“Oooo,” he said, emphasizing the point.
“Master Pikel, what do you know?” she demanded.
Pikel pointed to her belly, then ran a finger across his neck and said, “Oooo” once more.
Queen Concettina swallowed hard and spent a long moment composing herself. “This is important, Master Pikel,” she said evenly. “Is this something you heard from Captain Andrus? Or your soldier brother?”
“Uh uh,” he replied, shaking his shaggy head.
“Gossip, then?”
“Ayup.”
Again Queen Concettina swallowed hard, trying to find her patience with this poor little fellow. So it was gossip—he had heard the titters and whispers of the nattering socialites, almost surely.
“Ladies of court?” she asked, and he nodded enthusiastically, and Concettina saw where this was going. “Young ladies?”
Pikel nodded. “Pretty Feet!”
Concettina didn’t know the particular reference, but it didn’t matter, for even if she figured out who this “Pretty Feet” person might be, there was nothing she could do that wouldn’t simply compound her problems. She wasn’t surprised by the revelations and gossip—of course not! The pattern in Helgabal had become predictable: a queen would fail, the gossip would begin, and something would push King Yarin to take drastic, even murderous action. And often, she understood from the confidences of her ladies-in-waiting, that precipitating event would begin with those young ladies hoping to be next in line.
Very predictable, except it boggled Queen Concettina’s mind why anyone would want to be next in line. It was bad enough that she had to share her bed with an old and smelly man, so self-absorbed that he cared about nothing but his own pleasure and power, but was anyone foolish enough to believe at this point that the fatal failures to deliver an heir to Yarin lay on the shoulders of the queens?
In moments like this, young Concettina Delcasio had to work hard to not curse her father for putting her into this untenable and likely fatal situation. But he couldn’t have known—she had to believe that.
She looked back at Pikel, who was nervously hopping from one foot to the other, seeming very small then, and very upset.
“Thank you, good dwarf,” she said, trying to sound upbeat, certainly not wanting to tip her hand that she had already sent out a call to Delthuntle for help. “It does seem as if everyone is becoming anxious because the king grows older and still has no heir.” She gave a great sigh, very dramatically. “I lied earlier, good dwarf,” she admitted, or, rather, lied again. “So fear not, for that situation will soon be remedied.”
Pikel’s smile exploded across his face, and he hopped up and down, clapping excitedly and verily shouting, “Baby!”
“No, no, hush, Master Pikel, I beseech you!” said Concettina. “It is our little secret, yes?”
“Ayup,” Pikel said, nodding furiously. He settled then and began quietly casting a spell, but Concettina didn’t notice, her gaze going back to the lilac bushes, where they had parted to reveal the headless statue of the previous “barren” queen.
When she turned back to Pikel, she did note a cloud pass over his face, though Concettina didn’t think much of it.
She bent and kissed the gardener dwarf on the forehead, eliciting a giggle. Then she bid him farewell, gathered up her ladies-in-waiting, and moved along.
Pikel watched her go, nodding until she had turned the corner of the hedgerow and thus moved out of sight. Only then did he mutter, “Oooo,” yet again. He had cast a spell that would detect life, and focusing the magical divination on Concettina had revealed to him one living heartbeat, not two.
To Pikel’s thinking, if Queen Concettina believed that she was with child, then she was sadly—likely fatally—mistaken.
BACK IN HER room later that morning, Concettina paced around in circles. The whispers were all around her, and so King Yarin must have been hearing them, too, and that man did not take well to anyone mocking him.
“Help me, father,” the poor young woman whispered desperately.
But was that even possible? Could Lord Delcasio get to her and wrest her away from King Yarin in time, or even at all?
Likely not, she understood, and she nodded and found strength.
“Anamarin!” she called, and her favorite attendant appeared in her doorway. “Go and fetch King Yarin and bring him to my bedroom.”
“My lady?” the young woman asked.
“Tell him that I am feeling rather fertile this day, and quite amorous.”
Anamarin giggled, embarrassed, and nodded. She repeated, “My lady!” but with a very different tone.
“Go, go, girl,” Concettina ordered, and Anamarin rushed away.
Concettina nodded, trying to sort out some plan in her mind. She would counter the whispered insults with great affection to begin with. Yes, and she would convince King Yarin that this time would be different, that her body was now ready for a child, and so she would work him to his limits every day.
Each and every day.
She would fornicate him to death, hopefully.
Or if not, then she would exhaust him so fully that a pillow over his face would put an end to her terror.
Concettina gasped aloud as the murderous plan came clear to her. She had never thought herself capable of murder. Even with this man, whom she had grown to loath, could she do such a thing?
Perhaps he would just die in the midst of their lovemaking—she had to play on that hope for now, at least, as she bought herself some time.
But if that didn’t work …
“My statue will not be headless,” she vowed.
“HEE HEE HEE,” the green-bearded dwarf giggled as he dropped a pinch of powder into a foggy concoction in the vial on the table in front of him. The new ingredient brought forth a puff of greenish smoke that filled Pikel’s nostrils and elicited a profound and satisfied sigh.
“A love potion?” Ivan said skeptically from across the kitchen.
“Hee hee hee.”
“For the queen?”
Pikel wagged his head and searched for other ingredients. “Queenie!” he declared.
“Queen ain’t the problem,” Ivan reminded him. “Even if yer potion’ll make her more fertile, there don’t be any bees in that flower.”
“Oooo.”
“King’s the problem, and ye’re knowin’ it,” Ivan said. “Can ye make a potion for the king?”
“Harder,” Pikel admitted.
“Exactly,” said Ivan, crossing his arms and tapping his foot, waiting.
It took Pikel a while, but in due course, he giggled, “Hee hee hee.”
“And how’re ye to get King Yarin to take it? That one’s a bit particular about what he’s lettin’ into his mouth, bein’ king and all.”
“Oooo,” Pikel admitted, and then he flashed a brilliant smile and said, “Me brudder!”
“Not me! Not for nothing!” Ivan balked, holding one hand out as if to hold Pikel back from that ridiculous notion.
“Kingie,” Pikel declared, thumping his chest with his hand and puffing out his chest in a show of virility. More mischievously, he added, “Sha-la-la.”
“King’s wanting a shillelagh, eh?” Ivan said with a snort. “Might be true, but that ain’t the point or the problem. And more’n that, to get him to drink it, ye’d have to tell him why, which means yerself or meself’d be implying that it ain’t his queens who been barren, eh? I’m guessin’ that anyone telling that to King Yarin’ll be stainin’ his guillotine same day.”
Pikel’s face dropped and his shoulders slumped, and Ivan huffed a resigned sigh and went over to him to pat him on the back. “Ye just keep working at it. Yer heart’s right, and might that we’ll find a way to make something that’ll help.”
A still-despondent Pikel looked up and nodded.
“Ye got yerself a good heart, me bro—me brudder!” Ivan clapped Pikel hard on the back.
“Me brudder!” a beaming Pikel replied, and he went back to his wor
k.
Ivan said no more, just went to the table and finished his dinner. Then he gathered up his gear and moved to the door. “Don’t ye be mixing yer concoctions when ye get tired,” he warned. “Last time, ye durn near blew up the neighborhood!”
“Hee hee hee,” said Pikel, and he dropped in another pinch of the green herb and waved his hand to direct as much responding smoke into his nose as possible.
Ivan just shook his head and smiled, and went to his patrol along the city’s eastern wall.
CHAPTER 11
The Road to Helgabal
FOUR WAGONS,” KOMTODDY TOLD TOOFLESS AND THE OTHERS. THE spriggan gang was less than a day out of Smeltergard, bound for Helgabal with their special gifts for King Yarin. “Twice that number o’ guards, and all on horseback.”
“Tasty!” said Brekerbak, flashing a broken-toothed smile that was mirrored by his half-dozen companions.
“Armor up!” Brekerbak added, apparently thinking he had the ear of all.
“Nah, don’t ye,” Toofless Tonguelasher ordered.
“Eight soldiers!” Brekerbak protested. “Just a hand-and-a-half!”
“And eight drivers,” Komtoddy added. “Travelin’ merchants they be, and so in these parts, men-at-arms.”
“Ready for a fight,” said Brekerbak.
“Aye, and I’m weady for whate’er fight they got,” Toofless assured the others.
“We don’t have our best gear,” Komtoddy said. As with their first visit to Helgabal, the band hadn’t brought their magical arms and armor, which would grow with them when they expanded to their giant size. That gear would be too easily detected by the king’s wizards, its properties too easily discerned, by even a minor spellcaster.
“Just men,” said Toofless. “And we be just dwawfs, eh?” He flashed that toothless grin at his close friend.
Komtoddy couldn’t resist it. “Aye, dwarfs until we’re needin’ to not be dwarfs.”
“I telled ye when we leaved Smeltergard.” Toofless motioned for Komtoddy to lead the way.
“A LOT OF whistling,” Guard Commander Balleyho said, walking his horse up to the drivers on the lead wagon.
Aksel, the burly man holding the reins, the chief enforcer and lead hunter for an enterprising merchant guild in the Vaasan town of Darmshall, looked past the hired soldier and turned to the woman sitting beside him. He found her deep in spellcasting, eyes closed, lips moving slowly in an arcane chant.
“Dwarves,” the wizard Amiasunta said after finishing her divination. She winced and shook her head as she made the claim. These bearded folk struck her as a bit odd. “Dirty dwarves, indeed, carrying sacks and pulling a cart.”
“Merchants?” asked Aksel as he tightened up the reins, stopping his team. He lifted his right hand to halt the other three wagons behind him.
The woman started to shake her head, but stopped and shrugged. “They carry few goods that I can discern.”
“Might be trouble, then,” Aksel said.
“Doubt it, with dwarves,” Balleyho replied.
Aksel cracked his knuckles and flexed his big, meaty hands, punching one hard into the other. “We can hope, though,” he said with a wink.
Balleyho, despite his grand reputation and years of fighting in the Vaasan wilds, reflexively leaned away. Aksel wasn’t as tall as the rider, but he was as thick as an oak, with no neck to speak of and hard, muscled arms that could deliver crushing blows. His nose was flat, having been broken dozens of times, and one of his eyes was perpetually bloodshot, ruptured repeatedly in his nightly brawls. Those facial blemishes seemed not to bother him at all, though. Indeed, those who knew the man understood that Aksel took great pride in such obvious battle scars. He was known for leading with his face, smiling through a barrage of blows, then twisting his opponent’s head off.
“Put your men at the ready,” Aksel ordered Balleyho. “Might be time to earn your gold. Aye, and let’s hope! Forward line.”
Balleyho sat tall in his saddle. He was an impressive sight, balanced and strong—so much so that Aksel was thinking of bringing him into his circle of commanders when they got back to dangerous Darmshall. With a nod and a whistle to his charges, Balleyho and the other seven riders rode out ahead of the wagons, with Balleyho and his second in front and the other six forming a line of horseflesh and armor across the width of the road behind them.
“Don’t look like much trouble,” Aksel said to Amiasunta when the dwarven band came into view, climbing over the ridge. They walked lightly, laughing and whistling.
Aksel counted half a dozen, with the trailing duo tugging an uncooperative cart that was little more than a large wheelbarrow with a bent axel.
“Why are you shaking your head?” the dangerous man said to the wizard sitting beside him.
She didn’t answer, just wore a curious expression and shook her head. Clearly, something about this dwarven band wasn’t sitting right with Amiasunta, and Aksel knew the wizard well enough to understand that she was usually right about such things.
“Sit ready!” he called up to Balleyho. The dwarves had moved very near the riders by then.
“Clear the road!” Balleyho ordered the approaching troupe. “Get that cart off to the side.
“But where ye goin’ then?” asked the lead dwarf. “We might be wantin’ a ride, what.”
“Clear the road,” Balleyho said again.
Aksel stood up, trying to get a better view. He could barely see the diminutive folk behind the wall of riders, but he could hear them. They were whistling some silly song in unison. And then they started wildly dancing, arms flailing.
“You will be run down!” Balleyho shouted at them. “Move aside!”
A dwarf moved off to the right of the rider line. “Hey driver,” he called, “might we be buyin’ passage to Helgabal, if that’s where ye’re bound?”
“You were told to move, so move!” Aksel shouted back, poking his finger ahead. He wanted to punch the impertinent little fellow. It didn’t take much to get Aksel’s fighting hackles up.
“Hit him with a stinging missile of magic,” he snarled to Amiasunta, never looking her way. Then he shouted back ahead at the dwarf, “Move!”
From the side, he heard a thump and a gulp of air from his companion. He turned then to see Amiasunta sitting perfectly straight and unblinking, her eyes wide with surprise. Without a word, without a movement to ease the blow, she rolled over to the side and tumbled from her seat.
“Hope the wady ain’t dead. She’s purty,” said a voice behind him. A shocked Aksel swung around to see a filthy-looking dwarf standing in the bed of his wagon, just behind the bench.
Up ahead on the road, Aksel heard Balleyho cry out “Giants!” followed by the snorting of excited horses and a commotion of hoof beats.
The burly driver couldn’t even look back, though, and didn’t want to, focusing his rage on the dwarf, who was in range of his devastating punches. Aksel was quite famous throughout the stretches of southern Vaasa for his short jab, a fast punch that had broken too many faces to count. He got that blow off then, and with perfect accuracy. His powerful fist slammed into the dwarf’s face and rocked its ugly head back in a vicious snap.
But the dwarf only smiled with blackened gums and a tongue eagerly licking at the blood on his lip. “Toofless!” he proclaimed, as if to tell the man that there weren’t any teeth to knock out, after all.
Aksel growled and moved over the bench to tackle the fellow, but then he wasn’t moving at all, stopped by an impossibly strong thrust of the dwarf’s hand, one that hit him in the leading shoulder and sent him spinning back around to sit in his seat. He started forward immediately, to gain some distance and get square to the fight, but the dwarf’s other hand caught him by the hair and yanked him backward half over the bench back, stretching him down to the wagon bed.
“Toofless!” the dwarf yelled.
Before Aksel could find his footing enough to propel himself into a back roll over the bench and thus out of his awkwa
rd position, the dwarf helped him along, tugging down against Aksel’s hair with his right hand and turning and driving down with his left elbow, slamming Aksel in the chest with unbelievable force.
So much force that it splintered the heavy wood of the bench back.
So much force that Aksel’s spine cracked under the blow.
So much force that Aksel jolted down, then bounced.
But the dwarf still held him fast by the hair, and guided him as he came up into the air, tugging him over the seat and into the wagon bed. And there he lay, broken and unable to move, but still awake, the drivers behind him shouting, the riders up ahead engaged in heavy melee, the toothless dwarf snickering at him as if the whole thing was one fine joke.
“HOLD THE LINE! Hold the line!” Balleyho screamed when the dancing dwarves on the path in front of him became giants right in front of his astonished eyes. The seasoned veteran had been ready for some trick or other when the filthy dwarves began their dancing.
Or at least, he thought he was properly prepared.
When the creatures twirled, they enlarged, and it wasn’t until they were much larger that Balleyho or any of the other riders even realized the transition had happened. And when the commander did realize he wasn’t facing six filthy dwarven peasants but rather half a dozen giants, all twice—some thrice—his height … he didn’t react in time.
If there even was an “in time.”
He did get his sword out, even managed a stab into a fleshy giant arm before he was yanked straight up in the air, right out of his saddle as his horse reared, then thrown aside some twenty feet to crash down into the grass.
Broken, near unconsciousness, the man stubbornly pulled himself up to his elbows to try to call out to his men.
Three horses were already down, their riders with them. Balleyho’s horse galloped away, which gave the doomed man some measure of satisfaction. It proved short-lived, though, as a giant fist pounded down atop the head of another of his soldiers, denting the helmet under its tremendous weight and driving the poor man’s head right down between his shoulders. He slumped forward on his mount, the terrified horse kicking and leaping wildly as it scrambled to get away.