I
squeeze myself through the rock, tunneling and burrowing my way along past the
familiar pathways. To access the Dwarven realm one must traverse the unfamiliar
pathways. I pass their subtle signposts, then their obvious ones, each
promising very painful consequences to all who trespass here. When I come to
the really large one that reads, "Keep out, fools!" I know I am
almost there. Then I abruptly enter Ivaldi's cave. It is large, fashioned like
a gigantic hall of men.
Groaner
doesn't even look up from his work. Grunt makes his characteristic sound,
apparently in welcome. I can see some of the other brothers at work in the
hall, but they pay me no heed. I bid them greetings, and offer hope of
prosperity in their work. They continue on with their forging. I wait.
Grunt finally
responds, "Still haven't learned to read, then, Piece of Dirt?"
"Peace.
I work this ground for peace. And your sign says for fools to keep out. But I
am not a fool." I answer.
"Huh,"
he grunts. "What do you want this time? The Ship not big enough for you?"
The Dwarves have little time for anyone merely coming to chat. They will try
with gruffness to frighten away those who are not truly interested in their
wares and willing to pay. For the really foolish who venture here, they might
be unpleasant, indeed.
"Oh,
the Ship is splendid! I am merely making a social call. Just to tell you I have
a new client, and he is interested in your smithcraft." It is not done to
get right to business with the Dwarves. If they know what you want straight
off, the price goes up.
"Huh."
Grunt is a being of few words. "Have you traded up or down?" He
didn't think much of Gunnar-Frey. I thought that to his credit.
"Oh,
definitely up." I am looking forward to proving this, and I think that I
would like it to stay proven. I shove the thought away, but Groaner catches the
drift. He finally becomes interested in my presence.
"Oh,
we could help with that. Yes, indeed." Groaner is always looking for a
commission. "The Unquenchable Spear. Doubly good, on the battlefield a
sure winner. And in more private fields of battle, well it works just as well
there. Always ready at hand, so to speak. Never lets you down."
"Well,
" I say, carefully hiding my enthusiasm for the product, "I don't
know that my client would ever need such a thing. His prowess in both fields of
battle is well known."
"Huh,"
responds Grunt, squinting as a flare burst forth from the furnace. "We can
improve upon any client's performance. No question."
"Can't
imagine a client who would turn down the Unquenchable Spear," adds Groaner,
working the bellows. "And the greater the natural stature of the client,
the more magnified the result. You know that."
"Well,"
I answer, "It does sound interesting...but can you make, say, a Ring of
Glamour?" I mention the least of all possible Rings, just to sound them
out.
"Pfft,"
spits Groaner. "With our eyes closed, we could make such a thing. I
thought you said your client was a man? What, is he ugly?" He sees my
face, and laughs. "Oh, you mean for diplomatic measures. Sure, we can make
a handsome face even more pleasant and his words more palatable to the
listener. Child's play."
"Well,
he is handsome enough, and skilled already in diplomacy. I don't know that you
can improve much there, either." There is always room for growth in these
matters. But I don't admit it. I pause. Then, I ask, "Can you make a Ring
of Wealth?" Just for measure.
"Huh,"
Grunt grunts. It sounds like an assent. He eyes his brother. There is a
wordless exchange between them.
Groaner calls
one of his other brothers over to mind the bellows for him. He turns to me, wiping his sturdy brown hands
on his leather apron. "Care for a drink?" he asks. They realize now
that I am in the market, and will work it until they get the commission from
me.
"Sure,"
I say. "I'm always thirsty." He leads me over to a side alcove, where
there are tables and benches, and waves me onto a seat. There is another Dwarf
there, very dark, with a red beard and a shaven upper lip, and a very large mug
of ale. Groaner carefully steers me to the table farthest away from him before
continuing our conversation.
"Your
client not giving you enough to drink? Isn't that in your job description?
Milking the bull?" he laughs, but mildly. He doesn't care one way or the
other, as long as he gets paid either way. I laugh along with him.
"There
will be plenty of bull's milk for me," I assure him. The energy from such
an exchange can keep the forges going a great while. He is satisfied, and pours
me an ale, along with one for himself.
"To
your new client," he toasts, and I hear him mentally add, "and to all
of the wealth the commission brings the Sons of Ivaldi." He takes a long
drink, then sets his mug down on the table.
"Now,
what is it you want, exactly?" he is very direct, in the way of Dwarves.
"The
Unquenchable Spear does sound promising," I tell him, "but can it do
anything for a client well-gifted in these matters already?" I sip my
drink carefully. The ale of Dwarves is a strong one.
"Sure,
sure. You know this already. He won't be disappointed. Once forged, the spear
will never-" he paused for effect, one large finger tapping the board for
emphasis, "and I do mean never, let the client down. Always a winner. When
at rest, it stays at rest, but when called to hand, so to speak, well! It's
ready to do battle. And always hits its mark. Now, what client wouldn't love
that? Eh? And the benefits are there for you, as well!" he nudged me
conspiratorially, winking.
I smile
at this, and nod. It does sound appealing. But I am really after the greatest
of Rings, though I can't allow him to know this, yet. I sip my ale
thoughtfully. "I'd like to see this Spear in action!" I assure him. Then
I ask again, "What about a Ring of Wealth?"
Groaner
leans back, contemplating the possibility. He says finally, "You mean your
man's a handsome, upright sort of fellow, just lacking in funds, then?" I
nod. Groaner takes a good, long drink, pondering. "Well, we can fix that.
Why not? A Ring of Wealth should be no problem."
The
red-bearded Dwarf at the far side of the other table snorts derisively. Groaner
glares at him. "You pay him no mind," he tells me. "He's just
passing through. Just leaving," here Groaner leans on the very word as if
to force the issue, "in fact."
Redbeard
heaves himself up from his bench and saunters over to our table. "You want
Rings of Power?" he says to me. "Why settle for anything less than
the best? My brother, Sindri, is the best Ring crafter in Swartalfheim. His
Rings are legendary. I doubt anything the Sons of Ivaldi craft can come close
to topping Sindri's work."
Groaner
stands, hands carefully placed on the tabletop. "Says who?" he spits
out angrily.
Redbeard
leans into Groaner so that their faces practically touch. "Says I,
Brokk!" He responds confidently. He is very, very sure of his words.
"If
you weren't of my mother's kin, I'd take it out of your hide," hisses
Groaner. "No one's works can top the works of the Sons of Ivaldi."
They stand, bristling at each other, ready to boil over in a moment. I can see
the surety in Brokk's eyes, and the slight quaver in Groaner's. I know who I
will back in this fight. But I can see usefulness and profit to us all in stopping
this short of battle.
"So,
a wager, then," I propose. "The Sons of Ivaldi to craft their best
item for my client, and Brokk and his brother to craft their best for him, as
well. Then we shall let the client choose among them whose work is
finest."
I see
Groaner leap to the challenge. "Done," he states. "Upon my word,
Loki, we shall craft the Unquenchable Spear for your new client."
I clench
hands with Groaner in agreement, and turn to Brokk, who shakes his head.
"We do no work unless it pays well, very well, and the client is worthy of
it." His coal-black eyes bore into my own. "Very worthy." he repeats. " I
will take your wager, little Earth-Wyrm, when you pledge payment for the
commission, and when you prove the worthiness of this client. You come to
Sindri's forge and show me this client of yours. Then we shall prove whose word
and whose anvil rings true." Brokk downed his mug and whacked it solidly
on the table before taking his leave.
I follow
Groaner back over to where Grunt is working. Grunt gives the evil eye to his
brother. He knows Brokk was talking to us. He knows it might mean the loss of future
custom for him. Groaner ignores the glare, and gets back to work. But he speaks
wordlessly to his brother all the same, while I wait.
Grunt
listens silently, then turns to me, a red light just barely illuminating his
dark eyes. "Don't mind my cousin, he's always been a rude, surly sort of
fellow. Very boastful, too. Can't believe a word he says." Grunt tells me.
"I
could see it in his eyes," I respond, though I don't mention what it was.
I'd like to keep on good terms with both of these contacts, thank you very
much.
"I
see we have your commission for the Unquenchable Spear," Grunt says.
"Though no promise of payment. It'll be enough to beat the snot out of my
distant cousin. Always bragging about his brother's work. But we'll show him.
The Unquenchable Spear is one of our finest products. Give me a shout when
you're ready to send the energy for it."
"How
long will it take to craft?" I inquire.
Grunt is
thoughtful. "Depends." he answers. "Who is your new
client?"
"Odin,
son of Bor. Chief of the Aesir."
"Huh."
Grunt searches through the realms. "I see him. Shouldn't take long, not
for that one. Once or twice if you do your job well. You're a good channel for
energy. Should work well for you. Now I'm back to work." I feel my
dismissal. I crawl back into the rock.
About
halfway home, I feel a tugging on my sleeve. It is Brokk. He has waited for me,
away from Ivaldi's hall.
"So,
you have a keen interest in Rings, do you?" he asks. I see no reason to
deny what he already knows.
"Yes.
For my client."
"Just
the two? Wealth and Glamour?" his eyes begin to sparkle in the dark of the
underground. "There are others, you know. Why stop at two?"
"Really,
how skilled is your brother at crafting such Rings?" I ask him. "To
add more than one or two charms to such a thing would surely be difficult at
best." I had envisioned decades of the Dwarves meticulously crafting one
Ring at a time as Odin and I became older and grayer.
Brokk
laughs softly. "Oh, it can be done. For a very worthy client, it can be
done. And Sindri has a specialty, a Ring of Power so grand in scope, so wound
with powerful enchantment that they call it the King-Maker."
All
right, he definitely has sparked my interest. "How many
enchantments?" I murmur.
"Oh,
it has the wealth. Limitless, self-regenerating wealth. More money than any man
should hope to see in his lifetime. And glamour by far. People will find your
client irresistibly attractive in whatever way he needs them to. Provides luck
in home, marriage and family. Brings political power along with impressive
persuasive abilities. Provides a constant excellent reputation, too. Brings
with it strong, loyal allies. And fame. Not the least of its charms!
Outstanding, realm-wide fame and the highest social standing. In fact, "
he chuckles further, "we call this little bauble's many woven charms the
"luck-fame.""
I am
about bedazzled by this description. This is exactly what Odin is looking for.
I try to keep the joy from lighting my face. He knows he has whetted my
appetite. He smiles, showing bright, pointy teeth. He knows he has me.
"Come
to Sindri's forge and show me your client. Then, we'll talk more." Brokk
abruptly dissolves into the stone, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
