sniffed contemptuously and stomped over to where Heglan’s creation was docked. It had taken sixteen mules and twice as many journeymen to get it up the Merman Pass and onto the Durazon.
It was a ship, a vessel of dark lacquered wood and gilded trim. Incongruous as it was, sitting on the mountain plateau atop a curved ramp, the small wheels attached to its hull arrested by stout wooden braces, it was still magnificent. If he thought so, Strombak did not give any indication.
‘And sea is not air, though, is it,’ grumbled the old engineer, chewing on his pipe and feeling the smoothness of the wooden hull beneath his grizzled fingers. ‘Wood is stout,’ he said, ‘that is something at least.’
As well as the braces against its wheels, the ship was also lashed to iron rings driven deep into the rock so it wouldn’t sway in the wind. A small vessel, it could take five passengers including its captain, but had a hold that would accommodate twice that again in wares for trade. Presently, twenty casks of grog sat in the ship’s belly from the brewmaster’s guild, bound for Zhufbar.
Spry for an old dwarf, Strombak clambered up the ramp and tugged on the rigging.
‘Strong rope,’ he mumbled. ‘Might hold in a decent gale.’
Strombak pulled out the pipe and chewed his beard. It was black with soot from his workshops and resembled a fork in the way the strands of it were parted by bronze cogs and screws. A leather skullcap covered his bald pate, which he revealed when he removed the cap to wipe his sweating brow. Runes of engineering, telemetries and trajectories, parabolic equations and yet more esoteric markings lined his skull in knot-worked strands.
He paced the length of the ship, appraising its rudder and sneering at the absence of sweeps. Sails jutted horizontally from the sides and with the effigy of a dragon carved into the prow it had the appearance of some alate predator, albeit one fashioned from wood and metal.
Sat astern was a small tower, where its captain was already installed and at the wheel. Three large windmills surmounted masts that stuck out from the deck, angled slightly so as not to be perpendicular to the ground.
‘Never have I seen a more awkward-looking ship,’ Strombak muttered. He turned away, as if he’d seen enough, and addressed Heglan. ‘You’d best get on with it. Guilders are waiting.’
Behind the engineer guildmaster were three other dwarfs of the engineers’ guild, the high thane of Barak Varr himself and his retainers, and a contingent from the merchants’ guild who had funded the enterprise. Every one of the assembled nobles and guilders, some thirty-odd dwarfs, was silent.
Nadri stepped back and joined his fellow guilders.
Heglan licked his lips to moisten them. He glanced at the ship’s captain to ascertain his readiness. A vague nod didn’t do much for Heglan’s confidence at that moment.
‘ Tromm, ’ he uttered, crafting a deep bow to the lords as he gave the traditional dwarf greeting for veneration of one’s betters and elders. ‘High Thane,’ he added, rising but turning to the entire assembly. ‘With your permission, Lord Onkmarr.’
The high thane nodded dourly.
King Brynnoth was away in Karaz-a-Karak attending a council of the High King and had left Onkmarr in charge as regent until his return. Unlike Brynnoth, who had a ribald manner and was as gregarious as any king of the dwarf realm, Onkmarr always seemed slightly put upon. Perhaps it was the fearsome rinn he had taken as his wife. Certainly, his posture was more stooped, his humour more acerbic, ever since he had made a union with her.
Premature age lines furrowing on his brow like cracks in weathered rock, Onkmarr looked as if he wanted nothing more than to return to his hall and his business. Especially if that business was sitting by his fire, seeing to the affairs of the hold and staying out of his wife’s way. With the exception of Nadri, the entire assembly appeared eager to get
It was a ship, a vessel of dark lacquered wood and gilded trim. Incongruous as it was, sitting on the mountain plateau atop a curved ramp, the small wheels attached to its hull arrested by stout wooden braces, it was still magnificent. If he thought so, Strombak did not give any indication.
‘And sea is not air, though, is it,’ grumbled the old engineer, chewing on his pipe and feeling the smoothness of the wooden hull beneath his grizzled fingers. ‘Wood is stout,’ he said, ‘that is something at least.’
As well as the braces against its wheels, the ship was also lashed to iron rings driven deep into the rock so it wouldn’t sway in the wind. A small vessel, it could take five passengers including its captain, but had a hold that would accommodate twice that again in wares for trade. Presently, twenty casks of grog sat in the ship’s belly from the brewmaster’s guild, bound for Zhufbar.
Spry for an old dwarf, Strombak clambered up the ramp and tugged on the rigging.
‘Strong rope,’ he mumbled. ‘Might hold in a decent gale.’
Strombak pulled out the pipe and chewed his beard. It was black with soot from his workshops and resembled a fork in the way the strands of it were parted by bronze cogs and screws. A leather skullcap covered his bald pate, which he revealed when he removed the cap to wipe his sweating brow. Runes of engineering, telemetries and trajectories, parabolic equations and yet more esoteric markings lined his skull in knot-worked strands.
He paced the length of the ship, appraising its rudder and sneering at the absence of sweeps. Sails jutted horizontally from the sides and with the effigy of a dragon carved into the prow it had the appearance of some alate predator, albeit one fashioned from wood and metal.
Sat astern was a small tower, where its captain was already installed and at the wheel. Three large windmills surmounted masts that stuck out from the deck, angled slightly so as not to be perpendicular to the ground.
‘Never have I seen a more awkward-looking ship,’ Strombak muttered. He turned away, as if he’d seen enough, and addressed Heglan. ‘You’d best get on with it. Guilders are waiting.’
Behind the engineer guildmaster were three other dwarfs of the engineers’ guild, the high thane of Barak Varr himself and his retainers, and a contingent from the merchants’ guild who had funded the enterprise. Every one of the assembled nobles and guilders, some thirty-odd dwarfs, was silent.
Nadri stepped back and joined his fellow guilders.
Heglan licked his lips to moisten them. He glanced at the ship’s captain to ascertain his readiness. A vague nod didn’t do much for Heglan’s confidence at that moment.
‘ Tromm, ’ he uttered, crafting a deep bow to the lords as he gave the traditional dwarf greeting for veneration of one’s betters and elders. ‘High Thane,’ he added, rising but turning to the entire assembly. ‘With your permission, Lord Onkmarr.’
The high thane nodded dourly.
King Brynnoth was away in Karaz-a-Karak attending a council of the High King and had left Onkmarr in charge as regent until his return. Unlike Brynnoth, who had a ribald manner and was as gregarious as any king of the dwarf realm, Onkmarr always seemed slightly put upon. Perhaps it was the fearsome rinn he had taken as his wife. Certainly, his posture was more stooped, his humour more acerbic, ever since he had made a union with her.
Premature age lines furrowing on his brow like cracks in weathered rock, Onkmarr looked as if he wanted nothing more than to return to his hall and his business. Especially if that business was sitting by his fire, seeing to the affairs of the hold and staying out of his wife’s way. With the exception of Nadri, the entire assembly appeared eager to get
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