by Kevin Hearne
“Oh, my fluttering flutterbudgets, if that wasn’t terrifying!” their guide said, exhaling in relief.
“Wasn’t it just?” Båggi responded. “Those halflings were quite the horror. I am not one to hold prejudice in my heart, but they were just quite terrifying for any species—”
“I meant you,” the other dwarf said softly. “The violence in your eyes! It’s been years since I’ve seen a young buck on Meadschpringå heft his club, and I dearly hope it’ll be many more years until I see it again.” He shook his head. “Control’s the thing, you know, ha ha!”
“Ha ha,” Båggi said sadly, hooking his club back on his belt.
Kirsi patted his hand and said something that was meant to be comforting, but nothing could comfort Båggi just then. At the time, he’d felt sure he’d done the right thing for the right reason, but now it seemed as if he’d done the wrong thing for the right reason and perhaps endangered the livelihood of this pleasant dwarf and whoever might own the inn as well.
The guide began walking again, and soon they looked upon the Frothy Pint. It was a charming building faced with slate and blue stones, with mosaics of shining tiles pieced together here and there depicting still lifes of food and drink with a pleasant number of fat bees. Båggi thought the surrounding forest was quite winsome and cozy too, but he couldn’t enjoy any of it, not even the old-fashioned water pump that produced mead instead of water. He was all torn up inside, tender and wounded, and he felt himself slipping into a Dolorous Sulk and Skulk.
Inside the double doors—thrown wide for their entrance, with a clearance large enough to accommodate Gerd—a fountain burbled along the tiled wall and a team of robed dwarves wearing the traditional cheek tattoos of the hospitality industry greeted them, their beards oiled and braided and scented with cedar and sandalwood. Their guide disappeared, and Båggi didn’t blame him a bit. Yet another dwarf awaited them, this one in a chef’s hat, and it was to her they spoke first, ordering several courses from an expansive menu to be served a few hours hence. The dishes would be prepared for them while they were bathed, massaged, and groomed; their clothes would be laundered and mended as needed; and then their meals would be ready when they were all clean and relaxed. The gnomes were noticeably relieved to know their cardigans would be in good hands, and Båggi was content to let Kirsi and Faucon make all the arrangements while he himself hid behind Gerd.
Båggi was especially pleased that the chef was willing to create some “egg dishes with exotic proteins” for Gerd and that she promised they could make room for the vaunted gryphon in the dining hall, since they had few other traditional patrons that evening. They even claimed that they had the facilities to bathe and massage Gerd if she wished, and the gryphon consented to this. Båggi heard the masseuses whispering among themselves in tones of great awe, and he swelled with pride to know that he was traveling with a creature so respected by his people. If only he himself had still felt respectable, he would’ve been in a fine mood.
After that they were led to their respective bathing areas, where they could disrobe and send their clothing to be laundered. As Båggi was shrugging into a robe prior to descending to the subterranean heated bathing cavern, a gentle knock on the door announced the arrival of the proprietor. Båggi prepared himself for a tongue-lashing or possibly a getting-tossed-out-of-the-inning.
“Master Herbalist Båggi Biins?”
“Yes? Do come in.”
A portly dwarf entered, his red beard shot through with streaks of gray on either side of his chin, his cheeks tattooed and rosy, and the corners of his eyes crinkled due to frequent smiling.
“May I just welcome you and thank you for your custom this evening? I am your host, Røkki Rüd.”
Since this grand fellow was treating Båggi with esteem, he forced himself to focus on dwarvelish ways and not dwell on the halfling horror until the time came. He and Røkki beamed at each other and traded alliterative compliments and enthused about this tiny oasis of dwarvelish civilization in the midst of halfling territory.
“I don’t wish to intrude, and your private time is sacrosanct,” Røkki said after a while, “but I’m afraid there is a situation we must discuss.”
“Yes, I suppose we must,” Båggi said, his shoulders drooping, and soon enough they were in a dwarf-hewn cavern lit by dozens of candles set in recessed niches. Steam rose from the surface of a large heated pool, its bottom lined with fine sand that would squish pleasantly between the toes. A waterfall at one end brought freshly heated water into the cavern and it drained at another end, its heat to be reclaimed but the soils to be filtered out. The steam condensed on the ceiling and dropped back down into the pool, little echoing splashes providing soft punctuation to the music of the waterfall in the candlelit space. The two dwarves waded in and moved to a soap shelf lined with labeled cakes. Båggi chose a lemongrass-and-grapefruit scrub, while Røkki opted for a honey-apple soap. After they lathered and shampooed and rinsed and felt renewed, they lounged in the water up to their chins and the proprietor spoke.
“Before that unpleasantness, what have you seen in the world of late? I am bound here, with only occasional trips to Caskcooper for variety, and depend on visitors to keep me informed.”
Båggi had certainly seen many things of late, and recounting even the least of them revealed that he was on his Meadschpringå.
“Yes, I had thought as much, although you do not carry your cudgel.”
“I had already put it away when you arrived.”
“So how goes it?”
Båggi took a deep breath before answering. “At first, I thought myself without violence and was quite agog at the shapes my cudgel took. And then…er…quite recently, I found that the cudgel retained a form of peace while I chose to mete violence to protect those in my care. I can’t seem to find symmetry with my cudgel, and I fear I have done unnecessary damage.”
Røkki shrugged. “Choice is important. And protecting those weaker than you is always the right choice.”
“Even if it harms a third party?”
At this, Røkki chuckled and patted Båggi on the shoulder in a fatherly way. “My inn can do without roughhousers, be they halflings or otherwise. My young guide has not yet known his Meadschpringå, and so he worried more for his skin than anything else. Don’t let it trouble you overmuch, although I must ask you to hang your cudgel outside before you join us for dinner upstairs.”
Båggi inclined his head; that was quite reasonable. But he found he didn’t want to stop talking to Røkki, who seemed quite wise and also worldly.
“You know, Master Røkki, I had hoped to already be on my way back to the High Mountain Home, yet my cudgel remains in an aggressive form. It had a gryphon in the grain right after I used it in anger, then a book while we were at the Great Library, and just now, I looked and it has some great lizard or salamander on it. It would seem I have much more violence ahead of me, and I confess it troubles me greatly. I worry about my fate; I worry that I’ll never go home again.”
“Why worry about returning to the mountains? There are many places to make a home in Pell.”
“It is not the place I want to return to so much as the peace.”
“Ah, I take your meaning. Still, I think your mind can take its ease.”
Båggi felt his brow furrowing in a very undwarvelish way. “Why do you say that? I have no guarantee of success. My brother is a mercenary, always spoiling for a fight. He would’ve done much worse to that halfling tonight, and I’ll admit I wanted to. How can such a life be peaceful?”
“Forgive me, Båggi, if I suggest you may be holding on to a narrow vision of peace that you see waiting for you on a pedestal at the end of a long hallway. Your Meadschpringå is not a sprint down that hall to your goal. There are rooms to explore, there are doors leading out and doors leading in, and you can take your time, take another path, and maybe find something e
lse that pleases you besides what’s on that pedestal.”
But Båggi was boggled. “I am not sure I follow your metaphor. What can I possibly find in this imaginary house that surpasses peace of mind?”
“I do not think peace walks the world in only one form. It is not merely that thing on the pedestal, you see? It is a shape-shifting mystery that changes its face not only from person to person but for each individual over time. Right now you think peace is a heart-swelling return to the High Mountain Home, and I understand that. There was a time when I thought that was what peace meant too. But, strange as it may seem, I have found my peace here.”
“Truly?”
“Oh, there are stresses, to be sure.” The old dwarf’s mustache drooped and his tone was bleak. “I miss seeing my own kind more than I would freely admit to my staff; we are the only dwarves hereabouts and we rarely get visitors like you. And there seems to be more violence these days here, near the Skyr, yet I must keep my inn open to all.” He sighed, then chuckled at his own folly. He looked up at the ceiling of the cavern, his voice now choked with emotion. “But still I hear the song of the wind whispering in the leaves, and I know the voices of my brethren ride with it from the mountaintops. There are friendships and loves kindled within these walls, Båggi. And sometimes old passions, reduced to smoldering coals, reignite to full flame. Worries are soothed, raw wounds are healed, and the waters wash away all manner of troubles. My Frothy Pint is balm and blessing to many, and I am content.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Båggi said. “And it is certainly a blessing to me this day. But may I ask: What does your Telling Cudgel look like now?”
“Ah, you wonder how it’s going to end, how you will know; I see. Well, I do not mind telling you, though this is a truth only for myself. My cudgel is mounted on the wall in my office, and it is as smooth and polished as the day I left the mountains in my youth. There is no bee ingrained at the end, telling me I may return to the lofty peaks of Korpås. Instead, there is a proud stag, at home in this forest, and the Korpåswood has been dead for many years. This is my place, Båggi, and it is no tragic end for me.”
“No, not at all, to be sure,” Båggi said. “Thank you for being so candid and kind with your wisdom, Røkki. You have given me much to think on.”
They spoke of local herbs and the troublesome nature of geese and then they were fetched by spa dwarves, who said it was time for Båggi’s massage and beard grooming. While it dangled off the massage table, his beard was expertly oiled and plaited and festooned with blossoms and an enameled bee brooch that complemented his fashionable new halfling half ring. He was relaxed and invigorated and thrilled to have clean clothes again. He felt wondrously happy to meet his friends, all shining with health in the dining room, and share a delicious repast with them and laugh and sing until they felt ready to retire. For all that Båggi had expected and dreaded the innkeeper’s visit, Røkki’s words had soothed him, and he left his cudgel outside with no worries that he might need it.
Agape was wearing Piini’s cog around her neck with a polished gold chain; Kirsi and Onni both wore new cardigans and pansies in their beards; Faucon’s hair from topknot to toes had been attractively curled; and Gerd had a bright-blue ribbon tied at the end of her tail. The bed in his room was soft and warm and Båggi enjoyed the best sleep he’d had since leaving home, and everything smelled of warm beeswax. Should they meet ruin ahead, at least they had that one magnificent day together to remember.
They met the next morning with a sunny disposition, ready but reluctant to leave the forest. When they arrived at the ferry dock they saw it would be a decent wait, and Onni wondered aloud where a path curving away to the south might lead.
“We have to go south anyway to get to the Toot Towers,” he said, “and it’s not certain we’ll be able to book passage on a river boat anytime soon. So why don’t we explore this route a little bit and see where it goes, perhaps enjoy the trees a while longer?”
No one had any objections, so they followed the path, which soon veered off deeper into the trees away from the bank, though they were still moving roughly parallel to the course of the river. It was pleasant all through the morning and the path was taking them in the direction they wished to go, so they kept following it into the afternoon after breaking for luncheon. Soon afterward they had reason to rue their detour, as they came upon a section of forest dominated by thorny bushes, sweet-gum balls, itchy vines, and a pack of the dreaded Pruneshute wolves. The toothy predators kept their distance because of Gerd, but they were clearly trailing the party behind and to either side and eyeing them for weakness and a possible fall into a stinkhole brimming with acidic marinade.
Even those over two feet tall were soon ragged and exhausted, and poor Faucon was in distinct pain and in need of a soothing foot bath, but there was no succor, no place to rest without signaling to the wolves that they were too tired to fight. To add insult to injury, it began to rain. All they could do was slog through it, arms over their heads, eyes darting to either side to make sure the wolves weren’t closing in.
Agape in particular was rather worried about their presence, muttering, “Wolves don’t lose sleep when there’s sweet sheep to eat.”
“That sounds like a gnomeism!” Kirsi said, perking up.
The ovitaur gave her a withering glare. “If so, I’m guessing the gnome who -ismed it waaas no friend to sheep.”
It was nearing dusk and getting dark quickly underneath the canopy, and Båggi began to fret that they would have to make a stand and there would be much blood and no rest for any of them. After one more league and many gnomeric groans of bursting blisters, the path, thankfully, turned sharply west around an impressive fern, widening as it did so, and they saw two hand-painted signs staked into the ground alongside the path. The nearest one said: FREE EXPERT DENTAL CARE TO FOREST RESIDENTS.
“Free dental care? I didn’t know such a thing existed,” Kirsi said with a tiny snort.
“Who cares about dentists? I need a podiatrist!” Faucon hissed through clenched teeth, clutching a handkerchief over his head.
“Seconded,” Onni moaned. “And also a masseuse specializing in dainty calves.”
“There has to be a gotcha,” Agape said, grimly accustomed to the perils of the outdoors and inclement weather. “Nothing’s free. There’s always a caaatch. What’s the next sign say?”
They picked their way forward until they could make out the second sign, which was painted in a different, sloppier hand and had several lines crossed out in frustration. They had to squint to make it out.
BEWARE THE SPECTRES
SPECK TREES?
FAN TOMS
GHOSTS!
“Bless my buttered potatoes,” Båggi said, “Agape was right! That’s quite a gotcha!”
“How to take proper care of your teeth: Don’t. Don’t stop to floss; don’t stop to buy toothpaste. A Vartija’s job isn’t to have a nice smile; it’s to keep your charge hidden and safe. And leave no dental records.”
—PENELOPE FALLOPIA, in Run, Don’t Walk: A Letter to My Descendants on How to Live Long Enough to Have Your Own Descendants
Considering she’d spent her entire life wandering the land of Pell, Agape was always surprised when she found a place she’d never seen before. The edifice firmly anchored in the forest—half hut and half castle, festooned with more cupolas than it had a right to cup—was something she surely would’ve remembered.
And, like she said, she suspected tomfoolery. Especially since the wolves that had been following them were no longer visible. That just meant the slavering beasts had decided on different tactics. Or were at least secure in their dental routines.
Before Agape could explain her father’s foolproof method of slinking around to see if terrifying ghosts and/or wolves were in fact waiting in ambush, Kirsi just walked right up the grimly tilting cobblestones to the front door
. The wet steps creaked under even her tiny boots, but she didn’t slow down. Her determination was, frankly, offensive to Agape. Knocking on the doors of random strangers, especially those who’d taken care to place warning signs about the property, was a no-no, rainstorm or not.
“Kirsi, wait!” she called, but it was too late.
The gnome knocked on the human-sized (or ghost-sized or wolf-standing-on-its-back-legs-sized) door, right at knee height, and virtually howled, Yes, hello, I’m young and delectably tender and easily bruised by poltergeists. Please come answer the door! Even if what she actually said was something more along the lines of Hulloo, the house! We weary, most moiste travelers would be oh so glad to make your acquaintance! Agape knew what she really meant.
“If a ghost shows up to eat us, I hereby blaaame you, Kirsi,” Agape snarled.
Kirsi gave her usual competent and cheerful smile. “Oh, ghosts can’t eat you. They just tickle a bit and sometimes misplace the sugar.”
Agape looked to her other fellows as she waited for a wolf ghost to arrive at the door, but everyone seemed just as calm as Kirsi, all edging toward the barest sliver of dryness under the eaves. Agape had to find someone with some sense.
“Faucon, are you not concerned with the dangers in this house? Ghosts? Aaand possibly wolves?”
The halfling gave it a moment’s thought and responded, “If the occupant is phantasmal, it cannot hurt us. If it has substance, I feel certain that, between Gerd’s menace, my sword, and Kirsi’s curses, we can best it. It would be terribly pleasant to be inside, away from thorns and quicksand and bloodsucking insects. And this dratted rain. And the dark, which can often be unpleasant in forests such as this one.”
“I don’t hear anyone inside, and I haven’t seen an apparition,” Kirsi said, on her knees and peeking under the old door, which seemed to have shriveled away from the stone walls. “No lights, no movement. Can we safely assume it’s abandoned? Even the signs we passed looked terribly old.”
