by Markus Heitz
“All I know is that the rituals require their full attention, so they might not be able to brief us until later,” he said uneasily. He took a leather pouch from his shoulder and tightened the green drawstrings. “Has it ever been this bad before?”
Rantja shook her head.
The doors swung open, and Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty stepped into the room. He was swaying slightly and his face looked drawn and tired.
“Welcome to Porista,” he greeted them, his voice cracking as he spoke. To some of the famuli it sounded as if two people, a man and a woman, were talking at once. “These are dark times for our realms. Come this way and see for yourselves what the Perished Land has done.” The magus turned toward the conference chamber, motioning the apprentices to follow.
“Are you sure he’s not wearing heels?” Jolosin whispered, surprised. “He’s bigger than when I last saw him — and fifty pounds heavier at least.”
“I know. Everyone keeps saying he looks taller.”
“Much taller, not to mention fatter. But men of his age aren’t supposed to grow. A botched experiment, perhaps?”
They were less than a pace behind him now, and a sweet, almost putrid odor filled their noses. Jolosin put it down to moldering aftershave, but the magus seemed oblivious to the smell.
Just then Rantja skidded across the flagstones and would have fallen, if Jolosin hadn’t reached out and caught her in time. “Thanks,” she said, straightening up and hurrying on, propelled by the famuli behind them. The incident was over too quickly for anyone to notice the long crimson streak on the floor. The magus was leaking blood.
Nudin walked briskly, striking his staff against the marble at regular intervals and leading them through a maze of arcades and corridors until they reached a double door. His onyx-tipped staff glistened darkly as he raised his left hand.
“Steel yourselves,” he warned them, and recited the incantation to open the doors.
Even before the doors were fully open, a fetid smell wafted out of the room, causing the famuli at the front of the queue to cover their faces. Rantja swayed and clutched at Jolosin, who steadied her bravely while he tried not to retch.
The magus was apparently unaffected by the stench. “See for yourselves why Girdlegard needs your help!” Hesitantly, the famuli entered the chamber.
There were cries of distress as the shocked apprentices surveyed the remains of their tutors: a statue, a heap of clothing, a rotting corpse, and in the case of Andôkal, a body so mutilated that its features were no longer recognizable.
“Palandiell have mercy on us,” gasped Jolosin, staring in horror at Lot-Ionan’s marble face. He would never have wished such a dreadful fate on his magus, no matter how many potatoes the wizard had forced him to peel. “Girdlegard is finished,” he muttered despairingly, depositing the leather bag at the foot of the statue. Lot-Ionan had specifically asked him to bring it, and now he was dead. “If the council could do nothing, what hope is there for —”
He was silenced by the sound of a staff striking the floor. A hush descended on the chamber as everyone turned to face Nudin.
“We underestimated the power of the Perished Land,” he said shakily. “It waited for us to channel the magic into the malachite, and then it attacked. The table was destroyed and I myself was almost killed. My good friends here”—he waved his staff in the direction of the fallen magi, whose rotting remains and frozen corpses reflected nothing of their former power— “were unlucky. As their most senior famuli, you are the highest-ranking wizards in Girdlegard.” He stopped to cough up a mouthful of blood and staggered backward, leaning against the fossilized Lot-Ionan for support. “The attack has taken its toll on me, as you can see. It is our duty to repair the table as quickly as we can, for only then will we be able to repel the Perished Land. The survival of humankind depends on our success; ordinary armies will be helpless against the pestilence.”
The famuli looked at one another bleakly, shaken to the core by Nudin’s sobering words and the sight of their dead mentors.
“They were so powerful, but the Perished Land subdued them,” whispered Jolosin despondently. “How are we supposed to —”
“We should give them a proper burial,” Rantja said distractedly. “We can’t just leave them here.” She was trembling.
“Girdlegard is relying on you to be strong,” Nudin exhorted them. “If you don’t act now, we’ll lose our only hope of repelling the Perished Land. You can mourn the dead when it’s over.” He traced a circle on the floor with his staff. “Gather round, join hands, and repeat the incantation after me.”
The famuli did as instructed, Rantja and Jolosin standing side by side and drawing strength and comfort from each other.
Nudin took his place in the circle and laid his staff on the floor. His fat, clammy fingers reached for Jolosin’s free hand and the unfortunate famulus clasped them with revulsion. “If you please, Estimable Magus, I’ve brought the artifacts you loaned to Lot-Ionan.” He turned in the direction of the bag, and Nudin nodded curtly.
Then they began the incantation, calling on the magic to come forth and enter the splinters of the table.
The hours wore away.
Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle
It was raining at daybreak, or pouring, to be precise.
Summer in all its glory reigned over Girdlegard, but for the duration of a few hours the sun had retreated, allowing the sky to cloud over and quench the parched soil.
No doubt the vegetation was grateful for the downpour, but the dwarves were unimpressed. Huddled under a tree, they waited grumpily for the rain to stop.
“Now you see why we live in the mountains,” scowled Boïndil, who was taking the opportunity to shave his cheeks. Over the past few orbits he had become increasingly restless. His warrior’s heart longed for action so that he could swing his ax and shriek and spit at some orcs, but the chances of that in Lios Nudin were depressingly slim.
“What if he goes into a frenzy?” Tungdil asked Boëndal in a whisper. “Should I hide in a tree?”
The dwarf wrung the rainwater out of his plait and grinned from ear to ear. “You’ll be safe so long as I’m around to direct his fury onto something else. I try to steer him clear of anything that breathes, and it works quite well, for the most part.”
They kept their eyes fixed on the nearby thoroughfare, watching the carts and carriages roll past. One young couple seemed more interested in each other than in driving their oxen. The dutiful animals kept up a steady trot.
The sight of the lovers reminded Tungdil of a subject that had been bothering him for a while. He wondered whether to ask the twins’ advice, although he was beginning to feel embarrassed about his ignorance of dwarven life. For someone who had spent his formative years surrounded by books, he asked incredibly foolish questions. So much for being a scholar!
Curiosity got the better of him eventually. “What do girl dwarves look like?” he asked, avoiding their gaze.
There was silence.
The patter of rain on the leaves seemed deafeningly loud. The brothers let him stew for a while; then Boïndil said: “Pretty.”
“Very pretty,” added Boëndal, amplifying his brother’s terse reply.
“Right.”
There was silence again.
Overhead, the shower was easing, the drumming raindrops fading to a steady drip-drip of water trickling from the twigs and branches.
He tried again. “Do they have beards?”
Silence.
Tungdil became acutely aware of the rich variety of noises made by falling rain.
“Not beards, exactly,” said Boïndil.
“More like wispy down,” explained Boëndal. “It looks lovely.”
No one spoke.
The sun burned a path through the dark gray cloud, and summer triumphed over Girdlegard. Tungdil decided to broach an even more delicate topic. “When men dwarves and girl dwarves �
�”
He broke off under the secondlings’ withering stares. Boëndal took pity on him. “It’s high time our scholar got to know his kin,” he said dryly. He glanced up at the tree. “The downpour’s over; let’s go.” He stood up, followed by his brother.
“You didn’t answer my question!”
“You didn’t ask a question, and anyway, you’re the one with all the learning, not me.”
“Do girl dwarves fight too?”
“Some do, but in our clan they mostly stay at home,” said Boëndal as they moved off along the road. “Our womenfolk devote themselves to domestic duties: herding animals in the valleys, stocking our pantries, brewing beer, and making clothes.”
“No good ever came of the sexes fighting side by side,” Boïndil added darkly. He seemed to be speaking from experience, but there was something in his voice that warned Tungdil not to probe.
“Don’t make the mistake of belittling their talents, though. They’re just as proud as we are. Some of the best masons and smiths in the kingdom are women. When it comes to artisan contests, they use their chisels and hammers so proficiently that other competitors stop and marvel at their work.”
“Anomalies and exceptions,” growled Boïndil, who was obviously of the opinion that certain tasks were the preserve of male dwarves. “For the most part they belong by the hearth. The kitchen is their calling.”
Tungdil had been listening attentively. “It’s like that in human kingdoms too,” he told them. The idea of female dwarves seemed more appealing than ever and he was eager to become acquainted with their kind.
At last they reached Porista. Tungdil gazed in wonderment at the turrets and domes of the palace, but his companions exchanged bored smiles, needing no further evidence that human architecture was inferior to their own.
Tungdil had been hoping to find Lot-Ionan and unburden himself of Gorén’s books and artifacts, but he was sorely disappointed. At the palace they were told that the council had dispersed some orbits earlier and that Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty was not receiving guests. There was nothing for it but to follow Lot-Ionan to Ionandar.
They were on their way out of the city when Tungdil spotted a stable in one of the side streets. The horse inside it looked strangely familiar.
“Wait here,” he instructed, striding toward the chestnut steed. He felt sure he had shod her not so long ago. He lifted her right foreleg and examined the shoe. The nails were unmistakably his own. “It’s them,” he hissed.
“Friends of yours?” asked Boëndal, whose crow’s beak was resting casually on his shoulder. His brother was absentmindedly stroking his freshly shaven cheeks in search of stray whiskers.
“Not exactly.” Noting the bulging saddlebags, Tungdil fetched a bucket, turned it over, climbed on top of it, and fumbled with the buckles. The bag came open and the dwarf rummaged inside until his fingers came into contact with a jar. He pulled it out quickly.
“Remember the dead dwarf in the caravan?” His instincts had been right; the jar unscrewed to reveal a head. The bounty hunters had shaved the poor fellow’s hair and beard so that the grisly trophy would fit inside the container, which was filled with honey to stop the air from getting in, thus preventing decay. Streaks of blood trailed through the golden fluid, staining it red. “We’ve found the villains who killed him.”
There was a clatter of chain mail and the brothers were beside him like a shot. Neither spoke as they stared in horror at what had been done to their kinsman for the sake of a reward.
“By the blade of Vraccas, I’ll cut them to pieces,” roared Ire-heart. Fury ignited within him, flushing him red and prompting his axes to fly into his hands. “Just wait until I —”
The door swung open and one of the headhunters walked into the stable from the house. Tungdil knew him immediately, and the recognition was mutual as the man stopped abruptly and swore. After considering the three dwarves for a moment, he decided that the odds were against him and fled.
“Cowardly as a runt,” scoffed Ireheart. “Come back here and fight!” He chased him into the house, and there were sounds of a brief but energetic skirmish that climaxed in the man’s dying screams.
“ Don’t —” Tungdil’s shouted warning came too late. “He would have been more use to us alive,” he finished mildly. He could hardly blame Boïndil: The fiery warrior was at the mercy of his temper and came to his senses only when his opponent lay bleeding on the floor.
“We’ll wait for the others to return,” Boëndal said phlegmatically. “Didn’t you say there were five of them in total?” Tungdil nodded, and they took up position in the stable.
It was early evening when the men returned. Judging by their sullen faces, their honey pots were empty and their efforts had been in vain.
Waiting for them behind the door was the vengeful Ire-heart, an ax in each hand and seconded by his brother, who had concealed himself among the straw. The twins were so accustomed to fighting together that any intervention on Tungdil’s part was likely to be a hindrance, so he lurked in the background and kept out of the way.
Once the men had entered the stable and dismounted, Boëndal and Boïndil nodded to each other and launched their assault.
“Leave one of the villains alive!” shouted Tungdil, joining the tail end of the charge.
Alerted by the commotion, one of the headhunters turned and reached for his sword.
The blade was only halfway out of its scabbard when Boïndil’s ax thudded into his left hip. The force of the blow sent him tumbling against the wall. Before he could recover, the dwarf’s second ax hit his right calf, hewing skin and sinew and shattering his knee. The man collapsed in screams of pain.
Satisfied with the crippling effect of his blows, Ireheart moved on. Cackling terribly, he hurled himself on the next of his foes.
His brother was left to deal with the remaining men. Shoulders squared, he charged toward the first of the two, leveling his crow’s beak as he ran.
His opponent had enough time to snatch his shield from the horse and thrust it in front of his body, but he underestimated the weapon’s force. The spike at the tip of the crow’s beak pierced the metal, ripping through the shield and stabbing the man in the arm. Wood and metal had done nothing to repel the weapon; now flesh and bones yielded too. The soldier screamed.
Boëndal jerked the spike out of the shield and rammed the poll against the man’s unprotected knee. The force was enough to smash the joint and buckle the leg. The second headhunter was down.
“I’ll show you what happens to spineless dwarf killers!” Boiling with rage, Ireheart slashed at his opponent with fast, powerful strokes.
Tungdil could see that the men were doing their best to parry the frenzied blows of their attackers, but their expressions revealed the hopelessness of their plight; where there was fear, defeat often followed, and so it was this time.
Boïndil whirled his axes above his head. Unable to guess the direction of the attack, the panicked headhunter turned to his horse.
His legs outpaced the dwarven warrior, but his speed was no match for Boëndal’s weapon. The crow’s beak soared through the air, hitting the man’s back just as he was swinging himself into the saddle. The impact cracked his ribs, stopping him momentarily. It gave Ireheart enough time to catch up.
“You’re too tall for my liking, long-un,” he snorted, slashing at the man’s legs and severing his tendons. His victim toppled, and Ireheart dealt him a double blow to the collarbone that finished him off.
The dwarf went in search of the fourth headhunter, who was cowering behind the mound of straw. “Now it’s your turn!” Ireheart’s chain mail was spattered with his opponents’ blood and his eyes glinted crazily. “Who do you pray to? Palandiell? Samusin?”
The man cast down his sword and raised his hands. “I surrender,” he said hastily.
Ireheart bared his teeth. “Too bad,” he growled, thrusting his axes into his enemy’s unprotected midriff. The man collapsed amid agonized groans. He
died quickly but painfully, as Tungdil could tell from his muted whimpers.
Tungdil surveyed the stable. The chief headhunter, whom Ireheart had put out of action at the beginning of the fight, was lying in a pool of blood. He seemed to be fading rapidly. The dwarves hurried over.
“Who pays for your handiwork?” demanded Tungdil. “Tell us, and you’ll be spared.”
“We’ll leave you to drown in your blood if you don’t,” Ire-heart said threateningly.
“Bind my wounds,” the man implored them, pressing his hand to the flowing gash in his hip. “In the name of Palandiell, have mercy on me.” The blood was flowing so fast that Tungdil doubted anything could save him; the magic of a magus, perhaps, but certainly not a bandage.
Ireheart turned on him furiously. “Tell us, or I’ll let my axes do the talking!” Before he could make good on the threat, the headhunter expired.
The dwarves left his side and hurried to the remaining survivor, whose shield and arm had been pierced by Boëndal’s crow’s beak.
The man was gritting his teeth. Pride prevented him from screaming aloud, but the pain from his shattered knee was almost too much to bear.
“Be m-merciful,” he stammered. “I don’t know much, but I’ll tell you. We heard about the reward in Gauragar — they were offering gold in return for groundlings’ heads.” He pointed to Tungdil. “It was just after we met him.”
“Who’s they?” bellowed Ireheart. He laid the bloodied blade of one of his axes against the man’s throat.
“The guild! The master of the guild!” he choked fearfully. “He sent us here. We harvest the heads and every thirtieth orbit he sends a man to fetch the jars. We get our share of the reward — thirty coins apiece for each head.”
“The guild? What guild?” demanded Tungdil.
“The guild of the bounty hunters.” The man groaned as the pain threatened to overwhelm him. “Let me go now. I’ve told you everything I know.”
Tungdil believed him, but he knew the twins would never let him live. His murderous deeds would have to be punished.
“You’re not going anywhere.” Ireheart’s axes settled the matter before Tungdil could object. The headhunter had breathed his last.