Gnawed by despair, Branden stumbled onward. For many long days he had journeyed northwest, face set towards Narngund, leaving behind Atolion and the now empty camp he once called home. Foraging slowed him but kept his belly full.

Burgeford is a miserable little town. This is my chance to see a real city, he told himself whenever his friends’ faces haunted his mind. Trapping is boring. I’ll live better with a different profession.

Finding his legs suddenly heavy, he took the last steps out of the woods. Brilliant crimson, orange, and purple flowers dotted the gently rolling meadows. Finally grassland gave way to small ordered farms; flowers disappeared while corn, rye, and barley waved in the wind.

I do not miss Furry, Branden thought, missing Furry.

Eventually he struck a road: hard, skillfully paved, and wide enough for seven or eight men to walk abreast. Heart rising, he marvelled at the hard black stone; not a blade of grass marred its course. Farmsteads, clustered around the road, crowded upon one another. Wild food grew harder to find as the land became more ordered. He hurried, ignoring his empty heart and stomach.

Just as he began to look for a bit of dead wood for his campfire, a sound floated on the breeze. Pressing an ear to the ground, Branden smiled. Wheels creaked in the distance, punctuated by the slow clip-clop of hooves. Probably not a bandit. Unarmed and still carrying his coin purse, he understood the risk. Nothing much to lose anyway.

Shivering, he turned aside from the road and waited. Six oxen, straining against a large wagon piled high with flower, lumbered into view. A plump, short driver held the reigns loosely, eyes darting back and forth in the unsteady light of a lantern.

“A Halfling travelling alone?” Branden said from the shadows, grinning.

The little figure squeaked. “Mercy, mercy!” she said, halting the wagon. “We can work this out. You want money, and no blame to you; you’ve got to live as best you can, same as other folks.” Words poured faster than a waterfall. “Why I bet you’re not a blackhearted rogue at all—oh, my clumsy tongue! Please don’t take offense, sir, my lips just move faster than my brain. Anyway I was saying you’re just poor and desperate—there I go again—and need money. I’ve little enough, but take what I have and the bottle besides.” As she stood and bowed, a bottle rolled off the adjacent seat to shatter on the road. “Thuna Miller, at your service and your pleasure, sir. Please don’t kill me. Despite the smell and the look in your eyes—so sorry—I just know—”

“Shut up,” Branden said after several more subtle attempts to answer. “I’m not going to kill or rob you.”

Eyes lighting up, the Halfling grinned. “That must mean you want a meal and a ride, famished and worn as you look. Come friend, climb up, climb up. There’s plenty and to spare, and I’d dearly love the company, and to learn why you accost people in the dark. Ah, that didn’t come out right…” Thuna ran on, never slowing or missing a moment. Again and again she waved her stubby arms at the open place, eyes fixed on Branden.

Branden stared at the seat and Thuna’s ever-moving lips for a long time. His stomach growled painfully. “Very well. Thanks, I guess,” he sighed, stuffing himself into the little seat beside the Halfling.

The miles rolled by slowly. Eventually Branden caught a question among the endless monologue. “Branden Balond.”

“So glad to meet you, Branden dear, especially travelling alone as I am. You asked me why and I’m happy to tell the tal—”

“I think I’ve figured it out.”

She nodded, smile fading. “True, true. ‘As friendly a Halfling as you could wish to meet, but a little clumsy with her words,’ they say of me back home. When I’m there anyway. For when we need to trade in Narngund, Rolf tells me ‘We trust you to go. Take your time finding us a good deal, Thuna dear.’ So you see I’m gone very often…” Thuna rambled on.

That’s as blunt as I’ve heard Halflings. “Mmm. VERY tired. Think I’ll sleep a bit,” he said, yawning as obviously as possible.

“What a fine night for sleeping,” Thuna said, brightening. “So peaceful and calm. I can hardly hear a sound on the road. Why, back home it can get positively ear-splitting. Imagine trying to sleep with four or five Halflings nearby just yammering and chattering away…”

Soon Branden offered to take the reigns and let Thuna sleep. She cheerfully declined, citing the pleasure of his company. Halfling hospitality offered some compensation: meat, bread, and ale made the constant noise easier to bear. Eventually he nodded to sleep.

Jolted awake, Branden saw Thuna staring at him, ready to verbally pounce. “A little stone is all, dear. This road was made by the Narngund Dwarves themselves long ago, and I’ve never used a better one. Not that I’ve travelled on many others—”

“Tell me more about the Narngundians,” said Branden through gritted teeth, blinking in the light. If he must endure Thuna’s speech, he might as well hear something remotely interesting.

The road crossed another of equal size and quality. Far to the east, Brandon saw a cloud of dust and heard axels groan under their burden. One, two, three… at least four laden wains approached.

“They’re wonderful folk, incredibly skilled with metal and stone…” said Thuna, launching into mind-numbing detail about their works. “…why I believe my copper pan comes from Narngund, to say nothing of our oxen’s shoes…” she rambled, meandering between points. “Of course all Dwarven societies must answer the Question. It makes no difference to this or any Halfling of course; as we say folk have the right to live as they see fit. But Narngund hasn’t decided, and would you believe my little tongue once started—well, nearly started anyway—a small inci—misunderstanding? But I really should start from the begin—”

Branden rubbed his temples. “Just stop talking,” he said, intended diatribe cut short by the tears already forming in Thuna’s eyes. “Sorry, headache.” To forestall a lecture about headache remedies, he added “But tell me, briefly, what question you’re talking about? I’ve met a fair few Halflings, and even a couple of Dwarves, and they didn’t mention it.”

Looking away, Thuna took a swig from another bottle. “Ah, but only Dwarven settlements need worry about the Question. But really I’ve said too much.”

“Well, you’re not much of a talker anyway.”

A mounted man shot past them to the right, his approach unnoticed during their conversation. Looking ahead, Branden saw dust from other travellers.

As the shadows began to lengthen, they came to a mighty river roaring down the banks. A bridge leapt over the river, at least a mile wide, in seven graceful arches. Before the entrance loomed two statues of Dwarves carven in colored stone. Their shadows easily covered the wagon and the road; yet every wrinkle and hair remained distinct.

Branden stared, mouth agape. “Are those… those must be Narngundian kings of great renown.”

A rough chorus of laughter greeted this. “Kings! Are there no axes left in Narngund then? But those are the architects, worth more than any kings.”

A dozen Dwarves, spears in hand and axes at their belts, barred the way. Each short, thick, muscular figure looked radically different. Dazzlingly brilliant linens and silks in every color of the rainbow peeped behind armor and mail that gleamed in the sun. Some dressed in every color, others in just one, and a few in tasteful combinations. “Welcome to Narngund, travellers! A full cart and two passengers comes to three standard silver.” A Dwarf with a fiery beard and green eyes stepped forward.

“I’ll get this,” Branden said, quashing Thuna’s protest with a stern glance. He dusted off his own worn garments, rags next to the Dwarves’ raiment, as he climbed down. With a nod he set three silver pieces in the Dwarf’s hand.

Smiling but green eyes narrowing slightly, the Dwarf looked up at him. “I said three standard silver. The exchange rate for Atolion coins is three to one.”

“You want nine silver to cross?” Branden roared.

Red beard shrugged. “That’s the price. Swimming’s free, though,” he said to another burst of laughter.

“Ugly, stunted, self-serving Dwarves,” Branden said, spitting.

Grinning and eyes twinkling, red beard nodded. “I’m selfish, you’re poorly dressed and cranky, Fafnar there is ugly, Thuna—hello, by the way—is boring, the river Arken is wet.” He paused in mock confusion. “Are we done stating the obvious now?”

Missing his spear, Branden eyed the blasted creature. He roughly pressed nine coins into the Dwarf’s hand without a word.

Red beard nodded, face neutral, and signalled to the others. The Dwarves stood aside. Looking relieved, Thuna thanked Branden graciously and started driving the oxen forward almost before he climbed back up.

“Shoddy little bridge anyway,” Branden muttered as he passed red beard.

At a whistle, all twelve Dwarves dashed past the wagon, blocking the way again. Their eyes burned.

“What is your name, human?” boomed red beard.

“Branden Balond,” he said, voice steel.

Red Beard advanced. “Get down, Branden Balond. Rangon Firebeard has a matter to settle with you alone.”

Branden eagerly obeyed, fists clenched. He bent over Rangon, inches from his face.

Their eyes met. “So, you deem our bridge shoddy and our tolls high.” He flung the coins at Branden’s feet. “Take back your money, then, and earn your passage for free.” He turned to a companion, who looked equally angry. “Lend him a weapon of his choice, Gandon.”

“Mercy, mercy! Ah, Branden, Rangon dears, mercy. Good friends, please, don’t—” Thuna began, having slipped over unnoticed.

“Silence!” said Branden, Rangon, and several other Dwarves.

Trembling from curly hair down to fuzzy toes, Thuna continued. “Ah, well you see, humans are very frag—I mean, angry—when they feel cheated or insulted. Dwarves get very sensi—furious, dears, furious—when their crafts are slighted, especially unjustly.” Cringing from imagined blows, her words tumbled out ever higher and faster. “Branden dear, he didn’t, doesn’t really think your bridge is shoddy, Rangon. You hurt him, and see, he just, he hit you back—and please don’t—and you should have seen, could have seen, how he looked, at your statues I mean…” Finally she grovelled on the ground, still babbling incomprehensibly.

Staring at the wretched little Halfling, Branden’s fists relaxed. Shame washed over him. He had almost shed blood over a bridge toll, yet Thuna risked what she saw as mortal danger to save him. Turning back to the fire in Rangon’s eyes, Branden forced himself to take a breath. “Look, the Halfling speaks truly. I don’t like you or your bloody toll. Yet in truth, this is the finest bridge or road I’ve ever seen.”

Very slowly, Rangon gave a single nod. “You may pass.”

Branden gently raised Thuna from the ground and helped her into the wagon, driving it forward himself.

As they went by, Rangon approached once more. “A little advice, boy. Everything in Narngund has a price. Next time, make bleeding sure you’re able to pay it.”