Suddenly the sounds of footfalls stopped, as those outside halted. Then the sound of a single pair of boots could be heard coming closer. Appearing out of the dark came a figure directly toward the cave Pug craned his neck to see past the soldiers, and the Duke said, “Who passes this night?”
A short figure, no more than five feet tall, pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing a metal helm sitting over a shock of thick brown hair. Two sparkling green eyes reflected the firelight. Heavy brows of brown-red hair came together at a point above a large hooked nose. The figure stood regarding the party, then signaled behind. More figures appeared from out of the night, and Pug pressed forward to get a better view, Tomas at his side. At the rear they could see several of the arrivals leading mules.
The Duke and soldiers visibly relaxed, and Tomas said, “They’re dwarves!”
Several of the guards laughed, as did the closest dwarf. The dwarf fixed Tomas with a wry gaze, saying, “What were you expecting, boy? Some pretty dryad come to fetch you away?”
The lead dwarf walked into the firelight. He stopped before the Duke and said, “From your tabard, I see you to be men of Crydee.” He struck himself upon the chest and said, formally, “I hight Dolgan, chief of village Caldara, and Warleader of the Grey Towers dwarven people.” Pulling a pipe out of his cloak, from under a long beard that fell below his belt, he filled his pipe as he looked at the others in the cave. Then in less formal language he said, “Now, what in the name of the gods brings such a sorry-looking party of tall folk to this cold and forlorn place?”
NINE - Mac Mordain Cadal
The dwarves stood guard.
Pug and the others from Crydee sat around the campfire as they hungrily ate the meal prepared by Dolgan’s men. A pot of stew bubbled near the fire. Hot loaves of trail bread, thick hard crust broken to reveal dark sweet dough thick with honey, were quickly being devoured Smoked fish, from the dwarves’ pack animals, provided a welcome change from the diet of horse meat of the last few days.
Pug looked from where he sat beside Tomas, who was hard at work consuming his third portion of bread and stew. Pug watched as the dwarves worked efficiently about the camp. Most were outside the cave’s mouth, for they seemed less inconvenienced by the cold than the humans. Two tended the injured man, who would live, while two others served the hot meal to the Duke’s men, and another filled ale cups from a large skin filled with the bubbling brown liquid.
There were forty dwarves with Dolgan. The dwarven chief was flanked by his sons, Weylin, the older, and Udell. Both showed a striking resemblance to their father, though Udell tended to darkness, having black hair rather than red-brown. Both seemed quiet compared to their father, who gestured expansively with a pipe in one hand and a cup of ale in the other as he spoke with the Duke.
The dwarves had been on some sort of patrol along the edge of the forest, though Pug gained the impression a patrol this far from their villages was unusual. They had come across the tracks of the goblins who had attacked a few minutes before and were following closely behind, otherwise they would have missed the Duke’s party as the night’s storm obliterated all tracks of the men from Crydee’s passage.
“I remember you, Lord Borric,” said Dolgan, sipping at his ale cup, “though you were scarcely more than a baby when I was last at Crydee. I dined with your father. He set a fine table.”
“And should you come again to Crydee, Dolgan, I hope you’ll find my table equally satisfactory.” They had spoken of the Duke’s mission, and Dolgan had remained mostly silent during the preparation of the meal, lost in thought. Suddenly he regarded his pipe, which had gone out. He sighed forlornly, putting it away, until he noticed Kulgan had pulled out his own and was producing respectable clouds of smoke. Brightening visibly, he said, “Would you be having the requirement of an extra pipe upon you, master magician?” He spoke with the deep, rolling burr the dwarves made when speaking the King’s Tongue.
Kulgan fetched out his tabac pouch and handed it across to the dwarf “Providentially,” said Kulgan, “my pipe and pouch are two items always kept upon my person at all times. I can withstand the loss of my other goods—though the loss of my two books troubles me deeply—but to endure any circumstance without the comfort of my pipe is unthinkable.”
“Aye,” agreed the dwarf as he lit up his own, “you have the right of it there. Except for autumn’s ale-—and my loving wife’s company or a good fight, of course—there’s little to match the pipe for pure pleasure.” He drew forth a long pull and blew out a large cloud of smoke to emphasize his point. A thoughtful look crossed his rugged face, and he said, “Now to the matter of the news you carry. They are strange tidings, but explain away some mysteries we have been tussling with for some time now.”