“Not always easy to understand, these humans and their sense of humor,” remarked Tungdil as he crossed the crowded taproom to sit at a table by the window where the setting sun shone through.
A wiry young man approached, wearing an apron and a smile that would have done the Incredible Rodario proud. “Welcome, Master Dwarves, welcome to Gilspan’s Hunting Lodge.”
Ireheart chuckled into his beard. “So, you, my fine linnet, are Gilspan.”
“I most certainly am, Master Dwarf,” the young man retorted indignantly.
“How old were you when you say you killed that snout-face? Four or five cycles?” He gave a friendly laugh and pinched Gilspan’s arm. “Ha, your muscles are good enough for tray-carrying, but not for winning a fight, I’d wager. Did you find your orc lying dead on the battlefield?”
The first guests were turning round to see who it was, spoiling for a brawl by slighting mine host’s valor.
“I stabbed him in the heart, Master Dwarf!”
“In the heart, eh?” Ireheart turned to look at the stuffed orc. “And where does a greenskin keep its heart, then?”
Gilspan went red.
“Give it a rest, Boindil,” interrupted Tungdil. “Bring us two strong beers, landlord, some hearty stew, and half a loaf to go with it.” He slid the coins over the counter. Still smarting from the insult, Gilspan took the money and went off.
“If he were half the man he thinks he is, he’d have challenged me to a fight on the spot,” muttered Ireheart. He searched for his pipe, filled it and lit it from a candle; molten wax formed a small puddle on the table as he did so. “He never killed that pig-face-I’d stake my beard on it!”
They were brought their drinks with bad grace. It might have been pure chance, but when Boindil’s tankard was set down, beer slopped over and spilled into his lap. Gilspan gave a false smile and an apology and hurried off.
“Bring me a jug of brandy,” Tungdil called out after him, lifting his tankard to his lips and emptying it in a single draught. He started on its successor greedily; the beer ran dark down his beard, staining it.
“How did it happen, Scholar?”
Tungdil wiped his mouth and his beard. “I was drinking too fast.”
“I meant, that you’re tipping it down you as if that old drunkard Bavragor were your baby brother,” Boindil insisted sharply. “Tell me why you’re like this now. And why Balyndis mourns.”
Tungdil was angry with himself for having let that slip out. “Because of Balodil.”
“Balodil.” The dwarf-twin leaned forward so low toward his friend that his black beard was nearly in his tankard. “And who is Balodil?”
“He’s our son.” Tungdil took a mouthful of brandy. “Was our son.”
Boindil was careful not to say anything. Gradually Tungdil’s words and his recent behavior merged to form a distressing picture.
Gilspan brought their food. Neither of them touched it despite the delicious smell and despite their hunger after the long journey. The past must first be dealt with.
“He was born four cycles ago and was the crowning of our love: the apple of our eye,” whispered Tungdil from a place far away, as he sat staring at the flicker of the candle flame. “I took him with me on an errand and I’d promised Balyndis I would look after him. But the wooden bridge I always used had been damaged in the flood.” He gulped down the brandy. His face was a single grimace of disgust. “I am Tungdil Goldhand, victor over Nod’onn and avatars, slaughterer of hundreds of orcs, and a scholar to boot. You’d think I could manage to cross a rickety bridge,” he said caustically, looking his friend in the face. “That old bridge, Boindil, showed me who was stronger. It collapsed under the cart and we were tipped into the river. My mail shirt pulled me down. I’d have drowned but for an empty barrel bobbing up under me.” The laughter and loud voices in the taproom behind them swallowed his words. “So now here I am, telling you about Balodil. How do you think the story goes for him?” This time he did not even trouble to pour the brandy into his cup, but drank straight from the jug. He set it down, gasped for air and belched. “I never found his body, however long I searched. Since that day I’ve hated myself. Balyndis can never forgive me and I… and I’ve taken to drink. I’m going to drink till it kills me.” He paused. “No, I’m going to drink so it kills me. Should have drowned with my son instead of living on like this. So I’m drowning my sorrows and myself in drink.” Disgusted, he pushed away the plate of stew.
“Scholar, it was an accident. Rotten timber,” objected Boindil, wanting to wrest away his guilt. “Rotten wood and the curse of the goddess Elria. It was the curse that struck you, dragging you, your son and the cart to the bottom. It was not your fault.”
“That’s what Balyndis says, too.” He lowered his head. “But I see that silent accusation in her eyes all the time. I fear our love went cold that very day. She thinks I don’t notice her feelings-she tries to hide the hatred and disgust. It is so cold now back in our vaults, colder than ever before. The grief in my heart has robbed me of any desire to live.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “So now you know why I’ve changed. I’m off to bed, Boindil.” He got up, swaying, stumbled off to the stairs and disappeared.
Ireheart wiped the tears away. He must help his friend and restore his love of life. There was only one way to do that.
“Vraccas, have mercy. And send your blessing to Tungdil.” He glanced at Gilspan, expansively welcoming new arrivals and showing off the orc he had dispatched; mine host was clapped heartily on the shoulder for his deeds of daring.
Boindil got up and plodded up the stairs. He had to speak to Balyndis: he simply could not believe she was harboring the feelings that Tungdil had described.
T he night was already far advanced.
Gilspan was at the table entertaining the other guests with yet another story about how he had killed his orc. “And when the Toboribor hordes came through close to our farm, I took up my weapon to defend my house. My father was far away from home, but he’d left me his dagger. I’d sworn on it that I’d protect my mother and all the people on our land.” He laid the dagger on the table as evidence.
“That was all you had?” breathed a girl of sixteen summers, traveling in the company of her parents and of her betrothed.
“Yes. And the orcs were not stopping! They arrived in the evening, a whole troop of them on the scavenge for provisions.” Gilspan sprang up. “I went up to their leader and challenged him to a duel. He had his sword and I attacked him with my dagger…”
“Oh, you’re so brave!” The girl clapped her hands and was lost in admiration.
“I thought the Blood of Girdlegard was supposed to render them immortal,” objected her fiance.
“It didn’t help him,” said Gilspan, waving his dagger in the air. “I got everywhere, stabbing away and slitting at him till I’d plunged the blade right into his heart and he fell dead at my feet.” He posed with one foot on a chair. “The others fled and the farm was saved. Because he died before the time of the Judgment Star the cadaver has survived all this time.”
The men gave him a round of applause, the women gave him some coins and the girl gave him a small silken square embroidered with her monogram.
“But how were you able to cut off its head with a dagger?” The jealous fiance was not giving up.
“A knife-thrust to the heart was enough, sir.”
The girl’s betrothed looked over at the orc. “Excuse me, Gilspan, but the soldiers I’ve talked to always say you’ve got to cut the creatures’ heads off to properly do away with them.”
It went very quiet. Everyone was staring at the stuffed creature posed in the corner with its bared fangs, a remarkably lifelike figure in the dim light.