"You think you're quite something, don't you, groundling?" The man hurled the tankard to the floor and faced his friends angrily. "Go ahead and laugh, you harebrained idiots! What if he was sent by orcs to spy on us? You won't find it so funny when he sneaks out of bed and opens the gates!"
The mirth stopped abruptly.
At once Tungdil realized he would have to tread carefully. On a practical level, that meant sticking to plain speech. It was bad enough that he was a dwarf, let alone a dwarf with fancy manners.
"Dwarves and orcs are sworn enemies," he said earnestly. "A dwarf would never throw in his lot with an orc." He extended his hand toward the man. "Here, have my word that I mean you no harm. I swear it by Vraccas, creator of all dwarves."
The villager stared at the sturdy fingers and weighed the matter in his mind. At last he gave the hand a brief shake and turned away.
The publican brought the relieved Tungdil another beer. "Don't mind him," he said quickly. "We're all on edge at the moment. So many villages have been plundered these past few orbits. Orcs are rampaging through the northwest of Idoslane."
"Hence the mercenaries at the gates."
"They're here to protect us until King Tilogorn's soldiers rid us of the beasts." He turned to go.
"Wait!" Tungdil laid a hand on his grease-spotted sleeve. The man's words had given him faint grounds for hope. "Will there be dwarves among them? I heard King Tilogorn has dwarves in his pay."
The publican shrugged. "I couldn't tell you, little fellow, but it wouldn't surprise me."
"When do they get here?" he asked eagerly. The opportunity of setting eyes on a fellow dwarf was reason enough to delay his mission to the Blacksaddle. All the more potatoes for Jolosin to peel.
"By rights they should have been here three orbits ago," said the publican, signaling apologetically to the queue of thirsty customers at the bar. Tungdil let him go and returned to his supper, mulling over what he knew of Tilogorn and his kingdom.
The name Idoslane was derived from the land's bloody past. At the heart of the historical conflict was the throne. The Idos, the kingdom's great ruling dynasty, had plotted, conspired, and waged war on one another, bringing misery on themselves and their people, who bore the brunt of their feuds. Bit by bit the state was torn apart by their squabbling until every district was governed by a different member of the Ido clan. At last their subjects reached the limit of their endurance and felled every last sibling, cousin, and scion of the dynasty: Ido-slane.
A villager, rather the worse for wear, staggered to his feet and raised his tankard: "Long live Prince Mallen! May he drive King Tilogorn from the throne!" When no one joined in with his toast, he lowered himself to his stool, muttering darkly.
If Tungdil's memory served him correctly, Prince Mallen was the sole surviving member of the Ido clan. He lived in exile in Urgon, the kingdom to the north of Idoslane, and was forever conspiring to return to his country as its rightful king.
Tacked to the wall of the tavern was an ancient map of Idoslane, its yellowed parchment stained by smoke. The succession of rolling hills, forests, and plains made for a pleasantly varied landscape. It would have been idyllic, if it weren't for the orcs.
"Not a bad place, is it?" observed a fellow drinker, following Tungdil's gaze.
"Save for Toboribor." Tungdil pointed to the black enclave at the heart of the kingdom: The orcish stronghold was located on Idoslane's most fertile land. He picked up his tankard and joined the villager at his table. "Why are the brutes on the move?"
"They're bored, that's all. Orcs don't need a reason to plunder and pillage. They attacked a place a few miles from here and set fire to the fields and orchards. Their sort are just monsters. Robbing, fighting, killing…They don't know any better."
"And they're strong," said another, eyes widening theatrically. "There was a time when-"
"Not that old fable," groaned the publican, stopping at the table to refill their tankards.
"You don't have to listen. I was talking to the dwarf." In spite of his injured tone, the storyteller had no intention of abandoning his tale. "I came up against a whole bedeviled mob of them. Great hulking beasts, they were. It was during my employ in Tilogorn's army. We-"
"Happier times, they were. The old prattler never had time to scare folks with his stories."
"What would a publican know about it? If you'd seen the accursed things, you'd have some respect." He turned back to Tungdil. "I'm telling you, dwarf, they were a terrible sight. A whole head taller than most men and ugly as sin: big flat noses, hideous eyes, and sticking-out teeth. It was worse for the young lads; they nearly died of fright."
"That's funny," murmured Tungdil. "I read a description just like that in-" He clamped his mouth shut, but no one had heard. To cover his embarrassment, he scratched his sunburned head. Any later in the season and his scalp would have burned to a crisp by now. The sun took a bit of getting used to.
"Half an orbit it took to kill those wretched brutes. My, they were tough! When I was young no one would hire mercenaries to keep the orcs from their gates. Orcs or no orcs, Idoslane was safe in our hands. Times have changed," he said regretfully, mourning the decline of Tilogorn's army and the passing of his youth. He glanced down and caught sight of Tungdil's ax. The blade had been put to good use in the woods and was looking somewhat neglected, with blobs of dried sap and splinters sticking to the bit. "Don't tell me you've been using a fine ax like that for hacking wood!" he exclaimed, aghast.
"I had to get through the undergrowth somehow." Tungdil reddened, hoping to goodness that no one would ask him to demonstrate his race's legendary axmanship. The truth was, he knew nothing of fighting.
Tungdil had learned everything he knew from Lot-Ionan, who took little interest in weaponry, sword fights, and close combat, leaving his ward without a military education. No one had ever shown him how to wield an ax in anger. The servants chopped wood or killed rats with their axes and that was as far as his handling of the feared dwarven weapon went. His race was supposed to be skilled in axmanship, but if faced with an aggressor, which well he might be, he was resigned to striking out haphazardly and praying that the beast would run away.
"The dwarves are great warriors, or so I've heard," said the veteran trooper. "Runs in the blood, does it? Is it true what they say about a single dwarf putting pay to a pack of ten orcs?"
Tungdil had long suspected that he wasn't a proper dwarf, but now his fears were confirmed. Listening to the men made him realize that his kinsfolk would laugh if they could see him, which put an end to his enthusiasm for meeting others of his race. Even the thought of the fairer sex seemed more alarming than appealing.
"Ten orcs," he said, hoping the trooper was right, "absolutely…" He yawned loudly, stretched, and rose. It was time to escape his own doubts, shake off his nosy questioners, and find a bed. "You'll have to excuse me: I need to get some sleep."
His fellow drinkers, their initial suspicions forgotten, were reluctant to let him go, but at length he was permitted to make his way to the second floor of the timber-frame house where the publican had quartered him for the night. The room was a dormitory, but a large one, and Tungdil had it to himself.
He used the washbowl to bathe his sweaty feet, which had been confined to his boots since the start of the journey. Savoring the luxury of his third beer, he stood by the window and gazed out over the tiled roofs of Goodwater.
The settlement was a good size, numbering a thousand or so dwellings. The villagers seemed to make their living from the surrounding fields and orchards and what wealth they had was now threatened by orcs. Tilogorn's anxiously awaited army would have to hurry if there was going to be anything left to save.
Tungdil dried his weary feet, folded his clothes over a chair, and buried himself in the thick feather duvet.