by Pete Prown
* * *
Not six hours later, the foursome was wending their way out of St. Borgo on four gray-and-white ponies. The troupe had packed its belongings and retreated to the livery, where Dorro negotiated the sale of his cart and ponies, and procurement of fresh animals.
Clothes and provisions were hastily bought, and the band launched their journey by mid-afternoon. The skies had turned gray, and a steady rain had begun, causing Dorro to regret his decision, but the die was cast and they were en route to a strange new land. There was no turning back now.
Shall I ever see my beloved burrow again? he wondered. Shall I ever fish again in the river, or file books away in my library? And what about Wyll? I’ve failed him most of all. Still, we must complete this mission and I must return Cheeryup to her mother safe and sound. I shall never forgive myself if anything happens to her.
Dorro’s pony snorted loudly, drawing him out of his worried thought. He looked around and saw only a drenched, gray landscape. And far in the distance, he could just make out a thin line of mountains.
Why, oh why, are we going to the mountains? I could be home at the Perch making a pot of strong black tea and reading a book before the fire. Drat! Curse myself for being such a fool!
An Audience is Granted
The ride northward was an unpleasant business.
It rained for two straight days, and a bitter wind blew in from the west, making the Halflings freeze in their saddles. Cheeryup didn’t complain, but everyone made sure she had the most blankets. Dorro even had trouble even lighting his pipe weed, which made him particularly grumpy—and he made sure everyone knew it.
On the afternoon of the fourth day out of St. Borgo, Aramina hooted excitedly. “Look, Crumbly! There, on that third hill!”
Crumble scanned the horizon and became excited himself.
“I don’t know if you can see it, Mr. Dorro, but on that distant hillock is a stone war totem—an ancient ruin that is well known by all Dwarf travelers. It means we are getting close to Gildenhall.”
“How close? I need a bath!” Dorro scowled at his companion, still irritable and cold.
“Oh, about ten miles as the hawk flies. We could either stop for the night or press on.”
“If we keep going, can I get a bath tonight?”
Crumble and Aramina broke out in mirth. “Of course you can, silly Halfling!” croaked Aramina. “Wait until he sees the hot springs of Gildenhall, Crumbly. Yon bookmaster will faint at the sight of our grand baths and grottos.”
“’Tis true! Mr. Dorro might never come out of the water. He’ll be a wrinkled prune!”
Dorro brightened immeasurably at the thought of a real soaking. “I promise I won’t complain anymore. That, food, and a nice bed and this Halfling will be happy as a fox in a chicken coop.”
The band rode on quietly, following the same strange road that Wyll and Orli had taken a few days earlier. First it rose into the mountains, but then began its descent deep into the heart of stone. Dorro was relieved the Dwarf guards knew Aramina and Crumble as they passed, and entered the city without problem.
It was hours later when they finally entered the halls of Gildenhall, and by then, the city was quiet. Aramina and Crumble had a few matters to attend to, so they found porters to take Dorro and Cheeryup to the baths, and later to carved guest rooms where they’d find beds and food. To the Halflings, the softly glowing Dwarf environs were rather surreal, but they were tired and hungry. Eventually, after their much-needed baths, they were led to their adjoining rooms and slept for the remainder of the night.