Fistandantilus Reborn - Douglas Niles [30]
“I’m Kelryn Darewind,” he said, offering his most beguiling smile. He gestured to another flat rock beside the fire, opposite the position of the still-silent dwarf. “Would you mind terribly if I made myself comfortable?”
“Hah!” the dwarf snapped, and again those pale eyes flashed, luminous and staring. “Let me see.”
Abruptly the fellow clasped both hands to the front of his jerkin, pressing the garment tightly to his chest. Kelryn was surprised to see that the piece of stiff clothing was filthy and torn, lacking the usually fine workmanship of other dwarven garb. The cave dweller’s scalp was covered with a bristling mane of stiff, spiky hair, and his beard was a greasy, tangled mat covering most of his chest.
Kelryn was wondering what the dwarf’s last remark meant when he heard the wretched fellow begin to speak. He listened, prepared to formulate whatever reply his host might fold agreeable, until he realized that the creature was not speaking to his visitor.
“He wants to stay, he says,” mumbled the dwarf. His pale eyes were vacant, staring past Kelryn, apparently focused on nothing at all. The fingers still clenched into tight fists pressed against his chest. “Wants to warm himself by the fire, he says.”
“And it’s the truth,” Kelryn noted genially. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we get some snow tonight.”
“Snow, he says,” cackled the dwarf, casting a wide-eyed glance at the human before turning his attention back to the vague distance.
Kelryn was mystified, yet intrigued. He suspected that the dwarf was mad, but the filthy cave dweller did not seem terribly dangerous, and Kelryn Darewind had a highly developed sense of danger, at least as it pertained to the protection of his own skin.
“You can stay,” the dwarf said suddenly, releasing his shirt and sighing in what seemed to be exhaustion, or perhaps resignation.
“Thank you. I’m very grateful,” replied the man. He considered a further question and decided to chance it. “Um… who is it that you were talking to? Or, I should say, to whom do I owe my gratitude?”
“Why, himself, of course,” said the dwarf with a sly grin.
“Well, please convey my thanks.”
“He knows… he knows.”
The dwarf suddenly burst into activity, throwing several pieces of dry wood onto the fire, pulling out a crude bowl that he set in the coals beside the blaze. Kelryn realized that the dish was in fact a steel helm, probably of dwarven make, that had been ignominiously converted to duty as a soup caldron.
“And you are Kelryn,” the dwarf noted, as if confirming his own memory.
“Quite right. And you…?”
“My name is Cantor Blacksword, but you can call me… call me Fistandantilus!” crowed the filthy fellow, as if he had just been struck by inspiration.
“Fistandantilus… the wizard?”
“The same. ‘Twas he who gave his blessing to yer staying, he I was talking to.” The dwarf patted his chest smugly, as if the great wizard himself was compactly stored in a pouch beside his skin.
“But you just said that I should call you by that name, yet you seem to indicate that it belongs to someone else.”
“It belongs to me!” shrieked the dwarf, hopping to his feet, standing with legs bowed as if ready to do battle. “You can’t have it!”
“Nor do I want it!” Kelryn hastily assured the dwarf, utterly convinced that the wretch was indeed hopelessly mad. He watched warily as the dwarf, apparently mollified, sat back down. Gantor swept aside his beard and pulled out the loose neckline of his shirt, peering downward, apparently at his own belly, then slyly raising his wide, unblinking eyes to stare at his visitor.
“And are you of the Thorbardin clans or the hill dwarves?” the human asked, hoping to change the topic quickly.
“Bah! None of them are worthy of me, though once I numbered myself among the clan of Theiwar. I am of myself, and of Fistandantilus.”
“But you told me that you are Fistandantilus.” Kelryn, keeping his