Chapter 1: Blood in the Water
Shapes on the lip of the valley. They arrived with the graying sky: shadowed figures, cloaked in the morning mist. There were seven of them, and they scuttled like beetles down the slope. They were brazen, they were brash. They sang mountain songs and their voices rang across the valley, shattering the silence like a klaxon. They brought with them industry. It was strapped to their backs with leather and piled on wagons pulled by snorting oxen. There were tools: shining copper picks, spades of iron, hammer and anvil. There was food: bags of mushrooms, barrels of meat and sacks bursting with grain. There was drink: casks of ale, kegs of beer and flagons heavy with wine. They were dwarves.
They pressed their way down the side of the valley and their singing grew louder. They smiled at each other and clasped meaty hands on shoulders: they’d made it. The song died as the oxen came to a sudden stop in front of a trickling brook.
The dwarf leading the animals nearly fell over as he slammed into their flanks.
“Oi, stupid beasts!” He brandished his crop at them but the animals didn’t see it. Their eyes were rolling back in their heads as they pulled desperately away from the water.
“What’s the problem?” one of the dwarves barked from the back of the line. He had a crimson cloak wrapped about his wide shoulders and his braided beard was black as the raven’s wing. When no answer came, he stomped forward.
The dwarf leading the oxen looked back, and his eyes grew white as the panicking beasts. “I’m sorry lord Logain, the animals, they refuse to cross.”
Logain brushed past the frightened dwarf and frowned at the braying animals. Then he looked at the brook and he scowled.
“It’s hardly a puddle,” he barked. “Drive them across.”
The handler looked at the animals, then back to Logain. “I’m sorry lord, they won’t, I’ve tried...”
Logain stalked over to the handler, his hand raised. The handler flinched but Logain only snatched the crop from his hand. “Move you dumb beasts!” He swung the hard leather mercilessly but the oxen refused to cross.
The rest of the dwarves watched the violence from under their hoods, exchanging only furtive glances.
Finally Logain’s arm grew tired and he spat. “Drag them across.”
“My lord,” the handler pleaded.
Logain found some reserved strength and lashed out with the crop. It took the handler on the cheek, sending him reeling. The dwarf clutched at his cheek and stumbled backwards before falling with a splash. As soon as he hit the water he scrambled to his knees. He glared at Logain with murder in his eyes, but his look only fell on his master’s back. He brought a thick hand to his stinging cheek and when he pulled it away he saw the slick red of blood. He tilted his hand and watched as the blood raced across his wet palm. A fat drop swelled and trembled before it fell into the brook and diffused like crimson smoke in the current.
Logain was growling orders to the rest of the dwarves but the handler didn’t hear him. The world had gone quiet. He could only hear the hushed whisperings of the brook as it trickled around him. He strained to hear its voice, its voices. There were thousands of them all talking at once, warning him, telling him to run. That night, there were no stars.