The Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  It made Gandogar proud to think that he would soon be king of the dwarven folks. The children of Vraccas had their differences, but they were dwarves — united by ancestry, heritage, and a common foe.

  Should we suffer because of our laws? He pictured the faces of his father and brother who had been felled by elvish arrows. They were killed in cold blood. His fists clenched and his face darkened.

  He had made up his mind. “Very well, Bislipur, we shall act. I am the one who is destined to unite the children of Vraccas and what better way of strengthening the bonds between our kingdoms than a joint campaign against the elves? Victory over our enemies will pave the way for a new united future and put an end to this feuding and quarreling.”

  “And your name will be linked forever with the start of a glorious era,” Bislipur added approvingly, relieved that his constant sermonizing had eventually paid off.

  “We’ve wasted enough time already. I shall tell Gundrabur that he has thirty orbits to hold a vote in which my succession will be confirmed.”

  “And if he dies before then? He’s old and infirm…”

  “Then I’ll be crowned, whether the mountebank has got here or not. Let’s go back. I’m tired and hungry.”

  Privately, Bislipur was already working on his next assignment, unwittingly conferred on him by the king.

  A great deal can happen in thirty orbits, he thought grimly. Murder was not the worst of his crimes, and a little more skulduggery would be neither here nor there. But this time he needed to do everything right.

  “Coming, Your Majesty,” he replied. Leaning over the parapet, he peered into the open quarry. Anyone who had the misfortune to plummet from such a height would never be seen again. He had just the assignment for Sverd.

  Enchanted Realm of Ionandar,

  Girdlegard,

  Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

  Come on, scholar, time to get up,” a voice whispered in his ear. A wiry beard scratched his throat and he was roused from his carefree dreams.

  Boëndal and Boïndil were peering out of the ditch, scanning the woods for roaming orcs, but the beasts had continued their search elsewhere. Tungdil and the others were free to head south toward the secondling kingdom.

  What a mess, he thought glumly. Things had turned out worse than he could have imagined. His errand had seemed simple enough, but now he was caught up in a succession crisis and everyone he had known and loved was dead, leaving him and his two companions to flee for their lives across Girdlegard while a crazed magus waged war on their kingdoms and tried to steal his bags. And I don’t even know what’s inside them.

  Tungdil pulled the twigs and foliage out of his hair and beard. He was still fretting over Nudin’s threat: The magus had declared war on all Girdlegard, men and elves included, and was planning to do battle with the dwarves.

  “You look as though something’s bothering you,” said Boïndil, handing him some bread and cheese. He pointed to the woods. “Come on, you can eat on the way.”

  Tungdil fell in behind them. “Warning the dwarven kingdoms is a big risk. Nudin wouldn’t mention the invasion unless he thought he could win.”

  Boïndil snorted. “Ha, that was before we chopped off his head!”

  “Not that it had much effect,” his brother reminded him gravely. “What did you make of it, scholar? Is it normal for magi to survive a mortal wound?”

  Tungdil shook his head. “Wizards are just ordinary humans. They live a little longer than most, but they’re susceptible to injury like everyone else. Lot-Ionan once cut himself on a knife and wove a spell to heal the skin. I asked whether his magic could counteract death, but…” He pictured Lot-Ionan and Frala and was too choked to continue. His companions didn’t press him.

  “Magi don’t have the power to thwart death,” he said finally.

  “Nôd’onn was definitely dead,” Boëndal told him. “He had my crow’s beak buried in his back and his ugly mug was rolling on the ground. Maybe it’s something that only dark wizards can do.”

  “If you ask me,” said Boïndil, “it’s a special kind of jiggerypokery taught to him by the Perished Land.”

  Tungdil didn’t know what to make of it all. Seeing the magus recover from his beheading had put pay to any theories about him being a revenant, leaving the dire possibility that Nudin had discovered the secret of eternal life — in which case, Girdlegard was doomed.

  “We should have chopped him into tiny pieces and burned the lot,” growled Boïndil.

  “It wouldn’t have worked,” said a voice from the trees. The clear tones rang through the forest. “No known weapon can harm him. Swords, axes, magic — nothing will kill him. I tried and failed.”

  The trio whipped out their axes, and Ireheart wheeled round to cover their rear. “It can’t be an orc,” Boëndal whispered to Tungdil.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” said his brother. “I’m game for any kind of challenge, big or small.”

  The man who stepped out from among the pines drew a gasp of amazement from Tungdil. He had never imagined that a human could attain such dimensions; this one had a chest like a barrel and was as tall as two dwarves.

  Although Tungdil had seen pictures of suits of armor in Lot-Ionan’s books, nothing had prepared him for the sight of a real plated warrior. The man’s breastplate, gorget, spaulders, and greaves were made of fine tionium and forged in such a way that the metal mimicked the curve of bulging muscle. The rings of a mail tunic, worn to give extra protection, were visible between the plates. A thin layer of cloth separated the segments of metal and dampened the clunking.

  Sabatons protected the warrior’s huge feet, and his head was encased in a helmet. A demon’s face stared out from the elaborately engraved visor and a ring of finger-length spikes encircled his helm like a crown.

  In his left hand he held a shield, while in his right he gripped a double-bladed ax, the mighty weapon raised effortlessly as though it were made of mere wood. A cudgel and a scabbard hung from his belt, the long blade resembling a dagger because of his great size. And as if this arsenal were not weighty and powerful enough, a two-handed sword was slung across his back.

  Boïndil glanced over his shoulder to see what was going on and was instantly transfixed by the colossus.

  “Swap places with me,” he begged his brother. “You cover our backs and I’ll bring down this mountain of metal.” His eyes flashed eagerly. “That’s what I call a big challenge. Better than a pack of runts!”

  “Shush,” Boëndal silenced him sharply. “Wait and see what he wants.”

  “His voice seems very high for a man of his size,” said Tungdil, bewildered.

  A blond woman with a severe face and a long plait stepped out from behind the warrior. “The voice wasn’t his.” Her blue eyes pierced the trio. “It was mine.”

  Tungdil appraised her commanding features and striking garb and wondered whether they had met before. She was athletic in appearance and wore black leather boots, gloves, and a tunic of dark brown leather, slit at the sides to give maximum movement. Her right hand rested on the pommel of her sword. There was something about her that reminded Tungdil of a woman that Lot-Ionan had once described.

  “Are you Andôkai the Tempestuous?” he ventured at last.

  The maga nodded. “And you need no introduction: Tungdil and his two friends who cheated Nôd’onn’s wrath.” She pointed to the warrior who was standing motionless beside her like a sculpted god of war. He was five heads taller than her. “This is Djerůn, a loyal ally.”

  Boëndal eyed her suspiciously. “What do you want?”

  Tungdil took over quickly. “What’s happened to Lot-Ionan? Is he alive?”

  Andôkai looked at him with angry, tortured eyes. “ Lot-Ionan is dead — and so are Maira, Turgur, and Sabora. They’re all dead. Nôd’onn didn’t want them to interfere with his plans, so he killed them.”

  Tungdil bowed his head. It hurt to have the truth confirmed. The pain of losing his foster father gnawed away
at him, leaving a void inside.

  “Our senior famuli met a similar fate. Nôd’onn was careful to ensure that none survived who could challenge his power,” she continued grimly.

  “Then it was you who cast lightning at him!” Boïndil said excitedly. “I hope you caused more damage than we did.”

  “He survived. I did everything in my power to kill him, but it was useless. As soon as I saw him recover from your attack, I feared the worst, and I was right; we can’t do anything to stop him.”

  “Wretched long-uns,” Boëndal muttered crankily. “We dwarves tear our beards out patrolling the ranges and fighting Tion’s hordes, and what do the humans do? Plot their own downfall! Vraccas should have made us into nannies, not warriors. Humans can’t be trusted on their own.”

  “I’m afraid you’re probably right.” Andôkai took a step toward them. “I came here because I wanted to ask what Nôd’onn was after.” She crouched in front of Tungdil. “We were watching from the hillside. You must have something that he covets. What is it?”

  “Er, nothing really,” he fibbed. “Just a few things that belonged to Lot-Ionan. I kept them to remember him by, but Nôd’onn wanted to destroy them. He and my magus can’t have been good friends.”

  “There was a time when they liked each other well enough.” She smiled wryly. “Lot-Ionan wasn’t terribly fond of me.”

  That triggered Tungdil’s memory. As far as he could recall, Lot-Ionan had disapproved of her values and her worship of Samusin. If the twins find out that she keeps orcs in her realm, things could turn nasty, and we’re bound to come off worse. Not only would the maga attack them with her wizardry, but her companion looked capable of snapping trees with his hands.

  “To be honest,” said Boïndil, who had decided not to beat around the bush, “I don’t much like you either. You go your way, and we’ll go ours. We’ve problems enough of our own.”

  “Problems?” Andôkai said scornfully. She straightened up. “Your problems won’t seem important when Nôd’onn invades. The dwarven kingdoms will fare no better than the realms of men and elves. The magus has allied himself with the Perished Land and together they seek absolute, unlimited power.” Her chin jutted out and she eyed Boïndil with a look of contempt. “Run along and hide in your mountains. Tion’s creatures will storm your strongholds from both sides.”

  “What do you propose to do?” asked Tungdil.

  “We’re leaving,” she said frankly. “I’m not foolish enough to think that I could stop the Perished Land. No army will be mighty enough to challenge Nôd’onn, regardless of what the kings of men may think. What good would it do to stay? I’d only be condemned to become a revenant — a fate which, Samusin willing, I’m anxious to escape.” She searched the dwarves’ faces. “And you? If you’re headed for Ogre’s Death, we’d like to join you. Rest assured, we’ll leave by way of the High Pass and never see you again, but we could journey as friends until then.”

  The dwarves discussed the matter in private and decided to accept the proposal. Boïndil’s objections were overruled: The other two had learned from their encounter with Nôd’onn and could see that the maga would be a useful ally when facing the dangers ahead.

  Boïndil made a show of complaining, but fighting with words was not his strong point and Tungdil argued him into a corner with his scholarly speech. “Fine,” sulked the secondling, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Tungdil informed the pair of their decision.

  “But remember, we’re the ones in charge!” Boïndil glared at the maga’s companion contemptuously. He was obviously longing to pit his strength against the colossal warrior. “Hey! What’s wrong with your tongue? Maybe if you took that bucket off your head, you’d be able to speak!”

  “Djerůn is mute,” the maga rebuked him sharply. “Remember your manners or I might have a thing or two to say about your height…”

  “My manners are my concern,” huffed Boïndil, smarting. He tossed his plait over his shoulder and turned back to the warrior. “Take my advice and keep out of my way,” he warned, quickening his pace to lead the procession. “I deal with the orcs, all right? No doubt you’ll learn soon enough.”

  Tungdil fell into line behind Andôkai, and they set off. I’ll wait until this evening to find out more, he decided. It would be easier to ask his questions without the twins listening in.

  Estimable Maga, how did Lot-Ionan die?” Andôkai had withdrawn a few paces from the fire and was sitting on her cloak, gazing into the flames. Instead of addressing her in dwarfish, Tungdil deliberately chose the language spoken by junior wizards. He wanted to demonstrate that he was educated and not a simple working dwarf.

  It had taken a while for him to summon the courage to sit down beside her and engage her in conversation.

  Back propped against a tree, Djerůn was positioned nearby. The giant’s weapons were arranged neatly on the grass in order of length, easily reachable with either hand. Owing to his visor, it was impossible to tell whether he was dozing.

  “ Lot-Ionan schooled you well, it seems,” she said slowly, eyes still fixed on the flames. “An educated dwarf is a rarity in Girdlegard. Well, dwarves are rare enough.” She paused. “I could tell you how your magus died, but the story of Nudin’s treachery would only grieve us both.”

  “I want to know why Nudin changed.”

  “So do I, Tungdil.” Andôkai turned and looked at him bitterly. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever find out.” She recounted what had happened in Porista that night. “Nudin struck out at me without warning. He drew on his magic to deal me a blow that knocked me senseless. I didn’t regain consciousness until later.” She paused, resting her chin on her hands. “I cut him down with my sword, but he plunged his staff into my chest. After that I was too dazed to register anything but the sounds of the struggle.” The maga took a deep breath, stretched out her legs, and looked up at the stars. “They must have fought him all the way. The sound of their screams will be with me forever. As for me, I could feel the blood seeping from my body and there was nothing I could do.”

  “But you survived.”

  “Thanks to my bodyguard.” She glanced tenderly at the unmoving giant. “Nôd’onn must have forgotten that Djerůn had accompanied me to the palace. As soon as the lunatic magus had gone, he broke into the room and treated my wounds. I was too weak to confront the traitor, so Djerůn stole a corpse from the morgue, dressed it in my clothes, and left it with the other bodies. We wanted Nôd’onn to think he was safe.” She reached for a branch and tossed it into the fire, sending sparks crackling into the night sky. “He is safe,” she said dismally.

  “And Lot-Ionan? What…”

  “By the time Djerůn found me, your magus had been turned to stone. Nôd’onn turned him into a statue.” A tear of helpless rage trickled down her cheek.

  “A statue,” whispered the dwarf, drawing closer to the fire. “Isn’t there any way to…”

  The maga shook her head but said nothing. They sat in silence, their thoughts with the dead. Stars twinkled in the firmament, and long moments passed.

  “So you’re leaving Girdlegard,” Tungdil said wearily. “Where will you go? Aren’t you worried about your realm?” He wiped the back of his hand across his face. He had been staring unblinkingly at the flickering flames, and the heat had dried his tears, leaving a salty residue in his eyes. “Will things be better elsewhere?”

  “I’d be a fool to throw myself in front of a rolling stone when there’s nothing else to stop it,” she said softly. “It’s not in my nature to prolong suffering without good cause. I shall give up my realm without a fight. What good would come of resisting? I may as well take my chances across the border now that Girdlegard’s defenses have fallen.” It was clear from her tone that the matter was closed. “I need to sleep.”

  After thanking the maga for her confidences, Tungdil withdrew and joined the twins to tell them what had happened in Lios Nudin.

  “The wizards are really dead?�
�� Boïndil skewered another piece of cheese from his seemingly endless supply. “So much for their miraculous powers!”

  “The strongest shield is useless when the sword is wielded by a traitor,” his brother said wisely, munching on a hunk of toasted bread. “The long-uns are a wretched lot. I can’t imagine what the gods were thinking when they created them.” He chewed his mouthful vigorously. “It’s bad enough that they kill each other without dragging the rest of us into it.”

  Tungdil reached for a helping of molten cheese and popped it into his mouth. He had developed a taste for the pungent delicacy, which he regarded as a sign of progress as far as his dwarven credentials were concerned.

  Boïndil gave him a nudge and pointed his cheese skewer at the mismatched pair on the opposite side of the fire. “Would you believe it? He’s still wearing that bucket. I bet it’s stuck on his head!”

  Boëndal was more respectful. “It’s his height that gets me. Granted, I don’t know much about humans, but he’s by far the biggest long-un I’ve ever seen. He makes orcs look like children.”

  “What if he’s not really a long-un?” his brother said suspiciously. “He could be a baby ogre or Tion knows what.” Already he was on his feet, preparing to march over and confront the giant. “I’m telling you, if there’s a green-hided runt hiding in that armor, I’ll kill it on the spot.” He grinned dangerously. “The same goes for the lady. So what if she’s a maga? She’s not much use to Girdlegard now.”

  Tungdil’s face flushed with panic. He wouldn’t put it past Andôkai to have one of Tion’s monsters at her side. I can’t let Boïndil pick a fight with Djerůn. If he starts on the giant, Andôkai will join the fray and we’ll all be in trouble.

  “No, he’s a man, all right,” he said firmly. “Haven’t you heard about the human giants? I read somewhere that they join together in formidable armies. The orcs are scared stiff of them!”

  It was a nerve-racking business lying to his kinsfolk, but he knew it was for the best.