The dwarf grunted again. “It sounds like your dwarf friend is pretty smart.”
The dwarf behind Tas blew his nose loudly, then asked, “Did I hear you right? You’re a friend of Flint Fireforge?”
“Certainly,” Tas said. “I saw him just a few days ago back in Solace. But it seems much longer ago than that. Why, do you know him, too?”
“No, no,” replied the dwarf. “But we all know of him, if he’s the grandson of Reghar Fireforge. The baron’s father, Krakold the First, knew Reghar Fireforge during the Dwarfgate War. Of course, Krakold was just a young noble then and he’s quite aged now, but he’s one of the few who survived the blast of magic that ended the Dwarfgate War. Oh, yes, he was there the day Reghar Fireforge died. Fireforge is still revered among our people. We don’t forget our heroes.”
“Wow,” declared Tas, scrambling to keep up with the marching dwarves. “If Krakold was at the final battle of the Dwarfgate War, then he must be over four hundred years old. Isn’t that awfully old for a dwarf?”
“It is if you fought in the Dwarfgate War. I doubt there are more than a dozen survivors left,” replied the dwarf, blowing his nose again. “My grandfather and granduncle were both killed there, too,” he added proudly, his chest swelling with pride.
“Wow,” Tas muttered. “It must be neat knowing where your ancestors went and what they did. I usually know where I am, but I usually have no idea where my family is, unless I’m with them. Except my Uncle Trapspringer. He’s back in Kendermore, being held prisoner. That’s where we’re headed, to Kendermore to free my uncle. My name’s Tasslehoff, by the way. Tasslehoff Burrfoot. What’s yours?”
“I’m called Mettew Ironsplitter, son of Rothew Ironsplitter,” answered the dwarf. “My father was the engineer who designed Rosloviggen’s main gate.”
Mettew raised his head to shout over the rapidly moving troop. “Excuse me, Your Grace,” bellowed Mettew. “I was just speaking with this kender fellow, and I’ve learned something astounding. This one—calls himself Burrfoot—is a personal friend of Flint Fireforge, grandson of Reghar Fireforge.”
The rest of the dwarves in the party stopped abruptly and fell completely silent, then looked toward the baron. He stomped back along the length of the line to stand before Tasslehoff.
“Is this true, what Mettew says?” asked the baron.
“Sure,” Tas responded. “We’re good friends. I was with Flint just a few days ago. He’s a bit gruff, but I sort of miss him already.”
“Well, lad, why didn’t you mention you were a friend of the Fireforges right off?” boomed the baron. “That’s not the sort of thing you should keep to yourself! You’re doubly welcome now. You’ll be guests in my home. And you’ve come at a good time. Our Oktoberfest begins tomorrow!” Turning back to his escort, the baron added, “It’s going to be some fest this year, eh?” He was answered with a round of laughter and assent.
“Oktoberfest!” giggled Gisella, clapping her hands together. “I’d completely forgotten about that autumn dwarven tradition. This is too good to be true!”
Woodrow leaned close to Tasslehoff and whispered in his ear, “What’s Oktoberfest?”
“I don’t know,” whispered Tas, “but judging from all of their reactions, it’s bound to be exciting.”
* * * * *
As they approached the ridge, Woodrow became more puzzled. “Does it seem to you,” he whispered again to Tasslehoff, “that we’re headed into a dead end? Mettew said we have to cross this ridge, but we’re walking right up to the steepest part of it.”
“I did notice that,” Tasslehoff agreed, “but I assume they know what they’re doing. Maybe they use ropes and pulleys to raise themselves up the cliff.”
“I’d rather not get involved with any more ropes and pulleys for a while,” Woodrow moaned.
By this time, the group had come to a stop. Looking around quickly, Tas saw that they were indeed in a box of sorts. Rugged, brush-covered walls sloped steeply upward on the right and left. Ahead, a sheer cliff towered at least fifty feet over the kender’s head. Below the cliff were piles of brush and debris that had apparently cascaded down from above.
The dwarves went to work. Quickly they pushed aside a large pile of brush from the base of the cliff, revealing a roughly carved stone face with an open, gap-toothed mouth. Mettew rummaged inside his backpack and withdrew the largest iron key Tasslehoff had ever seen. “That must weigh at least twenty pounds,” the kender exclaimed aloud to no one in particular.
“Twenty-two and a half, almost twenty-three,” corrected Mettew. “It’s nothing for a dwarven key. You should see some of the big ones we use for really important doors.”
Tas whistled softly. Mettew slid the key between two of the face’s teeth and, gripping it with both hands, gave a mighty twist. There was a puff of dust and a rush of air, then a crack appeared. As Mettew tugged, the crack widened and two more dwarves grabbed the edge and pulled. The face swung wide, revealing a dark tunnel leading into the cliff.
The group filed through the tunnel entrance. Inside, the tunnel was cool and still, but dry. Mettew moved the key around to the back side of the face, and then the other dwarves helped him swing the door shut. With a final turn of the key, he removed it from the face and slid the massive tool back into his pack.
The tunnel was now completely black. The dwarves stood for a moment, allowing their keen dwarven eyes to adjust. Then, “Let’s move!” shouted the baron, and the line set off again.
“Wait!” shouted Woodrow, halting abruptly. Tasslehoff collided with Woodrow’s backside and dropped his hoopak. “The kender and I can’t see in here. Can we strike a light?”
“Sorry,” said Mettew, stooping to retrieve the fallen hoopak. “We don’t carry torches, because we don’t need them. Just put your hand on the dwarf ahead of you and you’ll be fine. The floor is smooth enough.”
Though she could see just fine, Gisella took the opportunity to rest her hands on the stout waists of two dwarves, who seemed happy to oblige.
Tasslehoff and Woodrow stumbled along behind the sharp-sighted dwarves. After some time, the line abruptly stopped. Tas heard a loud “thunk,” and light streamed into the tunnel ahead. His eyes watered and smarted as he stepped through another leering face doorway into the light.
“There it is,” declared Mettew proudly, spreading his thick arms wide. “Rosloviggen. The finest city in the realm.”
Woodrow whistled through his teeth. Nestled deep in the valley between two steep mountains was a jumbled city of peaked roofs, gables, steeples, tiny, walled gardens, stone arches, colonnades, monoliths, and winding, neatly cobbled streets. The town was spotless, the buildings straight as arrows.
“This doesn’t look like any dwarven town I’ve ever lived in,” Gisella said, looking around her in awe. “Where’s the roof?”
“Rosloviggen is unusual by dwarven standards,” the baron agreed at her side. “My ancestors settled the village because of the rich mines in the surrounding mountains. The valley is so steep and protected that it affords us the comfort and safety of living underground that we dwarves need, along with the benefits of life on the surface, like sunlight for plants.”
The procession set off down the valley, and the dwarves broke into a marching song of their own. The gully dwarves hummed and wailed along, but the powerful dwarven voices thankfully drowned them out.
Under the hills the heart of the axe
Arises from cinders the still core of the fire,
Heated and hammered the handle an afterthought,
For the hills are forging the first breath of war.
The soldier’s heart sires and brothers
The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
Out of the mountains in the midst of the air,
The axes are dreaming dreaming of rock,
Of metal alive through the ages of ore,
Stone on metal metal on stone.
The so
ldier’s heart contains and dreams
The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
Red of iron imagined from the vein,
Green of brass green of copper
Sparked in the fire the forge of the world,
Consuming in its dream as it dives into bone.
The soldier’s heart lies down, completes
The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
The ragtag party marched through the massive gates of Rosloviggen at dusk. The sunset turned the stonework of the walls a vivid orange, and the mountain range threw long, purple shadows down the valley. The marching song of the dwarves mingled with the songs of the lamplighters, the matrons calling their charges home to dinner, and the hundreds of dwarves returning home from the day’s work in the mines, the stonecutting and jewelry shops—plus the sounds of tailors, weavers, potters, candlemakers, and the vast number of other artisans, craftsmen, and laborers who made up a city. Tas was enchanted; Woodrow and the gully dwarves were overwhelmed.
“How they get so many people to be one place without fight?” Fondu asked aloud, setting off a rowdy debate among the gully dwarves.
Though the village was unfamiliar to Gisella, its sounds made her feel almost as if she’d returned home. Everywhere were the signs of the autumn harvest festival known as Oktoberfest, where goods were traded and sold, and food and drink were plentiful. Houses were freshly painted in bright colors with new thatch or shingles, flower boxes in full bloom, and gathered grains, potatoes, squashes, and gourds displayed in doorways. Benches had been erected in every square, and barrels of ale were stacked, ten high in places, awaiting the celebration.
Woodrow was still holding the horses’ reigns, with the meager possessions that Gisella had salvaged from the wagon lashed across their backs, when they stopped before a large, open square. Dwarves from the town were busy setting up tables and tents.
“As you can see, Rosloviggen’s Oktoberfest will be quite a splendid festival,” Baron Krakold said with pride.
“Those workmen are having a time of it,” commented Woodrow, nodding toward a crew of dwarves struggling in the square with one of the supporting beams of a tent. Two dwarves were trying to raise a beam upright with the help of a rope slung over a sturdy tree branch, while a handful more shouted directions.
“Pulley job! Pulley job!” chanted the gully dwarves.
The heavy beam swung round in a wide half-circle, threatening to crush several dwarves, all of whom dove to safety while the rest frantically tried to bring the massive timber under control. Grunting and straining, they wrestled the wayward beam into place between four other large supports. The workmen drew a collective sigh of relief and mopped their brows.
But Gisella’s eyes were locked on the half-naked forms of two young dwarves, their shirts stripped off while they assembled a wooden bandstand. In addition to the obvious attractions, she thought the festival would provide an opportunity to replace her lost trade goods.
“I insist you accept the hospitality of my home,” Baron Krakold boomed, repeating an earlier offer. “We are not far from it, and I should think that the telling of your travels over a sizzling haunch of aged beef, buttered gourd, and candied green apple would amply pay for a warm feather bed.” It was not so much a statement as an order, and Gisella liked men who gave orders.
“That’s very kind of you. By the way, is there a Baroness Krakbolder?” she asked bluntly.
“You could say that, yes,” the baron said, his eyes twinkling at the dwarf’s frankness.
Gisella winked at him, nonplused. “A minor point, really.” She pushed a hand through her matted hair and straightened her clothing, although she still looked like someone who had been through a shipwreck. The red-haired dwarf looped her arm through Baron Krakold’s.
Giving her hand a fatherly pat, the baron withdrew his arm reluctantly. “Not to my wife, it isn’t!” he laughed.
Gisella’s face pouted a little.
“Be of good cheer!” he said. “It is not often we have such unusual visitors in Rosloviggen. We are eager to hear how you came to our land.”
“I can tell you that,” Tasslehoff offered. “I was sitting in the Inn of the Last Home, and—”
“He meant me, and he meant later,” Gisella said tersely.
Tasslehoff pulled a sullen face. “I don’t remember him being that specific,” he said. “I’m just as unusual as you are, Gisella, and I’ve done some interesting things, too.”
“I’ll just bet you have,” the baron said kindly, “and I’d like to hear all about them after we’ve all had a chance to rest. My trip to the shore has drained me more than I thought it would.”
“Look at that!” Tasslehoff cried. His attention was riveted on a large, circular platform with a round, pointed roof. A menagerie of brightly painted animals carved from wood crowded the platform. Each animal was mounted on a pole that ran from the platform to the roof. Tas recognized a griffon, a dragon, a unicorn, a horse with a fish’s tail, and an enormous wolf with the head of a man. Eyes as wide as a full moon, the kender ran from one to the next, convinced that each was more beautiful than the last: stroking their manes, peering in their mouths, counting talons, eyes, and in some cases, heads.
“I’m most interested in that contraption myself,” the baron said, rubbing his square jaw thoughtfully. “I am told that it is called a ‘carousel.’ It is being constructed for Oktoberfest by a gnome, another unusual visitor to our city.”
“What does it do?” the kender asked.
“I’m not sure,” Baron Krakold confessed. “I believe one rides it.” A look of fatigue crossed the baron’s weathered face. “But we can see it in action tomorrow. Now we will go to my home, dine, and rest before tomorrow’s festivities.” With that, Baron Krakold signaled his party forward. Tasslehoff followed reluctantly; Woodrow trailed silently. Behind them, Gisella was deep in thought. This was an opportunity of tremendous potential but she had to make the most of it. The gully dwarves reverently tripped over their shoelaces in her wake.
They wound through Rosloviggen’s narrow, immaculate streets until Tas was certain they had traveled every alley in the town. When he was just about to announce that they must be lost, they emerged into a large, open space containing only a single house and several outbuildings. The front yard, like every other front yard in Rosloviggen, held a neatly manicured garden of small, flowering shrubs and perfectly shaped trees. The baron’s yard had an additional circular fountain surrounded by heavy stone benches.
The ground floor of the house was constructed of enormous blocks of granite, polished to show off the rocks’ natural colors. The upper floors were the more typical red dwarven brick. White-trimmed gables of all different sizes poked from the roof of the fifth floor, although the building was the same height as a three-story human dwelling. The last rays of the day’s sun glanced off colorful stained glass rather than the usual oiled parchment. Flower boxes filled with multicolored geraniums lined every window. Servants in white aprons were busy closing the shutters on the first floor.
The baron tipped back his head and planted his hands on his hips. “This is my home,” he said simply. He waved his guests forward into the neat garden, nodding and saying, “Welcome,” to each. Then a look of surprise crossed his wide face. “It seems that your poorly dressed friends have left.”
Engrossed by the sight before them, Woodrow and Tas looked behind Gisella and noticed for the first time that the gully dwarves were no longer with them. No one was particularly dismayed, especially the baron, though he seemed to be inordinately openminded about Aghar. Still, he was not sure he wanted them running loose in his village, but he decided that was better than having them lounging about in his home.
“It’s no problem,” Gisella said vaguely. “I’m sure they’ll turn up again eventually. Or maybe not.”
Woodrow’s attention had already returned to
the house. “I didn’t know houses could be made that tall,” he stammered. “I thought those tree houses in Solace were something, and now this. Is it held up by magic?”
“No,” laughed the baron, “just ordinary stone and wood and brick. But, of course, it was built by dwarves.” There was no arrogance in his voice.
“Now,” he continued, stepping toward the door, “if you’ll collect your things from your horses, some of my escort will see the animals to the barns for the night.”
Quickly Woodrow pulled two bundles from the backs of the horses, one containing the clothes Gisella had salvaged from the wagon, the other a few of his own and Tasslehoff’s belongings. Several of the baron’s guards then led the horses away around the side of the house.
“Miss Hornslager,” Woodrow said, indicating that she should go before him.
“Thank you,” Gisella replied, batting her eyes demurely at the baron as she sauntered through the front door.
Once inside, Baron Krakold instructed servants to lead the three weary visitors up the sweeping, circular staircase to their rooms on the third floor. “We’ll sup in one hour,” he said, then disappeared into a door below the stairway.
“Boy, this is like being home in Kendermore again,” Tas breathed as he hurried up the stairs after the somber servant. The servant raised his eyebrows questioningly. “All the doors and knobs are at the right height,” explained the kender, stopping to trace a finger over a particularly intricate carving of a rose on the banister. “This is very pretty, though my friend Flint would have added a few more petals, and you would swear you could see drops of water on his roses. He’s a much better wood-smith.”
“Hush!” Gisella hissed, afraid the baron might hear Tas’s criticism.
At the top of the second flight of stairs, the liveried servant led them into a long, door-flanked hallway. Starting with the first door on the right, he issued rooms to Gisella, Tasslehoff, and Woodrow.
“I’m making it your responsibility to watch Burrfoot while we’re here, Woodrow,” Gisella called before she disappeared behind her door.
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