The phone rang just as I was settling down to watch TV. Grudgingly I picked up the receiver and snapped a "hello." I always hated to be interrupted during The X-Files.
There was a pause. Then a warm, Irish-accented voiced spoke a single word: "Kyriel?"
"Enric!" I breathed, and forgot all about Mulder and Scully.
Enric and I had been together for nearly a year now in the dreamworld. In that time we'd exchanged a wealth of stories on board the Naronica, landed in Rael, explored it and the surrounding lands, and shared several adventures along the way. At the time of our first contact in R1, we'd begun a trek into new territory: the forest uplands of Jund. For the most part Jund was logging territory, but we'd heard there was a small colony of Dwarves in the area. It was an opportunity too rich to pass up.
By luck of the draw, I'd entered the dreamworld in an area where non-human sapients were rare... except for the monsters, of course. I'd never met a Dwarf or an Elf, and hobbits were out of the question until we found that damn island. But now, at last, I'd entered a land where the people of Tolkien's stories lived and breathed. Would they really look and act like the professor described them, I wondered. What if we met someone who'd known him as Gandalf? Our chances of that seemed good: the average Dwarf lived at least two centuries, and I felt certain Tolkien had encountered the Dwarves in his travels through R2. There was no other way to explain the change in his writings. The Dwarves in his earliest stories seem thuggish, subhuman; while his later, better books offer us heroic, three-dimensional characters like Thorin and Gimli. What could have caused such a radical change in Tolkien's attitude, I thought, if not an encounter with living, breathing Dwarves?
Then again, perhaps it took more than just one encounter.
About three weeks into our tour of Jund, Enric and I found ourselves at a little tavern in a town called Orit. Our entrance drew curious - if not outright disgusted - stares, but no one spoke to us until the bartender asked for our order. "New to these parts?" she asked, setting down the pair of ales with a sort of polite distaste.
We'd already grown accustomed to the attitude. "That's right," Enric smiled. He stroked the goatee he'd adopted not long before. "How did you guess?"
The bartender's eyes nervously followed his fingers. "Look around you, son," she said. "Do you see any other beards in this room?"
Enric played along, turned on his stool to survey the rest of the tavern with wide-eyed amazement. You'd never have found such a clean-shaven lot of loggers anywhere in R1. "Why, no," he said in a voice so innocent it bordered on simpleminded, "I don't see any other beards in the room. Isn't that odd?"
I bit my lip, but not with suppressed laughter. Unlike Enric, I've never been able to laugh at prejudice. Of course, he didn't feel the hatred beating against him like a physical force. Enric had his sense of smell; I had my sense of injustice.
The bartender went on in a softer voice, which increased my irritation even more. "Now, I like to think the best of people," she said, "so I'm going to assume you're just ignorant and not a mole-lover. And as long as you're sitting at my bar, I don't want to hear any different." Enric's face hardened quickly.
The woman went on as though she hadn't noticed. "But it's only fair to warn you that Urssela and her folk will be here soon, and if they catch you here looking like that, they won't be as forgiving as I am."
"Who's Urssela?" Enric asked, but the bartender seemed to have used up whatever maternal instinct she possessed. She only snorted and turned away.
"You know," I growled as she drifted out of earshot, "I think I hate that kind of bigotry the worst. She actually think she's doing you a favor."
Enric seemed more amused than angry. "Well, you never can tell. If she can just get it through my head how antisocial I've been, I might shape up and shave like a man." He cocked an eyebrow my way, fishing for a smile. I didn't oblige and he didn't push it.
We drank in silence for a moment and then he spoke again. "So...you interested in finding out more about this Urssela, then?"
"Absolutely."
We nursed our drinks for as long as we could, knowing we wouldn't get the bartender's attention again. Maybe an hour passed before the tavern doors swung open on a short, muscular woman with salt-and-pepper braids nearly down to her knees. A gang of four followed her at a deferential distance. This had to be Urssela, I thought, noting her air of command. The bartender very slowly and deliberately edged away from our corner of the bar.
Enric and I turned on our stools to face the newcomer.
Urssela stopped just inside the door, hands, on hips, surveying the crowd. Her eyes flicked quickly over the upturned faces, then lit on Enric and his antisocial goatee. She stared.
Enric smiled, then cast a glance at the empty stool to his left, inviting her to have a seat. The tavern took on a hushed murmur most often associated with the calm before a storm. I flexed my fingers and concentrated on breathing slowly and steadily. Nothing to get excited about yet, Kyriel. She's just looking at us.
Urssela sprang into motion so quickly it was hard to believe she'd ever been still. She stalked across the room to the proffered stool, on which she most definitely did not sit; then her eyes, which until this moment had not left Enric's chin, slid upward to take in the rest of his face. "And here I thought I'd seen it all," she said, in a voice that I might have thought cultured under other circumstances. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, boy."
"For what?" Enric asked mildly. He matched her stare for stare.
Most humans can't hold his gaze for very long; the wolf in him made them nervous. This woman never even blinked. "It's unnatural, a rockhead beard on a human face. You lower yourself, boy."
Urssela had the kind of black eyes that look infinitely deep one second and flat as an oil slick the next. Enric's eyes, opposite, gleamed with supernatural gold. But being human, Urssela couldn't see that gleam and didn't understand the danger she faced. Then again, I reflected, she looked like the type of person who'd face down a werewolf just as readily as she would a man.
Enric answered in the same measured tones as before. "I'm not a boy," he said, "My name is Enric. And I'd say shaving's a lot more unnatural than letting a beard grow." He flashed her the same innocent smile he'd used on the bartender, but his teeth seemed a little sharper this time around.
Urssela's eyes narrowed. "Then you'd also say that wearing clothes are more unnatural than going naked, I suppose - ah, but you're not naked, are you?" Her lips quirked into the ghost of a smile. "There's more than one kind of 'natural,' Enric, and more than one kind of nature. How would you feel about living in a hole in the dirt, or rutting with a bearded female? Not to your taste, is it? Of course not. Humans have a higher calling."
Growing up in the South, I'd heard this kind of talk a thousand times, under a thousand different circumstances: from friends, relatives, "well-meaning" elders - even a teacher once. Usually the warnings applied to mixing with other races, although they could just as easily have applied to other classes, other faiths, other sexual orientations.... "Other" anything was always evil. I hadn't dealt well with this kind of bigotry even in R1; in R2, my outrage ran so deep that I didn't trust myself to speak. Let Enric handle this, I thought. After all, he's the one who started it.
Urssela's voice took on a note of puritanical fervor. "The One made us different from Dwarves for a reason, Enric. You'd do best to stick to your own kind."
The werewolf looked around the room again, then turned to me and winked. "I do stick to my own kind," he said. "She's right here."
I could practically see the switch thrown in Urssela's head: reason, off; threat, on. "You can mock me all you like," she snapped, "but you can't mock the One."
And there went my resolution to let Enric handle it. "But you can?!" I snorted. Fury roared through my blood, through my bones; it was all I could do to keep a human shape. "Do you honestly believe God told you to hate the Dwarves? That's not just ridiculous; it's downright blasphemous!" I jabbed at the image of Chresta she wore around her neck. "And you think it's her you worship? Gah! It's a wonder you can even wear that thing without it burning your skin!"
Urssela's hand closed around the medallion. "You should be thankful that Chresta is my example," she said in a tight, low voice. "Otherwise, I might strike you down now for speaking to me that way. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if someone else here, someone who didn't trust the One as much as I do, didn't try to exact judgment for me."
Suddenly the world, which had zeroed in on the three of us at the bar, reasserted itself. The rest of the room sprang back into focus, full of strangers in various stages of drunkenness and offense. Every eye bore down on us; every hand clenched something: a mug, a tabletop, a weapon. They were spoiling for a fight, and I'd be happy to give it to them. I knew Enric and I could take this crowd. Besides, even if I was wrong, we weren't too far from the doors to escape.
Then, so quietly I almost didn't notice it, my conscience spoke up. I'd killed people for rape, murder, torture and slavery, it said - but never for their beliefs. And as angry as I was right now, if I let all that Fury loose someone would end up dead: Urssela for certain, and probably a few others with her. But as much as I hated their racist cant, I knew it wasn't grounds for execution.
My rage cooled slightly, but the problem remained: the room was primed to explode, and if it did, the best I could hope for was not to explode with it. Stay human, I told myself, Aim to wound, not kill. Then get the hell out before you do anything you'll regret later.
Enric, scenting my rage, no doubt, laid a hand on mine. "Well, Urssela," he said, "it's good to know you wouldn't approve if anyone here took matters into their own hands." Now it was her turn to redden, but he barreled on, not giving her a chance to reply. "I agree completely; we'll let Chresta be the judge - in her own good time, of course. Until then, let me buy you a drink and we'll call it even."
A crack appeared between Urssela's tightly-clamped lips. "I don't drink with mole-lovers," she spat, and turned her icy gaze on the bartender. "Nor do I drink at establishments that serve them." She whirled and stormed from the bar, trailing four confused flunkies in her wake. The door slammed loudly behind her.
The tavern held its breath for several seconds, then erupted in a low buzz. Enric turned to me and whispered, "What do you think? Did we really 'get' her, or is she just setting us up for an ambush?"
I could only shake my head, too angry - and too relieved - to respond. When at last I'd recovered my tongue I murmured in English, "That racist bitch doesn't know how close she came to dying just now."
"She might make it yet," he answered in the same language, "if they're planning an ambush. But what about you, Kyriel? Right now I'm more worried about your attitude than hers." His eyes were as sober as I'd ever seen them, making me suddenly uncomfortable.
"What do you mean?" I muttered.
"How much of what you feel is Fury, and how much is your own hatred?"
There was no ambush. All that waited for us outside the tavern were closed doors, shuttered windows, and a pitch-black forest beyond. Since we'd already made ourselves unwelcome at the bar, we knew better than to ask for space at the adjoining inn. Yet another night in the woods, I thought, not entirely unhappy with the thought. We walked alone into the darkness.
"Hey," Enric said after awhile, "What do you think Urssela would say if she knew how much facial hair I really have?"
I managed a snort. "She'd probably-"
A distant scream cut through my retort.
Enric and I glanced at one another and nodded; there was no need to speak. He shifted instantly to wolf form and sprang off into the woods, and I took to the air as a Fury.
The frustrating thing about supernatural senses is that you know about a problem long before you're close enough to do anything about it. The screams continued as I rose above the trees, and soon I had an uninterrupted view of the crime taking place - at least a mile away. Even at top speed, I wouldn't reach the scene for another two minutes, and neither would Enric. In the meantime, we were helpless to anything but watch and listen.
Away to the east, the road from Orit dipped into a ravine, where it crossed over a second road traveling north-south. It was here that the attackers set up their ambush. In the flickering lantern light I saw an overturned cart with a pony struggling in its leads; a tight knot of men focused inward and downward; and the occasional glint of metal. Voices drifted up from the melee: screams, cries of "mole" and "rockhead," and one chillingly clear announcement: "Hey, this one's female!" Fury-fire blazed around me.
The two minutes seemed like an eternity, but at last I reached them: six humans bending over a pair of smaller figures, still idly kicking them, though the victims had long since ceased to move. Clubs and hatchets lay in a heap - forgotten, now that they were no longer needed.
Enric and I reached the clearing as the first of the attackers rose from his victim, fastening his pants. A second man moved into place, but I speared him from above before he could even kneel. He fell on top of the Dwarf, blocking her from view - and providing her with a natural shield. I left them there and rounded on the first rapist, superimposing Urssela's face over his in my rage. I tore into him with a viciousness that surprised even me. Blood spattered his cronies as they dived for their weapons, but Enric had beaten them to the pile. I left him to his work, instead chasing down a man who tried to flee. He, too, wore Urssela's face as I killed him.
Panting, I rose above the fray to see if any of the men had escaped my wrath. All six lay dead. Almost without thinking I rose higher, until I could see as far as Orit and beyond. Just for one moment, the whole of Jund appeared to me as an irredeemable cesspit, teeming with Urssela's corruption. So vivid was the image that at first I thought it was a vision. Then my mind cleared. Do you really think everyone in Jund is the same, Kyriel? You have more in common with Urssela than you think. Sickened, I drifted back to earth.
Enric had already resumed his human form and rushed to the nearest Dwarf. I did likewise, all my hopes for a "first contact" fading like selfish pipe dreams. Forget the Gandalf stories, I told myself; the best I could hope for these Dwarves was that they were still alive. I tossed aside a corpse and took my first good look at a Dwarf, a stocky figure in mail and torn leather, her hair a mass of dirt and blood. Gently I lifted her wrist to check for a pulse.
"Mine's dead," said Enric, behind me. "What about yours?"
"She's alive," I answered. "Just barely." I drew the rags of clothing back over her battered legs.
"She? I heard what they said, but-" he glanced at the woman's face, half-hidden by a long brown beard. We'd heard the rumors often enough, and the jokes that inevitably followed, but had been inclined to regard them as more racist slander. Yet here we were, faced with the truth in the worst way possible.
"Yes, 'she,'" I answered bitterly. "That's why they raped her instead of just killing her."
Enric's shock turned to pity, but he put on his 'doctor' face and came quickly to my side. He pulled aside the rags and his eyes flashed quickly, professionally over the limp body. "This is bad," he said, gently touching the bruised flesh. "I can stop most of the bleeding, but she's got some serious internal injuries. We have to get her to a healer right away." He pulled off his shirt and began ripping it apart for bandages.
I'd already exhausted my own medical expertise in checking the Dwarf's pulse, so I left Enric to his work and turned instead to the cart and pony. The animal, although badly cut and nearly hysterical, had been spared the worst of the attack. I soothed him as best I could and readjusted his traces. Then I righted the cart and turned to the Dwarves' spilled belongings. Mostly they consisted of iron goods: pots, pans, and other kitchenware; a few mail shirts and weapons. They're peddlers, I realized. And that means there'll be a cash box. Sure enough, I found a large steel box at the edge of the lantern light. Its lid hung loose, twisted and split from a hatchet blow, the coins still inside - pitifully little, for all the effort required to reach them. I looked back over the corpses, human and Dwarf. Is that why you tried to kill them, because they didn't give you enough money? Is that why you raped her? Or was it just because she was a Dwarf? Bastards. I wish I could kill you all again.
"Ready," said Enric behind me.
We lifted the two Dwarves into the cart but left the men where they lay. There was no time to deal with them now, not when their victim needed our urgent attention.
"The nearest village is about a mile and a half that way." I told Enric, pointing north. I'd been scouting our route by air for some time now, and knew the lay of the land fairly well. "Will she make it that far?"
"Probably," he grimaced. "I'll tend to her while you drive. Go as fast as you can, but don't jostle us any more than you have to."
The Dwarf was still breathing when we reached the village, but she'd grown noticeably paler.
We looked in vain for a hospital but found the sign of an open palm above a private residence. I leapt down and banged on the door. "Hey, healer," I called, "open up! We've got a dying woman out here!"
Footsteps shuffled behind the locked door, which cracked open to reveal a bleary-eyed, middle-aged face and a tuft of brown hair. "Where?" the man asked, squinting in the light of our torch. I pointed to the cart and he stepped outside, flexing his fingers to activate the healing touch. He peered over the side of the wagon, then looked up again. "I don't treat Dwarfs," he grunted, and started back toward his door.
I'd half expected his response, but that didn't mean I had to like it. If anyone should be above this sort of prejudice, it was a healer. I seized the man by the back of his collar, slung him around, and lifted him off the ground. "You'll treat this one," I snarled.
His legs kicked and he struggled to speak. From the back of the cart, Enric added quickly, "We'll pay."
At that the healer found his voice. "How much?"
I set him down, and Enric tossed a moneybag over the side of the cart. The healer caught it deftly and, edging away from me, pulled back the drawstring. He peered inside and his eyes widened. "All right," he said nervously, stuffing the pouch into his nightshirt. "But she doesn't come inside. I'll work out here."
Again the Dwarf woman's clothes were pulled aside - this time with more distaste than concern. Her beard was thrown up over her face. "I know these two," the healer said as he went to work. "Urd and Meli. They come out here about once every two months to sell iron goods." He grimaced. "Never knew Meli was a woman, though. Creepy, isn't it, the way you can't tell them apart?"
"You could have asked," I said through gritted teeth.
The healer stepped back from the cart. "What for?" He wiped his hands on his shirt hem, leaving long red streaks. "Well, that's done. When she wakes up, don't let her sit up too quickly - blood loss and all. And best get her out of town before anybody sees her."
Or you with her? I thought, but didn't speak.
"Heal the pony, too," Enric growled.
He did, and we drove away without thanking him.
"I can't believe he actually knew them, and he still refused to treat her!" Now that we were outside the city limits, I could give the Fury room to breathe. Flame-shaped shadows flickered around me as I drove. If not for the pony and Dwarf, I'd have given them free reign.
"He was a bastard," Enric agreed, "but at least he was a greedy one. I was afraid we'd have to use force on him."
Absently I nodded, my thoughts still on the healer and his prejudice. "Enric," I asked, "have you ever refused to treat an animal that was hurt?"
He scratched his chin and frowned. "There was a dog once, a big, mean creature that had broken out of its cage and gone on a rampage. It killed two puppies and tore a hole in a little boy's leg before someone managed to shoot it. When they brought it to me, it was half dead and still nearly took my hand off....But I treated it. I had to. " He sighed and shook his head. "That healer should have his license revoked - if only he had one."
I grunted agreement. The expression on that man's face when he'd seen Meli in the cart: no healer should ever look like that. No person should ever look like that, not facing another person. But what had I felt, putting Urssela's face on the men I was about to kill? What had I felt, looking down from above and imagining Jund as a solid pool of corruption? "Enric," I began, "I think there must be something in us all that just wants to hate."
He didn't respond - at least, not to my comment. Instead he simply said, "She's awake."
I sucked the darkness inside as fast as I could, then stopped the cart and turned around. Meli lay propped against a makeshift pillow - Enric's and my packs, actually. She stared at us with wary confusion but hadn't yet noticed her mate, who lay under a blanket at the rear.
"Careful," Enric urged as she tried to sit up. "You've lost a lot of blood."
The Dwarf brushed away his hands and rose to a more-or-less upright position. Her eyelids fluttered, but she didn't faint. "Where's Urd?" she asked, in a gravely tenor. Then her eyes found the blanket.
A high-pitched keening began in her throat, a sound that pierced my heart and filled my stomach with lead. Tears sprang up in my eyes. Meli scrambled to the back of the cart and threw the blankets aside. She pulled the dead Dwarf into her arms and began to rock him, the keen growing louder and then softening to a mournful coo. I could hardly bear to watch, nor could I tear my eyes away. Enric held out his arm as I crawled into the back of the cart. He pulled me close and, unconsciously, we too began to rock. For a long time there was no noise but the Dwarf's lament.
When she looked up at last, her eyes burned bright with rage. "Who- ?" she began, then saw my expression. I wiped my eyes as hastily as I could, but it was too late. Meli had seen the tears, and knew what they meant. For a moment her face softened; then it grew harder than ever. This was not a woman to accept sympathy from strangers.
To distract her, Enric answered the unfinished question. "My name is Enric," he said, "and this is Kyriel. We rescued you when you were attacked. Do you remember?"
Meli's eyes left mine, and she shuddered. "There were robbers and I was - I -" Her face twisted, but she recovered herself quickly and forged on. "I don't remember much after they ambushed us. And I definitely don't remember you two." She looked down at the dead man again, and her eyes welled.
I spoke as gently as I could. "I'm sorry we couldn't get there in time to save Urd. Was he your husband?"
She nodded, then looked up in surprise. "How did you know his name?"
"The healer told us, back there - " I gestured toward the town just beyond the ridge.
"What, old Tobel?" For a moment she looked as if she didn't believe me; then her hand flew to her torn clothes, and the unbroken flesh beneath. "I was hurt."
"Badly," Enric nodded. "You would have died without help."
"But Tobel wouldn't touch a Dwarf to save his life."
"Maybe not, but he'd do it for gold."
Meli's eyes widened as she took this in. "You paid for my healing? Why?" Amazement turned quickly to suspicion, and she scrabbled for the axe at her belt. "What do you want with us?" she demanded. "Where are you taking us?"
I was dumbfounded. "Nothing - nowhere!" I gasped, backing away from the blade. "We saw the attack and we rescued you. It's as simple as that."
The Dwarf's eyes narrowed even further. "Nothing is that simple when it comes to humans."
Enric and I exchanged glances, but this was no time to debate the label. "Look, Meli," sighed Enric. "If we meant to harm you, we'd have done it before now. At the very least, we'd have tied you up and taken your weapon." His eyes held hers with no-nonsense gentleness. "Doesn't that make sense?"
Slowly, almost reluctantly, the Dwarf loosened her grip on the axe. Her expression shifted from fear to grim embarrassment. "Of course it does," she said stiffly. "I was overcome by the emotion of losing my husband. Forgive me; I judged you too quickly." She made a big show of stuffing the weapon back in her belt, but even her bowed head didn't completely hide the tears. When she looked up again, Enric and I pretended not to notice.
"You'll want payment, of course - " she began.
We broke in with a flurry of demurrals, but Meli overrode them with a shake of her head. "You two are warriors, yes?" she asked. "Well then, if that is your occupation, you must be paid for it. Besides, it's not safe in Jund for a Dwarf to travel alone. Huh," she laughed bitterly, "it's not even safe for us to travel in pairs, is it? If the two of you are willing, I'd like to hire to you escort me back to my home. Cash on delivery, of course."
Enric and I agreed, for Meli's sake more than for the promise of wealth.
We traveled swiftly but by the back roads, passing only a handful of humans along the way. Most, thankfully, ignored us. Meli spoke only to give directions. She spent most of the ride in deep sleep, but the rest seemed only to drain her more. Her eyes grew hollow and haunted.
After four days we reached Mornegald, high on the peak of a craggy mountain. Once upon a time, there had been many entrances into the Dwarf hold, but today most of them had been blocked with boulders or stationed with guards.
A long, low horn signaled our approach from above. I looked up into the rugged heights, marveling at the intricacy of the carvings overhead: ponderous spirals, blade-sharp angles, bearded faces large as castles. The work must have taken centuries, I thought. No wonder the Dwarves stayed on in the face of so much oppression.
"I'll have to present you to the King," Meli told us as we started up a series of switchbacks. "He doesn't like us bringing humans into Mornegald, but it's not unheard of. He'll want to talk to you himself about what happened."
Enric and I exchanged glances. Meli hadn't mentioned a royal audience before now; we'd expected to drop her off at the gate and be gone. Our past experiences with nobility had been checkered, to say the least; and neither of us knew much about Dwarves. I was hardly reassured when Meli added, "Just be sure to speak only when spoken to, and you'll be fine." Enric gave me a slight shrug and let his eyes drift toward my sword. The message was clear: hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.
Stern-faced guards met us at the gate, eyeing Enric and me with looks that ranged from suspicion to outright disgust. I'd seen such expressions before, but never from anyone who thought I was a human being. I felt a sudden urge to apologize even though I'd done nothing wrong.
Meli, meanwhile, began immediately to argue with the guard captain. "You don't expect me to share my business with you before I've told it to the King, do you?" she snapped. "These two are my guests; that's all you need to know." Grudgingly, the captain turned aside and slipped a key into a hidden slot. The gates swung inward as though greased. A second guard, meanwhile, took the reins from Meli's hands. "Out of the cart," he(?) growled, and Enric and I complied, passing Meli her belongings as we did so. Porters took the cart and pony to a small pasture nearby, and Meli led the way into Mornegald. Taking a deep breath, I clasped Enric's hand and followed her through the gate.
architectural friezes courtesy of Randy D. Ralph at the Icon Bazaar
