Book 3: Chapter 6 – Undertown [Part 2]
Book 3: Chapter 6 - Undertown [Part 2]
Together they descended the spiral stair, the maid’s shoes tapping like a quickening heartbeat. At the arched doorway, Seraphina paused, straightened her spine, and stepped into the morning glare. The courtyard sprang to ordered attention: knights adjusting baldric straps, grooms steadying restless mounts. Sunlight flashed on spearpoints and on the ruby in her hair alike, and for a breath, the castle seemed to inhale, as though recognizing the authority in her measured stride.
Radiating the serene confidence of a goddess, Seraphina crossed the paved stones toward her waiting escort, ready to see just exactly how the dwarves had chosen to live in her father’s lands.
***
Sir Frest rode at the head of Seraphina’s delegation, his steel-clad war-horse tossing its mane while the Knight’s freshly burnished armor flashed in the morning sun. Behind him came Seraphina on her palfrey, Nina, the mare blowing skittish breaths at every trumpet blast and shouted welcome. Though only a handful of stout stone halls dotted the hillside, the young noblewoman knew most of the settlement lay beneath the earth like the roots of an ancient oak.
What astonished her was the sheer multitude of dwarves who had turned out to greet them. The rumor of untapped Mithril in the woods nearby had spread farther and faster than she had dreamed. Hundreds lined the approach: craftsmen in leather aprons still dusted with forge-ash, matrons in intricately woven shawls, wide-eyed children clutching moss-bright garlands.
From this sea of bearded faces stepped a dwarf, flanked by half a dozen aides.
“Welcome, Lady Seraphina de Sariens, to our Surface Conclave,” he intoned, voice deep as an anvil strike. “I am Tam Goldsmith, Tunnel-Leader, and I greet you on behalf of all of New Undertown.” He dipped into a bow so profound his beard brushed his boots, and every dwarf behind him mirrored the gesture like ripples in a pond.
Seraphina dismounted with practiced grace, letting their reverence wash over her. “I am honored by such warmth of this welcome,” she replied, projecting her words to the entire gathering rather than to Tam alone.
The Tunnel-Leader was broad-shouldered, his dark-brown beard plaited with copper rings, and pride twinkled in his eyes. Behind him clustered half a dozen near-lookalikes; they all looked the same to her, save one striking young dwarven woman. Taller by half a foot than the males and wearing her auburn hair in jaunty pigtails, she might have passed for a petite human if not for the unmistakable solidity of her stance, as if bedrock stood beneath her skin.
“Lady Seraphina, we have prepared a grand feast in your honor,” Tam declared. A roar of approval rose from the crowd. Children scampered forward, tossing handfuls of iridescent moss that drifted like confetti over the guests. Miriam bit her lip in worry, but Seraphina and Frest simply breathed in the jubilant air.
Two massive oak doors swung open, revealing a gently sloping tunnel. The ceiling shimmered with raw Zajasite crystal, its azure radiance bathing the passage in cool light. Along the walls, smooth as mirror-polished granite, nestled alcoves holding statues of hearth-gods, forge-deities, and, to Seraphina’s secret delight, a few newly carved likenesses of herself in alabaster and bronze. She permitted a small, self-satisfied smile as they descended deeper and deeper, until they halted before another set of doors: iron-banded, rune-carved, and towering twice Seraphina’s height.
At a signal from the dwarven leader, the doors groaned open.
The chamber beyond could have swallowed a modest cathedral. Vaulted arches soared overhead, their ribs carved into intertwining axes, hammers, and vines. Chandeliers of crystal and wrought iron dangled like constellations, each candleflame captured in a thousand facets. Down the center stretched three great stone tables heavy with food, while at the far end a broad stone dais held a single high-backed chair inlaid with gold filigree: the seat of honor.
Dwarves, it seemed, when given purpose, could be most industrious.
Tam guided Seraphina to that throne-like chair, and her entourage—Sir Frest, Miriam, the guards, and even the grooms—were ushered to cushioned benches nearby. No one was left standing; protocol, it appeared, mattered deeply to their hosts.
Stewards in slate-gray tabards glided between the tables like synchronized oarsmen, setting down dish after aromatic dish. First came a whole roast boar, its rosemary-honey glaze still sizzling, the crackling scored into perfect diamond panels that snapped under the carving knife. Close behind, iron cauldrons of mushroom-and-barley stew were ladled into shallow stone bowls; pearl onions bobbed amid creamy broth, and truffle shavings melted on the surface in fragrant ribbons. Trays of stone-baked flatbreads followed, their edges blistered and dusted with coarse salt and crushed juniper, inviting diners to tear off steaming pieces. Next, river-lobster tails poached in herb butter arrived gleaming, their shells the deep sheen of molten copper. Jars of gem-bright pickles—ruby beets, golden carrots, emerald cucumbers—were uncorked, each jewel-toned vegetable catching the blue crystal light. All the while, flagons of dark, foaming Krag-mead circulated, the heady brew perfumed with smoke and high-mountain blossoms, filling cups before their owners could wonder where the next pour would come from.
When the first course had barely touched the tables, Tam raised a hand. “Masters of pipe and string,” he called, “let our honored guests dine to proper music!”
At once, a troop of dwarven musicians emerged—flutes carved from geode crystal, six-string lutes of black birch, and a deep war-drum fitted with hammered bronze. The melody they struck up was lively yet grounded, the very sound of pickaxes keeping rhythm with the song.
Laughter and clinking goblets filled the hall. Even reserved Miriam relaxed when a dwarf maid pressed a honey-cake into her hand. Sir Frest traded stories of his “deeds” with a grizzled tunneler who claimed to have slain a cave-troll in single combat.
Many of the dwarves in attendance were impressed by Seraphina’s raw capacity to drink their extremely potent beverage. Indeed, quite a few of her entourage had already fallen prey to the strong brew, but the young noblewoman with her monstrous Constitution barely felt its effects as she drank it down as if it were mere juice.
Yet as the fourth course dwindled and the musicians shifted to a softer refrain, Tam rose from his seat beside the dais. He cleared his throat, the hall dimming to a curious hush.
“Lady Seraphina,” he began, voice still rich but edged with uncertainty, “before this joyous day concludes, there is… a small problem that we hope your wisdom might help resolve.”
His words hung over the candlelit feast like a newly drawn curtain—promising that the true business had only just begun.