It was the next day that we came across SwornBorn Dwarves; and it wasn’t the faction we would have hoped to meet.
We had slept well on the porch of the kobold mansion-stronghold, once it had quieted down enough, which was later than we might have hoped for. In the morning, once we were all awake – it was always Freydis getting up first, followed by me, and then the two of us making some mild noise to rouse Caiside – the young jump-roping kobold who had talked to Freydis came out of the interior of the place. She was carrying – astoundingly – a plate of food.
It was just some pale yellow biscuits, but we were amazed at the hospitality.
“Miss Eunice said to bring these to you. She says she doesn’t know if you will like them. We call them tack.”
We each took one and tried them. They were very hard, nearly impossible to eat. We did our best. They struck me like something I might have baked – for a long time – at home to feed to Marley.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I believe I’ll put the rest in my bag to take along.”
“Of course. They’re made for kobold jaws, really.” She laughed, and turned.
As we were about to leave, Eunice herself actually came out to bid us farewell before we dropped down the steps. She was the same one who had addressed us after their song the day before, of course.
“You can stay here again when you return,” she said. “And we won’t wave all the sfears at you, if you do.”
She still kept a very stern face as she spoke.
*
We continued north along the ancient path. The walking was pleasant, for now, but it would not be too much farther before we entered the Drearwold. The pine-needle-carpeted easy inclines would give way to a dense, dark maze of shadows and twisted trees. There would still be climbing, but it would be presented by ranges of hillocks which were steep on their sides and muddy in their troughs. I had never entered it, but had heard stories from the few Kanindalers who had dared.
Miranda’s father, Arran Waters, was one who had been there.
“Imagine being a field mouse in a plowed plot,” he had said. “And you want to cross it against the grain. Up and down, up and down, over rows just higher than you. That’s the Drearwold. And it’s all dark, all close in upon you. The air is still, and unfriendly. And there are unfriendly creatures there, as well. Am I making it sound drear enough? It truly is.
“But you need to cross it head into the farther north. To the west, you have the slopes of the Gray Mount region, which are nearly impassable from that direction. To the east, the rushing Rupestrine, too wide and violent to cross. So up through the Wold you go, until you can cross the river closer to its headwaters.”
So for the moment, I enjoyed breathing the pine air. I could only imagine how hard the broken Drearwold would be for Caiside to negotiate, but we would cross that . . . riven land when we came to it.
*
Hours later we had stopped to sit and eat lunch when suddenly, from twelve directions at once, a dozen Dwarves came charging at us through the woods. They had seen us, somehow, and distributed themselves to encircle us, without us seeing or hearing them. They then ran toward us, shouting and brandishing their axes.
“Here we go,” Freydis said, continuing to eat as they closed in.
“Avast, Kanindalers!” their leader yelled. “You are trapped! We saw you, and we distributed ourselves to encircle you without you seeing or hearing us, and now we have run toward you!”
“We are trapped,” I said. “Are you Vigbond Thighbreaker?”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“I am Vigbond Thighbreaker!” the same one said. He was wearing the largest helmet of any of them, and also carrying the largest axe. It seemed like it must have been heavy, even for him with his arms thicker than my thighs; it was obviously a token of leadership more so than an actual useful weapon.
He was young. His beard had not grown quite so far up his face as typical with the older ones. He also ran quite fast and just looked more flexible and potentially twisty than the average Dwarf.
I stood up, putting one hand on the handle of the small shovel that I had brought – which I had plunged into the ground before sitting down – to push myself up. Freydis and Caiside rose with me.
“I have heard of you,” I said to him. “We are indeed from Enkel Kanindal. Well, my cousin Freydis and I. This is our fellow peregrine, Caiside.”
“You are on SwornBorn land!” he said. “None shall pass here without our leave!”
“We’re not taking anything. We’re just walking through.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“And I thought we were beyond the SwornBorn lands anyway. We’re too far east at this point, are we not?”
“We are claiming more territory for Gray Mount!” he said.
The other Dwarves drew closer to him, and they all started singing:
We are new voices in Gray Mount!
We’re not satisfied with our old-timers’ ways!
Thorfin thinks he rules us, but now no one fools us,
We’re not gonna wallow in a Dwarven malaise!
Vigbond’s here to lead the strongest!
We can hold the high notes longest!
SwornBorn!
SwornBorn!
We’ve got a new song fest!
We’re SwornBorn and we’re moving our borders!
Scootching them way farther out into the pines!
We are history makers, and we need more acres
To feed more of our yaks and also dig more mines!
Vigbond’s here to lead the warbands!
Hunting cave bears with his bare hands!
SwornBorn!
SwornBorn!
Staking out the new lands!
We’re not going to soak in nostalgia!
Spending all our barbecues rehashing the past!
Dwelling on the ancients! We are losing patience
for songs about achievements in the age before last!
We are going to live our own tales!
Epic! Uphill! Through the storm gales!
SwornBorn!
SwornBorn!
Tougher than your steel nails!
“Don’t they sound impeccable?” a Dwarf behind us asked.
I had thought they had all gathered around Vigbond, but it turned out that one had been just watching them, from behind us; and it was an older Dwarf.
“Wutherby,” I said. “We meet again. You’re out with this young train?”
“They invited me,” he said. “I’m always glad to hike. Nice little shovel you’ve got there, by the way. Very useful.”
ALERT: Fourth wall violation coming up; avoid if you prefer
Let’s talk about the Drearwold . . .
I do try to ensure that terms I’m using don’t appear in other fantasy works. Drearwold seemed like a good name for an expanse of dark forest, and I don’t think it’s being used as such in any other works.
Digression one: Regarding “SwornBorn” itself, for example, I’m not aware of this title being used elsewhere. Now, this convention of making “Sworn” or “Born” into part of a new compound word, and then using that for a title – that, of course, is very common. Bloodborne, Oathsworn, et cetera. But not SwornBorn . . . which is not much a surprise, really, since it’s an odd joining, and I intend it as a bit of a humorous title for this comic (or dare I say – cozy?) novel.
Digression two: Why does Drearwold strike me as a good term for the . . . Drearwold? Well, “drear” is obvious, and “wold” can mean woodland, of course.
Or maybe not! “Wold” turns out to be a contronym, i.e. having two meanings which are the opposite – hello “sanction” – because it can mean “an unforested or deforested plain,” but also “a forest, especially a wooded upland.” The Online Etymology Dictionary states that “the sense development from “forested upland” to “rolling open country; down” (c. 1200) perhaps is from Scandinavian influence, or reflects deforestation in England . . .”
I also like the fact that “wold” sounds like an old word, and European; there are many wolds in place names in the UK, and in northwestern Germany and the eastern Netherlands we have the Woldsee and Oostwold, respectively.
Now then, my search for “Drearwold”: a search for the term turned up just one example, and not as one word:
And tenderly his arms
Those boyish forms enfold;
As if, o'er life's drear wold,
He'd shield from rude alarms.
This is from a poem called Beecher, The Last Time in Plymouth Church, by Elizabeth MacLeod, about Henry Ward Beecher, the Nineteenth Century New York abolitionist. “Wold” here is a poetic word to refer to life’s friction . . . and it very usefully rhymes with “enfold” – useful because MacLeod’s going to need a lot of rhymes, having committed herself to one every six syllables.
