A Wizard in Midgard

13

Alea’s heart sank, but she stepped up behind Gar, back to back, quarterstaff on guard. The odds were two dozen to one, but she was bound and determined to die fighting, determined that they’d have to kill her, that the pains of battle were the only ones she would suffer.

She didn’t even think of surrendering and leaving Gar to die alone. It went without saying that she’d be right back where she was in Midgard, maybe worse.

A bandit ran at her, his face twisted into an, ugly mask of hatred, stick high to deliver a crushing blow.

That stick disintegrated, crumbled to dust even as he swung it.

Alea stared, not believing her eyes. The bandit jolted to a halt, staring at his empty hands, just as disbelieving. But other bandits shouldered him aside and swung—and watched their own staves crumble to powder even as they descended. A fourth bandit pushed past them, roaring and swinging a battle-axe—but it turned to rust and struck Alea’s staff, shredding away into brownish clumps as it did.

The man stared at her in horror. Then he shouted, “Witch!”

“No! ”Alea cried.

Half a dozen men leaped on her, howling with anger and hatred, reaching for her with their bare hands. She swung her staff with maniacal speed, cracking knuckles and heads. Rough hands caught her arms, but she swung a knee up, a man howled, and the hands went away to clutch at his groin as he doubled over. Another man took his place, seizing her by the throat, but she knocked his arms away as Gar had taught her, then jabbed him in the belly with the butt of her staff. Two more sprang in from the sides to seize her upper arms, but she swung the staff with her lower arms as hard as she could, first the one side, then the other, and the men cried out in pain, their holds loosening. She wrenched one arm free, turned to lash out at the other man—and something struck her head, hard. The world went dark, sparks clouded her vision, there was roaring in her ears, and she fought in panic to hold onto consciousness, wildly afraid of what might happen if she lost her hold on the world.

Then the sparks cleared, the roaring softened, and she stared about her at a dozen men lying on the ground. Sick guilt filled her at the thought that she might have killed so many, but she saw that their eyes were closed and looked more sharply.

They were all breathing.

She looked about in amazement. The women crouched back around the fire, clutching children in their skirts, arms up to protect their faces, moaning in terror.

Then a hand came into her vision; palm up. She flinched away, then heard Gar say, as though at a feast-day dance, “May I help you up?”

She took the hand, trembling, and climbed to her feet, looking about her. All the men of the band lay on the ground, unconscious or asleep. She stared up at Gar. “How… how did you…?”

“I warned them I was a wizard,” he told her calmly. “There were too many of them, though. They would have buried me under sheer numbers, if you hadn’t guarded my back long enough.”

She tightened her hand on his, stared into his eyes, then looked away from the heat there, and blinked at the women. “I’m … I’m sorry…”

“For what?” Helga found her voice, staring as though Alea were mad. “For walking free? For fighting off men who would have raped you, if they’d had the chance? Go along with you!”

“I think we had better,” Gar said. “We don’t seem to be welcome here any more.”

“How could you think to be, preaching such nonsense as you did!” Elsa exclaimed.

But Helga touched her arm. “She told us the truth—women can learn how to protect themselves.”

Elsa stared at her, then turned back to Alea, and her gaze verged on awe. “That’s right… We’ve seen it ourselves, that much was true…”

“How much else of what she said was the truth?” Sigurd wondered.

“I think we had better leave and let them work out the answer to that by themselves,” Gar said softly into Alea’s ear.

“Just a moment.” Alea advanced on the women, pulling out her belt knife.

They moaned and shrank away, ready to run.

Alea stepped past them to the roast. She carved a huge thick steak and carried it back to Gar, speared on her knife. “Loot.”

Gar grinned. “Yes, they did offer us dinner, didn’t they?” He tipped an imaginary hat to the women. “Thank you for your hospitality. I’m sorry we can’t stay to enjoy it to its fullest. Good night, now.”

“Good night,” Alea echoed, then marched off into the forest, letting Gar do the catching up for once.

They stopped an hour later at a cave Gar had somehow found in a hillside, where he lit a small and almost smokeless fire. As they waited for the steak to warm, Alea asked, “How did you manage to knock them all out?”

“Magic, as I told you,” Gar said.

“The same magic that made their staves crumble to dust?”

“Not quite, but close,” Gar told her. “I wasn’t joking. Still, I made it look as though I were knocking each of them on the head with my staff. The women won’t think it was a spell, and the men will take better care of their weapons in the future.”

Alea shivered against a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the night. “How did you do it?” Gar closed his eyes. “I’m picturing an object. Close your eyes and tell me what you see.”

With misgivings, Alea closed her eyes—and saw Gar’s face. She dismissed it impatiently, thought of darkness, an overcast night sky, saw dark clouds.

Then an image appeared in front of those clouds, murky and misty, but it seemed to gel, to harden, to become clear… “An instrument of some sort,” she said. “It has a pinchwaisted body and a long neck, with one … two… six strings.”

“It’s called a guitar,” Gar said softly, “and you don’t have them in Midgard, nor anywhere else in the world, as far as I know. Yes, that is what I was thinking of. You have the talent to do magic yourself, Alea, though how much talent, I don’t know yet. Do you want to learn?”

The answer leaped up with savage eagerness, but she held it back, afraid—of the power of that magic, of the unknown… But not, strangely, of Gar.

“I’ll have to think about it,” she said.

“As you will.” The words practically purred with approval. “Well, enough of such airy nonsense. Let’s see to that steak, shall we?”

As she settled herself for sleep, Alea reflected on her luck, and found herself struggling to believe it. She had found a companion, a friend, who seemed to value her as a person more than as a woman, but there were hints that he appreciated her femininity too, femininity that she’d scarcely known she still had, for the boys of her village had never seemed to notice it once she grew taller than they. Moreover, and more amazingly, he gave her the honor and respect he would have given another man, treated her as an equal, never even seemed to think that she was anything else. He had protected her, hunted for her, nurtured her, soothed her fears, given her more self-respect than she had ever thought to have again—and was now offering to teach her magic!

There was no need of it, she told herself. He was magic enough in himself.

Not that she was about to let him know that, of course.

She woke with the sun, feeling sluggish, and went to feed the fire, wondering why she felt so lethargic. Gar rolled out of his blanket and sat up as she was hanging the kettle over the flames. She looked at his face and, for some reason, had a dim memory of the Wizard looking rather disgusted.

Suddenly she knew why. “I wonder if the bandits dreamed of the Wizard last night.”

“They did,” Gar said, with complete certainty, “and he showed them the Great Monad and explained it to them, but they argued with him every inch of the way. The more ridiculous their stand became, the harder they fought.”

Alea looked at the fire. “They’d rather die than give up believing they’ve become supermen, wouldn’t they?”

“I think they would,” Gar said, with wonder and delight. “How did you know?”

“I talked to their women.” Alea stilled, frowning into the fire. “I nearly said ‘wives,’ but I don’t think any of them are.”

“Not legally, perhaps, but most of them are in fact.”

“The men treat them as housekeepers and whores!”

“That’s what the men want to believe,” Gar agreed, “but the women have become more to them, much more, and I think they’re about to find that out.” He looked around, peering upward. “I’ve become turned around in the dark. Which way is east?”

They had been hiking for another six weeks when the pigs attacked.

The cunning beasts waited until they were squarely in the middle of a meadow with no nearby trees to climb. Then they seemed to materialize from the grass and came squealing from all sides, the boars in the lead. They had gone back to nature in good form, growing tusks and shaggy coats.

Alea whipped about back to back with Gar out of sheer reflex, her staff up and ready. All he had time to say was, “Don’t let them near! Scare them if you can!”

Good advice, Alea thought with exasperation, but how was she supposed to do that? She held her stick by the end and swung it in desperation—and saw what he meant. The pigs were shrewd; they saw the staff coming and leaped back from it. But as soon as it was past, they sprang in..

Well, there was a way to deal with that. Alea set up the figure-eight pattern Gar had shown her, and the pigs shied away, then started in, but the butt of the staff came back to crack very satisfyingly over one’s head. It stumbled back and fell, and three others fell on it instantly, squealing and fighting for cannibal rights.

But they had stopped the staff just long enough. From the other side, a boar shot in to rip Alea’s skirt with a toss of its head. She felt the pain in her leg and screamed in fear-born anger, whirling her staff to crack its head. It stumbled back and fell, but she was paying attention to the left again, and kept the figure-eight going. The pigs shied away, but an old sow grunted, and by Thor’s goats, they all seemed to relax and settle down. With a sinking heart, she realized they were waiting for her to tire.

They were right, too. She couldn’t keep the pattern going all day. In desperation, she slowed before she had even begun to be winded—and sure enough, two boars sprang in, one from each side.

Alea swung the stick so fast it blurred. It jarred against the right-hand porker and rebounded; she used the energy of that bounce to crack the other across the muzzle. Both squealed and retreated, giving her injured looks as though to say she had broken the rules.

She intended to. She intended to break a lot of rules, especially since she had seen what they had done to one of their own fallen. She slowed the stick again, and two pigs started forward, then hesitated. She slowed the stroke even more, but they only glared at her, waiting.

Behind her, she heard crack after crack mixed with wild squealing, and knew Gar was using the animals’ treacherous instincts to the fullest. She was glad she couldn’t see what was happening.

The pigs edged away, beginning to look actually fearful. Hope leaped in her heart, and she slowed her staff even more, waiting and hoping.

Then the old sow grunted in anger. A dozen younger boars ranged themselves about her, and a huge old male trotted to the fore.

Alea braced herself; she knew a band nerving itself for an onslaught when she saw one. Her stomach sank as she realized she was staring at her doom, and it had little red eyes that glared—a score of them. She grounded the butt of her staff and waited.

So did the pigs.

Then the old sow grunted, the big boar squealed in rage and charged, and the younger boars galloped past him, echoing his squeal as they closed about in a semicircle, turning inward.

Alea lifted her staff to strike—and heard a voice calling, “Loose!” Feathers suddenly sprouted behind porcine shoulders and in their sides. Four of the pigs fell, but instead of falling upon them, the rest of the pack whirled to face their new attackers. They shot charging away across the meadow, and Alea stared, unable to believe her luck.

The pigs descended upon her rescuers—and Alea’s disbelief deepened. The hunters who had come to her help were scarcely taller than the pigs themselves, a dozen men and women three feet high or less, with legs and arms shorter in proportion than her own. There were two of Midgard size, too, with ordinary bows, but most of the dwarves were reloading, cranking back their crossbows for another shot. The pigs would reach them before they could shoot, though, and Alea started after the swine with a despairing cry.

Gar shouted with fright and came pounding after her. But the dwarves each cried, “Sic!” and the grass exploded with big shaggy dogs, some brown, some tan. Some sprang from the ground in front of the dwarves, some from the sides, and two even bounded at the pigs from the rear—they had lain hidden in the long grass, waiting for their commands. The dogs fell on the pigs, seizing throats in their own jaws. The pigs turned, squealing in rage and fright, tossing their heads, and two dogs fell back, bleeding. But the rest held their prey fast, and the two bigger hunters let fly with arrows that brought down the old sow and her mate. Then the six smaller folk loosed their crossbows again, and half a dozen pigs fell. Six of the dogs, released of their burdens, instantly turned on another half-dozen swine. The Midgard-sized archers kept their bows humming, and pig after pig died. Then Gar passed Alea and swung his stick, bellowing. He clipped a boar behind the head, and it fell. Alea slewed to a halt and swung in the same fashion; another pig fell over. A third leaped at her, and she screamed, stepping back and yanking her stick in double-handed to block the monster. She pushed away, hard, and it tumbled. Gar’s stick cracked across its skull, and it lay unconscious.

The rest of the pig-pack was galloping away, squealing in terror. Alea stared after them, then looked about her, and saw a dozen pigs lying dead or unconscious with three wounded dogs and one dead among them. She could scarcely believe it.

Then one of the Midgard-sized people was coming toward her, and she raised her stick to guard, all the childhood terrors of the malice and magic of the dwarves coming back, even though this one was only a foot shorter than she.

“Let me see that arm, lass,” the woman said.

Alea froze, staring. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t concern.

The woman, Alea’s age or a little younger, hung her bow over her shoulder and rolled up Alea’s sleeve. She pressed the flesh and watched the blood flow. “It seems clean enough,” she said, turning the arm, then squeezed harder.

Pain shot through her muscles. Alea cried out and tried to pull away, but the dwarf-woman held her arm fast, even as she turned her head and called, “Mother! I think it’s broken!”

One of the dwarves, not even three feet tall, looked up from slitting a boar’s throat and wiped her dagger on the long grass. She came toward them, sheathing the knife—at her belt, it looked like a sword. She wore the same clothing as any of the others—belted tunic, leggins, and boots—but looking closely, Alea could see the feminine cast to the features and the unmistakable way the tunic draped over breasts and broader hips.

The older woman reached up to take Alea’s arm. “Let me see, Saret.”

The younger woman relinquished the arm, and her mother pressed, hard. Alea cried out and tried to pull her arm away, but the mother held it in an iron grip and nodded. “Nay, it’s not broken, and there’s no vein or artery cut, but the muscle’s damaged. It will heal, mind you, but we’ll bandage it tightly when we get back to the village. You must be careful not to use it for a day or three.” She frowned down at the rip in Alea’s skirt. “Show me that leg, lass.”

Alea glanced at the men apprehensively. The mother read her meaning and said, “Don’t worry, they’re all busy killing swine and tending the wounded dogs. They wouldn’t look closely in any event, for they know how to respect other people. Up with the skirt, now.”

Alea lifted her skirt—and stared. The gash was a good six inches long, and there was enough blood running out of it to make her queasy.

“That, we’ll have to see to here.” The mother pulled a small bottle and a clean cloth out of a pouch that she wore on a strap that crossed her body. “Clench your jaw, lass, for this will hurt, though not as badly as that wound will tomorrow, if we don’t tend it now. Courage!”

She poured fluid on the cloth and cleaned the wound. To take her mind off the pain, Alea gasped, “I am called Alea. What is your name, so I may know whom to thank?”

“I am Retsa,” the little woman said, “and this is my daughter, Saret. How did you come here, you two Midgarders?”

“We’re not Midgarders,” Alea said sharply, “at least, not any more.”

Saret looked up, startled, and Alea regretted her tone. “I’m sorry to sound so bitter, but it wasn’t pleasant being enslaved, and escaping in fear of my life.”

“No, I can imagine it wasn’t.” Retsa stood up and started to work on Alea’s arm with her bottle and cloth. “Why did they enslave you?”

“For being too tall.” Alea tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“We’ve heard they enslave you if you don’t grow big enough, too,” Saret said, frowning.

“It’s true, and they teach us from childhood that it’s right. We don’t realize how wrong it is until it happens to us.” Retsa put away her medicine, shaking her head. “We can’t understand how folk could so hurt their own children. Lashing out in a fit of temper, yes—it’s bad, but we can understand how it can happen. Not wanting to let go of them, that too we can understand—but disowning them, enslaving them? No.” She turned toward the main group. “Walk carefully until you’re sure how much weight that leg will bear.” Saret came up on her other side, watchful and ready to catch. Alea flashed her a look of surprise and gratitude, then stepped slowly and carefully, bracing herself on her staff. She nodded. “It hurts, but I can keep from limping if I try.”

“Go ahead and limp,” Retsa told her. “It will do less damage than trying not to. Keep leaning on that staff, though.” She watched Alea walk, then nodded approvingly. “It’s lucky for you we were near on patrol.”

“So you always pace the land on watch?”

“We do,” Retsa said, “though we hunt game as well as raiders. We heard the squealing and came on the run. Good for us as well as you, by the look of it, though there’s one of us will sorrow for his dog.” She looked at the glum dwarf who was laying the furry body on a stretcher. “Canis was a good hound and a better friend. Well, Obon will have to content himself with her puppies.”

Alea felt a pang as she realized the dog had died to save her life, then scolded herself—it was only a dog, after all. Somehow, though, she was sure that to these dwarves, their animals were friends, and close ones. At least the dwarves would show some profit from their rescue—they were already tying the feet of the dead pigs and sliding spears between them to bear them home. “I’ll help carry the…”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Retsa said sharply, “not with that leg!”

Alea didn’t argue the point, largely because she realized that she’d been assuming she and Gar would go back to the village with the dwarves—but they hadn’t been invited, and she noticed that the dwarves who weren’t busy with the pigs were still holding their crossbows, and that they were loaded. They weren’t particularly pointed toward herself and Gar, but on the other hand, they weren’t pointed away, either. For the first time, it occurred to her that they might not be welcome among the small people.

They came up to the main group, and Alea saw that a third of them were women. Only the two bow-carriers were the size of Midgarders—five and a half feet—but the others varied, one scarcely more than two feet tall, others four feet or more. The fairy-tale version of nasty, spiteful Alberich, the dwarf who stole the Rhinegold, and his equally cruel little kin, seemed very far from the reality. The dwarves looked as massive as the giants, though on a far smaller scale. They were also obviously compassionate and concerned for one another and even for these two huge strangers, though Alea did notice a few wary glances. Under the circumstances, she could hardly blame them.

As they came up, one of the older men was saying to Gar, “You have my sympathy for your slavery, and my admiration for your escape, but how does that answer my question?”

“I encountered some giants,” Gar told them, “and found that all the Midgarder scare-stories were complete lies. That made me wonder if the dwarves had been slandered just as thoroughly, so I set out to visit Nibelheim and discover the truth. On the way, I was lucky enough to meet this young woman, and we’ve been traveling together ever since. After we came into the North Country, we stayed overnight with some giants.” He drew Garlon’s letter out of his tunic. “One gave us a character reference.”

The dwarf looked surprised, but he took the letter, opened it, and, to Alea’s amazement, actually read it without even moving his lips! In fact, it only took him a few seconds, then he returned it to Gar with a brusque nod and said, “Well, if you’re seeking Nibelheim, you’ve found it, though we’re a colony village almost on the border of the North Country.”

“We’ve come out of the North Country, then?” Alea asked in surprise, then bit her tongue.

But the dwarf didn’t rebuke her for speaking out of place—he turned to her as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a woman to talk about serious matters, and nodded. “You crossed into Nibelheim some hours ago—not too long after sunrise, I’d guess. We don’t expect trouble so far north, but we patrol anyway. We’ve come across the odd robber band now and again. Mostly, we bring home pork or beef.”

The crossbows lowered, as though by accident, and the dwarves began to discuss the event with one another with frequent glances at the two strangers.

“Shall we trust them?” the dwarf asked his fellows.

“The woman has a good heart,” Retsa said. “Her name is Alea.”

“Welcome among us then, Alea,” the dwarf said, with a nod of the head that was almost a bow. “You too, Gar. Will you be our guests for the night?”

Gar glanced at Alea; with a shock, she realized he was asking her opinion. She recovered and gave him a one-inch nod. “Gladly,” Gar told the dwarf, then turned to Alea. “May I present Master Bekko?”

“A pleasure to meet you, lass,” Bekko said. “I take it you’ve already met Retsa and her daughter Saret.” He was obviously saying that for Gar’s benefit. “These are Obon, Mala, Robil…”

He introduced the members of the band, each of whom nodded. Alea managed to recognize the nods as signs of greeting in time to return them; so did Gar. When the introductions were done, the big man said, “Since you saved us by killing so many pigs, you must let us help carry them to your village.”

“Not Alea,” Retsa said quickly. “She has a wound in her leg.” Gar turned to her in alarm.

“Only a scratch,” Alea said quickly, but Gar didn’t look convinced.

Retsa assured him, “It’s more than that, but not bad at all, and will heal in a week. Still, she shouldn’t go carrying any more of a load than she has to, at least not today.”

Gar seemed somewhat reassured. “Well, I’ll carry a balanced load myself, then.” Before anyone could object, he strode over to the pile of pigs, took four bound feet in each hand, and came back to Bekko, the two carcasses swinging. “I feel a bit better about accepting your hospitality now.”

Bekko laughed, reached up to slap him on the arm, and turned to lead the way home.

The dwarf village stood on a hill above the forest. Their first sight of it was a sort of crown on top of the slopes, one with dark points. As they climbed up to it, they saw that it was an earthen wall with a palisade of sharpened logs slanting outwards.

“We’ll bring some giants to build us a proper wall,” Bekko said, almost in apology, “as soon as we’ve made enough radios to trade for their labor.”

“How many is that?” Gar asked.

“Twenty is the going price,” Bekko answered, “if we can offer a computer with it.”

Gar stared down at the man. “You make computers?” Bekko nodded. “When our ancestors first escaped from Midgard, one band found a metal hut in the forest.”

“A big hut,” Retsa added.

“Very big,” Bekko agreed, “but it had to be, for it had a machine in it that was as big as a house itself.”

“Bigger,” Robil said. “I’ve seen it.”

Obon snorted. “We’ve all seen it. Every child goes to see it when he’s in school.”

“School?” Gar asked mildly, but Alea glanced at him quickly, and could have sworn she saw his ears prick up. “Yes, we have schools, stranger.” Retsa smiled, amused. “Children have much to learn if they’re to make radios and computers, after all.”

“They certainly do,” Gar agreed. “What was the big machine?”

“It had wings, so our ancestors were able to recognize that it had flown once. When they read about it later, they found it was a thing called a ‘shuttle,’ for carrying people and cargo into the sky, to the ship that had brought them from the stars.”

“And even a shuttle had a computer.” Gar nodded.

“It taught our ancestors to read—in Midgard, the ordinary people had forgotten how, when everything fell apart, and only the priests still knew. Then it showed them how to make radios and more computers.”

“It had to teach them a good deal of mathematics and physics first, didn’t it?”

All the dwarves glanced at him keenly, but Bekko only said, “That’s part of learning how to make such things, yes. Where did you say you came from?”

“Very far away,” Gar told him, “but I didn’t realize the Midgarders would enslave a stranger. I take it that once you had radios, you started talking with the giants.”

“Well, the Midgarders weren’t about to talk to us,” Retsa said with a wry smile.

“They started using a different kind of modulation, so that we couldn’t overhear them.” Bekko grinned. “We learned how to make receivers for it. We listen to them now, though they don’t know it.”

“I wonder if they still listen to you?” Gar said idly, gazing at the sky.

Bekko stared at him, startled at the thought, then exchanged glances with Retsa, then Obon. All had the same wide-eyed look. Alea guessed that they hadn’t thought they might be the objects of eavesdropping as well as the listeners.

A sentry on top of the wall called down, “Who are your new friends, Bekko?” In spite of the light tone, his eyes were wary.

“Strangers seeking Nibelheim, Dorsan,” Bekko called back. “They have a letter from the giants saying they’re good folk, to be trusted.”

“Then they’re welcome.” Dorsan turned to send a warbling call over the village and by the time they came through the gate, a crowd had gathered to meet them with more running up, eager and excited by something new.

Alea looked about her, dazed. She guessed there were a few hundred of them lining the way, and the hunting band had been a good sample of what they were like—most around three feet tall, but some as short as two feet, more as tall as four, a few even taller, with here and there a man or woman as tall as a Midgarder. They all seemed to want to touch hands and be introduced, and Alea’s head whirled with the scores and scores of dwarf names.

Finally Bekko waved them away, grinning. “Peace, good friends, peace! These poor big folk can’t possibly learn all by our clamor!”

“We do have the impression that we’re welcome, though,” Gar said, looking a bit frazzled. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had a more ringing reception.”

The dwarves laughed and turned away to their work, waving one last greeting. Alea and Gar raised their hands in imitation. .

Four dwarves came up with poles to take the pigs from Gar. Looking around, Alea saw that all the swine had disappeared into the crowd.

“There will be feasting tonight,” Bekko told them, “partly because of so many pigs brought home.”

“But more to celebrate guests,” Retsa said. “It’s a rare occasion, and we mean to make the most of it. I hope you know some stories we haven’t heard.”

Alea glanced at Gar, but the big man didn’t show the slightest sign that the comment meant anything to him. “We learned some from the giants.”

“Oh, those are bound to be old!” Retsa scoffed. “They’ve even told us a new one some stranger brought, about a southern god named Thummaz coming to visit Asgard!”

Bekko looked up at a sudden thought. “You wouldn’t be that very stranger, would you?”

“I would,” Gar sighed, “and there goes my best tale. We’ll have to see what else I can remember—perhaps the story of Chang-tzu and the butterfly.”

“It has a pleasant sound,” Retsa said, grinning. “Come, strangers, let us show you our village.”

“There will be dancing,” Saret told Alea. “You’ll have to show us your dances, and learn ours.”

“They may not be very different.” Alea looked about her. “So many flowers!”

Every little house had a garden around it. They were made of wattle and daub, with thatched roofs, walls painted in pastels.

“What a lovely village!” Alea exclaimed.

“And so many dogs.” Gar looked about, grinning. “No wonder you didn’t hesitate to invite us in.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say we didn’t hesitate,” Bekko demurred, “but if you’re good enough for the giants, you’re good enough for us. Yes, we like our dogs, and I think you’ve seen why.”

“Yes, indeed! I can’t believe the Midgarders ever had the audacity to attack you!”

“They do, and often,” Bekko said grimly. “Even here, so far north, we’ve had to fight off their raiders now and then, and bandits at least once a year.”

“Yes, I’ve met the Midgarder rejects,” Gar said, “the ones who seem to feel they have to persuade themselves they’re better than anyone else. It must be quite a shock for them, when you defeat them.”

“No doubt they tell themselves it’s our dogs who beat them, not ourselves,” Retsa said, with irony.

A child was coming out of one of the houses. He was four feet tall, and his mother, a foot shorter than he, came hurrying out holding up a length of fabric. “Please take your cloak, Krieger! It will be chilly this evening!”

“Mother, please!” The boy glanced at the party of hunters, all of whom instantly snapped their eyes away.

“Well, I’m sorry if I embarrass you,” his mother said, “but it serves you right for forgetting your coat. You don’t have to wear it, after all—you can sling it over your shoulder until it gets cold.”

There wasn’t even a hint of laughter from the passing hunters, and the boy’s embarrassed anger faded. “I’m sorry, Mama. I don’t mean to be cross. It’s just that…”

“Just that mothers worry too much. Yes, I know.” The dwarf mother patted the cloak onto his shoulder. “Well, thank you for humoring me, my son. Go now to your friends.”

Alea looked around her at granite faces, several of which were obviously fighting laughter. She said to Saret, “Your people are uncommonly understanding, not to tease!”

“Uncommonly?” Saret stared. “Not in Nibelheim, I assure you! Families are far too important to us!”

“Even when…” Alea broke off and looked away, embarrassed.

But Saret laughed gently, reading her face. “Even when the child is as tall as any Midgarder? That makes no difference.”

“Indeed not.” Retsa reached up to take her daughter’s hand. “Children are children, after all, and must always be able to come to us for love and support, no matter how big or how old they grow. There’s no other way to do it, this task of parenting.”

Saret smiled down at her mother and gave her an affectionate squeeze of the hand. Alea had to look away, eyes blurring, for the gesture reminded her of the warmth and love of her own home, and her parents’ unswerving devotion, no matter how tall she grew.

“So many wells!” Alea exclaimed. “Every house must have its own! But how can you draw the water out when the wellroof is so low?”

“Wells?” Retsa followed her guest’s gaze to the brick cylinder, three feet high, with the slanting wooden roof that seemed to sit right on top of the mortar. There were horizontal slots in its roof, two feet long and an inch wide, each covered by the lip of the one above.

“Why have roofs if they’re going to let the rain and cold in?” Gar asked, but Alea looked at his eyes and saw he suspected something.

“Oh, the louvers keep the rain out,” Bekko told him, “but they let the light and the air in. Those aren’t wells, lass—they’re shafts for letting the folk underground breathe and see.”

“You have people underground?” Alea asked, her eyes wide.

“Every dwarf village has tunnels for safety,” Retsa told her. “If the Midgarders ever break through our walls, we can retreat into our mazes and cave in the entry on our enemies.”

“We make our shops there,” said Bekko, “so that our work will be safe from robbers and raiders. It’s also a good deal easier to keep clean, and dust matters, when you’re making such tiny things.”

“Clean?” Alea stared. “Surrounded by dirt?”

“We’re better housekeepers than that,” Retsa said, smiling. “Would you like to see?”

Alea saw Gar’s face light up with eagerness, and also saw the motion of his jaw as he bit his tongue. She smiled, amused, and told Retsa, “Why yes, we would.”

“Are you sure?” Bekko asked Retsa, frowning.

“If we trust them in our village, why not in our shops?” Retsa countered. To Alea, she said, “You must be careful not to touch anything.”

“We won’t,” Alea promised. “Will we, Gar?”

“Absolutely not!” he averred.

“Well, then, to the mines with you!” Bekko chuckled at his own joke just as well, since nobody else did. He led them around a little hill covered with grass—but as they came to the front, they found the slope had been chopped off and replaced with a great oaken door.

“Down you go,” Retsa said, and led them into another world, far more like the Nibelheim of the tales.