Firstborn by Paul B. Thompson

Author:Paul B. Thompson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Elven Nations Volume One, Speculative Fiction
ISBN: 9780786933679
Publisher: TSR
Published: 1991-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

15

THREE MOONS’ DAY, YEAR OF THE HAWK

THE AMBASSADOR FROM THORBARDIN ARRIVED IN SILVANOST ON Three-Moons’ Day, midway between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice. The dwarf’s name was Dunbarth, but he was called Ironthumb by most who knew him. In his youth he had been a champion wrestler. Now, in old age, he was esteemed as the most level-headed of all the counselors to the king of Thorbardin.

Dunbarth traveled with a small entourage: his secretary, four scribes, four dispatch riders, a crate of carrier pigeons, and sixteen warrior dwarves as his personal guard. The ambassador rode in a tall, closed coach made entirely of metal. Even though the brass, iron, and bronze panels were hammered quite thin, with all the skill characteristic of the dwarven race, the coach was still enormously heavy. A team of eight horses drew the conveyance, which held not only Dunbarth, but his staff. The warrior escort rode sturdy, short-legged horses, not swift but blessed with phenomenal endurance. The dwarven party was met on the western bank of the Thon-Thalas by Sithas and an honor guard of twelve warriors.

“Good morrow to you, Lord Dunbarth!” Sithas said heartily. The ambassador stood on one of the steps hanging below the coach door. From there he was high enough to clasp arms with Sithas without the embarrassment of making the far taller elf bend over.

“Life and health to you, speaker’s son,” Dunbarth rumbled. His leggings and tunic were brown cloth and leather, but he sported a short purple cape and broad-brimmed light brown hat. A short feather plumed out from his hatband and matched in color the wide, bright blue belt at his waist. His attire offered a striking contrast to the elegant simplicity of Sithas’s robe and sandals.

The prince smiled. “We have arranged ferries for your company.” With a sweep of his hand he indicated the two large barges moored at the river’s edge.

“Will you ride with me, son of Sithel?” asked Dunbarth importantly.

“I would be honored.”

The dwarf climbed back into his coach, then Sithas grasped the handrail and stepped up into the metal wagon. The top was high enough for him to stand erect in. Nevertheless, Dunbarth ordered his secretary, a swarthy young dwarf, to surrender his seat to Sithas. The elf prince sat. The escort filed in behind the coach, pennants whipping from the tips of their gilded pikes.

“A remarkable thing, this coach,” Sithas said politely. “Is it made entirely of metal?”

“Indeed, noble prince. Not one speck of wood or cloth in the whole contraption!”

Sithas felt the silver curtains that hung in front of the side windows. The dwarves had woven them of metal so fine it felt like cloth.

“Why build it so?” he asked. “Wouldn’t wood be lighter?”

Dunbarth folded his hands across his broad, round belly. “It would indeed, but this is an official coach for Thorbardin ambassadors traveling abroad, so it was made to show off the skills of my people in metal-working,” he replied proudly.

With much shouting and cracking of whips, the ponderous coach rolled onto a barge.

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