They were interrupted by Jemta. "Show me how to make nails!" she demanded.
"You want to be a smith, do you?" Tungdil patted the blond child on the head, then set about teaching her how to make a nail. While she ran off proudly to show her handiwork to her parents, he turned his attention to forging a new windlass for the well.
It was midafternoon when he left his perch to lie down in a tub of cool water. His clothes reeked of perspiration, so he climbed in fully dressed.
I'm surprised my skin doesn't hiss like hot iron, he thought. The cold water took his breath away, but then he sank luxuriously below the surface and came up, snorting and gasping for air. He was just wiping the water from his eyes when a shadow fell over the tub. There was a clunking of metal and the smell of oil.
Plate armor, thought Tungdil, blinking nervously.
A solid man of around thirty cycles was leaning against the outside wall of the forge, arms folded in front of his armored chest. Despite the various weapons about his person, he had no uniform or insignia to identify him as a soldier.
"Were you looking for me, sir?" asked Tungdil, stepping out of the tub. Water streamed from his clothes, drenching the sandy floor.
"Are you the smith?"
"I'm standing in for him at the moment. Is there something you'd like repaired?" The dwarf did his best to be polite even though he had taken an instant dislike to the man. The stranger's gray eyes bored into him as if to read his innermost thoughts.
"Two of our horses need shoeing. Are you up to it?"
That was enough to turn Tungdil against him forever. "I should hope so. What else would I be doing in a forge? I may as well ask you if you know how to ride!" The dwarf left the bath, trying to look as dignified as possible while leaving a trail of water behind him and making squelching noises as if he were tramping through a bog. His hair hung limply down his back.
Waiting outside on the narrow rutted road were six horses and four men in what looked like full battle dress. One of the horses was laden with kitchen utensils, leather packs, and two rolled-up nets.
The men were conversing in low tones but fell silent when Tungdil approached. They looked at him oddly but made no remark.
The dwarf instructed one of the men to work the bellows. Air hissed into the furnace, fanning the glowing coals until flames licked around them, quivering and flickering above the burning fuel. Tungdil was enveloped in heat, his hair and clothes drying in no time. He was in his element.
"Are you mercenaries?" he asked the fellow on the bellows. Unhurriedly, he chose a hammer and some nails while another man led in the lame horse. Tungdil held the shoe against the hoof; the fit was right.
"You could say that," came the curt reply. "We hunt orcs and criminals with a price on their head."
Tungdil placed the shoe among the burning embers and waited. "I suppose business is good at the moment," he probed. "What of the orcs who razed Goodwater?"
"Gauragar is a big place and Bruron's soldiers can't be everywhere at once. We've enough to keep us busy," the leader of the company said brusquely.
The conversation was over.
Working in silence, Tungdil hammered the horseshoe into shape and fitted it to the hoof. A cloud of yellowish smoke filled the forge. When the job was done, he demanded twice his usual price. The mercenaries paid without objecting and rode away. Tungdil watched them go and dismissed them from his mind.
The next orbit flew by and already it was time for him to leave. The children in particular were disappointed; they had grown fond of the stocky little fellow who showered them with metal trinkets.
Tungdil thanked his hosts profusely. "Without your healing powers a festering wound like that could have killed me." He dug out the extra money that he had taken from the mercenaries and handed it to Opatja.
"We can't accept this," the villager objected.
"That's your business, but I won't be taking it back. It's not often that a dwarf agrees to part with money." He was so insistent that the coins eventually found their way into Opatja's purse.
Rйmsa gave him a pouch of herbs. "Lay them on your wounds before you go to sleep. Soon your leg will be as good as new." They all shook hands and he went on his way. The children followed him until the sky grew darker and rain clouds gathered overhead.
"Will you come and see us on your way home?" Jemta asked mournfully.
"Of course, little one. It's an honor to have made your acquaintance. Keep practicing, and you'll make a fine smith." He offered her his hand, but she darted forward and hugged him instead.
"Now we're friends," she said, waving and running back toward the hamlet. As she rounded the corner she shouted: "Don't forget to come back!"
Tungdil was so surprised that he stood there for a moment, hand outstretched, in the middle of the road. "Well, well, who would have thought I could win over a girl-child so easily?" He marched off in good spirits, thinking fondly of the people left behind.
The spring weather had taken a turn for the worse: Dark clouds covered every inch of sky and rain had settled for the duration. After a while, even his boots were soaked, his feet cold and swollen inside the sopping leather.
In spite of the unpleasant conditions, Tungdil was making good progress, but the thought of the orcs and the incursion of the Perished Land, as foretold by the дlfar, preyed on his mind.
He remembered what Lot-Ionan had told him about the invasion of the northern pestilence. The Perished Land extended six hundred and fifty miles across Girdlegard, swallowing the whole of the former fifthling kingdom and much of the northern border besides and reaching another four hundred miles southward, where it tapered to approximately half that breadth.
Tungdil reached the shelter of a rocky overhang and examined his map. In his mind's eye he pictured the insidious evil as a wedge forcing itself into Girdlegard, its tip grinding against the magi's magic barrier and leveling off, unable to advance any farther.
Now it seemed that the Perished Land's ruler, the mysterious Nфd'onn, was intent on extending his dominion. And he was undoubtedly making progress, in spite of the magi's girdle. In the east, the дlfar kingdom of Dsфn Balsur was eating its way into Gauragar like a festering sore, covering an area two hundred miles long by seventy miles wide. And while the Stone Gateway remained open, there was nothing to stop further armies of foul beasts from entering Girdlegard from the north.
The magi will have their work cut out now that Toboribor has allied itself with the northern blight. The wizards were powerful, but they could only be in one place at a time.
At least they'll be forewarned. According to his calculations, the message would have reached Lot-Ionan by now.
All around him, the varied landscape of Gauragar was doing its best to recompense him for the dreadful events at the start of his trip. Even the rain could not dull the vibrant springtime colors, although Tungdil was too focused on his journey to pay much attention to the lush splendor of the knolls, woods, and meadows. At length he came to an abandoned temple, a small edifice dedicated to Palandiell. Light streamed through manifold windows, illuminating carvings that symbolized fertility and long life.
Palandiell commanded the loyalty of most humans, but she was too soft and indecisive for Tungdil's taste. He was a follower of Vraccas, to whom temples had been constructed in some of the larger cities-or so he had read in Lot-Ionan's books.
Some humans preferred Elria, the water deity, while others prayed to the wind god Samusin, who regarded men, elves, dwarves, and beasts as creatures of equal standing and strove for an equilibrium between evil and good. Tion, dark lord and creator of foul beasts, was more feared than admired in Girdlegard. I don't know anyone who would worship him, Tungdil thought in relief. Lot-Ionan's household, Frala included, prayed to Palandiell.