"Do you see now?" Reaching forward with the tongs, he gripped the nugget of iron and laid it on the anvil. "It's not for nothing that I work without light. A blacksmith needs to know when the metal has reached the right temperature. Left to slumber in its toasty bed of coals, the iron overheats, but raised too soon, the brittle metal can't be forged." Tungdil was rewarded with an earnest nod. The child looked exactly like Frala. "My mother says you're a master blacksmith."
"I wouldn't go that far," he protested, laughing. "I'm just good at my job." He winked at her and she smiled.
What Tungdil didn't mention was that he had never received instruction in his trade. Watching his predecessor at work had been all the training he'd needed. Whenever the man set down his tools, Tungdil had seized his chance to practice, mastering the essentials in no time. Now, thirty solar cycles later, no job was too big or too difficult for him.
Lost in their thoughts, Tungdil and Sunja watched as the flames changed color: first orange, then yellow, red, white, and blue… The glowing coals sputtered and crackled.
Just as the dwarf was about to inquire what Cook would be serving for luncheon, a man appeared in the doorway, black against the rectangle of light.
"You're needed in the kitchens, Tungdil," came the imperious voice of Jolosin, a famulus in the fourth tier of Lot-Ionan's apprentices.
"Well, since you asked so nicely…" Tungdil turned to Sunja: "Be sure not to touch anything." On his way out, he pocketed a small metal object and then followed the apprentice into the vaults of Lot-Ionan's school.
Two hundred or so students of all ages had been selected to learn the secrets of sorcery from the magus. To the dwarf's mind, magic was a slippery, unreliable occupation. He felt more at home in his forge, where he could hammer as loudly as he pleased.
Jolosin's dark blue robes billowed as he walked, his combed hair bobbing about his shoulders. Tungdil eyed the youth's fine garments and coiffure and grinned. The vanity of the boy! They entered a large room and an appetizing smell wafted toward them. Sure enough, cooking pots were simmering and bubbling above two hearths.
Tungdil saw at once why his services were required. The pots were suspended on chains from the ceilings, but one of them had slipped its pulley and was sitting in the flames.
Lifting the vessel required more strength than a woman could muster and none of the apprentices were willing to help. They considered themselves a cut above kitchen work, refusing to dirty their hands or burn their fingers when others, such as smiths, could do the work.
The cook, a stately woman of impressive girth, hurried over. "Hurry," she cried anxiously, reaching up to stay her escaping hairnet. "My goulash will be spoiled!"
"We can't have that. I'm starving," said Tungdil. Without wasting time, he marched over to the hearth, touched the chain lightly to gauge its temperature, then seized the rusty links. Cycle after cycle at the anvil had strengthened his muscles until even the heaviest hammer felt weightless in his arms. A pot of goulash on a pulley was nothing by comparison.
"Here," he said to Jolosin, proffering him the grimy chain, "hold this while I fix it."
The young man hesitated. "Are you sure it's not too heavy for me?" he asked nervously.
"You'll be fine," Tungdil reassured him. He grinned. "And if you're half as good at magic as you say you are, you can always make it lighter." He pressed the chain into the apprentice's hands and let go.
With a muttered curse, the famulus threw his weight against the dangling pot. "Ow!" he protested. "It's hot!"
"That's my goulash you're holding!" the cook reminded him darkly. Conceding defeat to her hairnet, she allowed her brown mop to fall across her pudgy face. "I don't care if you're a famulus. I'll take my rolling pin to you if you let go of that chain!" Her plump arms rippled as she balled her fists.
On discovering the source of the problem, Tungdil decided to punish Jolosin by delaying the repair.
"This won't be easy," he said in a voice of feigned dismay. Frala raised her pretty green eyes from the potatoes she was peeling, saw what he was up to, and giggled.
At last he made the necessary adjustments and checked the mechanism again. The pulley held and the goulash was safe. "You can let go now."
Jolosin did as instructed, then inspected his dirty hands. Some of the grime had transferred itself to his precious blue robes. He shot a suspicious look at Frala, who was laughing out loud. His color rose.
"That's exactly what you were hoping for, isn't it, you stunted wretch!" He took a step toward Tungdil and raised his fist, then stopped; the dwarf was considerably stronger than he was. Angrily, he stormed away.
Tungdil watched him go and smirked. "If he wants a fight, he shall have one. It's a pity he lost his nerve." He wiped his hands on his apron.
Frala fished an apple from the basket beside her and tossed it to him. "Poor Jolosin," she said with a chuckle. "His fine gown is all soiled."
"He should have been more careful." He shrugged and strolled over. Like him, Frala was responsible for the little things that contributed to the smooth running of the school. "But I'll excuse his clumsiness, just this once." His kind eyes looked at her brightly from among his laughter lines.
"You two deserve each other," Frala sighed. "If you're not careful, someone will come to a bad end because of your feuding." There was a splash as she dropped a peeled potato into the waiting tub of water.
"What did he expect when he dyed my beard? You know what they say: Make a noise in a mine shaft and you're bound to hear an echo." Tungdil ran a hand over his stubbly beard. "I had to shave my chin, thanks to his stupid spell. He must have known we'd be sworn enemies after that!"
"I thought orcs were your worst enemy?" she said archly.
"Well, I've made an exception for him. Beards are sacred and if I were a proper dwarf I'd kill him for his insolence. I'm too easygoing for my own good." He bit into the apple hungrily. With his left hand he took something from the pouch at his waist and pressed it into Frala's hand. "For you."
She looked down at her palm and saw three horseshoe nails painstakingly forged together to form a homemade talisman. She stroked the dwarf's cheek fondly.
"What a lovely gift. Thank you, Tungdil." She got up, fetched a length of twine, threaded it through the pendant, and knotted it deftly round her neck. The talisman nestled against her bare skin. "Does it suit me?" she asked coyly.
"Anyone would think it had been made for you," he said, thrilled that Frala was wearing the iron trinket as proudly as if Girdlegard's finest jeweler had designed and forged the piece.
There was a special bond between the pair of them. The dwarf had known Frala since she was a baby and had watched her mature into an attractive young woman who turned the heads of Lot-Ionan's apprentices. These days she had two daughters of her own: Sunja and one-year-old Ikana.
Cycles ago, when Frala was still a girl, he had made tin figures for her to play with, showed her around the forge, and let her work the bellows. "Dragon's breath," she used to call it as the sparks flew up the chimney, accompanied by her laughter. Frala never forgot the pains he had taken to entertain her, nor how he cared for her daughter.
She shook the remaining potatoes into the tub and topped up the water. As she turned round, her green eyes looked at him keenly. "It's funny," she said with a smile. "I was just thinking how you haven't changed a bit in all the cycles I've known you."
Half of Tungdil's apple had already disappeared. Still munching, he made himself comfortable on a stool. "And I was just thinking how splendidly we get on together," he said simply.
"Frala!" the cook shouted. "I'm going for some herbs. You'll have to stir the goulash." The ladle, its stem scarcely shorter than Tungdil, changed hands. The cook hurried out. "You'd better not let it stick," she warned.
A delicious smell of goulash rose from the pot as Frala gave the stew a vigorous stir.