System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 65
The bathhouse smelled of steam and soap.
“You insult me?” Regan and his three brothers sat around the pool where the boy soaked, scraping grime from their furry legs as they demanded answers. “You won the drinking match last night, why return the crossbow? Can’t take a loss?”
“Mount Carbon folk honor their wagers.”
“Since I won, the blood brothers belongs to me. I have the right to pass it on to someone more worthy.” Roy said, face set, earnest.
“You—give it to me?” Regan’s carrot-thick fingers jabbed toward him, his mouth gaping for a long moment before he sighed, “Kid, you did not have to. You bought the drinks...”
“Consider it a gift between friends. Anyway, the High Elder has ordered it, you will be with me for the next few days.”
“Does that mean more drink?” Deef licked his lips.
“You’ll get your fill later.”
“Roy, from today we’re brothers!” Regan slapped him several times, hearty and clumsy, enough to make Roy’s eyes water and his skin flush.
“All right, business now. The High Elder sent you to help me investigate Mount Carbon’s murders.” Roy lowered his voice and drew the four into a ring. Having chosen to trust them, he would not hide things. “I need your help. Think hard. Has anyone shown you an unusual sigil lately?”
“What sigil?”
“Quiet.”
Roy spread the spiderweb-and-antler diagram he had sketched. His gaze flicked over their faces.
They looked blank. The sigil meant nothing to them.
“Roy, what is this? Why look for it?” Regan asked, shaking his head. “The High Elder thinks beard and chest hair show a man’s worth. No one tattoos here. As I know, less than one percent have tattoos. Folks who leave Mount Carbon like flashy marks more.”
“I have seen every Dwarf’s backside in Mount Carbon, and I have not seen this sigil.”
Deef, Dool and Bernie all shrugged; none of them remembered anything like it.
“Keep an eye out, and keep it secret.”
“Don’t worry. If I tell, I’ll never drink again.”
“Same.”
“Me too.”
As they swore oaths, a grizzled, muscular Dwarf shuffled into the bathhouse, leaned back on the pool rim and wearily splashed himself.
“Who bathes at this hour? Night guards do not usually wash now.” Roy’s attention snagged.
The old Dwarf’s skin hung loose, liver spots freckled his face, deep nasolabial lines cut his cheeks, and his brow was furrowed with age. He looked like a human in his fifties or sixties. Roy’s gaze sharpened.
Bansin Fagnar. One hundred and fifty years old, his stats and skills otherwise ordinary.
“Is that old man a miner?” Roy asked.
The others peered, thinking hard. Bernie’s face lit with a small pride. “I stammer, but my memory is good. I recognized you the first glance.”
“Keep it short.”
“All right.” Bernie turned his gaze toward the bathing man, respect in his eyes. “Uncle Bansin Fagnar, this year one hundred and fifty. He is of the High Elder’s era, but mild and kindly. He has no airs and miners love him.”
Dwarves live long by nature, but few survive to one hundred and twenty in these war-ridden times. Bernie’s words carried weight.
“Why does he still work? Shouldn’t he enjoy his old age?” Roy asked.
Bernie puffed with pride. “Dwarves work while they can. If you stop, you starve.”
Roy’s eyes flicked. “What does he do?”
“Fifth Mine, clerk, he arranges the work schedules.”
“The Fifth Mine? That’s Kelvin’s district.” Their question and answer came in the same breath. Then the bathhouse shifted. The man in the water changed.
Bansin Fagnar suddenly hugged his knees and began to wail. His cry echoed through the empty bathhouse. Bernie, always the most sensitive, sniffed and choked.
“Why is the old man crying? Did he lose kin among the four dead?” Roy asked.
Regan answered, “Uncle Bansin’s family is fine. He just held a grandson recently.” His voice held envy.
“Little Fagnar is useless, but he found a woman and fathered two big boys. The High Elder washed those two for the honor.”
Dwarves have low birth rates, bearing two children is a major boon to the race.
“It’s a great honor. It was only six months ago. Why is Bansin so broken? Did something happen to those children?” The Dwarves frowned.
Roy felt a jolt. After days of watching, he had finally found someone not quite ordinary. A Dwarf brought to tears was no small thing. He needed to know more.
“Bernie, go comfort the elder.”
Bernie froze, then fumbled. “Always making me do weird jobs.”
“He raised you. As his younger kin, say a few words. It will not harm you.”
“All right, you win.”
Later, from Bernie’s loose tongue while he accompanied Bansin, Roy drew a clue.
“Old men dwell on the past and remember fallen comrades. Uncle Bansin wept for friends lost on the battlefield; he could not hold it in.”
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