Scatterstone - Part 11
Oct. 27th, 2013 05:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bloodyrosemccoyWoo! Still doing this! If you're wondering where the hell to start, enjoy this handy index!
Fairy wings serve two main purposes. Of course, they help fairies fly--but not in the way you might expect. The wings are too small to do the job of flight by mere physics, though they do use them for balance. Rather, fairy wings have evolved a natural spell matrix into their structure. Unlike other species, where magic is a rare phenomenon, fairies all have some natural magic (though some, like Terwu'arie, have more than others). They use this magic to fly--although using straight magic is tiring, so when they can they usually apply it in combination with their more prosaic, but still impressive, acrobatic abilities.
The primary purpose of fairy wings, however, is as solar panels. Fairy wings are leaves. While fairies do have full digestive systems, they supplement their food intake with photosynthesis. While it is not crucial to her survival, a fairy who has been out of direct sunlight for a while will become sluggish, irritable, and unable to focus.
Biologists are divided about whether to call fairies hibernatory or deciduous. The fact is that in the late autumn fairy wings will change color, dry out, and eventually fall off. This coincides with a period of subtantially increased appetite, after which the fairy will go into hibernation for a few months. In fairy communities, the wing loss and initiation of hibernation is marked with a huge, days-long feast before everyone goes off to their respective winter dens. They emerge in early spring with new wings budding out of their backs.
None of this has much to do with the story, but I thought you'd be interested in some of Arie's background.
Anyway!
---
Largo only gradually became aware of his surroundings.
The first thing he knew, after the sight of Kuen's eyes had been replaced by the cold wet shock of a mountain storm, was Nolly, pounding away with voice and fists at the crystal fog he'd wrapped around himself. How long she'd been at it he was not sure. How long she kept at it after he noticed was a mystery too. Sometimes he was aware she was there, and other times he didn't seem to know anything at all.
But finally--at this point time meant nothing to him--he noticed the dwarves.
He liked their cave. If any place was safe from horrors, it was this one, with its bright rugs and wall hangings, cheerful fire, and affably bickering dwarves. The cold stone surfaces were soothing on his bruises. And better--through the cave he could feel a presence. It was big--bigger than anything he'd felt--and cold, and utterly indifferent to things as petty as evil and despair and horror.
But of course, it was not free of horror. Horror, he'd learned, could be found lurking anywhere.
And that was why he couldn't talk to the kindhearted dwarves whose names floated to the surface of the mysterious language they used with each other. Or to Nolly. They didn't know. The solid stone reality beneath his feet had opened into an abyss of shadows and malice. He could never speak to her from down here. What if he dragged her in with him? She couldn't live with it.
He couldn't. It was consuming him. Every time he emerged from his fog to focus on something like Orlof's attempts at knitting lessons, or cooking with Hruldar, or playing with Rognir, or even just admiring the way the dwarves had structured their living space around the cave's natural contours, sooner or later Kraja's bloody knife would flash into his vision, flinging him back into the abyss. And then he could no longer do anything but hug the stone shelf that bordered the sleeping area, drawing in some comfort from its deep-rooted mass.
The only thing that kept the panic at bay was the crystal he'd drawn around himself. But that, too, came at a price. To keep out the terror, he had to keep out everything. Even when living in a cave--a cave!--or cooking, or playing fetch with Rognir, no excitement or enjoyment could make it in to replace the panic. All he had now was cold, dead numbness.
That lasted until the dwarven chariot carried him into Corona Caverns.
It was everything Orlof described. It was glory, magic, and all his dreams coming true at once, the best thing he'd ever seen.
This should be the most joyous moment of my life, he thought.
And, with every ounce of will still mobile in his crystallized mind, he wished--desperately wished--he could feel that joy.
Then his mind was pulled back to the present when there was a bang, and the chariot fell into crazy hairpin turns, and the dwarves started yelling, and he was going to die, he knew it, and he wasn't sure if that wasn't maybe good news--
--and something smashed through his carefully built crystal, came down like a landslide on his mind, and said, inside his head, I'm glad you like it.
#
Largo struggled to catch up with what was going on.
The crazy movement of the runaway chariot had stopped; now he was simply in some sort of void. It was almost like the dream space he shared with Nolly, but darker and, somehow, larger.
And he wasn't alone.
He could see nothing. But he could feel the scrutiny seeping through his skin. All around him crowded that presence whose edges extended to Orlof and Hruldar's cave. He'd tried to examine it then. But it had never occurred to him that it would be examining him back.
He sensed amusement. It knew he'd thought it completely unaware of him; indifferent to the little jelly creatures crawling on and under it. But it did, indeed, harbor a certain bemused interest in those beings so wildly different from itself. And here, burrowing deeper into it, was a new one, and it wanted to know about him.
It did not use words. It was an amalgam of sensations and thoughts that shuddered through him like an earthquake. He curled up in a ball, shivering. He had the feeling that he could be crushed as easily as he himself might squash an itchy little bug between his fingers.
But it seemed he was also interesting enough to pique its curiosity. After a bit more scrutiny, the awareness found the crystal around his mind.
The question it conveyed was clear and obvious. What's this?
Largo couldn't help the jolt of shock that struck him. How could explain it in terms this giant THING would understand? He wasn't even sure it could understand.
But he had to tell someone. And its very indifference was a comfort. Perhaps it could bleed off some of the horror, absorb it for him.
Without realizing what he was doing Largo cracked open the seal he'd built around himself and flung his mind inside-out.
The memories ripped out of him. His whole life--from his first steps on the sunny path outside his family's hole, through his adventures in the woods with Nolly, to his latest trip over the Arcadian countryside--hit this huge mind like a drop of purple dye spreading into a clear sea. He wondered if he'd ever be able to gather it all together again.
And as their minds mingled, Largo was swept through the larger one.
The memories were deep and wide and massive. Crystals formed, hot stones cooled and solidified. Years poured by like seconds, battering the stones with shaking and wind and water until they cracked and snapped and rolled into powder and sand. And then they settled and fused again, strong as before, sometimes stronger. Heat crushed over them, pressure ground them together. Constant change scarred them, but they always emerged anew, awaiting the next element's shaping ...
Would a thousand thousand years wear away his raw points? Solidify him, fuse him into something stronger?
"But I haven't got that long," he blurted.
A deep rumble nearly shook him apart. Was this thing--laughing?
His mind, fragmented and open, began to pull itself together. Largo cried out when he felt it change--a tweak here, a shift there, one or two things removed, one or two things added. The jagged crazing in his thoughts resolved into straight paths. When it was done, the rough patches were smoothed out and he was himself again.
"Wow," he said, struggling to catch his breath. His head throbbed.
Now that he'd mixed with the entity so totally, he could understand its communications much more clearly.
You are a curious little creature, it said. Your magic is mighty, but it is still rough. It itches at me. I would ask you to polish it.
"Sorry," Largo gasped. He didn't really think about the words it was saying. At this point he was just trying to keep the flesh on his bones.
You will learn. And when you do, return. It is always a pleasure to meet someone who appreciates my art.
Largo tried to answer, but he wasn't sure he could. He felt like he was getting crushed by a mountain.
It noticed. I will send you out now, Largo Blackstone. You little creatures do not seem to last long in my presence.
"Thank you," Largo managed, even as he felt it receding. "But who are you? I didn't catch your name!"
My name? I use no name. But the dwarves call me Zvauglarend Dadhantungould.
"Zvauglarend--what?"
It was already gone.
#
Orlof was definitely sorry he hadn't gotten out his battle axe. But who'd have thought the great Dwarrowday Melee would have an impromptu preliminary round right here in Corona Caverns? Who'd have thought that one word from his own little charge would send Vrod into a fury, shock Hruldar into frozen alarm, and get the rest of the crowd of rescuers and accident victims shouting in a frenzy of conflicting indignation? Those beyond their immediate circle were getting word of what was going on, starting to shout with the righteous anger of someone who has gotten only an ounce of the story. A few pickaxes and hammers were rattling ominously.
Orlof was just going to have to do this the unarmed way. He was already keeping Vrod from launching himself at Hruldar and the little hobbit. He was seriously considering just delivering a solid uppercut to his irritating neighbor, but before he could size up the blow, a thunderous voice echoed through the cavern.
"Silence!"
Everyone jumped at the sound. Everyone, Orlof noted sidelong, except Dhul. The little hobbit who had spent days scrambling for cover when someone so much as dropped a spoon seemed completely unaffected by this magically enhanced boom.
Vrod finally stopped trying to walk directly through Orlof. He turned with the others to meet the speaker.
The old dwarf walked briskly with the help of a curious staff that was crowned with a horseshoe-shaped bit of north-iron. Even for a dwarf, his mustache and beard were extraordinarily thick, perhaps to make up for the lack of any hair on his scalp. His eyes were bright under heavy lids, and they flickered over everyone thoughtfully.
"Master Lodestone?" Hruldar blinked. "I didn't realize you'd be here."
"Of course I am," the foremost mage of Grey Peak said. "Quite apart from my need to see that"--he gestured with his staff at the stalactite--"my student was on the other chariot. Had to see if he was all right."
"Is he?" Hruldar asked.
"He will be. An associate of mine is helping tend to his preliminary healing. He was well enough to ask me to figure out what that was all about, anyway. So!" He folded his hands over the staff. "I would appreciate if you would explain to me exactly what is going on."
Even back in school, Vrod had always been pretty good at getting himself out of trouble and other people into it. "This--beardless," he spluttered, "spoke the name of Old Man Mountain!"
A gasp rose from the dwarves nearest to them. Orlof couldn't blame them. It was forbidden for any Grey Peak dwarf to reveal the name of Old Man Mountain--whispered to him with great ceremony the day he became an adult--to an outsider. Violators were exiled--often down one of the deep crevasses underneath the city.
Outsiders weren't so lucky.
Master Lodestone turned to look at Dhul, who looked back at him with thoughtful brown eyes. "Who is this beardless, anyway?"
Hruldar shrugged. "I went out fishing. Caught him."
"And he didn't even question that!" Vrod pointed out. "Hruldar's too softhearted! And look where that's got us!"
He gestured dramatically upward.
Master Lodestone peered up at the suspended chariot again. "Looks to me like it saved your life."
Vrod reddened. "That's irrelevant!"
"I completely agree."
"We must not reveal Old Man Mountain's name!" Vrod went on furiously. "Everyone knows this! Give an outsider the name, and they can control the mountain! Hruldar knows this, and yet he must have let it slip! Orlof wouldn't, but Hruldar softheaded and softhearted enough ..."
Orlof sighed and delivered a swift right hook to his rival's jaw.
"You really should have known that would happen," he said clinically as Vrod staggered. "You lack foresight, Vrod."
Master Lodestone ignored him. "So this hobbit infiltrated your cave, discovered Old Man Mountain's name, and used it to grow this stalactite?"
"So ... it would ... seem," Vrod grunted, clutching his jaw.
"I see." Master Lodestone's voice had become soft and slightly threatening . "Tell me, how did he manage to etch the sacred hexagon on the floor, inscribe the the holy runes on its sides, place the six significant crystals at the hexagon's points, and call to the mountain while speeding along in a runaway chariot?
Orlof snorted in spite of himself. Vrod hesitated. The mob, which had been leaning toward Vrod's point of view, backed off. Orlof could swear he heard feet shuffling.
"You've all forgotten that the name is only the key," Master Lodestone said. "Talking to Old Man Mountain takes some doing."
Vrod had recovered. "Then how do you explain that?"
Master Lodestone shrugged. "Well, there are a few different possibilities, but I can offer the simplest." He squinted at the hobbit. "Looks to me like Old Man Mountain wanted to talk to him."
Orlof almost fell over. He met Hruldar's eyes to see the same look of disbelief. Vrod was spluttering.
It was Hruldar who finally managed to stammer, "Why?"
Stroking his beard, Master Lodestone looked back at the little hobbit. "Why, indeed. Why are you so special, strange beardless nephew?"
In spite of the sudden confusion that the mage's revelation had stirred up, Orlof put an arm around his charge. "You'll have to ask him in Common. I don't think he speaks Dwarvish."
"Actually, I think I do."
They all looked at the hobbit.
Orlof stepped back. "You can understand us?"
"Yes." His little voice was rusty with disuse, but his Dwarvish was excellent. "I understand your words, anyway."
"How long has this been going on?" Master Lodestone said.
"About ten minutes," he croaked. He fixed the mage with a pointed eye. "Incidentally, about the same amount of time I've known that name you're all so upset about."
"Hah!" Orlof couldn't resist giving him a light pound on the back. Take that, Vrod!
The hobbit looked at him with wide eyes. "You mean to tell me that Zvau"--he cut himself off as the dwarves flinched--"that it was the mountain I was talking to?"
The dwarves exchanged glances. It hadn't occurred to them that anyone might not know Old Man Mountain.
"Our mountain has a deep spirit," Master Lodestone said. "He doesn't usually pay attention to individuals, though. You must have intrigued him."
The hobbit looked a little embarrassed. "I think he just was glad I appreciated his artwork."
"Perhaps," Master Lodestone said. "And he graced you with the knowledge of our language." He considered it, pulling at his mustache thoughtfully. "Your accent is a little old-fashioned. I think he taught you in the style he knew from the last great stonemage he talked to."
Orlof got it first. He gasped, taking a step back from the hobbit. That revelation ... made entirely too much sense.
The lad looked at him blankly for a moment.
Then it sank in. The little color left in the hobbit's face drained out of it until he resembled a cave fish.
"Oh, no," he said.
"They're the only ones who can talk to him," Master Lodestone nodded. "His presence crushes everyone else. They come out raving mad. Another reason one might want to take precautions before talking to him." He raised an eyebrow. "You don't sound stark raving mad."
Orlof snorted. "Give him a minute. He hasn't been talking for very long." But he gave the lad a reassuring shoulder squeeze as he said it.
Dhul didn't even seem to notice. Master Lodestone's words seemed to have sparked something behind his eyes. Orlof could see the memories flickering past, key scenes from his past violently recontextualizing.
"No," he said. "Oh no. I can't--I can't--" He was shaking.
Orlof swallowed. His ears had suddenly started to pop. They seemed to be trying to keep something from him--he could feel the bass note in his boots, but he couldn't hear it. The remaining rescue workers and their charges, beyond their little drama, flinched as the cavern rumbled.
The cavern was shaking with the hobbit.
Vrod shifted nervously. Both Orlof and Hruldar started toward him, but before they got to him, a voice--high, shrill, and entirely at the opposite extreme of Orlof's range of hearing--rose from nearby.
"Good grief, what in the world is going on over here?"
Orlof gaped. In a flutter of bright colors, a tiny form, perhaps knee-high to a dwarf, bounded away from another knot of rescue workers. She took a flying leap to settle on the tips of Master Lodestone's staff, one slippered foot resting delicately on each prong, her clustered, leaflike wings beating judiciously to keep her balance. A flush of scarlet and orange was overtaking their summery green, contrasting with the slate blue of her dress.
The fairy peered at the hobbit intently.
"Largo?" she said. "Largo Blackstone?"
The effect was electric. The wild panic in his eyes suddenly resolved. He focused on her. The mounting tension suddenly drained out of him--and as he quieted, so did the whole chamber.
He slumped finally, looking from her to the dwarven mage with too-bright eyes.
"What do I do?" he whispered.
Master Lodestone hesitated. Orlof noticed he was gripping his staff with white knuckles.
The fairy looked at him. "You said he's a stonemage, right?" Her own Dwarvish was halting, with a distinct Northern Quartzshaft twang, but it was passable. "I think it might be ... unwise ... to take him deeper into the mountain at this time."
Master Lodestone nodded. "Agreed. His power is great but ... it doesn't seem to be under control."
Hruldar had kicked Orlof in the shin before he could even open his mouth.
"I'd suggest learning to control it outside of here," the old mage went on thoughtfully. "We don't want you bothering Old Man Mountain."
"I need polish," the hobbit said dejectedly. "He said I itch."
The fairy grinned. "I believe it."
Vrod couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Who are you?"
She glared at him.
"This is my associate, Terwu'arie," Master Lodestone said pointedly. "A consummate mage. The one who was treating my student, as a matter of fact. And, my strange little wayward hobbit, she has been looking for you."
"Me?" He shook his head. "Why? I don't even know you."
"No, but you know my friend Kuen."
"Kuen!" He reeled back as if slapped. "How--is she all right?"
"More or less. She's sorry she had to send you off into the middle of the mountains like that. She said there was no time to think of something better." She shrugged. "She's unavailable, but she and Manjusha sent me to find you."
He sagged. "Manjusha?"
With a resigned smile, the fairy rose from her perch to come hover closer to him. She put a hand on his shoulder.
"Come on, Largo," she said. "We've got a lot to discuss."
Hruldar put an arm around the hobbit. "Don't worry, lad. We'll be right there with you."
"You will?" Master Lodestone blinked.
Orlof folded his arms. "What are we supposed to do, just head off to Echo Cavern and leave him?"
"He's the responsibility of the mage that found him," Master Lodestone said.
"I found him," Hruldar said. "I don't know what in the earth happened to him before he came to me, but he was crumbling like an old tunnel. I've put a lot of effort into bracing him up again. I'm not leaving the job half-done."
People always thought Orlof was the stubborn one.
"But you'll miss Dwarrowday," Vrod pointed out.
"Well, then," Orlof said cheerfully. "For once you might have a chance of winning the competition."
Vrod blinked. "You're going back, too?"
"Naturally. Hruldar's going to take Rognir with him, and it just wouldn't be a celebration without that dog."
The hobbit looked from Orlof to Hruldar. The relief in his eyes was obvious.
"Don't you think we'd leave you, lad," Hruldar said. "Fine hosts we'd be. Fine uncles, for that matter. Why, you're like a nephew to us." He paused. "Largo Blackstone. A fine name. Almost Dwarvish." He shouldered his travel bag. "Well, Largo Blackstone, it seems the cleanup here is going all right. So I guess we get to turn around and head right back to Snowslope. Tell me, Largo--how do you feel about another chariot ride?"
---
Finally1 It's Part 12!
Fairy wings serve two main purposes. Of course, they help fairies fly--but not in the way you might expect. The wings are too small to do the job of flight by mere physics, though they do use them for balance. Rather, fairy wings have evolved a natural spell matrix into their structure. Unlike other species, where magic is a rare phenomenon, fairies all have some natural magic (though some, like Terwu'arie, have more than others). They use this magic to fly--although using straight magic is tiring, so when they can they usually apply it in combination with their more prosaic, but still impressive, acrobatic abilities.
The primary purpose of fairy wings, however, is as solar panels. Fairy wings are leaves. While fairies do have full digestive systems, they supplement their food intake with photosynthesis. While it is not crucial to her survival, a fairy who has been out of direct sunlight for a while will become sluggish, irritable, and unable to focus.
Biologists are divided about whether to call fairies hibernatory or deciduous. The fact is that in the late autumn fairy wings will change color, dry out, and eventually fall off. This coincides with a period of subtantially increased appetite, after which the fairy will go into hibernation for a few months. In fairy communities, the wing loss and initiation of hibernation is marked with a huge, days-long feast before everyone goes off to their respective winter dens. They emerge in early spring with new wings budding out of their backs.
None of this has much to do with the story, but I thought you'd be interested in some of Arie's background.
Anyway!
---
Largo only gradually became aware of his surroundings.
The first thing he knew, after the sight of Kuen's eyes had been replaced by the cold wet shock of a mountain storm, was Nolly, pounding away with voice and fists at the crystal fog he'd wrapped around himself. How long she'd been at it he was not sure. How long she kept at it after he noticed was a mystery too. Sometimes he was aware she was there, and other times he didn't seem to know anything at all.
But finally--at this point time meant nothing to him--he noticed the dwarves.
He liked their cave. If any place was safe from horrors, it was this one, with its bright rugs and wall hangings, cheerful fire, and affably bickering dwarves. The cold stone surfaces were soothing on his bruises. And better--through the cave he could feel a presence. It was big--bigger than anything he'd felt--and cold, and utterly indifferent to things as petty as evil and despair and horror.
But of course, it was not free of horror. Horror, he'd learned, could be found lurking anywhere.
And that was why he couldn't talk to the kindhearted dwarves whose names floated to the surface of the mysterious language they used with each other. Or to Nolly. They didn't know. The solid stone reality beneath his feet had opened into an abyss of shadows and malice. He could never speak to her from down here. What if he dragged her in with him? She couldn't live with it.
He couldn't. It was consuming him. Every time he emerged from his fog to focus on something like Orlof's attempts at knitting lessons, or cooking with Hruldar, or playing with Rognir, or even just admiring the way the dwarves had structured their living space around the cave's natural contours, sooner or later Kraja's bloody knife would flash into his vision, flinging him back into the abyss. And then he could no longer do anything but hug the stone shelf that bordered the sleeping area, drawing in some comfort from its deep-rooted mass.
The only thing that kept the panic at bay was the crystal he'd drawn around himself. But that, too, came at a price. To keep out the terror, he had to keep out everything. Even when living in a cave--a cave!--or cooking, or playing fetch with Rognir, no excitement or enjoyment could make it in to replace the panic. All he had now was cold, dead numbness.
That lasted until the dwarven chariot carried him into Corona Caverns.
It was everything Orlof described. It was glory, magic, and all his dreams coming true at once, the best thing he'd ever seen.
This should be the most joyous moment of my life, he thought.
And, with every ounce of will still mobile in his crystallized mind, he wished--desperately wished--he could feel that joy.
Then his mind was pulled back to the present when there was a bang, and the chariot fell into crazy hairpin turns, and the dwarves started yelling, and he was going to die, he knew it, and he wasn't sure if that wasn't maybe good news--
--and something smashed through his carefully built crystal, came down like a landslide on his mind, and said, inside his head, I'm glad you like it.
#
Largo struggled to catch up with what was going on.
The crazy movement of the runaway chariot had stopped; now he was simply in some sort of void. It was almost like the dream space he shared with Nolly, but darker and, somehow, larger.
And he wasn't alone.
He could see nothing. But he could feel the scrutiny seeping through his skin. All around him crowded that presence whose edges extended to Orlof and Hruldar's cave. He'd tried to examine it then. But it had never occurred to him that it would be examining him back.
He sensed amusement. It knew he'd thought it completely unaware of him; indifferent to the little jelly creatures crawling on and under it. But it did, indeed, harbor a certain bemused interest in those beings so wildly different from itself. And here, burrowing deeper into it, was a new one, and it wanted to know about him.
It did not use words. It was an amalgam of sensations and thoughts that shuddered through him like an earthquake. He curled up in a ball, shivering. He had the feeling that he could be crushed as easily as he himself might squash an itchy little bug between his fingers.
But it seemed he was also interesting enough to pique its curiosity. After a bit more scrutiny, the awareness found the crystal around his mind.
The question it conveyed was clear and obvious. What's this?
Largo couldn't help the jolt of shock that struck him. How could explain it in terms this giant THING would understand? He wasn't even sure it could understand.
But he had to tell someone. And its very indifference was a comfort. Perhaps it could bleed off some of the horror, absorb it for him.
Without realizing what he was doing Largo cracked open the seal he'd built around himself and flung his mind inside-out.
The memories ripped out of him. His whole life--from his first steps on the sunny path outside his family's hole, through his adventures in the woods with Nolly, to his latest trip over the Arcadian countryside--hit this huge mind like a drop of purple dye spreading into a clear sea. He wondered if he'd ever be able to gather it all together again.
And as their minds mingled, Largo was swept through the larger one.
The memories were deep and wide and massive. Crystals formed, hot stones cooled and solidified. Years poured by like seconds, battering the stones with shaking and wind and water until they cracked and snapped and rolled into powder and sand. And then they settled and fused again, strong as before, sometimes stronger. Heat crushed over them, pressure ground them together. Constant change scarred them, but they always emerged anew, awaiting the next element's shaping ...
Would a thousand thousand years wear away his raw points? Solidify him, fuse him into something stronger?
"But I haven't got that long," he blurted.
A deep rumble nearly shook him apart. Was this thing--laughing?
His mind, fragmented and open, began to pull itself together. Largo cried out when he felt it change--a tweak here, a shift there, one or two things removed, one or two things added. The jagged crazing in his thoughts resolved into straight paths. When it was done, the rough patches were smoothed out and he was himself again.
"Wow," he said, struggling to catch his breath. His head throbbed.
Now that he'd mixed with the entity so totally, he could understand its communications much more clearly.
You are a curious little creature, it said. Your magic is mighty, but it is still rough. It itches at me. I would ask you to polish it.
"Sorry," Largo gasped. He didn't really think about the words it was saying. At this point he was just trying to keep the flesh on his bones.
You will learn. And when you do, return. It is always a pleasure to meet someone who appreciates my art.
Largo tried to answer, but he wasn't sure he could. He felt like he was getting crushed by a mountain.
It noticed. I will send you out now, Largo Blackstone. You little creatures do not seem to last long in my presence.
"Thank you," Largo managed, even as he felt it receding. "But who are you? I didn't catch your name!"
My name? I use no name. But the dwarves call me Zvauglarend Dadhantungould.
"Zvauglarend--what?"
It was already gone.
#
Orlof was definitely sorry he hadn't gotten out his battle axe. But who'd have thought the great Dwarrowday Melee would have an impromptu preliminary round right here in Corona Caverns? Who'd have thought that one word from his own little charge would send Vrod into a fury, shock Hruldar into frozen alarm, and get the rest of the crowd of rescuers and accident victims shouting in a frenzy of conflicting indignation? Those beyond their immediate circle were getting word of what was going on, starting to shout with the righteous anger of someone who has gotten only an ounce of the story. A few pickaxes and hammers were rattling ominously.
Orlof was just going to have to do this the unarmed way. He was already keeping Vrod from launching himself at Hruldar and the little hobbit. He was seriously considering just delivering a solid uppercut to his irritating neighbor, but before he could size up the blow, a thunderous voice echoed through the cavern.
"Silence!"
Everyone jumped at the sound. Everyone, Orlof noted sidelong, except Dhul. The little hobbit who had spent days scrambling for cover when someone so much as dropped a spoon seemed completely unaffected by this magically enhanced boom.
Vrod finally stopped trying to walk directly through Orlof. He turned with the others to meet the speaker.
The old dwarf walked briskly with the help of a curious staff that was crowned with a horseshoe-shaped bit of north-iron. Even for a dwarf, his mustache and beard were extraordinarily thick, perhaps to make up for the lack of any hair on his scalp. His eyes were bright under heavy lids, and they flickered over everyone thoughtfully.
"Master Lodestone?" Hruldar blinked. "I didn't realize you'd be here."
"Of course I am," the foremost mage of Grey Peak said. "Quite apart from my need to see that"--he gestured with his staff at the stalactite--"my student was on the other chariot. Had to see if he was all right."
"Is he?" Hruldar asked.
"He will be. An associate of mine is helping tend to his preliminary healing. He was well enough to ask me to figure out what that was all about, anyway. So!" He folded his hands over the staff. "I would appreciate if you would explain to me exactly what is going on."
Even back in school, Vrod had always been pretty good at getting himself out of trouble and other people into it. "This--beardless," he spluttered, "spoke the name of Old Man Mountain!"
A gasp rose from the dwarves nearest to them. Orlof couldn't blame them. It was forbidden for any Grey Peak dwarf to reveal the name of Old Man Mountain--whispered to him with great ceremony the day he became an adult--to an outsider. Violators were exiled--often down one of the deep crevasses underneath the city.
Outsiders weren't so lucky.
Master Lodestone turned to look at Dhul, who looked back at him with thoughtful brown eyes. "Who is this beardless, anyway?"
Hruldar shrugged. "I went out fishing. Caught him."
"And he didn't even question that!" Vrod pointed out. "Hruldar's too softhearted! And look where that's got us!"
He gestured dramatically upward.
Master Lodestone peered up at the suspended chariot again. "Looks to me like it saved your life."
Vrod reddened. "That's irrelevant!"
"I completely agree."
"We must not reveal Old Man Mountain's name!" Vrod went on furiously. "Everyone knows this! Give an outsider the name, and they can control the mountain! Hruldar knows this, and yet he must have let it slip! Orlof wouldn't, but Hruldar softheaded and softhearted enough ..."
Orlof sighed and delivered a swift right hook to his rival's jaw.
"You really should have known that would happen," he said clinically as Vrod staggered. "You lack foresight, Vrod."
Master Lodestone ignored him. "So this hobbit infiltrated your cave, discovered Old Man Mountain's name, and used it to grow this stalactite?"
"So ... it would ... seem," Vrod grunted, clutching his jaw.
"I see." Master Lodestone's voice had become soft and slightly threatening . "Tell me, how did he manage to etch the sacred hexagon on the floor, inscribe the the holy runes on its sides, place the six significant crystals at the hexagon's points, and call to the mountain while speeding along in a runaway chariot?
Orlof snorted in spite of himself. Vrod hesitated. The mob, which had been leaning toward Vrod's point of view, backed off. Orlof could swear he heard feet shuffling.
"You've all forgotten that the name is only the key," Master Lodestone said. "Talking to Old Man Mountain takes some doing."
Vrod had recovered. "Then how do you explain that?"
Master Lodestone shrugged. "Well, there are a few different possibilities, but I can offer the simplest." He squinted at the hobbit. "Looks to me like Old Man Mountain wanted to talk to him."
Orlof almost fell over. He met Hruldar's eyes to see the same look of disbelief. Vrod was spluttering.
It was Hruldar who finally managed to stammer, "Why?"
Stroking his beard, Master Lodestone looked back at the little hobbit. "Why, indeed. Why are you so special, strange beardless nephew?"
In spite of the sudden confusion that the mage's revelation had stirred up, Orlof put an arm around his charge. "You'll have to ask him in Common. I don't think he speaks Dwarvish."
"Actually, I think I do."
They all looked at the hobbit.
Orlof stepped back. "You can understand us?"
"Yes." His little voice was rusty with disuse, but his Dwarvish was excellent. "I understand your words, anyway."
"How long has this been going on?" Master Lodestone said.
"About ten minutes," he croaked. He fixed the mage with a pointed eye. "Incidentally, about the same amount of time I've known that name you're all so upset about."
"Hah!" Orlof couldn't resist giving him a light pound on the back. Take that, Vrod!
The hobbit looked at him with wide eyes. "You mean to tell me that Zvau"--he cut himself off as the dwarves flinched--"that it was the mountain I was talking to?"
The dwarves exchanged glances. It hadn't occurred to them that anyone might not know Old Man Mountain.
"Our mountain has a deep spirit," Master Lodestone said. "He doesn't usually pay attention to individuals, though. You must have intrigued him."
The hobbit looked a little embarrassed. "I think he just was glad I appreciated his artwork."
"Perhaps," Master Lodestone said. "And he graced you with the knowledge of our language." He considered it, pulling at his mustache thoughtfully. "Your accent is a little old-fashioned. I think he taught you in the style he knew from the last great stonemage he talked to."
Orlof got it first. He gasped, taking a step back from the hobbit. That revelation ... made entirely too much sense.
The lad looked at him blankly for a moment.
Then it sank in. The little color left in the hobbit's face drained out of it until he resembled a cave fish.
"Oh, no," he said.
"They're the only ones who can talk to him," Master Lodestone nodded. "His presence crushes everyone else. They come out raving mad. Another reason one might want to take precautions before talking to him." He raised an eyebrow. "You don't sound stark raving mad."
Orlof snorted. "Give him a minute. He hasn't been talking for very long." But he gave the lad a reassuring shoulder squeeze as he said it.
Dhul didn't even seem to notice. Master Lodestone's words seemed to have sparked something behind his eyes. Orlof could see the memories flickering past, key scenes from his past violently recontextualizing.
"No," he said. "Oh no. I can't--I can't--" He was shaking.
Orlof swallowed. His ears had suddenly started to pop. They seemed to be trying to keep something from him--he could feel the bass note in his boots, but he couldn't hear it. The remaining rescue workers and their charges, beyond their little drama, flinched as the cavern rumbled.
The cavern was shaking with the hobbit.
Vrod shifted nervously. Both Orlof and Hruldar started toward him, but before they got to him, a voice--high, shrill, and entirely at the opposite extreme of Orlof's range of hearing--rose from nearby.
"Good grief, what in the world is going on over here?"
Orlof gaped. In a flutter of bright colors, a tiny form, perhaps knee-high to a dwarf, bounded away from another knot of rescue workers. She took a flying leap to settle on the tips of Master Lodestone's staff, one slippered foot resting delicately on each prong, her clustered, leaflike wings beating judiciously to keep her balance. A flush of scarlet and orange was overtaking their summery green, contrasting with the slate blue of her dress.
The fairy peered at the hobbit intently.
"Largo?" she said. "Largo Blackstone?"
The effect was electric. The wild panic in his eyes suddenly resolved. He focused on her. The mounting tension suddenly drained out of him--and as he quieted, so did the whole chamber.
He slumped finally, looking from her to the dwarven mage with too-bright eyes.
"What do I do?" he whispered.
Master Lodestone hesitated. Orlof noticed he was gripping his staff with white knuckles.
The fairy looked at him. "You said he's a stonemage, right?" Her own Dwarvish was halting, with a distinct Northern Quartzshaft twang, but it was passable. "I think it might be ... unwise ... to take him deeper into the mountain at this time."
Master Lodestone nodded. "Agreed. His power is great but ... it doesn't seem to be under control."
Hruldar had kicked Orlof in the shin before he could even open his mouth.
"I'd suggest learning to control it outside of here," the old mage went on thoughtfully. "We don't want you bothering Old Man Mountain."
"I need polish," the hobbit said dejectedly. "He said I itch."
The fairy grinned. "I believe it."
Vrod couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Who are you?"
She glared at him.
"This is my associate, Terwu'arie," Master Lodestone said pointedly. "A consummate mage. The one who was treating my student, as a matter of fact. And, my strange little wayward hobbit, she has been looking for you."
"Me?" He shook his head. "Why? I don't even know you."
"No, but you know my friend Kuen."
"Kuen!" He reeled back as if slapped. "How--is she all right?"
"More or less. She's sorry she had to send you off into the middle of the mountains like that. She said there was no time to think of something better." She shrugged. "She's unavailable, but she and Manjusha sent me to find you."
He sagged. "Manjusha?"
With a resigned smile, the fairy rose from her perch to come hover closer to him. She put a hand on his shoulder.
"Come on, Largo," she said. "We've got a lot to discuss."
Hruldar put an arm around the hobbit. "Don't worry, lad. We'll be right there with you."
"You will?" Master Lodestone blinked.
Orlof folded his arms. "What are we supposed to do, just head off to Echo Cavern and leave him?"
"He's the responsibility of the mage that found him," Master Lodestone said.
"I found him," Hruldar said. "I don't know what in the earth happened to him before he came to me, but he was crumbling like an old tunnel. I've put a lot of effort into bracing him up again. I'm not leaving the job half-done."
People always thought Orlof was the stubborn one.
"But you'll miss Dwarrowday," Vrod pointed out.
"Well, then," Orlof said cheerfully. "For once you might have a chance of winning the competition."
Vrod blinked. "You're going back, too?"
"Naturally. Hruldar's going to take Rognir with him, and it just wouldn't be a celebration without that dog."
The hobbit looked from Orlof to Hruldar. The relief in his eyes was obvious.
"Don't you think we'd leave you, lad," Hruldar said. "Fine hosts we'd be. Fine uncles, for that matter. Why, you're like a nephew to us." He paused. "Largo Blackstone. A fine name. Almost Dwarvish." He shouldered his travel bag. "Well, Largo Blackstone, it seems the cleanup here is going all right. So I guess we get to turn around and head right back to Snowslope. Tell me, Largo--how do you feel about another chariot ride?"
---
Finally1 It's Part 12!
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Date: 2013-10-29 04:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-29 05:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-29 04:47 pm (UTC)Hope today was better.
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Date: 2013-10-31 02:13 am (UTC)I'm gonna have to go back and re-read the whole thing in one go soon. You're doing a good job of signalling the callbacks and such, but I still feel like there are some things I'm missing, characters I'm getting confused because I've read the bits too far apart. Probably a problem on my end, not yours.
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Date: 2013-11-03 11:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-04 03:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-06 11:23 am (UTC)