Seven Stones (eBook)

Chapter 2.
Last Days of the Ambersheath Farm

As the sun set, Iaven Ambersheath wandered the barren fields of his family’s farm. Memories of harvests and summers long gone returned to bid farewell: wagonloads of mushrooms, cabbages, and corn; hot, lazy afternoons spent fishing in the River Rhil; barefoot races through soft grasses; the dusky incense of cattails burning to ward off bugs; full moons serenaded by fields of crickets. Those were the bright days of childhood before his father was lost at sea. Now he walked alone across the broken furrows, and in the deepening gloam the empty, rolling plains of black soil resembled a dark ocean frozen in time. Beyond them stood trees he had known all his life, their leaves already edged with fiery autumn colors. Iaven looked around and knew this was the Ambersheath family’s last harvest. His mother Sara was remarrying and selling the farm.

Farm life on the outskirts of Hillbrook was the only one Iaven knew. Although they still carried on many traditions of their ancestors, the Dwarves of southern Itharia had long since given up the way of the warrior, trading sword and shield for hammer and tongs, rake and hoe, loom and chisel. They had settled in small villages and towns across the far southwestern end of Itharia, around the Rhil and all the way south to the Toes of the Foothills. Their arts and crafts had become domestic, their talk turning inward from news of distant warring kingdoms to the local harvest and latest town gossip. Hillbrook life was quiet, leisurely paced and uncomplicated. Iaven liked his life there and did not want to leave it. Nor did he have anywhere else to go.

In a way, Iaven thought, his father’s success was to blame. The farm had grown so much that Iaven could not take it on by himself, now that his mother and brother wanted to sell it. Hagen Ambersheath had been a good husband, father, and provider; he and Sara had raised their identical twin sons Iaven and Orven on returns from the farm. After many years, the farm had grown in size and reputation, along with demand for its sumptuous mushrooms and savory red cabbage. Hagen sold his crops all over the Foothills area, even out to Oakitsburrow and up to Highwater. His warmth and charisma brought him new customers, and he came to love traveling. Sometimes he even took a trip north to the great port city of Kronivar, where both Dwarves and Men had settled, or east to Miastolas, summer capital of the Elven kingdom of Feäthiadreya. Iaven remembered how long it seemed, waiting for his father’s return, and how excited he was to see the beautiful Elven artifacts his father brought back with him. He smiled, recalling the handfuls of trinkets he and Orven always fought over, and how they longed to one day go traveling with their father.

As the twins grew up, they took on more and more of the farm work. Hagen had brought on a hired hand, an old dwarf named Cedric Redthorn, who still resided in the little cottage they had built for him. Cedric had once worked at Castle Frosthelm up in the mountains, where he had been an apprentice to the King’s great Master-Forger. His metalworking skills came in handy around the farm, and Hagen loved hearing his tales of the old days (Cedric claimed to be nearing his one hundred and seventy-first birthday, but they thought he must be joking). Cedric was like a grandfather to the twins, a dear friend to Sara and Hagen, and an honorary member of the Ambersheath family.

Around the time the farm reached the height of its prosperity Hagen was offered passage on the Yoner, a ship setting sail across the Silver Sea to kingdoms on the far shores. To the surprise of family and friends, he accepted. The Dwarves of Itharia distrusted boats, using them only when necessary, preferring solid ground beneath their feet, and few of them could swim. Yet Hagen was curious about Tolgard, Phamiar, Elluria, Ghoomhar, and other lands around the sea. Merchants had sold his mushrooms in other lands, but he had traveled little. It seemed the opportunity might never come again. Sara reluctantly agreed to it. With Cedric’s help, she and the twins took care of the farm once or twice a year during his trips to Kronivar. The sea voyage would be longer, but they would manage.

As the weeks passed, they expected to see him returning, coming down the road in from town. The twins would run to greet him, Sara hurrying behind them. But he never came. Three months passed without any sign of him. Iaven and Orven’s hearts grew heavy, their mother became withdrawn, and Cedric tried to keep them from giving up hope. Later, word reached them that the ship never arrived at its destination. Nor had it turned back; at best it could only be considered lost. Iaven remembered crying in his pillow on those long, quiet summer nights, struggling in vain to believe that his father had survived.

Summer went by, harvest season came, and the Ambersheaths’ farm endured. The townsfolk spoke less of Hagen’s fate; there was no question that the ship had sunk. Winter passed and spring appeared. Sara accepted Hagen’s death and slowly recovered, while Cedric and the twins kept the farm running. Hagen’s friends paid their respects and continued their patronage, but neither Iaven nor Orven could match their father’s charisma or success. In the months following, Orven came to accept the fact of their father’s death. Iaven still refused to give up hope though he no longer spoke of it.

Eleven years went by and the farm declined. The circle of Hagen’s customers shrunk back to the immediate localities. When times were hard, fields were sold; and many of those that remained suffered from neglect. With Hagen gone, Cedric worked even harder than before, tiring more quickly as his years caught up with him. Sara lost enthusiasm for the farm and responsibilities fell to Iaven and Orven, who had come of age. Iaven recalled how his mother had suffered over those years, sometimes sitting alone in sorrow when she thought no one was watching.

Time passed and daily routines wore on. Sara emerged from her gloom, finding solace in her work. After nine years of being alone, she began accepting visits from Rory Applegate, the town’s blacksmith. Two more years passed, and Rory asked Sara to marry him. Orven was happy for her but Iaven was wary of it, seeing it as an end of the life he knew. It had taken him a long time to accept his father’s death, and he had found consolation in the chores that now fell to him. Tomorrow his mother would marry Rory and move to his house in the village, leaving the farm up for sale. Whatever she hadn’t sold was all packed away, ready for the move. The house was left for Iaven and Orven until someone bought it, or in case they decided to keep the farm and try to make a go of it.

Iaven stood watching the sun descend into the haze of the western horizon. A chill wind blew as the sun’s glowing rim disappeared behind distant treetops. He turned and started walking back to the house. With a lot of work the farm could prosper again, he thought. If they worked together. He and Orven were often at odds with each other, but they were still brothers. They would have to alternate traveling to sell their crops, and new help could be trained by Cedric. It could be done, if only Orven wanted to stay.

Orven had tired of the farm but remained to help his mother and Cedric, and because he had nowhere else to go. Like Iaven, he’d always listened with rapt attention to tales of distant corners of the kingdom and the lands of Elves, Men, and Goblins that lay beyond them. There were tales of the Dwarves’ ancestors, who had come across the desert and settled in the mountains; wars with Goblins in the north and dealings with Elves in the south; ships sailing westward over the Silver Sea; castles, kings, and battles; cities rising and crumbling into dust; endless dark forests and distant mountain peaks. They filled Iaven’s daydreams while he worked, but he had no desire to leave the security of the farm; if anything, he appreciated it more. But the same tales had kindled Orven’s longing to see the world, leaving him restless for adventure. No riding a horse cart full of produce, like his father; he wanted to venture off to find his fortune, living by his wits and going where he would. His sense of duty kept him at the farm though he had long since ceased to enjoy it. Now that the farm had declined he was eager to sell it.

Iaven walked home. The Ambersheath homestead was a small but sturdy house, set between the fields and the road to town. An unremarkable place, weathered and worn, the only one Iaven had ever called home. The house was dark in the paling twilight, a soft light flickering inside the window. Iaven stepped indoors, feeling the warmth from the fireplace. Orven was kneeling and stoking the logs, gazing into the flames. He eased a log into place, listening to the fire’s soft roar and crackle. A warm, orange glow bathed his face, his eyes half-lidded in the dry heat. As identical twins, Iaven and Orven were both of average build, with sandy blond hair, short beards, and deep blue eyes. But of late Orven’s demeanor had taken on a quieter, more serious tone as he pondered his future in which the farm would play no part. Iaven stood watching Orven a moment, until Orven turned and looked at him.

“Cedric gone in already?” Orven asked.

“A while ago. I was out for a walk.”

“Rory said they’ll look after him, maybe move him over to the smithy. There’s a lot they could learn from him there.”

Iaven sighed and went to the window overlooking the lawn. Chairs and tables lined the grass, strings of lanterns hung tree to tree, and a canopied tent was...