Mud War (Dwarvish Dirty Dozen Book 1) Read online

  MUD WAR

  DWARVISH DIRTY DOZEN™ SERIES BOOK 01

  AARON D. SCHNEIDER

  MICHAEL ANDERLE

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  Copyright © 2022 LMBPN Publishing

  Cover Art by Jake @ J Caleb Design

  http://jcalebdesign.com / [email protected]

  Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

  A Michael Anderle Production

  LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  LMBPN Publishing

  PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy

  Las Vegas, NV 89109

  Version 1.00, June 2022

  ebook ISBN: 979-8-88541-432-6

  Paperback ISBN: 979-8-88541-433-3

  THE MUD WAR TEAM

  Thanks to our Beta Team:

  Mary Morris, Kelly O’Donnell, John Ashmore, Rachel Beckford, Larry Omans

  Thanks to our JIT Team:

  Zacc Pelter

  Jeff Goode

  Jackey Hankard-Brodie

  Dorothy Lloyd

  Diane L. Smith

  Dave Hicks

  Peter Manis

  Christopher Gilliard

  Debra Hogan

  Paul Westman

  If we’ve missed anyone, please let us know!

  Editor

  SkyFyre Editing Team

  This book is dedicated to every craftsman whose strong and steady hands have shaped my world and my life, those who make things, mend things, and are in so many ways the epitome of what I would wish to be.

  But most of all, this is to one of the finest and most tireless craftsmen and servant-leaders I’ve had the privilege to know—this is dedicated to my father-in-law Brian. I’m sure you’ll probably never have time to read my silly scribblings, but this book is for you, sir. It comes with my sincerest thanks for the man and example you’ve been and continue to be.

  — Aaron

  To Family, Friends and

  Those Who Love

  to Read.

  May We All Enjoy Grace

  to Live the Life We Are

  Called.

  — Michael

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to take a second to acknowledge that this book, along with being part of the efforts of many people besides myself, would not have been possible without the continued patience of family and friends who tolerate my groanings and mutterings of deadlines one moment and then hold nothing against me when I descend into my cave and plunk away.

  I am sure it gets tiresome being the wife/child/brother/companion of an author, but your patience and steady encouragement are like air. I often take them for granted, but without them, I’d quickly cease to be. So thank you many times over.

  Hopefully, this book is worth some of what you’ve had to put up with.

  — Aaron

  CONTENTS

  Southern Ysgand Vale Map

  Lexicon

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Author Notes - Aaron D. Schneider

  Author Notes - Michael Anderle

  Connect with The Authors

  Other Books by Aaron D. Schneider

  Books By Michael Anderle

  I was born one morning,

  It was drizzlin' rain.

  Fightin' and trouble are my middle name

  16 Tons, Tennessee Ernie Ford

  Out of the night that covers me,

  Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

  I thank whatever gods may be

  Invictus, William Ernest Henley

  When midnight mists are creeping,

  And all the land is sleeping,

  Around me tread the mighty dead,

  And slowly pass away.

  Lo, warriors, saints, and sages,

  From out the vanished ages,

  With solemn pace and reverend face

  Appear and pass away.

  The blaze of noonday splendour,

  The twilight soft and tender,

  May charm the eye: yet they shall die,

  Shall die and pass away.

  But here, in Dreamland's centre,

  No spoiler's hand may enter,

  These visions fair, this radiance rare,

  Shall never pass away.

  I see the shadows falling,

  The forms of old recalling;

  Around me tread the mighty dead,

  And slowly pass away.

  Dreamland, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson

  SOUTHERN YSGAND VALE MAP

  LEXICON

  Military Ranks

  — Enlisted —

  Dwan - The base rank of the Holt’Dwan and also a term that generally refers to a dwarf serving as a soldier

  Fordwan - A line officer, typically promoted from veteran dwan

  Ascedwan - A dwarf soldier who has developed a useful skill (cooking, herbology, engineering, musical instrument, etc.), marking them out for additional pay/responsibility

  — Commissioned Officer —

  Schildwan - quartermaster of a division

  Tweldwan - commander of a division

  — Command Staff —

  Kuadwan - command staff, responsible for logistical matters

  Lardwan - command staff, responsible for communication and intelligence

  Vindwan - command staff, responsible for tactical direction

  Ondwan - command staff, supreme commander of the Holt’Dwan

  — Informal Positions —

  Cubldwan - An unofficial position, represents when a soldier is selected to work under a superior officer, usually either a tweldwan or one of the command staff

  Military Terminology

  Adyrclaf - a class of theropod typically used as a mount by the svartalf

  Blotferow - a class of trained and specially bred pigs that is suitable for use in battle

  Duabuw - standard-issue crossbow of the dwarven army

  Holt’Dwan - A dwarven army, typically composed of between 8 to 12 divisions

  Magsax - standard-issue sword of the dwarven army

  Worcsvine - a class of trained and specially bred pigs that are suitable for draft work

  Slurs

  Badger - Derived from drawing a comparison between the animals and dwarfs

  Clacker/Creaker/Rattler/Shuffler - slur for the ambulatory undead who serve in the
wight army. Given for the sounds they make

  Grem - Derived from drawing comparisons between mythical gremlins and goblins

  Longshanks - Can be used for any people group taller than dwarfs, but typically used for humans

  Myrkling - Derived from the Dwarvish word for dark/dangerous forest (myrkvaul) and denotes an elf of svartalf or dark elf lineage

  Savageling - slur for the wosealf or wild elves of the Ysgand Vale

  Wheezer - slur for a wight after the sound of the undead voices

  PROLOGUE

  Torbjorn looked around the room to make certain everyone was in position before contemplating the stale-smelling drink before him.

  “We ready to do this?” Raelon sniffed.

  The dwarvish commander picked up the beer as he gave a bare nod.

  “Showtime.” The younger dwarf grunted as he glanced to make certain the barkeep wasn’t distracted. It would have been a shame to waste the performance.

  “How do you tell the difference between human beer and human piss?”

  Torbjorn groaned and gave a shake of his dark, shaggy head. He grimaced through the first swallow of the watery ale. He swiped off the thin film that clung to his mustache with a thick, scar-gnarled hand, then threw it away with a contemptuous flick. It landed upon boards scored with runes to keep them clean and polished.

  "This one again?" he grumbled into his cup, wincing at the thought of the sour ale being an offering to his people’s inscription upon the floor.

  It's about the Wheezer magistrate, he told himself. Nothing else.

  After all, Raelon was just doing what he was best at, though admittedly, this was not his best work.

  “Huh?” the bartender rumbled from behind a bar that had been crudely raised to accommodate a new kind of clientele some years ago.

  The dwarf sitting on Torbjorn’s right raised his snout from sniffing uncertainly at the contents of his cup.

  “I said,” Raelon began after clearing his throat, “how do you tell the difference between human beer and human piss?”

  Torbjorn had heard the joke before. That didn’t spoil a good joke, mind you, but since it wasn’t a good joke, the repetition grated. The publican who’d served Torbjorn and his companion said ale was both human and standing right in front of them, but that was neither here nor there.

  “You really want to finish that one, friend?” the barman asked with enough of a snarl in the last word to make it like a threat.

  The dwarf sitting beside Torbjorn performed a far more exaggerated pantomime of revulsion as he took a swig from his own jack of ale.

  “Ugh! Oskilget!” Raelon growled, the words rattling in the back of his throat like bile. He looked at the glowering proprietor, beer-filled vessel held up. “I’d much rather finish the joke than whatever this is.”

  The first part of the publican’s answer was to draw a heavy club from under the bar, and the next was to nod at a pair of rough-hewn men at a table behind where Torbjorn and Raelon sat. The stout men loomed behind the dwarfs, menacing rumbles and sharp sniffs announcing their presence. Well, further announcing their presence, if the crinkle in Torbjorn’s nose was any evidence.

  “All right, then,” the barkeep continued, his voice almost gentle. “How do you tell the difference between human beer and human piss?”

  Torbjorn sighed as he idly scratched the welted scar on his cheek.

  Smiling from ear to ear, Raelon spoke loud enough for the entire tavern to hear him.

  “If the barkeep is washing his hands, you know it's beer!" The dwarf guffawed as the publican’s already red face purpled. From around the room came angry mumbles. The patrons were huddled about tables that had likewise had ramshackle additions to elevate them to be comfortable for humans.

  “Get it?” Raelon called, acting like the participation of patrons added them to his audience. Rather than deterring him, the barkeep’s hard-eyed silence made him laugh all the harder. He dumped the offending ale upon the floor.

  Torbjorn forced himself not to wince as more of the swill splashed the boards, which had been hewn by dwarvish settlers less than a decade ago.

  The wight, he reminded himself. The wight’s what matters.

  Baritone laughter rolled across the bar even as the barkeep’s cudgel came down with a sharp smack on the wood.

  “That’s it!” the human snarled with such vehemence that his jowls shook. “Both of you, out! Damned uppity badgers!”

  Neither dwarf seemed to mind the slur. The pair behind the duo moved forward, hands curling into claws to snare clothes, hair, or beards. They were inches from snaring the dwarfs in front of them when the unnoticed dwarf vaulted onto the table behind them, scattering mugs and platters. The pair of bully boys had just enough time to realize that something was amiss before an iron grip seized their lank hair. Their heads met with a meaty smack, which was followed by the thuds of their bodies hitting the floor.

  A quarter of a second after they landed, Raelon slapped down a hand to pin the bartender’s cudgel in place. His other hand swung an ale-streaming tankard toward the man’s shocked, blotchy face. The publican tumbled backward, fondling his mashed lips and cracked jaw tenderly. Raelon used the momentum of the swing to propel him onto the bar, where he paused, cudgel in his hairy fists.

  Standing wide-legged on the table and the bar respectively, the dwarfs, clearly siblings despite the different shades of their hair, exchanged wicked smiles. The larger of the two, a hulking dwarf with bright red hair and beard, crossed his muscle-knotted arms over his huge chest. His brother gripped the snatched club. Across the bar, angry eyes swung in their direction.

  “Impeccable timing as always, Waelon,” Torbjorn offered with a nod as he turned halfway around to acknowledge the powerfully thewed dwarf. The serene dwarf, leader by sheer presence if nothing else, had not even bothered to shift in his seat through the explosive turn of events. As before, he stared with pensive concern at the drink in his hand.

  “Yes, sir.” Waelon grunted. “Satisfactory for our purposes, sir?”

  Torbjorn raised his eyes to the cudgel-bearing dwarf on the bar in front of him.

  “Has anyone made to fetch the magistrate yet, Raelon?”

  Raelon, who’d been busy meeting every human face with a frightful scowl, took a moment to respond.

  “What? Oh!” the younger dwarf muttered before straightening a little. “No, sir. Not yet.”

  Torbjorn slowly set his tankard down and shook his head.

  “That simply will not do,” he muttered, bracing one hand on the bar. “Waelon, if you would, please.”

  “Of course, sir.” The big dwarf raised his voice to address the seething patrons. “Well, are you peach-faced, spindly-legged, piss drinkers going to do something about it, or are you scared of a few badgers?”

  Like a spark set to tinder, the words ignited the seething patrons. The scene in the pub became distinctly more chaotic.

  Waelon’s fists pumped like pistons, pulping faces that came within reach of his table. Raelon swept the hardwood club in arcs about the bar. Snarling and cursing patrons leapt clear of the whistling bludgeon. Only a few moved too slowly to escape its sting, but there was soon more than enough room for Torbjorn to climb onto the bar, dragging his chair with him. Once stationed beside Raelon, chair in hand, Torbjorn got two hard swings out of the furnishing before being forced to snap a chair leg off in each hand. Thus equipped, he leapt back into the fray, dealing out hefty smacks with the stout legs to every hand, shoulder, and head in reach.

  “Think I saw a few go for the door, sir,” Raelon growled as he danced back from clutching mitts before dealing a solid thump across the head of an attacker. “Won’t be long now.”

  Torbjorn brought both chair legs up to check a swung stool, catching the furniture with one and the wrist of the unfortunate enemy with the other. The wet snap of bone heralded the fall of both stool and wielder to the floor.

  “Very good,” the dwarf leader declared, then planted h
is foot in the face of a lunging assailant. “I was hoping to get this business finished as quickly as possible.”

  “Quick and hard,” Raelon crowed as he held the cudgel lengthwise to chuck a pair of humans off him. “Just the way we like it. Eh, Waelon?”

  In answer, the fiery-haired dwarf gave a tectonic bellow, then hurtled off the table into a knot of men. Like saplings trying to bear the brunt of a landslide, they bowed and quickly snapped. Not content with the ruin he’d wrought in his descent, Waelon snatched the nearest wretch and hauled him up to use as a living battering ram against his fellows. The sight was as terrifying as it was comical. The men screamed in shock as they were bludgeoned with their unfortunate compatriot.

  After Waelon pitched his impromptu weapon aside, he bellowed at the faces around him, “Who’s next?”

  Those faces didn’t press forward, and after Raelon clubbed the last arm reaching over the bar, an uncertain silence fell. The dwarvish trio’s ferocity was not easily matched, and the patron’s initial rush had been thoroughly rebuffed. No one was keen to be the next to be corrected, like those who lay on the floor broken, bleeding, and toothless.