CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Forgetting hunger until Funguayou finished dinner, the few bits of biscuit dissolving in the dwarf’s guts were joined quickly by roasted berry presented with Tyrse. Three of the four at the forest’s exit retired fast to sleep--the dwarf remained odd dwarf out. It was not for lack of effort that slumber lacked summoning. His mood had drastically plummeted since leaving the elves, themselves worse for his appearance as confirmed by Doetrieve. And what was the lieutenant doing now? The dwarf wondered what version of events his people would be told, what direction they’d have possible after. For the beasts the dwarf’d slain and those failed the stopping of, he hoped their settlement would not count among the toll. Captain Locust’s piercing eyes formed suddenly, scaring the dwarf backwards onto Waspig, the pet exploding against the trees coating green wickedly. The dwarf thrusted himself forward and whirled around to survey the burst corpse of his creature, its sight slicing through his retinas with the same ferocity as Locust’s. Funguayou in the confusion flopped into the fire and screeched similar to the dwarf’s capabilities, and the dwarf stared hard wishing the wheat smothered abomination followed its brother. He looked around for it--that disguised fungus--and could not place it for darkness reigned all round the fire outwards into an infinite. The dwarf knelt next to the sole blazing light and gently rested his hands against its logs. Skin, already bruised, flayed, damaged and disrespected, began scorching and roasting into black chips, and all throughout his howls the dwarf could not recede from that which eventually ruined his dwarfen appendages. He plunged his head forward.

The dwarf stumbled backwards and slammed an elbow onto the tail of his resting Waspig, the creature shooting straight and stiff with a frightened squeal. It then blasted ahead past the waning campfire and over the bluff only just beginning to receive light. Such grass topped land revealed itself blue as navy before then blue as blue. The floor complemented its roof, too clear and crystal. Funguayou and its sibling slept noiselessly inches from freshly lain hoof tracks. The sobering relief of reality did little for the pain persisting in his palms--souvenir from a tactless dream. Thinking a trot might distract from the spasming vibrations, the dwarf rolled on and over to his feet making right away for his pet.

Climbing the bluff, the dwarf brought stubby legs next to Waspig’s stubbier. By then the blue below them had lightened to a flush of yellow tinted green, the sun burning its way through morning haze. Beyond, plains stretched for some distance at a slight downward angle dotted with pine and palm and strange fusions of both. And nestled at the end of the long slope of hills laid the great beaches the dwarf had observed once before. As far to each side he could see, the sands stretched endlessly without curve towards their horizons. His view ascending back upwards, the hills either disappeared into the vast tangling of nature just escaped or jerked abruptly to the clouds; became dominating mountains even higher than where the dwarf had last ‘saved’’. Indeed, from here the dwarf identified the tree topped horseshoe he’d traveled far, far from. Just barely, a mossy roofed cottage crested a cliff. But the beach drew more of the dwarf’s attention--little reserves he had. With mere miles to go before ocean’s impact, a vast city dominated the shore and commanded the dwarf’s gaze. But he sucked in some air and relaxed it, his eyes drifting to Waspig. It groomed itself earnestly with disgusting sucking and slopping noises forcing strange laughter out the dwarf--quietly and fast dissipated.

There had once seemed a great rush within the dwarf to achieve entrance to the sandy settlement so far from the hole he’d crawled out from. But the dwarf suddenly saw little in it. He tried to smell the frozen fish delivered by his doorstep, a scent cherished by a dwarf yet dwarfed. Now his nostrils tasted nothing. He scratched at his pet’s head who continued its cleanse without acknowledgment. When Waspig wrapped its bathing to a close, the two descended back down to camp where Funguayou continued his sleep--the strawed did not, sitting eagerly and expectantly towards the freshly arriven dwarf. He frowned and hesitated. He felt spared a great fate from having to see its dozens of unnerving eyes it no doubt sported, and desperately the dwarf hoped the hay would stay. Concluding his prayer, he got on one knee and rested a wounded hand atop its round wheat covered head. Carefully he squeezed and released its bulbous top, a massage quickly shown approval. Though it slept, Funguayou’s words smarted his ears nonetheless. The dwarf decided on ‘Tuskus’.

“Oh, what’s up? I’m late to breakfast? Buddy tell me you didn’t eat without me.”

Funguayou, having snuck up on him, could not sway the dwarf’s grown disinterest for that so small and seemingly attached. Only in the company of elves could the dwarf be seemingly granted peace. The alternative possibility of a life spent living among the sharp eared brought darkness over the dwarf’s features. If everything had gone right, he reasoned, he and Waspig and Bathiel and Pistol and the others would be co-existing among those most sympathetic to the dwarf’s love of nature. And yet, the more he dwelt on the imagined scenario the more implausible it seemed; the meat they served; the sterile pens they maintained. The dwarf held no real concept of diet, of the varied classifications based on that consumed. Home, he loved his chickens and could not bear to eat beyond eggs no matter the whippings endured. The same sentiment extended to pigs, naturally, disregarding their gestation. His opinion sometimes wavered on cows, sympathy usually welling but in the hardiest of them. His father had ridiculed dripping faces afterward, asking if he’d brought home a camel. If so, he’d picked the wrong one. But fish felt different--especially ocean caught, that which arrived on blocks of ice. Catching catfish by creeks was a task that brought fight to the table, failure robbing it of its plate. Such intense struggles often blossomed a strange intimacy of which influenced the dwarf afterwards to feel ashamed to skin and serve. But the truck delivered differently. His father paid; the boy hauled. Thawing, he--the boy--would inevitably direct the kitchen to ensure dinner. In this process the fish appeared as no different than onions and potatoes and parsley and mushrooms.

“Hello? Huh? Pal, your head on tight? Hey really, it was no small feat of you scooting from that place when you did, when you could. You’re lucky to be alive, buddy, let alone the hog. Now give your chin a firm grip and twist your noggin’ back on right ‘cause we need you focused. We’re aiming for the city still, surely? You certainly had your heart set on the place.”

The dwarf shook his head, Funguayou more surprised he had now his attention than the content of his answer.

“What’s that? Come on now, why not? Hey it’s all the same to me pal, if you wanna just set up shop here on Mammoth Hill you go start chopping wood and I’ll keep an eye on the boys. I accompany out of amusement; purpose just possibly. But you wanted some fresh ocean caught hauls. We won’t be finding any here, unfortunately. Well, what would you like to do?”

The dwarf found himself caught in an internal schism. He felt a compulsion to explain what The Ponderous advised before its twisted end. But he just as well blinked slowly and thought himself too tired to describe anything to anyone, least of all it. Funguayou watched the dwarf lower to the ground and drift off, its chiding refused at sheeps’ gate...

“DDDDWWWAAARRRR...”

The boy sat up in blackness.

“AAAAARRRRFFFFFFF...”

He groped for anything tangible. The boy found floor only.

“DWARF... HELP... DWARF...”

But despite the hollow voice’s insistence on speaking, the boy could trace it to no direction.

“HELP...”

The boy shifted his legs to run and submerged them into the abyssal ground. No matter his writhing, they would not cooperate. Further cries for aid met useless ears. The booming pleas trailed on incessantly, each repeat weighing heavier on the boy’s soul. Before long his entire frame lowered into the blackness, and his vision became the same.

“What does he wish done with the heavy one?”

“Yes, haul him this way. His fate is the chieftain’s.”

His lids drew back cautiously so as to not reveal the dwarf’s awakening. Shifting both arms in slight gestures, he realized them bound. The dwarf glanced below and ascertained rope wrung tight round his ankles. Only then did he understand the vehicle traveled in--a wooden wagon. Behind and ahead of him leather armored humanoids marched and chattered.

“And what of the others?” one asked--behind.

“What of them? She wishes for only the strong,” answered the other ahead.

“Yes, but there were others.”

“You should have slain them.”

“They are regardless bound.”

The dwarf peered past his feet requiring a gentle feat of adjustment, and he beheld the disarmed, beaten forms of Funguayou and Tuskus. Where was Waspig?

“You gather dinner on your hunt?”

“Yes, game accompanied them.”

“Where is it?”

“Sent back with the green. I am surprised you did not cross paths with them.”

“There are many ways to reach the forest.”

The dwarf shut his eyes and steadied his breaths as best he could manage. Once again his pet had been snatched under his protection. He hated himself for it.

Bells rang. His careful gaze alive again, the dwarf realized the chorus of brass chimed from a steeple nestled into pine palms. It struck him how similar its design appeared as to that nestled into the horseshoe long since escaped. But the appearance of this place menaced from afar. Spears struck out from the property surrounding, skulls lining strung from top to bottom. Skeletons pinned above the entrance of the church featured a fraction of their original compositions. The dwarf swallowed hard.

“Think he’s awake,” the one behind suggested. His opposite laughed.

“The sooner the better. Let’s get this rolling.”

The cart completed its journey, resting after against the church wall with its heaviest contents thrown over a shoulder--fungus left behind--and he, the dwarf, hauled inside. His view permitted a deeply familiar shade of red rolled straight ahead, though trodden with mud and dirt. Where pews likely once rested, cages and dartboards took their place. He saw haystacks with painted bags half covered and dozens of arrows protruding; kegs and barrels dispensing to the thirsty; grinning sharks with hungry gazes. The dwarf’s vision whirled across the wall and onto the ceiling--hole free--as the dwarf became thrusted onto his back, groaning afterward. Above, a figure rested in a throne before a bloodied blank bible. Her clothes appeared somewhat like the wear of the elves but of patchier material, and filthy. The heels of her sandals betrayed viscera stains. Her hair, long and matted, reminded him somewhat--only somewhat--of his mother. But one difference was clear: her brow thickened itself over her eyes, a sight balanced strangely by delicate chin. Unlike her subordinates, face paint smeared her features: one red box overall and two black eyes as a backdrop to the actual. Much of her men smiled and cheered like his father on rare and terrible nights. But the expression she met the dwarf with conveyed nothing. It helped little his view distorted the chieftain onto the roof, but he could nonetheless perceive a disturbing relaxing of her muscles--not as if at peace but of lacking interest.

“This man will mine?”

“If he’s man,” responded one of the dwarf’s escorts.

“So small. But aye. There’s work in them arms. But he’ll need fattening up. You brought dinner?”

“Damned new recruits must’ve made off with the--”

The church doors, having been sealed following the dwarf’s entering, slammed open with the appearance of two further goons dragging their kill in.

“Apologies, chieftain. Our way became distracted. Tis popular meat.”

The dwarf broke. Laying on its side, he knew Waspig had come as corpse.

“Why does he cry?” the chieftain asked.

“Whatsit matter? Ah, sir,” the bandit hastily corrected.

“Perhaps they were attached. Pity. Small one, you were caught resting in our territory--our hunting grounds. You became prey the moment fire was lit. Now we’re in charge of a mining operation, and we’ve accepted your trespassing as application. I’m getting at this: welcome to the mines, beard boy.”

The dwarf laid still.

“Is he dead?” asked a bandit.

“Hmm,” she sounded, eyeing the prospective miner. “Cut his binds.”

“What’s that?” he asked again.

“You heard her,” spoke his opposite, moving over to the dwarf, flipping him onto his back by hand and sawing off his threaded shackles. Finished, the bandit stood and observed the inanimate. He attempted flipping the dwarf back how he previously was--but his foot could find no leverage. The dwarf continued laying flat against tile.

“If you’re sore about this all,” suggested the chieftain, “then we must make it right.” She rose from her throne, a hefty chiseled thing. The chieftain took a shortsword off the wall and tossed it to the ground. The dwarf raised half his head to meet the clang--in his hands it’d be long.

“Oh, come off it chief,” whined Waspig’s murderer. “I ain’t want to kill the shrimp.”

“Quiet. I won’t have a plotter in the mines.”

The dwarf balls his pained fists and raised himself off the floor to his feet, the sword coming up with him.

“How does the hilt hold? Our picks bear similar heft. Now, the hogsect slayer shall use but a dagger...”

“Hold on, chief, how fair is--”

“You will fight him barehanded then.”

“Chief!”

Her eyes, so fixed on the whinging of her goon, did not realize the short distance crossed so quickly by the dwarf. Blade in hand, he whipped the thing through the air and found the chieftain’s throat, and blood sprayed against the weapon, its bearer, his beard. A second sword entered the scene bursting out from the dwarf’s chest, his own crimson coating the slain slumped lifelessly in her throne. The metal withdrew from the cavity created, and the dwarf fell forward and to the side, cheek back to tile. He continued to clutch the bestowed shortsword with a grip bone tight. But as his blood pooled beneath the dwarf’s beard and footsteps drew close, he realized his impending fate.

The dwarf held the thing a little longer, let go and laid dead.