the Timelight’s blue glow fell over
them. But each face held nothing but pride and wonderment in different
proportions – no judgement, no scorn or dismissal – one of their sons was named
and known to the Earth Mage of all earth mages, a dwarf of great wisdom and
loved by TrumBarol – one of their sons was called to honour and power among the
rulers of magic – Bruk of the Low Fores – Bruk called Ungerthom…he, Bruk…
The cavern whirled around him, the elders blurring and the light seeming to
recede. He felt dizzy, sick as with pit-damp, his head pulsing with an energy
that did not match his heartbeat. He seemed to feel an line of stone, axe-sharp,
rising under his feet, so that he balanced on a cutting edge that radiated
outward, through the new rumble of the dwarven spectators, out through the walls
of the cavern themselves and into the clean darkness of the night air. He felt a
wild elation, a sickening terror, a surge of passion, a desire to howl, a song
and a scream, all lifting and churning in himself so that it seemed he could not
contain it.
Yet of all the emotions and thoughts boiling up in Bruk’s heart, one tiny bubble
of feeling rose and broke over him, light and jagged, and one picture held his
eye; that small clot of dark fur motionless on the stone-still palm. It was not
right, should not be so, a wrongness in the pulsing lines that surrounded him, a
fault in the oreveins, a knot in a taut rope. His mind picked at it, raced over
the image of its faltering wings shuddering to a stop, again and again in a mere
candle’sdrip. He saw the pulse of its heart snuff out as if it had fallen to his
hand, heard the tiny chitterings fade, felt the delicate wing-leather cooling on
his skin. And then, equally clearly, he sensed the opposite, as if the bat rose
leaping within his body and would break out of his mouth, and overcome, Bruk
threw his head back and arms wide, and let it break free.
Energy – raw earthmagic denied its proper or skilled use until now – ardour hot
as forge-melt and strong as granite came flooding out of the tall youth in an
earth-rippling wave of power. The dais of living rock quite meekly rolled like
water, dropping his peers on their faces or rumps, toppling the elders and
warping the pedestal of the Timeclock. The power slapped outward, so that the
rings of seated dwarves were likewise tossed up and dropped, stone meeting bone
only slightly less solid, and scattering moss cushions like plump cuuloos.
Children wailed in fright as the stalagmites around them shook like trees in a
heavy wind, yet somehow failed to break. And at the centre of it all, in the
swirling ring of blue light shot with sparks that flowed from Bruk, one small
Morjual shook its damp wings free and flung itself restored into the air,
darting round the maelstrom as merrily as if it were but chasing dalor-bugs of a
summer’s eve.
(the narrator stops, and smiles down at the little dwarflings, all wide-eyed
with wonder, the bat seeming to flit through their bright eyes still as the
story-mist fades from their minds…)
You have listened well, and learned. Now there is but one short part more to
tell you, my younglings.
Bruk did indeed leave his cavern with the other Yabarrah bachelors at the end of
the Wirutharoon, but he went in honour, and they as his bodyguard on the long
road to Zaramon. Clad in ringmail and bearing mithril-shod staves they went, and
bore Bruk to the Earth Tower at Ximax. There he swore his oaths and served his
apprenticeship in magery, and learned the mastery of his powers over the
elemental Earth, and in time came to rule the Tower in his turn. And there,
while not yet the great successor to the Archmage LuuKa, he met, was wooed by,
and won the clever hu’ling (her mother a hobbit earthcaster, her father a human
herbalist) lass Sallanni Hedgerow, herself strong in the ways of earth car ’all,
and bonny as a snowy deer. Long they lived, and merrily, in the halls of the
Zirghurim, under the roots of Mount Watcher, until their bones became stone and
they joined Lord TrumBarol. And so may we all do when our time comes!
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