Dwarves, a race of miners, brewers, and warriors. Masters of the forge who, in their mountain strongholds, hammer out weapons day after day. Underground cities where the only sounds are the ringing of anvils, the clatter of beer steins, or the battle cries of the dwarf militia. They are divided into all sorts of clans, houses, and families. Clans ruled by individual lords, houses by patrons, and families by elders.
At least, that was how it was until the great economic collapse six centuries ago. This economic turmoil severely affected the prices of ores, dwarf craftsmanship, and pretty much everything else. This caused significant changes among the dwarves; there was no longer such a demand for their swords, armor, or machines, so the throngs of underground folk needed to find a new occupation. And what job is best suited for stubborn, obtuse, and uncouth beings? Administration.
And so, the dwarves, who for centuries had dug, hammered, and fought, discovered their true calling was... paperwork. Their natural stubbornness, which made them excellent warriors and craftsmen, proved indispensable for stubbornly adhering to regulations, and their propensity for drinking beer was perfectly suited for enduring sleepless nights spent rewriting reports in triplicate.
Their underground fortresses, once echoing with the sounds of battle and forges, were now filled with the thud of stamps, the squeak of quills, and the endless muttering of officials sifting through tons of parchment. "Permit for carrying edged weapons in the city zone, form 7-B, subsection delta, appendix number three... No, no, citizen, this watermark is unclear, please return in a week." Dwarven bureaucracy became legendary, or rather infamous, throughout the known world. It was slow, inflexible, and absolutely terrifying in its effectiveness at paralyzing any undertaking. And it was into this very machine that our heroes would soon have to venture.
Meanwhile, Grumgh and Tamira trudged through the thick, humid forest separating Larnwick Stream from the main roads leading to Landon's Nook. Their journey was neither fast nor pleasant.
Grumgh's plan of "reducing food costs through foraging" proved rather miserable in practice. The orc, though he could recite the botanical names of dozens of plants from memory, couldn't tell edible berries from those that caused "temporary, yet intense, gastrointestinal dysfunction." After a brief episode that would remain forever etched in their memory, Tamira firmly forbade him from gathering anything that wasn't plain grass.
Grumgh led the way, pushing aside dense undergrowth with his massive arms. His velvet jacket was now torn and stained with plant sap, and his wire-frame spectacles kept snagging on branches, forcing him to stop frequently to adjust them with the dignity of an offended professor.
"According to my calculations," he announced, stopping suddenly, "we should have already passed the hill the locals call the 'Sleeping Giant'. Its absence suggests that either our marching pace is 17.3% slower than anticipated, or my mental map of this region, based on Voloth's 'Imperial Geography', contains an error."
Tamira, barely breathing a few steps behind him, leaned on her knees. Her lute in its case felt like a sack of stones on her back.
"Your map can contain whatever error you want," she panted, "but I'm burdened with hunger. Those eighteen percent odds of fatal poisoning you mentioned, I can feel them in my guts, and it's not a pleasant sensation."
"That's merely psychosomatic," stated Grumgh. "The body reacts with fear to the unknown. I recommend meditation."
Instead of answering, Tamira only let out a muffled groan. Her dream of an artistic career in the big city had faded, replaced by an urgent need to eat anything that didn't resemble wet moss.
Suddenly, Grumgh raised a hand in a gesture that looked surprisingly competent.
"Quiet. I hear it."
Tamira froze, listening. Her elven ears, though not perfect, were still sharper than a human's. After a moment, she heard it too. It came from beyond the nearest trees: muffled growls, the clink of metal, and... loud, impatient stomping.
"Those aren't wild animals," she whispered.
"A accurate deduction," whispered Grumgh. "The frequency and intonation of the sounds suggest sentient beings, most likely in a state of severe agitation. The probability that they are bandits is 64.2%."
"And the probability that they have food?" asked Tamira, hope in her voice.
"Statistically, bandits often possess food supplies," Grumgh conceded. "Though acquiring them involves high risk."
"We've already taken risks," muttered Tamira.
They crawled through a thick bush and peered into a small clearing. The sight that met them was not typical of bandits.
In the middle of the clearing stood a wagon. Not just any wagon, but a solid dwarven construct, with iron fittings and mighty wheels. It was immobilized, its rear wheel sunk hub-deep in mud. Around it bustled four short, broad figures. Dwarves. Their long, well-groomed beards were bristling with fury. Two of them were trying to pry up the wagon with a large lever, a third, standing guard with a spear, was poking at the mud, while the fourth, issuing loud grumbles from behind his mustache, was stomping his feet and waving a scroll of parchment.
"...and paragraph 3, subsection G, clearly states that the maximum permissible load for this wagon model on a dirt track is ONE THOUSAND KILOS!" roared the dwarf with the parchment, slamming it against the side of the wagon. "And it weighs at least eleven hundred! This is ARBITRARINESS! A VIOLATION OF REGULATIONS! The consignment note was filled out IMPROPERLY! Where is appendix B? WHERE IS APPENDIX B?!"
One of the dwarves at the lever, red-faced with effort, shouted back without turning his head:
"Shut up already, Bofur! And put your back into it instead of yelling your stupid paragraphs! If we don't get this old crate out of the mud, no appendix will help us!"
"These are not 'stupid paragraphs'!" shrieked Bofur. "This is the LAW! And the law is like rock! Hard and inflexible! And it says this wagon is overloaded! We must immediately remove 10% of the cargo and file a supplementary form F-12 at the nearest district office! Otherwise, we face sanctions!"
The third dwarf, the one with the spear, cleared his throat uncertainly.
"Appendix B..." he began, then trailed off under Bofur's icy glare.
"Speak, Fundin!" snarled the official, crushing his companion with a look.
"Appendix B... was submitted for verification last week at the customs office in Garagz. It's awaiting a stamp. The estimated processing time is... fourteen working days."
"FOURTEEN DAYS?!" roared Bofur, his mustache seeming to bristle. "And you, you fool, are transporting goods without a valid appendix B? This isn't overloading, this is PROCEDURAL SUICIDE! We'll all go to the dungeon for complicity in a crime against the Imperial Transport Code!"
At that moment, the lever, which two dwarves had been straining against with all their might, suddenly snapped with a loud crack. Both dwarves tumbled to the ground, landing with a splash in the mud. The wagon only sank deeper into the mire.
"Well, that's that," muttered one of the prone figures, spitting out mud.
Bofur let out a sound that was a mixture of fury and absolute despair. He began tearing at his beard.
"Catastrophe! A disgrace! They'll revoke my transport license! My children will be ashamed to bear my name!"
Grumgh and Tamira exchanged looks. These weren't typical bandits. These were... bureaucrats. And they were in serious trouble.
"Can we... try to help them?" Tamira whispered uncertainly. "They have a wagon. And probably food."
"Assisting individuals in crisis is ethically justified," stated Grumgh, his brain already analyzing the problem. "Especially if there is a possibility of mutual benefit. The wagon's physical parameters suggest that extracting it requires a pulling force exceeding the capabilities of four dwarves of average muscular build. My physical contribution could be a significant factor."
"So you're saying you're big and strong, and they're small and weak?" summarized Tamira.
"In a vast oversimplification... yes."
Not waiting for further discussion, Tamira stepped out of hiding.
"Hey!" she croaked, standing up and brushing field dust from her trousers. "Do you need... help?"
Four pairs of dwarven eyes turned toward her. The looks were a mixture of astonishment, irritation, and deep disbelief. The sight of a frightened half-elf and a huge orc in a torn velvet jacket wasn't what they expected in the middle of the forest.
Bofur was the first to shake off the shock. His bureaucratic instinct took over.
"Who are you? Do you possess a valid permit for passage through this forest sector, issued by the Dwarven Road Management Bureau? Form D-7, confirmed by the forester?" he growled, instinctively reaching for his scroll of parchment.
One of the dwarves wallowing in the mud spat again.
"Oh, shut up for a minute, Bofur!" he snarled, rising with a squelch. "We have a wagon axle-deep in mud, a broken lever, and you're asking about forms?" He turned to Tamira and Grumgh, looking them over with a practical, though distrustful, curiosity. "Help? And what would be the price of this help? If you think you're getting the whole cargo, you'd better turn right back around."
Grumgh stepped forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the dwarves. His wire-frame spectacles tilted precariously.
"Our proposal is based on mutual benefit," he began, his voice so formal that Bofur involuntarily straightened up as if in an audience. "We will provide the physical force necessary for the extraction of your vehicle. In exchange for providing us transport to the nearest human settlement and food rations covering our daily caloric needs during the journey."
The dwarves looked at each other. The other one who had been in the mud scratched his mighty belly.
"Food? Transport? Not bad. What if you fail?" he asked, his voice deep and lazy.
"The probability of failure, given the application of my strength and your technical skills, I estimate at a mere 11.4 percent," declared Grumgh. "Assuming, of course, we use the proper leverage and pushing technique."
"You hear that, Bofur?" the dwarf said, turning to the official. "Eleven point four percent. That's better than your chances of finding appendix B within the next week."
The two mud-covered dwarves had managed to get up, and the dwarf who had been poking the mud with his spear suddenly looked up from under his helmet. His eyes, previously hidden in shadow, gleamed like two small, dark carbuncles.
"Wait," he grumbled in a voice that sounded like rocks rolling in a barrel. "Before we start messing with levers and percentages here, maybe we ought to introduce ourselves? Rules of etiquette, chapter four, point two: 'Every transaction, even one in the forest, should be preceded by an exchange of polite, honorific formalities.'"
"He's right," growled Bofur, though clearly reluctantly. "Procedure is procedure." He looked at Grumgh and Tamira, reaching for another scroll of parchment at his belt. "Name, surname, race, purpose of travel, number of the permit for physical labor within the Imperial Forestry territory, if you possess one."
"Oh, stop it already," grumbled the dwarf who had first gotten out of the mud, brushing muck off his tunic. "Can't you see we're standing waist-deep in muck, and you want to fill out questionnaires?"
He turned to Grumgh. "I'm Thomil. This paragraph lover," he indicated Bofur with a nod of his head, "is Bofur. This one," he gestured toward the other mud-covered dwarf, "is Malki. And our guard," he pointed to the dwarf with the spear, "is still too young for a proper name, so we call him Sen. Like a sentry."
"I am Grumgh. This is Tamira."
Grumgh nodded, his wire "spectacles" wobbling precariously. Thomil, Malki, and even Sen stared at him with a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. An orc who not only spoke but used percentages was not an everyday sight.
"Alright then, Grumgh," Thomil finally said, walking over to the stuck wagon. "You say you can do it? Then show us. Because if we stay here, it won't be forest beasts that kill us, but Bofur's nagging."
"An appropriate tool will be required," announced Grumgh, approaching the broken lever. He examined it with a professional air, though his knowledge of levers came more from architectural treatises than practice. "The cross-section is insufficient for such a load. We need something with a higher moment of inertia."
"You're looking for a stick that won't break," muttered Malki, wiping sweat from his brow. "In this forest? Good luck."
"We are not powerless," stated Grumgh. His gaze fell on a mighty, squat oak tree growing at the edge of the clearing. "Tamira. Help me."
The half-elf, surprised, jumped to attention as if on command.
"Me? What can I...?"
"We need to break off that lower, thick branch," explained the orc, pointing to a limb as thick as a dwarf's thigh. "It will be perfect."
"You think I'm a lumberjack?" asked Tamira, looking at the branch incredulously.
"Your weight is insufficient to apply leverage in the classical sense," recited Grumgh. "However, your presence will increase the total workforce by 25%. Come."
The dwarves watched in silence as the orc and half-elf approached the tree. Grumgh wrapped his massive, green arms around the limb. Muscles tensed under the torn velvet.
"Tamira. Grab below and pull down, applying force in the opposite direction to my movement."
Tamira, having no better idea, obediently grabbed the branch. Her thin arms looked like twigs next to his. Grumgh let out a low growl, then jerked. A dry, loud crack rang out, making the dwarves flinch involuntarily. The branch, a good several feet long and incredibly massive, gave way with a dull thud.
"Well, well..." muttered Malki, clearly impressed.
"Incredible," added Thomil.
Grumgh, slightly winded, lifted the new, solid lever. His wire frame was askew, but a glint of something that might have been satisfaction appeared in his eyes.
Grumgh leaned the massive branch against the immobilized wagon, searching for a solid fulcrum. The dwarves, though still somewhat intimidated by the sight of a scholarly orc, moved to help, instinctively taking positions from which they could best utilize his strength.
"Thomil, Malki!" Bofur bellowed, suddenly taking charge as if directing a rescue operation was written into one of his paragraphs. "Put stones under the wheel so it has something to push off from! Sen, cover us! Don't let any forest beast disturb us!"
The young dwarf with the spear immediately began scanning the darkening forest, though the only threats were mosquitoes and loud cicadas.
"Ready?" Grumgh addressed the dwarves positioned at the wagon. His deep voice no longer sounded like a recitation from a treatise, but like a work tool – hard and focused.
"On three!" snarled Thomil, leaning his broad shoulders against the ornate dwarven side of the wagon. "One... Two... THREE!"
Grumgh let out a low growl, more reminiscent of the sound of a shifting boulder than a living creature. The muscles in his back and shoulders tensed, and his torn velvet jacket gave a pitiful crack, splitting even more. The lever bent into a dangerous arc under his pressure but, to everyone's relief, did not break. The wagon creaked, its wood and iron groaning, and then, with a loud, sucking sound, it freed its wheel from the muddy trap and rolled onto harder ground.
The cry of triumph that erupted from the dwarves' throats was short and practical.
"Well, finally!" muttered Malki, wiping mud from his beard.
Thomil walked over to Grumgh and slapped him hard on the hip – the highest point he could comfortably reach.
"Not bad, greenie. Not bad. You said something about food and transport?" He looked at Bofur. "I think we can make room for two extra passengers. Especially ones who can be useful."
Bofur sighed deeply, reaching for a leather bag at his belt.
"Agreed. But I must note this. Stowaway passengers. Incident report." He began scratching something on a parchment. "Destination?"
"Landon's Nook," Tamira blurted out before Grumgh could recite their caloric needs. "Work."
"Work?" Thomil raised an eyebrow. "What work awaits a half-elf and an orc in the Nook?"
"A haunting," replied Tamira, trying to sound mysterious and professional, which came out about as well as her singing. "In the House of the Dead. Five silvers."
Silence fell. Even Bofur stopped writing. The four dwarves exchanged significant looks.
"House of the Dead?" Malki finally muttered. "So old Villem finally found someone stupid enough..."
"You don't belong to an adventurer's guild, do you?" asked Sen. "Professional exorcisms cost about five times that much. The old man's just too cheap to pay that much for someone proper." He quickly glanced at the orc and half-elf, adding, "No offense."
"No offense," repeated Grumgh, nodding as if accepting a purely factual assessment. "However, five silvers constitutes a significant sum given our current budget deficit. The risk, though high, is acceptable."
Tamira looked at him, unsure whether to admire his cold calculation or shake him by his thick, green shoulders. Instead, she turned to the dwarves.
"So... do you know something about it? About this haunting?"
Thomil and Malki exchanged another look. This time, it was Bofur who put down the parchment and spoke, his voice momentarily losing its bureaucratic edge, becoming simply old and tired.
"Old Villem is a miser. The mortuary in Landon's Nook is a building forgotten by gods and men. For months, something's been happening there. Whispers at night, tools that move on their own, and lately... well, apparently something started coming out of the coffins. Villem doesn't want to pay the adventurer's guild their rates, it'd ruin him. So he posts notices where the gullible still look." He pointed a dirty finger in the direction Grumgh and Tamira had come from. "And he finds people like you. Desperate."
The dwarves looked at them with a mixture of pity and a kind of grim respect. They were stupid, but they had guts. And in their world, that often meant more than sense.
"Well then," muttered Thomil, opening the rear flap of the wagon. "Your business. But before you get yourselves annihilated, have something to eat."
The inside of the wagon was a treasure trove. Jars of sauerkraut and pickled meat, sacks of flour, dried sausages, and even a few bottles of dark dwarven beer. The smell was intoxicating. Tamira felt saliva gather at the corner of her mouth.
"Restrain yourselves," growled Bofur, though without much malice. "This is merchandise for sale. But one meal for the two of you... that can be considered fair payment for help. I'll note it as 'unforeseen operational expenses'."
Grumgh and Tamira didn't need to be told twice. They sat on the edge of the clearing, and the dwarves handed them a huge piece of rye bread, a thick slice of smoked lard, and two onions. They ate in silence, devouring the food with such intensity that the dwarves felt a little ashamed of their earlier skepticism.
"So where are you headed?" asked Thomil, leaning against the wagon wheel and lighting a pipe.
"To Landon's Nook," Tamira repeated with her mouth full. "We're not changing our minds. And you?"
"Us?" Thomil laughed hollowly. "We're going to Ghauruth. Right to the heart of the province. We have a delivery for... the offices."