16

You approach the forge, judging best to get through the most unpleasant option first. The smell, the heat and the cacophony of hammering and clanging metal in every dissonant tone imaginable are a frightful **** on the ears to anybody not accustomed to the job.

Walking past in the street, the inside of the roofed working area with the anvil, the hearth and other fixtures were obscured by a few outbuildings. For this reason it wasn’t clear that, in spite of the flurry of activity in this place, there isn’t a living soul to be seen. There is a very obviously bladed weapon currently being beaten into shape, but there is no one holding the hammer and no one holding the blade down. In the furnace strips of metal yet to be shaped are routinely readjusted, and the bellows continuously pumps air into the furnace in one shallow pulse every few seconds. The various objects appear to be working independently, as if held on invisible strings by a puppet master. The thought prompts you to look up, and just as you notice the unusual depth of the domed ceiling, somebody speaks.

“Long time since I laid eyes on an ape.” The voice belongs to an incredibly old creature, sitting cross-legged in some sort of basket suspended from up above, able to see everything within the workshop. From down here, and due to all the wispy white hair, you can’t tell what species he is. He can’t be human.

“What’s your name, young one?” asks the ancient.

“Mortimer Halfheart. I come from beyond the plateau opposite the Citadel.”

“Hmm. And what business does such an outsider have with me? I can’t read you for all the confusion.”

“I was going to ask you if you might apprentice me, but I suppose that won’t be necessary...”

“Oh? What makes you think I don’t need help? Do you think I do all the work here?”

The tools have stopped. Even the smell from the near-melting iron in the hearth has faded, although that could just be your nose getting used to it. You’ve no idea what to say next.

“I do most of the work here, young Mortimer.” The basket spontaneously starts lowering itself to the ground. “But I will grow old some day. Your arrival is most opportune. I have tried to train three replacements already, each hand-picked for me by the Guild, but they are too quick to demand unreasonable wages. As it is I won’t need to leave the shop to quest for you, since you came and quested for me.”

As the basket arrives at ground level the creature steps out and stands up to his full height, eyes aligning perfectly with your belt (if you wore one). He is a dwarf. A magical dwarf, it seems. He steps toward you and picks his pockets while continuing “Now, to celebrate your timely arrival I will take the entire day off. My magic wears thinner faster, you know. In the meantime, you can find yourself a place to stay...” he fishes out a small piece of rounded copper from a pouch attached to his old breeches, and holds out his hand to you for you to take.

“Show this to the owner, he’ll explain to you the rest of custom.”

You take the coin-shaped piece of metal. On one side is a hammer in a circle of chains; on the other are two letters in a language alien to you. You suppose they must be initials of your new master.

Around you the forge falls to sleep, furnace cooling, hammer dropping, the bladed weapon coming to rest on the anvil. Behind you the old dwarf bids you good day, and when you wheel around to see where he is going, he’s vanished.

Pleased, though rather flabbergasted, you return to the streets and begin to retrace your steps toward the market square. You remembered seeing a street with evidence of taverns and indeed, there it is.

Two establishments catch your eye, H’Rull’s and The Brown Direwolf.

• To investigate H’Rull’s, turn to 47, and then to 43.

• To try The Brown Direwolf, turn to 29.