trying to hear.
“I'll tell you later,” I promised, squeezing Sabia's hand to keep her quiet.
“There's no possible way to fix them, Yngvar?” Dumaka was asking.
“Not unless those wizards of yours can turn splinters into solid boards again,” my father growled.
He spoke sarcastically; dwarves have little tolerance for magic of any sort, considering most of it trickery, though they are hard-pressed to explain how it works. But I could tell that he was secretly hopeful the humans would come up with the solution.
The Phondran chief said nothing in response, however. A bad sign. Usually the humans are quick to claim their magic can solve any problem. Peeping from over the top of the window ledge, I saw that Dumaka's face was troubled.
My father heaved another sigh, and shifted his bulk uncomfortably in his chair. I sympathized with him. Elven chairs are made for slender elven buttocks.
“I'm sorry, my friend.” My father stroked his beard, a sure sign that he was upset. “I didn't mean to bark at you. Those blasted beasts have got us by the side whiskers, though, and what we do now is beyond this dwarf to figure out.”
“I think you're worried about nothing,” said Eliason, with a languid wave of his hand. “You sailed to Elmas in perfect safety. Perhaps these serpents got it into their snakey heads that the sun-chasers were some sort of threat to them, and,once they smashed them to bits, they felt better about the whole thing and departed, never to bother us again.”
” ‘Masters of the Sea,’ they called themselves,” my father reminded them, his black eyes glistening. “And they meant it. We sailed here by their permission. I'm as certain of that as if I'd heard them give it me. And they were watching. I felt their green-red eyes upon me the whole way.”
“Yes, I think you're right.”
Dumaka stood up abruptly, walked over to a low wall of coral, and stood gazing down into the shining depths of the calm and placid Goodsea. Was it my imagination, or did I see now upon its surface a trace of shimmering oil?
“I believe you should tell them our news, my dear,” said his wife, Delu.
Dumaka did not immediately reply, but kept his back turned, staring gloomily out to sea. He is a tall man, considered handsome by the humans. His rapid-fire speech, swift walk, and abrupt gestures always make him appear, in the realm of the easygoing Elmas, as if he were doing and saying everything in double-quick time. Now, however, he was not pacing or roaming about in frantic activity, trying to outrun the swift mortality that must inevitably overtake him.
“What's the matter with your father, Alake?” whispered Sabia. “Is he ill?”
“Wait and listen,” said Alake softly. Her face was sad. “Grundle's parents aren't the only ones who have a fearful tale to tell.”
Eliason must have found this change in his friend as disturbing as I did. He rose to his feet, moving with the slow, fluid grace of the elves, and laid a comforting hand on Dumaka's shoulder.
“Bad news, like fish, doesn't smell sweeter for being kept longer,” Eliason said gently.
“Yes, you are right.” Dumaka kept his gaze out to sea. “I had intended to say nothing of this to either of you, because I wasn't certain of the facts. The magi are investigating.” He cast a glance at his wife, a powerful wizardess. She inclined her head in response. “I wanted to wait for their report.
But…“He drew a deep breath”, it seems all too clear to me now what happened.
“Two days ago, a small Phondran fishing village, located on the coast directly opposite Gargan, was attacked and completely destroyed. Boats were smashed, houses leveled. One hundred and twenty men, women, and children lived in the village.” Dumaka shook his head, his shoulders bowed. “All are now dead.
“Ach,” said my father, tugging at his forelock in respectful sympathy.
“The One have mercy,” murmured Eliason. “Was it tribal war?”
Dumaka looked
“I'll tell you later,” I promised, squeezing Sabia's hand to keep her quiet.
“There's no possible way to fix them, Yngvar?” Dumaka was asking.
“Not unless those wizards of yours can turn splinters into solid boards again,” my father growled.
He spoke sarcastically; dwarves have little tolerance for magic of any sort, considering most of it trickery, though they are hard-pressed to explain how it works. But I could tell that he was secretly hopeful the humans would come up with the solution.
The Phondran chief said nothing in response, however. A bad sign. Usually the humans are quick to claim their magic can solve any problem. Peeping from over the top of the window ledge, I saw that Dumaka's face was troubled.
My father heaved another sigh, and shifted his bulk uncomfortably in his chair. I sympathized with him. Elven chairs are made for slender elven buttocks.
“I'm sorry, my friend.” My father stroked his beard, a sure sign that he was upset. “I didn't mean to bark at you. Those blasted beasts have got us by the side whiskers, though, and what we do now is beyond this dwarf to figure out.”
“I think you're worried about nothing,” said Eliason, with a languid wave of his hand. “You sailed to Elmas in perfect safety. Perhaps these serpents got it into their snakey heads that the sun-chasers were some sort of threat to them, and,once they smashed them to bits, they felt better about the whole thing and departed, never to bother us again.”
” ‘Masters of the Sea,’ they called themselves,” my father reminded them, his black eyes glistening. “And they meant it. We sailed here by their permission. I'm as certain of that as if I'd heard them give it me. And they were watching. I felt their green-red eyes upon me the whole way.”
“Yes, I think you're right.”
Dumaka stood up abruptly, walked over to a low wall of coral, and stood gazing down into the shining depths of the calm and placid Goodsea. Was it my imagination, or did I see now upon its surface a trace of shimmering oil?
“I believe you should tell them our news, my dear,” said his wife, Delu.
Dumaka did not immediately reply, but kept his back turned, staring gloomily out to sea. He is a tall man, considered handsome by the humans. His rapid-fire speech, swift walk, and abrupt gestures always make him appear, in the realm of the easygoing Elmas, as if he were doing and saying everything in double-quick time. Now, however, he was not pacing or roaming about in frantic activity, trying to outrun the swift mortality that must inevitably overtake him.
“What's the matter with your father, Alake?” whispered Sabia. “Is he ill?”
“Wait and listen,” said Alake softly. Her face was sad. “Grundle's parents aren't the only ones who have a fearful tale to tell.”
Eliason must have found this change in his friend as disturbing as I did. He rose to his feet, moving with the slow, fluid grace of the elves, and laid a comforting hand on Dumaka's shoulder.
“Bad news, like fish, doesn't smell sweeter for being kept longer,” Eliason said gently.
“Yes, you are right.” Dumaka kept his gaze out to sea. “I had intended to say nothing of this to either of you, because I wasn't certain of the facts. The magi are investigating.” He cast a glance at his wife, a powerful wizardess. She inclined her head in response. “I wanted to wait for their report.
But…“He drew a deep breath”, it seems all too clear to me now what happened.
“Two days ago, a small Phondran fishing village, located on the coast directly opposite Gargan, was attacked and completely destroyed. Boats were smashed, houses leveled. One hundred and twenty men, women, and children lived in the village.” Dumaka shook his head, his shoulders bowed. “All are now dead.
“Ach,” said my father, tugging at his forelock in respectful sympathy.
“The One have mercy,” murmured Eliason. “Was it tribal war?”
Dumaka looked
Similar Books
