A
movement at the back of the group created a ripple in the crowd. An older boy,
larger than those around him, stepped forward, his gait ungainly, even for a
dwarf. He slouched, a habit to mask his height and the burden of his mixed
bloodline. The crowd moved aside, many of them looking away. Dundar was a
half-blood, part dwarf and part human. And, Dundar was a mute. His mother lived
on the outskirts of the village, her small home tucked deeply into the rocks bordering
the old mine. She rarely ventured out, counting on Dundar to bring her roots
and berries from the forest. There were those in the village who whispered that
Dundar paid the price of silence for the actions of his parents. The gods of
the dwarves were not known for their kindness.
Berold’s
face was unreadable as the younger dwarf moved through the crowd. Only after
Dundar stood directly in front of him, leaning slightly on his long spear, did
Berold clear his throat to speak.
“Um.
Ah.”
Rather
than address Dundar, Berold’s eyes swept the crowd for any other takers. His
glare moved passed the yellow curls of his wife’s head, then back. Tilga gave
him a nod of encouragement. She had put her basket down and stood with her
hands on her round hips. Berold stood taller, his lips puckering, his mouth a
small volcano about to erupt over the crowd.
“Dundar
has come forward, and Dundar will travel with me to the outskirts!” sputtered
Berold. “Unless someone steps forward now. The
only sound from the crowd was the soft snuffling of one of the tiny children
whose rheumy eyes and red nose advertised an uncomfortable summer cold. “Well?”
Silence.
“He
is worth fifty of you snivelers.” Berold jutted his chin forward, his eyes
narrowing at the dwarf in front of him.
“We
leave in two days, boy,” he announced, addressing him for the first time. “Say
your goodbyes to your ma and pack lightly. I will meet you here at the well,
same time.”
Faltofar, Chapter Seven, Broken
Britches
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