Tomorrow he would press on with his errand and deliver the pouch. Then it would be time for him to persuade Lot-Ionan to take action before the orcs and дlfar grew any more powerful. When Tungdil woke the next morning, he was forced to concede that the sacking of Goodwater was not, as he had hoped, just a dream.
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.