Chapter 11
“One, two, three, heave!
“One, two, three, heave!”
Tas, Woodrow, and the seven gully dwarves pulled with all their might, but the waterlogged wagon refused to budge. They had managed to drag it about halfway up onto shore. But now it was thoroughly bogged down in the mud.
Woodrow, standing waist-deep in the water, relaxed his grip on the rope and eased up to his full height. The movement aggravated a pain in his back. “I’m sorry, Miss Hornslager, but I just don’t think we can do this.
That wagon hasn’t moved in the last twenty pulls.”
“Never give up, Woodrow. Those are words to live by,” responded Gisella, still seated atop the wagon. “Now everybody, one, two, three, heave!”
But even before she got to the word “heave,” all nine heavers had dropped the rope and slogged wearily back onto the shore. The gully dwarves, who had been in the shallow water closest to shore, plopped down in a soggy heap. Tas followed, stretching out on his back on a small patch of grass growing on the sandy beach. Finally, Woodrow sat down beside him, resting his head on his knees.
“What’s the matter with you? You’re all a bunch of quitters, that’s what’s the matter with you!” hollered Gisella. She paced back and forth on the small roof of her wagon. “Do you think I came all this way to give up now? Do you think I’m just going to shrug my shoulders and say, ‘Oh, well, things are getting a little tough now, so I think I’ll sit down here and wallow in my own pity?”
“C’mon, Gisella,” responded Tas. “We’re tired. We just survived a shipwreck — let us rest for five minutes, OK?”
Gisella surveyed her ragged crew. “Maybe you’re right. So come and help me down off this thing already.”
She held out her hand demurely.
Wearily, Woodrow rose to his feet and splashed back to the wagon. Gisella sat on the edge of the wagon’s roof and then, with a little hop, slid into Woodrow’s arms.
The thin human suppressed a grunt.
“Oooh,” she purred, “you’re stronger than you look. I find danger to be incredibly exciting, don’t you?”
Woodrow’s face flamed to a bright crimson, and he practically dropped Gisella in his haste to set her down and retreat to the shore. The dwarf was puffing as she finally waded onto dry land, several dozen paces behind the human.
“Really, Woodrow, it was just an innocent little remark. I don’t know what gets into you sometimes,” she complained. “Hasn’t anyone ever flirted with you before?”
Woodrow was seated, hugging his knees and staring at the ground. “No, ma’am, I guess not,” he mumbled.
This was beyond Gisella’s comprehension, so she dropped the subject entirely and joined everyone else stretching out on the beach.
Woodrow woke up shortly after dawn. He was disoriented at first, until he realized that what everyone had intended to be a short nap had turned into twelve hours of sleep. Tas was curled up on his side, Gisella was snoring softly, the gully dwarves were in a heap, squirming occasionally. Woodrow’s stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since early the day before. He set off to the south along the beach in search of something edible.
The beach extended perhaps a mile before giving way to rocky outcroppings, gravel, and eroded dirt banks.
Walking along the shore was too difficult after that point, so Woodrow moved inland. As long as I can still hear the waves, he thought, I shouldn’t get lost.
Before long, Woodrow found a tangled patch of wild raspberry bushes. He filled his hat with the ripe, red fruit and sat down for a feast.
His meal was interrupted by the sound of movement somewhere in the tangle. Woodrow rolled onto his stomach and lay perfectly still, listening. Then he heard the sound again: the snorting of a horse.
Cautiously, he raised his head. In places, especially where the berries grew around gnarled trees and boulders, the bushes were taller than Woodrow. Slowly, he worked his way around the patch, then all of a sudden he laughed, stood up, and whistled. In the berry patch, contentedly munching, were Gisella’s two horses. Eagerly they pushed their way through the tangled brush to where Woodrow stood.
“I sure am glad you two are all right,” laughed Woodrow, throwing an arm around each horse’s neck. “I was afraid I’d never see you again.”
Both horses were nuzzling Woodrow’s pockets. “I’m afraid you’ve already found something better than anything I could offer you, right there in that berry patch,”
chuckled Woodrow. “Let’s gather some of this up and head back to the others, eh?”
Woodrow refilled his cap and the entire front of his shirt with berries, holding the latter out like an apron. He and the hotses turned north toward the beach.
Tasselhoff was just sitting up and rubbing his eyes as Woodrow arrived-with the horses. In moments, everyone was awake and noisily slurping up berries.
While the others breakfasted, Woodrow walked the horses out into the shallow water and started hitching them to the wagon.
“Oh, good thinking!” hollered Gisella, looking up from her handfuls of berries. “I can’t wait to get my things dried out so I can put on some decent clothes.” She glared disdainfully at the simple drab work outfit she’d been wearing since before the shipwreck.
Woodrow finished adjusting the harness and walked around to the front of the horses. “I don’t know whether pulling the wagon out will work, Miss Hornslager,” he cautioned. “This harness is in pretty bad shape, what with spending the night underwater. The leather may split open under the strain.”
Gisella crossed her fingers. Woodrow led the horses forward until they gradually put their entire strength into the harness. Slowly, the wagon rocked forward, then back, then forward again, and finally began rolling after the straining team. The horses picked up more speed as the wagon moved into shallower water and the water inside it drained out.
‘Whoa,” said Woodrow, placing a hand on each of the horses’ muzzles. The wagon stood on the beach, water still running out through the door and around the floorboards.
“Hooray.” shouted Gisella, clapping her hands. “We’ll be on our way in no time.”
“I don’t think so, Miss Hornslager.” Woodrow stepped from behind the wagon, shaking his head. “Both rear wheels are damaged, and the rear axle is cracked really bad. This wagon won’t go more than a mile or two without falling apart.”
“Well, can’t we fix it?” Gisella waved her arms vaguely at the wagon. “People fix wagons all the time, right? I mean, everything looks fine to me.”
Woodrow nodded his head. “Yes, ma’am, we could fixit…
“
“Then let’s get at it.”
“… if we had the right tools, ma’am. Like a forge, and a sledge, and an anvil. And maybe some jacks and woodworking tools. But we can’t repair it with nothing to work with.”
“Oh.”
Gisella let her arms drop to her sides as she looked sadly at the wagon. Then slapping her hips, she said, “That’s that, then. Let’s salvage what we can and get moving. I still have one cargo left, and it still has to be in Kendermore by the Harvest Faire.” She threw a glance at Tasslehoff. “I hope it intends to continue cooperating.”
The day was more than half over when Gisella finally called for a short rest. The gully dwarves collapsed in exagerated poses before the dwarf could even slide her leg over her horse’s neck and drop to the ground. Riding the second horse together, Woodrow waited for the kender seated in front of him to jump down before slithering off himself.
The spot Gisella had chosen was the crest of a gently rolling hill, which continued eastward in ever-taller waves, becoming mountains within two miles. The hills were barren except for tall, wavering, wheatlike grass, and the occasional stark tree. The sun was warm, but there was a slight chill to the breeze, the only sign of autumn in the austere landscape.
“Pass around those berries, Woodrow,” instructed Gisella. “But make sure I get some before those gully dwarves start stuffing their paws into them. And some water, too,” she added as an afterthought.
Woodrow hefted from the horses two of Gisella’s shirts, which had been salvaged from the wagon and stuffed with berries. The necks and waists had been knotted shut, and the arms were used to tie the makeshift sacks to the horses’ necks. The human untied a shirt, paused, and peered into its neck.
“I could have sworn this was full when we started this morning. We must have jostled an inch of berries out of the top.”
Guiltily, Tas shoved his red-stained fingers behind his belt. “How surprising,” he noted, turning his back to Gisella’s tight-lipped glare. But whatever she may have been thinking, Gisella said nothing, instead helping herself to a handful of raspberries.
“Does anything around here look familiar’” she asked Tasslehoff. “Anything at all? Does any of it even resemble anything on one of those ridiculous maps of yours?”
Tas shook his head. “I’m familiar with a lot of places, but this isn’t any of them. Apparently none of my relatives has been here, either, because I don’t see anything similar on the maps — no barren hills or tall grass anywhere.” Tas’s maps were spread around him in a semicircle. “Of course, we haven’t traveled too terribly far. All the really good landmarks may be just ahead.”
“Let’s hope so,” sighed Gisella. “We’ve got to find some sort of civilization soon.”
Those words were barely out of Gisella’s mouth when Woodrow’s head snapped up from his meal and he cocked it to one side, listening intently for some barely heard sound in the distance.
But the gully dwarves were getting restless. Taking the silence as a sign of inactivity, Fondu chose that moment to start singing the gully dwarves’ special version of the sea chanty Tasslehoff had taught them. Woodrow flapped his arms frantically at them, trying to get them to stop singing. But the Aghar took his gestures to be a new verse of sorts to the song, and they began flapping their arms to the music.
Helplessly, Woodrow looked at Tasslehoff. Acting on instinct, the kender took matters into his own hands and leaped in among the dancing Aghar, tackling Fondu. The two of them rolled across the ground and bumped up against Gisella’s feet, Fondu still singing. But when the gully dwarf looked up, he saw his lady’s face, her lips puckered and pressed to her finger. Instantly Fondu stopped singing and bellowed, “Redhair lady says to shut up! Shut up! Shut up! The singing stopped abruptly, and the gully dwarves froze in place. Pluk, balanced precariously on one foot, wavered, jerked, hopped three times, and with his arms windmilling wildly, collapsed on top of his brother, Slurp. Both of them struggled back to their feet with their hands clamped firmly over their mouths.
Once again Woodrow bent his ear to the wind.
Several moments passed.
“Well?” whispered Gisella.
Without turning his head, Woodrow whispered back, “It’s singing. I hear singing.”
“Oh, that’s marvelous,” hissed Gisella. “It’s probably another bunch of gully dwarves. Can’t you tell any more than that?”
“No, ma’am. Either they’re garbling the lyrics something awful, or they’re singing in a language I don’t understand, because I can’t make out the words. Sounds like quite a chorus, though,” he added.
“I can’t see anything through these cursed weeds,” spat Gisella, swatting at the dwarf-high grass surrounding her. “Woodrow, help me onto my horse.”
Woodrow linked his fingers and formed a step with his hands, boosting Gisella onto the back of her horse. She shaded her eyes with her hand and scanned the horizon.
“I see a red banner moving across our path — it looks like someone’s family crest,” the dwarf said at last. “It’s not too far off. There must be a road farther ahead. Let’s try to catch up with whoever it is.”
Gisella’s horse loped easily through the tall grass.
Woodrow and Tas hurried their horse to catch up, with the gully dwarves jogging along behind them.
Tas had an idea for attracting the attention of whoever was on the road. Twisting around on his horse, he yelled to the leader of the gully dwarves. “Sing! Fondu, sing!”
The kender broke into the song he’d taught them.
“Come all you young fellows who live by the sea, Kiss a fair maiden and then follow me.”
And then came their reply:
“Hotel this ale and your uncle’s a whale, Wheel run with the Winifred ball of four bale.”
Tasslehoff could see that the banner had stopped moving ahead, and he could no longer spot Gisella. Moments later, he and Woodrow broke through the grass and came upon the road. Gisella had dismounted and struck the same “come hither” pose she’d used in the inn: hands on her hips, hair tossed back. She was surrounded by a dozen male dwarves who were all stroking their beards and fumbling with their hats.
The troop was on foot — most dwarves distrusted horses. They stood in two straight lines of six dwarves, with a lone dwarf at their head. Wearing sparkling, polished chain mail and kneehigh leather boots, each dwarf had a war hammer at his waist and a coil of rope draped over one shoulder. The leader of the troop wore an ornamental helm with a cluster of green rooster feathers in it.
Gisella threw Tas and Woodrow a coy look and batted her eyelashes when they at last emerged. “Boys,” she said, “I’d like you to meet Baron Krakold of the village of Rosloviggen.” She turned and blew a kiss to the dwarf who sported the green feathers. Tas couldn’t tell whether the dwarf blushed — his already ruddy complexion was mostly hidden behind his enormous beard. He’s not at all the way I pictured a baron, thought Tas, who, if he pondered the subject, conjured up images of shining armor, a flowing cape, and a prancing white charger.
Gisella hooked her arm around the baron’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “The baron — I just love the sound of that, don’t you? — and his men just finished some mission or other and they’re on their way back to the baron’s village. They’d love to have us join them. I don’t see how we can refuse such a gracious offer.” Gisella turned and stared deeply into the baron’s eyes, simultaneously grinding her hip against his thigh. The baron’s eyebrows — which constituted a considerable mass of hair — twitched up and down, and a murmur of vague, manly approval rippled through the troop of dwarves.
Just then, Fondu and his six kinsmen tumbled through the edge of the grass and onto the road. They froze for a second, looking at the noble entourage. Gisella closed her eyes and bit her lip — she knew that, as a rule, her own kinsmen were no fonder of gully dwarves than of horses. But when the Aghar broke into another spirited chorus of “Balifor Bay,” the baron and his men laughed with delight. After a good round of guffawing and back slapping, the column was under way.
The procession hiked for several hours. Tas, Gisella, and Woodrow dismounted and walked in deference to the horseless dwarves. Woodrow took both sets of reins and dropped back to lead the animals at the rear of their party. The ground rose steadily as the road wound into the foothills of the upcoming mountain range. Tas, who thought himself uncommonly patient on this trip, finally voiced the question that had been occupying his mind all day.
“How much farther is the village? We’ve had nothing to eat but raspberries all day.”
The dwarf directly ahead of Tas grunted goodnaturedly. “We’ve a way to go. The town is across that spur, in the next gorge.”
Tasslehoff eyed the spur with awe. “We have to cross that? Those boulders look the size of castles! We’ll be at it for hours!”
“We’ll get to the other side, all right,” replied the dwarf, maintaining the brisk pace set by his fellows.
“A friend of mine, Flint Fireforge — he’s a dwarf, too -told me once to be more concerned about what lies on the other side of the hill than how I’m going to cross it,”
mused Tas. “I guess that applies right now. It isn’t very often that sayings apply as well as that.”
The dwarf grunted again. “It sounds like your dwarf friend is pretty smart.”
The dwarf behind Tas blew his nose loudly, then asked, “Did I hear you right? You’re a friend of Flint Fireforge?”
“Certainly,” Tas said. “I saw him just a few days ago back in Solace. But it seems much longer ago than that.
Why, do you know him, too?”
“No, no,” replied the dwarf. “But we all know of him, if he’s the grandson of Reghar Fireforge. The baron’s father, Krakold the First, knew Reghar Fireforge during the Dwarfgate War. Of course, Krakold was just a young noble then and he’s quite aged now, but he’s one of the few who survived the blast of magic that ended the Dwarfgate War. Oh, yes, he was there the day Reghar Fireforge died. Fireforge is still revered among our people. We don’t forget our heroes.”
“Wow,” declared Tas, scrambling to keep up with the marching dwarves. “If Krakold was at the final battle of the Dwarfgate War, then he must be over four hundred years old. Isn’t that awfully old for a dwarf?”
“It is if you fought in the Dwarfgate War. I doubt there are more than a dozen survivors left,” replied the dwarf, blowing his nose again. “My grandfather and granduncle were both killed there, too,” he added proudly, his chest swelling with pride.
“Wow,” Tas muttered. “It must be neat knowing where your ancestors went and what they did. I usually know where I am, but I usually have no idea where my family is, unless I’m with them. Except my Uncle Trapspringer.
He’s back in Kendermore, being held prisoner. That’s where we’re headed, to Kendermore to free my uncle.
My name’s Tasslehoff, by the way. Tasslehoff Burrfoot.
What’s yours?”
“I’m called Mettew Ironsplitter, son of Rothew Ironsplitter,” answered the dwarf. “My father was the engineer who designed Rosloviggen’s main gate.”
Mettew raised his head to shout over the rapidly moving troop. “Excuse me, Your Grace,” bellowed Mettew. “I was just speaking with this kender fellow, and I’ve learned something astounding. This one — calls himself Burrfoot — is a personal friend of Flint Fireforge, grandson of Reghar Fireforge.”
The rest of the dwarves in the party stopped abruptly and fell completely silent, then looked toward the baron.
He stomped back along the length of the line to stand before Tasslehoff.
“Is this true, what Mettew says?” asked the baron.
“Sure,” Tas responded. “We’re good friends. I was with Flint just a few days ago. He’s a bit gruff, but I sort of miss him already.”
“Well, lad, why didn’t you mention you were a friend of the Fireforges right off?” boomed the baron. “That’s not the sort of thing you should keep to yourself! You’re doubly welcome now. You’ll be guests in my home. And you’ve come at a good time. Our Oktoberfest begins tomorrow!” Turning back to his escort, the baron added, “It’s going to be some fest this year, eh?” He was answered with a round of laughter and assent.
“Oktoberfest!” giggled Gisella, clapping her hands together. “I’d completely forgotten about that autumn dwarven tradition. This is too good to be true!”
Woodrow leaned close to Tasslehoff and whispered in his ear, “What’s Oktoberfest?”
“I don’t know,” whispered Tas, “but judging from all of their reactions, it’s bound to be exciting.”
As they approached the ridge, Woodrow became more puzzled. “Does it seem to you,” he whispered again to Tasslehoff, “that we’re headed into a dead end? Mettew said we have to cross this ridge, but we’re walking right up to the steepest part of it.”
“I did notice that,” Tasslehoff agreed, “but I assume they know what they’re doing. Maybe they use ropes and pulleys to raise themselves up the cliff.”
“I’d rather not get involved with any more ropes and pulleys for a while,” Woodrow moaned.
By this time, the group had come to a stop. Looking around quickly, Tas saw that they were indeed in a box of sorts. Rugged, brush-covered walls sloped steeply upward on the right and left. Ahead, a sheer cliff towered at least fifty feet over the kender’s head. Below the cliff were piles of brush and debris that had apparently cascaded down from above.
The dwarves went to work. Quickly they pushed aside a large pile of brush from the base of the cliff, revealing a roughly carved stone face with an open, gap-toothed mouth. Mettew rummaged inside his backpack and withdrew the largest iron key Tasslehoff had ever seen.
“That must weigh at least twenty pounds,” the kender exclaimed aloud to no one in particular.
“Twenty-two and a half, almost twenty-three,” corrected Mettew. “It’s nothing for a dwarven key. You should see some of the big ones we use for really important doors.”
Tas whistled softly. Mettew slid the key between two of the face’s teeth and, gripping it with both hands, gave a mighty twist. There was a puff of dust and a rush of air, then a crack appeared. As Mettew tugged, the crack widened and two more dwarves grabbed the edge and pulled. The face swung wide, revealing a dark tunnel leading into the cliff.
The group filed through the tunnel entrance. Inside, the tunnel was cool and still, but dry. Mettew moved the key around to the back side of the face, and then the other dwarves helped him swing the door shut. With a final turn of the key, he removed it from the face and slid the massive tool back into his pack.
The tunnel was now completely black. The dwarves stood for a moment, allowing their keen dwarven eyes to adjust. Then, “Let’s move.” shouted the baron, and the line set off again.
“Wait!” shouted Woodrow, halting abruptly. Tasslehoff collided with Woodrow’s backside and dropped his hoopak. “The kender and I can’t see in here. Can we strike a light?”
“Sorry,” said Mettew, stooping to retrieve the fallen hoopak. “We don’t carry torches, because we don’t need them. Just put your hand on the dwarf ahead of you and you’ll be fine. The floor is smooth enough.”
Though she could see just fine, Gisella took the opportunity to rest her hands on the stout waists of two dwarves, who seemed happy to oblige.
Tasslehoff and Woodrow stumbled along behind the sharp-sighted dwarves. After some time, the line abruptly stopped. Tas heard a loud “thunk,” and light streamed into the tunnel ahead. His eyes watered and smarted as he stepped through another leering face doorway into the light.
“There it is,” declared Mettew proudly, spreading his thick arms wide. “Rosloviggen. The finest city in the realm.”
Woodrow whistled through his teeth. Nestled deep in the valley between two steep mountains was a jumbled city of peaked roofs, gables, steeples, tiny, walled gardens, stone arches, colonnades, monoliths, and winding, neatly cobbled streets. The town was spotless, the buildings straight as arrows.
“This doesn’t look like any dwarven town I’ve ever lived in,” Gisella said, looking around her in awe.
“Where’s the roof?”
“Rosloviggen is unusual by dwarven standards,” the baron agreed at her side. “My ancestors settled the village because of the rich mines in the surrounding mountains. The valley is so steep and protected that it affords us the comfort and safety of living underground that we dwarves need, along with the benefits of life on the surface, like sunlight for plants.”
The procession set off down the valley, and the dwarves broke into a marching song of their own. The gully dwarves hummed and wailed along, but the powerful dwarven voices thankfully drowned them out.
Under the hills the heart of the axe
Arises from cinders the still core of the fire, Heated and hammered the handle an afterthought, For the hills are forging the first breath of war.
The soldier’s heart sires and brothers The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
Out of the mountains in the midst of the air, The axes are dreaming dreaming of rock, Of metal alive through the ages of ore, Stone on metal metal on stone.
The soldier’s heart contains and dreams The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
Red of iron imagined from the vein,
Green of brass green of copper
Sparked in the fire the forge of the world, Consuming in its dream as it dives into bone.
The soldier’s heart lies down, completes The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
The ragtag party marched through the massive gates of Rosloviggen at dusk. The sunset turned the stonework of the walls a vivid orange, and the mountain range threw long, purple shadows down the valley. The marching song of the dwarves mingled with the songs of the lamplighters, the matrons calling their charges home to dinner, and the hundreds of dwarves returning home from the day’s work in the mines, the stonecutting and jewelry shops — plus the sounds of tailors, weavers, potters, candlemakers, and the vast number of other artisans, craftsmen, and laborers who made up a city. Tas was enchanted; Woodrow and the gully dwarves were overwhelmed.
“How they get so many people to be one place without fight?” Fondu asked aloud, setting off a rowdy debate among the gully dwarves.
Though the village was unfamiliar to Gisella, its sounds made her feel almost as if she’d returned home.
Everywhere were the signs of the autumn harvest festival known as Oktoberfest, where goods were traded and sold, and food and drink were plentiful. Houses were freshly painted in bright colors with new thatch or shingles, flower boxes in full bloom, and gathered grains, potatoes, squashes, and gourds displayed in doorways. Benches had been erected in every square, and barrels of ale were stacked, ten high in places, awaiting the celebration.
Woodrow was still holding the horses’ reigns, with the meager possessions that Gisella had salvaged from the wagon lashed across their backs, when they stopped before a large, open square. Dwarves from the town were busy setting up tables and tents.
“As you can see, Rosloviggen’s Oktoberfest will be quite a splendid festival,” Baron Krakold said with pride.
“Those workmen are having a time of it,” commented Woodrow, nodding toward a crew of dwarves struggling in the square with one of the supporting beams of a tent.
Two dwarves were trying to raise a beam upright with the help of a rope slung over a sturdy tree branch, while a handful more shouted directions.
“Pulley job! Pulley job!” chanted the gully dwarves.
The heavy beam swung round in a wide halfcircle, threatening to crush several dwarves, all of whom dove to safety while the rest frantically tried to bring the massive timber under control. Grunting and straining, they wrestled the wayward beam into place between four other large supports. The workmen drew a collective sigh of relief and mopped their brows.
But Gisella’s eyes were locked on the half-naked forms of two young dwarves, their shirts stripped off while they assembled a wooden bandstand, In addition to the obvious attractions, she thought the festival would provide an opportunity to replace her lost trade goods.
“I insist you accept the hospitality of my home,” Baron Krakold boomed, repeating an earlier offer. “We are not far from it, and I should think that the telling of your travels over a sizzling haunch of aged beef, buttered gourd, and candied green apple would amply pay for a warm feather bed.” It was not so much a statement as an order, and Gisella liked men who gave orders.
“That’s very kind of you. By the way, is there a Baroness Krakbolder?” she asked bluntly.
“You could say that, yes,” the baron said, his eyes twinkling at the dwarf’s frankness.
Gisella winked at him, nonplused. “A minor point, really.” She pushed a hand through her matted hair and straightened her clothing, although she still looked like someone who had been through a shipwreck. The redhaired dwarf looped her arm through Baron Krakold’s.
Giving her hand a fatherly pat, the baron withdrew his arm reluctantly. “Not to my wife, it isn’t.” he laughed.
Gisella’s face pouted a little.
“Be of good cheer!” he said. “It is not often we have such unusual visitors in Rosloviggen. We are eager to hear how you came to our land.”
“I can tell you that,” Tasslehoff offered. “I was sitting in the Inn of the Last Home, and —”
“He meant me, and he meant later,” Gisella said tersely.
Tasslehoff pulled a sullen face. “I don’t remember him being that specific,” he said. “I’m just as unusual as you are, Gisella, and I’ve done some interesting things, too.”
“I’ll just bet you have,” the baron said kindly, “and I’d like to hear all about them after we’ve all had a chance to rest. My trip to the shore has drained me more than I thought it would.”
“Look at that!” Tasslehoff cried. His attention was riveted on a large, circular platform with a round, pointed roof. A menagerie of brightly painted animals carved from wood crowded the platform. Each animal was mounted on a pole that ran from the platform to the roof. Tas recognized a griffon, a dragon, a unicorn, a horse with a fish’s tail, and an enormous wolf with the head of a man. Eyes as wide as a full moon, the kender ran from one to the next, convinced that each was more beautiful than the last: stroking their manes, peering in their mouths, counting talons, eyes, and in some cases, heads.
“I’m most interested in that contraption myself,” the baron said, rubbing his square jaw thoughtfully. “I am told that it is called a ‘carousel.’ It is being constructed for Oktoberfest by a gnome, another unusual visitor to our city.”
“What does it do?” the kender asked.
“I’m not sure,” Baron Krakold confessed. “I believe one rides it.” A look of fatigue crossed the baron’s weathered face. “But we can see it in action tomorrow. Now we will go to my home, dine, and rest before tomorrow’s festivities.” With that, Baron Krakold signaled his party forward. Tasslehoff followed reluctantly; Woodrow trailed silently. Behind them, Gisella was deep in thought. This was an opportunity of tremendous potential but she had to make the most of it. The gully dwarves reverently tripped over their shoelaces in her wake.
They wound through Rosloviggen’s narrow, immaculate streets until Tas was certain they had traveled every alley in the town. When he was just about to announce that they must be lost, they emerged into a large, open space containing only a single house and several outbuildings. The front yard, like every other front yard in Rosloviggen, held a neatly manicured garden of small, flowering shrubs and perfectly shaped trees. The baron’s yard had an additional circular fountain surrounded by heavy stone benches.
The ground floor of the house was constructed of enormous blocks of granite, polished to show off the rocks’ natural colors. The upper floors were the more typical red dwarven brick. White-trimmed gables of all different sizes poked from the roof of the fifth floor, although the building was the same height as a three-story human dwelling. The last rays of the day’s sun glanced off colorful stained glass rather than the usual oiled parchment. Flower boxes filled with multicolored geraniums lined every window. Servants in white aprons were busy closing the shutters on the first floor.
The.baron tipped back his head and planted his hands on his hips. “This is my home,” he said simply. He waved his guests forward into the neat garden, nodding and saying, “Welcome,” to each. Then a look of surprise crossed his wide face. “It seems that your poorly dressed friends have left.”
Engrossed by the sight before them, Woodrow and Tas looked behind Gisella and noticed for the first time that the gully dwarves were no longer with them. No one was particularly dismayed, especially the baron, though he seemed to be inordinately openminded about Aghar.
Still, he was not sure he wanted them running loose in his village, but he decided that was better than having them lounging about in his home.
“It’s no problem,” Gisella said vaguely. “I’m sure they’ll turn up again eventually. Or maybe not.”
Woodrow’s attention had already returned to the house. “I didn’t know houses could be made that tall,” he stammered. “I thought those tree houses in Solace were something, and now this. Is it held up by magic?”
“No,” laughed the baron, “just ordinary stone and wood and brick. But, of course, it was built by dwarves.”
There was no arrogance in his voice.
“Now,” he continued, stepping toward the door, “if you’ll collect your things from your horses, some of my escort will see the animals to the barns for the night.”
Quickly Woodrow pulled two bundles from the backs of the horses, one containing the clothes Gisella had salvaged from the wagon, the other a few of his own and Tasslehoff’s belongings. Several of the baron’s guards then led the horses away around the side of the house.
“Miss Hornslager,” Woodrow said, indicating that she should go before him.
“Thank you,” Gisella replied, batting her eyes demurely at the baron as she sauntered through the front door.
Once inside, Baron Krakold instructed servants to lead the three weary visitors up the sweeping, circular staircase to their rooms on the third floor. “We’ll sup in one hour,” he said, then disappeared into a door below the stairway.
“Boy, this is like being home in Kendermore again,” Tas breathed as he hurried up the stairs after the somber servant. The servant raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“All the doors and knobs are at the right height,” explained the kender, stopping to trace a finger over a particularly intricate carving of a rose on the banister. “This is very pretty, though my friend Flint would have added a few more petals, and you would swear you could see drops of water on his roses. He’s a much better woodsmith.”
“Hush!” Gisella hissed, afraid the baron might hear Tas’s criticism.
At the top of the second flight of stairs, the liveried servant led them into a long, door-flanked hallway. Starting with the first door on the right, he issued rooms to Gisella, Tasslehoff, and Woodrow.
“I’m making it your responsibility to watch Burrfoot while we’re here, Woodrow,” Gisella called before she disappeared behind her door.
“Yes, ma’am, and don’t you worry,” he answered.
But both human and kender were forgotten when her sharp dwarven eyes spotted the copper tub in the middle of the room. Two dwarf maids in gray muslin dresses poured water from a single, enormous wooden bucket into the spotless copper basin. A purr of pleasure escaped her lips as she flew into the room, already peeling off her grimy clothing.
Tasslehoff’s explorations carried him from room to room. He was on his third one on the third floor, and just thinking about heading to a different floor for variety, when he felt a strong hand grip his shoulder. Tas whirled, ready to pounce on whoever had sneaked up on him. His eyes fell on stringy blond hair.
The kender’s face reddened with something short of anger. “Don’t sneak up on people like that, Woodrow.
You might have startled me!”
“And you might have thought about staying in your room,” the young human said evenly. ‘You know I’m responsible for you. How am I supposed to keep track of you if you’re running around? I thought we were becoming friends.”
“We are friends,” Tas said patiently. “But I was so bored in my room.”
“But you weren’t even in there for ten minutes,”
Woodrow pointed out. He looked around at the room in which he’d found the kender. “This one looks just like yours — they all look alike, for that matter.”
“Really, Woodrow, it’s not my fault they’re all the same,” Tas sulked. “Nothing interesting in the drawers,”
he said, pulling one out of a dresser and holding it up to demonstrate. “See? Empty, just like all the others.”
He opened his arms wide to show off his new outfit. “I found these clothes on the bed in my room.” Tasslehoff plucked at the sides of the tunic. “It’s a bit big, but then so are dwarves, at least sideways. The trousers sure feel weird,” he continued, giving them a tug as well, “but my leggings were so dirty that clouds of dust whooshed out every time I took a step. I washed them in my basin and left them to dry.
“These pockets are very roomy, though,” he added, jamming his hands into their depths to demonstrate.
Tas’s fine brows shot up in surprise. From his pockets emerged an elaborate silver candlestick, a delicate, glass bud-vase, a bar of soap, and a boar-bristle hairbrush.
“Whoever wore these before me sure carried a lot of stuff in his pockets,” he said matter-of-factly. Examining the items more closely, he added, “I saw some things exactly like these in the other rooms…. Baron Krakold should be more careful about the people he invites into his home. Someone might have walked away with all this if I hadn’t found these pants. I’d better keep my eyes on these until I can mention it to him.” Tasslehoff stuffed the items back into his pockets and started for the door.
“Maybe you should leave them here so Baron Krakold doesn’t think you took them,” Woodrow suggested. “After all, he’s only just met you.”
Tasslehoff’s eyebrows arched again. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Almost reluctantly, Tas pulled the items from his pockets, letting his hands linger on the shiny vase. He set them on a table near the door.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Woodrow led the way out the door and down the stairs. He, too, had found in his room a clean, white tunic, just a little bit short in the sleeves -it must have been made for an unusually tall dwarf — and a pair of black breeches, also just a touch too short.
They met the baron at the base of the stairs. He was dressed formally for dinner in a stiff, blue tunic with a red sash and bright red breeches, all layered with tremendous amounts of yellow piping and gold braid.
Shortly, Gisella appeared at the top of the stairs, where she paused momentarily for effect before gliding down the stairway and alighting with a flourish, swirling her skirts. Red hair flowed down her back in luxurious waves, and her round cheeks were flushed with hints of crimson. The bodice of her saphire-blue dress was cut dangerously low, and well she knew it.
Everyone was still admiring her entrance when she threw herself into the baron’s clumsy embrace, locking her arms around his head and nearly stuffing his red face into her ample bosom. Lifting his head, she kissed him full on the lips.
‘Young woman, I —” blustered the baron.
“Thank you, you wonderful man!” she cooed as he backed away, coughing and sputtering. “The bath was absolutely marvelous! How did you know I practically live for them?” She caught him wiping away traces of lip rouge from her kiss. “Oh, I’m so naughty and impulsive!
I hate myself, I do!” She charged forward with a silk kerchief and began dabbing at his face.
Gisella’s performance was abruptly interrupted by a loud cough from the base of the staircase. Everyone turned, and the baron’s face drained of color and he gasped. Pushing Gisella’s hands away, he rushed to the side of a broad, squat, bearded, dark-faced dwarf in a highnecked, drab-colored dress.
“Hortense, dearest.” the baron squeaked. “I’m so glad you’re here!” He tried taking her elbow but she held it tightly to her side.
Scowling, she glanced over at Gisella. “I can see that you are,” she said pointedly.
“Let me introduce our guests,” he said, a bit too eagerly. “Everyone, this is my wife, the Baroness Hortense Krakold.” He directed her attention to Woodrow.
But Tasslehoff stepped up first. Thrusting out his small hand, he said “Tasslehoff Burrfoot, at your service. This is a very nice place you have here, although I think it might be improved by removing some walls. Have you ever been to Kendermore? Also, it seems that someone has been — ouch! What is it, Woodrow? Stop stepping on my foot! OK, I’ll introduce you!” Frowning slightly, Tasslehoff turned back to the baroness. “This is my good friend, Woodrow… I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name.”
“Ath-Banard,” the young human mumbled. He extended his hand awkwardly to the baroness, who ignored it.
This time Gisella coughed behind them and pushed her way forward. “Oh, yes,” said Tas, “this is —”
“Gisella Hornslager,” the dwarf announced herself, locking eyes with the baroness. There were only two things Gisella liked better than a contest of wit and will, and those were making money and a good roll in the hay.
Since business was going down the sewer fast and the appetizing baron had turned out to be milquetoast, she decided to channel her energy into a good catfight with the baroness. The ugly, sour-faced old matron obviously wore the pants in the family, Gisella thought to herself.
Rubbing her hands with glee, she fell in behind everyone else as the group followed the baron into the dining room.
The evening passed very uncomfortably for everyone but Gisella, as the two women passed barbs across the dining table, the game table, and finally the sitting room.
All the while the mighty baron squirmed and fidgeted like a beetle in a birdcage.
“You really must tell me where you do your dress shopping, Baroness,” Gisella gushed, shoveling strawberry tart into her mouth. “I find men-leering all the time so annoying, don’t you?” She smiled into the matronly dwarf’s face. “Anyway, I think some dull, drab, highnecked dresses like yours might help, though I’m certain they won’t be able to hide my obvious attributes.”
The baroness pursed her lips and rang a little bell to signal a servant. “We’ll need another ten tarts for our guest,” she told the starched butler. “Speaking of strawberries,” she turned to Gisella, “do you color your hair that unlikely shade to hide the gray, or simply to attract attention?” .
Feeling restless, Tasslehoff tried several times to change the direction of the conversation. He couldn’t quite understand the two women. They smiled at each other and were polite, but somehow he didn’t think they liked each other much. When finally the baron suggested that everyone retire for the evening, they discovered Tasslehoff already asleep before the fire.