B4 Chapter 19: Gifted
B4 Chapter 19: Gifted
When the centurion had mentioned a “big fuckoff door” in the mountain, Marcus had obviously made some assumptions. About the size, of course, but also about the door’s appearance. Such descriptors suggested that this entrance was not particularly subtle or trying to conceal passage into the mountains as one might believe. But the fact that Marcus had seen absolutely no sign of it also suggested that, however obvious it may be, the door was essentially small enough to escape casual notice.
Boy, was he wrong.
The centurion and a few Legionnaires led him down a hard dirt path worn by the cohort’s passing. One moment, there were only mountains. Then he turned a corner, and there it was.
A massive rectangle of rock had been cut in the side of the mountain, nearly two hundred paces tall by his reckoning. The polished surface glinted in the sunlight, the edges of countless angular carvings sparkling as he moved. Not a single crack or flaw was visible across its entire surface. A pair of massive statues stood guard to either side, wide, squat men with carved helms and hammers whose hafts dwarfed most fully grown trees. Rather than the smooth and lifelike softness that Roman artisans favored, these statues had muscles and skin that evoked the same sturdy implacability of the stone they were carved from.
Though he would have put it more eloquently, he did have to admit—the man was right. This was a big fuckoff door. And though he was no expert in such things, he rather doubted that its thickness would leave it vulnerable to anything less than the Legion’s best siege engines.
Marcus saw a few Legionnaires watching from a distance in concealed positions, their weapons at the ready. At a motion from the centurions, they nodded and pulled back. Marcus gave the man a nod. “Thank you, friend. I’ll take it from here.”
The centurion nodded. “Good luck. Try not to get killed, yeah? Or let try to get a few of them out here when things go awry. I’d love to give those diggers another taste of our swords.”
He simply smiled. “I’ll endeavor to avoid agitating the dwarves further. But to facilitate that, perhaps it would be better for you and your men to pull back for the moment?”
He’d already left Abel behind in the camp, not particularly wanting to get the youth caught up in this particular encounter. While he did trust the boy to have his back in battle, Marcus was far less confident in the ability of a teenager to hold his tongue during sensitive diplomatic negotiations. Especially in such a strange and wondrous place.
A quick order later, Marcus was alone. The twin statues glared down at him with quite literal stony indifference.
He took a deep breath and strode forward. This was simply another performance, really. Another stage upon which he’d spin his tales and snare those around him in their grand story. It wasn’t even a particularly foreign type of stage, considering how many times he’d assisted in diplomatic missions to Novaran nobles. Yet the slightest tingle of nervous anticipation found him still, as it often did.
Marcus squared his shoulders and stepped toward a particular patch of ground before the door. It seemed to almost highlight itself under his scrutiny, the otherwise nondescript patch of ground looking for all the world like a stage to his senses.
His fine travel boots came to rest on the spot. As if on cue, a voice rumbled out from the mountain, vibrating the stone around him as it filled the clearing.
“Who goes there?”
He knew this script. Though Marcus had never been a stage performer, he’d rubbed elbows with plenty of those in his time. He hardly needed the prodding of the director hidden backstage. The lines came to him as though memorized.
Without missing a beat, Marcus bowed. “Greetings, my friend! My name is Marcus Silvanus D’Angelo. I am a diplomat, hailing from the empire of— of humans, on behalf of Emperor Tiberius Rufius Maro.”
He kept himself still and his smile intact, even as he internally screamed. He had stuttered. He did not stutter. He was a professional, a [Royal Bard], not some child whose insecurities made them quail at the prospect of public speaking! Even if he had felt a touch of nervousness, it was no excuse for a mistake such as that!
Yet he had been stopped from saying what he’d intended to. His skills were working overtime right now to counteract the initially messy contact of these two forces, and he paid close attention to [Critical Reception]. When it had picked up on a downturn of the dwarves’ disposition at the mention of humans, he’d assumed they simply did not like his own race of people. But that downturn had gone further at the mention of an empire. When he’d attempted to say “Rome,” the skill practically screamed at him. [Diplomacy] had made the words stick in his throat, as though the pair of skills sought to smother him.
Had they prevented him from making some massive error? Almost certainly. But had they needed to do it so clumsily?
Marcus cast his [Critical Reception] even wider. He could feel more than just the reactions of the speaker, who appeared to be hidden well behind the door. There were other presences as well, other sources of tension whose positions indicated they were hiding within the stone in other locations. A preparation for an ambush, then. Or insurance should things go poorly.
He kept his head bowed. Everything in his body language was painstakingly arrayed to communicate he was not a threat. His cloak was colorful and bright. He carried no obvious weapons—nor concealed ones, as his open body language made clear—and he’d even left behind his spellbook to ensure it raised no alarm, either. Though he had slipped a few folded pages into his sleeves and hidden pockets. Just to be safe. Still, that should raise far fewer alarm bells than something as gauche as a hidden dagger.
“The human empire? Novara?” The booming voice asked with suspicion.
Marcus slowly straightened. He ran through his next statement in his head, feeling [Critical Reception’s] approval. It felt strange. The skill had always let him read people, ascertain their reactions to his words and performances. But this… this was almost like the skill was anticipating those reactions before they even happened. The fact that he couldn’t see his target only made it all the more strange. Had he finally passed some unseen threshold to improve the skill?
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Not quite. Novara has fallen, the old and corrupt regime ground to dust by the new.”
He was tempted to elaborate further and use more flowery language, but he could feel the speaker’s patience waning with every additional word. Considering their own rather curt manner of speaking, it seemed that the dwarves may favor succinct and to-the-point communication.
It was always rather unfortunate when his abilities went unappreciated. But for now, he would do his best to accommodate. Until he had a better foothold from which to speak, of course.
“Humans haven’t come this far west in ages. Why now?”
Marcus grinned. “Perhaps word has not yet reached you. The orcs are no longer the threat they once were. Those barbarians have been crushed, driven into an exile more thorough than any they have ever known.”
A long silence followed his words. When the voice next spoke, it was with utmost seriousness. “Explain.”
The skepticism in the speaker’s tone was unmistakable. Yet Marcus had no problem regaling the man with the story. He left out a few details, mostly the Roman identities of the involved conquerors and the associated tactics that might catch an attentive party’s notice. He had a sneaking suspicion of what was going on here, and decided to play it safe rather than share too much.
Regardless, his tale was met with grudging approval. Though the dwarves clearly had something against humans, they had even more of a bone to pick with the orcs. Meaning their disappearance earned the empire at least a bit of credit.
“...I see,” came the eventual response when he’d finished. “What’s your role here?”
Marcus grinned. “As I said, I am a diplomat. A neutral third party, here to mediate and smooth out any misunderstandings between these two venerable nations. While I understand there have been skirmishes prior to my arrival, such is only to be expected when one funds themselves surprised by a force with unknown allegiances. I believe that peaceful relations might be established, ones that will benefit both sides, should you be willing to hear me out.”
Well, “neutral” might be a bit of an overstatement. But as much as Abel called him “Lord Marcus,” he was not actually a noble or in possession of any land. The twin princesses were a different case, but considering that he’d managed to dodge the issue of marriage this far, he had yet to be entangled in that particular web of responsibilities. And while Tiberius did reimburse him for plenty of expenses and efforts on behalf of the Legion, he wasn’t employed by him officially or a Legionnaire himself.
It seemed that the centurion’s itch for further conflict hadn’t poisoned the well of these relations. Not yet, considering the palpable progress Marcus could feel himself making. But there was always a chance for such things to go off track. Hence his adamant insistence to go into these negotiations alone.
“As proof of goodwill,” Marcus continued, “the human empire has offered three gifts, in accordance with custom. At least, the customs they are aware of. If they have misunderstood such things, then I pray you take it as a sign of ignorance rather than once of malice.”
The voice huffed in a gravelly laugh that echoed like an avalanche. “An ancient custom. But I’ll bite. What gifts?”
Marcus smiled at the hint of greed he picked up on. The words themselves were rude and abrupt, but at least he was getting somewhere.
He slowly unslung the pack from his back and began to draw out items. Thankfully, the customs he’d heard in stories also indicated that such gifts were a mere appetizer, not expected to be worth entire kingdoms. Though he had still done his best to prepare something fitting—and he fully intended for the entire expense to go on Tiberius’s tab.
He held a small wooden box aloft. “This box is filled with arenthite—a rare ore found only within the mines of one city within the empire, to my understanding. It is highly prized for its luster, the way it changes color depending on temperature, and its ability to hold and empower enchantments.”
Marcus opened the box. A rough pile of blue stone sat within, shimmering like the surface of a lake in the sunlight. Even as he spoke, the blue color began to warm to a mossy emerald green.
Usually, such an ore would be worked into a necklace or enchanted piece before being presented as a gift. But that would have deprived the dwarves of an opportunity to use the stone for themselves. And likely worked against him as they insulted human craftsmanship.
“This cloth,” Marcus continued, drawing out a wispy scarf that floated like fog on the wind. “Allows its wearer to breathe the air around as though it were the freshest mountain breeze.”
A practical gift for a miner, or a showpiece for a wife. Marcus didn’t really care what it went toward. But he hoped that it was at least a little impressive.
“And finally…” He produced the final gift, and one that he honestly didn’t want to part with. Still, the situation demanded sacrifice, and he pushed his reluctance down. “This is a flask. But do not be deceived by its simple workmanship. This flask will serve as a fount of whatever liquid is put inside. Be it water, mead, or even your finest liquor.”
He’d won it off a Legionnaire some months back, and the men had been working to earn it back since. They’d gotten to the point where they were working together to try and fleece him for the item whenever he gambled with them. Unfortunately for them, he was quite good at such things. And adept at avoiding the scouts and spies with skills that might rival his own.
Marcus placed the items before him and stepped back. “Of course, these gifts are a meager offering, compared to the many riches of the empire. But I hope they suffice to show goodwill.”
They did. He already knew it. The flask in particular had sent fresh waves of greed rolling off the figures within the mountain. But he still continued with the performance, formally intoning a line that spoke of ritual. "May the riches of this hall fortify your own, and this stone become your strength.”
“...Approach," was the only response from the gate.
He swept up the gifts once more and stepped forward. A small section of the grand door’s base swung open to reveal a half dozen squat figures. They marched out to meet Marcus, clanging loudly with each step. All were armed and armored with equipment reminiscent of the towering statues above—thick metal plate, heavy sledgehammers, and massive beards that spilled onto their chests or swung from side to side in thick braids. At their center strode a slightly shorter figure than the rest, one whose armor sparkled with rubies, gold, and intricate embellishments reminiscent of the door itself. Rather than a hammer, this figure carried a battle axe across his back, its fine edge glinting wickedly in the sunlight.
Marcus found himself a bit disappointed that the whole door hadn’t opened. But it only made sense that they had a more practical option for visitors to enter through.
He stepped forward, handing over the gifts one at a time to the dwarf that seemed to be their leader. When he passed over the flask, the dwarf took it in one gauntleted hand and pulled open the top. He sniffed deeply, then tossed his head back for a long swig. When he finished, his face broke into a wide grin like a fissure across stone.
“Ah. Not bad, laddie. At least you didn’t fill it with complete swill.”
It was a similar voice to the one that had shook the mountain minutes before. Only now, it had dropped the intimidation for a more casual and almost friendly tone.
Marcus returned the smile. “Of course. Though I’m certain you’ll find better to fill it with yourself before long.”
The lead dwarf chuckled. “Right you are. Well, come on then. Can’t have you standin’ out here the whole time.”
With that, the leader turned and headed back inside. Marcus followed as the group of guard dwarves fell in around him. They stepped through the small door and into the mountain.