Fourteen Braids

Her name is Gloria Sparklebright, and she is — I say this with the scholarly objectivity of someone who has memorized the exact number of braids in her beard (fourteen) — the most beautiful dwarf in all the Rumbling Deeps. Her hair is the color of copper fresh from the vein. Her laugh sounds like someone dropped a bag of gold coins down a very pleasant staircase. She once arm-wrestled a goat and won, and I have never recovered.

She is also, because the gods enjoy their little jokes, the daughter of King Thrumbar the Adequately Bearded, ruler of the Rumbling Deeps, commander of the Deep Guard, and the dwarf most likely to have me thrown into a mine shaft if he ever reads my diary.

Gloria and I share a desk in Advanced Rune Studies. She borrows my notes. She calls me "Bore" which is either a nickname or an insult — I've spent considerable time analyzing the inflection and remain undecided. Last week she punched my shoulder and said "you're alright, Bore," and I couldn't feel my arm for two days. It was the best two days of my life.

But here's the thing about Gloria — and I say this with love — I'm fairly certain she has no idea I exist as a romantic prospect. To her, I am a convenient source of lecture notes and someone whose lunch she can steal without guilt. I am furniture. Reliable, sturdy furniture.

"You should do something to impress her," said my best friend Duggan, who has never impressed anyone in his life and therefore considers himself an expert.

"Like what?"

"Something heroic. Slay a beast. Discover a lost tunnel. Find a gem the size of your head."

"My head isn't that big."

"Exactly. Should be easy."

The problem is that my skills are not, traditionally, the impressive kind. I'm good at three things: smithing (decent, not great — I once made a sword that was technically a very aggressive letter opener), spelunking (I like caves; they like me; we have an understanding), and — this is the one that really gets the other dwarves going — reading.

Yes. Reading. Books. For fun.

In the Rumbling Deeps, reading for pleasure is viewed with the same suspicion as a dwarf who doesn't like ale. It's not forbidden, exactly, but people give you a look. The look says: you could be hitting rocks right now, and instead you're doing that.

I've read every book in the Underpeak library, which admittedly is only eleven books, because the twelfth one was eaten by cave moths in the Year of the Damp. But I've also traded with surface merchants for human books, elvish scrolls, even a gnomish technical manual that I'm fairly sure is upside down regardless of which way you hold it.

None of which, I admit, is particularly heroic.

So when I heard that the Academy was hosting its annual Ironarm Tournament — a bracket of feats of strength performed in front of the entire school, the faculty, and, most critically, the royal family — I did what any lovesick dwarf with more heart than sense would do.

I signed up.