"More than likely," said his brother. "You'd better keep your mouth shut, Bavragor. I won't have you chasing away my orcs."
The mason gesticulated rudely and launched into another rousing song, only to be silenced by Tungdil. "We need to know if anything's sneaking up on us," he explained. Goпmgar and the twins hastened to agree.
"All right, you win." Bavragor lowered his voice to a hum and curled up in his blankets. Soon he was snoring at a volume to rival his singing. The twins settled down for the night, but Goпmgar stayed exactly where he was. At last Tungdil handed him a blanket since he clearly intended to sleep with his back against the wall.
"I saw what you were up to," he said softly when he was sure that the others were asleep.
"I don't know what you mean."
"You know, when we stopped in the other hall. You were trying to ruin the map so we wouldn't be able to read it. Why?"
The diminutive fourthling glared at him defiantly. "I was dusting it."
"Not with the tip of your dagger, you weren't." Tungdil looked at him intently and tried to meet his eye. "I wish you'd stop seeing me as the enemy."
"Don't flatter yourself," the artisan said coldly. "You're not the enemy. You're nobody, not even a fourthling. You can say what you like about your lineage; all I know is you're not one of us. If you want my opinion, you're a common thief who's trying to steal the throne, and I won't let you get away with it. I know what King Gandogar said about obeying your orders, but I'll see to it personally that the rightful heir is crowned."
"Is that why you didn't want to join the expedition?"
"Maybe-or maybe I don't like traveling, fighting, and enduring all kinds of unpleasantness when I'd rather be at home. The journey to Ogre's Death was bad enough, but now I'm risking my life for a liar."
"This isn't about being made high king," Tungdil said earnestly. "Frankly, the whole business is rather a bore."
Goпmgar looked at him in astonishment. "Then why are you here?"
"All I care about is forging Keenfire so we can fight Nфd'onn and put a stop to the evil. Girdlegard is in danger and we dwarves are the only ones who can save her inhabitants from the magus's deadly scheme. That's what I'm interested in-not the throne."
"How do I know you're not lying? In your position, I'd swear blind that my beard was blue and the mountain was made of cheese. And besides, what if we get to Ogre's Death first? According to the rules of the contest, you'd have to be king. I don't see why we're hurrying if you're not interested in the throne."
Tungdil could tell that the discussion was going nowhere. It would take more than a single night to convince Goпmgar that he was mistaken about his intentions. The fourthling didn't trust him one bit.
In any case, Tungdil didn't like to be reminded about the uncertainty of his ancestry. All his efforts were focused on playing the part of the long-lost heir, but deep down he felt lonely and confused. It was only the thought of Lot-Ionan and Frala that gave him the strength to keep pretending. He would do anything to lead the company to the fifthling kingdom so that Keenfire could rob Nфd'onn of his power and his life.
"There's no point arguing," he said glumly. "You should get some sleep. I'll keep watch." He wrapped himself in a blanket to ward off the underground cold. At that moment he heard something. It sounded like a single strike of a hammer on rock.
Goпmgar stopped fussing with his bedding and froze. "An ogre," he whispered tremulously. "Or the ghost of a dwarf who died here when the tunnels were being built…"
Tungdil made no reply. It could be anything, he thought. Reaching for his ax, he listened to the darkness. There was silence. "It was probably just a stone," he said slowly, relaxing his vigil. "A bit of stone falling from the ceiling and hitting the floor. It's nothing to worry about."
"Shouldn't we wake the twins? I bet they'd know what to do."
"It was nothing," Tungdil said firmly. "Forget it and go to sleep."
Goпmgar pulled up his blanket until his beard was completely hidden, then balanced his shield across his chest. Tungdil heard him draw his sword. At last, the artisan decided that it was safe to close his eyes.
Tungdil rose quietly and paced up and down, listening at the mouths of the tunnels for footsteps or any sound of movement. I wonder what it could have been…
Silence. The underground network was at peace.
Even so, his uneasiness remained. There's no reason why other creatures shouldn't have occupied the tunnels. He hoped to goodness that Boпndil's bluster hadn't elicited an unfavorable response.
Tungdil waited until they were back in the wagon before telling the others what he and Goпmgar had heard. Boпndil was torn between excitement and pique, thrilled at the thought of possible antagonists, but angry with Tungdil for letting him sleep. He made a show of sulking and refused to say a word.
The wagon tore through the tunnels like the wind, accelerating, slowing, rolling uphill, and swooping back down. Twice they ran out of momentum and had to push the vehicle to the next downward slope.
For Bavragor, the interludes were an excuse to belt out a stirring melody, presumably to lift their spirits while they toiled. To make matters worse, he switched to a mournful love song and succeeded in antagonizing Boпndil so much that he could barely contain his rage.
Anyone would think he was baiting him on purpose. In fact, Tungdil was under the impression that the brawny mason was throwing just a fraction of his weight behind the wagon in order to make Boпndil take the strain. He took Bavragor aside and confronted him with his suspicions.
"Of course I'm doing it on purpose," the mason said without batting an eyelid. "I want him to suffer every mile of the way."
Tungdil looked at him reproachfully. "You know that's not fair."
Bavragor just shrugged.
"Is it because of your sister?"
The mason glanced back at the twins. Boлndal was handing his heavily perspiring and thoroughly exhausted brother some water. "Yes," he said slowly, taking out his own drinking pouch and removing the bung. There was an instant smell of brandy. He took a sip and wiped a few stray drops from his jet-black beard. "Yes," he whispered a second time, staring absently into the distance. He lowered his head.
"What happened between your sister and Boпndil?" Tungdil asked gently.
Bavragor raised his head slowly. His jaw was clenched and a single teardrop leaked from his patch and rolled down his cheek. He couldn't speak, so he took another draft.
"Is it because of her that you're drinking yourself to death?"
He put the pouch away. "No, I drink to forget how good I used to be," he said sadly. "Not that it helps, of course. Every corner of Ogre's Death is filled with my masonry. My sculptures and engravings look down at me and mock my useless hands." He leaned back against the wall and let his gaze sweep the room. "Do you know why I came on this mission?" he asked abruptly. Tungdil shook his head. "To get out of Ogre's Death and never go back." His hoarse voice was full of drunken earnestness. "I'm tired of being pitied. I want to be remembered as Bavragor Hammerfist, mason extraordinaire who sculpted the spurs for Keenfire and gave his life for the dwarves – not as drunken old Bavragor whose chisel danced over the rock of its own accord." He smiled wanly. "I promise to do my bit for the dwarves and for Girdlegard, but I won't return from the fifthling kingdom." He took another long draft to show that his mind was made up.
Tungdil's heart went out to the mason. Bavragor wasn't the noisy, occasionally rude but fundamentally cheerful and resilient character he had taken him for. "We can't leave you in the fifthling kingdom," he protested, realizing at once how feeble he sounded. "We'll need your fists in the fight against Nфd'onn."
Bavragor reached for his arm and squeezed it tightly. "No, Tungdil, you need warriors like the twins, true fighters whose confidence never falters." He released his grip. "Don't worry, my hands are steady enough to sculpt the strongest, most beautiful spurs ever fashioned by a dwarven chisel. I'll tell you about my sister another time. For now, I'd like a moment with my pouch."