The Survivors (10 page)

“I wish you well,” Bradok said wearily; he turned, descended the stairs behind his seat, and left the chamber.

The mob was still outside when Bradok pushed open the heavy doors of city hall. The number of guardsmen had more than doubled.

Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly down the steps and pushed his way right into the center of the mob. A rough hand descended on Bradok’s shoulder, and he was jerked around to stare into the bulb-nosed face of the impassioned Kellik Felhammer.

“I take it,” he said in his gravelly voice, his eyes taking in Bradok’s sad face, “that things didn’t go well in there?”

Bradok gripped the burly smith’s arm, holding him fast even though the other tried to break free, not knowing what to say.

“They’ve gone mad,” he managed at gasp at last. “Arbuckle and Bladehook have got them convinced that Argus and Silas and the street preachers are mixed up in some kind of plot to overthrow Ironroot and bring it under the religious rule of the priests.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Kellik said, his face at first disbelieving, then darkening into a scowl.

“It gets worse,” Bradok said as others close by leaned in to hear. “According to some believers, Ironroot has a week to repent before Reorx will destroy the place. When … if that doesn’t happen,” he corrected himself, “the council has declared that all believers must give up their faith or be executed as enemies of the city.”

Kellik swore as Bradok let him go and an angry muttering spread through the crowd. Bradok’s message was passed along.

“We’ll fight them,” Kellik said, turning to face the crowd and raising his voice to be heard by all. “We won’t let those self-important peacocks rule us by their whims. They’re our representatives, they answer to us, and we’re going to remind them of that fact.” He thrust his hammer into the air for emphasis.

“Wait,” Bradok said, lowering his voice lest he draw the attention of the guard on the city hall steps. “There are too many guardsmen here, and there are more inside. Don’t act recklessly. You’ll just get yourselves killed for no reason.”

Kellik fixed his eyes on Bradok, his look both disappointed and challenging. “If we let them get away with this now,” he said, “there’ll be no stopping them. They’ll rule this city with an iron fist. We have to strike now while we have the chance of surprise.”

Bradok opened his mouth to argue, but he stopped when he heard his name called out by someone in the throng.

“There you are,” Much said. A moment later the dwarf pushed himself through the mob. His face shone with sweat and his beard had begun to come unbraided, but he wore a look of supreme relief.

“I’m worried for you, lad, I surely am,” he said, clasping Bradok by the shoulders. “What you did in there was brave … stupid, but brave. Now you’re in a pickle, I bet.”

“What did he do?” Kellik asked, clearly unimpressed by Much’s praise.

“Oh, not much,” Much said. “He just stood up to them, the whole entire city council. Told them what he thought of their plan and it was a damn eloquent speech too. Then he resigned.”

The smith gave Bradok an appraising look then smiled. “You got stones, boy. I never would have guessed. You’re the perfect person to lead us against the council.”

“No,” Bradok said. “A war here and now will only give the council an excuse to carry out its sentence one week early.” He looked the big smith in the eyes. “Tell me, are you a believer?”

Kellik nodded.

“Trust me,” Bradok said to Kellik as Much listened. “If you have loved ones, get them quickly and meet me at the shop of Silas the cooper in the Artisans’ Cavern. Pass the word to
any other believers,” Bradok said. “But do it quickly, we may not have much time.”

With that Bradok turned and pressed through the crowd to the open space beyond. Much shook Kellik’s hand solemnly and hurried to follow.

Bradok’s pace was measured, neither rushed nor leisurely, but purposeful. The cavern below city hall stood mostly empty, save for a few nervous dwarves, just getting the courage to emerge from their homes and shops since the guardsmen were gone.

Bradok’s determined stride brought him to his home in less than five minutes. Much grabbed his arm before he entered.

“What are you planning, lad?” Much demanded.

“I’m going to the cooper’s shop to finish what he started,” Bradok said.

“Finish that cockamamie ship?” Much said, his handlebar mustache bending down as he frowned. “Don’t tell me that now you believe he heard some god telling him to build it?”

Bradok sighed and looked back down the cavern toward city hall.

“I don’t know what I believe,” he said. “But I know this: If Arbuckle and Bladehook are right, then I prefer to be wrong.”

“I hear you there,” Much said, nodding.

“This is something I have decided to do, Much,” Bradok said. “You’re welcome to come with me, but I’ll understand if you don’t.”

Much released Bradok’s arm and stepped back onto the walk. He looked Bradok up and down and put out his arm. Bradok clasped it firmly.

“If this is good-bye, lad, I have to say it’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

“Likewise, old man,” Bradok said. Then he turned and vaulted up the steps to the front door.

Moments later he threw an old suit of traveling clothes
and a heavy cloak into a worn leather pack with battered silver buckles. In his younger days, Bradok had traveled to faraway cities to complete his training as a master jeweler, and he still had his old travel kit. He unrolled the kit and laid the cloth out, quickly filling its many pockets with things he would need: a straight razor, folding knife, small stick of wax, and other sundries. When he finished, he rolled the kit up and tied it closed.

Satisfied that he had everything he needed, he changed out of his dress boots into a more comfortable and well-worn pair. His next stop was his study, where he grabbed a pen and a bottle of expensive black ink. His journal and a book on the finer points of the jeweler’s craft went into his pack next.

Finally, Bradok headed down to his workshop on the ground floor. He had just stepped off the last stair and into the foyer when he heard a grating voice behind him.

“Just where do you think you are going?”

Sapphire.

“I’m leaving, Mother,” he said with a sigh, looking back up to the balcony where she stood, watching him. “I think for good.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Why would you do that?”

“The council plans to kill the believers in one week if they do not renounce their faith,” he said. “I rather doubt many of them will, so I’ve renounced my council seat and I’m leaving this town. I’ll not be a party to the murder of good, honest dwarves.”

“What murder?” Sapphire demanded, her voice rising to a screech. “Those believers have gotten out of hand. They are everywhere now, preaching doom and gloom. They have brought this on themselves. It’s about time the council did something about them.”

“You wouldn’t understand, Mother,” Bradok said. “They’re not monsters; they’re people, dwarves like you and me.”

“They’re religious fools who don’t deserve the indulgence we have granted their foolishness,” Sapphire screamed.

Bradok paid his mother no heed. He turned his back and passed down the narrow hallway that separated the house from his workshop. After unbolting the door, he lit an oil lamp and hung it on a hook that dropped down on a chain from the ceiling. The light revealed a small, neat room with workbenches, rows of tools on hooks, bins of metal rod stock, and a large iron safe with an elaborate lock in its center.

He crossed the room to one of the workbenches and picked up the rolled leather kit that held his jeweler’s tools, slipping them into his pack. From his belt, he withdrew a ring of keys and, selecting a small, rather plain-looking one, stepped to the safe. Ignoring the enormous lock, Bradok moved the brass plate with the name of the safe maker to one side, revealing a small keyhole. He quickly unlocked the safe and pulled open the heavy door.

The ornate lock was a trap, of course, designed to foil unwary thieves.

Inside the safe were stacks of velvet-lined cases holding his best work. Bins of raw jewels filled a shelf, along with several thick folios that detailed Bradok’s business holdings.

Bradok selected a few of the velvet cases and moved them to a nearby workbench; then he withdrew the safe’s only other item: a gilded sword. Leaving the safe standing open, he clipped the sword to his belt, enjoying the sudden weight of the weapon. With a deft move, he pulled it from its scabbard and held it up in the lantern light. The sword shone brilliantly. The blade was broad and beveled, with a concave rill running along its center. The crosspiece had been shaped to resemble dwarven hammers and was etched with elaborate knots, each etching done over in gold. Black leather, stained by years of sweat and oil, covered the hilt, giving it a sure grip. On the pommel sat a ruby the size of a quail’s egg.

His father had given him the sword on his twentieth
birthday and Bradok had treasured it ever since. With a practiced flourish, Bradok slipped the blade back into the scabbard and slid it home with a click. His father had told him the sword was magical, made by some elf wizard-smith, but Bradok had never found any proof of that. The magic in the blade had always been the feeling of the father who had given it to him. It was one of the rare times he’d enjoyed being with his father, one of the few times he’d ever even thought of Mirshawn as a father.

Bradok pushed the bitter memories aside and returned to the task at hand. From a cabinet above a workbench, he pulled out a small sack and a long strip of soft cloth. He opened the velvet boxes and laid out the jewelry pieces they contained. Each one was a masterpiece, the pinnacle of his art and even though he doubted he’d need them wherever he was going, neither could he bear to leave them behind. He carefully laid each piece out on the soft cloth and folded it into a flat, walletlike pack that he stowed in the little bag, which then went in his pack.

With a last look at his orderly workshop, the place that had been the center of his life for more than twenty years, Bradok cinched his pack closed, slung it over his shoulders, and walked out, shutting the door behind himself.

When he reached the foyer again, he found Sapphire there, waiting for him. At the sight of the sword on his belt, her face fell. Some of her haughtiness melted away.

“It’s true, then,” she sniffed. “You’re really planning to leave.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said. “There’s a cooper in the Artisans’ Cavern who had a vision. He’s building a boat, or he was until they arrested him. It’s partly my fault that he was arrested. I want to make amends. I’m going to his shop to finish the boat.”

“Madness!” Sapphire scoffed. “You’ve always been a sensible boy, Bradok. You know there’s no such thing as visions.”

“No, I don’t really know that, Mother,” he said, turning to look her square in the face. “I’m beginning to doubt everything I thought I knew. Perhaps I don’t know anything much at all.”

“Well, I can agree with you on that,” she returned. “But what makes you think this cooper has any answers? What makes you think helping him will make one bit of difference?”

“It’s just a feeling I have in my gut,” Bradok said, opening his front door. “I guess it’s something you’d have to take on faith.”

He left Sapphire standing in the hall with her mouth agape as he turned and strode briskly down the steps to the street. In his haste, he didn’t even shut the door.

W
e should have grabbed him when we had the chance,” Jon Bladehook said one week later, pacing around the front of Mayor Arbuckle’s office. “We had a nice, easy plan until he came along.”

“I agree,” the mayor said easily, leaning back in the hard, wooden chair behind his desk. “But it’s too late for that now. We just have to let things play out. Bradok and the rest of those fools can’t stay barricaded in the Artisans’ Cavern forever.”

“They don’t have to,” Bladehook fumed. “Today is the deadline, and anyone who doesn’t renounce their beliefs needs to be dealt with. If Bradok Axeblade can defy us, even for a single day, it will sow the seeds of rebellion among the people. They’ll see us as weak.”

“How will they see us if we lose twenty or thirty guardsmen in an assault on that barricade?” Arbuckle demanded. “The whole guard is only one hundred or so dwarves. How will we be seen by our enemies if a third of our soldiers are killed?”

Bladehook scowled but made no answer. He doubted Bradok and his little band of boat-builders could or would kill thirty guardsmen, but he had to agree with Arbuckle: it wasn’t worth the risk.

“So we’re just going to leave them down there?” he asked.

Arbuckle nodded. “They’ll get hungry sooner or later,” he said, smiling broadly. “Besides, every day that passes without any ‘wrath’ from their god only makes them look more and more foolish. I predict it won’t be very long before their followers start deserting them.”

Jon sighed. “I wish this day were over,” he said, flopping down on a padded couch that sat against the back wall. “This day of doom! The sooner it passes, the sooner we can get back to reality.”