Lihan Taifun
Aztryd limps into the dusty courtyard of the way station. One more day's journey behind them. Before them, one more bedraggled shack in which to spend the night. Mold, rats, drafts, leaking roofs, birds that chirp with relentless cheerfulness an hour before dawn – in the past days they have experienced all these wonders of living above ground.
Her legs are stiff and aching. Never has she done so much walking, not even since leaving her home in Ibirgathol. She counts three blisters for certain on her feet, and several more tender spots that should be attended to, lest they become blisters. Her boots are those of a wealthy wife, not a traveler or a warrior, and the days of hiking are wearing the soles dangerously thin.
Past the well, one of the hunters is busy cleaning something small. Likely it will be weak stew for dinner tonight, rather than roast. Wisps of acrid smoke are already curling from the chimney of the sleeping house. Likely the stored wood was damp here, just like last night. At least someone has gotten the fire started. Hjalmarr is already settled on a bench in front of the sleeping house, resting his back against a wall still warm from the day's sun.
Aztryd shrugs off her pack and plops herself down on the other end of the bench. "Are you ready to manage the little magpie?" she asks Hjalmarr, forcing herself to pleasant words. Venting her bad mood on Hjalmarr will do no good. "She is wiggling like a river otter today. You will need to be awake to keep up with her!" She pulls Nizl out of her pack while she talks, unwrapping her, hastily wiping her clean, and popping a clean tunic over her head. Proper washing will have to wait.
Hjalmarr opens a drowsy eye. "You two finally arrived, did you?" he says agreeably. "How is my brave little adventurer today?" He reaches for Nizl, and settles her onto his lap. "You know it is no trouble for me to watch her. It is much more pleasant than working."
"Nonetheless, I do thank you," says Aztryd. "By the Maker, this little one gets heavier every day!" Indeed, thinks Aztryd, you do have the more pleasant part of our bargain. You watch Nizl, while I work. But your old bones are more suited to sitting and watching the wee one, rather than unloading the cart or hauling water or gathering firewood.
Nizl squirms on Hjalmarr's lap, trying to reach down toward a shiny stone on the ground. "You have the eye for the stones, do you? My nephew did, even when he was as little as you," says Hjalmarr fondly, taking a firm grasp of her hands. He settles her to bounce on his knee, hoping to distract her. "Now how did that rhyme go?
The gold is in the crucible,
The diamond's in the mine,
The sword is on the anvil,
And the hammer beats the time ..."
While Nizl is bouncing happily, Aztryd slips off, stretching her shoulders, glad to be free of the weight of her pack. It is true that Nizl accounts for most of the weight of that pack.
The cart is nearly unloaded already, their meager remaining supplies brought in under the roof of the sleeping house, safe from hungry creatures in the night. Aztryd steps inside the sleeping house. Most people are busy, though a few are collapsed onto their bedrolls. She nods a few short greetings while she assesses what chores still need to be done, before the light fades. Fire is started, kettles of water waiting, floor swept ... ah, the stack of firewood beside the hearth is low. She backs out the door, to look for dried fallen branches.
Though what matter whether they leave the way station tomorrow as well stocked as they found it? For whom are they leaving the wood? What other party will travel this road to the ruins of Gamilfûn?
The rough ground in the woods is not kind under her failing boots. Perhaps later this evening the fire will give enough light for her to sew crude patches onto the soles of her boots, something to hold them together until they reach Grey Haven. And after they do, then what? She left Ibirgathol with gold enough to reach Gamilfûn, and reach Gamilfûn she did. Gamilfûn where she did not find her childhood family, to welcome and support her. In Gamilfûn she found only death and ruins, and these few ragged survivors. Now she has not enough gold left for another journey. Maybe there will be enough gold for new boots in Grey Haven. Maybe. But enough gold for boots, and cloth to sew larger clothes for Nizl, and provisions, her share of the food for the journey? No, her purse is already far too light for that.
Perhaps she should have taken gold from the ruins of Gamifûn. "Stealing from the tombs of the dead," she had thought it at the time, and rejected the very idea. She would be incensed if anyone – anyone other than herself – found and appropriated her grandmother's things. Now, she wonders, was she too fussy? Likely she will be penniless before they leave Grey Haven. Dependent on the charity of the other dwarves. Disgraced in front of the others of her own people.
And then there is the awkwardness of accepting the charity of Elves. Oh yes, she has heard the whispers, and seen the sidelong glances, and knows all too well that the others hold her responsible for having to put themselves in the debt of Elves, and resent her for that.
Is this why I came back, she thinks bitterly. Back to "my own people?"
Back to what? Neither a wife nor a widow, as Fafnir loses no opportunity to remind her. The daughter of a clan who, being now all dead, cannot help her.
She has served ale at enough of her husband Uzerbog's council meetings – listening all the while – to understand the stakes. Leaving her husband has angered and embarrassed an important and powerful leader. Adelsteinn and this band of refugees – without secure walls, without a strong band of axemen, with no economic influence – do not have the power to stand up to her former husband, even if Adelsteinn wishes it. And what might Adelsteinn do when he thinks the situation through far enough to realize what a liability she is? Adelsteinn means well enough. But don't ask him to stand up and defy Uzerbog, certainly not now. Keeping this band together is enough to expect from him. That is one thing she has learned, listening at councils: learn what a man can do, and ask no more from him. For that reason, it is well that they are leaving, and will be far, far away, before news of the fall of Gamilfûn reaches Ibirgathol . Or at least before news reaches Ibirgathol that there are survivors of the fall of Gamilfûn, survivors on whom Uzerbog might take out his temper.
Aztryd's own temper simmers with these baleful thoughts. She kicks irritably at a broken branch, trying to knock it loose from the fallen tree under which it is lodged. Another stitch pops loose in her boot.
Oh yes, women are scarce among the Maker's Children, and children scarcer. These folks won't let her starve. But at what price? To endure their pity? or their scorn? Since she arrived, it seems like everything she does is subject to criticism. Look after Nizl? Then they chide for for neglecting her duties to the group in camp. Do her chores first? Then they yammer that they can't endure Nizl's smell and hungry whining.
One thing she has, only one thing, and that is Nizl. She left everything for Nizl's sake when she left Ibirgatho and Uzerbog and the life of a proper wife. For Nizl's sake she will endure, even if it means learning a common trade to support the two of them. Even if it means waking tomorrow to walk another day in mended boots.
> Next
Her legs are stiff and aching. Never has she done so much walking, not even since leaving her home in Ibirgathol. She counts three blisters for certain on her feet, and several more tender spots that should be attended to, lest they become blisters. Her boots are those of a wealthy wife, not a traveler or a warrior, and the days of hiking are wearing the soles dangerously thin.
Past the well, one of the hunters is busy cleaning something small. Likely it will be weak stew for dinner tonight, rather than roast. Wisps of acrid smoke are already curling from the chimney of the sleeping house. Likely the stored wood was damp here, just like last night. At least someone has gotten the fire started. Hjalmarr is already settled on a bench in front of the sleeping house, resting his back against a wall still warm from the day's sun.
Aztryd shrugs off her pack and plops herself down on the other end of the bench. "Are you ready to manage the little magpie?" she asks Hjalmarr, forcing herself to pleasant words. Venting her bad mood on Hjalmarr will do no good. "She is wiggling like a river otter today. You will need to be awake to keep up with her!" She pulls Nizl out of her pack while she talks, unwrapping her, hastily wiping her clean, and popping a clean tunic over her head. Proper washing will have to wait.
Hjalmarr opens a drowsy eye. "You two finally arrived, did you?" he says agreeably. "How is my brave little adventurer today?" He reaches for Nizl, and settles her onto his lap. "You know it is no trouble for me to watch her. It is much more pleasant than working."
"Nonetheless, I do thank you," says Aztryd. "By the Maker, this little one gets heavier every day!" Indeed, thinks Aztryd, you do have the more pleasant part of our bargain. You watch Nizl, while I work. But your old bones are more suited to sitting and watching the wee one, rather than unloading the cart or hauling water or gathering firewood.
Nizl squirms on Hjalmarr's lap, trying to reach down toward a shiny stone on the ground. "You have the eye for the stones, do you? My nephew did, even when he was as little as you," says Hjalmarr fondly, taking a firm grasp of her hands. He settles her to bounce on his knee, hoping to distract her. "Now how did that rhyme go?
The gold is in the crucible,
The diamond's in the mine,
The sword is on the anvil,
And the hammer beats the time ..."
While Nizl is bouncing happily, Aztryd slips off, stretching her shoulders, glad to be free of the weight of her pack. It is true that Nizl accounts for most of the weight of that pack.
The cart is nearly unloaded already, their meager remaining supplies brought in under the roof of the sleeping house, safe from hungry creatures in the night. Aztryd steps inside the sleeping house. Most people are busy, though a few are collapsed onto their bedrolls. She nods a few short greetings while she assesses what chores still need to be done, before the light fades. Fire is started, kettles of water waiting, floor swept ... ah, the stack of firewood beside the hearth is low. She backs out the door, to look for dried fallen branches.
Though what matter whether they leave the way station tomorrow as well stocked as they found it? For whom are they leaving the wood? What other party will travel this road to the ruins of Gamilfûn?
The rough ground in the woods is not kind under her failing boots. Perhaps later this evening the fire will give enough light for her to sew crude patches onto the soles of her boots, something to hold them together until they reach Grey Haven. And after they do, then what? She left Ibirgathol with gold enough to reach Gamilfûn, and reach Gamilfûn she did. Gamilfûn where she did not find her childhood family, to welcome and support her. In Gamilfûn she found only death and ruins, and these few ragged survivors. Now she has not enough gold left for another journey. Maybe there will be enough gold for new boots in Grey Haven. Maybe. But enough gold for boots, and cloth to sew larger clothes for Nizl, and provisions, her share of the food for the journey? No, her purse is already far too light for that.
Perhaps she should have taken gold from the ruins of Gamifûn. "Stealing from the tombs of the dead," she had thought it at the time, and rejected the very idea. She would be incensed if anyone – anyone other than herself – found and appropriated her grandmother's things. Now, she wonders, was she too fussy? Likely she will be penniless before they leave Grey Haven. Dependent on the charity of the other dwarves. Disgraced in front of the others of her own people.
And then there is the awkwardness of accepting the charity of Elves. Oh yes, she has heard the whispers, and seen the sidelong glances, and knows all too well that the others hold her responsible for having to put themselves in the debt of Elves, and resent her for that.
Is this why I came back, she thinks bitterly. Back to "my own people?"
Back to what? Neither a wife nor a widow, as Fafnir loses no opportunity to remind her. The daughter of a clan who, being now all dead, cannot help her.
She has served ale at enough of her husband Uzerbog's council meetings – listening all the while – to understand the stakes. Leaving her husband has angered and embarrassed an important and powerful leader. Adelsteinn and this band of refugees – without secure walls, without a strong band of axemen, with no economic influence – do not have the power to stand up to her former husband, even if Adelsteinn wishes it. And what might Adelsteinn do when he thinks the situation through far enough to realize what a liability she is? Adelsteinn means well enough. But don't ask him to stand up and defy Uzerbog, certainly not now. Keeping this band together is enough to expect from him. That is one thing she has learned, listening at councils: learn what a man can do, and ask no more from him. For that reason, it is well that they are leaving, and will be far, far away, before news of the fall of Gamilfûn reaches Ibirgathol . Or at least before news reaches Ibirgathol that there are survivors of the fall of Gamilfûn, survivors on whom Uzerbog might take out his temper.
Aztryd's own temper simmers with these baleful thoughts. She kicks irritably at a broken branch, trying to knock it loose from the fallen tree under which it is lodged. Another stitch pops loose in her boot.
Oh yes, women are scarce among the Maker's Children, and children scarcer. These folks won't let her starve. But at what price? To endure their pity? or their scorn? Since she arrived, it seems like everything she does is subject to criticism. Look after Nizl? Then they chide for for neglecting her duties to the group in camp. Do her chores first? Then they yammer that they can't endure Nizl's smell and hungry whining.
One thing she has, only one thing, and that is Nizl. She left everything for Nizl's sake when she left Ibirgatho and Uzerbog and the life of a proper wife. For Nizl's sake she will endure, even if it means learning a common trade to support the two of them. Even if it means waking tomorrow to walk another day in mended boots.
> Next