Toymaker's Intrigue

By John P. Mullen

What if all we know is wrong? What if beyond the borders of the natural world, others exist? Dimensions of pure order swimming in a sea of roiling chaos. Seracrystal is proof, in my mind. Only the cataclysmic pressure of two colliding planes of existence could form such a perfect specimen. A stone that harnesses the raw power of an entire dimension. These are not novel concepts. No, they are lost understandings, preserved only in myth, lore, legend, and "superstition." Our ignorance is terrifying. It shall serve our ruin in the end. These questions must be answered. A reckless pursuit of truth even unto death. No matter the peril. No matter the denizens who await in shadows. This is my desire. This is my purpose. Thus, we exist. To solve the intrigue. (Jeyson Ganam, essay on interdimensionalism)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hawes & Jenkins Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781637841136

Book preview

cover.jpg

Toymaker's Intrigue

John P. Mullen

ISBN 978-1-63784-114-3 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63784-113-6 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by John P. Mullen

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Hawes & Jenkins Publishing

16427 N Scottsdale Road Suite 410

Scottsdale, AZ 85254

www.hawesjenkins.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

About the Author

Dedicated to Gayle Cross

Chapter 1

234th Year of the Ultimarchy

77th Day of Autumn

Hidden away from the abiding, Tiamoc Gindol wandered through a maze of melancholy. Self-righteous sentiments of unfairness and injustice swirled with those of humiliation and plunging confidence. The depressed young fellow sat within a cluttered room while the tavern patrons reveled beyond the closed door. A nearly empty tumbler of Old Tarchy gleamed in the candlelight. Hoping perhaps the elixir might mystically liberate him from these sinking emotions, Tiam found himself somewhat disappointed.

Pushing back his thick black hair, which never failed to fall across his brow, Tiam profaned himself, Farg me. Assistant secretary.

The summation of one bitter insult after another. Three years of diligent study, all for naught. Top of the class. Granted the highest honors of knowledge and privilege in all the Ultimarchy. Youngest to graduate in university history. All for a singular purpose to join the legendary Ganam Company. Within the mind's eye, Tiam so vividly perceived himself as the prospector—understudy to the Man himself, Jeyson Ganam. But unfortunately, it hadn't worked out quite the way he'd envisioned.

Tiam recalled the giddiness he possessed standing in that line four years ago. Cold and shivering, he awaited his first assignment. Jeyson Ganam had made a mysterious discovery deep in the canyons of the north where the land disappeared beneath the ice. The Project, as it was known, had endured for six years at that time. Sponsored by the Ultimarch, Ondaron X, the matter was deemed a secret of great importance. Only Ganam's closest and His Eminence understood the meaning of the endeavor. A trove of long-buried seracrystal? Maybe. A new half-world? Potentially. Something more? All these possibilities, Tiam had pondered as he inched toward destiny.

Alas, the fantasy soured when the contract's waxen seal broke. Scribbled on the document was a fate worse than death.

Tiamoc Gindol, office of the secretary clerk

Holding out faith in the potential for oversight, Tiam had rallied his spirits. He applied his acumen to managing books and budgets, performing passingly well. He sought any opportunity he deemed fit to display his knowledge, experience, and perspective on those matters befitting a prospector.

Weeks awaiting the perfect opportunity to prove himself passed into years. Nothing had changed. There were no sera hordes, no expeditions into the unknown, no hint of what might lie deep in the canyon—numbers, books, and Tarchy. A miserable existence to this day.

Of all the things that could have been, should have been, and would have been. If only— Saluting the dusty corner of the vestibule, Tiam raised the pitted glass. Diffused light shined through the vessel, low on spirit. What a paltry consolation to broken dreams.

After draining the fiery beverage in a single gulp, Tiam beat his chest as if it might ease the burn. It was hardly the silky palate of a higher class of spirit, but whiskey fit the current humor. But if this night of self-loathing were to continue, Tiam would need more Tarchy.

The pitter-patter of a short and quickened stride suddenly broke the doleful contemplation of the broken young man. Determined to remain undisturbed, Tiam pushed himself into the corner, hoping not to be noticed.

A diminutive fellow with a wisp of hair atop his head opened the door. The short man's eyes squinted, nearly shut under a befuddled scowl. What in the hell are you doing in here, Mr. Gindol?

Oh, it's only you. Tiam sighed. A relief. Fortuitous, actually. I just thought I could use another, Yurlo. You know what? Just bring the whole bottle in, why don't you.

Tiam flashed a bright-silver Marchy adorned with Ondaron's magnificent visage.

The proprietor of the Rock and Ice Tavern took the coinage happily. Though he protested the motive. Mr. Gindol, I'm happy to serve you, but my maintenance closet hardly seems the place to celebrate your recent promotion.

Promotion? Tiam snarled. Call it what you will. Assistant secretary is no honor, trust me. It's a fargin insult.

Oh, here we go again. Spare me this tonight. I have no time for your self-pity. Never good enough for young Mr. Gindol. Promoted to a junior officer, at what, twenty-one years of age? Get to sleep in a proper bed up at the keep? Cozy and warm from this constant freezing drudgery at the edge of nowhere—

Stop. I get it, all right? Tiam surrendered. Just get the Tarchy.

Yurlo shook his head. Suits yourself. Is there anything else I can get, Your Majesty?

Snickering, Tiam clinked his silver ring upon the empty tumbler clutched in his hands. How about my pride? My dignity? If you happen to find that behind the bar, I'll have a bit of that.

Of course, Mr. Gindol. Yurlo patronized young Tiam with a flourishing bow. Though I'm not sure your dignity will be served hiding in my closet. The Tarchy will be waiting at the bar.

Yurlo left the way he came, leaving the door open.

Beyond the entry to Tiam's hideaway, the Rock surged with life. So loud, the wooden beams vibrated with each slurred word shouted over the other.

Ugh. Tiam groaned, trying to quell the grip of anxiety clutching his throat. It was enough to endure the masochistic self-loathing. Any further patristic chidings, however, would prove unbearable. Irritated, the young clerk snatched up his coat and quit his haven.

Tiam peeked outside the stall, careful not to attract attention. Pushing his hair back, he took a deep breath. The Rock was packed to capacity. An uncharacteristically busy night for midweek. Tiam scanned the floor for an inconspicuous path to the bar, but no such passage existed. Mustering his courage, Tiam pulled his collar high to obscure his face and ventured into the all too familiar.

Behind the bar, Yurlo worked wonders, pouring and slinging pints of frothing ale. However, attempting to flag the acrobatic proprietor proved an exercise in futility.

Tiam, after great effort, managed to duck and slide his way to the bar rail. Then easing his elbow to the weathered wood, he staked his claim.

A quick survey of the crowded group revealed no patron more than a fleeting acquaintance, much to Tiam's relief.

Present were the regulars guarding their eternal posts, quietly slumped over pints of ever-draining ale. The off-duty soldiers huddled together backs to the rest, commiserating over the dull details of this and that. Up from the camps, laborers traded stories with the skilled tradesmen of Ganamtown. Between them all, tarts from Oluna's Playhouse slithered in search of the love-starved bedecked in jewels, baubles, and little else.

Oluna's hens represented yet another egregious injustice that often drove Tiam to madness. Ganam had purposely segregated those working on the Project and those left outside to preserve the clandestine mission. In ten years, the two sides had never mingled once. Only the Playhouse hens were allowed to cross between the two encampments. Supposedly, Ganam deemed the motive one of therapeutic purpose.

Once or twice, Tiam had nearly succumbed to their lilting propositions. If only to glean a shadow of the clandestine mission. But in the end, Tiam could never lower himself to paid lechery. Not even to feed his insatiable curiosity.

For sure, all Ganamtown appeared in attendance this evening. All save the diggers, that was. For that, Tiam felt grateful. The thought of having to explain over and over why this promotion to assistant secretary was unwelcome would have proved an exhausting exercise.

The diggers had been dispatched to the hills west of Ganamtown, toiling the earth for precious stones. An assignment Tiam would have gladly taken for less pay or demotion. Anything to escape the never-ending accounting of receipts and orders. A geologic expedition, precious mineral extraction suited Tiam far better after all. He had only studied the matter his entire life. But apparently, such a proposal made too much sense to take action on.

Tiam flinched as a sudden roar rose up through the Rock. Tiam strained to see, but the throng of grungy patrons crowding around obstructed his view. Then an enchanting melody arose from the strings of a guitar. Whistles, hoots, and applause welcomed Jogun Windsong, the bard.

Rolling his eyes, Tiam groaned miserably. The ongoing feud between Windsong and Tiam had become an anticipated spectacle in Ganamtown. A comedic distraction to the monotony of life. The two quick-witted men would trade sharp barbs over belief, religion, legend, politics, science, and the likes. It never failed to devolve into insults and vulgarity to the enjoyment of all in attendance. Though Tiam thoroughly enjoyed the war of wits, if anyone understood Tiam's pain, it was Windsong. No doubt, the bard would be sure to exploit that vulnerability with the lethality of an assassin. Best to lay low. Still, the bard's voice frayed the nerves.

Great, Tiam mumbled out loud, as if things couldn't get any worse. So now I get to listen to this moron spout seditious anti-Ultimarchy horseshit? Yurlo, how about it! Tiam slammed the bar, summoning the proprietor's attention. A bottle of Old Tarchy slid into Tiam's open hand at last.

About time, the ornery lad griped. Pulling the cork with his teeth, Tiam spat it onto the floor and took a long, satisfying pull. He savored the spicy flavor, swishing the alcohol within his mouth before swallowing it down. Tiam's enjoyment of the fiery finish was interrupted rudely as a meaty hand clamped down on his shoulder. The burning beverage sprayed from his nose.

I thought that was you! so declared a familiar raspy voice.

Startled, surprised, and instantly mortified, Tiam's heart dropped into his stomach.

Edimus Tyr, Ed for short, the eternal beacon of positive energy. And longtime digger.

Blowing his nose into a kerchief, Tiam attempted to clear the burning spirit from his sinus. What the hell are you doing here? You boys are supposed to be out west, aren't you?

Smiling wide, Ed had weathered lines spread from the corners of his eyes to his hairline.

We were. Now we are back. Ganam recalled us a few days ago.

Great.

Ed turned his attention to Yurlo and let out a shrill whistle. Four house ales. Tall ones. Tiam? What are you having?

Tiam pointed at the whiskey he'd blown out all over the bar top.

Fargin hell, man. Tarchy? It's way too early for that.

Shrugging indifferently, Tiam gave the bottle another try. Any of the others in the Rock? he inquired, hoping for a different answer than he'd likely receive.

Oh yeah. The whole crew is here. There is a serious game of Amon's Claim going on over there too.

Indigestion forced bile into Tiam's throat. Not ideal. There would be no hiding now. Before Ed had a chance to make personal inquiries, Tiam made one of his own. So did you clean out the dig?

Pretty close. Not a ton to show for it. A couple decent beryl deposits, but that's about it.

Blues, greens, reds? Tiam pushed to keep the attention away from himself.

Aquas. Not much gemmy stuff, though. Mostly rough.

Hmm. The secretary, the chief clerk, would find the news troubling. The digger's deployment had been intended to find sellable minerals to offset the mounting debts the company had incurred. The Project's exorbitant cost had been propped up by the Ultimarchy since breaking ground. Purportedly, the Project had since come close to bankrupting the Ultimarchy. Funding had consequently slowed. Enough talk about work. How are you? Ed ribbed Tiam. Where have you been hiding all night?

Loath to admit he had hidden away in a closet for the past two hours, Tiam proffered, I have been right here. My office, away from the office.

And you didn't come to see us? I'm hurt, kid. Really hurt, Ed said without abandoning his broad grin. Even when offended, he couldn't leave a sense of cheer.

Yeah, well. I don't know what to tell you.

Man, what's with you?

Tiam drummed his fingers on the bar nervously. There was no way around any of this. It would be known before long anyhow, if not already. Best to get it over with. You didn't hear?

Been breaking the Rock for four straight months, Tiam. So what the hell do I know about the comings and goings of you fancy clerk types?

Not a clerk anymore, Ed. Assistant secretary, Tiam mumbled.

Assistant secretary? You got promoted? He shook the lad by the shoulders. That is fantastic news. We got to go tell the boys.

No, no, no. Please, Tiam pleaded.

Mr. Tyr, four tall ones. Yurlo set down four vessels foaming with ale. At the sight of the beverage, Ed's smile just about split his face. He dumped loose change on the bar and snatched up one of the pints.

Tiam winced as Ed blew off the frothy head all over his coat. The friendly digger nodded with glad approval, sizing up the newly made professional. Then after several deep gulps, he let out a resonant belch. Jabbing Tiam in the chest again, Ed declared, You finally made it.

Tiam brushed his coat with nothing to say.

You are disappointed? You have to be shitting me. You have been looking for this promotion the entire time I have known you?

Tiam bristled, Assistant to that fat wormy lard, the secretary? Oh yes, Ed. What an honor. I am elated. Precisely what I have always wanted.

Holding his hand to Ed's face, Tiam wiggled his ring finger. Upon it adorned a simple band of silver etched in golden letters. Do you see this? I earned it. Top of my class. Besides the order of wielders, Jeyson Ganam, and the Ultimarch himself, it is the highest privilege of knowledge in the world.

Ed laughed heartily over Tiam's melodrama. After finally composing himself, Ed rested his hand on Tiam's shoulder. And House Tyr, before the first Ondaron claimed the throne of the world, was a royal dynasty. Now look what has become of our noble line. Ed held up rough hands. Gnarled, bandaged, battered, and ringless. House Tyr breaks rocks, Tiam.

Ed offered a tall ale, Sure you don't want one?

Tiam refused the beverage and resigned his fruitless argument with a wave.

You know rings of privilege don't mean shit here. I've told you that before. Need to earn your keep. It's the way of things.

Yah yah. Just explain this to me. How am I supposed to do that with my nose in the numbers all day long? I swear I will go blind before I ever sniff a chance at the prospector's office. You know I actually asked to join you boys in the hills? I'm a fargin' geologist, a seracrystologist, for crying out loud. Not a damned accountant. But no. A toady to a toady is all I am. I'll never see the Project now. Tiam pouted.

Farg it, man. Work is overrated. The best part of any day is the end. Who cares.

The bartender had already replenished Ed with two more fresh ones. Ah, Yurlo, you really are the best beer monger the company has ever had. Ed took hold of one of Madame Oluna's hens as she sauntered near. Reflexively, she ran her hand into his exposed chest hair.

Be a doll and bring these to my friends, will you? Ed handed her three of the four pints.

What's in it for me, Smiley?

He whispered something perverse into her ear, and she bit his neck playfully before swaying away with the precious beverage. Winking at Tiam, Ed suggested, You know what you need?

No, I certainly do not need the rot. I have better things to spend my money on.

Shit, Tiam. When are you going to start living and stop being so damn serious all the time? In fact. Yup. That's it. You are coming with me.

Tiam futilely resisted. Ed locked his arm around Tiam's neck and coerced him through the crowd.

Ed led Tiam to a table on the far side of the Rock crowded by a swarthy band he knew all too well. Oh, come on.

Hey, boys. Look what I found, Ed announced joyfully.

A broad-shouldered, potbellied, and bleary-eyed fellow stood nearby. The burly man racked his brain to recognize the young man standing before him.

Bogrus Mac. Captain of Ganam's first battalion. He went all the way back to the company's founding. Before that even. Bogrus Mac served with Ganam under the infamous Commander Bronzewing during the Terrible War. A legend. And at the moment, completely smashed.

Though Tiam was grateful for the big man's incoherent state, Tiam figured he'd help him along, Hello, Bog. It's me, Tiam. Good to see you well?

Tiam? Tiam! Hello, my boy. Bogrus nearly cleared Tiam from his feet with a mighty swat.

How the hell are you, you little grunt?

He is frustrated at the moment, Ed unwelcomely advocated.

Tiam raised his finger, bidding Ed to say nothing more.

I'm just fine, Bog, he lied.

Well, that is good to hear. Come on. We got something going here. Bog winked. Pulling an unfamiliar digger from a nearby chair, Bog offered Tiam the freshly vacated seat.

Ah, not tonight, Bog, Tiam protested, but the digger forcefully seated the young man.

A hill of marchys was piled high in the center of the round table.

Rough men of the Digger Company took the measure of the new contestant. Ed stole the last empty chair and passed out the ale he had requisitioned. Most of the swarthy fellows, Tiam did not recognize. A couple, however, he knew immediately.

Rizgur, a man of few words, mumbled a greeting to Tiam through his impressive mustache. The red tusks tattooed on Krigdun's face curled around a sly grin. How goes it, man?

It goes, Krigs. Tiam suppressed the urge to smile. The barbarian from the Folkeen was up to no good as usual. He declared the game while walking a coin across his knuckles. Tiam had to admit that the presence of these miscreants had been sorely missed. What's the game?

Amon's claim. My friend here, he casually regarded a grubby-looking digger with gold piercings on the bridge of his nose. Has had quite the run going. Damn near hit the claim. How many times now?

Farg off, you Folkeen fairy. Let's get on with it. I'm taking it down this time.

Potato, a Greenboy, that is to say, an unproven recruit, oafishly chuckled. You had better, or you are going to be out a month's worth of pay.

The golden-pierced thug made mocking grunts, aping Potato rather accurately. Put your money in, moron. I'm taking it all this time.

Nodding, Tiam took the measure of this swarthy fellow. The overconfident idiot had fallen for the oldest hustle in history. Extending his hand, Tiam introduced himself, Tiamoc Gindol. But the rude ruffian withheld his own.

Some ring you have there, fancy boy. You special? Some wielder or something? He laughed alone.

Ed pulled down Tiam's hand and again spoke out of turn. That, Greenboy, is Tiamoc Gindol, the assistant secretary of the Ganam Company. But more importantly, he cuts our fargin' paychecks. So have a bit of class.

Tiam cringed. There would be no getting it back in the bottle now.

Bog's meaty paws crashed down on Tiam's shoulders. Fargin' right, kid, you got promoted? That's my boy. Let's get a round. Potato—he smacked the Greenboy on the back of the head—go get it. The subordinate did as bid, rubbing his lumpy head.

Tremendous Tiam. When did that all come about?

Tiam shot a look at Ed as if to say thanks a lot. Ed shrugged, smiling.

Good for this flower sniffer. Can we get on with this shit? Folkeen pig sticker, give me the fargin' bones.

Who wants in on the action? Krigs announced, Tiam?

Tiam watched Krigdun's hand for the sign. The tattooed digger tapped his thumb on the wood, confirming the hustle.

Sticking it to this disrespectful imbecile proved impossible to resist. Tiam stacked up twenty shiny marchys.

Ohh. Big roller, ay? the greenboy slurred.

Sometimes, Beenhad, Tiam chirped.

Beenhad? Who's that? I'm not Beenhad, the idiot said with a blank look.

The others at the table tried to disguise their mirth.

As quick-witted as ever, Tiam quipped, What you mean to say is, I've not been had.

Riz broke his silence with a deep rumbling laugh. Tiam is funny, number one. Good name.

Huh? the Greenboy retorted, What's so fargin' funny?

Easy, lad, Ed assured the evening's mark. I'm sure you will figure it out soon enough.

The table roared on Ed's well-timed joke.

Shouting over the laughter, the abashed poor unknowing bastard demanded the dice.

The object was simple. In this instance, the claim holder would have the opportunity to roll six dice ten times until he collected all fives. If successful, the mountain of silver was his. Each turn, the others would place bets on the unclaimed numbers. This would reduce or enhance the pot accordingly.

Opening round. Place your bets, Krigs called out. The players stacked marchys over numbers carved into the table. Bog, Ed, Riz, and Tiam placed a silver on every unclaimed number. The take. A risky bet where if four of any kind showed, they would steal the pot. Failure to produce four of a kind would forfeit their stake in the claim. In most cases, it was a stupid bet. Most.

That's right. Keep feeding my claim, you fargin shit fargs. Beenhad laughed hysterically. Casting the dice, he turned up two fives. Groans went up from those not privy to the gambit. Tiam's five silvers were swept into the claim with the rest, much to the joy of the golden-pierced digger.

Second round, Krigdun announced. He stroked one of his many long-corded braids with a straight face. The sleight of hand was remarkable as he pulled out four weighted dice. Stumbling into Beenhad's lap, a plump-bottomed hen from the Playhouse. His eyes lit like a candle. Squeezing her backside, he kissed her neck roughly. She played along but not before firing a disgusted look toward Krigs. Then taking advantage of the well-planned diversion, Krigdun deftly changed the dice.

All right, all right, are we going to roll or what? Bog pulled her off the overly randy digger. She kissed his cheek in gratitude before sauntering away.

Rolling his finger, Krigs made the signal to make the take. All right, all right. Gentlemen. Your bet, please.

The side bets were placed down.

Riz? Krigs inquired.

Nah, the sparse-worded digger refused, pushing away from the table.

Bog placed an inconspicuous two marchy bet on three. All I got. What about you, kid?

Bog, I think you are on to something. Tiam played along, placing four on three.

Ed? Last chance? Krigs asked innocently.

Faking trepidation, Ed counted his last six coins. Farg it. I'm in. The smiling digger placed down five marchys for the steal. He flipped the last coin into the pot with a flourish. Your roll, Greenboy.

Beenhad snatched up the dice, breathing his fetid breath on the bones for luck. Five! Come on, five!

The dice rolled across the table. Two. Two. Two.

Whoa! The spectators cheered in shock as the fourth die came to a rest. Two.

Four twins. We have a winner. Ed makes the take, Krigs called out.

With a shit-eating grin, Ed shoveled the mountain of silver unto himself.

You fargin' cheat!

The pressure in the Rock dropped.

You cheating fargin' bastard!

Up went the table, down rained the silver. Lunging forward, the Greenboy cocked his fist back to assault Edimus Tyr. Rizgur shouldered his comrade aside, deflected the fool's wild punch, and answered in kind with a mallet-sized fist to the face. Mayhem ensued. Jogun Windsong helped matters little and ripped into a speedy reel, kicking off a full-on bar brawl. All exploded into fists and flying bodies.

Tiam, not one for the pugilistic arts, slipped under wild haymakers, seeking haven from the spreading violence. Hurdling the bar, he managed to separate himself from the anarchy.

Yurlo ran past, screaming and waving his hands as if he were on fire. Tiam spotted the bottle of Tarchy he had purchased. Ambling casually, he inspected the glass wear for a clean vessel. Satisfied, he poured a tall one. Resting both elbows on the bar, Tiam sighed in amusement. Best seat in the house.

Laborers, soldiers, tradesmen, and diggers pounded one another bloody while Oluna's hens cheered their favorite tricks. One gnarly digger leaped from the second-floor balcony, dropping an elbow on an unsuspecting tradesman. Another swung from a candelabra to drop-kick another digger who had mounted a table. One mad laborer stood atop a wine rack flinging poorly aimed bottles with no digression for whom he hit.

Grinning maniacally, Bog mauled anyone crazy enough to step near. Krigdun pounded on another digger while Riz wrestled two Blues simultaneously.

In the center of it all, Ed and the scrubby Greenboy Tiam named Beenhad traded savage blows. A stiff jab followed by a rib-cracking body shot finally bested the digger recruit. Beenhad went down under the roiling mass.

Then as quickly as it started, it stopped. The mob, frozen mid-punch, went silent as two towering figures entered the Rock. On the left, a boulder of a man Tiam did not recognize looked on with suppressed amusement in his eyes. He wore the trappings of a laborer, though he appeared far from ordinary. Golden beads bedecked his beard and the strip of hair atop his head.

The other was a colossus of muscle caped in white. His perfectly manicured goatee framed a disgusted snarl. Famed Druun, security master of the Ganam Company, Mertux the Weapon—a spectacle unto himself. Standing eight feet tall, he dwarfed his massive companion by nearly two feet.

Mertux took in the destruction before him and spat upon the floor.

Speaking in a deep, resonant voice, he barked, Are we all through here?

Nobody answered for fear of the behemoth's wrath.

The Greenboy, still heated, bleeding from both nostrils, pushed his way to the front of the press. Pointing at an unscathed Ed, Beenhad accused the veteran digger. This bastard cheated!

Mertux unblinkingly appraised the Greenboy.

The unknown block-shaped individual proffered a perfect response.

Cheated? So? Fargin' Greenboys, ay fellas?

Nervous laughter rippled through the room.

What the farg are you doing up here anyhow, boy? You and yours had specific orders. How many more of you shitheads are up here?

A dozen gold-studded diggers stepped forward, staring at the floor like chided children. Watching Beenhad, Tiam noted all the signs of bad decision-making. The feeble-minded brute shifted side to side, fists balled in rage.

Get over here, you dumb shit, commanded the girthy fellow, who clearly held some authority over these ruffians.

Muttering a string of unintelligible curses, Beenhad had lost his reason. Cocking his fist back, he took another run at Ed.

Mertux did not hesitate. Whipping his cape back, the giant took two steps and effortlessly sent the digger sailing. Beenhad crashed through one of the tables nearly ten feet from where one of his boots still stood on the ground.

Resting, hands on his hips, Mertux boomed, Any more of you want to have a go?

The only response to the rhetorical question was a mouse scampering across the floor.

All right then, Mertux nodded, satisfied. Drag this scum out. The rest of you. Ten seconds.

Patrons ran for doors and windows. Any exit would suffice to escape the Weapon's justice.

Mertux's unknown companion and a couple of his shamed compatriots addressed the laid-out Beenhad.

The Rock cleared as compelled. Some lingered, however, namely, the four architects of the evening's melee.

Bogrus spotted Tiam first. My boy! The bear charged over, reached across the bar, and dragged Tiam clear over without the slightest effort. Then pulling Tiam into a crushing hug, Bog growled affectionately, When the hell did you get here?

Easy there, big man, Ed rescued the suffocating lad. You saw him less than half an hour ago. Let go. You are going to smother the poor shit.

I did? Are you taking a piss?

Tiam chuckled between gasps for air. My goodness, how much…have you…drank, Bog?

All of it, I think. He set Tiam down with a hearty belly laugh.

Tiam looked at each of the diggers. Friends. Friends who never failed to rob him of his well-deserved misery. They always treated him as if he were one of their own for whatever reason. It is actually terrific to see you, fellas. I have had better days.

Krigs tossed Tiam a small leather pouch.

What's this?

That ought to help. It's your cut. Bog, here's yours. Riz. Ed—

Tiam weighed the heft. Not bad, though the look on Beenhad's face the moment Ed made the take might have been priceless.

The others chuckled. Riz offered the rare smile. Beenhad. Must tell Gam. Good name, maybe.

Are you proud of yourselves? a rumbling voice interrupted the cheerful exchange. Mertux stood tall, looming over the group.

Eh. Done better, snickered Bogrus, the only man alive bold enough to sass a Druun Weapon.

Rolling his eyes, Mertux remarked flatly, Ganam is not going to be pleased that you all managed to upend the Rock again.

Ganam needs to take the stick out of his ass, Bog slurred.

Unamused, Mertux said nothing.

Bogrus drunk, number one. Riz offered an excuse for his captain.

The giant grunted, I can see that. But listen. I don't need anyone carrying on outside. Those damned Golden Mountain bastards are nothing but trouble already. Best you take the back door.

Yah, yah. Bogrus waved him off. We are going.

Bog, my patience is wearing thin. It's been a long day. Seriously. Push off, boys. Not going to ask again. Mertux turned heel and exited the Rock without another word.

Exhaling in relief, Tiam found he had held his breath through the entire exchange.

Farg me, that is one intimidating man.

Staggering slightly, Bog gripped the bar to steady himself. "The big man? He's a puppy dog. Well, boys. This