System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 58
“Again, a little more, hiss, yes—right there, that’s perfect.”
Roy leaned back in the bath. Bernie, the Dwarf with the black, bristling hair on his arms, kneaded Roy’s shoulders with a steady, practiced pressure. A rough, reddened face smiled like a beggar hoping for favor.
“H-how ... how does it ... feel now?” the stammering Dwarf asked.
“Not bad,” Roy said. “With hands like that you could open a proper massage room in Mount Carbon.”
“And what about the debt I owe you...” Bernie began.
“We’ll settle that later,” Regan cut in, casual. “You can’t wriggle out of it anyway.”
Bernie wiped a sheen of nervous sweat from his brow, swearing he had never seen a man play Gwent the way Roy did. The man kept throwing the most uncanny cards, ones no opponent could predict; he pried open defenses and left players helpless.
Deef, the potbellied fellow who had been ranked among Mount Carbon’s top ten card players, lost ten hands in a row and dropped out in the first round. The three remaining challengers took turns across the table, each eager to avenge themselves, each routed soundly, bleeding crowns into Roy’s pile.
Bernie refused to accept it. Stubborn, stuttering, always pushing forward, he kept playing until he had nothing left but the clothes on his back. On top of that he picked up a 30 Crown IOU, about a month’s wages for him.
In the adjacent bath, Regan’s backside gave a disdainful wiggle, as if insulted. “Boy,” he barked, “do not slander a Dwarf’s honor. Bernie will not deny a debt. We have tempers, yes, but we also have virtues humans lack. We are stout and virile to look at, we do not shy from our manhood, and a Mahakam Dwarf raised in Mount Carbon prizes reputation and loyalty above most things. Anyone who cheats at Gwent or on a wager will find no place to stand in Mount Carbon afterward.”
Roy inclined his head in respect. He had heard this before. Mahakam Dwarves were greedy for coin, sure, but fierce in loyalty to friends and fastidious about their promises. Zoltan Chivay came to mind, the sort of man who would risk his life to help a comrade. Their sound reputations let them move in the world of business with ease.
The Zionvanielli, Giancardi, and Vivaldi Dwarf houses ran thriving banks. Vizima, Beauclair, Vengerberg, Novigrad, even the Dragon Mountains and the Blue Mountains; almost every major city in the North had a branch.
Knowing this was precisely why Roy agreed to the old Mount Carbon rule: if a Dwarf lost to a human or an elf in a four-against-one game, the chance of them refusing to pay was far too high. Better to keep Dwarf vs Dwarf.
“Roy,” Regan said, “so you won the first round. Dare you come with us to the shooting range and run round two?”
“Why not?” Roy replied. “It’s early enough.” He had wanted to watch a Dwarf crossbowman at work.
They dressed quickly and left. Before they went, Roy called after the stammering Dwarf. “Bernie, brother, if you do me a favor, I’ll wipe your debt clean. How about that?”
“You ... say it ... say it plainly!” Bernie flushed, suddenly pumped with bravado.
“Stay in the bathhouse. If anyone stops by, send them to find me at the range. Don’t miss a single visitor.”
Bernie was curious why Roy wanted that, but he kept his mouth shut and agreed readily.
They stepped out past Mount Carbon’s square and headed behind the Main Keep to the Training Yard. Roy frowned; an odd sensation crawled along his back, a prickling of awareness. He glanced over his shoulder with his peripheral vision, but saw no shadow.
The morning had come fully. The square filled. Most of the Dwarf men wore grimy, padded jackets and carried shovels and picks as they headed for the mines outside the fortress. Women carted huge vessels on their heads between cave-hollows and market stalls.
Not every Dwarf wore a beard. Most men had heavy beards; a minority of women were as hairy as some men. Some had delicate features, but the curse of short, stocky bodies escaped none. They did not match Roy’s taste.
“Regan boos,” Roy said, “doesn’t work pay well here in Mount Carbon? I thought Mahakam Dwarves sat on treasure. I thought you were all rich.”
“You are not far off,” Regan said without embarrassment, “but in coin that’s only fifty or sixty crowns a month. After drink and weapon upkeep, not much is left.”
“And houses?” Roy asked, looking at the dense cluster of cave-hollows. “How long would it take you to save for a home?”
“You don’t need to buy a home here,” Regan said proudly. “The Elder gives housing to every adult.” He added, “But step out of Mount Carbon without permission and your house is taken back.”
Roy felt a small pang of envy. The Elder had to work hard to keep people in place.
“Do many Dwarves leave to make their own fortunes?” he asked.
“Not many, but a few every year do.”
They entered the Training Yard. The grounds were wide, fenced in, split into several sections. At the far end stood a row of straw men for target practice, racks of weapons by another enclosure, and fighting pits ringed with timber for close combat. In one ring twenty burly Dwarf guards drilled under an instructor’s eye.
They wore dingy mail over padded cloth and followed commands with machine-like precision. Their two-handed weapons swung easily in those strong, heavy hands. Short and stocky, they still moved with surprising agility and delivered terrible force. They were like miniature fortresses; two layers of armor turned arrows aside, and the weight of their weapons transformed their small statures into an advantage. Get close to those men and you would not last long.
“My frontal combat ability is trash,” Roy thought.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.