The Dwarves (10 page)

“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 Gorén. 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.

T
he 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 settle.

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.”

“Hence the mercenaries at the gates.”

“They’re here to protect us until King Tilogorn’s soldiers rid us of the beasts.” He turned to go.

“Wait!” Tungdil laid a hand on his grease-spotted sleeve. The man’s words had given him faint grounds for hope. “Will there
be dwarves among them? I heard King Tilogorn has dwarves in his pay.”

The publican shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you, little fellow, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“When do they get here?” he asked eagerly. The opportunity of setting eyes on a fellow dwarf was reason enough to delay his
mission to the Blacksaddle.
All the more potatoes for Jolosin to peel
.

“By rights they should have been here three orbits ago,” said the publican, signaling apologetically to the queue of thirsty
customers at the bar. Tungdil let him go and returned to his supper, mulling over what he knew of Tilogorn and his kingdom.

The name Idoslane was derived from the land’s bloody past. At the heart of the historical conflict was the throne. The Idos,
the kingdom’s great ruling dynasty, had plotted, conspired, and waged war on one another, bringing misery on themselves and
their people, who bore the brunt of their feuds. Bit by bit the state was torn apart by their squabbling until every district
was governed by a different member of the Ido clan. At last their subjects reached the limit of their endurance and felled
every last sibling, cousin, and scion of the dynasty: Ido-slane.

A villager, rather the worse for wear, staggered to his feet and raised his tankard: “Long live Prince Mallen! May he drive
King Tilogorn from the throne!” When no one joined in with his toast, he lowered himself to his stool, muttering darkly.

If Tungdil’s memory served him correctly, Prince Mallen was the sole surviving member of the Ido clan. He lived in exile in
Urgon, the kingdom to the north of Idoslane, and was forever conspiring to return to his country as its rightful king.

Tacked to the wall of the tavern was an ancient map of Idoslane, its yellowed parchment stained by smoke. The succession of
rolling hills, forests, and plains made for a pleasantly varied landscape. It would have been idyllic, if it weren’t for the
orcs.

“Not a bad place, is it?” observed a fellow drinker, following Tungdil’s gaze.

“Save for Toboribor.” Tungdil pointed to the black enclave at the heart of the kingdom: The orcish stronghold was located
on Idoslane’s most fertile land. He picked up his tankard and joined the villager at his table. “Why are the brutes on the
move?”

“They’re bored, that’s all. Orcs don’t need a reason to plunder and pillage. They attacked a place a few miles from here and
set fire to the fields and orchards. Their sort are just monsters. Robbing, fighting, killing… They don’t know any better.”

“And they’re strong,” said another, eyes widening theatrically. “There was a time when —”

“Not that old fable,” groaned the publican, stopping at the table to refill their tankards.