She didn’t need the extra space, and she hated walking down the long flight of stairs every morning. But she understood why Utan chose to put her there—her cave was in a conspicuous spot. Her presence gave the Vardmiters hope. They all felt better knowing they had at least one spellcaster who was willing to help them. So Mugla kept quiet and didn’t complain.
Before the clan schism, there were six spellcasters serving the entire dwarf kingdom. Now there were five at Mount Velik, and one at the Highport Mountains… namely, her.
Unfortunately, she could never return to Mount Velik, now that she was considered a traitor. The other dwarf mages supported her decision, but they stayed behind, and who could really blame them?
Mugla knew that she would never receive payment for anything she did here. The Vardmiters were always grateful to her—they offered their humble food, or gifts they had made themselves. Mugla usually declined; she knew that most of them had nothing to spare, especially food.
Why would any competent spellcaster choose a life like this? It was a life of endless toil, surrounded by destitution and hunger. The Vardmiters were outcasts—castaways.
They were the lowest clan, the poorest of the poor. Many were crippled, blind, or diseased. Evidence of poverty was everywhere, from their threadbare clothing to their meager food supplies. Despite all this, Mugla served the Vardmiters without complaint, because they were a proud, hardworking people. Even in the face of scarcity, there was happiness here—and everyone worked together without vanity or conceit. She had a genuine fondness for these people, and that was why she stayed.
She walked carefully down the stone steps, her aching joints protesting with every step. She passed through the main hall, waving at the workers. They all shouted morning greetings as she walked by.
Her first patient was a young woman named Hiyle, in labor with her first child. She had been in labor for two days, and the midwife had been unable to birth the baby, so Mugla was asked to intervene.
Mugla hobbled over to the cave, nodding at Hiyle’s husband who was waiting outside. The young father’s clothing was threadbare, patched in a dozen places. The expectant father was pacing nervously back and forth.
Mugla entered without announcing her presence and saw Hiyle groaning on the floor. She pushed the midwife aside and sat down. “Mugla’s here, missy. Everything’s going to be just fine.”
“Help me!” Hiyle whimpered. Her face glistened with perspiration.
“That’s what I’m here for, young lady.” Mugla flexed her thin fingers, placing one hand on Hiyle’s grossly distended belly. “Sorry about the cold hands.” She rubbed the woman’s belly, her hand stopping right below Hiyle’s navel. “There you are, you little squealer,” she said quietly.
Mugla closed her eyes and willed herself to concentrate, letting her powers take over. Her fingertips glowed, tingling. She inhaled deeply, and at once, she sensed two heartbeats—it was twins! Unfortunately, they were tangled up. Worse, one baby was feet-first—a breech. It was a dangerous presentation for any woman, and more so for a first-time mother. Mugla turned to the midwife, waiting quietly by the doorway. “Fetch me hot water and soaproot.” The midwife bobbed her head and sped from the room.
Mugla leaned down and took hold of Hiyle’s chin in her hand, “Listen to me, girl. I’m going to relieve some of your pain, but not all of it. You must stay awake, and you must push. I can’t do this without your help.”
Hiyle’s lower lip trembled. “Will my baby live?”
Mugla scoffed, patting her hand. “Of course! Don’t be so dramatic, girl! Do you think you’re the first woman to suffer labor pains? I’ve ushered plenty of little squealers into this world. Don’t fret, my dear; you’re fine and your babies are fine. These boys will be born soon enough.”
Despite her exhaustion, Hiyle’s face lit up. Color flooded into her cheeks. “I’m having a boy?” she asked wonderingly.
“You’re having two of them.” Mugla held up two fingers. “And they’ll be screaming bloody murder in a moment, so enjoy the last bit of quiet you’ll have for the next fifteen years or so.” The joke lightened the young mother’s spirits, and she giggled. “Laughter, that’s good to hear. A birthing is easier when you have a positive attitude, my dear.”
The midwife returned, placing a bowl of hot water and a fragment of soaproot on a clean sheet near Hiyle’s feet. Mugla washed her hands and put her palms on opposite sides of Hiyle’s belly. The old spellcaster whispered a pain-relieving spell. Hiyle’s body stiffened and then relaxed. “How do you feel?” asked Mugla.
Hiyle smiled weakly. “Better. I’m more comfortable now.”
“Now I’m going to correct the breech.” She placed her thumbs on opposite sides of Hiyle’s pelvis. “I want you to breathe deeply. This won’t hurt, but you’ll feel some pressure.” Mugla whispered another spell and Hiyle arched her back.
Then Hiyle groaned. “I felt it! He moved!”
“Can you sit up, so that you’re in a crouching position? It will go easier for you.”
“I think so.” Hiyle struggled to get up. Mugla waved at the midwife, who slipped her hands under Hiyle’s arms, lifting her body into a kneeling position. Hiyle groaned, feeling a contraction. “I feel the baby moving down.”
“Good! Now when I tell you to push, I want you to push. And don’t forget to breathe.”
Hiyle puffed as another contraction hit. She held her belly, inhaling deeply until it passed. Hiyle puffed and pushed, crying out as the contractions grew stronger. A short time later, a sharp cry filled the room, and Mugla drew out a red-faced boy.
“You have a healthy son!” she slapped his bottom and tied the umbilical cord off with a piece of string. A second boy followed shortly, as outraged and red-faced as the first.
The midwife wiped down both boys and wrapped them in clean blankets while Hiyle wept tears of joy. “They’re beautiful!”
“It’s good to be thankful. They’re both lovely.”
Mugla rose from her seat, a satisfied smile on her face. The midwife took care of everything else. She cleaned up the mess, put the babies to Hiyle’s breast, and helped her get into a more comfortable position so the young mother could finally get some rest. She hobbled outside where Hiyle’s husband waited. “Congratulations! Your wife is fine, and you have two healthy sons.”
The man almost fainted with relief. “Bless you, Mugla, bless you!” he cried, pumping her hand up and down in a desperate handshake. “Can I go see ‘em now?”
Mugla patted his shoulder. “Not yet, son. Let the midwife do her job and attend to your new family. Hiyle’s exhausted, and your boys must be cleaned and properly fed first. You can see them later.”
The young father paused. “B-but I want to…”
“Listen, I know you’re as anxious as a beetle-bug. But you’re not going to be any help in there—so go enjoy a cup of ale and a hot meal, and come back in a few hours. By then, your wife and sons will be rested, scrubbed up, and ready to meet you.” She pushed him out the door and pointed toward the main hall. “Now do as I say.”
The man left smiling. He was soon celebrating loudly with friends. It was a happy ending. Two healthy boys.
Two more mouths to feed, Mugla thought. Like all the dwarves at Highport, Hiyle and her husband were desperately poor. They barely scratched out a living. These young parents had nothing of value –all they had were each other. If they were lucky, they might have enough to eat.
Mugla sighed. With this birth, the number of dwarves needing her skills grew. Each day, there were more demands on her powers. And she wasn’t getting any younger. Mugla moved on to the next family on her list. She would never get to them all.
There were simply too many dwarves here, and only one spellcaster to serve them. And there would never be another to help her. She knew it in her heart—she was on her own.
All dwarvish spellcasters were skilled because they had so many years to learn their craft. However, there were so few of them—the ma
geborn gift was so rare among her people. Of all the dwarf spellcasters, Mugla was the most experienced. She could even forge magical weaponry, given enough time. Few could match her skill. But she was old, and tired.
She sat down to rest for a moment, setting down her cup and sinking into a wicker chair. In a small cavern off the main hall, a group of children sat listening to their teacher explain the basics of rune writing. The improvised classroom would serve until a permanent schoolhouse was finished, which would take several years.
The teacher spoke with a pronounced stutter, writing notes on a slateboard with a sliver of chalk. None of the children were bothered by their teacher’s speech impediment; in fact, they hardly seemed to notice it. The boys and girls listened attentively, raising their hands to ask questions, smiling proudly when their answers were correct.
Mugla coughed, and the teacher noticed her for the first time. He smiled and waved, clearing his throat to continue, but he grew nervous, and his stutter worsened. By the end of the lesson, he was impossible to comprehend. He looked back at Mugla, and then at the class. The students sensed their teacher’s discomfort and fell silent.
He tried writing on the slateboard, but his hands started to tremble. “S-s-s-sorry,” he mumbled.
Mugla stood up. She enjoyed watching the class, but her presence was too disruptive. “Don’t worry, I’m leaving.”
“N-no! D-d-d-don’t go! S-s-sorry! I d-d-didn’t mean to s-scare you off!”
“It’s fine,” she said, shaking her head, “I’ve got to go back to my quarters, anyway.”
She hummed quietly to herself as she walked back to her cave. Would the other dwarves always be uncomfortable around her? She had hoped to make a few friends here, but even Utan treated her with deference. She missed Mount Velik—at least the other spellcasters treated her normally.
A small boy ran up and tapped her on the shoulder. Mugla turned and examined the boy. He was a sturdy young man, just beginning to ripen into manhood. His carrot-colored hair flared up in a thousand directions, wild tufts that refused to submit to a comb. Red hair, bare feet, and freckles—the common traits of the Vardmiter clan.
“Yes, boy? What do you want?”
“Miss Mugla, I got a message for ye!” His cheeks, streaked with dirt, spread in a cheerful grin.
“A message?” she asked. “Who sent you? Who’s your pap, boy?”
The boy’s chest puffed up with pride. “Beeks Stoneweaver is me pap, Miss Mugla. Everybody knows ‘im—he’s the best stonebreaker on the mountain!” The boy’s left eye turned in sharply, a congenital defect that he shared with his father and five brothers.
“Ah, I should have guessed. I remember you now. You’re Arit Stoneweaver, then?”
“Naw, Arit is me brother. I’m Pendit.”
“Pendit? Why, I remember you as a ginger-haired baby.” Mugla’s eyes rounded. Was it really that long ago that she had attended this child’s birth? “Now look at you—you’re almost a grown man!” The boy giggled.
“Ye got a visitor at the front gate. My pap said to run and tell ye.”
“A visitor?” she asked, genuinely surprised. She wondered who it could be. Not anyone from Mount Velik—none of the other clans were welcome here. “Did my visitor give you his name?”
“Nay, nay… he didn’t—but he said ye would know who he was,” Pendit said, with complete conviction. Mugla waited for the boy to elaborate, but he stood there, smiling up at her.
Like many of the Vardmiters, the boy assumed she was psychic. “Okay, Pendit, let’s try something else. What did my visitor look like?”
Pendit tapped his chin with one finger. “Hmmmm… let me think. Well… ‘e’s taller than my pap. An’ ‘e’s got red hair, like mine. Oh, and ‘e’s old… but not quite as old as you.”
Sigh. The boy had just described half the male population in this mountain. Mugla tried to remain patient. “Do ye remember anything else about him?”
“Och, aye!” he cried, suddenly remembering. “He’s got a bloody ‘uge stone on ‘is chest!” The boy made a circular motion with his finger, tapping his sternum. “Right ‘ere!
Mugla’s wrinkled face creased into a wide grin. “A stone on his chest, eh?”
“Aye! A ‘uge stone, blue as a lingberry. Do ye know ‘im?”
"Aye, I know him,” Mugla chuckled. “I smacked his bottom when he was born. Come to think of it, a few times when he was older, too, after he decided to sass me.”
“Really?” Pendit giggled. “Shall I take ye to ‘im, then? He’s waitin’ for ye.” His eyes were expectant and curious—visitors were rare, and Pendit wanted to see how this story played out.
“Nay, child, that won’t do at my age,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m too old to rush after every young scamp that comes calling for me at the gate.”
“What should I tell ‘im, then?”
“Don’t tell him anything, boy.” Mugla repeated. “Just go fetch him for me. Drag him down here by the hair.”
“By ‘is hair?” Pendit blinked, astounded by this request. He pointed at his face in disbelief. “Me?”
“Aye, of course, you’re strong and brave, aren’t you?”
“Aye, I’m strong!” said the boy, jutting his chin out proudly. “Feel this!” he said, yanking his sleeve up above his elbow.
Mugla reached out to pinch the little boy’s bicep. “My, my! What a big muscle you have!”
The boy nodded. “I help my pap in the caves every day! I can lift big rocks, as big as this!” He spread his arms out wide to demonstrate.
“Och, Pendit, now don’t exaggerate. My visitor will be needing a guide to get through these tunnels, and I want you to help him. So go fetch him for me. If you do as I say, I’ll give you this coin.” The old woman grabbed the boy’s hand and pressed a tiny copper circle into his palm.
The boy stared at the coin with astonishment. “By golly, do ye mean it? I’ve never had any real money before.”
“Hush up about that. That’s just between you and me.”
“But what should I say to your visitor?”
She folded her tattered shawl underneath her and sat down. “His name’s Tallin, and he’s my nephew. Tell him I’ll be right here in this spot, waiting for him.” So many years had passed since the last time Mugla had seen Tallin. She was so happy he was here!
The red-haired boy rushed back to the Welcomer’s Cave, grinning. “I’m back, mister. Miss Mugla is waiting for you. I’m supposed to take you to her. She said she’s too old to be runnin’ after every gentleman caller that comes to visit.”
Tallin’s lips curved up in a slight smile. “That sounds a lot like her. Lead the way, young man.”
“Follow me, sir,” he said proudly. He felt important today, as the official intermediary between these two.
They marched down a dark corridor then down a steep staircase. And there, sitting quietly on her shawl, was Mugla Hoorlick. She smiled, her mouth opening in a toothless grin. “Tallin, my boy!” she said merrily. “Come over here and give me a hug!”
Tallin walked over and opened his arms to her embrace. “Hello, aunt. You look wonderful.”
She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Don’t lie, boy.” Mugla patted his hand and laughed. “I’m as old and ugly as a dunghill. Help me up.”
Tallin retrieved her cane and offered his hand. He could feel her enlarged knuckles, painfully swollen with arthritis. Mugla winced as she lifted herself up. “It’s been years since I saw you last, boy. You look thinner.” She poked his stomach.
“It’s been a rough year,” he responded.
She snorted derisively. “Do you have a woman? Are you promised yet to anyone?”
“No, aunt…” he answered, not willing to elaborate. “I didn’t come here to talk about my personal life.”
Mugla clucked her tongue. “Tsk! Tsk! No woman? No children? What about all those nieces and nephews you promised me?”
Tallin scowled. “I never promised th
at…”
“Let me see you,” she interrupted, reaching up to grasp his chin. She moved his face from side to side, examining him as if he were a farm animal. She jabbed a bony finger at him. “You’re certainly handsome enough, but as pigheaded and stubborn as your mother.”
“With all due respect, aunt, I’ll ask you to respect my privacy.”
Mugla threw her head back and laughed. “Fah, fah! Aren’t you just as tart as a raspberry! Have you forgotten that I was the one who birthed you—pulled you out of your mother’s belly and slapped your pink bottom with this hand!” She held up her right palm.
Tallin drew a breath to speak, but Mugla continued unabated. “I changed your dirty nappies and wiped your butt more times than I can count. You used to pee right down the front of my apron!” She hooted and slapped her knee.
Tallin’s face grew hot. “Aunt, please…” A small crowd had gathered, attracted by Mugla’s energetic laughter.
“Oh, all right, I’ll stop teasing you now.” She embraced him again. “It’s so good to see you, nephew. I’ve missed you—something fierce.” Suddenly, she looked small and fragile again. “Things have been a mite rough for me lately.”
“Are you getting enough sleep?”
“No, I’m not. There’s never enough sleep, because there’s never enough time.”
“You're overworked. Let me help you. I can stay here for a while and ease your burden.”
She sighed heavily. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll manage. It’s just a bit rough juggling all my duties here, especially at my age. I’m the only mage, and I can’t help everyone, much as I’d like to.”
He reached over and took Mugla’s right hand in his. “There’s no one at Mount Velik willing to help?”
“Nay, none of the other dwarf mages want to come here, and who can blame them? They’re sympathetic, of course, but the Vardmiters can barely feed themselves, much less afford to pay a spellcaster. Dwarf mages are used to having certain luxuries, and the Vardmiters have nothing to offer.” She shook her head sadly. “I’m too old for this job, and there’s no one else to help me or take my place.”
The Balborite Curse (Book 4) Page 15