Rise of the Blood Masters (Book 5) (8 page)

Understandably, there was a lot of resistance to this type of radical change, especially from the other clans.  During the early days leading up to the rebellion, Utan approached the dwarf council, asking for better working conditions and higher pay for his people. But his grievances were ignored, and the plight of the Vardmiters did not improve.

Utan became increasingly frustrated by the systematic denigration of his people, and he continued to fight for more rights. He complained directly to the king, but Hergung was very sick and could scarcely speak. Hergung deferred Utan back to the council, who dismissed his complaints yet again.

Infuriated, Utan began making secret plans to leave Mount Velik. He scouted for land and found a group of serviceable caves in the northwest region of the Highport Mountains. When Utan returned from his travels, he immediately called his clan together. On the day of the meeting, Utan stood in front of his clan and shouted, “We deserve better than this! The abuse of our people must stop! And it will! It stops today!”

With his passionate words, Utan whipped his clan into a frenzy. By the end of his speech, the Vardmiters were ready to follow him anywhere. And they did. The Vardmiters packed up and left Mount Velik under the cover of darkness that very same night, through a secret exit in the mountain. Their mass exodus was unlike anything the clans had ever seen.

Since no dwarf outside the Vardmiter clan ever entered their caves, news of the exodus didn’t reach the other clans until the following morning, when gossip began spreading through the city like a prairie fire.  

The other clans were incredulous. The dwarf council met and swiftly issued a formal pronouncement declaring it to be a temporary situation. The council maintained that the Vardmiters would return to Mount Velik in disgrace within days. A few council members even laughed about it. The council firmly believed that the Vardmiters would fail. They even started taking bets on when they would return.
No one should panic,
they insisted.
They’ll come back soon enough.
Everyone calmed down a bit after that.

Too bad it was a lie. And Skemtun and the other dwarves had been foolish enough to believe it.

As the days turned into weeks, it became clear that the council was wrong. Very wrong. In desperation, the council sent spies to discover what the Vardmiters were doing. When the initial reports came back, the council refused to believe them.

The spies reported that the Vardmiters were doing well—thriving, in fact, in their new home. Although they had struggled at first, ultimately, they had persevered. Against all odds, the Vardmiters had succeeded.

On their own.

The Vardmiters weren’t afraid to work hard to make their lives better. They pooled what little money they had and purchased three pigs; a boar and two sows. The pigs were easy to care for, because they could thrive on a diet of almost anything, including food scraps, acorns, and wild plants. From two breeding sows, the Vardmiters built their vast pig farms. All the female piglets were kept for breeding and the hogs fattened for consumption. They raised the pigs sensibly and treated them with care.

Under the Vardmiter’s watchful husbandry, the sows multiplied by leaps and bounds, and within a year, the dwarves had a stable source of meat. In the meantime, women and children looked for food outside the mountain, gathering everything that was even remotely edible while they waited for their mushroom beds to mature. In this way, the Vardmiters survived their difficult first year.

After that, it only became easier for them.

As the conditions at Highport improved, the situation at Mount Velik deteriorated. No one was left to work the menial jobs that the Vardmiters used to do. The Vardmiters had performed all the unskilled jobs; they provided such vital services as garbage collection, sewage removal, general repairs, and burial of the dead.

The Vardmiters had also done most of the agricultural work, too, so their absence reduced the food supply. The citizens of Mount Velik tried to carry on as they did before, but it became impossible, and the kingdom tumbled into chaos.

Instead of conceding their mistakes and trying to set things right, the dwarf council argued even more. None of the clans wanted to do the lowly jobs the Vardmiters used to do. They went back and forth for months as their society crumbled around them. Skemtun himself had argued against his clan picking up garbage, as it had seemed unthinkable at the time. With no one willing to step up, the catastrophe only worsened.

Near the caldera, where sunlight allowed some crops to grow, the abandoned fields became overgrown. Blight spread in the neglected soil, and all the crops perished. Their already limited farmland suffered great damage as a result. Drains became clogged and ceased to operate, and many caves were inundated with contaminated water.

The livestock went next. None of the higher clans wanted to touch farm animals. With no one to feed and care for them, all the chickens died. Then the rabbits.

Incredibly, their goat herds survived, but only because they were left outside to roam and graze; usually with no one attending them. When the Vardmiters left, they took their valuable sheep dogs with them, so many goats were killed by wolves. Some were stolen by human farmers who lived in the valley below.

All the while, the dwarves’ once-massive grain stores dwindled to nothing.

The population became desperate, which caused them to act recklessly. Outbreaks of violence occurred, and there was rioting inside the city. People fought, property was destroyed, and two dwarves were killed in the chaos. Only then did the council finally decide that the situation was critical. They were forced to admit the truth. The labor of the lowliest dwarf clan had been vital to the kingdom, and without the Vardmiters, their carefully structured society could not survive. 

As riots consumed the city, the council swallowed their pride, and for the first time in recorded history assigned their clan members to menial work. Skemtun wasn’t happy about it, no one was, but what else could they do?

The reassigned dwarves were skilled craftsmen who considered their new jobs incredibly demeaning. They complained bitterly about the physical labor, especially farming and cleaning, which the kingdom desperately needed to continue functioning.

After some negotiation, the clans forged a compromise. Every clan agreed to rotate their workers, with the majority of the extra labor coming from Marretaela, the mining clan, now the largest clan in the mountain. As Skemtun was leader of Marretaela, most of the additional labor fell to his people. He became responsible for delegating twice as much work as before. Skemtun had to push his clan members to take up where the Vardmiters left off.

The task was difficult, and it certainly wasn’t pleasant. No one wanted to do all this extra work, but it was necessary. It was the only way to make the city function properly again. Eventually, his clan agreed to do as he said, but the new responsibilities were a constant burden, and the additional stress almost crippled him.

Finally, after several years, things were getting better. But nothing was as it had been before. Most dwarves worked two jobs. Everyone was exhausted. Women and children took over the cultivation and planting of the mushroom fields. And even with everyone working, it was still hard to get everything done.

There was simply too much work to be done. Old men and women, long retired, were forced back to work. Most worked unpaid, but they simply didn’t have a choice. Everyone had to pitch in and help, or there wouldn’t be enough for everyone to eat. And what would happen then?

Once the clans resigned themselves to their new roles, the situation at Mount Velik improved. They stripped out the diseased crops and replanted their fields with healthy plants. The new crops grew quickly now that they were being tended properly.

The dwarves succeeded in saving most of the goats. The goats were breeding again, so they had cheese and meat. And luckily, the orchards outside the mountain never stopped producing fruit.

A few more industrious dwarves managed to cultivate tracts of rye outside the mountain, so this year, they even had bread. Things were getting better. Slowly.

While they did have enough to eat these days, everything was still less plentiful than before, and food choices were limited. The days when one could choose between dozens of varied fruits and vegetables were over.

Skemtun glanced around him, knowing how bad things had gotten. They had simply ignored the problems for too long.

Why did we let it get this bad?

Skemtun shook his head as he passed through an empty corridor. It was a question he had no answer for. “If only we had fixed it sooner,” Skemtun said under his breath. “It would ‘ave been a lot less work for everybody.”

He sighed. One step at a time.

Two young dwarves swung out into the corridor, chatting and laughing. Gazing down at his feet, Skemtun didn’t even notice until they bumped into him.

“Whoops! Sorry, old man,” one said. “I didn’t see ye there.”

Skemtun looked up and saw a familiar face. It belonged to his cousin, Garaek, the youngest son of his sister Marna. If he remembered correctly, Garaek had just turned thirty this year. “That’s all right, son,” Skemtun replied. “Where ye lads headed?”

“To the mead hall!” the other one said, clapping Skemtun so hard on the back that he sputtered. “We need a stiff drink an’ a hot meal. Ye should join us!” They laughed and carried on their way.

Skemtun’s face lifted.
What a great idea! A break is what I need
. If there was one thing he wanted, it was a good meal in the company of friends.

He changed direction and hurried down the corridor that led to the mead hall. The hall was positioned at the end of the market, and since it was market day, all the tables were full.

Fruits and vegetables, mushrooms and meat; the tables were piled high, though not as high as they once had been. Skemtun could remember the days when sellers would simply give away the older produce. But now, even rotting vegetables, overripe fruit, and green-tinged meat were all sold and used for something.

He paused at the entrance and scanned the huge room. The hall was filled to capacity and bustled with activity. The Vardmiters weren’t allowed here anymore, but dwarves from every other clan walked around, chatting and doing business.

Old dwarves played cards near the fireplace, and children played up and down the aisles. There were a few humans, too, merchants from the outside.

It was a communal gathering place—a cafeteria, meeting room, and a recreation space all in one. Skemtun squeezed through a large group of stonecutters and went inside.

Torchlight reflected off the ornate metalwork on the tables and chairs. Iron spears and animal skins hung on the walls. The scents of ale and cooking food filled the air, making his stomach rumble. He passed by other dwarves in his clan, waving and saying hello. Sometimes he stopped to talk, but he tried to keep the conversations short.

The more he smelled food, the more he wanted it. Pushing through the crowds, Skemtun found a seat at a smaller table near the kitchen. He caught the eye of a serving girl and motioned with his finger. The young woman stopped wiping tables and walked over to him.

“Hello, Skemtun. Haven’t seen ye in a while.” she said with a smile.

“I’ve been busy, ye know,” he replied.

“Haven’t we all? Now then, what’ll ye be havin’ today?”

He thought for a moment, looking at the giant painted menu above the kitchen doors. “I’ll ‘ave a goat platter with mushrooms. Do ye have any bread today?”

She shook her head. “Nay, not today. There’s no flour until next week.”

“Too bad. How ‘bout one o’ those fancy honey cakes?” he asked. “I’d like one o’ those.”

“Aye, we do ‘ave a few. Will half of one be enough? The king likes ‘em, so we’re tryin’ to ration ‘em a bit.”

“That’s fine. I’ll take whatever ye can give me. And bring me a big jug o’ ale from the cellar.” He dug into his pocket and tossed her a copper coin. The girl caught it in the air with her free hand. With a small smile on her lips, she tucked the coin into her apron. “Thank ye, sir. I’ll be right back with yer plate.” She spun around and disappeared into the kitchen.

Skemtun leaned back and let his mind relax while he waited for his order. All around him, people chatted and laughed. A rousing song erupted at a nearby table, and an enthusiastic group jumped up to sing, swaying back and forth as they loudly shouted the lyrics.

Skemtun smiled and began to whistle. It was an old melody, a bard’s tribute to a lost love. He’d heard this song a thousand times before.

More and more stood up to sing, and some even leapt on top of their tables. Soon, the whole place was singing along.

I see the face of my fair maiden,

In the stars each night up high,

Her eyes they haunt me still,

T’was just three moons ago she died,

I held ‘er near, and I held ‘er tight,

That blessed day, I swore I’d love ‘er all me life.

But she was lost to me one summer night,

Aye, ohhh ...those stormy winds shall blow.

He felt tears welling up in his eyes and rubbed them away. The serving girl reappeared minutes later with a heaping tray of meat and mushrooms, still steaming from the ovens. The food was a welcome sight.

She placed the plate in front of him along with a jug of ale. Skemtun rubbed his hands together, sniffing the delicious aroma. “Thank ye, lass, this looks delicious. It’s fine and warm.”

He yanked the stopper off the jug and took a long drink. The cold ale went down his throat in a frothy torrent. “By Golka, that tastes good,” he said, wiping foam from his beard with the back of his hand.

“Och! Ye’re sure enjoyin’ it! Ye must ‘ave been thirsty!” the girl teased him.

“Aye,” he said, nodding. “I always enjoy good food and drink, ‘specially if I don’t ‘ave to cook it!”

She offered him another smile. “Will that be all now?”