Markus Heitz - The Dwarves

"Lot-Ionan wrote to the dwarves of Beroпn," 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.

"Frala, who knows if I even belong there? They might not know anything about me; I could have been hewn from the mountain without any kin. In any case, my first priority is Gorйn. I'll see what happens after that."

A wail went up from the cot in the corner. Frala hurried to comfort Ikana, who had been sleeping snugly by the hearth.

"Say hello to your guardian, little one," she told her daughter. "He'll always be here for you, just as he's always been here for me."

The baby grabbed the dwarf's outstretched finger and pulled. Tungdil was almost certain that he heard a soft chuckle.

"She's laughing at me!"

"Nonsense! She's laughing with you! She likes you, see?"

"Don't worry," Tungdil promised the baby, "I'll buy presents for you and your sister too." He disengaged his calloused finger from her delicate pink hands. Now that Ikana no longer seemed so fragile, he would have liked to stay and play. She reached up and tugged a strand of his hair. He carefully loosened her grip. "So you want me to stay, do you?"

The trio made their way through the shadowy galleries to the northern exit. Sunlight seeped through the cracks in the doorway. Frala kissed him on the forehead. "Look after yourself, Tungdil," she said. "And come back safe and sound!"

A famulus pulled on a rope to open the door and the iron-bound oak panels parted with a groan.

Outside, the rolling grassy hills, bright flowers, and leafy trees were dappled with sunshine. The aroma of warm soil wafted in on the breeze and the tunnel filled with the spring warbling of birds.

"Do you hear that, Tungdil? Girdlegard is wishing you well," said Frala, filling her lungs with fresh air. "What glorious weather for a journey!"

The dwarf lingered for a moment in the safety of the shaded doorway. He was accustomed to having ceilings above him and walls that afforded protection on all sides. In the open, there was too much freedom for his liking and he had to acclimate himself all over again.

Not wanting Frala to think he was no braver than a gnome, he took a deep breath, stepped out into the sunshine above Ionandar, and marched purposefully away.

"Come back soon, Tungdil," she called. He turned and waved until the doors to the vaults were closed, then continued on his way. After a few paces he came to a halt. Screwing up his eyes, he winced in the dazzling light. His subterranean existence had made him so sensitive to the sun's powerful rays that he was obliged to shelter in the shade of a towering oak. He dropped onto the grass and laid the magus's bag and his pack of provisions beside him.

Hmm, not the most promising start, he thought to himself. He squinted at his surroundings, straining to see something of the landscape. The canopy of leaves afforded little protection from the glare.

It was the same at the beginning of every journey, but at least the terrain, a wide track winding gently over rolling countryside, would be easily mastered on foot.

He held the map above his head to block out the light and studied his route. Assuming the cartographer knew his business, the landscape would begin to change in the region of the Blacksaddle. A dense forest of pines surrounded the mountain, through which there was no obvious path.

So much the better. Tungdil ran his thumb over the blade of his ax. Those trees will regret it if they get in my way.

The sun followed its slow trajectory across the sky.

Little by little Tungdil's eyes adjusted to the sunshine as it weakened and mellowed to a soft orange glow. By dusk, his vision would be restored entirely, but time was running out if he wanted to cover a few miles and find a bed before nightfall.

Straightening up determinedly, he slung his packs on his back, returned his ax to his belt, and plodded on, all the while cursing the sunshine. Grumbling wouldn't get him there any faster, but it vastly improved his mood.

The sun was disappearing over the crest of a hill when Tungdil emerged from the forest on the fifth orbit of his uneventful journey and found himself confronted by palisades bounding a village of some considerable size.

Two soldiers patrolled the wooden watchtower above the gateway. At first neither noticed the diminutive figure outside, but at last one of the men motioned to his companion. Judging by their reaction, the dwarf was not regarded as a threat.

Tungdil was relieved. After four chilly nights in the open, camped among squirrels, foxes, and more greenery than he could tolerate, he was looking forward to finding a tavern with good beer, warm food, and a soft mattress. His stomach was grumbling already.

He reached the gateway, but the doors remained closed. The sentries leaned over the parapet and watched from above.

"Good evening to you both!" he bellowed up at them. "Be so kind as to open the gates! I should like a bed for the night and a roof overhead!" Even from a distance, he could tell that their armor was well made and well cared for. This led him to two conclusions: First, the suits had been crafted by a smith of considerable skill, and second, the metal was worn for protection and not effect. The sentries were no ordinary villagers.

These thoughts were followed by another revealing discovery. In the flickering torchlight he had taken the rounded objects on the palisades to be gargoyles, but on closer inspection they turned out to be skulls. The heads of three dozen dead orcs were impaled on the defenses.

Tungdil doubted the wisdom of baiting the enemy in this fashion. As a deterrent, an array of orcish skulls had about as much chance of warding off the orcs as a dead bird would protect a field from crows. In fact, the sight of the severed heads was more likely to incite the brutes to wholesale slaughter.

From this Tungdil deduced that he had crossed the border into Idoslane and that the men hired to defend the settlement were trained fighters but foolhardy with it. Only mercenaries paid by the skull would be reckless enough to provoke the beasts so gruesomely. The bloodied heads had been set out as bait to draw in nearby bands of orcs.

"What are you waiting for?" he called indignantly. "Let me in!"

"Greetings, groundling! This is Goodwater in the fair land of Idoslane. Have you sighted orcs on your travels?"

"No," he shouted, struggling to keep his temper. To be referred to as a "groundling" was more than he could bear. "And if you don't mind, I'm no more a groundling than you men are grasslings: I'm a dwarf."

The sentries laughed. At their signal, the right half of the double door creaked open and Tungdil was allowed to pass. Inside, another pair of heavily armed soldiers was waiting for him. They eyed him distrustfully.

"Well, blow me down," one of them muttered. "If it isn't a real-life dwarf! They're not as tiny as everyone says they are."

Tungdil was once again reminded that humans knew almost nothing about dwarves. He bristled under the sentries' stares. "If you've quite finished gawking, maybe one of you could inform me where I might find a bed."

The sentries directed him to the nearest tavern, which lay a short distance along the dusty street. Above the door, a shabby platter and a similarly dilapidated tankard indicated that the place sold food and beer, although, by the look of it, it wouldn't be anything fancy.