by Markus Heitz
Gray clouds obscured the sun and the smell of rain hung in the air. There was nothing left of the settlement besides smoking embers, rubble, and burned-out houses whose scorched girders rose starkly into the sky like blackened skeletons.
The fields and orchards were covered with a white mist that advanced over the remains of Goodwater, hiding it from view. The land was mourning the villagers, laying a shroud over the settlement that only an orbit earlier had bustled with life.
The sight was too much for Tungdil to bear, so he gathered his packs and set off. As he hobbled on his way, he tried to eat a little something from his provisions, but the bread he had bought in Goodwater stuck in his throat. There was a cloying taste of death and guilt. He stowed the loaf away.
The gashes in his calf were angry and painful. If he left the wound untreated, he ran the risk of infection or even gangrene, which could cost him his leg or, worse still, his life.
That aside, the journey passed without incident and he crossed back into Gauragar and camped that evening beneath the now-familiar oak. Its leafy canopy sheltered him from the downpour that started that night, only easing late the next morning.
By the fifth orbit the skin surrounding the crusty wound felt hot to the touch and thick yellow pus oozed from the scab. Gritting his teeth, Tungdil walked on.
There was no use waiting for help by the wayside. Instead he kept going, trailing his injured leg through the fine drizzle that was rapidly transforming the trail into a mud bath. At last he reached a small hamlet numbering six farmhouses. His forehead was burning.
A fair-haired woman in simple peasant dress, a milk pail in either hand, spotted the staggering figure. She stopped in her tracks.
Tungdil could barely make out her features; she was just a faint shadow. "Vraccas be with you," he murmured, then toppled over, landing face-first in the mud, his arms too weak to break his fall.
"Opatja!" the woman called urgently, setting down her pails. "Come quickly!"
There was the sound of hurrying footsteps; then Tungdil was rolled onto his back.
"He's feverish," said a blurry, misshapen figure, his voice echoing oddly in the dwarf's ears. Someone was examining his leg. "He doesn't look good. It's gangrenous. We'll have to move him to the barn." Tungdil felt himself hovering in midair. "He'll need an herbal infusion." "He looks funny," said a childish voice. "What is he?"
"He's a groundling," the woman answered.
"You told me they live in the ground! What's he doing up here?"
"Not now, Jemta. Take your brothers and sisters inside," the man said impatiently.
The air was warm and smelled of hay. Tungdil could hear mooing. The rain seemed to stop and the light dimmed. "Goodwater," he said weakly. "Goodwater has fallen to the orcs." "What did he say?" The woman sounded worried.
"Pay no attention," the man said dismissively. "He's feverish, that's all. Look, he must have been caught in a wolf trap. Either that, or the orc had metal jaws." They both chuckled.
The dwarf clutched at the man's arm. "You're right; I'm feverish," he said, making a last attempt to warn them, "but the orcs are coming. They're heading in three directions: west, south, and east. Three tribes. At least three hundred troopers."
Footsteps approached rapidly. "Here's the infusion," said the girl. "So that's what a groundling looks like!"
"Ava, you go inside too," the man ordered. There was a brief pause; then Tungdil felt as though his leg were being dunked in boiling oil. Even as he screamed the world went dark around him.
… but he doesn't even have a proper beard!" Tungdil detected a note of disappointment in the girl's voice. "Grandpa said they always have long beards, but this one's shorter than Father's. It's like… scratchy wool.
"Do you think he's got gold and diamonds?" The speaker took a step closer. "Remember what Grandma told us? Groundlings are richer than anyone."
"Come back here!" hissed the girl. "You can't just search his pockets. It's rude!"
Tungdil's eyes flicked open. Squealing, the children jumped back in a flurry of straw. He sat up and looked around.
Nine children were gathered around him, staring with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Their ages ranged from four to fourteen cycles and they were clad in plain garments. Nothing they wore could have cost more than a single bronze coin.
His leg had been dressed and was throbbing a bit, but the pain was gone and his temperature was back to normal. They had taken good care of him.
"Vraccas be with you," he greeted them. "Could you tell me where I am and who was kind enough to tend to me?"
"He speaks just like us," said a redheaded boy with sticking-out ears.
The eldest girl, her brown hair in two plaits, grinned. "Of course he talks like us. Why wouldn't he?" She nodded at him. "I'm Ava. Mother found you five orbits ago. You fell over in the mud, but Father and the others picked you up and looked after you." She sent a fair-haired girl, Jemta, to fetch the grown-ups. "Are you better now? Do you want something to eat?"
"Five orbits ago?" To Tungdil it seemed more like a short doze. His stomach rumbled loudly. "Hmm, I suppose some food would be in order-and something to drink as well." He smiled; the children reminded him of Frala, Sunja, and baby Ikana. "Haven't you ever seen a dwarf before?" The harmless inquiry unleashed a deluge of questions.
"Which folk do you belong to?"
"Are you rich?"
"Where are your diamonds?"
"How many orcs have you slain?"
"Are all groundlings small like you?"
"Is it true you can smash rocks with your bare hands?"
"Why isn't your beard very long?"
"How many names have you got?"
"Stop, stop!" Tungdil pleaded, laughing. "I can't answer everyone at once. You can take it in turns, but first I have to tell your parents something." He wanted to save the news of the orcs for the grown-ups; there was no need to scare the children.
A fair-haired woman whom he vaguely remembered from his last lucid moment five orbits ago came in with a basket of victuals on her arm. The smell was enough to make his mouth water. "I'm Rйmsa," she said.
"And I'm Tungdil. You saved my life and for that I'm eternally grateful." He lowered his voice. "But I'm going to have to ask you to send the children away."
"Why?" Jemta protested cheekily.
He grinned at her. "Because certain things aren't meant for young ears!" They left.
"You're not still on about Goodwater, are you?" said the woman. "You had all kinds of nightmares while you were ill."
"They weren't nightmares, Rйmsa. It's the truth! The orcs, they…Never mind about that: You have to get out of here! They're coming. They're heading south, east, and west-three whole tribes of orcs, numbering a hundred troopers each. You'll be killed. They'll slaughter your animals and set light to your farms. You have to go!"
Rйmsa placed a hand on his brow. "The temperature's gone," she said thoughtfully. "You don't seem feverish…" She unpacked some bread, milk, cheese, and cured meat and laid them on the blanket to protect them from the straw. "So it's true, is it? I'll tell Opatja and we'll send a messenger to Steepleton. The privy council will know what to do."
"There's no time for that! They're on their way already!" he said with as much urgency as the mouthful of sausage allowed. Hunger had got the better of him and he was tucking in ravenously.
"You've been sick for five orbits, don't forget. They'd be here by now if they wanted to attack. We'll send out a scout, just in case."
"Is there any way of getting a message through from Steepleton?" A rider or even a carrier pigeon would reach the major cities of Girdlegard faster than anyone else. Those services were by no means cheap, but at least they could be relied on to spread the news quickly.
"A message? I'll send someone who can note it down for you."
"It's no trouble," Tungdil interrupted politely. "I can write." He could hardly blame her for assuming he was illiterate; most country people were unschooled. "I just
need some parchment and ink-and someone to take the letter as far as Steepleton. It's for Lot-Ionan in Ionandar."
She nodded and checked the dressing on his calf. "You were lucky not to lose your leg, you know. It's a good thing we found you when we did; another orbit and you'd be wearing a wooden peg. That trap must have been a rusty old thing. Make sure you eat and get some rest."
She gave strict instructions to the children to leave him in peace, but they soon returned, giggling and bearing parchment and a quill.
From then on it was impossible to get rid of them. Knowing nothing of dwarves save for stories and legends, they were determined to satisfy their curiosity while they had the chance. They stared at him raptly, following every loop and flourish of the quill as he composed his message to the magus.
The letter contained a full account of all that had happened in Goodwater, the pact between the orcs and дlfar, the designs of Nфd'onn, who was said to be the ruler of the Perished Land, and other salient facts. I hope it gets there in time, he worried silently. He made a second copy in case the first went missing en route, then lay back in exhaustion on his soft bed of straw.
As soon as the children saw that the letter was complete, they pestered him with yet more questions. This time Tungdil answered with one of his own: "Who can tell me about the Blacksaddle?"
"I can!" Jemta volunteered proudly. "It's almost three hundred miles from here. Father says it's near the highway. He knows all about Girdlegard from when he used to be a trader." She paused for a second. "I know-I'll go and get him for you. He'll describe it better than me." Jumping to her feet, she dashed out like a whirlwind and returned a few moments later with Opatja, a stocky gray-haired man. To Tungdil's delight, he came bearing a tankard of beer.
"The Blacksaddle, you say?" he asked. "An unnatural sort of place. There's a road, all right, but it doesn't lead straight to the mountain; you'll have to hack your way through the forest for the final mile or two." He picked up Tungdil's map and traced a rough route. "You can't miss it: a flat black mountain poking above the trees."
"Flat?" said the dwarf in surprise, taking a grateful sip of his beer. The children drew closer, listening intently.
Opatja nodded. "Think of it as a giant tablet of soap that slipped from Palandiell's hands. It's four hundred paces high, three hundred paces wide, and it runs for a full mile plus another two hundred or so paces." To show the dwarf exactly what he meant, he sliced a hunk of cheese and cut long vertical gouges into its sides. "That's from the wind and rain," he explained to the children.
"Ah, a table mountain! They call them that because the summit is flat like a tabletop. I read about them in my magus's library." He tried to imagine how the Blacksaddle would look in real life. Opatja's description had vaguely reminded him of a legend, but he couldn't for the life of him remember how it went. Oh well, the three-hundred-mile march would give him ample opportunity to search his memory.
"What do you want with the Blacksaddle?"
"I'm looking for a wizard, a former apprentice of my magus. He moved there some time ago and now Lot-Ionan is concerned for his well-being. He won't rest until I've seen him for myself."
Opatja contemplated Tungdil's injured leg. "Leave it a few more orbits before you set off. We'll give you some healing herbs so you can keep treating it while you're on the move." He picked up the letters to Lot-Ionan and rose to his feet.
"Thank you," Tungdil said warmly. "I'm most grateful to you."
"Don't mention it," replied the former merchant with a laugh. "I've never seen the little rascals so quiet!"
He left his guest with the children, who resumed their persistent questioning as soon as he was gone. They could hardly believe their ears when Tungdil told them he was sixty-three cycles old.
"Shouldn't your beard be much longer?" Jemta asked suspiciously. "I asked Grandpa and he said groundlings grow their beards to the floor."
"I'm a dwarf, not a groundling! And besides, I grew my beard for thirty cycles before I had to shave it off. It kept getting scorched by the sparks in the forge and then some scoundrel dyed it blue."
The boy with the protruding ears reached out to touch it. "It's much wirier and curlier than Father's!" he pronounced.
"You should try combing it! Imagine how long it takes to braid." The dwarf grinned and showed them one of his plaits. "It's willful and unruly, just like us. We dwarves hold competitions to see who can grow the longest, bushiest beards, and we decorate our braids with beads and metal trinkets. Most of my kinsfolk look like me. Very few of us have mustaches, sideboards, or chinstraps, and fewer still have no beard at all." He could tell them all about it, thanks to Lot-Ionan's books.
Giggling, the children fashioned their own beards by plaiting stalks of hay and sticking them to their chins with globules of sap scraped from the wooden beams.
"Do all groundlings… I mean, do all dwarves have beards?"
"Absolutely. If you see a clean-shaven dwarf, you can be sure that it's a punishment for something. An exiled dwarf won't be allowed home until his beard has reached the length of his ax haft. And since our beards grow so slowly, the banishment lasts for cycles." Book-learning, he thought sadly. Book-learning passed on to me by humans. He sighed.
Jemta seized her chance and snatched the straw from the chin of the jug-eared boy. "There, you're banished! Be off with you!"
In no time the battle of the beard was raging with all the youngsters intent on banishing one another from the barn. In the end Rйmsa reappeared and put an end to the fun. Amid loud protests, the children were made to say their good nights and go to bed.
The woman smiled at him warmly. "They've taken to you," she said. "They're not this friendly with everyone, you know. Good night to you, Tungdil. We'll ask Palandiell to mend your leg."
They actually like me. It came as a welcome surprise. Frala and her daughters would surely feel at home here. So much has happened already; they won't believe the half of it! He stroked the scarf that Frala had given him, then lay back and put his arms behind his head. If only he could have answered the children's questions about dwarven hoards and dwarven customs with proper authority instead of gleaning his knowledge from books. It's about time I got to know my own people, he thought.
IV
Kingdom of Gauragar, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle Tungdil soon had the chance to repay his hosts for their kindness in nursing him back to health. Two orbits later, when his leg was almost mended, he set to work in the hamlet's little forge, tackling all the jobs that the regular smith, the only one in the vicinity, was unable to do on account of a broken arm. From the man's point of view, the dwarf's assistance-unpaid, of course-was a godsend.
While the children worked the bellows and squabbled over taking turns, Tungdil placed the iron in the furnace and waited until it glowed red with heat.
The youngsters watched as he hammered the metal amid showers of sparks. With every thud of the hammer, there were squeals of delight.
The smith nodded at Tungdil admiringly. "It's not often you see such swift work," he complimented him. "And good quality too. Maybe it's true that metalwork was invented by groundlings."
"We're dwarves, not groundlings."
"Sorry," the man said with an apologetic smile. "I meant dwarves."
Tungdil grinned. "Well, no matter how fast I work, there's enough to keep me busy for a good long while. How about I stay another orbit? I can always leave for the Blacksaddle after that."
They were interrupted by Jemta. "Show me how to make nails!" she demanded.
"You want to be a smith, do you?" Tungdil patted the blond child on the head, then set about teaching her how to make a nail. While she ran off proudly to show her handiwork to her parents, he turned his attention to forging a new windlass for the well.
It was midafternoon when he left his perch to lie down in a tub of cool water. His clothes reeked of perspiration, so he climbed in fully dressed.
I'm surprised my skin doesn't hiss like hot ir
on, he thought. The cold water took his breath away, but then he sank luxuriously below the surface and came up, snorting and gasping for air. He was just wiping the water from his eyes when a shadow fell over the tub. There was a clunking of metal and the smell of oil.
Plate armor, thought Tungdil, blinking nervously.
A solid man of around thirty cycles was leaning against the outside wall of the forge, arms folded in front of his armored chest. Despite the various weapons about his person, he had no uniform or insignia to identify him as a soldier.
"Were you looking for me, sir?" asked Tungdil, stepping out of the tub. Water streamed from his clothes, drenching the sandy floor.
"Are you the smith?"
"I'm standing in for him at the moment. Is there something you'd like repaired?" The dwarf did his best to be polite even though he had taken an instant dislike to the man. The stranger's gray eyes bored into him as if to read his innermost thoughts.
"Two of our horses need shoeing. Are you up to it?"
That was enough to turn Tungdil against him forever. "I should hope so. What else would I be doing in a forge? I may as well ask you if you know how to ride!" The dwarf left the bath, trying to look as dignified as possible while leaving a trail of water behind him and making squelching noises as if he were tramping through a bog. His hair hung limply down his back.
Waiting outside on the narrow rutted road were six horses and four men in what looked like full battle dress. One of the horses was laden with kitchen utensils, leather packs, and two rolled-up nets.
The men were conversing in low tones but fell silent when Tungdil approached. They looked at him oddly but made no remark.
The dwarf instructed one of the men to work the bellows. Air hissed into the furnace, fanning the glowing coals until flames licked around them, quivering and flickering above the burning fuel. Tungdil was enveloped in heat, his hair and clothes drying in no time. He was in his element.
"Are you mercenaries?" he asked the fellow on the bellows. Unhurriedly, he chose a hammer and some nails while another man led in the lame horse. Tungdil held the shoe against the hoof; the fit was right.