than Agrathan, Elastul, and all four of his private guards put together. Earned every one o' them scars, I did, and now I'm to stand quiet and hear the scolding of Agrathan, and that on me watch, with th' other sentries all lookin' and listenin'?"
"And where're ye to go?" Shingles asked. "Mithral Hall?" "Yep."
"Where ye'll be welcomed with a big hug and a bottle o' ale?" came the sarcastic reply.
"King Bruenor's not me enemy."
"And not near the friend ye're thinkin'," Shingles argued. "He's to be wonderin' what bringed ye there, and he'll think ye a spy."
It was a logical argument, but Torgar was shaking his head with every word. Even if Shingles proved right on this point, the potential consequences still seemed preferable to Torgar than his present intolerable situation. He was getting up in years and remained the last of the Hammerstriker line, a situation he was hoping to soon enough correct. Given all that he had learned over the last few tendays of King Bruenor, and more importantly, of his own beloved Mirabar, he was thinking that any children he might sire would be better served growing up among Clan Battlehammer.
Perhaps it would take Torgar months, even years, to win the confidence of Bruenor's people, but so be it.
He stuffed the last of his items into the sack and hoisted the bulging bag over his shoulder, turning for the door. To his surprise. Shingles presented him a mug of ale, then held up his own in toast.
'To a road full o' monsters ye can kill!" the older dwarf said.
Torgar banged his mug against the other.
"I'll be clearing it for yerself," he remarked.
Shingles gave a little laugh and took a deep drink.
Torgar knew that his response to the toast was purely polite. Shingles's situation in Mirabar was very different than his own. The old dwarf was the patriarch of a large clan. Uprooting them for a journey to Mithral Hall would be no easy task.
"Ye're to be missed, Torgar Hammerstriker," the old dwarf replied. "And the potters and glass-blowers're sure to be losin' business, not having to replace all the jugs and mugs ye're breakin' in every tavern in town."
Torgar laughed, took another sip, handed the mug back to Shingles, and continued for the door. He paused just once, to turn and offer his friend a look of sincere gratitude, and to drop his free hand on Shingles's shoulder in a sincere pat.
He went out, drawing more than a few stares as he moved along the main thoroughfare of the Undercity, past dozens and dozens of dwarves. Hammers stopped ringing at the forges he passed. All the dwarves of Mirabar knew about Torgar's recent run-ins with the authorities, about the many fights, about his stubborn insistence that the visiting King Bruenor had been badly mistreated.
To see him determinedly striding toward the ladders leading to the overcity with a huge sack on his back. . . .
Torgar didn't turn to regard any of them. This was his choice and his journey. He hadn't asked anyone to join him, beyond his remark to Shingles a moment before, nor did he expect any overt support. He understood the magnitude of it all and quite clearly. Here he was, of a fine and reputable family who had served in Mirabar for centuries, walking away. No dwarf would undertake such an act lightly. To the bearded folk, the hearth and home were the cornerstone of their existence.
By the time he reached the lifts, Torgar had several dwarves following him, Shingles included. He heard their whispers - some of support, some calling him crazy-but he did not respond in any way.
When he reached the overcity, the late afternoon sun shining pale and thin, he found that word of his trek had apparently preceded him, for a substantial group had assembled, human and dwarf alike. They followed him toward the eastern gate with their eyes, if not their feet. Most of the remarks on the surface were less complimentary toward the wayward dwarf. Torgar heard the words "traitor" and "fool" more than a few times.
He didn't react. He had expected and already gone through all of this in his thoughts before he had stuffed the first of his clothes into the sack.
It didn't matter, he reminded himself, because once he crossed out the eastern gate, he'd likely never see or speak with any of these folks ever again.
That thought nearly halted him in his walk.
Nearly.
The dwarf replayed his conversation with Agrathan over and over in his