"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."