The Stoneweaver

Chapter 12: Treason

Falf felt old. Off he was again on the march. With barely a day to sleep, rest, and screw.

"Slow down!" he barked out. "Let an old man catch his breath!"

The stoneweaver stopped, as did Dom and Va, their ever-present companions. On the back of Dom, Broca rode in a basket. Falf knew what got the dwarf out of his lair. Didn't want anyone but him talking to the Guards at the Iron Door.

"You didn't have to come with us," Broca called back to Falf. "Once Erid and Skarn are ... reunited, your part in the deal is fulfilled. Erid will let you pass through the Iron Doors anytime. Like me, he's a man who keeps his bargain."

"And spend one more day in the Dungeon? No thanks," wheezed Falf.

"Certainly it's not all bad," said Broca. "Zyla would have been happy to entertain you for another evening."

Don't remind me, thought Falf. The long limbs and liquid eyes of Broca's best whore had tantalized him to stay. But Falf had his own deal with the Trade Master that Broca knew nothing about.

"Got tired of her," Falf retorted. "You need new flesh in your rooms."

Broca cocked his head to the side. "I don't recall hearing dissatisfaction from your room last night."

Falf ignored him. He took a long swallow of water from his pouch. Pulled off his boots and shook loose a few pebbles.

"Ready?" asked Skarn.

"You so eager, why don't you take my pack?" Falf shot at the stoneweaver.

Skarn held out his hand.

"Forget it," mumbled Falf, pulling on his boots and standing up. They resumed their marched, gaining elevation with each step.

"In another mile or so," Broca was saying to the stoneweaver, "You'll hear the thunder of the Falls."

Broca continued to lecture Skarn. The Falls were water from the surface that fell all the way to the Dungeon, jetting and gurgling through hundreds of feet of rock and emptying into a great pool.

The channel that the water passed through was too narrow to be climbed, the dwarf added. That hadn't stopped desperate prisoners from trying every few years. They either gave up, or fell to their death, impaling themselves on the razor-sharp rocks that studded the foaming waters at the base of the Falls.

"We won't be going to the pool, though," said Broca. "We're going up. The tunnel to the Iron Door splits off in another mile or so."

The dwarf continued to wag his tongue. Bragged about how he had taken control of the guendum trade with the surface and only his men were allowed on this passage. His men travelled here daily: the explosive guendum going up, and goods—like the blacksmith's bellows—coming down.

"But not today," Broca said. "Today belongs to us. You won't see anyone until we reach the Iron Door and meet the welcome party on the other side." The dwarf smiled. "I have waited a long time for this day, stoneweaver."

Not as long as I have, Falf thought. I had to watch lesser dragonspawn climb the throne for forty years. I held my tongue. Served faithfully, loyally, steadfastly.

Except once. One time. One time he had lost patience, stretched out his hand to the scepter. And that had landed him in the Dungeon.

It was five years before. He had just turned sixty. Falfanir Antelicus Andenion, second of that name, served the Crown as spymaster. A post only a full-blooded member of the Royal family could hold.

As spymaster, Falf and his agents sniffed out budding conspiracies and rooted them out to their seeds. An important position, his father always said. You keep our entire Royal Family safe from dangers that most are blind to.