The Dwarves (4 page)

With a muttered curse, the famulus threw his weight against the dangling pot. “Ow!” he protested. “It’s hot!”

“That’s my goulash you’re holding!” the cook reminded him darkly. Conceding defeat to her hairnet, she allowed her brown mop
to fall across her pudgy face. “I don’t care if you’re a famulus. I’ll take my rolling pin to you if you let go of that chain!”
Her plump arms rippled as she balled her fists.

On discovering the source of the problem, Tungdil decided to punish Jolosin by delaying the repair.

“This won’t be easy,” he said in a voice of feigned dismay. Frala raised her pretty green eyes from the potatoes she was peeling,
saw what he was up to, and giggled.

At last he made the necessary adjustments and checked the mechanism again. The pulley held and the goulash was safe. “You
can let go now.”

Jolosin did as instructed, then inspected his dirty hands. Some of the grime had transferred itself to his precious blue robes.
He shot a suspicious look at Frala, who was laughing out loud. His color rose.

“That’s exactly what you were hoping for, isn’t it, you stunted wretch!” He took a step toward Tungdil and raised his fist,
then stopped; the dwarf was considerably stronger than he was. Angrily, he stormed away.

Tungdil watched him go and smirked. “If he wants a fight, he shall have one. It’s a pity he lost his nerve.” He wiped his
hands on his apron.

Frala fished an apple from the basket beside her and tossed it to him. “Poor Jolosin,” she said with a chuckle. “His fine
gown is all soiled.”

“He should have been more careful.” He shrugged and strolled over. Like him, Frala was responsible for the little things that
contributed to the smooth running of the school. “But I’ll excuse his clumsiness, just this once.” His kind eyes looked at
her brightly from among his laughter lines.

“You two deserve each other,” Frala sighed. “If you’re not careful, someone will come to a bad end because of your feuding.”
There was a splash as she dropped a peeled potato into the waiting tub of water.

“What did he expect when he dyed my beard? You know what they say: Make a noise in a mine shaft and you’re bound to hear an
echo.” Tungdil ran a hand over his stubbly beard. “I had to shave my chin, thanks to his stupid spell. He must have known
we’d be sworn enemies after that!”

“I thought orcs were your worst enemy?” she said archly.

“Well, I’ve made an exception for him. Beards are sacred and if I were a proper dwarf I’d kill him for his insolence. I’m
too easygoing for my own good.” He bit into the apple hungrily. With his left hand he took something from the pouch at his
waist and pressed it into Frala’s hand. “For you.”

She looked down at her palm and saw three horseshoe nails painstakingly forged together to form a homemade talisman. She stroked
the dwarf’s cheek fondly.

“What a lovely gift. Thank you, Tungdil.” She got up, fetched a length of twine, threaded it through the pendant, and knotted
it deftly round her neck. The talisman nestled against her bare skin. “Does it suit me?” she asked coyly.

“Anyone would think it had been made for you,” he said, thrilled that Frala was wearing the iron trinket as proudly as if
Girdlegard’s finest jeweler had designed and forged the piece.

There was a special bond between the pair of them. The dwarf had known Frala since she was a baby and had watched her mature
into an attractive young woman who turned the heads of Lot-Ionan’s apprentices. These days she had two daughters of her own:
Sunja and one-year-old Ikana.

Cycles ago, when Frala was still a girl, he had made tin figures for her to play with, showed her around the forge, and let
her work the bellows. “Dragon’s breath,” she used to call it as the sparks flew up the chimney, accompanied by her laughter.
Frala never forgot the pains he had taken to entertain her, nor how he cared for her daughter.

She shook the remaining potatoes into the tub and topped up the water. As she turned round, her green eyes looked at him keenly.
“It’s funny,” she said with a smile. “I was just thinking how you haven’t changed a bit in all the cycles I’ve known you.”

Half of Tungdil’s apple had already disappeared. Still munching, he made himself comfortable on a stool. “And I was just thinking
how splendidly we get on together,” he said simply.

“Frala!” the cook shouted. “I’m going for some herbs. You’ll have to stir the goulash.” The ladle, its stem scarcely shorter
than Tungdil, changed hands. The cook hurried out. “You’d better not let it stick,” she warned.

A delicious smell of goulash rose from the pot as Frala gave the stew a vigorous stir.

“All the others look older,” she said, “even the magus. But you’ve stayed the same for twenty-three cycles. How do you think
you’ll look in another twenty-three?”

The topic was one that Tungdil was reluctant to consider. From what he had read about dwarves, it seemed he was destined to
live for three hundred cycles or more. Even now it grieved him to think that he would see the death of Frala and her daughters,
of whom he had grown so fond.

With these thoughts in mind, he popped the apple core into his mouth. “Who knows, Frala,” he mumbled, hoping to dismiss the
gloomy subject.

The maid had a particular knack for reading his mind that morning. “Can I ask you something, Tungdil?” He nodded. “Do you
promise you’ll look after my daughters when I’m gone?”

He choked on the sour apple pips, scratching his throat in the process. “I don’t think we need to worry about that now. Why,
you’ll live to be” — he looked her up and down — “a hundred cycles at least. I’ll ask the magus to give you eternal life —
and Sunja and Ikana too, of course.”

Frala laughed. “Oh, I’m not intending to meet Palandiell quite yet.” She kept stirring dutifully, even though her forehead
was dripping with perspiration. “But all the same, I’d… Well, I’d feel better if I knew you were there to take care of them.”
Her shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “Please, Tungdil, say you’ll be their guardian.”

“Frala, by the time you’re summoned to your goddess, Sunja and Ikana will be old enough to look after themselves.” Realizing
that she was in earnest, he duly gave his word. “I’d be honored to be their guardian.” He slid from the stool. “If the chain
slips again, send Jolosin to find me!” He made his way out with a small bowl of goulash to sustain him until lunch.

On returning to the forge he found Sunja waiting for him with yet another commission from Eiden, two wooden barrels whose
iron hoops had split. No sooner had he started work than the plow was brought in, needing urgent repair.

Tungdil relished the work. The fierce flames and physical effort made it a sweaty business, and soon perspiration was trickling
down his arms and plopping into the fire with a hiss. Frala’s daughter watched in fascination, passing him tools whenever
she was strong enough to lift them and working the bellows with all her might.

The glowing metal yielded to his hammer, letting him shape it as he pleased. At times like this he almost felt like a proper
dwarf and not just a foundling raised by humans.

His mind began to drift. He had reached the age of sixty-three solar cycles without seeing another of his kind, which was
why he looked forward to being sent away on errands. The occasions when Lot-Ionan required his services as a messenger were
regrettably few and far between. There was nothing Tungdil wanted more than to meet one of his own people and learn about
his race, but the chances of encountering a traveling dwarf were infinitesimally small.

The realm of Ionandar belonged exclusively to humans. There were a few gnomes and kobolds, but their races were almost extinct.
Those that remained lived in remote caves beneath the surface, emerging only when there was something worth stealing — or
so Frala said. The last of the elven people lived in Âlandur amid the glades of the Eternal Forest, while the dwarves inhabited
the five ranges bounding Girdlegard. Tungdil had almost given up hope of visiting a dwarven kingdom and finding out about
his folk.

Everything he knew about dwarves stemmed from Lot-Ionan’s library, but it was a dry kind of knowledge, empty and colorless.
In some of the magus’s books, the writers called the dwarves “groundlings” and poked fun at them, while others blamed his
people for opening Girdlegard to the northern hordes. Tungdil refused to believe it.

But he could understand why so few of his kind ventured outside their kingdoms; his kinsfolk were almost certainly offended
by such prejudice and preferred to turn their backs on humankind.

Tungdil was putting the finishing touches to the first of the iron hoops when Jolosin appeared at the door, wearing, as Tungdil
noted with satisfaction, a clean set of robes.

“Hurry,” he spluttered, panting for breath.

“Don’t tell me it’s the goulash again,” said Tungdil, grinning. “Why don’t you run along and hold the chain until I get there?”

“It’s the laboratory…” Barely able to get the words out, Jolosin resorted to gestures. “The chimney… ,” he gasped, turning
and hurrying away.

This time it sounded serious. The dwarf set down his hammer in consternation and wiped his hands on his apron. Once Sunja
had been dispatched to join her mother in the kitchen, he chased after the famulus through the underground galleries hewn
into the stone.

Border Territory,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6233rd Solar Cycle

T
ens of hundreds of tiny grains of sand pelted their helms, shields, mail, and every inch of unprotected flesh.

Battered by the gusts, the brave band of dwarves struggled onward, mounted on ponies. Scarves muffled their faces but the
cloth was no match for the fine desert sand, which worked its way through the fabric, clogging their beards and grinding between
their teeth.

“Bedeviled wind,” cursed Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, king of the fourthlings’ twelve clans. He
tugged at his scarf, pulling it over his nose.

At 298 cycles of age, Gandogar was a respected leader and accomplished warrior. He stood a little over five feet tall and
his arms were strong and powerful. His heavy tunic of finely forged mail was worn with pride, despite the trying circumstances.
Beneath his diamond-studded helmet his hair and beard were brown and wiry. He led the party unflinchingly through the sand
and scree.

“It’s the sand that gets me. I’ve never seen a sandstorm below the surface,” complained Bislipur Surestroke, the friend and
mentor riding at his side. He was taller and brawnier than the monarch and his hands and arms were laden with almost as many
golden rings and bangles. He looked every inch the warrior, his chain mail bearing the scars of countless battles. The freshest
marks were just five orbits old, the result of a skirmish with orcs.

“Vraccas knew what he was doing when he sculpted us from rock. Dwarves and deserts don’t mix.” The verdict was shared by the
rest of the troop.

The ponies that had borne them on their long journey to the secondling kingdom snorted and whinnied fractiously, trying to
clear their nostrils but blocking them further with all-pervasive sand.

“There’s no other way of getting there,” Gandogar said apologetically. “You’ll be pleased to know that the worst is behind
us.”

The band of thirty dwarves was in Sangpûr, a desolate human realm under Queen Umilante’s rule. The landscape consisted of
nothing but barren dunes and godforsaken wasteland, a vista so cheerless that the dwarves preferred to stare at the tangled
manes of their ponies or the tips of their boots.

Their journey south from the Brown Range had taken them through the lush valleys and steep gorges of the mountainous state
of Urgon where Lothaire reigned. From there they had ridden over the gentle plains of King Tilogorn’s Idoslane, where the
slightest hillock qualified as a mountain and shady forests gave way to fertile fields.

The passage through Sangpûr was the last and most grueling leg of the journey, a swathe of desert forty miles wide, lying
at the foot of the mountains like a moat of fine sand. It was almost as though nature wanted to prevent the rest of Girdlegard,
including the fourthlings, from reaching the range.

On occasions, the wind dropped and the veil of sand fell, allowing the mighty peaks to loom before them magically among the
dunes. The dwarves felt the call of the snow-capped mountains and longed for cool air, fresh water, and the company of their
kin.

Bislipur tightened the scarf around his cheeks and stroked his graying beard. “I’m no friend of magic, but if ever we needed
a sorcerer it’s now,” he growled.

“Why?”

“He could command the wretched wind to stop.”

A final gust swirled toward them; then the gales died unexpectedly. Only five miles separated the dwarves from the comb of
rock that ran from east to west.

“You’re not a bad sorcerer yourself,” said Gandogar, breathing a sigh of relief. He had never been especially fond of the
world outside his kingdom and this latest foray had persuaded him that one epic journey in a lifetime was more than enough.
“What did I tell you? We’re almost there.”

Rising out of the gloom of the mountain’s shadows were the imposing walls of Ogre’s Death. The stronghold grew out of the
rock, the main keep hewn into the foothills, the battlements extending down the hillside in four separate terraces that were
all but impregnable.

Cut into the walls of the uppermost terrace was the stronghold’s entrance, eight paces wide and ten paces high.
Like an enormous mouth,
thought Gandogar.
It looks as though the mountain is yawning
.

As the company neared the stronghold, the doors opened welcomingly. Seventeen banners fluttered loftily from the turrets,
bearing the insignia of the secondling clans.

“Here at last,” Gandogar said thankfully. “To think we’ve ridden right across Girdlegard.” The other dwarves joined in his
grateful laughter. They were his retinue, a heavily armed band who had escorted him throughout the long journey to the secondling
kingdom. Between them they were the cream of Goïmdil’s folk, skilled in ax work and craftsmanship, the best warriors and artisans
from each of the twelve fourth-ling clans. Many a legend told of the fighting prowess of the dwarves, which explained why
the party had not been troubled by a single brigand or thief. They were carrying enough gold to make an ambush more than worth
the risk.