The Dwarves (15 page)

“What did he say?” The woman sounded worried.

“Pay no attention,” the man said dismissively. “He’s feverish, that’s all. Look, he must have been caught in a wolf trap.
Either that, or the orc had metal jaws.” They both chuckled.

The dwarf clutched at the man’s arm. “You’re right; I’m feverish,” he said, making a last attempt to warn them, “but the orcs
are coming. They’re heading in three directions: west, south, and east. Three tribes. At least three hundred troopers.”

Footsteps approached rapidly. “Here’s the infusion,” said the girl. “So that’s what a groundling looks like!”

“Ava, you go inside too,” the man ordered. There was a brief pause; then Tungdil felt as though his leg were being dunked
in boiling oil. Even as he screamed the world went dark around him.

… but he doesn’t even have a proper beard!” Tungdil detected a note of disappointment in the girl’s voice. “Grandpa said they
always have long beards, but this one’s shorter than Father’s. It’s like… scratchy wool.

“Do you think he’s got gold and diamonds?” The speaker took a step closer. “Remember what Grandma told us? Groundlings are
richer than anyone.”

“Come back here!” hissed the girl. “You can’t just search his pockets. It’s rude!”

Tungdil’s eyes flicked open. Squealing, the children jumped back in a flurry of straw. He sat up and looked around.

Nine children were gathered around him, staring with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Their ages ranged from four to fourteen
cycles and they were clad in plain garments. Nothing they wore could have cost more than a single bronze coin.

His leg had been dressed and was throbbing a bit, but the pain was gone and his temperature was back to normal. They had taken
good care of him.

“Vraccas be with you,” he greeted them. “Could you tell me where I am and who was kind enough to tend to me?”

“He speaks just like us,” said a redheaded boy with sticking-out ears.

The eldest girl, her brown hair in two plaits, grinned. “Of course he talks like us. Why wouldn’t he?” She nodded at him.
“I’m Ava. Mother found you five orbits ago. You fell over in the mud, but Father and the others picked you up and looked after
you.” She sent a fair-haired girl, Jemta, to fetch the grown-ups. “Are you better now? Do you want something to eat?”

“Five orbits ago?” To Tungdil it seemed more like a short doze. His stomach rumbled loudly. “Hmm, I suppose some food would
be in order — and something to drink as well.” He smiled; the children reminded him of Frala, Sunja, and baby Ikana. “Haven’t
you ever seen a dwarf before?” The harmless inquiry unleashed a deluge of questions.

“Which folk do you belong to?”

“Are you rich?”

“Where are your diamonds?”

“How many orcs have you slain?”

“Are all groundlings small like you?”

“Is it true you can smash rocks with your bare hands?”

“Why isn’t your beard very long?”

“How many names have you got?”

“Stop, stop!” Tungdil pleaded, laughing. “I can’t answer everyone at once. You can take it in turns, but first I have to tell
your parents something.” He wanted to save the news of the orcs for the grown-ups; there was no need to scare the children.

A fair-haired woman whom he vaguely remembered from his last lucid moment five orbits ago came in with a basket of victuals
on her arm. The smell was enough to make his mouth water. “I’m Rémsa,” she said.

“And I’m Tungdil. You saved my life and for that I’m eternally grateful.” He lowered his voice. “But I’m going to have to
ask you to send the children away.”

“Why?” Jemta protested cheekily.

He grinned at her. “Because certain things aren’t meant for young ears!” They left.

“You’re not still on about Goodwater, are you?” said the woman. “You had all kinds of nightmares while you were ill.”

“They weren’t nightmares, Rémsa. It’s the truth! The orcs, they… Never mind about that: You have to get out of here! They’re
coming. They’re heading south, east, and west — three whole tribes of orcs, numbering a hundred troopers each. You’ll be killed.
They’ll slaughter your animals and set light to your farms. You have to go!”

Rémsa placed a hand on his brow. “The temperature’s gone,” she said thoughtfully. “You don’t seem feverish…” She unpacked
some bread, milk, cheese, and cured meat and laid them on the blanket to protect them from the straw. “So it’s true, is it?
I’ll tell Opatja and we’ll send a messenger to Steepleton. The privy council will know what to do.”

“There’s no time for that! They’re on their way already!” he said with as much urgency as the mouthful of sausage allowed.
Hunger had got the better of him and he was tucking in ravenously.

“You’ve been sick for five orbits, don’t forget. They’d be here by now if they wanted to attack. We’ll send out a scout, just
in case.”

“Is there any way of getting a message through from Steepleton?” A rider or even a carrier pigeon would reach the major cities
of Girdlegard faster than anyone else. Those services were by no means cheap, but at least they could be relied on to spread
the news quickly.

“A message? I’ll send someone who can note it down for you.”

“It’s no trouble,” Tungdil interrupted politely. “I can write.” He could hardly blame her for assuming he was illiterate;
most country people were unschooled. “I just need some parchment and ink — and someone to take the letter as far as Steepleton.
It’s for Lot-Ionan in Ionandar.”

She nodded and checked the dressing on his calf. “You were lucky not to lose your leg, you know. It’s a good thing we found
you when we did; another orbit and you’d be wearing a wooden peg. That trap must have been a rusty old thing. Make sure you
eat and get some rest.”

She gave strict instructions to the children to leave him in peace, but they soon returned, giggling and bearing parchment
and a quill.

From then on it was impossible to get rid of them. Knowing nothing of dwarves save for stories and legends, they were determined
to satisfy their curiosity while they had the chance. They stared at him raptly, following every loop and flourish of the
quill as he composed his message to the magus.

The letter contained a full account of all that had happened in Goodwater, the pact between the orcs and älfar, the designs
of Nôd’onn, who was said to be the ruler of the Perished Land, and other salient facts.
I hope it gets there in time,
he worried silently. He made a second copy in case the first went missing en route, then lay back in exhaustion on his soft
bed of straw.

As soon as the children saw that the letter was complete, they pestered him with yet more questions. This time Tungdil answered
with one of his own: “Who can tell me about the Blacksaddle?”

“I can!” Jemta volunteered proudly. “It’s almost three hundred miles from here. Father says it’s near the highway. He knows
all about Girdlegard from when he used to be a trader.” She paused for a second. “I know — I’ll go and get him for you. He’ll
describe it better than me.” Jumping to her feet, she dashed out like a whirlwind and returned a few moments later with Opatja,
a stocky gray-haired man. To Tungdil’s delight, he came bearing a tankard of beer.

“The Blacksaddle, you say?” he asked. “An unnatural sort of place. There’s a road, all right, but it doesn’t lead straight
to the mountain; you’ll have to hack your way through the forest for the final mile or two.” He picked up Tungdil’s map and
traced a rough route. “You can’t miss it: a flat black mountain poking above the trees.”

“Flat?” said the dwarf in surprise, taking a grateful sip of his beer. The children drew closer, listening intently.

Opatja nodded. “Think of it as a giant tablet of soap that slipped from Palandiell’s hands. It’s four hundred paces high,
three hundred paces wide, and it runs for a full mile plus another two hundred or so paces.” To show the dwarf exactly what
he meant, he sliced a hunk of cheese and cut long vertical gouges into its sides. “That’s from the wind and rain,” he explained
to the children.

“Ah, a table mountain! They call them that because the summit is flat like a tabletop. I read about them in my magus’s library.”
He tried to imagine how the Blacksaddle would look in real life. Opatja’s description had vaguely reminded him of a legend,
but he couldn’t for the life of him remember how it went. Oh well, the three-hundred-mile march would give him ample opportunity
to search his memory.

“What do you want with the Blacksaddle?”

“I’m looking for a wizard, a former apprentice of my magus. He moved there some time ago and now Lot-Ionan is concerned for
his well-being. He won’t rest until I’ve seen him for myself.”

Opatja contemplated Tungdil’s injured leg. “Leave it a few more orbits before you set off. We’ll give you some healing herbs
so you can keep treating it while you’re on the move.” He picked up the letters to Lot-Ionan and rose to his feet.

“Thank you,” Tungdil said warmly. “I’m most grateful to you.”

“Don’t mention it,” replied the former merchant with a laugh. “I’ve never seen the little rascals so quiet!”

He left his guest with the children, who resumed their persistent questioning as soon as he was gone. They could hardly believe
their ears when Tungdil told them he was sixty-three cycles old.

“Shouldn’t your beard be much longer?” Jemta asked suspiciously. “I asked Grandpa and he said groundlings grow their beards
to the floor.”

“I’m a dwarf, not a groundling! And besides, I grew my beard for thirty cycles before I had to shave it off. It kept getting
scorched by the sparks in the forge and then some scoundrel dyed it blue.”

The boy with the protruding ears reached out to touch it. “It’s much wirier and curlier than Father’s!” he pronounced.

“You should try combing it! Imagine how long it takes to braid.” The dwarf grinned and showed them one of his plaits. “It’s
willful and unruly, just like us. We dwarves hold competitions to see who can grow the longest, bushiest beards, and we decorate
our braids with beads and metal trinkets. Most of my kinsfolk look like me. Very few of us have mustaches, sideboards, or
chinstraps, and fewer still have no beard at all.” He could tell them all about it, thanks to Lot-Ionan’s books.

Giggling, the children fashioned their own beards by plaiting stalks of hay and sticking them to their chins with globules
of sap scraped from the wooden beams.

“Do all groundlings… I mean, do all dwarves have beards?”

“Absolutely. If you see a clean-shaven dwarf, you can be sure that it’s a punishment for something. An exiled dwarf won’t
be allowed home until his beard has reached the length of his ax haft. And since our beards grow so slowly, the banishment
lasts for cycles.”
Book-learning,
he thought sadly.
Book-learning passed on to me by humans
. He sighed.

Jemta seized her chance and snatched the straw from the chin of the jug-eared boy. “There, you’re banished! Be off with you!”

In no time the battle of the beard was raging with all the youngsters intent on banishing one another from the barn. In the
end Rémsa reappeared and put an end to the fun. Amid loud protests, the children were made to say their good nights and go
to bed.

The woman smiled at him warmly. “They’ve taken to you,” she said. “They’re not this friendly with everyone, you know. Good
night to you, Tungdil. We’ll ask Palandiell to mend your leg.”

They actually like me.
It came as a welcome surprise. Frala and her daughters would surely feel at home here.
So much has happened already; they won’t believe the half of it!
He stroked the scarf that Frala had given him, then lay back and put his arms behind his head. If only he could have answered
the children’s questions about dwarven hoards and dwarven customs with proper authority instead of gleaning his knowledge
from books.
It’s about time I got to know my own people,
he thought.

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
ungdil soon had the chance to repay his hosts for their kindness in nursing him back to health. Two orbits later, when his
leg was almost mended, he set to work in the hamlet’s little forge, tackling all the jobs that the regular smith, the only
one in the vicinity, was unable to do on account of a broken arm. From the man’s point of view, the dwarf’s assistance — unpaid,
of course — was a godsend.

While the children worked the bellows and squabbled over taking turns, Tungdil placed the iron in the furnace and waited until
it glowed red with heat.

The youngsters watched as he hammered the metal amid showers of sparks. With every thud of the hammer, there were squeals
of delight.

The smith nodded at Tungdil admiringly. “It’s not often you see such swift work,” he complimented him. “And good quality too.
Maybe it’s true that metalwork was invented by groundlings.”

“We’re dwarves, not groundlings.”

“Sorry,” the man said with an apologetic smile. “I meant dwarves.”

Tungdil grinned. “Well, no matter how fast I work, there’s enough to keep me busy for a good long while. How about I stay
another orbit? I can always leave for the Blacksaddle after that.”

They were interrupted by Jemta. “Show me how to make nails!” she demanded.

“You want to be a smith, do you?” Tungdil patted the blond child on the head, then set about teaching her how to make a nail.
While she ran off proudly to show her handiwork to her parents, he turned his attention to forging a new windlass for the
well.

It was midafternoon when he left his perch to lie down in a tub of cool water. His clothes reeked of perspiration, so he climbed
in fully dressed.

I’m surprised my skin doesn’t hiss like hot iron,
he thought. The cold water took his breath away, but then he sank luxuriously below the surface and came up, snorting and
gasping for air. He was just wiping the water from his eyes when a shadow fell over the tub. There was a clunking of metal
and the smell of oil.