"I wouldn't want to live in a place as flat as this," Bavragor said to Balyndis. "How are you supposed to hide from the sun when there isn't any shade? It must be baking in the summer."
"I've nothing against warmth, provided it comes from my forge," said the smith, ushering him in front of her.
"Yes, there's nothing better than smiting red-hot iron on the anvil and letting the hammer sing." Tungdil sighed. "I miss my smithy."
"Your smithy?" echoed Balyndis, surprised. "I thought you were a fourthling. Aren't Goпmdil's dwarves supposed to be gem cutters?"
"Exactly," said Goпmgar in an I-told-you-so tone of voice. "Gem cutters and diamond polishers. But he's not one of-"
"I'm a fourthling, all right, but I've always felt more of an affinity for a craft beloved of all our folks," Tungdil cut in.
"He's not one of us," Goпmgar continued dismissively. "He's just a foundling. He lived with the long-uns until someone talked him into thinking he was a fourthling, and then he took it upon himself to steal the crown."
"Oh," she said in confusion, "but if you were raised by men, who taught you to love the smithy?"
"I've always loved metalwork," he confided. "Even with sweat pouring into my eyes, arms as heavy as lead, and sparks singeing my beard, there's nowhere I'd rather be than at the anvil."
Her eyes lit up as she laughed. "I know what you mean." She rolled up her mail shirt to show him the scar on her right arm. "Look, that's what Vraccas did to me when I tried to forge a sword. He doesn't approve of dwarves fashioning anything but axes and maces. He sent a message through the anvil, and I've never been tempted to make another one since."
Tungdil pulled off his glove enthusiastically and held out his left palm, which was marked by a deep red scar. "It was a horseshoe. I knocked it off the anvil and put my hand out to catch it before it landed in the dirt. It was my best-ever horseshoe, and I wasn't about to see it ruined."
Balyndis was swept away by Tungdil's hitherto unsuspected passion for the forge. Soon they were deep in conversation about the particulars of metalwork and had quite forgotten their companions.
Andфkai called them to order by clearing her throat. "There'll be plenty of time for talking later. First we need to find somewhere to stay."
Tungdil glanced around for the first time and saw that they were in a large room of staring humans. Djerun towered above them like a statue. The enormous warrior would have looked more at home on a plinth outside the town hall than in the front room of a tavern.
The innkeeper lodged them in a dormitory usually used by traveling merchants. Because of the threat facing Girdlegard, trade between towns had practically ceased, and so Tungdil and his friends had the place to themselves at no extra cost. None of them felt like talking to the locals, so they ordered their meal to be brought to their room.
Feeling sidelined by Balyndis's and Tungdil's enthusiasm for the smithy, Bavragor tried to interest Balyndis in the art of masonry, with only moderate success.
He was a few notes into a traditional song of the Hammer Fists when Tungdil delved into his knapsack and brought out the sigurdaisy wood. Balyndis saw him inspecting it and leaned over to get a closer look. The melody stopped abruptly, ending in an unintelligible grunt.
"Is it metal?" The firstling frowned as she stared in fascination at the surface. "I've never seen anything like it. We don't have it in our kingdom."
Tungdil gave her a brief account of the wood and its purpose and handed her the relic. "The trees were all chopped down, so this is the last piece in Girdlegard-except Gandogar's, of course. Without it, we'd never be able to make Keenfire."
She ran her hands over it reverently, trying to feel the details with her fingers. Bavragor looked on jealously.
"Ha, look at him stare!" cackled Goпmgar, hiccuping with glee. "His one eye is falling out of its socket! Don't you get it?" he jeered. "She's not interested in you anymore. You're a stone splitter, not a fancy smith! It's too bad you've got the wrong gift." He stopped to fill his pipe, then jabbed the stem toward Tungdil. "Charlatans are in the habit of taking what doesn't belong to them."
Tungdil's cheeks reddened with anger and shame. "That's enough from you, Goпmgar," he said harshly. "Don't you see that spitefulness doesn't do you any favors?"
"Oh, I'm fine, thanks for asking," he hissed back. "How would you feel with everyone picking on you all the time?"
"Why can't you see that this isn't about Gandogar or the succession? We're here to stop Nфd'onn because-" Tungdil was about to launch into yet another explanation, but opted instead for the truth. "But you know that, don't you? You don't want to understand. You like being the one with a grievance!"
"What I think is my business, not yours! Anyhow, I was forced to join this expedition against my will and I don't see why I should suffer in silence. It wasn't my idea to come on this mission, and I'm going to keep reminding you of that."
"Actually, Goпmgar, you're not. No more insults, no more snide comments, no more cussed remarks, or I'll solder your lips together with red-hot metal. Do you understand? We need your hands and your craftsmanship, not your poisonous tongue." Eyes flashing, he turned to Bavragor and Boпndil. "As for you two, you're to leave him in peace. The teasing stops now."
Goпmgar puffed furiously on his pipe, sending clouds of blue smoke shooting toward the ceiling. He got up and walked to the door. "Don't worry, I'm not running away," he said scornfully when he saw the alarmed expression on Tungdil's face. "I'm going outside so I can walk up and down and be as insulting, snide, and cussed as I like-and you'd better not get in my way!"
He marched out, letting the door slam behind him.
Rodario was the first to break the silence. "Would anyone like the last of this delectable sausage?" he inquired. "I'm still a little hungry, but good manners dictate that…" He broke off when no one showed any sign of responding, and decided that the lack of interest entitled him to help himself. Having finished the sausage with gusto, he dipped his hands in the tub of warm water provided by the publican and lathered the soap in preparation for a wash.
He was watched by Boпndil, who sighed incredulously to communicate his opinion of washing and water in general. The secondling stared up at Djerun, who had taken his place on the floor while Andфkai stood at the window and drew the rudimentary curtains. She had taken off her cloak. "Well, long-un," he said to the giant, "you and I are both dying to slay a dozen runts, but don't forget: If we come across a pack of them, the first ten belong to me."
Djerun maintained his customary silence.
Boпndil shrugged, went to the window, and climbed out onto the roof. He soon spotted Goпmgar. "You should see this," he called out to the others. "The artisan is marching up and down the street."
"Tell him to come back in," said Tungdil, who was poring over the map. The city walls did nothing to assure him of their safety. We've had proof enough that the дlfar can slip past sentries with ease. If their enemies had spies anywhere near the city, they would know by now that the odd-looking group had found its way to Roodacre. They'll come for us and they won't give in until they've seen their mission through.
"He says he won't," Boпndil bellowed through the window.
"Pretend you've seen an дlf," suggested Bavragor, offering a morsel of genuine dwarven cheese to Balyndis. "That should do the trick." Andфkai wrinkled her nose in disgust at the smell, but said nothing.
Sure enough, a few moments later they heard the rush of footsteps on the stairs; then the artisan burst into the dormitory, banging the door behind him and dropping the heavy oak panel into the latch.