by Markus Heitz
The dwarf's clumsy attempt to change the subject brought a wry smile to Lot-Ionan's face. "You were left here at your parents' behest because they wanted you to be the greatest wizard of the dwarven race, or at least that's what I told you. You saw through the story soon enough. Once I taught you to read, you learned enough about your kinsfolk to know it wasn't true."
"Dwarves aren't fond of magic and magic isn't fond of them." Tungdil couldn't help smiling. His hands were best suited to wielding a hammer and he could happily clutch a book from Lot-Ionan's vast library, but a sorcerer's staff was another matter. "Vraccas made us artisans through and through. There's no room in our hearts for magic."
"Indeed," the magus agreed in amusement, remembering the long line of minor disasters resulting from Tungdil's accidental encounters with the occult. "But you're too modest. You've crammed your head with knowledge like a scholar. You know more about the peoples of Girdlegard than some of my pupils."
"The credit is all yours, Lot-Ionan. You even schooled me in rhetoric."
"And that was no small feat. Adhering to the proper rules of disputation is a challenge for the obstinate tongue of a dwarf!" His face became serious. "I still curse myself for not asking the kobolds where they found you. At least then I'd be able to tell you which clan you belong to." He reached down to the floor and rummaged through a stack of papers to produce a map of Girdlegard, which he carefully unfurled. "I've sent word to Beroпn's folk," he said, pointing his index finger at the secondling kingdom. "Perhaps they'll know something of the circumstances surrounding your birth. Given the ripe old age you dwarves can get to, there's a reasonable chance your parents are still alive. Well, Tungdil, what do you say?"
The dwarf was visibly moved. His dream of meeting his clansfolk was on the cusp of being fulfilled. "That's…Oh, thank you, Lot-Ionan!" he said, overcome with excitement. "Have the secondlings replied?"
Lot-Ionan was delighted to see his enthusiasm. "Not yet. But I'm sure they'll be intrigued by the news of a lost dwarf. They'll be in touch; you can count on it. It's only a start, though. You shouldn't get your hopes up yet."
"I can't thank you enough," Tungdil said solemnly, still struggling to put his emotions into words.
"Now that we've got the map out, I may as well show you where you're going." Lot-Ionan traced a route from the underground vaults through Idoslane, across the border, and into the kingdom of Gauragar. His finger stopped just short of the enchanted realm of Lios Nudin, home of the powerful magus Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty, and came to rest over a peak named the Blacksaddle. "There you have it, three hundred miles on a northwesterly bearing. The paths are well marked and I'll give you the map to take with you, of course. Failing that, you can always stop for directions in one of the villages on the way." He rolled up the parchment. "As for your errand, I need you to convey a few items to my good friend Gorйn. If you look in the ebony cabinet, you'll find a small leather bag with green drawstrings. I borrowed the contents for an experiment many years ago and their purpose has been served. The coins on the table are for you to take."
While Tungdil was scrabbling in the cupboard, Lot-Ionan leafed through a book, pretending to read. The dwarf pulled out a bag. "Found it," he said finally.
"You should go, then, Tungdil, but remember to reflect on our earlier conversation. If we find your family, you'll be free to join them or remain with me, as you please," he said without looking up from his tome. Tungdil turned to the door.
"And one last thing: Be careful! Keep an eye on the bag and don't lose it: Its contents are valuable," he warned. At last he glanced up and smiled: "I strongly advise you not to open it. We don't want any mishaps while you're away. Palandiell be with you-and Vraccas too!"
"You can depend on me, Lot-Ionan."
"I know I can, Tungdil. Now, enjoy your trip and come back safely."
On leaving Lot-Ionan's study, Tungdil steered a course for the kitchens to stock up on victuals and tell Frala of the news.
He found her working at the large dough-trough. The stodgy mix of flour, water, and yeast took considerable effort to knead and her face glistened with sweat from the exertion.
"I need provisions," he announced with a grin.
"The magus is sending you on an errand, is he?" Frala smiled and gave the dough a final vigorous squeeze. "I'm sure we'll find something in the larder for Lot-Ionan's special envoy." She dusted her hands and led the way into a small room that Tungdil imagined was the closest thing to seventh heaven for a mouse.
Frala filled his knapsack with cured meat, cheese, sausage, and a loaf of rye bread. "There," she said, "that should keep you going."
"Not for three hundred miles, it won't."
"Three hundred?" she exclaimed in surprise. "Tungdil, that's not an errand; it's a serious journey! You'll need more food than that." She added two large sausages and some ham. "But don't let Cook see," she said, buckling the flap hastily.
They returned to the kitchen. "Aren't you going to tell me where you're going?" she asked impatiently.
"The Blacksaddle. The magus wants me to deliver a few items to one of his old apprentices."
"The Blacksaddle," Frala echoed thoughtfully. "I've never heard of it. But three hundred miles is an awfully long way. Which kingdoms will you pass through?"
Tungdil chuckled. "I'd take you with me and show you, but I don't think Lot-Ionan would approve-not to mention your husband and daughters." He showed her the map and traced his finger along the route.
"Through Idoslane and Gauragar! And Lios Nudin is barely a stone's throw away. Aren't you curious to visit?" she exclaimed in excitement.
"Not much happens in Lios Nudin," Tungdil said dismissively. "Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty does nothing but study. But Turguria would be worth a look."
"Why's that?"
"Turgur the Fair-Faced is on a quest for universal beauty. He wants to make everyone into paragons of elven grace-even bow-legged farmers and squinty-eyed maids. From what Lot-Ionan told me, he hasn't quite perfected his spells. Apparently, his experiments have led to such deformities that some of his subjects are too ashamed to leave their homes. It's probably a good thing I won't be going there. What if Turgur took it into his head to magic me to human size?"
"What a dreadful thought," said Frala with feeling. She stooped to embrace the dwarf. "May Palandiell and Vraccas bless you and keep you from harm." Before he knew it, she had unknotted her scarf and tied it round his waist. "Here, now you'll have a talisman too." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "It'll remind you of me-and you'll have no excuse for forgetting my present!"
Tungdil looked into her lively green eyes and sighed. He was so fond of Frala that it was hard to imagine life without her in a dwarven kingdom, especially now that he was guardian to Sunja and Ikana. His attachment to her was not in the least bit romantic; he felt bound to her like a brother, having known her since she was a child.
"Lot-Ionan wrote to the dwarves of Beroпn," he said, proceeding to recount his conversation with the magus. "He wants to find out where I came from. If the secondlings know my kin, I'd like to visit them in the mountains, maybe move there. The magus said I was free to choose."
The maid embraced him once more. "It looks as though your dream is coming true," she congratulated him. She smiled mischievously. "Jolosin will jump for joy if you decide to go." "Maybe I should stay, then," threatened Tungdil.
A shadow came over her face. "You won't forget to come back and visit us, will you? I'd like to hear about the dwarves of the south," she said, her voice tinged with melancholy in spite of her genuine pleasure at the news.
"Frala, who knows if I even belong there? They might not know anything about me; I could have been hewn from the mountain without any kin. In any case, my first priority is Gorйn. I'll see what happens after that."
A wail went up from the cot in the corner. Frala hurried to comfort Ikana, who had been sleeping snugly by the hearth.
"Say hello to your guardian, little one," she told her daughter.
"He'll always be here for you, just as he's always been here for me."
The baby grabbed the dwarf's outstretched finger and pulled. Tungdil was almost certain that he heard a soft chuckle.
"She's laughing at me!"
"Nonsense! She's laughing with you! She likes you, see?"
"Don't worry," Tungdil promised the baby, "I'll buy presents for you and your sister too." He disengaged his calloused finger from her delicate pink hands. Now that Ikana no longer seemed so fragile, he would have liked to stay and play. She reached up and tugged a strand of his hair. He carefully loosened her grip. "So you want me to stay, do you?"
The trio made their way through the shadowy galleries to the northern exit. Sunlight seeped through the cracks in the doorway. Frala kissed him on the forehead. "Look after yourself, Tungdil," she said. "And come back safe and sound!"
A famulus pulled on a rope to open the door and the iron-bound oak panels parted with a groan.
Outside, the rolling grassy hills, bright flowers, and leafy trees were dappled with sunshine. The aroma of warm soil wafted in on the breeze and the tunnel filled with the spring warbling of birds.
"Do you hear that, Tungdil? Girdlegard is wishing you well," said Frala, filling her lungs with fresh air. "What glorious weather for a journey!"
The dwarf lingered for a moment in the safety of the shaded doorway. He was accustomed to having ceilings above him and walls that afforded protection on all sides. In the open, there was too much freedom for his liking and he had to acclimate himself all over again.
Not wanting Frala to think he was no braver than a gnome, he took a deep breath, stepped out into the sunshine above Ionandar, and marched purposefully away.
"Come back soon, Tungdil," she called. He turned and waved until the doors to the vaults were closed, then continued on his way. After a few paces he came to a halt. Screwing up his eyes, he winced in the dazzling light. His subterranean existence had made him so sensitive to the sun's powerful rays that he was obliged to shelter in the shade of a towering oak. He dropped onto the grass and laid the magus's bag and his pack of provisions beside him.
Hmm, not the most promising start, he thought to himself. He squinted at his surroundings, straining to see something of the landscape. The canopy of leaves afforded little protection from the glare.
It was the same at the beginning of every journey, but at least the terrain, a wide track winding gently over rolling countryside, would be easily mastered on foot.
He held the map above his head to block out the light and studied his route. Assuming the cartographer knew his business, the landscape would begin to change in the region of the Blacksaddle. A dense forest of pines surrounded the mountain, through which there was no obvious path.
So much the better. Tungdil ran his thumb over the blade of his ax. Those trees will regret it if they get in my way.
The sun followed its slow trajectory across the sky.
Little by little Tungdil's eyes adjusted to the sunshine as it weakened and mellowed to a soft orange glow. By dusk, his vision would be restored entirely, but time was running out if he wanted to cover a few miles and find a bed before nightfall.
Straightening up determinedly, he slung his packs on his back, returned his ax to his belt, and plodded on, all the while cursing the sunshine. Grumbling wouldn't get him there any faster, but it vastly improved his mood.
The sun was disappearing over the crest of a hill when Tungdil emerged from the forest on the fifth orbit of his uneventful journey and found himself confronted by palisades bounding a village of some considerable size.
Two soldiers patrolled the wooden watchtower above the gateway. At first neither noticed the diminutive figure outside, but at last one of the men motioned to his companion. Judging by their reaction, the dwarf was not regarded as a threat.
Tungdil was relieved. After four chilly nights in the open, camped among squirrels, foxes, and more greenery than he could tolerate, he was looking forward to finding a tavern with good beer, warm food, and a soft mattress. His stomach was grumbling already.
He reached the gateway, but the doors remained closed. The sentries leaned over the parapet and watched from above.
"Good evening to you both!" he bellowed up at them. "Be so kind as to open the gates! I should like a bed for the night and a roof overhead!" Even from a distance, he could tell that their armor was well made and well cared for. This led him to two conclusions: First, the suits had been crafted by a smith of considerable skill, and second, the metal was worn for protection and not effect. The sentries were no ordinary villagers.
These thoughts were followed by another revealing discovery. In the flickering torchlight he had taken the rounded objects on the palisades to be gargoyles, but on closer inspection they turned out to be skulls. The heads of three dozen dead orcs were impaled on the defenses.
Tungdil doubted the wisdom of baiting the enemy in this fashion. As a deterrent, an array of orcish skulls had about as much chance of warding off the orcs as a dead bird would protect a field from crows. In fact, the sight of the severed heads was more likely to incite the brutes to wholesale slaughter.
From this Tungdil deduced that he had crossed the border into Idoslane and that the men hired to defend the settlement were trained fighters but foolhardy with it. Only mercenaries paid by the skull would be reckless enough to provoke the beasts so gruesomely. The bloodied heads had been set out as bait to draw in nearby bands of orcs.
"What are you waiting for?" he called indignantly. "Let me in!"
"Greetings, groundling! This is Goodwater in the fair land of Idoslane. Have you sighted orcs on your travels?"
"No," he shouted, struggling to keep his temper. To be referred to as a "groundling" was more than he could bear. "And if you don't mind, I'm no more a groundling than you men are grasslings: I'm a dwarf."
The sentries laughed. At their signal, the right half of the double door creaked open and Tungdil was allowed to pass. Inside, another pair of heavily armed soldiers was waiting for him. They eyed him distrustfully.
"Well, blow me down," one of them muttered. "If it isn't a real-life dwarf! They're not as tiny as everyone says they are."
Tungdil was once again reminded that humans knew almost nothing about dwarves. He bristled under the sentries' stares. "If you've quite finished gawking, maybe one of you could inform me where I might find a bed."
The sentries directed him to the nearest tavern, which lay a short distance along the dusty street. Above the door, a shabby platter and a similarly dilapidated tankard indicated that the place sold food and beer, although, by the look of it, it wouldn't be anything fancy.
In spite of his best efforts to slip in unseen, the rusty hinges squealed excitedly as soon as he lifted the wooden crossbar and pushed open the door. It was hard to imagine a simpler yet more effective means of guarding against intruders: The shriek of neglected metal was impossible to ignore. The dwarf hesitated for a moment, then entered.
Seated at the tavern's roughly fashioned tables were ten villagers holding tankards of ale or mead. Tungdil's nose was assailed immediately by the smell of food combined with tobacco and sweat. The villagers wore simple garments: hessian or coarse woolen shirts to protect against the evening chill. Their feet were encased in thick stockings and laced shoes.
Two of the men nodded hesitantly in acknowledgment; the others were too busy staring. It was always the same.
The dwarf returned the greeting and took his place at an empty table. Naturally the furniture was far too big for him, but he made himself comfortable and ordered his supper and a large ale. In no time a steaming plate of cornmeal and mincemeat was laid in front of him, followed by a tankard of beer.
He tucked in ravenously. The meal tasted wholesome, a little burned, and somewhat bland, but at least it was warm. The pale watery beer disappointed his dwarven palate, but he drank it all the same. He had no desire to cause offense, especially when there was the matter of his lodgings still to s
ettle.
One of the villagers was looking at him so intently that he could almost feel his piercing stare. Tungdil returned his gaze unflinchingly.
"What beats me," said the man, raising his voice so everyone in the tavern could hear, "is what a groundling would be doing in our village." A ring of smoke left his pipe and shot toward the sooty ceiling.
"Breaking his journey." Tungdil chewed his mouthful deliberately, dropped his spoon into the gloop, and wiped his beard. A belligerent villager was the last thing he needed. It was obvious from his manner that the man was sparring for a fight. Well, he's picked the wrong dwarf! "I've no desire to argue with you, estimable sir," he said firmly. "I've spent the past few nights in the open, and Vraccas willing, I'd like to sleep on something other than twigs and leaves."
There was an eruption of mocking laughter. Some of the villagers prostrated themselves in front of the pipe smoker, calling him "sir" and "your honor"; one even went so far as to set an empty tankard like a crown on his head. They evidently found it amusing that Tungdil should address a humble villager in terms of respect.
"You think you're quite something, don't you, groundling?" The man hurled the tankard to the floor and faced his friends angrily. "Go ahead and laugh, you harebrained idiots! What if he was sent by orcs to spy on us? You won't find it so funny when he sneaks out of bed and opens the gates!"
The mirth stopped abruptly.
At once Tungdil realized he would have to tread carefully. On a practical level, that meant sticking to plain speech. It was bad enough that he was a dwarf, let alone a dwarf with fancy manners.
"Dwarves and orcs are sworn enemies," he said earnestly. "A dwarf would never throw in his lot with an orc." He extended his hand toward the man. "Here, have my word that I mean you no harm. I swear it by Vraccas, creator of all dwarves."
The villager stared at the sturdy fingers and weighed the matter in his mind. At last he gave the hand a brief shake and turned away.
The publican brought the relieved Tungdil another beer. "Don't mind him," he said quickly. "We're all on edge at the moment. So many villages have been plundered these past few orbits. Orcs are rampaging through the northwest of Idoslane."
