At length they approached another grand gate that passed through the Inner Wall. The avenue dipped downward as it went through the portal into a huge tunnel. His father indicated the opening with a nod and explained.
“This is The Underpass. It takes us right under the city and palace to the Upper Ward and its markets. Through them the road leads to the Central Valleys beyond. This great passage bypasses the Inner Ward of the city that holds the mines, smelters and workshops of the Dwarven people. The Inner Ward is forbidden to humans, goblins or anyone else for that matter unless you have an official pass.”
They were questioned by another guard before being allowed to enter The Underpass. The broad, high-ceilinged passage was amazingly noisy within. The creaking of wagon wheels, booted feet on the stone floor and countless voices assaulted their ears. The great passage was dim after the bright daylight of the Outer Ward, with the lamps of the merchants, inns and taverns that lined the walls supplementing the large skylights set into the roof at intervals.
Engvyr looked around until he thought his head might swivel right off of his neck; there was so much to see! Anything a traveler might need was on display, but there were also colorful bolts of exotic fabrics, glittering jewelry and weapons, richly tooled leather goods and finely carved wood. He felt he could have spent days in this tunnel and not discover all of the wonders it held.
At last they passed out into the daylight of the Upper Ward. This part of the city was filled with low buildings- breweries, stables, and shops. Engvyr also caught the distinctive smells of a paper-mill and a tannery. The streets were narrower and if anything even more crowded than those in the Outer Ward.
Darkness was falling as they made their way to a caravanserai near the outer wall. This was simply an expansive, walled space filled with wagons and corrals of oxen, mules and ponies. A covered area at one end was filled with tables and benches. Even the smells of the livestock could not entirely overwhelm the savory aromas wafting from that end of the compound. This was some feat, for even though dwarves with carts moved among the wagons and corrals scooping up manure and spreading sawdust they could not entirely banish the ancient odors of too many animals in too small a space.
Opposite the eatery was the bathhouse and washing facilities. Engvyr was ecstatic when he discovered that the family planned to make full use of those. Dwarves at home were a cleanly folk and bathing and washing along the road had been catch-as-can. The idea of a proper bath and really, properly clean clothes was nearly as exciting to the young dwarf as the thought of fresh food cooked in a real kitchen!
The family went to their bedrolls that night clean and well-fed. Under the influence of the eatery's strong, unfiltered beer Engvyr was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
In the morning they rose early, both from habit and necessity as the caravanserai roused at first light. They broke their fast from their own supplies and Engvyr was disappointed to discover that he would not be able to accompany his father on his errands to the Inner ward of the city.
“I'm sorry, Engvyr,” his father told him, “I had intended that you should go with me, but it's just too expensive for us to stay here longer than we must, and there's much to be done before we take the road again.”
His father went on his way and the family set to washing every scrap of clothing that they had brought with them. It was far from Engvyr's favorite chore but he went to it with a will, and by that afternoon the lines they had strung between their wagons were covered in clothes drying in the breeze.
After the washing was accomplished Engvyr was sent to a nearby wainwright to purchase grease for the wagons axles. As he neared his destination he saw a knot of rough looking dwarves gathered in the street. There was an ugly edge to their laughter and as he neared them he could see they were shoving someone back and forth between them. They were shouting at their victim, accusing him of snooping, thieving, and worse. The figure that they were heaping abuse on was a goblin.
Other people on the street had stopped to watch from a safe distance, muttering to each other and looking concerned but no one moved to intervene. Suddenly one of the dwarves, a drover by the look of him, reached out and tore away the goblin's hat and scarf and knocked him sprawling.
The goblin screamed as the sun touched his white, exposed skin. He tried to cover his head with his arms but the dwarf holding his hat and scarf kicked him. The creature's skin was already reddening with sunburn and he howled in pain.
Engvyr was overcome with horror, and not just for the goblin's suffering. The attitude of the men tormenting the hapless creature was only a small step beyond his own thoughts of the previous day, and he saw the ugliness of these men reflected in his own heart.
Without thinking he stripped off his great-cote, threw it over the goblin and stepped between the drover and his victim.
“Leave him alone!” Engvyr commanded.
“Sod off, sprog!” the drover said, angry at having his fun interrupted as he reached out a hand to give the boy a shove.
Engvyr's father had trained him in the wrestling taught in the regiments and he reacted automatically. He side-stepped to his right, brushing the drover's hand aside as he struck a powerful blow with the heel of his hand that split the drover's cheek and knocked him to the ground.
The crowd went quiet, shocked by his sudden action. The drover touched his cheek disbelievingly and looked at the blood on his fingertips. With a bellow of rage he lunged to his feet, his sax-knife appearing in his fist. Engvyr stepped back, his own sax sliding into his hand as a sudden cold wariness overcame him.
Suddenly his father stepped from the crowd and casually batted the knife from the drover's hand with the barrel of the Big 14. Twisting his left fist into the dwarfs dirty beard he turned and slammed him into a nearby post with bruising force. Sticking the muzzle under the man's chin he growled, “Go for my boy again and you'll get worse than he's given already.”
Turning to the crowd he said, “You lot ought to be ashamed! Get out of here. Now.”
The dwarves slunk away muttering and the rest of the crowd began to disperse as well. Engvyr's father slung the drover to the ground by his beard and fetched him a boot in the backside as he scrambled away, clutching at his wrist.
“Go on, you cur! I shoulda' let the boy kill you!” he shouted after the fleeing drover.
He picked up the hat and scarf as he and Engvyr helped the battered goblin, still covered by the great-cote, into the shade next to a nearby building. The goblin gratefully donned the hat and scarf again, peered at each of them intently for a moment.
“I t'ank you bot',” he said simply.
The dwarves nodded acceptance and then Engvyr's father told the goblin, “You're welcome, but best you get yourself far from here before that group finds their courage again.” The goblin scurried off. His father gave Engvyr an approving nod and a warm smile, “Best we not mention this to your mother, eh?”
Engvyr agreed and they went into the wainwright's shop together.
Chapter Four
“I've traveled far in my days and have seen many wonders and often enough I have wondered at what I have seen. One thing is plain to me, men are men. I've met each of the Five Races of Man and they are each of them very different and very much the same. They all have in common that they are none of them all one thing; each man of any race may be good or bad, and it's his own choosing which path he will follow at the end of the day.”