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Shaped somewhat like a crescent moon, with horns facing north, its southmost rim was usually enclosed in a thick mist where the colder glacier-fed waters ran into hot springs. Between the horns on the other side were three short, sharp inlets reminiscent of a dragon’s footprint, though the digits were somewhat foreshortened. The mountains between the two outer inlets were almost sheer-sided where they met the lake and faced each other.
“They say that rive was formed by the fire god’s ax,” Brok said. “Though of course, the best view is from the lake. You can just see one side of the Titan bridge at Tall Rock. The sides of Thul’s Hardhold and Tall Rock are both much cut with galleries and balconies, though those towers to the south are where the greater dwarves of the Wheel of Fire live, among their terraced gardens of soil brought all the way up from the lowlands. We shall camp here at Whitewater Landing, for the dwarves let few across the lake to their doorsteps.”
“Do they have mines in these mountains? It seems an inhospitable spot, and cold!”
“I imagine so. I’ve visited only a tower or two, and the Titan-bridge. They’re descended of warrior-dwarves settled in here to guard the three passes through the Red Mountains, enjoying the patronage and protection of the Hypatian Empire in Masmodon’s time, but it doesn’t do to mention that now, for now they tell stories of the prophet Thul who led them here.”
“Why are they called the Wheel of Fire?”
“Let us hope you never learn this the hard way! Oh, don’t look at me like that; I don’t mean to be mysterious. It comes from their banners and war formations. I can’t explain it—I’m no tactician.” He lowered his voice. “To be honest, other dwarves call them the Appeal of Gold, for they fight not for defense or honor or justice, but sell their axes and bolts for money. Shameful.”
“Is it?”
“Death is too serious a matter to be a subject of commerce, don’t you think?”
They set up camp as they always did, though under the direction of Wheel of Fire road guides. The dwarves dyed their leathers and face-masks a dull red, and black were their flared helms—how ugly the memories associated with that shape!—and cloaks. Wistala found Intanta playing with Rayg, showing him her glowing crystal, and asked for a favor.
“What’s that, me scaly student?”
“I would like to handle the dwarves by myself.”
The toothless lips formed a perfect o. “Now ye have the courage to do so, but skill lackin’. Still, I’ve no love for t’ dwar beggars and would be happy to have my ease. Let’s see to t’ tentin’.”
Wistala begged a few extra candles from Ragwrist, who sighed about expenses. Lada installed them around and behind the spot where she was “chained” so their shadows played across her face and body in an intimidating manner. Lada did many of her tasks with a happier, more confident air these days, and anything that didn’t involve the routine of cleaning, feeding, or sleeping her baby made Lada break into quiet song. She had an eye for artistry, and costume, and pleasing arrangements of even the most mundane candlestick.
Though she still stuck her tongue out at Wistala when she thought she wasn’t being watched. Hominids underestimated the sweep of a dragon’s gaze.
The first day she had many visitors to her tent, but few of the dwarves asked to have their fortunes read. Wistala wished for Intanta’s crystal . . . perhaps that would invite the dwarves to have a peek and ask a question. Instead they peered from their heavy masks into her eyes, or muttered to each other in the dwarf tongue about she knew not what. They left as soon as she invited them to have their fortunes read.
At last a young dwarf—or one who had lost his beard, for he had but a grassy fringe on his chin—came into the tent and flung himself on his stomach before her, a gesture she wasn’t sure how to interpret.
“Oh great daughter of dragonkind,” he said in rather glottal Parl. “I crave your advice. What do you ask?”
She used the speech she’d long rehearsed, a variation of Intanta’s invocation when she sat in the tent. “Rise and place a coin upon my tongue; the quality of the metal brings quality of insight.” She extended her tongue a short distance.
“I’m poor . . . but I have a ring of my granddame,” the dwarf said, coming up to bended knee. He reached into a pocket in his leather vest and extracted a short chain with a few pierced coins and a ring with a shining green crystal at the end. He placed it on her extended tongue—she took the opportunity to smell his hands—and she brought it to her mouth and pretended to swallow. The ring she tucked into her gumline.
“You are troubled. Desperate,” Wistala said, which was evident enough.
“Yes!” the dwarf bubbled.
What would a short-bearded dwarf be troubled about? Love or his position, she expected. Perhaps both. The other dwarves smelled of goose grease or salted pork and beer, but this one’s hands only had a faint floury smell to them. His eyes looked tired.
“You labor hard. Something to do with wheat.” A miller? In the mountains? No! “A baker.”
“Truly!” the dwarf said, his mouth dropping open.
“You love what you do?”
“Nothing is better than the smell of rising dough, or the steam from a freshly baked bun just opened.”
She shut her eyes. Did his family not want him to be a baker, or was it someone else? “I see a problem. You fear you are not loved and respected by those you wish to keep close to your heart. It is hard to put your images and impressions into words.”
“Oh yes! She jests with me almost every day when she comes for her order, and will speak not with the owner but only with me. But she’s from a house with a chair at the council table! And who am I?”
So that is it. She jests with him.
“But she smiles at you, good dwarf, every day that you meet?”
