The Dwarves (9 page)

At length the atmosphere in the great hall became jollier and more boisterous and Bislipur could slip away unnoticed. Safely
ensconced in a lonely passageway, he summoned Sverd and entrusted the gnome with a mission of great importance.

Enchanted Realm of Ionandar,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

W
histling, Tungdil knelt by his cupboard and packed his large leather knapsack for the trip. He took a tinderbox, a flint,
and a blanket, in case he had to spend a night in the open, as well as his fishing hook, a plate, and some cutlery. His cloak
he rolled into a bundle and fastened to the outside of the knapsack with a leather strap. Lastly, he pulled on his chain mail
and tweaked it with practiced movements until it lay flat against his skin.

He felt instantly better. There was something safe and incredibly homely about his shirt of steel rings. His attachment to
his chain mail was a matter of instinct, not something he could explain.

He had the same feeling when he was working at the anvil. Routine jobs — forging horseshoes, nails, and iron brackets for
doors, honing blades, or sharpening tools — came naturally to him. It was his dwarven blood, he supposed.

Hoisting his bulging knapsack to his shoulders, he picked up the ax that had been given to him by Lot-Ionan, hooked it through
his belt, and set off for the magus’s study. He knew the vaults like the back of his hand. The dim light posed no problem
for his sharp dwarven eyes and his sense of direction never abandoned him underground. No two tunnels looked the same to him,
owing to his ability to remember the slightest irregularity in the rock. It was a different story on the surface, where he
was unable to find his way anywhere without a map.

He knocked briskly and opened the door. Lot-Ionan was sitting at his desk, dressed in the old beige robes to which he was
so attached. He held up a sheet of parchment accusingly as the dwarf came into the room.

“Do you see this, Tungdil?” he said, throwing the paper disgustedly back onto the pile. “This is your doing! Orbits of study
destroyed in the blink of an eye.”

“I had no idea,” the dwarf said with genuine contrition but determined not to concede any guilt. Stubbornness was another
of his inherited characteristics.

“I know, Tungdil. I know.” The magus’s expression softened. “Go on, then. What really happened?”

“It was another of Jolosin’s pranks. He played a trick on me, so I threw a bucket of water at him…” He bowed his head and
his voice fell to an indistinct mumble. “He turned the droplets into ice and the shards hit some of the phials. He tried to
lay the blame on me by locking me in the laboratory.” He looked up and focused his brown eyes on his patron.

The magus sighed. “Six of one and half a dozen of the other, just as I thought. Still, I shouldn’t have shouted at you like
that.” He motioned to the parchment. “Of course, it doesn’t change the fact that I’ll be spending the next few orbits rein-scribing
these runes. You had no business to be in the laboratory, Tungdil. No good comes of a dwarf meddling in magic or mixing potions.
I thought you knew that by now.”

“But it wasn’t my —”

“What possessed you to take matters into your own hands? You had only to come to me and Jolosin would have been punished.
I’m sending you on a journey, a long journey — which isn’t to say I won’t be pleased to have you back. On the contrary.” He
paused. “Rest assured that Jolosin has fared much worse; he’ll be peeling potatoes until you’re home. And should you decide
to take a more circuitous route…” With a mischievous grin he left the rest up to Tungdil. “Well, are you ready?”

“Yes, Estimable Magus,” Tungdil answered, relieved that his patron no longer held him solely to blame. “What would you have
me do?”

After the frayed tempers of the laboratory, the atmosphere in the study, where they were surrounded by the clutter of Lot-Ionan’s
cabinets, gadgetry, and books, seemed all the more relaxed. Flames crackled softly in the fireplace and the magus’s owl was
napping in a corner.

“We’ll discuss your errand later. All in good time.” Lot-Ionan rose and retired with his steaming mug to the wing chair by
the hearth. He stretched his slippered feet toward the flames. “There’s no rush. Jolosin will be busy in the laboratory for
a good while longer… Besides, there’s something I’d like you to consider while you’re away.” His hand patted the chair beside
him.

Tungdil set down his knapsack and took a seat. It sounded as though the magus had something important to say.

“I’ve been thinking.” Lot-Ionan cleared his throat. “The two of us have known each other for sixty-two of your sixty-three
cycles.”

The dwarf knew what was coming. At times like this, when the mood was sentimental and the magus was feeling relaxed, he would
pour himself a draft of beer, warm his feet by the fire, and journey into the distant past, recalling events that had happened
over a human lifetime ago. Tungdil loved these conversations.

“It was winter and the winds were howling when there was a knock on the door and a band of kobolds deposited a bundle.” He
looked his ward in the eye and laughed softly. “It was you! Back then, without your beard, you could almost have been mistaken
for a human bairn. They threatened to drown you in the nearest river if I didn’t pay your bond. What could I do? I gave them
their money and raised you myself.”

“For which I shall be eternally grateful,” Tungdil said softly.

“Yes, well, eternally…” The magus fell silent for a moment. “It seems to me that it might be time to let you go your own way.”
He laid a hand on the dwarf’s thick shock of hair. “I’ve outlived my natural span and you’ve served me so loyally that your
debt of gratitude, if ever there was one, has been repaid. Besides, if I don’t come up with a more convincing charm against
old age, my soul will be summoned to Palandiell.”

Tungdil didn’t like to be reminded that human existence was inescapably brief, even for the likes of the powerful magus. “I’m
sure you’ll find a way… ,” he said hoarsely. “Er, didn’t you want to tell me something?”

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 Beroïn’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 Gorén. 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 Beroïn,” 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.