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| Chapter 1. A New Home | |
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’is a mud pit,” Mog rumbled as the two men reached the crown of the low hill and gazed down on their new home. A chill wind curled through the brittle grass that grew in wretched clumps along the dirt track. Sighing, he drew the fur-lined hood back over his ginger crown and swathed his whiskered face with a heavy woolen scarf. Armand seemed unperturbed by the cold and had the nerve to shrug as his long flaxen mane danced like flames. “You’ll get used to it. Besides, it’ll be frozen solid in a week or two.” The home of Armand’s beloved Brigit was nestled in the cleft of two steep hillsides. The huddled circle of buildings were blanketed in deep shadows and warded by a stockade of rough-hewn logs. Ribbons of wood smoke curled from the stout chimneys of the stone cottages and the unmistakable smell of the barnyard wafted toward them on the chill breeze. “Don’ remind meh,” Mog said as he curled his shoulders to shift his heavy pack away from his sore collar bones. He suspected the smaller man had given him more to carry for it was obvious Armand was hardly feeling the long walk from Yak’s Bend. While Mog had been huffing and puffing in the cold mountain air, Armand had been strolling along at a leisurely pace. “It will make for a festive Winters Day,” Armand continued with unusual optimism. “Right,” Mog snapped, trying to decide if his friend was taunting him, “Well, I reckon it’ll be good to put up me feet n’ get somethin’ warm in me belly.” “Reckon so,” Armand snickered, imitating Mog’s brogue. Mog glared at him before squelching down the rutted track. He had endured enough of Armand’s unusual penchant for practical jokes and it did not bode well for the long winter nights. Hopefully Armand would be too distracted by Brigit to trouble him much more. “The Norn women are quite tall,” Armand quipped, predicting that Mog was, as ever, self-conscious about his stature when meeting new people, “Perhaps we’ll find you a bride.” “Don’ yeh start on me, Armeh.” “Apparently they can turn into bears. Do you like hairy women, Mog?” “That’ll be enough,” Mog growled. Their approach was noted from afar. As they neared the heavy gate Mog could see a small crowd was gathered to greet them. Suddenly shy, he slowed his pace and let Armand’s lithe figure go forth to meet the host of strangers. A loud rumble of hunger came from his stomach and he feared it would frighten small children if his immense height did not do so first. “Armee!” cried Brigit with her usual exuberance, her fiery hair blazing loose around her freckled face as she galloped toward them. She had been deprived of Armand’s company for all of three days, a fact which Mog found strangely annoying. The people of Brigit’s village were thickly built mountain folk, solid as oak trees and as enduring as the stone they gathered to make their homes. Anluan stood at the head of the gathering, a stocky bear of a man with a silver-streaked mane of dark brown hair that curled thickly from his scalp and obscured all but his beaky nose and piercing eyes. He let out a throaty bellow of delight like some strange animal and clapped Armand so hard on the back he staggered. Mog was not fast enough to avoid a similar fate. Unfortunately, Anluan caught him on the small of the back with a kidney-pulverizing blow that made Mog gasp. “Ah welcome, my friends! It is good to have two new lads about the place! Brigit has told me all about the two of yeh. We’re out of room so we’re going to move yeh into Vern’s old house.” “Father!” Brigit gasped. Mog detected a note of dismay in her voice. “I can’t have two young men and me daughter underfoot, not with guests arriving in a few days.” “I think he means until you get married,” said a burly woman with short red hair. She was clearly of the same vintage as Anluan and there was a little of Brigit in her rose complexion and piercing blue eyes. “Proper-like,” rumbled Anluan happily. “But Mother!” Brigit cried, “Vern’s house is a dump!” “Free lodging is not to be sniffed at hereabouts,” Anluan announced and his dark gaze fixed upon Armand and Mog as if daring them to contradict him. “I expect two strapping lads can fix it up soon enough,” Brigit’s mother replied primly. “Aye,” Armand said gamely. Mog gratefully drifted away from Armand’s side as Brigit’s parents came forth to offer family kisses to their future son-in-law. All Mog wanted now was to fade into the background and not be noted or taunted for his unusual stature. “I’ll take that,” said a voice somewhere near his hip. Mog gazed down into the earthy visage of a dwarf. “Glomir Ironfast,” said the man, smacking his chest in a strange salute before reaching out to clasp Mog’s hand, “Neave asked me to help you two get situated. Vern’s place is a little… ratty. No one has lived there for a couple years.” Mog nodded politely and allowed the dwarf to take his pack. It slipped from his hand and several fist-sized cobbles rolled free, taking one of his shirts with them. “Ah, a collector of stone!” said the dwarf enthusiastically. Mog was too shocked and annoyed to speak. Armand must have put close to ten of the heavy rocks into his pack while he had left it unattended during their brief rest near a stream. He recognized the color of the water-smoothed stone. “Not as such,” mumbled Mog, not wanting to hurt Glomir’s feelings, “We can leave ‘em here for now, I’ll fetch ‘em later.” “No, it’s quite alright!” breathed the dwarf, “I recognize this stone. It’s from the Bruinwater. A fine choice. And look, this one has a stone clam-shell in it.” “Aye, so it does,” Mog said with a great deal more keenness than he felt. He gazed over at Armand and the man flashed him a mischievous smile. “You jus’ wait, laddo,” Mog hissed under his breath as Glomir reverently placed each stone inside the pack and hefted it over his shoulder with a happy grunt. Gods, what had he gotten himself into? He knew no one here except Armand and Brigit, and while those two were together they were unlikely to notice Mog was hanging about. He should have stayed with Sister Lemony, regardless of how it hurt him to do so. Her absent-minded bursts of adoration were better than nothing, better than spending a winter alone in this mud-smeared hell hole. Glomir ambled awkwardly ahead of him on his thick, short legs. His wooly mop of brown hair and beard bounced and fluttered around his shoulders as Mog followed him through the rough gate and past chickens, goats and a lumbering dolyak. Each of the rambling stone buildings had a low wall around it to shelter animals and small patches of garden. Vern’s yard was choked with a nasty tangle of thorny blackberries and alder saplings. “Aye, a little neglected,” Glomir said cheerfully upon seeing Mog’s dismay, “but ye’d he surprised how fast a couple goats can bring it under control.” “Ah,” murmured Mog. Goats. Marvelous. It was not something he had learned about during his mesmer training. Part of him felt he should point this out to the dwarf but he bit his lip and followed the man through the thick scrubby canes and whipping branches. At one time the cottage had looked like the others. Its base was made of closely fitted gray stone packed with weathered mortar. Bowed wooden beams spliced the rugged walls, offering structure and support to the roof and the thick logs that formed the upper course. Tiny shuttered windows pierced a couple of the walls. Mog could not help but notice that roof slates were missing and had left the rafters exposed. He doubted the dwarf was capable of seeing them in any event and said nothing. “Door’s stuck,” Glomir complained as he grasped the handle, then thrust his shoulder roughly against it. “The latch,” Mog suggested. “Oh, right,” Glomir said, squeezing the handle so that the bolt rattled loose, “I think my grandfather helped build this one, too.” The house was stout and the door frame was low, undoubtedly following dwarven aesthetics and stature. He silently prayed that the ceiling would not be low as well. Glomir drew the door open with an ominous creak and gazed inside, his expression unreadable beneath his thick beard. “Well, here we are, then. Home sweet home!” the dwarf announced with rather more enthusiasm than Mog felt was merited as he gazed inside. The packed dirt floor had sprouted weeds where light shafted through the missing roof slates. The blackened gape of the fireplace was stuffed with shredded grass and furniture to form a nest for some unknown creature. White streaks of guano stained the far wall and rafters and had mounded on the floor below it. What remained of the furniture was covered in a heavy blanket of dust and the bones of an assortment of small rodents and birds. The one redeeming quality of the house was that once Mog stooped past the door frame, he could actually stand up without fear of braining himself on the rafters. “Cozy,” Mog mumbled. It reminded him of the ruined buildings in which he and his brother Belenus had sheltered after the Searing. It was not a pleasant memory to associate with his first day in his new home. Glomir, oblivious, trudged ahead of him, pointing out where the kitchen was, the only place to have the luxury of a stone floor. The rooms were tiny although the dwarf made grand gestures as if he had stumbled upon an empty palace. “Three bedrooms!” Glomir announced, “Enough to raise an entire brood of laughing children.” “Armey ‘n I are not married,” Mog replied darkly, “but I appreciate th’ sentiment.” The dwarf stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “I’ll just put your pack in here, then,” Glomir announced as they entered one of the three tiny bedrooms. It was dominated up by an empty bed frame. Mercifully, someone had taken the mattress out before the building had been abandoned. Mog hated to think what might have taken up residence in it otherwise. Pale light shafted through the tiny round window. He was expecting the dwarf to wax poetic about the view but Glomir seemed to sense his somber mood and merely proffered a bow. “Someone will be by to help you settle in,” Glomir announced, “I will see you at supper. Welcome to your new home!” “Thank yeh,” Mog replied, nodding. Wonderful, he thought as he gazed sadly upon the dingy room that would shelter him through the legendarily harsh winters of the Shiverpeaks.
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