The Tiers of the Shiverfang

[Diadems of Promethion]

“Love, in its myriad forms, will be the end of us all. Yet such is its beauty that we cannot help but throw ourselves upon its embrace, sinners to the pyre.”

Exhaling a plume of sweet-scented smoke, Throld played it about his lips before watching it flee up the narrow vent. One jade-green eye caught Breaker’s questioning look.

“Something an old hag I knew in Scara Brae used to say. Given the fifty shrunken heads of the fathers, brothers, sons, and ex-lovers that she kept in her hut, she knew a thing or two that I didn’t. Still don’t, in fact. Too bad she met her match in the fifty-first head she tried to shrink, otherwise I’d go back someday and ask about it.”

Breaker grunted disbelief. “Sounds like quite the story.”

“It is, indeed,” the dwarf nodded. “As there are many, where matters of the heart are concerned. Foolish, reckless, courageous, triumphant against all odds. I wouldn’t have a job without them.”

He thought for a moment, then continued.

“My people, though they prefer to swear oaths and drink themselves blind, have a saying. The heart is not a stone, built to weather the hard times. It is clay, to knead and to shape, to break down and to rise again.”

The dying embers caught a glint of Breaker’s small smile.

“How very wise.”

Perhaps unwittingly, Breaker had left him an important clue: his mention of Salvar and its war. A man as driven as he did not wander the middle of nowhere without purpose, and a taleweaver as experienced as Throld refused to believe in coincidence. Instinct, deep inside his gut, told him that whatever Breaker sought in the Tiered Mountain, it had to do with this Kristina Rythadine. Funny then, that his purpose there had to do with Vera, his own female ghost. At times like this, he wondered how he had dishonoured the Ancients and the Ancestors, that they laughed so at his expense.

“I hope that you find resolution someday soon, Master Breaker. As indeed I hope I will as well.”

“I’ll raise a glass to that, Master Sartet. If only we had something suitable to toast with.”

Throld grinned, chuckling to himself as if dismayed. His mirth shattered the solemn ice that lay between them.

“Of course, Breaker, I do admit a slight disappointment. I have to admit that, in certain Coronian taverns, I vocally professed a certain fondness for my personal theory behind your name. Rulebreaker, for the number of times they had to rewrite the Citadel’s rules to accommodate your superhuman strength in the arena. Hm.”

He stroked his bare chin where an honoured dwarf might grow his beard.

“Perhaps a series of tales... Headbreaker... Knucklebreaker... Rulebreaker... Heartbreaker? Too blasé?” He laughed again, low and rolling warmth. “I promise you, the people will love it. You’ve got nothing to fear, Breaker, I’d do you proud.”

They talked further, swapping tales of the road, until eventually Throld pinched out the flame in his pipe. Only the smouldering glow on the icy walls now warded the shadows. Beneath the fruity scent of tobacco and the meaty aroma of stew, the less tasteful smells of the road - dried sweat, damp pelts, matted hair - started to suffuse their shelter. But Throld had slept in far worse, including a pigsty or two in Scara Brae, and his gratitude for the protection far outweighed any discomfort. As if by common assent, the two travellers settled into slumber. Soon, only the rhythm of shallow breathing punctuated the whistles of the boreal wind beyond the walls.

Consumed by the oath he had sworn to Vera, he did not sleep much that night. Neither, he presumed, did Breaker.