The Locksmith of the Spotted Hills

By Nelson Cosgrove

Thinking of his evening in Crumbald Centre, Slagfid smiled to himself as he fished his keys from his belt. A sound caught his ears before the keys reached the door. He listened, nothing. The dwarf stood still. The lock and key swayed gently above his head in the night breeze. His thoughts returned to the tattered man at the tavern. Again, a noise, it came from behind the cabin. Slagfid bent down and tossed his keys through the gate into the forge porch. He could pick his own locks later. Besides, he had another set secured in a case hidden at the Musty Mule. He gripped his Warhammer and slid into the shadows. He moved quietly around to the back of the cabin. He listened. He moved toward his woodpile and surveyed the grounds in the starlight. His ancestral, subterranean eye site tried to compensate to bring the blurred shadows into focus, but the starlight was too bright. The crack of a twig, and another footfall, were followed by a guttural sound. Suddenly, the air was full of the smells of filth and sweat and…goblins. Goblins? Slagfid felt a thud on the back of his head and the starlit sky vanished.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781645319856

Book preview

Chapter 1

The morning was clear and crisp for a midgrowing season dawn. The breeze, blowing gently to the southeast, brought only fresh air. There was no lingering scent of the wildflowers off the hills, nor the slightest trace of pine from the forest that usually hung in the air. The Spotted Hills were so named for the scattered boulders and jutting shelves of ledge that spotted the rolling expanse of northeastern Crumbald. Short grasses, rich mosses, and gray-green lichen blanketed the turf and rock. Wildflowers of all types sprouted out of the earth as if they were trying to make life easy for wild honeybees.

The small roadside cabin was solidly built of rough-milled lumber with a small forge within a closed porch attached to the dwelling. As if that weren’t enough of a clue, the five-foot door and low-shuttered windows acknowledged the dwelling of a dwarven smith. A pragmatic wooden sign, suspended over the door, displayed an open padlock with a key on an angle to its side. Any traveler among the main road between Crumbald Centre and Hedgerow knew this to be the establishment of a locksmith.

Slagfid slowly propped open the iron gate to the forge porch, demonstrating he was open for business. Having finished a light breakfast of eggs, sausage, bacon, potatoes, onions, rye bread and butter, and a splash (two or three mugs, he wasn’t counting) of mead, the dwarf set his four-foot six-inch stocky frame onto a wooden stool, filled his pipe, and surveyed the road with slow turns of his head.

Not a soul, living or dead, was traveling upon the road at this early hour. Not at all surprising, the dwarf thought to himself. He lit his pipe and sat comfortably, waiting for the forge to heat up. He didn’t have much work for the day (a repair for the butcher in Fenceton, two ornate locks for the shop case, and the commission of the lock for the storeroom door at Aurthur’s Tavern), but Slagfid wanted to go into Crumbald Centre that evening to sample the new stout that just arrived at the tavern.

His gaze fell over his left shoulder as he looked past the hayfields toward the rolling Spotted Hills. Then beyond to the hazy purple peaks of the Cyancid Mountains, the vision of his blue-brown eyes blurred slightly and settled back on the rocky hills. As the barely visible wildflowers danced in the sun, Slagfid revisited a time eighty-seven years ago.

He was born the only child of Slagfur and Dinla, dwarves of the hills who lead a semisedentary, seminomadic lifestyle. Slagfur was a gentle dwarf, thick of limb, and wide of smile. He was a shepherd solely for the royal court of the dwarven stronghold of Thakbelduum nestled in the Cyancid Mountains. It was a heavy burden and huge responsibility, but Slagfur took great pride in his station. His wife, Dinla, was a surprisingly buoyant dwarf. With her thick, brown hair braided behind her in a ground-reaching ponytail, she would assist her husband in every way—shearing, watering, defending, and then adding the child-rearing of Slagfid.

The first years of Slagfid’s life included everything from learning the dwarven work ethic, to basic weapon and defense lessons, to furloughs to Thakbelduum to learn formal academia. Life was simple. Wake up, go to work, learn all that you can, and go to sleep. By the onset of his thirtieth year, when he would be placed for apprenticeship, the fires started burning in the west. The hobgoblin barbarian tribes began their raids.

News spread quickly, the king of Thakbelduum sent a detachment of soldiers into the hills to safely escort Slagfur’s family, their belongings, and their flock through the passes to the stronghold. Slagfid distinctly remembered the arduous task of herding the sheep, which were used to grazing on the hills, up the rocky surface of the mountain road. They made it without incident. From the pinnacles of the mountains, they could make out the columns of smoke rising up from Crumbald Centre. Many humans and a few misplaced gnomes were tortured and killed during the raids on the small bartering town.

When Slagfid brought the last of the sheep beyond the front gate, the massive doors heaved shut with a solemn force. As the giant locking mechanisms sealed the gate, for what would become thirty years, Slagfid knew what he wanted to, what he had to apprentice and master. He would be a locksmith; his goal to insure the security of property and more importantly, life.

During his apprenticeship, life in the stronghold was difficult. The dwarves of the mountains could maintain their isolation indefinitely. But because of the refugees from the hobgoblin raids, space was limited, and Thakbelduum was overcrowded. Each day, food was rationed, every man had military duties, every woman slaved to manage their domestics and their children, and hygiene and sickness were barely kept in check. The dwarves set their teeth and took each day as it dawned.

Then, twenty-one years later, human messengers reached the mountain passes. The hobgoblins were pushed to the north, and the land was being restored. Only twice had the hobgoblins dared to attack Thakbelduum. They were greeted with crossbow bolts, spears, and catapult and ballista missiles. Every hobgoblin that was part of the offenses died; every dwarf lived. The dwarves had waited two decades for peace; a few more years wouldn’t matter. It would be after thirty years before the great gates of Thakbelduum were opened.

Slagfid had completed his apprenticeship and was a member of the Locksmith Guild. Many young dwarves were ready to find their places (outside the walls of the stronghold!) and begin their crafts. Slagfid did not have to travel far. He returned to the Spotted Hills near Crumbald Centre. The town had been rebuilt by the humans and even some gnomes had been returning. He purchased a small cabin his family had used as one of their outposts from his father, Slagfur (who now was tending the liveries with Dinla at Thakbelduum), and established his locksmith shop. After the raiding years, many sought secure locks for their homes and their treasures great or small. Slagfid’s craft was appreciated and in demand. The days stretched into years.

The locksmith smiled as he smoked, still gazing upon the rolling hills of rocks, flowers, and a large lumbering shape moving over them toward his cabin.

Chapter 2

Slagfid slowly stroked his red-brown beard with one hand, held his smoldering pipe in the other, and squinted at the shape two miles away. He could barely make it out, but Slagfid knew it wasn’t a human, too big. It wasn’t a rider on horseback, too wide. Something tugged on the dwarf’s memory.

A familiar scene from not too long ago, twelve maybe fifteen years. The shape was closer now, almost like an animated boulder. Slagfid put away his pipe and retrieved his war hammer, leaving it on the stool by the gate. The creature was almost to the edge of the Spotted Hills, where the fields of Slagfid’s neighbor’s crops began. Suddenly, it shifted. Four legs became two as the beast rose on its back legs. As soon as it revealed its profile and showed its features, Slagfid shook his head from side to side and smirked a grin.

Slagfid, you fool. The dwarf laughed through his teeth.

The large form was back on all fours and snuffled around the field’s stonewall as it looked for a way through. Slagfid picked up his hammer, brought it back inside, and began rummaging in the pantry. The sun glistened on the creature’s back, for it was completely covered with slate-gray fur. Fed up with the lack of a suitable opening, the creature reared up to a full twelve feet and climbed carefully over the stonewall. The swath from the wide mammal was clearly visible even at this distance. Slagfid’s neighbor, a farmer named Bottle, ran out to shoo the invader, but thought better of it and ran inside his house. Slagfid left a large wooden bowl on the worktable near the forge and walked out around the gated porch to get a better look at the arrival.

Besides the lumbering gait, shaggy fur, huge paws, and canine snout, the cave bear displayed something else. The leather harness over its front shoulders was embossed with the bright-red emblem of Mikaldi Gravelbeard, the king of Thakbelduum. The bear showed no fear. It didn’t possess any. He has been the errand for the stronghold for twenty years. It may take some time for this landmass of fur to deliver a message, but it was guaranteed to get there.

Not many, brave or foolish, would try to take on this primal creature. When on all fours, he stood six feet at the shoulder. A single paw could dice a full-sized human in two with one swipe. His teeth could tear and crush metal, and his hug could easily bring Slagfid’s cabin to its foundation. The cave bear was trained since the time he was a young cub with firmness and love. Only those who trained him or knew the verbal commands could control him. He was named Grub.

Grub tromped through the rows of corn and left a trail of flattened stalks, seven-feet wide behind dim. If it wasn’t so close to harvesting season, Slagfid would have felt obligated to pay for the damage. Grub had just made it a little easier for Farmer Bottle to pick the ears. Regardless, the locksmith would pay a visit to his neighbor later.

Instead of climbing over the roadside wall, Grub puckered his lips and took hold of the rope looped around a post, which kept the gate secure, with them. With a quick head flip, the rope loop went off the post and dangled against the gate. The wide gate, as if also running from the cave bear, quickly swung in away from the road. Grub turned around, took the loop of rope in his lips, slowly backed out onto the road, and resecured the gate. He snorted his approval and plodded down the main road. He stopped in front of the locksmith’s cabin.

Slagfid spoke a single dwarvish command, and the behemoth sat in the center of the road, nearly filling it. The dwarf retrieved the bowl he had set on the