The Dwarves Omnibus

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The Dwarves Omnibus Page 24

by Markus Heitz


  “Not yet,” the famulus admitted. “I thought the books were more important, so I decided to hunt for them first.”

  Nudin shuffled toward the large cabinet from which Tungdil had retrieved the artifacts at the start of his errand. “There’s no proof that the books even made it to Ionandar. According to the älfar, a war band stole the books from Greenglade after the orcs had razed the place. Dwarven bandits, apparently.”

  “But didn’t you tell them to… I mean, how —”

  “The älfar are good allies.” Nudin’s doppelgänger stopped in front of the cabinet and propped his staff against the wall. It took some effort for his swollen, spectral fingers to depress the handle, but he got there in the end. “Their only weakness is their love of art. For this particular älf, it proved fatal.” Bending down, he reached into the cabinet and came up with a leather bag identical to the one that Tungdil had been carrying. “It looks as though our search has been rewarded.”

  He loosened the drawstrings and tipped out the contents. Five rolls of parchment tumbled to the floor. His grunts of displeasure seemed to indicate that he had been hoping to find something else.

  Tungdil peered out a little farther. His packs were hidden by Lot-Ionan’s chair, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that Nudin would be delighted to discover them.

  It was then that it dawned on him: The ties on his bag were blue, but the magus had said something about green draw-strings. I took the wrong bag! I marched for miles across Girdlegard, and Gorén’s artifacts were here all the time!

  From the point of view of his errand, it wouldn’t have made any difference if he had got to Greenglade and found Gorén alive — he would still have been carrying the wrong set of things. But something told him that his mistake had worked out well.

  Tungdil couldn’t quite make sense of it all. He had no idea why Nudin and his apprentice were behaving as if the school belonged to them, much less why Eiden was acting so oddly when really he should have been dead, but the fact that the magus had allied himself with the älfar was clearly bad news. Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty seemed to have changed sides.

  He had to find out what had happened to Lot-Ionan and his famuli without alerting the intruders to his presence.

  “One more thing,” said the apprentice, riffling through the papers on the desk. He pulled out two pieces of parchment that Tungdil recognized as the letters that he had sent. “Lot-Ionan received a couple of letters from someone called Tungdil who was looking for Gorén on his behalf.”

  He passed the correspondence to his master, who scanned the lines with bloodshot eyes. “Tungdil…” he said musingly. “Of course! The old man kept a dwarf of that name. It’s perfectly possible that he’s the one who took the artifacts and the books.” He tossed the letters onto the desk. “Traveling dwarves are a rarity in Girdlegard, so it shouldn’t be hard to find him. I’ll ask the älfar to deal with it, and they’ll deliver him, dead or alive.” He nodded to the famulus. “It’s a pity you didn’t mention it earlier, but at least we’re getting somewhere. You shall have your reward when I join you. Until then, keep searching. You never know what might turn up.” The apparition flickered and faded, then vanished altogether.

  After his many ordeals, Tungdil was beginning to think that nothing could shock him, but he hadn’t reckoned with listening in silence while someone plotted against his life. His mettle was being thoroughly tested.

  The famulus smiled smugly and sat down at the desk. He had pleased his master and secured a measure of the approval that he so craved. He buried himself once more in the documents.

  He was just dunking his quill into the inkwell, ready to add another entry to the list, when he happened to glance toward the armchair. The straps of Tungdil’s knapsack were protruding from one side.

  “What… ?” He got up slowly and crossed the room to examine the object that had materialized without his knowledge. He stooped to pick up the leather bag.

  Tungdil drew his ax. Speed and surprise were of the essence: He had to strike before the famulus saw him and cursed him. He tensed his muscles.

  Even as he prepared to charge, a commotion sounded in the corridor, stopping them both in their tracks.

  For once the twins were making a genuine effort to be quiet. They didn’t know who had invaded the vaults, but it seemed safest to hack them to pieces without giving them any warning. Whoever had butchered the long-uns would surely jump at the chance to eat a dwarf — but a crow’s beak in the belly or an ax through the gullet was bound to cure their greed.

  They heard lumbering footsteps.

  Boïndil signaled for his brother to freeze, and they waited for the creature to stagger around the corner. There was a whiff of rotten flesh; then a man stumbled toward them, groaning.

  His injuries were so horrific that it was a wonder he was alive. No ordinary mortal would have survived such wounds, but on seeing the dwarves, he yelped in excitement and lunged toward them with surprising speed, spurred on by the prospect of fresh meat. His eagerness was no match for the warriors’ experience.

  Boëndal saw the blow coming, skipped sideways, and jabbed him in the knee. The revenant swayed.

  In falling, he hurled himself on Ireheart, who greeted him with a war cry and a pair of flashing blades. The secondling avoided the toppling body and reached out to cleave the man’s left arm. Teeth grinding in anger, Eiden dragged himself across the floor, baring his teeth at the twins.

  “Would you believe it? He’s coming back for more!” observed Boïndil in astonishment. “I know revenants are supposed to hate the living, but this is ridiculous.” He decapitated the man, thereby putting an end to his undead life.

  The brothers set off at a run to find Tungdil. It seemed likely that other bloodthirsty revenants would be roaming the vaults, in which case the heir to the throne could be in danger.

  On reaching the door to the study, they saw a young man in malachite robes standing by an armchair, holding Tungdil’s leather bag.

  Their noisy skirmish in the corridor must have prepared him for their arrival. “Burn, you scoundrels!” His right arm flew up, fingers pointing at the dwarves, and he opened his mouth as if to speak. The door slammed shut.

  The brothers blinked in surprise. “Surely he didn’t need a spell for that?” said Boïndil.

  “Why didn’t he just close it before we got here? I told you wizards are weird.”

  “Magical mumbo jumbo. Leave it to me!” Launching himself at the door, Boïndil stormed inside, shrieking.

  The young man had fallen backward and was lying motionless inside a cabinet. The doors were open and the shelves had slipped their brackets, scattering their contents on top of him. His forehead had been gouged in the process, and he was bleeding from the wound.

  Tungdil straightened up and rubbed his head. “I should have put on my helmet before I head-butted him in the belly,” he declared.

  “Didn’t I tell you those lessons would pay off?” Boïndil patted him on the back. “You’ve got the makings of a first-class dwarf!”

  “It’s about time someone explained what’s going on,” his brother said impatiently. “There’s human broth on the stove and revenants roaming through the corridors. What kind of character is your magus, anyway?”

  “None of this would be happening if Lot-Ionan were here.” Tungdil gave a brief account of the eavesdropped conversation between Nudin and his famulus, then listened while the twins described the scene that had greeted them in the kitchen. In combination, the stories proved beyond a doubt that Nudin had seized the vaults and emptied them of their inhabitants.

  Surely he can’t have killed them all? Tungdil sat down, overcome with horror and dismay. What of the apprentices, the servants, Frala, Sunja, and Ikana? He refused to believe that the lunatic magus could have murdered a wizard as powerful as Lot-Ionan. He’s alive. I just know it! He clung to the hope that Lot-Ionan had escaped with his senior famuli and was preparing to do battle with Nudin. I have to find him!


  “The dwarven assembly needs to hear about this,” ruled Boëndal. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “No,” Tungdil said firmly. “Not until I know where Lot-Ionan has got to.” He looked at the unconscious apprentice. “I bet he could tell us.” He knelt down and boxed his ears. It had the desired effect: The famulus’s eyelids fluttered open.

  Boïndil stood guard at the door while his brother placed the spiked tip of his crow’s beak in the gap between the young man’s eyes. “If you so much as think of cursing me, I’ll ram my weapon through your brains.” He obviously had every intention of carrying out his threat. “I crack skulls as if they were eggshells.”

  Tungdil bent down toward him. “Tell us where Lot-Ionan is,” he demanded, torn between wanting an answer and fearing the truth.

  “Are you the dwarves from Greenglade?” The famulus seemed perplexed. “But aren’t you supposed to be —”

  “Answer the question!” Tungdil told him roughly. Boëndal leaned on his crow’s beak, applying just enough pressure to pierce the famulus’s skin. Blood welled up around the metal spike as it bore into his brow. “Tell us where he is, or we’ll kill you.”

  “Don’t hurt me,” the apprentice whimpered. “I’ll tell you anything you want! He’s dead. Nôd’onn killed him.”

  “Nôd’onn, commander of the Perished Land?”

  “It was in Porista. He killed them all!” The terrible truth was out: With the other magi dead, there was no one in Girdlegard who could rival the traitor’s power. “Nôd’onn cursed the force fields so no one else can use them.”

  An icy dread took hold of Tungdil when he realized what the famulus was saying. “So Nudin is Nôd’onn? Nudin commands the Perished Land?” The evidence had been staring him in the face, but either he hadn’t realized or he hadn’t wanted to. He felt like shrieking at the famulus or cutting him to pieces on the spot, but he forced himself to ask another question. “What does Nôd’onn want with the books and the artifacts?”

  “I don’t know. Nôd’onn told me to look for them, but he didn’t say why. I swear I don’t —”

  Tungdil whacked him with the poll of his ax, returning him to his faint. Once he was safely tied up and locked in the cupboard, they debated what to do with him. It was obvious that they couldn’t release him. A wizard with hostile intentions posed a serious threat and there could be no justification for not killing him while they still had the chance.

  The tension over, Tungdil lowered his guard and gave in to his grief, mourning the loss of his adopted family and friends. Tears rolled down his cheeks, coursing through his beard, and he wiped them away with Frala’s scarf. She had given him the talisman for luck, but now it was all he had left to remember her by. I won’t let your deaths go unpunished, he promised his oldest friend.

  Just then a familiar stench rose to his nostrils. Tungdil looked up and exchanged glances with the twins. They too had smelled the rancid butter, which could only mean one thing: orcs. He picked up his ax and rose to his feet. “Let’s see if I can remember those lessons.” They strode grimly to the door.

  Beroïn’s Folk,

  Secondling Kingdom,

  Girdlegard,

  Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

  Rumor had it that the high king was on his deathbed. In fact, according to some reports, Vraccas had smitten him already and he had taken his place in the eternal smithy.

  There was no need to look far to find the source of the gossip. So eager were the fourthlings to see their own king on the marble throne that they were only too happy to spread tidings of Gundrabur’s demise. Come what may, they were determined to have their war against landur, whether the elves were guilty of treachery or not.

  At every discussion, no matter how big or small, Bislipur was there, tirelessly kindling the rumors, his every waking moment devoted to fanning the fires of his destructive campaign. No one seemed to need less sleep than Gandogar’s devious adviser, except perhaps Balendilín, whom he regarded as a personal enemy.

  “If only Vraccas would hurry up and smite the high king with his hammer,” muttered Bislipur on returning to the chamber where he was staying as the secondlings’ guest. He lowered himself crossly onto his bed. I’m not making any progress. Some of the fourthling delegates were starting to doubt the wisdom of going to war. That blasted Balendilín is ruining everything. The sooner I take care of him, the…

  “Master, I bring news for you,” a reedy voice announced from under his bed. “Not that I’d choose to tell you anything. In fact, I didn’t want to come at all.”

  Bislipur stood up and kicked the bedpost. “Come out from there, you wretched gnome!” Sverd had barely emerged from his hiding place when Bislipur’s calloused hand closed round his neck and lifted him into the air. He shook the gnome vigorously, like a cat would stun its prey, then tossed him roughly into the corner. “You’re not to sneak into my chamber without my permission, do you understand?”

  Sverd rose groggily and straightened his red jacket. “I wasn’t sneaking, master. You weren’t here, so I hid in a place where no one would find me, like you said.” He tugged his hemp shirt over his rounded belly, covering his hairy green skin. His pointed ears stuck upward, as if pinning his cap to his head. There were few of his kind left in Girdlegard.

  “Shall I tell you the news, master?” asked Sverd, his large round eyes filled with mock innocence. Streaks of mud and dirt covered his saggy breeches and his buckled shoes. He had tramped for many miles. “And if I do, will you let me go?”

  “You’ll go when I’ve finished with you.” Bislipur rested his hand threateningly on the magical silver wire that allowed him to tighten Sverd’s collar from any distance. “Talk or I’ll strangle you.”

  “I wish I’d never tried to steal your hoard,” the gnome whined piteously. “I regret it, really, I do.” He looked at the dwarf expectantly, hoping to see a flicker of pity in the stony face.

  “No wonder your kind is dying out if they’re all as weak and pathetic as you.” Gandogar’s adviser stayed as cold and unbending as the many valuable trinkets that he wore. He tugged on the wire, tightening the leather band around the neck of his slave.

  Sverd struggled to loosen the magic collar, but with no more success than at any other time during his forty-three cycles of bondage. The choker contracted and he sank to his knees, wheezing and panting. Bislipur waited until he was almost unconscious before slackening the leash.

  “Thank you, master. Thank you.” The gnome coughed. “Another joyous orbit at your side. How can I repay you?” He sank onto a stool. “Your pernicious plan failed. By all reports, the heir to the throne is still alive. Sadly, the same can’t be said for our bounty hunters. There were no other takers for your cowardly mission and I didn’t have time to start a proper search. Girdlegard is changing.”

  Bislipur took no notice of his reluctant henchman’s sneers. From the beginning of his enslavement, Sverd had been trying to provoke him into killing him, but Bislipur chose to ignore him. The gnome deserved to suffer. “What happened?”

  “I trailed the dwarf and the secondlings to Lot-Ionan’s vaults. They were attacked by orcs…”

  Enchanted Realm of Ionandar,

  Girdlegard,

  Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

  The beasts’ approach could be heard from a hundred paces. Suddenly the clunking of their armor was interrupted by a clamor of snarls and grunts: The orcs had discovered the lifeless revenant.

  On rounding a bend in the passageway, the three dwarves found themselves face-to-face with their foes. The exit to the vaults lay fewer than three hundred paces ahead, but it seemed to Tungdil that every inch of that distance was filled with orcs. A bristling thicket of weaponry blocked their escape.

  “What fun!” enthused Ireheart, squaring his shoulders. “See how narrow the tunnel is? We’ll have the pleasure of killing every last runt!” His whirled his axes energetically. “Oink, oink! By the hammer of Vraccas, this is excellent sport!”

&n
bsp; “The three of us will fight in formation,” his brother told Tungdil soberly. “I know you’ve never done this before, but stand back-to-back with us and make sure you can feel us behind you. That way we’ll all be safe.” His brown eyes sought Tungdil’s. “Trust us to watch your back, and we’ll trust you. You’re a child of the Smith, remember.”

  Tungdil took up position, wedging his back against the twins’. Trust in the others, he reminded himself, his heart thumping wildly. Stand by me, Vraccas. He swallowed and forgot about his fear. For Lot-Ionan, Frala, and Girdlegard!

  “No more talking now!” Ireheart snapped at them, his eyes flashing wildly. “We’ve got skulls to cleave and shins to splinter!”

  As the twins commenced their dance of death, Tungdil did his best to keep pace with them, nearly tripping over himself in his eagerness not to ruin their guard.

  During the first few rotations, Tungdil could still see most of his surroundings. He glimpsed leering orc faces, saw green-hided flesh encased in various types of armor, spotted pillars among the jumble of legs, and occasionally sighted a whirling black plait.

  But soon they were moving so fast that it all became a blur. Swords, daggers, and cudgels swooped toward him and he focused on dodging or parrying the blows. From time to time his ax met with resistance and after a while his blade was coated in glistening green, leading him to suppose that some of his blows had struck true.

  It was the same basic strategy that the twins had used in the Eternal Forest. Back-to-back, the dwarves spun onward, boring their way through the enemy ranks, striking out furiously and never stopping for an instant, making it impossible for the beasts to land a proper blow.

  Tungdil was glad of his chain mail. He lacked the secondlings’ experience and was unable to field every strike, but his metal tunic protected him from the worst of it. He was willing to endure bruises, grazes, and even broken bones if it meant staying alive and saving the artifacts from Nôd’onn’s fleshy hands.

  He could hear Boïndil laughing behind him, his frenzied cackles competing with the orcs’ dying shrieks. Boëndal was far less vocal, preferring to conserve his breath.

 

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