The sentries laughed. At their signal, the right half of the double door creaked open and Tungdil was allowed to pass. Inside, another pair of heavily armed soldiers was waiting for him. They eyed him distrustfully.

"Well, blow me down," one of them muttered. "If it isn't a real-life dwarf! They're not as tiny as everyone says they are."

Tungdil was once again reminded that humans knew almost nothing about dwarves. He bristled under the sentries' stares. "If you've quite finished gawking, maybe one of you could inform me where I might find a bed."

The sentries directed him to the nearest tavern, which lay a short distance along the dusty street. Above the door, a shabby platter and a similarly dilapidated tankard indicated that the place sold food and beer, although, by the look of it, it wouldn't be anything fancy.

In spite of his best efforts to slip in unseen, the rusty hinges squealed excitedly as soon as he lifted the wooden crossbar and pushed open the door. It was hard to imagine a simpler yet more effective means of guarding against intruders: The shriek of neglected metal was impossible to ignore. The dwarf hesitated for a moment, then entered.

Seated at the tavern's roughly fashioned tables were ten villagers holding tankards of ale or mead. Tungdil's nose was assailed immediately by the smell of food combined with tobacco and sweat. The villagers wore simple garments: hessian or coarse woolen shirts to protect against the evening chill. Their feet were encased in thick stockings and laced shoes.

Two of the men nodded hesitantly in acknowledgment; the others were too busy staring. It was always the same.

The dwarf returned the greeting and took his place at an empty table. Naturally the furniture was far too big for him, but he made himself comfortable and ordered his supper and a large ale. In no time a steaming plate of cornmeal and mincemeat was laid in front of him, followed by a tankard of beer.

He tucked in ravenously. The meal tasted wholesome, a little burned, and somewhat bland, but at least it was warm. The pale watery beer disappointed his dwarven palate, but he drank it all the same. He had no desire to cause offense, especially when there was the matter of his lodgings still to settle.

One of the villagers was looking at him so intently that he could almost feel his piercing stare. Tungdil returned his gaze unflinchingly.

"What beats me," said the man, raising his voice so everyone in the tavern could hear, "is what a groundling would be doing in our village." A ring of smoke left his pipe and shot toward the sooty ceiling.

"Breaking his journey." Tungdil chewed his mouthful deliberately, dropped his spoon into the gloop, and wiped his beard. A belligerent villager was the last thing he needed. It was obvious from his manner that the man was sparring for a fight. Well, he's picked the wrong dwarf! "I've no desire to argue with you, estimable sir," he said firmly. "I've spent the past few nights in the open, and Vraccas willing, I'd like to sleep on something other than twigs and leaves."

There was an eruption of mocking laughter. Some of the villagers prostrated themselves in front of the pipe smoker, calling him "sir" and "your honor"; one even went so far as to set an empty tankard like a crown on his head. They evidently found it amusing that Tungdil should address a humble villager in terms of respect.

"You think you're quite something, don't you, groundling?" The man hurled the tankard to the floor and faced his friends angrily. "Go ahead and laugh, you harebrained idiots! What if he was sent by orcs to spy on us? You won't find it so funny when he sneaks out of bed and opens the gates!"

The mirth stopped abruptly.

At once Tungdil realized he would have to tread carefully. On a practical level, that meant sticking to plain speech. It was bad enough that he was a dwarf, let alone a dwarf with fancy manners.

"Dwarves and orcs are sworn enemies," he said earnestly. "A dwarf would never throw in his lot with an orc." He extended his hand toward the man. "Here, have my word that I mean you no harm. I swear it by Vraccas, creator of all dwarves."

The villager stared at the sturdy fingers and weighed the matter in his mind. At last he gave the hand a brief shake and turned away.

The publican brought the relieved Tungdil another beer. "Don't mind him," he said quickly. "We're all on edge at the moment. So many villages have been plundered these past few orbits. Orcs are rampaging through the northwest of Idoslane."

"Hence the mercenaries at the gates."

"They're here to protect us until King Tilogorn's soldiers rid us of the beasts." He turned to go.

"Wait!" Tungdil laid a hand on his grease-spotted sleeve. The man's words had given him faint grounds for hope. "Will there be dwarves among them? I heard King Tilogorn has dwarves in his pay."

The publican shrugged. "I couldn't tell you, little fellow, but it wouldn't surprise me."

"When do they get here?" he asked eagerly. The opportunity of setting eyes on a fellow dwarf was reason enough to delay his mission to the Blacksaddle. All the more potatoes for Jolosin to peel.

"By rights they should have been here three orbits ago," said the publican, signaling apologetically to the queue of thirsty customers at the bar. Tungdil let him go and returned to his supper, mulling over what he knew of Tilogorn and his kingdom.

The name Idoslane was derived from the land's bloody past. At the heart of the historical conflict was the throne. The Idos, the kingdom's great ruling dynasty, had plotted, conspired, and waged war on one another, bringing misery on themselves and their people, who bore the brunt of their feuds. Bit by bit the state was torn apart by their squabbling until every district was governed by a different member of the Ido clan. At last their subjects reached the limit of their endurance and felled every last sibling, cousin, and scion of the dynasty: Ido-slane.

A villager, rather the worse for wear, staggered to his feet and raised his tankard: "Long live Prince Mallen! May he drive King Tilogorn from the throne!" When no one joined in with his toast, he lowered himself to his stool, muttering darkly.

If Tungdil's memory served him correctly, Prince Mallen was the sole surviving member of the Ido clan. He lived in exile in Urgon, the kingdom to the north of Idoslane, and was forever conspiring to return to his country as its rightful king.

Tacked to the wall of the tavern was an ancient map of Idoslane, its yellowed parchment stained by smoke. The succession of rolling hills, forests, and plains made for a pleasantly varied landscape. It would have been idyllic, if it weren't for the orcs.

"Not a bad place, is it?" observed a fellow drinker, following Tungdil's gaze.

"Save for Toboribor." Tungdil pointed to the black enclave at the heart of the kingdom: The orcish stronghold was located on Idoslane's most fertile land. He picked up his tankard and joined the villager at his table. "Why are the brutes on the move?"

"They're bored, that's all. Orcs don't need a reason to plunder and pillage. They attacked a place a few miles from here and set fire to the fields and orchards. Their sort are just monsters. Robbing, fighting, killing…They don't know any better."

"And they're strong," said another, eyes widening theatrically. "There was a time when-"

"Not that old fable," groaned the publican, stopping at the table to refill their tankards.

"You don't have to listen. I was talking to the dwarf." In spite of his injured tone, the storyteller had no intention of abandoning his tale. "I came up against a whole bedeviled mob of them. Great hulking beasts, they were. It was during my employ in Tilogorn's army. We-"

"Happier times, they were. The old prattler never had time to scare folks with his stories."