Beefs and Breads: A Cozy Dwarf Tale - Book 3: Chapter 2: Goldstone Clan Grumble

When you want to do a big reveal, ambiance is important. If you hold the seance for grandpa on the lawn instead of in a dark living room, it hits completely differently when you find out Bob ain’t yer uncle.

So I spent a bit of time with Richter getting everything just right. In a world with magic, you may as well put the extra OOMPH in! Richter set up a barrier device I’d bought for preventing eavesdroppers, and did a sweep for magical listening apparatus. I intensely regretted not being more careful with operational security before now, but I still wasn’t used to being a goldmine. Or landmine, depending.

We kept the preparations as secret as we possibly could in our close quarters. No need to alert anyone that something special was happening tonight before it happened. I wanted the goat crew to know, but I still wasn’t ready to reveal the information to Copperpot or Whistlemop or the others. Anyone that would try to take advantage of my existence was out for now. I was good colleagues with Copperpot and Whistlemop and Malt, but they weren’t quite family, and they’d be the first to admit that they’d wring every possible bit of technology or advancement out of me.

The plan was to hold a Clan Grumble when we stopped for the night for everyone to sit, drink, and complain about the trip. A grumble was the word for a group of dwarves, and a Clan Grumble, was exactly that – a clan grouping together to grumble. And after a week stuck in a wagon together, there was lots to grumble about!

Traveling through the Manticore’s Gullet took the better part of a half-day, and we knew we’d reached the end when a stone palisade and gate blocked our way. An alert Highwatch contingent descended upon our caravan, demanding our manifest and reason for traveling to Western Crack. The group was clean cut, well-armed and armoured, and looked ready to eat anyone that looked at them sideways. They rifled through our wagons for an hour or so before giving us the all clear.

As we passed through the gates, the great crack of Crack opened before us, vaulting to a ceiling high, high above us. I whistled, and beside me on the driver’s seat, Balin gasped.

Our dear old city of Minnova was held within what was essentially a large underground bowl, and on the outskirts you could see the cave walls stretching around the horizon. The ceiling was easily visible, and covered in speckles of glowing lichens and mosses that resembled the Milky Way. It kind of felt like being in Whistler Ski Resort at night with the mountains surrounding you, except down here the mountains met above you in the sky.

Western Crack was quite different, as I couldn’t see any walls from where we were. Unlike Minnova, there was no purple crystal providing light – the space was simply too big for that. Instead, the faint light of the sun could be seen filtering through a, well, crack in the ceiling far, far above us. It ran across the sky like a rent in the world, a lightning bolt that stretched and flickered and never went out. God beams pierced down into the darkness but never even came close to the ground. There was no luminescent ceiling moss here, instead enormous floating lanterns dotted the landscape, each providing a yellow glow that stretched out for a kilometer or so. The walls of the cavern were nowhere to be seen besides right behind us.

It also smelled differently here. Less musty and more sterile, like stone and old age. A large flat space sat immediately to our left, clearly meant as a rest point for caravans, but the rest of the landscape simply stretched out ahead in stoney waves and disappeared into the horizon. A few travellers could be spotted far down the road, but the sheer scale made it impossible to judge exactly how far away they were.

It felt like the old joke about the Prairies, where you could watch your dog run away for three days.

As I watched, actual birds flitted from a nest on one of the lanterns, chasing some invisible bugs. At least, I thought they were birds; they were too fast to be bats, but in Erd you never knew… There was still so much to learn that it was driving me batty. Nyuck.

“By all tha Bits o’ tha Gods.” I whispered, taking in the sight.

“Cave swallows.” Richter’s voice interrupted from behind us, and I jumped. Balin was unmoved. “Dey stay outta da Gullet fer some reason. Nobody knows why.”

My eyebrows creased. “Why not ask them? Get a [Therian] Birdboy or something to talk to them.”

Richter gave me a shocked expression and slapped his forehead. “All de Gods, why did nobody t’ink of dat! Thousands o’ years and million’s o’ dwarves but nobody asked de birds!”

I narrowed my eyes and he chuckled.

“Nobody knows. D’ey’s afraid of it, but d’ey can’t say why,” he shrugged.

“Animals do weird things in tha dungeons too,” Balin added, “it’s just a part of tha world.”

We sat in silence for a while longer, before Richter patted me on the shoulder. “We’re all ready fer tonight.”

“Thanks Richter.”

“No problem. I can’t wait ta find out what all de fuss has been about.”

Copperpot’s wagon turned off to the rest-stop and the rest of the caravan followed suit, creating a perfect little circle. Bran and Opal were the first to disembark, hopping off their fancy schmancy cart as fresh as daisies. A week of rumbly travel had left the rest of us with weak knees, but not Mr. and soon-to-be-missus Fancy Pants Nobles.

Bran split from Opal and wandered over. “Oy, Pete. I need to borrow Kirk. Opal says there’s a cookin’ setup here somewhere, and I need his eyes and porting.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Ooooh! Cooked dinner!! Oy Kirk! Bran needs ya fer dinner!” I shouted.

There was an instant commotion in the wagon. “Dinner!? Dinner!! Kirk, get out there! I’m goin’, let me get ma boots on! Human’s don’t need boots! Who told you that, everyone needs boots!” There followed the sound of grunting and thumping, and various other sounds to make a dwarf blush. A moment later Kirk jumped out and ran to follow Bran as they searched for a way to eat something other than trail rations for a change.

Balin hopped off the wagon, passing me the reins. Down below us there came an exhausted bleat from the four unigoats pulling the wagon. [Translated from Primma Donna Goat] “Of all the goats in the world, I am the most mistreated. Someone bring me beer that I might drink my last and perish.”

I hopped down as well and began giving the goats a rubdown, starting with the pure white Penelope. She glowered at me, the architect of her despair, and bleated accusingly.

“Sorry, not sorry Penelope. Just two more weeks and we’ll be there! I’ll make sure you get a good helping of Liquid Gold with dinner tonight.”

She nailed me with an accusing eye. She’d been oddly perceptive recently, and I had to wonder for the umpteenth time if Barck had been serious about her being the reincarnation of my wife, Caroline.

No, no, that way lay madness and I was no Welshman.

There was more swearing from the cart, and I went to go help with a heavy sigh. Mayhaps a delicious dinner for the first time in a couple days would calm everyone down.

—

Dinner both helped and didn’t help. Everyone was a good bit more cheerful after a delicious meal of smoked mutton on a bed of erdroot and beer-gravy, but that just meant the energy level went through the roof. Both Johnsson and Kirk got tossed, to the amusement of the rest of the caravan. Bran actually had four different gravies to try, one for each of our new brews. I was partial to the barista brew gravy along with Copperpot, Whistlemop, and the rest of the gnomish contingent. Kirk was the only one to try the ass-blaster gravy, and he declared it to be ‘rumbly’.

Berry looked like she was in heaven, and leaned in to whisper, “you eat like this every day?? No wonder you went native!”

I grunted with pleasure and nodded. Bran had indeed been key to my survival in Erd, and I was glad I’d managed to keep him on.

After the food, everyone said their goodnights and trundled off to their wagons, except for Bran and Opal, who followed us back to the Thirsty Goat wagon.

As we climbed in, Balin tapped me on the shoulder and passed me a burlap sack. “It’s been so busy I fergot ta give this to ya, Pete! Now’s as good a time as any.”

“This tha latest haul?” I asked, peeking into the bag. It seemed to be full of various leaves and flowers. They looked distinctly different from the usual muck he’d been bringing recently, and there was the faintest whiff of freshly cut grass.

“Aye. Got a bit of everythin’ from a grasslion, and some plants from tha Endless Plain.” Balin pointed to some bits that looked like long grass gone to seed and my gaze sharpened. If there’d been time, I would’ve started running through my list of ingredients on the [Minimap], but there was a line of ornery dwarves behind me, and I’d been promising answers.

I closed the sack and tied it to my belt with a grimace. “I’ll give it a once over after the meeting, thanks Balin.”

We filtered into the wagon and gathered in a circle. There was Balin, out of his golden armour for once, and twiddling his impressive handlebar moustache. His fiance Annie sat beside him, running a comb through her golden braids. The blue-bearded Aqua sat beside her, chatting merrily with the bookish-yet-muscly Richter. Johnsson was discussing beard-care with a beard-curious Kirk while Bran and Opal cuddled and whispered sweet nothings to each other.

That was everyone, not including Malt who’d been relegated to keeping watch for an hour or so. He’d been happy to do so, pulling out the Crack Book of Ordinances and getting cozy in front of the campfire.

Once everyone was comfortable, Annie stood and clapped her hands. “As head of the Goldstone clan, I’m here to listen to the members and workers of clan Goldstone. I call to order this Clan Grumble.”

What followed for the next hour or so was indeed a grumble, with a lot of grumbling to be had. There were complaints about the food, the constant sense of danger, the way the Highwatch had touched everyone’s personal belongings, and the lack of nightly Bran-cooked meals. As clan head, it was Annie’s responsibility to listen to the complaints. She didn’t necessarily need to solve them, just provide a safe place for dwarven anger to vent. We didn’t want someone losing themselves to the Red Rage just because we hit a particularly bad bump on the road.

After an hour or so, there was no more grumbling to be heard, and in the silence I glanced up from where I’d been doodling bearded cats on the wagon wall. I flushed as I realized everyone was staring at me.

Annie smirked and asked, “are you ready to give your little speech Pete?”

“Aye.” I stood and looked around at everyone. Annie and I had talked long and hard about including Kirk in this little discussion as he was still a newcomer. We’d decided we had little choice. Considering our plans, there just wasn’t any real way to keep him in the dark without excluding him. We just needed to trust our evaluation of him and hope he wasn’t a secret evil cultist or something. Hey look! Foreshadowing!

Johnsson sat up eagerly. “Ooooh, is it finally big reveal time? I’ve been dying of curiosity.”

Annie and Aqua snickered the snigger of someone that knew a secret, and Bran patted Opal reassuringly on the back as she leaned forward with interest. They were among those that knew most – but not all – of the story. Little did they know that they were in for some surprises as well.

I nodded. “Yes, Johnsson. I’m finally ready to reveal the truth.” I spread my legs and posed in my best man-wearing-a-set-of-blue-spandex-with-bat-ears pose. “I‘M BATMA-!”

“NO JOKES!” Aqua interrupted, and I deflated.

“Fiiine.” I whinged.

Kirk was looking around confused. He held up his hand. “What’s everyone talkin’ about?”

“Pete got amnesia last year after a mining accident,” Annie explained. “He’s been acting weird ever since.”

There was a general chorus of agreement and I ground my teeth. “Sorry for being weird. But there’s a very good reason for that. You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth! In reality, I’m not actually from Crack. I’m not even from ERD. My name is/was Peter Phillips, and I was originally a human on a world called Earth.”

Johnsson put his hand up but was immediately shushed by everyone.

I continued, “My soul was brought here by Barck, and I’m in a competition with seven other souls Chosen by the Gods to be catalysts for changing the world. Barck gave me a mandate from heaven to brew beer, because in my previous life I was a Master Brewer with hundreds of different brews under my belt. It’s a cutthroat contest with a wish from the Gods on the line, and I don’t know where or who most of the other competitors are, but there’s a good chance they’ll want me dead. Oh, and at some point in Kinshasa, Barck is going to descend to Erd and compete with me for my soul.”

Shocked silence met my words, and Johnsson’s hand drooped limply to the floor. The smug looks Annie and Aqua had been sporting had been replaced with horror – I’d never told them the bit about the wish. Then the grumbling really got started.