"Deep Mountain Times are Changing" by Christopher M Cosby

DEEP MOUNTAIN

Times are Changing

Deep under Deep Mountain, far from the memory of man, mostly because man had yet to be invited into this particular house-chamber where sat two brothers: Gimil, the Sensible-Smart one and Thimil, the Not-So-Sensible-Rather Hardheaded one, awaiting their third brother, Timil, the Sensible-Practical one. They sat around their father's table; green on black onyx, fitted within a silver framing adorned with the engravings of leafs and vines representing the Tree of Life. Several cakes and breads of many varieties with accompanying jams and jellies littered the table. Pots, pans, canisters and other such things filled the shelves and surrounded the furniture. The house chamber was well decored and had a touch of style that was rather due and a credit to their mother. Near to the table, a small stack of kegs.

Clasping two silver wrought mugs by the rings in one hand, Gimil tapped the keg with the other. More suds than ale filled the mugs. He sighed, "That was more than two-hundred years ago Thimil. Our own da' was but a wee babe, not but seven years old at the time as I reckon."

"Aye, but they did it for the good of The Mountain! Every one of 'em. And if them trolls hadn't start-."

"An' granddad lost his leg, too in that war in The Battle of Glimmer Glam," Gimil sat down, lifting his mug to his red beard, short, neatly trimmed, rather the opposite of his brother's, which was-, well, everywhere to be exact. A yellowish-brown rats-nest of curls, snares and long worn out braids, twisted and braided anew with other snarls and braids. There was most definitely some moss and maybe a few mushrooms too growing in some of the darker areas near the neck. "Kept it mounted on the wall till he died at the age of one-hundred-twenty-three. May he rest in peace and curse the number."

"Young for a dwarf," sniffed Thimil. He lifted his own mug and drank deep leaving a lather of thick suds soaking into his tremendous beard. He shifted his girth in his seat as it rolled around inside the battle-ready chain mail and adjusted the hang of a mighty double bladed battle-axe in his belt so that it swung freely from his hip.

"I see you're still carrying an axe, Thim." Gimil commented. He took a sip of his ale and smacked his lips loudly considered a cake and then asked, "Have you registered it yet?"

Thimil sliced a scone in half and said, "Of course I am!" He buttered it. "And no, I ain't registering it. That's the bleeding trouble these days! Ya can't be called a real dwarf without an axe. This is heritage! This was forged from the metals from the deepest mines of The Mountain! Register it? For what for? So's they can take it away? Why if they ever! See these runes here? Says this here is Anklebiter The-Man-Slayer, Anklebiter The Troll Sti-"

"And its fifteen pounds and four inches illegal is what it is if it is what I think it is, Thim. What you have there is an Anklebiter, not Anklebiter," Gimil said. The Honey-Glazed Goth Walnut was looking mighty tempting.

Thimil continued on unimpeded, "This is heritage! Handed down from father to son and-"

"And won by you in a game of Random Runes last week from who knows whose father's son down at the Silver and Gold's gaming hall. "You know they'll be shutting that place down, too soon, you know?"

"No!" Thimil slammed his mug onto the stone table sloshing beer. "By Odin's beard, what's this mountain coming too? Last week it was Hammer's Head, and now the Silver an' Gold? That'll be putting Bilus and Blainn out on their beards!"

"The Department of Mountain Security had more than enough reason to believe that Hammer's Head was the gathering spot for the Snorri's responsible for those string of attacks against King Sawbuck last year," Gimil said. He couldn't decide if he should have the butter cake or the Goth Walnut. "An' there were more than a few of his personal guards killed. Fylin's lucky he only lost his bar. Most are sent to the inner departments these days for further questioning."

"The DMS is a lot of dwarf-traitors is what they are. Hammer's Head was one o' the last all dwarves establishments left under the Deep an' Fylin was as good as a dwarf as they come. He never supported the Snorri's, least not openly and in these days, who's to blame 'em. Besides, I can't say I don't disagree with what all those Snorri's are doing during these times," Thimil said after tipping up the end of his mug. "If the S&G shuts down too, well, well it's getting so's there's no place for true mountain dwarves to go."

"All dwarfs," Gimil corrected finally choosing a slice of butter cake. "An' careful, the walls have ears these days."

"What? How's that? Since what is this dwarfs? We're dwarves. Always been dwarves. What'ch you mean dwarfs?"

"It's what the men-folk and elves been calling us forever, Thim," Gimil said.

Thimil protested, "Why is it elves get to be elves and not elfs? Why ain't they called elfs?"

"We've been officially 'dwarfs' since The Free Trade Commission started using the term since twenty years ago when Deep opened up to the outside world. They've been officially using it lately so as to avoid causing an offense. We've got to start respecting other cultures and ethnic backgrounds." Gimil took a moment to fill his mouth with a piece of cherry cake this time and then wash it down with the remainder of his ale. "Bilus and Blainn will be fine I'm sure, The Department of Insurance will surely reimburse them for the full value. They're just lucky they were insured. Fylis wasn't."

"I don't see how," grumbled Thimil. "They've had the Silver an' Gold in the family since for more than a hundred generations or so back. Probably since the founding of Deep, I think," he said a bit under his beard.

"Times are changing Thimil, the Mountains' bigger than just us now. Everyday they're more men, more elves and more of all sorts coming into the Mountain; there've been trolls and kobolds coming in on a regular basis looking for work, even some giants, and there's been no shortage of it I'm here to tell you, and The Department of Get a Job has been hiring pixies by the dozens to run posts. Soon they'll be a pixie in every house-chamber, big an' small. Wave of the future they are." Gimil glanced up towards the chamber door, double-banded, ten-inch oak, special iron troll-repellent-plated on the outside; not much use these days since there hasn't been a troll invasion in Deep in more than eight-hundred years, but it was traditional none the less.Next to that, in the wall at right about nose level to a dwarf, was a much smaller door no larger than about eight inches. "I'm actually expecting a post any time now." He refilled his ale from the table-tap and finished off the scones.

"Its gotten outta hand is what it's got," Thimil drained his mug refilled. He drained it again. "These days, all a dwarf is allowed to carry is some ridiculous hatchet that's barely big o'nuff to take off a gnomes wrist. The Silver and Gold? I just can't believe it. Where's a true Mountain Dwarf suppose to go?"

"It's a loud and raucous place, Thim. There's a bar fight there most every night. It's been attracting a lot of Snorri's of late so the DMS has decided to act before there's an incident." Gimil sliced the end off the butter cake and took a few bites. "It's a precautionary shutdown." Before Thimil could protest Gimil continued, "These days are sensitive days, Thim. If they're anymore DBF's, it could really upset the bread in the oven if you take my meaning. There's a lot at stake."

Now would be a good time to briefly explain about a Snorri. Snorri's are dwarves that strictly hold to the prophet Voluspa's writings that dwarves are indeed dwarves who came from the Dvergar, a taller and more pureblooded dwarf. They believe most zealously that dwarves are separate from the race of men, elves and all others, that they were among the first to walk in the Wr'ald and that they, the dwarves, are the true masters of the Wr'ald. They generally retort and backup all their arguments and doctrine with a sharp axe, pointy sword or blunt hammer, usually while they aren't expecting it or looking. They are responsible for acts of violence and disruption throughout the Deep. They have always largely been thought of as a small but enthusiastic band of dwarves pining for the glory days, then last year several attacks on the king and his men resulted in them being thought of as a dangerous but enthusiastic group pining for something else. Their latest act the Snorri's have been suspected of was the Delayed-Blast-Fireball that went off outside the church of Glyfingg's Main Office, burning twenty-three dwarves, three kobolds and four goblins.

The thing to remember most about Snorri's is they don't like change. They like things to stay the same. Dwarves should stay in the mountains, in the mines, help trolls by smashing their heads and sending 'em back to the dirt; men shouldn't be trusted and elves, well elves are just weird, too tall and too thin and don't wear enough of anything, especially for special occasions like battle and war.

The church of Glyfingg is the most popular church not only in the Deep, but among most dwarves, mountain and mud, holds to the opposing doctrine that all dwarves, elves and men are indeed related.

Gimil washed the cake down with a firm swig of his ale, "The DMS doesn't actually have the authority to shut down the S&G, but they can and have put a lot of pressure on The Department of Insurance and they finally conceded that the S&G was too high a risk for operation so they finally gave notice for 'em to shut it down."

"Insurance! Hah! Now there's an invention!" Thimil couldn't believe what he was hearing. Certainly the Snorri's have always been a bit radical in their beliefs and they've gone a bit far in trying to make their point be known. But what choice is there during these days? And they're really just speaking up and doing what any true dwarf if they had the courage to do would do anyways wouldn't they?

Gimil gave his brother a long look. "You'd stay away from that place till it's a done deal if you know what's good for ya."

Thimil concentrated on the picture of Deep Mountain above the family portrait. There was his father, Grimil, son of the famous one-legged berserker of Glimmer Glam, Drimil. They won the battle but lost the mountain. A pyrrhic victory it was, not enough dwarves left alive to keep the mountain after that one. King Pyrich never led better dwarves than he did on that day. There was his mam Aeni-rar, and the three boys, Gimil, Thimil and Timil. Their father, Durer was not in the portrait. 'How long ago was that when da' went missing?' he thought, 'right after granda's death ceremony maybe, right before this picture.' His leg was still on the wall, though now it had been moved out of the dining chamber and into his dad and mam's chamber. The three boys had only been just out of beginning mining school and probably just starting Hammer's and Anvils with Ms. Tegak-Hardnose. Now what she was doing as a teacher he'd never have figured out, coming from a family of honor and all. Only the most honored dwarf families carried a last name. And the Hardnose's were quite well renowned throughout the whole of the Deep.

To know true battle, the vicious swing of the axe and the resounding clang from a trolls head smashing in or just the simple crunch or cracking of the bones from cleaving man or elf. Thimil sighed, grandda', he had known the last of the glory days, the good ol' days. Simple times.

Thimil looked at his brother. "An' fighting, cursing, cussing an' bar-fight'n is as much dwarf tradition and heritage as carrying an axe Gimil. What's all, you know all that. Your making me feel bad for wanting to be a dwarf. It's 'ow we express ourselves. Least true Mountain dwarves do."

Gimil decided to ignore his brother's remark. It was a little too close to the edge for his liking. He glanced around the room. On the well-dressed mantle, under the same portrait Thimil had been gazing at, sat their father's hammer. Honed and chipped from the years of work he spent in the forges. It was a hammer that spent its days not shaping weapons and armor but hinges, bed-frames, chairs and sofas. He became, shamefully only after his retirement, well known for the exquisite detail and art he put into every piece. It is said that there is magic in a dwarven hammer; magic even in our blood. We are married to the metal and it's but a dwarf's second nature to craft it and shape and to bring it to life. It is not so much the hammer as it is the communication with the metal; to reach an agreement with it. Even among dwarfs, his father was a master, an artist. And he was shamed and ridiculed for having wasted his talents. Well, now who's talking? These days just one of his bedsprings goes for more than ten gold. You could bounce on one corner of the bed and not spill a glass of water just five inches away. Amazing. He really did see the future.

"It's a ruddy requirement to wear chain mail and a helm in that place Thim."

"And a good thing too," remarked Thimil rubbing his thumb along to rim of his mug. "When was the last time you wore yours? Eh?"

Gimil ignored his brother jibe, "And as I said, that place is for attracting Snorri's. As of late, they've been getting a little more, shall I say 'fundamental?' It makes the men and elves nervous. And what's worse is it makes trolls want to go in. The gnomes can't even keep their feet attached to the ground sometimes. There've been lots of complaints down at The Department of Complaints." Gimil paused and studied his brother. He seemed a little far off. Lost in thought. "And speaking of the Department of Complaints, do you remember Hordia and her four sisters? All five of 'em are working there. Got the department all to themselves."

"Huh?" Thimil's eyes lit up and his nose twitched a bit as a sooth smile spread across his beard. "Oh, yeah, how could I forget? She always was rotund. I had quite a thing for her."

"Oh, aye, and while her sisters aren't nearly as big as Hordia," Gimil said cupping his hands with a bouncy heftiness under his jerkin, "they're nice an' educated, 'specially that Mordia."

"An' rotund, too."

"Aye, rotund."

Thimil sank a bit into his chair, the mind of his eye far away. He sighed "...rotund."

"Apparently they've a few too many complaints lately, mostly from the trolls, been getting a lot bit busy these days, 'specially with the event coming up next week, and so they've had some of their own complaints."

Thimil gave a grunt. "That's the trouble with trolls, just cause they come from under the mountain, they think they own the mountain! Why if it wasn't for dwarves-."

"Dwarfs."

"-Dwarves, then nobody even care about trolls. How many trolls you think there'd be if we hadn't connected 'em to the world with our mines? Huh?"

"Look, the point is, the Snorri's are making everyone nervous. And there is The Insurance too; they're thinking it'll be next to get a DBF like what happened at the Glyfingg Main Office. And Silver and Gold is on the way to Gold Mine Trade Center and that makes it double at-risk. Everyone under Asgard goes by there to do trading these days. The elves have threatened to even stop going altogether."

"Don't get me started on them. They don't even hardly wear any clothes," Thimil said crossing his arms. "They're always going around half naked. Tall and thin-skinny every one of 'em and while at least the men elves are wearing plenty o' clothing it's awful darn tight and is leaving nothing to the imagination. Why you's can see the crack of their-, you know from behind, and you can see-, well their cloths ain't proper. Don't even get me started on them woelves.

"Woelves?"

"You know, women elfs."

"Elves."

Thimil visibly shook, "Couple o' strips of string an' they call it an outfit with everything hanging out and there sure ain't anything at all to imagine. Makes me cringe and crinkles my beard."

Gimil's eyes dropped to his brothers beard, "Seen quite a few of woelves recently then have you?" he asked instinctively raising his mug for a quick sip before he grinned too much. Dwarves by nature are sensitive.

"By Odin, yes!" exclaimed Thimil.

Thimil wasn't quite sure what had happened to his brother of late but it seemed the more time he spent down at the new job of his at The Department of Secret Projects, he had been acting more and more like a, well, less and less dwarf-like.

"This is a modern mountain Thim. Deep's become the center point of all of the whole Wr'ald, especially The Edda. If we haven't got any regulations, what have we got?"

"There were none of these reg-you-lay-shuns until all the men folk and elfs started showing up here."

Gimil decided to let the Thimil's insistent grammar-slip slip this time. "What we've got is a lot more than before, Thim, take your Anklebiter there for instance."

Thimil shifted protectively in his seat. "Anklebiter, the Troll Stinger," he corrected.

"That's what the runes say but not what they mean." Gimil continued ignoring his brother. He sipped his ale had a bite of banana bread and chewed it thoughtfully. "Those aren't the magical kind of runes on that axe." Sip. Bite. Chew. "Those are just the regular kind. And Anklebiter isn't the name of that axe, it's the trade guild."

Thimil glanced at the axe, "The trade guild?"

"Certainly it is." Gimil read the questioning quizzing wrinkled nose that was about to emit a snort of protest so he quickly cut it off. "You didn't think that Dvergar are still deep down in the mountain smithing magical weapons and what not and engraving 'em with magical runes did you? And even if they did, they wouldn't be letting 'em get out to the general public, I'll tell you that. Look what happened with the Tyrfing flame swords." Gimil set down his mug. "Anklebiter is well known at the departments. They've several models that are illegal and promote them through a variety of means on the black market and through gambling so's that they look more authentic and they'll get a better brand name after next week." Gimil picked up his mug, grabbed a mint cake and awaited his brother's impending snort.

Thimil snorted bit into the last piece of butter cake and said, "You know as well's I do that the Tyrfings were just cursed to kill that Svafrla-what's-his-name king and so forth."

"To kill any man whenever the blade is drawn," Gimil corrected.

"They also cut through stone like clothes, never rust and never miss a stroke." Thimil went on, "Dvalin and Durin didn't even forge 'em in the mountain. It wasn't till they escaped Svafrla, Svafral-what's-his-name, I can't remember it either, in Gardariki and set up shop in Glimmer Glam and became D&D, an' that's the only trade guild I know much about or trust. Never heard of no Anklebiter trading guild till now of course."

"Right, Dvalinn and Durin. Aye, they moved into the Deep after Glimmer Glam was lost," Gimil said. He brushed a few crumbs from his beard that were there and a few from his hand that weren't. He looked around the room carefully as though there might be something in the shadows or lodged between the mantle and the stacks of scrolls that littered the cabinet. "Anklebiter is one of them new trade guilds that were set up 'bout twenty-years ago by the Commission, to help promote interracial trade inside and out of the mountain."

"Aye, that's when the mountain started getting a little weirdo and men-folk, elves and even trolls came were allowed in, what for I'll never know," Thimil grumbled into his mug.

"That's when the king set up the first departments as you'll recall."

"Of course I do. It's not everyday or everyone whose got a brother that regular consorts with the king."

"Exactly those were busy days I don't mind saying and it was all hush-hush, too. Well, that's when we started setting up a few specialty multi-race guilds. Anklebiter is one of those. That axe wasn't even smithed, not by dwarves at any rate. It's probably got a serial number on there somewhere, no look down near the base of the near the half. Look Thim, just like twenty-years ago, I can't say all of what is going on. Just wait till next week. You'll see. I can't tell you exactly what it is that's happening, you never know, the walls these days seem to have ears of their own, but it's close enough to a done deal now that I can tell you by this time next week, every duke and governor, every thane, king and Elvin lord in Wr'ald Edda is gonna be here for a big meeting. And people of every kind: gnomes, fairy-folk, pixies, kobolds, men, elves, goblins and trolls and more are all coming, Thim. Even some of the giants are coming."

Just then the door burst open and the room was filled with a joyous "Hullo! Hullo!" The 'hullos" belonged to a rather stumpy dwarf, stumpy even by dwarf standards, bounded into the chamber and leaped into an empty chair and seemed to gleam and glow with a fuzzy aura of bluish, red-orange shags, locks and braids of hair that emitted from under a red ten-inch long round-tip Shirr-Fits cap embroidered with golden battle-axes throughout and from his beard. Timil, the brother Gimil and Thimil had been waiting for had arrived. He looked from one brother to the other and then back to the other again. He did this twice. And then he said "I'VE GOT ME A WOMAN! I got me a woman! We're getting married!"

Thimil, drinking, spat everything back into his mug. "A wodwarf?"

Timil grabbed a cake in one hand and an ale in the other, "No, ha! Not a wodwarf. I got me a woman, a man-folk woman! Come up to speed Thimber! Most wodwarfs are preferring to be called women to wodwarf these days."