The Valley Of The Dwarfs - 1. Chapter 1

Five men stood across the milky river from the mouth of a narrow defile in the side of a tall granite mountain. They were the first graduates of a new university of the Poor Brothers of Saint Murray on the Hill, a somewhat heretical order whose members would soon take their place on the pyres of righteousness. Actually, there were, also, the eight men-at-arms they hired for protection, the two Equus drovers for the five horses and twenty-three asses, the cook, the two wenches, and, of course, the boy (not too young because, well, that was too priestly, but not too old because that would be their age) for Albrecht, the taller and more muscular of the group. He’d brought his classmates to Western Hinterland because of an idea he had of lashing slats of ash wood to leather boots to go schussing, whatever that was, down a snow covered mountain slope. A few paces to his right stood Ernesto, from Melita, who had lots of ideas of how they could get their hands on lots of silver and gold and was willing to come to this out of the way place if there was any chance of profit.

Behind them, the other three waited and watched the entrepreneurs count their chickens. Short, fat, Paolo, from Rome, did very well in the theory of government course; Gunther, from North Hinterland, who, though a favorite of the Brothers, did quite well at numbers including that odd Arabic concept of zero; and, Carlo, from South Hinterland, who didn’t do well at any one course, but came from a large family of innkeepers that had inns spread all across the Hinterland and planned to use his university education to further his goal of opening a whole chain of inns across the known world.

“I don’t see any snow, Albrecht,” Ernesto said looking up at the mountains around them. He was short, wiry, with black hair and the temperament to match. “Well, there is that bit up top over there, but there’s nothing this-a-way.”

“Of course, not, stupid,” Albrecht said as he petted the boy standing on his left, much like a man might pet a dog. “It snows in winter and we’re too close to see the mountain slope where we’ll set up the schussing area. It’s early summer now. That snow up there isn’t actually snow, mostly it’s glacier ice. Didn’t you pay any attention in Brother Anselmo’s geophysiks classes?”

“No, metaphysiks was what I was interested in,” Ernesto said. “Boy! Go help cook; you and Albrecht can do your Greek thing when the sun goes down.”

“Hey, now, that’s my boy, not yours,” Albrecht protested as the boy, who knew when to take a chance to escape, quickly ran toward the cook fires.

“I just don’t understand you,” Ernesto said. “How can you do it with a boy?”

“The same way you do it with a wench and a lot cleaner, too,” Albrecht said as he stood and went over to where his colleague stood. “Besides, he’s only four years younger than me.”

“But he’s Moorish, a heathen,” Ernesto said with an air of disgust.

“Don’t go religious on me, you’ve got your own predilections to confess,” Albrecht said placing a knowing hand on Ernesto’s shoulder. “I keep him because he’s Moorish, as you spat. In many ways, he appears eight years younger than me. Besides, aren’t we supposed to go among the heathens and spread the Word? Isn’t that what Father Bernardo said when he gave us our diplomas?”

“Shoving your cock up that boy’s ass is not spreading any word,” Ernesto said turning away from Albrecht. “Now, where is this ideal spot for a village located?”

“Up that road on the other side of the river,” Albrecht said, pointing across the river.

“Road! That’s no bigger than a goat trail,” Ernesto said as he walked down to the edge of the river. “Even getting closer doesn’t make it bigger. This better be what you said.”

“Or, what? You’re going to do something?” Albrecht sneered. “Or, are you going to have your daddy come up here and spank my little bottom like he does yours?”

“Shut up!” Ernesto said as he quickly turned and raised his hand as if to slap the taller and larger Albrecht.

Albrecht grabbed the hand and forced it down as he spun the weaker man around. Then he shoved the skinny appendage up behind Ernesto’s back forcing a submissive whimper. Finally, to make his point, he reached between the man’s legs and grabbed his testicles, applying enough pressure to force more of a squeak than a whimper.

“We’ve been here before, Ernesto,” Albrecht whispered threateningly in his friend’s ear while squeezing the testicles a bit tighter. “Do you want me to pull down your drawers and whip that creamy ass of yours here and now?”

“No, please, you’re hurting me,” Ernesto pleaded and he struggled to get free. “Oh, god, not that! Don’t put your thumb there. I’m not like that anymore. Please, Daddy, I didn’t mean to hit you. Please!”

“No, I think you want this,” Albrecht said as he reached further and felt the man’s erection. “Yes, I know you want this.”

“Please, everyone with see,” Ernesto pleaded. “Oh, god, that hurts!”

“Everyone knows about you, Ernesto,” Albrecht sneered and wrenched the arm a little more, eliciting a strained whimper. “Everyone knows what turns you on.”

“Oh, god, no!” Ernesto exclaimed as he struggled with his one free hand to open his leggings before his cock erupted. He grabbed his erection only a moment before semen spewed out onto the fast flowing current.

Albrecht released him, turned, and walked away, up to where Gunther, Carlo, and Paolo stood whispering among themselves.

“Anyone else have a complaint?” Albrecht asked.

“No, we’re cool,” Carlo said.

“Shame we don’t have a virgin with us,” Gunther said. “If I’d known we were going to be up at the Schneemann, I’d have made sure we had one.”

“You’re familiar with this area?” Albrecht asked.

“I have an uncle up in the village, if he’s still alive,” Gunther said. “When I was a little boy we visited him during the spring festival and they sacrificed a virgin to the local snow gods. You know, to prevent avalanches. If I remember right, it seemed to work because one year they didn’t have a virgin of the correct age and the village was nearly wiped out the following winter. After that, if they needed to, they’d go down valley and buy one at market prices.”

“That’s barbaric!” Paolo exclaimed. “You mean to tell me there are pagans up there?”

“No, they had a priest, if I remember right,” Gunther said. “I’m sure I remember him blessing her in the chapel before the village elders took her up on the side of the Schneemann and cut her heart out. I still remember her scream as it echoed from mountain to mountain.”

“Cool!” Carlo exclaimed.

* * * * * * *

As their train banged and clattered its way up the track from the river—it was wider than a goat track, but narrower and steeper than an actual road—Albrecht wished the others at least tried to be quieter. They were making as much noise as an army.

After the narrow defile of the moraine, the valley widened out into a classic u-shaped glacial valley with waterfalls at various places that cascaded over the edge of hanging valleys. In many ways, it appeared to be rather idyllic, the perfect place to construct a year-round tourist destination with increased amounts of sewage, garbage, tromping feet, and screaming children.

Going up valley, the village, such as it was, occupied a place where the land flattened for a quarter-league before increasing its slope down toward the river. Of the ten or so chalets clustered near the creek, Albrecht couldn’t discern any business-specific building other than the chapel with its prominent spire, which, considering what he’d seen in Rome, was insignificant and probably went a long way toward describing its occupant.

Yet, one shouldn’t make hasty assumptions based simply on past experiences. The one here, barring what Gunther said the previous evening, might be different and a stickler for the shalls, shants, and the ever popular shouldn’ts, which in actuality were shants, but priests were a tricky lot when it came to interpreting what exactly was in that book of Roman writing.

They made their camp a little way down the valley from the village so as not to make too much of an impression on the local populace. Their apprehension was warranted for as soon as they erected their pavilions, the local defense showed up with plumed helms, mail, pikes, and broad swords to check on the intent of their visitors. They were a pretty lot and the sergeant, a man with a large belly and a codpiece obviously stuffed with an old sock, asked for the leader and was led into a red and yellow striped pavilion where Albrecht was supervising his boy setting up the arrangement of pallets, cushions, pillows, quilts, a brazier for warmth, and a curtained off area for their water closet.

Albrecht looked at the sergeant, who obviously wasn’t used to visitors in their village, but decided now was not the time to be forceful. Later, once they’d established themselves and built their inn and a building for their offices and residence, there’d be time enough for them to completely take over, if necessary.

“Yes? How may I help you?” Albrecht asked after bowing deeply to the sergeant.

“I am Sergeant Damon of the local constabulary,” the sergeant said. “I must ask your intentions in our valley, as we seldom get visitors.”

“Your suspicions are understandable,” Albrecht said. “That goat track isn’t too obvious and one must know what’s at the end to venture this far from the main road. I am Albrecht of Furzburg, but I doubt you’ve heard of it. It’s in the far north where the Vikings roam. My companions and I are recent graduates of a new university to the south of shoreward of the Venetians. One of our number mentioned an older uncle who lived here and said you have more than ample snow on the mountains lining this valley.”

“Well, yes, some winters we’re practically cutoff from the outside,” the sergeant said. “If we weren’t so good at schussing, we’d have to wait until spring to get out.”

“You schuss, here?” Albrecht asked, faking surprise. “Do you use ash or oak slats?”

“Ash and we apply a wax base to the contact surface,” the sergeant said. “Are you familiar with schussing?”

“Yes, but our mountains are mere hills compared to these mighty mountains,” Albrecht said. “I understand one is called the Schneemann. May I ask how long the snow lasts?”

“Nearly to midsummer,” the sergeant said. “Why do you ask?”

“Here we are talking business and I’m being a horrible host.” Albrecht said with a wry smile. “Boy! Get Sergeant Damon a chair.”

The boy left the pavilion with saying a word.

“He appears Moorish or worse,” Sergeant Damon said with a scowl. “I hope he’s not a son of Abraham, our priest is likely to demand his head if he is.”

“No, the boy is Moorish as you first suspected,” Albrecht said. “I have a writ of authenticity from the broker who sold him to me and a writ of safe passage from the Bishop of Genova. Although he has the sign of Abraham, I understand the practice is applied to boys of Moorish descent also.”

“The priest will need to see those documents,” Sergeant Damon said, as he carefully lowered his bulk onto the campstool. “I must admit he is a comely lad. He’s quite fair.”

“Would you care to experience his talents?” Albrecht asked with a smile and raised eyebrow.

“Now? Excuse my bashfulness, but I’ve never, I wouldn’t know, I could, maybe,” Sergeant Damon mumbled.

“Boy, tend to the sergeant,” Albrecht said. “I’ll step outside for a moment and see how the rest of the camp is getting along.”

The dark skinned boy went to the sergeant and held his hand out to help him rise from the stool then led him over to a pallet and knelt under the bloated gut. He unfastened the codpiece and laid the sock aside. The sergeant’s cock was puny compared to Albrecht’s and the man’s scent was nearly as overpoweringly rank. He took the thing between two fingers and his thumb and began to entice a growing reaction. Once an erection, albeit still short and narrow, was obtained, he reached over to a covered bowl of an unguent he prepared for this purpose and pulled out a two-fingered dollop, which he spread over the head of the sergeant’s erection. He stood, undid his britches, and presented his ass.

“Right efficient lad, you are,” Sergeant Damon said as he admired something he seldom saw here in the village. “I suppose your master does you often, right?”

The boy said nothing.

“Cat got you tongue, huh?” Sergeant Damon asked as he reached between the boy’s legs to fondle his balls. “Hey, you’re a eunuch! I wonder what that writ of authenticity actually says.”

The boy looked back at the sergeant with a questioning look.

“Yes, yes, I’m going to fuck you,” Sergeant Damon said aiming his cock at the boy’s hole. He slipped in and pulled the boy’s hips back toward him. “Yes, this is what the old sergeant really needs. I expected you to be loose as an old cow, but you know what you’re doing, don’t you. Yes, this feels just right. Too bad my wife isn’t here; she could use a lesson or two from you. Oh, yes! Yes!”

The boy was surprised it happened so quickly, but he was also glad it didn’t last so long. The sergeant wasn’t his master, but duty was duty. After the sergeant pulled out, the boy set about cleaning both of them and putting the sergeant back together, including adjusting the sock so it wasn’t so obvious.

“You were just what the sergeant needed,” Sergeant Damon said pulling the boy close to him. “Why don’t you say something? Can’t speakee lingo?”

The boy opened his mouth.

“Oh, dear Lord in Heaven, they’ve cut out your tongue. Did that man do it?”

The boy shook his head and pointed at his genitals.

“When they castrated you, they cut out your tongue, too?”

The boy nodded with a sad look.

“Now, I feel kind of sorry I did what I did. We’ll have to see what we can do about you here in the village. Well, I’d better be off. If you need anything, I’m the butcher here in the village and you can come down and see me anytime.”

The boy smiled.

* * * * * * *

The five of them sat around the brazier in Albrecht’s pavilion munching on crusty bread, blood sausage, and one of the local cheeses. The others waited for Albrecht to start the meeting and they didn’t have to wait long.

“As I see it,” Albrecht said, “the villagers will accept our proposals if we gradually bring them on. If we insisted on doing everything all at once, we will only meet strong resistance from all of them. I’ve always found that you can fuck-over some people all the time, but damned if you can’t fuck-over all of them all of the time. I believe we should start with the farm on this side of the creek across from the village, which I think can be had for just a few pieces of gold. The farmer recently lost most of his family during the recent plague that swept through this place and wants to move further down the river. I say we give him a little extra, say five pieces of gold. Do I have a motion?”

“I move we give the farmer five gold pieces as fair value for his farm,” Paolo said.

“Discussion?” Albrecht asked. “None, then how many are in favor of giving the farmer five gold pieces as fair value for his farm?”

“Aye,” everyone intoned.

“Motion passes,” Albrecht said. “Now, I think we should build the inn first. Carlo, do you have design ideas for this project?”

“Yeah, I think it’d be really cool if we built a big schallot-style inn with a little restaurant and bar on the first floor,” Carlo said. “I figure we should erect an establishment with four floors, giving us space for fifty rooms and, of course, the loft will be used for a dormitory for paying customers and a hostel for those who are willing to work off the cost of their stay. I’ve looked at that farm and there is sufficient level ground at the bottom near the creek for the schallot and we can construct our residence and offices in a smaller schallot above, later on.”

“I’m confused with your terminology,” Gunther said. “What is schallot-style?”

“You know, it’s all around us,” Carlo said. “Practically the whole village, except for the chapel, of course, is built in the schallot-style.”

“Don’t you mean chalet?” Albrecht asked.

“Yes, schallot,” Carlo said. “What are you two looking at?

“Sheesh, can’t even speak the lingo and he’s from three valleys east of here,” Gunther said.

“Five valleys, actually,” Carlo said. “Two more valleys and we’d be Lombards. Let me tell you, they’re definitely not cool. And, we pronounce it schallot! So, there!”

“Okay, okay, so we build the inn, but what about getting the word out to the tourists and where do we put the rope tow?” Ernesto asked.

“I’ll take care of the rope tow,” Albrecht said. “I guess you’re going to take care of advertising since you’ve always been so artsy-fartsy. Do I have a motion to nominate Ernesto to be in charge of advertising?”

“I so move,” Carlo said.

“Discussion?” Albrecht asked. “No? All those in favor say aye, opposed nay.”

“Aye,” four of them said.

“Nay,” Ernesto said.

“The motion passes,” Albrecht said. “We’ll need to see your ideas on flyers and posters soon, plus we’ll have to figure out how far afield we’re going to go for tourists. I know, for a fact, there are quite a lot of schussers up north, but they’re mostly young and will end up in the dormitory or hostel, probably most in the hostel considering most will show up sans mount. If we’re to make any kind of money on this deal, we’re going to have to appeal to the gentry with families. I think we should have a few rooms a bit larger than the others so there’ll be room for parents and their children; we could add an inducement, say like little ones break their fast for half-charge.”

“Sweet!” Carlo exclaimed.

“Yeah, we can call them sweet rooms or sweets,” Ernesto said.

“Cool,” Carlo said.

“Anything else?” Albrecht asked. “No, well, I think Paolo and I will approach the farmer in the morning. So, until then, I’ll bid you all a goodnight.”

They stood and mumbled parting comments of insignificance while the boy brought in a jug of the local red. Albrecht walked over to where Gunther was talking to Paolo.

“Excuse, Paolo, could I speak with Gunther for a moment?” Albrecht asked.

“Certainly, I need to get back anyway,” Paolo said. “If I hurry, I can beat Carlo and Ernesto to the wenches. Have you two seen the local wench? Damn! Isn’t she hot, or what? That ass, phew, what an ass! I’d like to get her in my bed any night.”

“Ask her,” Albrecht offered.

“Her father is the butcher, you know, the sergeant of the constabulary,” Paolo said.

“So, his daughter’s a whore,” Gunther said. “With your cock it probably doesn’t matter how big her ass is. I’m sure she’ll be coming back for more.”

“Yeah, I wish,” Paolo said. “Well, got to run. See you two in the morning.”

“So, what can I do for you?” Gunther asked.

“I know how much the Brothers liked you,” Albrecht whispered. “Yeah, yeah, well it wasn’t so secret. So, I was wondering if you were up for a threesome tonight.”

“You’d share the boy? With me?” Gunther asked.

“Yeah, why not,” Albrecht said.

“What do I have to do for you this time?” Gunther asked.

“I might have something that will require your special talents,” Albrecht said. “We can talk about it later. Goodnight Ernesto! Goodnight Carlo!”

“Goodnight!” they hollered back.

“You’d better hurry or you’ll either be sharing or taking sloppy seconds, Paolo is hastening for first choice,” Albrecht yelled.

The two men practically ran out the door.