System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 63
A few more cups, and a sleepy flush climbed the Dwarves’ cheeks.
Roy’s questions loosened into seeming nonsense, random as hiccups.
“People used to say Mahakam had goblins living among the Dwarves, yet since coming to Mount Carbon I have not seen a single goblin. Why is that?” Goblins were an old race, shorter than Dwarves but often superior at craft.
“Ten-odd years ago there were goblins here,” Regan said, stroking his beard as memory lit his dark eyes. “Small fellows, bad tempers, but damned fine at smelting and smithing. They moved away later, word is they went to Tir Tochair, the goblins’ real stronghold. Why they moved, I do not know. Maybe the High Elder knows.”
A small disappointment pricked Roy. He would have to wait for a chance to meet the legendary folk.
“By the way, Boss Regan, Bernie, Dool, Deef, have any of you ever left Mount Carbon? Seen the world outside?”
“What’s worth going outside for?” Deef snorted, his furry face full of disdain. “Drink, weapons, women, you find none better than here. Why suffer abroad? Leave Mount Carbon and you lose your house; without a house how do you get a wife? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Never say never,” Regan set down his cup, a glint of yearning in his eyes. “In a few years, once I’m sixty, I’ll go see the world. I’ll join Paulie, follow Lord Yarpen, sharpen my skill. Maybe make a name, then come back to Mount Carbon. Who would refuse a man like that?”
Dool nodded eagerly, the cup’s reflection turning into visions of women.
Bernie, the stammerer, frowned. He objected, “Outside is danger. Raiders. Cunning humans. In the woods there are Scoia’tael.”
Regan snapped a palm over his mouth. Dool and Deef’s faces tightened.
Roy had heard the name Scoia’tael before, from Severin Hogg and now from Bernie. For Severin, the High Elder’s nephew and a wine agent in Aldersberg, hearing such news made sense. For Bernie, a small player in Mount Carbon, it was curious. Where had he learned the name?
A thought crossed Roy’s mind. He took a swallow of spirit. This time he did not cheat. Heat rose to his face. He followed Bernie’s thread. “Have you seen Scoia’tael?” he asked.
“Scoia’tael? What’s that?” a Dwarf shook his head and waved the talk away. “You’re hearing things, kid. Drink up, forget the name.”
“Boss Regan, tell him straight,” Roy said half serious, half teasing. “I come from Lower Posada in Aedirn, you heard of it? Not far east lies the Valley of Flowers. Elves live there. Old blood feuds made them see humans as enemies. They strike north by theft, ambush, slaughter.”
“Those scattered elven radicals, under a sorceress’ leadership, coalesced into an organization. They wear squirrel tails and tattoos. They’re called Scoia’tael.”
“Their aim is to break the humans of the North, to found a land of their own and never bow again. Many non-humans in the North, elves and half-elves especially, suffer scorn in the slums. More and more join the Scoia’tael to fight back. Some Dwarves have been recruited as well.”
Regan let go of Bernie’s mouth. Bernie spat his tongue out and panted like a boiled pup.
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