Of Truth and Beasts

Something like a cloak’s hood overshadowing a face surfaced out of the wall. Thudding footfalls landed upon floor stones, and a cloaked and stout hulk stood within the room, easily twice as wide as Wynn, but no taller. An overbroad hand swiped back the hood, and a stocky dwarf glowered at her, eye-to-eye.

Wynn’s initial fright turned to anger. “What are you doing here?”

Ore-Locks cast one glance toward Shade, who was still growling. Beardless, something uncommon for male dwarves, his red hair flowed to the shoulders of an iron-colored wool cloak. He looked young, perhaps thirty by human standards, so likely sixty or more for a dwarf. Wynn knew better still.

Ore-Locks was older than that due to his life among the Hassäg’kreigi—the “Stonewalkers” of Dhredze Seatt.

“Why do you still delay departure?” he asked, ignoring her question.

She clenched her teeth. He’d left his own sect, determined to join her in search of Bäalâle Seatt, but she didn’t trust him. He was an even darker complication beyond dealing with the council.

From what she’d gleaned of Bäalâle Seatt, its fall—its destruction—had been the work of a traitor. That one’s name had been forgotten long ago, and only a cryptic title in ancient Dwarvish remained: Thallûhearag, the “Lord of Slaughter.” Only Ore-Locks seemed to know his true name.

Byûnduní—Deep-Root—had been a stonewalker of Bäalâle Seatt, just as Ore-Locks was in Dhredze Seatt. But the connection went deeper than that, for Ore-Locks claimed it was this spirit of his ancestor that had called him to sacred service as a stonewalker, a guardian and caretaker of the dwarves’ honored dead.

Ore-Locks worshipped this genocidal traitor, claiming that Deep-Root—that Thallûhearag—was not a Fallen One, those who stood for the opposite of all that the dwarves’ Eternals represented.

Chane claimed, by his truth sense, that Ore-Locks truly believed Deep-Root was no traitor. But there was no proof in mere believing. Knowingly or not, it all made Ore-Locks a potential tool of the Enemy through the spirit of a mass murderer. Perhaps he already was.

Wynn wanted no part of him.

Then she noticed his attire.

He no longer wore a stonewalker’s black-scaled armor. He still bore their twin battle daggers on his belt, along with the new, broad dwarven sword in its sheath. But the long iron staff in his large hand was the first bad sign. He was dressed plainly in brown breeches and a natural canvas shirt, and through the split of his cloak, Wynn saw the burnt orange, wool tabard.

Stunned, she stared at his vestment. “What are you wearing?”

“I am in disguise,” he answered quietly.

That was something else about Ore-Locks; he didn’t behave like a typical dwarf. Most of his people were slow to anger and quick to laugh. They wore their emotions on their broad faces, their feelings expressed proudly with booming voices.

Ore-Locks’s voice was too often low and quiet, his dark eyes devoid of his people’s heartfelt emotions. She could never be certain what lay behind his words. And while she wasn’t religious, his choice of disguise, that tabard and staff, were blasphemous.

Ore-Locks had “disguised” himself as a holy shirvêsh of Bedzâ’kenge—“Feather-Tongue”—the dwarves’ saintly Eternal of history, tradition, and wisdom. That was as far removed from the deceits of Thallûhearag as possible.

“Take that off,” she told him.

“The shirvêsh of Feather-Tongue are well received in most northern lands. I do not wish to be noticed along the journey.”

“I said ... take it off.”

Anyone who worshipped a servant of the Enemy had no business masquerading as a shirvêsh, a religious servant, of Feather-Tongue.

“When do we leave?” he asked.

“I never agreed to let you come.”

“That was settled in fair barter with your companion.”

Wynn glanced away.

Chane had broken his sword trying to get them past a massive iron door because of her obsession with finding the Stonewalkers. When they’d returned to the guild, Ore-Locks had appeared. He’d brought Chane a new sword made of the finest dwarven steel, which Chane never could have afforded.

Chane distrusted Ore-Locks only half as much as Wynn did, and he needed a new sword. At the offer of one of such craftsmanship, he hadn’t said a word to refuse it.

“When do we leave?” Ore-Locks repeated.

“I don’t know. I’m waiting for funding and ... other matters to settle.”

She wasn’t about to tell him anything more than necessary.

Ore-Locks turned away. “I am at the Harvest Inn, west of the Grayland’s Empire district. Send a message when you are ready.” He paused with his back to her. “You would do well not to leave without me.”

Shade’s rumble turned to a snarl. Though Ore-Locks’s quiet tone hadn’t changed, those last words had sounded like a threat. Or perhaps Shade had snatched a memory that rose in the dwarf’s conscious thoughts. Either way, Wynn kept silent as Ore-Locks strode toward—through—the wall.