by Markus Heitz
“We need to get out of here,” muttered Tungdil, deciding to save the story of what had happened in the theater until they were safely out of town — not that he had the faintest idea as to how they would escape. “The älfar are after me.”
“In that case, we need a plan,” observed Bavragor.
“I’ve been thinking, scholar,” said Boëndal. “Our enemy will be focusing on the main gates, so all we need is a side exit. Once we’re out, we can hack our way through the fringes of the battle.” He glanced at his brother, whose uncharacteristic silence was explained by the fact that he was snoring in the doorway. “Obviously, the circumstances aren’t ideal,” he finished with a sigh.
Goïmgar shuddered. “Through the battle?” In his mind’s eye he was already fleeing from snarling orcs, grunting bögnilim, and nimble-footed älfar, while arrows rained down on him and swords, spears, and pikes slashed and jabbed all around. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
“I don’t suppose you can fly, can you?” asked Bavragor. The artisan shook his head wretchedly. “In that case, we don’t have a choice.”
There was a loud crash behind them. Ireheart had gone down like a felled oak and was lying inert on the floor. His loud snores were the only indication that he hadn’t been smitten by Vraccas’s hammer.
“A fat lot of use he is,” Goïmgar said accusingly. “Just when we could do with a bloodthirsty warrior, he knocks himself out on beer. Think of how many orcs he could have butchered for us.”
“I know.” Bavragor nodded, helping Boëndal to drape the unconscious Boïndil over one of the ponies. “It beats me how he got into this state. The long-uns’ beer is no better than flavored water.”
“He drank five whole tankards of it,” Goïmgar told him. He looked at the mason in sudden amazement. “You’re not saying…”
“I had seven, not counting the two at the market.” He winked at the smaller dwarf and passed him both sets of reins. “Here, look after the ponies.”
Hefting his mighty war hammer, he took up position at the rear of the procession. Boëndal and Tungdil took the lead.
From time to time they heard the clatter of swords, but they avoided trouble by taking frequent detours and keeping out of sight. The tactic was to Goïmgar’s taste.
People were charging past them in every direction, some armed and rushing to defend the town, others clutching their children and possessions and hoping to find refuge in passageways and backstreets that hadn’t yet fallen to the orcs.
Another doomed settlement, thought Tungdil, remembering the charred wreckage of Goodwater. He knew what the orcs would do to Mifurdania and he was tempted to forget about the mission and rush to the townspeople’s aid. They were desperately in need of a few extra axes. He wondered whether to declare a change of plan.
What if one of us gets killed? If we don’t forge Keenfire, Girdlegard will be lost. He agonized for a moment and decided that he had to put the mission first, regardless of how hard it was to leave the Mifurdanians to their fate. May the gods preserve you, he thought bleakly, lowering his head.
Boëndal laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. It was clear from his expression that he shared Tungdil’s torment.
At length they reached the eastern battlements and discovered a small door watched over by a pair of sentries. Moments later, a bugle sounded and the sentries grabbed their spears and raced to the northern gates. The streets and marketplaces echoed with the sounds of fighting as the orcs advanced through Mifurdania, beating back the defenders.
The dwarves inspected the door. Heavy-duty chains and padlocks prevented anyone from tampering with the four steel bolts.
“Well, well, well,” said a disapproving voice. “What do we have here? Five plump cannonballs on legs… I hope you weren’t intending to slip out unnoticed.”
The man who stepped out of the side street had an aristocratic face and a pointed beard. His flamboyant robes looked expensive. Behind him was a tall, slender woman in leather armor with a crimson head scarf over her long black hair. A plainly dressed man with gray-green eyes, dark hair, and a thin mustache brought up the rear. All three were carrying duffel bags.
“Dear me, little giants,” said the man with the pointy beard, “didn’t anyone tell you that this door is out of bounds?”
“Thieves, are you?” growled Bavragor, grasping his hammer in his brawny hands.
The man laughed theatrically. “Thieves! That’s a good one! What funny little fellows… No, my bearded warrior, we’re not even commoners, let alone common thieves! Surely you don’t need two eyes to see that?”
The snarling and grunting was getting louder all the time.
“Let me through,” the dark-haired woman commanded. She pushed past the bewildered dwarves and lifted her sword belt to reveal a leather pouch. Producing a number of finger-length implements, some sharpened to a point, others curved or bent at right angles, she set to work on the locks. Soon there was a click.
“I knew they were thieves,” said Bavragor, pleased to be proven right.
“We’re nothing of the sort, my good fellow.” The man with the pointed beard gestured to his male companion. “Meet Furgas, the most accomplished prop master since” — he waved vaguely, unable to think of a suitable period of time — “since time began.” He pointed to the woman. “It is my pleasure, nay, my privilege, to introduce you to the delightful Narmora, whose exquisite beauty caused the mayor of Mifurdania’s roses to wither in shame. As for myself, I am —”
“The fabulous Rodario!” exclaimed Tungdil, who had suddenly placed the actor’s voice.
At once the man seemed to warm to him. “An admirer of my art? Who would have thought it! And I took you for a —” He stopped short and his features hardened. “Drown me in a privy, if it isn’t the racket maker, the despoiler of my scene, the saboteur of the illusion skillfully woven for the delectation of the public.” His brown eyes stared accusingly at Tungdil’s boots. “That’s him, all right, the dwarf and his accursed footwear. His trampling and shouting ruined my act!”
There was another click as Narmora opened the final padlock and unthreaded the chain, letting it clatter to the ground. “Hurry!”
“Aren’t you coming?” Furgas said anxiously.
She smiled and gave him a lingering kiss on the lips. “You go through and I’ll lock up behind you. I don’t want to be blamed for handing Mifurdania to the orcs. I’ll climb over the parapets.”
The dwarves led the way, followed by Rodario and Furgas.
It was immediately obvious that the invaders were throwing all their energy into besieging the main gates and had forgotten about the flanks of the town. The runaways were spotted by a pair of Mifurdanian soldiers, who shouted at them from the parapets to identify themselves, but the order went unheeded. Only the actor turned to wave. “Take good care of my theater for me. We’ll be back when you’ve fought off the orcs. The very best of luck!”
“This is real life, Rodario, not one of your plays,” Furgas chided, dragging him on.
The impresario seemed not to grasp the full seriousness of their plight. “All the hallmarks of drama are there, though,” he said thoughtfully. “What an excellent suggestion, my dear Furgas. I shall write a new work.” He put his hands on his hips and struck a heroic pose. “A fearless guardsman — that’s me, of course — spots an army of orcs advancing and, in a pitched battle with, say, half a dozen of them, saves the town from certain ruin.”
Just then a rope unfurled from the top of the wall and Narmora descended nimbly, hand after hand, and joined them at the base. Shouting wildly, the guards stormed along the parapet and hauled up the rope before it could be spotted by the orcs.
Tungdil and company hurried toward the shelter of the forest, the other three following purposefully behind.
“A word, oh worthy hoarders of gold and gems. Would you consent to us accompanying you for a while on your overland excursion?” inquired the fabulous Rodario, doing his best to dazzle them with his s
mile. “I don’t mean to be personal, but you look like the sort of fellows who could tackle the green-hided beasts. These are dangerous times, and my friends and I are feeble artists, aficionados of the stage.” He turned his tanned face toward his thin arms, which protruded like broomsticks from his expensive cloak. “A fine group of soldiers we’d make: two men as slender as saplings and a beautiful, yet vulnerable woman who wears her armor merely for show. I shudder to think what would happen if the orcs were to…”
“Very well, you can join us,” conceded Tungdil. With Boïndil still under the influence, they were two axes down, and in the event of a skirmish, the gasbag and his companions would serve as a distraction while he and the others attacked.
“A word,” Goïmgar echoed in disbelief. “I think I lost count of them.”
“Men talk a lot when they’re frightened,” Bavragor said knowledgeably. “If you ask me, he must be scared silly. Have you seen their teeny beards? I had more hair when I was born!”
Tungdil headed in the direction of their ingots and gems, steering a course through the forest toward the plateau. He was only grateful that his new companions were oblivious to the comments being bandied about in dwarfish.
We’ll have to carry the ingots up the stairs, past the waterfall, and out to the ponies, he thought. It’s bound to take a while. The delay was infuriating, particularly since the wagon’s mishap seemed to have been planned.
He decided not to wonder where Gandogar and his companions might be. There I go again, he cursed, banishing the thought of their rivals from his mind. He focused on picking a path through the forest and listening for noise.
“Little man,” opened Rodario, blundering through the undergrowth in an effort to catch up with the dwarf. He didn’t seem to notice the snapping twigs or his echoing voice. “Unless I’m much mistaken, you are the leader of this merry band, and so I address myself to you. Groundlings —”
“Dwarves,” Tungdil corrected him automatically.
“As you prefer… As I was saying, dwarves are a rare sight in these lands, and so I wonder: Why did the five of you abandon your underground home? Were you driven out by your kin?”
“That’s our business, Mr. Rodario.”
“True, very true. It was impolite of me to ask. But perhaps you and your companions would consent to join my itinerant theater and collaborate on a play?” He beamed at Tungdil. “With your permission, I’d like to pen a script especially for five dwarves. People would come from far and wide to see our show. There wouldn’t be anything like it in Girdlegard. They’d shower us with coins!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rodario, but we’ve business to attend to.”
“Business? What kind of business?” He frowned. “Are you in search of treasure?”
“We’re on a quest to forge Keenfire!” came a rambunctious shout from the back of the pony. In spite of the slurring, the words were clearly audible. “We’ll go to the Gray Range and fashion a weapon more powerful than Nôd’onn himself. The fat wizard won’t be bothering us much longer —”
“Shut up, you drunken fool!” Boëndal barked gruffly. “If you’re going to give away all our secrets, at least have the decency to do it in dwarfish!”
“Sorry about him,” said Tungdil, turning to Rodario with an apologetic shrug. The impresario’s face had lit up with interest. “I’m afraid his imagination gets the better of him when he’s had too much to drink.” He did his best to sound nonchalant, not wishing to give the impression that Boïndil’s ravings bore any relation to the truth.
“Don’t apologize,” Rodario said lightly. “I’m all in favor of imagination. A good writer welcomes inspiration, whatever its source. Besides, I like the sound of the idea. It’s just the sort of story that audiences love to see on stage. The trouble is, who would I cast?” He threw up his arms despairingly. “I can’t use children or gnomes or kobolds with false beards! I need stocky fellows, proper groundlings, like you. Nothing else would do! Are you sure I can’t persuade you?”
“We’re dwarves, not groundlings,” Boëndal told him crossly. “And keep your voice down, unless you’re looking for inspiration on the tip of an orcish sword.”
With an offended toss of his long brown locks, the man fell into line with his friends and drew them into a whispered conversation.
“Actors,” tutted Boëndal. “You wait: He’ll perform our story in every marketplace in Girdlegard before we’ve finished forging Keenfire. If Nôd’onn finds out what we’re up to because of that peacock…” He left the rest of the sentence unsaid.
“Nôd’onn will be long dead before he gets round to writing his play,” said Tungdil, clapping him reassuringly on the back. He glanced round to see the fabulous Rodario scribbling frantically in a little notebook that dangled on a ribbon round his neck. Suddenly Tungdil’s optimism seemed a little misplaced. “We’ll have to take them with us,” he said, having thought the matter through.
“You can’t seriously suggest that we —”
“I mean it, Boëndal. We’ll take them as far as the firstling kingdom. The impresario won’t be able to resist an adventure like that. We’ll get Borengar’s dwarves to lock them in their stronghold for a while — or until the mission is over, if need be. I’m sure they’ll find somewhere cozy where our friends will be obliged to enjoy their dwarven hospitality for as many orbits as it takes.”
“Assuming they fall for it.”
Tungdil gave him a confident wink. The full brilliance of his plan was dawning on him. “Don’t worry, they will. When the impresario hears the incredible stories I’m going to tell him, he’ll be desperate to see the firstling kingdom for himself.”
Boëndal muttered unhappily into his beard.
“Fine,” said Tungdil, “I’ll warn the others. I don’t want them looking too surprised.”
He stopped to talk to Goïmgar, then Bavragor, on the somewhat flimsy pretext of checking their armor, and informed them in whispers of his plan.
They were almost on the other side of the forest when they came to the last resting place of the slaughtered unicorns. Rodario immediately stopped to sketch the corpses and make notes on the once-beautiful and peaceable creatures.
Was it wrong to abandon Mifurdania? The sight of the dead unicorns was a painful reminder that they had abandoned the settlement and left Girdlegard’s last surviving unicorns to their fate. The gods will understand that we had no other choice.
The group approached the foot of the narrow path that wound its way up to the plateau. From ground level, the track was completely hidden.
“On guard!” Stopping abruptly, Boëndal drew his crow’s beak. Bavragor responded by reaching for his war hammer, while Goïmgar interpreted the warning in his own fashion and hid behind his shield.
“On guard? My dear fellow, whatever for?” said the bewildered Rodario. His female companion drew her weapons. The first seemed to consist of a pair of scythes mounted on either side of a metal haft, while the second was a straight-bladed version of the same. Judging by the shimmering keenness of the blades, both the inner and outer edges were deadly sharp. She wore metal baskets on her wrists to protect her fingers from enemy swords.
The impresario turned to her. “What could you want with those, precious rose of Girdlegard?”
If Tungdil had learned anything since the start of his journey, it was to trust his friends’ instincts. He steeled himself to face the threat.
A moment later he detected the stench of their hidden foes. They smelled sweeter and stronger than orcs, but there was definitely a whiff of rancid fat on the gentle breeze.
Suddenly the enemy disgorged from the bushes.
Shouting and shrieking, the bögnilim stormed toward the humans and dwarves. Bringing up the rear were two orcs wielding studded riding crops, which they used to whip the beasts into a frenzy and galvanize the attack.
The bögnilim, cowardly creatures by nature, were carrying short swords whose notched blades were encrusted with gore from their previous
victims. Lolloping and leaping like apes, they screamed and screeched, partly in terror, partly in hatred. Their fighting technique relied on numbers, not skill: If one fell, two or three others would rush into the breach, biting, scratching, and slashing or hurling themselves at their opponents and knocking them off their feet. They descended on the company, stabbing and hacking with indiscriminate rage.
“Back-to-back!” came the terse order from Boëndal. Bavragor took up position, dragging Goïmgar with him, so the artisan had no choice but to join the fight. Rodario was nowhere to be seen, but Furgas and Narmora lined up with the others.
The dwarves’ weapons swooped back and forth relentlessly, cleaving skulls and hewing bones, but they had to be careful that none of their slippery assailants sneaked past their guard. Goïmgar barricaded himself behind his shield, his short sword darting out like a flash of silvery lightning and slashing through the bögnilim’s insubstantial leather armor. Pus-colored fluid spurted from the gashes and dripped down his shield.
Narmora fought at triple the speed of her companion, her light yet phenomenally sharp weapons giving her an immense advantage over their foes. Just as it seemed the bögnilim had lost the battle, the orcs gave their smaller relatives such a thrashing that they relaunched their attack with a ferocity fueled by mortal fear.
The surging bögnilim caused the defenders to draw closer together until there was barely enough room for the dwarves to swing their weapons. The long blade of the crow’s beak caught on the haft of the war hammer, and Bavragor’s weapon was torn from his grip. Two or three of the beasts darted forward and knocked the mason to the ground. Others poured through the breach and Tungdil found himself dangerously overextended.
Just then there was a loud hiss and a cloud of green smoke took shape between two trees, crackling and spluttering menacingly. As the air cleared, an enormous two-headed monster loomed out of the mist. With a terrible roar, it opened its vicious jaws and engulfed the bögnilim in a torrent of flames. Two died in the blaze; the others were rooted with shock.