The Revenge of the Dwarves d-3

by Markus Heitz

Rodario returned to his narrow steps and picked up the glass. He laughed. He laughed and laughed until he was out of breath and inquisitive heads popped out of neighboring caravans. Even Reimar came out, a towel round his middle, to see what was up. The actor pointed at him and started laughing again, tipped over backwards, gasping for air.

  “All right, folks,” he waved the observers away. “It’s only my normal attack of evening madness. It gets me whenever I hear another man making love to my woman.”

  Reimar blushed and whizzed back inside his caravan. Rodario had hysterics again.

  He looked up at the stars, veiled now by a thin screen of clouds that had covered them in milk. “O ye gods! That’s some girl you’ve sent me!” He grinned. “She’s paying me back for what I used to get up to with other women.” He emptied his glass. “I’m wise to your game. Was it your idea, Samusin, god of justice?” he called out, raising his glass and saluting the stars. “I thank you! I’ve not been this inspired for ages.” Cool dark wine ran down his throat. He put the vessel down and started writing.

  Time sped by, but he was on fire. He cut bits out, wrote anew and changed the wording of act after act, scene after scene. It was thirsty work. Without looking, he stretched out his hand for the bottle; there was a tinkle of broken glass and the lamp he’d been using went out.

  He looked up in surprise. He couldn’t have knocked it over, his hand had been lower.

  A mistake, it seemed. The lamp was still in the same place, just behind him to one side on the top step. Rodario stared at the arrow that had shattered it and then buried itself in the wood. Half an ell to the left and it would have got him straight in the eye!

  The archer-woman from Mifurdania! he realized in a flash as he dived to one side, crawling under the wagon. He listened out.

  There were insects humming, the odd cricket chirping, the horses were dozing quietly in their temporary paddock, and Hui the gray and black hunting dog lay snoring in the grass, head on its paws.

  Altogether it sounded like a perfectly normal night-apart from Tassia’s faint moans, Reimar’s loud groans and the complaints from the overworked caravan springs.

  Amazing! They are bonking their brains out while I’m the victim of an assassin. So ran his gallows humor as he looked at the wagon where the girl and the workman were enjoying themselves so violently that the lamps swung to and fro. This had nothing in common with what he and Tassia had shared earlier. But what had she said? Sometimes a woman just needs a man with muscles.

  Flock. A second arrow landed close to him, hitting the wood. Then a third clanged onto the metal wheel hub and broke. He threw himself flatter still and stared out at the darkness being used for cover. He didn’t want to wake the others. There was too high a risk that one of his troupe would be injured, or even killed, whether by accident or design. “Pssht, you so-called watchdog,” he hissed, “psssht. Get up, hound.” The dog opened one eye and wagged its tail. “No! No wagging. Be a bad dog. Find, go get it! Fetch! Bite!”

  The hound got up and took a leisurely stretch, then trotted over to where Rodario lay under the caravan and licked his face.

  “Stop that!” The actor fended off these wet offerings of affection. “Kill!” He pointed over at the other side. “Fetch!”

  Hui had finally got it. He lifted his nose and sniffed, then, nose to the ground and tail straight out behind, he sloped off in the direction Rodario had indicated.

  The showman felt bad about sending the dog out. He peered out again and soon could see neither the dog nor the assassin. And Reimar’s wagon wasn’t swaying anymore. They’d had enough, then.

  A cold blade touched his throat. “Disappear, you!” said a rough voice. The smells of cold smoke, rust and heated metal met his nose. “First thing in the morning. Pack your stuff and scram. Take your painted wagon and be off! Out of here!”

  “May I ask…?”

  He felt a sharp pain at the base of his throat where the blade had cut into his skin. “Get out of here and stop asking questions about the magister, got it?” the voice whispered in his ear. “We’re watching you, showman.”

  Reimar’s door opened a fraction and Tassia looked out to see whether he was still sitting on his steps. Seeing him gone and the lamp extinguished she flitted out of the caravan.

  “Look at your fine mistress, showman. If you keep on trying to find Furgas, she will die,” the man threatened. His hair was grabbed and his head forced up and back until his forehead touched the underside of the caravan. “And then you. Then the rest of your troupe. Then the magister.”

  There was a further jab to his neck, this time a deeper cut. Something warm dripped down over his Adam’s apple, and Rodario felt sick. He couldn’t think of how to extricate himself. He was at the mercy of whoever it was crouched behind him, ready to kill with a movement of his hand.

  “Yes,” he croaked: fear and the unnatural position made speech difficult.

  “Very good,” laughed the stranger. “Think about it. We’re watching, right?” The hand let go of his hair and he received a mighty blow to the back of his head, probably with the handle of the knife. It was enough to disturb his vision for a moment. He could hear the man crawl off, get up and run. The danger was over.

  Groaning, Rodario struggled out from under the wagon, stumbled up the steps to his caravan and then inspected the damage in a mirror.

  There was a red line all along the front of his throat; the cut was bleeding badly and it was deep. It would be difficult to apply much pressure to the wound, but he made a linen pad and tied a scarf round to hold it in place. He’d go to some healer-woman in the morning. After they’d struck camp and got away.

  “The adventure side is getting out of hand. Too much even for my taste,” he murmured, checking the bandage. Looking down at his fingers, sticky with his own blood, he started to feel giddy and sat down suddenly. “Much too much.”

  He dealt with the pain by drinking the rest of the wine from the half-full bottle. It was a good thing the archer-woman had hit the lamp and not the bottle.

  VI

  Girdlegard,

  Kingdom of Idoslane,

  Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

  Galloping ponies were seldom observed in Girdlegard. The thundering of small hooves did not really sound threatening, but, together with the sight of the grim-faced dwarves in the saddles and the clattering of weapons and armor, it ensured that any pedestrian on the roads would rapidly make way.

  “Is it far now?” Boindil regretted they weren’t using the tunnels-the easiest and quickest way to travel through Girdlegard. He was not particularly good on horseback and he was feeling stiff; his back hurt with each jolt the pony made. And he seemed to have swallowed several flies.

  “You’ll manage.” Tungdil showed mercy neither to himself, nor to the ponies, nor to his friend. It was obvious why he was in such a hurry. Apart from the life of his partner Balyndis being at stake there was a diamond that had to be saved. He knew that the stone was far more valuable than it appeared, rough-cut as it was. “Only half an orbit still to go.”

  They heard hoof-beats from behind getting closer. A horse came up level with their mounts-but in the saddle sat not a human but a solidly built dwarf! Ax-handles jutted out of the saddle-bags Tungdil could see bouncing up and down, and he could hear metal clanking.

  The dwarf was dressed in black and wore dark brown leather armor and heavy boots. The shape of his beard was eccentric and there was blond hair round his mouth and chin but the rest of his face was shaved. Long light blond braids flew back with the wind; there was a black scarf covering his head.

  Tungdil recognized him at once. “Bramdal Masterstroke!”

  The other dwarf, considerably older, turned to him. “I know you,” he said loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the hooves. “Hillchester, wasn’t it? They mistook you for me.” He pulled hard on the reins to slow his horse down. “And you were off to the freelings. From what I hear, you made it.” They trotted along, side by si
de. “Who’d have thought you’d turn out a hero?” He smiled and reached down a broad hand. “Good to meet you again, Tungdil.”

  Tungdil wasn’t sure how he felt about seeing him again. It had been thanks to Bramdal that he had found the way to the freelings and the city of Trovegold, Bramdal having given him the tip about the pond and the hidden entrance. But at the same time Tungdil despised his trade.

  “Bramdal? The executioner? Selling body parts to the long-uns?” asked Ireheart. He sat up in the saddle. “Revolting. And thanks-it was your fault I ended up in that stinking water.”

  “You must be Boindil Doubleblade, then,” Bramdal grinned. “Two heroes off on their next adventure?”

  “And you’ll be on your way to the next execution?” replied Tungdil. He did not want to give out any information.

  “I’m riding to Porista. King Bruron pays well for my services. I’m training up his executioners.” He shrugged apologetically. “Afraid I can’t stop for a drink and a chat-got to hurry.”

  “That means you’ll be doing yourself out of work,” grinned Ireheart.

  “Yes. But I don’t care. I’m looking for a new line of work.” Bramdal seemed to have changed his mind about Vraccas’s injunction to protect humans from evil. In Hillchester he had told Tungdil that he was carrying out the dwarf-creator’s wishes by executing human criminals. He considered them malignant, just as other dwarves held orcs to be evil.

  “In Trovegold?” Tungdil remembered the freelings’ city, which lay in a high-vaulted mile-long cavern. He heard again how the mighty waterfalls thundered and saw the gardens and the fortress where King Gemmil lived; he saw the dwarf priests praying and heard the hymns they sang echoing away. It had been wonderful, the time he had spent there.

  “Going into trade,” said Bramdal. “If anyone knows how to make the equipment an executioner needs, it’s me. Why shouldn’t I use what I know? The kingdoms always need it and we’ve always got the craftsmen.”

  “Has anything changed in Trovegold?” asked Tungdil, rather sadly.

  “How long since you left?”

  “It’ll be quite a few cycles; I’m not quite sure.” But that was a lie. Tungdil knew exactly when he’d last seen Gemmil. It was five cycles ago.

  “Oh, a lot has changed. You’d hardly recognize the town. We’ve had to dig up the gardens to build workshops. The cave’s been extended by a mile to make room for everyone.”

  “So many children?”

  “Not just that: The Five Free Towns have grown in population. Trade with the dwarf realms has made the dwarf folk curious. It’s not just the outcasts who come to us; plenty turn up who want to get away from the clutches of their clans and their families.” Bramdal swiped at a bee that was buzzing around and investigating his jacket. “It’s obvious why the advantages of our community appeal.”

  “Not sure about ‘advantages,’ ” grumbled Ireheart. “A dwarf needs stability.” He fell silent.

  “May they all achieve happiness: some in the mountains, some below the ground. It’s a good way of life we have. Trade has brought prosperity.” Bramdal saw a crossroads. “Our paths split here. Did you know that Gemmil is dead?”

  “No.” The news of the king’s death affected Tungdil, and Boindil shook his head sadly, too. “How?”

  “Murdered. We think it was one of the thirdlings. We caught a dwarf sneaking out of Trovegold, his clothes all covered in blood. He fought the guards like a berserker and killed seven of them before they shot him down. We still have no idea why he did it.”

  “To make trouble,” Tungdil guessed. “If he was one of the dwarf-haters he’ll only have wanted to cause strife. It’s a terrible shame that the king who made me and my friends so welcome should die in that way. Who succeeded him?”

  “Gordislan Hammerfist.”

  “Hammerfist?” Ireheart pricked up his ears. “Did he give himself that name or is he an exile from the clan?

  “Do you think it could be a relative of Bavragor Hammerfist?” Tungdil conjured up the picture of the secondling’s best stonemason, a barrel of a dwarf, strongly built, with huge, callused hands. He always wore an eye patch and they called him “the singing drunkard.” He had shown his courage in countless battles at Tungdil’s side and had died for the sake of the group fighting off the orcs at the Dragon’s Breath forge. Without his sacrifice they would never have escaped with the ax Keenfire.

  Bramdal shook his head. “I don’t know. If members of the Hammer Fist clan tend to have dark brown eyes with a bit of red in them, then it could be he’s related. At any event, he has quite a tolerance for brandy when there’s a party on.”

  Ireheart grinned. “No doubt about it. He’s related to Bavragor.” He grew serious. “What could have made him leave his own clan? I’ve not heard anything.”

  “He’s been with us in Trovegold for some time.” They’d reached the crossing now and the time for parting was at hand. “A safe onward journey to you both and success in your endeavors,” said the executioner, turning his mount toward Porista. He lifted his hand to urge the horse to a gallop and soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  “Strange kind of saddle he was using,” Tungdil said. It was a shame he’d not had time to ask about it.

  “I’m glad he was going the other way,” said Ireheart, sounding relieved. “Or he’d have started to try and flog us something from his saddlebags. I can do without a thief’s desiccated finger or an adulterer’s pickled eyeball.” He spat. “It’s disgusting, what he does.”

  Tungdil didn’t reply. Those few words with Bramdal had reminded him of a happier time in his life. “Trovegold,” he murmured. “I should go there again.”

  “Better not,” was Ireheart’s ambiguous recommendation.

  A t last they reached the lush and luxuriantly blossoming land near the vaults where once Lot-Ionan had resided, one of the mightiest magi of Girdlegard.

  Tungdil was pleased to be back, even though he had not been away very long. There was much he needed to tell Balyndis. If she saw how much weight he’d lost since leaving the Gray Range she’d know at once that he had changed.

  “There we are,” he called out to Ireheart, pointing to a narrow path. “Relief is at hand for those saddle sores.”

  They approached the large gate behind which his own small dwarf world lay hidden. Tungdil’s foster-father Lot-Ionan had spent all his time thinking up new spells, studying old rolls of parchment or training up his famuli. Until, that is, he had crossed magic swords with the traitor Nod’onn. And lost.

  Since that day the magus was nothing but a statue made of stone, lying somewhere in the ruins of Nudin’s palace in Porista. In these current times there was no one with sufficient magic powers to follow in his footsteps. Nor could any provide a replacement for the magic wellspring that had now dried up. That was what everyone had thought, at least. But now, with the news from Alandur of the mysterious diamond thief and their even more mysterious suit of armor. Someone must be using magic suddenly.

  Tungdil stopped, dismounted and stood at the gate, lifting his hand to knock. Then he hesitated.

  “Scared, Scholar?” Boindil slipped out of the saddle and stretched, both hands in the small of his back. “I always knew that Elria was trying to drown us but who is the goddess responsible for creating ponies to torment us with?” He tapped his friend on the shoulder. “You can do it. You are coming home to her as the same Tungdil Goldhand she loved far more than the other one, the one I met a few orbits back in the Gray Range.” With the handle of his crow’s beak he gave three hard blows on the wooden gate.

  “That’s all your doing.” Tungdil thanked him once more. “If you hadn’t made me face up to things…”

  From the other side of the gate there was the sound of a bolt being drawn back. Then the gate was opened to admit them.

  A surprise awaited.

  On the threshold stood a female dwarf with long dark blond hair jutting out from under her impressive-looking helmet. Over the black leather ra
iment there hung a chain shirt hung with metal plates. She also had a protective skirt-like armor covering that reached down to her ankles; her shoes were reinforced with metal.

  In her right hand she bore a shield, and in her left a studded flail, a type of morning star. Instead of one spiked iron globe there were three smaller metal balls, which had blades arranged in a circle round each of them. Weight, impetus and those blades, combined, would inflict terrible wounds.

  And it was not Balyndis who had the weapon in her hand.

  Nevertheless, Tungdil thought he recognized her. “Sanda?” The name slipped out, his voice incredulous. “Sanda Flameheart?”

  “By Vraccas! The dead are come to life!” mouthed Ireheart, taking hold of his weapon.

  The dwarf-woman smiled and hung the morning star back in its harness. “You are Tungdil Goldhand and Boindil Doubleblade. Your words make that clear. It is an honor to greet you both.”

  Tungdil stepped forward. “You have the advantage of us.” Then he saw that although she looked like Sanda Flameheart, one-time wife to King Gemmil, she was much younger. The down on her face had not turned silver and he’d be surprised if she were more than forty cycles old. Half a child still, but broad and strong as a warrior. Her thirdling ancestry could not be denied. “But who are you?”

  She took off her helmet and showed them a friendly, and not quite so round a face. “I am Goda Flameheart from the Steadfasts clan of the thirdlings.” She gave Boindil a direct, brown-eyed stare. “Sanda Flameheart, who died at your hand, was my great-grandmother.” Ireheart’s face grew pale, in striking contrast to his black beard. “I demand vengeance,” she demanded harshly. “Because you…”

  “Where is Balyndis and how did you get in here?” interrupted Tungdil, finding it very strange that his wife had not appeared. He was afraid that Goda in her anger might have harmed her.

  “She’s sleeping,” was the answer. “She’s not been well of late.” She stared at Ireheart again. “As I said, I want satisfaction from you, Boindil Doubleblade.”