by Markus Heitz
Tungdil was staring at the beams overhead. The fine cracks in the paint reminded him of the way the älf’s face had fractured. “He knew my name.”
“What’s that, scholar?” Boëndal asked drowsily.
“The älf knew my name.” He reached for the head scarf that Frala had given to him. There was something soothing and reassuring about the cloth. “They know more about me than I thought,” he said uneasily.
“The most powerful of Tion’s creatures are frightened of a dwarf,” observed Bavragor with a low chuckle. He lit his pipe, filling the chamber with the smell of tobacco spiced with a hint of brandy. It was surprisingly pleasant. “That’s the way we like it.”
Goïmgar glanced over at Tungdil. “I don’t blame you for being concerned,” he said with feeling. “I wouldn’t want to be chased by a band of älfar who know exactly who I am.”
“Yes, but that’s because you’re a coward.” The insult left Bavragor’s lips before he had time to consider.
“If you haven’t got anything useful to say, you may as well go to bed,” Tungdil told him sharply. They won’t give each other a chance.
He saw Goïmgar look at him, then pick up his sword and shield and take up position on his bed, keeping a careful eye on the window and the door.
Tungdil couldn’t be sure whether the artisan was sitting watch for himself or the others. He was still considering the matter when he fell asleep.
It was dark outside when Tungdil opened his eyes.
His boots and clothes were drier than they had been in ages. No one else was awake, not even Goïmgar, who was snoring with his head lolling back against the wall. From the nose down, there was nothing to be seen of him except for his shield.
It seemed a good time to get on with procuring the ponies and provisions, so Tungdil pulled on his warm clothes and dry boots, slipped into his mail tunic, and jammed his ax into his belt. At the last moment he decided to leave the sigurdaisy wood behind for safekeeping; then he left the chamber and went down to the bar, stopping to tell the publican that he’d be back in a couple of hours. He stepped outside.
The rain was still falling in torrents. A cold, malodorous wind gusted through the narrow streets. Nothing in his surroundings hinted at the opulence of the dwellings that graced the city’s upper slopes. It’s all very well for the rich folks in their mansions, high above the slums, he thought to himself. Everyone down here is forced to look up at them, not knowing whether to hate them or admire them for their wealth.
He had several run-ins with particularly persistent beggars and on one occasion he was chased by a pair of aging harlots who demanded to know if certain parts of his anatomy were as small and hairy as the rest.
Tungdil ignored them because they offended his romantic sensibilities. His idea of love was gleaned from fiction and from Frala and her husband. He stroked his lucky scarf and tried to picture her in his mind. Knowing that he would never see her or her children again was even harder to deal with than the death of Lot-Ionan. He would have done everything in his power to be a good guardian to Sunja and Ikana.
The incessant rain, gray skies, and general squalor of Sovereignston did nothing to improve his mood. He had to walk for what seemed like hours before he found a dealer who sold ponies, and even then he was instructed to call back the next morning. His next stop was a grocery store, where he bought provisions for the journey and succumbed to the temptation of buying a cake. He hadn’t felt hungry until he saw it, but the mixture had risen perfectly to form a soft brown crust. The cinnamon streusel topping had melted in places, and delectable golden clumps nestled alongside rum-soaked raisins and sunken slices of fruit. Tungdil took a deep breath and bought the whole cake to share with the others, trusting to the baker to brighten his mood.
In the dark he set off through the streets, carrying his well-wrapped cake and other purchases. Mud and detritus clung to his boots, making them squelch unpleasantly. Not all the streets were properly cobbled, and parts of the waterlogged city were no better than mud slicks. Why would anyone want to live in this godforsaken place?
It was inevitable that he would fall over, and fall over he did. He stepped on a soggy pile of horse dung, skidded on his right leg, and stumbled, reaching down with one hand to save his clothes from the worst of the muck. Somehow or other he managed not to drop the cake. Underground vaults and strongholds are a thousand times better than this.
His thoughts were cut short by a sudden gust of wind. Something whizzed to the left of his head, grazing his ear. Whatever it was, it was painful, and he yelped in surprise, reaching up to touch his neck. Warm blood trickled over his fingers.
Turning sharply, he whipped out his ax. “If you think you can part me from my money or my cake —” The threat was left unfinished. They’ve found us.
Waiting at the other end of the alleyway was the älf from Mifurdania who had tried to slit his throat. His cloak was fluttering in the stinking wind. He nocked a second arrow to his imposing bow and drew back his hand to release it.
At precisely that moment, Tungdil was bowled over by something that charged toward him from the side. All he saw was a flash of violet light and a mask of gleaming silver before he was hit with such force that he soared through the air and landed in the next passageway, skidding four paces and cutting a channel through the mud.
What on… Head spinning, he rolled onto his back and held his ax at the ready, bracing himself for the älf to find him and kill him. Nothing happened. Groaning, he stumbled to his feet. Every link in his mail shirt was oozing thick black mud. He looked dirtier than a pig that had been rolling in the muck.
He peered around the corner warily. His cake was lying where he had dropped it, but the alley was deserted and his footprints had been washed away by the driving rain. The only evidence of the disturbance was a black arrow and a strange yellow fluid that formed a garish trail through the puddles and the mud.
Tungdil’s earlobe was throbbing. Why didn’t the älfkill me? Did someone stop him? His body felt as if he’d collided with a wall. He tried to recall what had happened. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Djerůn had…
He gave up on the idea and bade a mournful farewell to the cake, then hurried through the streets, keeping an eye out for any älfar who might be on his tail. On reaching the tavern, he raced upstairs and burst into their chamber to find Boëndal on the point of going out.
“Hello, scholar. Is everything all right?”
“Not exactly,” said Tungdil, telling him quickly of the älf’s ambush and his miraculous escape.
“The sooner we leave Sovereignston the better.” Boëndal frowned in concern. “What possessed you to go wandering through the city on your own? An ax and a bit of learning aren’t enough to protect you in a place like this.” He thought for a moment. “If you ask me, it’s not just the sigurdaisy wood they’re after. Nôd’onn wants us dead because we know his secret.” He woke Bavragor and Goïmgar to tell them what had happened, then went to join his brother in the stables. There would be no more sleep for any of them that night.
What if it was Djerůn after all? Tungdil dismissed the idea. The armored giant and the maga were miles away in the Outer Lands.
At first light, the three players were waiting at the gates as agreed. Narmora was wearing a leather cape and the red head scarf that she never seemed to be without; and Furgas had put on a long coat to keep himself as dry as possible while the downpour showed no sign of letting up. The impresario seemed to have dressed in a hurry and was scanning the crowds nervously.
The dwarves rolled up with their ponies and provisions.
“What’s wrong?” Boïndil asked Rodario. “Are the älfar about?”
“It’s not älfar he’s worried about,” replied Furgas. His tone implied that he had witnessed the scene before. “After last night’s performance, he put on a private showing for the innkeeper’s daughter and his wife.”
“Shush! Do you want me hounded out of town?” hissed Rodario, glanc
ing back and forth on the lookout for angry faces. “They told me they were separated!”
“There’s always an excuse,” Narmora said cynically. “It’s a pity their cuckolded husbands won’t believe you.”
Boïndil whinnied with laughter. “The innkeeper’s wife and his daughter?”
“ Thirty-four cycles the one, and sixteen the other: spring and summer in one bed, with me, the king of seasons,” he bragged.
Narmora was unimpressed. “I’d say you’re more of a wanton farmer who can’t help plowing foreign fields. For the most part, they accept your attentions because they’re neglected by their own farmers — or because they pity a man with such a miniscule plowshare.”
Rodario stopped searching the crowd and focused on sparring with Narmora. “My dear lady, I understand your fascination with my mighty apparatus, but I’m most discerning about my choice of fields. Stony meadows give you bruises; they may appeal to some laborers, but not to me.” He flashed a smile at Furgas, then remembered what Boïndil had asked him. “Älfar, did you say?” he inquired with sudden seriousness. “Right here in Sovereignston? Why didn’t you —”
“That’s him!” the shout went up. “That’s the scoundrel!” Rodario spotted the approaching pitchfork and fled. In no time he was through the gates and wending his way nimbly among the queuing carts. A moment later four men rushed past in hot pursuit.
Bavragor and Boïndil fell about laughing, Boëndal shook his head silently, and Goïmgar clung to his shield, ready to take shelter in case the long-uns gave up on the adulterer and took their anger out on him.
But the cuckolded husbands and their friends were intent on apprehending Rodario, who had successfully evaded them, leaving his pursuers searching furiously in the rain.
The rest of the company left Sovereignston in a more dignified fashion.
“Älfar?” said Narmora, returning to the initial question. “Where?”
“Yesterday in the city. I was attacked by one. You didn’t see any, then?” Tungdil couldn’t help feeling a mild aversion toward the actress, perhaps because of her elven looks. She’s an ordinary woman, he told himself. That’s all.
She shook her head. “They left us alone. At least we’re forewarned.” She laid her right hand on Crescent.
About a mile from Sovereignston they were reunited with the philandering impresario, who was waiting under a fir tree and trying to shelter from the rain.
Bavragor couldn’t help laughing. “I hope they were worth it!”
“Indeed they were.” A look of delectation came over Rodario’s face. “I suspect I wasn’t the first to enjoy their combined attentions, but they certainly knew how to please.” Realizing that the ponies were getting away from him, he sped up to a jog. “That’s all in the past now. Come, my loyal companions, let’s make haste to the firstling kingdom where unparalleled wonders await us!” His stirring words were somewhat spoiled by the squelching beneath his feet, but he still cut a dash as an adventurer.
Tungdil’s memories of Sovereignston weren’t nearly as fond. He picked up the pace, unmoved by the city’s fluttering pennants and colorful panorama of tiled roofs. Nothing could induce him to look back. Hurrying away from the pride of Weyurn, he tried not to think of the älf’s murderous eyes.
I hope my mysterious rescuer killed him.
III
Kingdom of Weyurn,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
As soon as the opportunity arose, the travelers purchased a small cart for their baggage and a pair of horses — one for Rodario and the other for Narmora and Furgas. From then on, the journey westward proceeded considerably faster, not to mention more comfortably.
Rodario, fearing the wrath of the cuckolded husbands, was especially keen to make progress — although it didn’t deter him from using his charm and eloquence to make a string of conquests on the way.
A fierce northerly brought with it the season’s first snowstorm, the white flakes settling on the frozen ground to form a thick icy layer. Winter seemed to descend on the land and its inhabitants faster and more vigorously than usual. Sleeping in the open was too dangerous, so the company camped out in places where they would be sheltered from the elements, under trees or rocky overhangs, or in derelict houses or ruined forts.
The vast lakes that made up three-quarters of Weyurn’s surface were covered in ice. The sun and clouds played on the frozen water, creating glorious displays of shadow and light, but the glittering spectacle could do nothing to win over the twins, who were too afraid of the icy depths to go fishing with Rodario and Furgas.
“Ice is just as dangerous as water,” Boïndil told them. He set about making a fire in the ruined temple where they were camping for the night. “It looks so pretty that you forget to be careful, and then whoa, you find yourself sinking to the bottom, never to be seen again.”
“It’s like marriage,” observed Rodario. “Women tempt you into their arms and before you know it, you’re trapped for life. I’m more of the type for —”
“Bedding other people’s wives. Not to mention being beaten by angry husbands and dying of the clap,” Narmora finished for him.
“Still jealous, I see,” he riposted, flashing her a dazzling smile as he hurried after Furgas, who was heading for a nearby stream.
Boïndil chuckled. “My old billy goat was a bit like Rodario. He mounted anything that stayed still for two seconds.”
“What became of him?”
“The old lecher jumped on a nanny goat and didn’t notice that she was grazing near a cliff. He plummeted to his death.” He ran a razor over his cheeks to get rid of the stubble that was drawing attention away from his magnificent beard.
“In other words, Rodario will get his comeuppance by falling out of bed and breaking his neck,” said Tungdil, grinning.
“Who said anything about a bed? It might be the window!” Boëndal pointed out.
His brother hooted with laughter. “What a sight!” He scrambled along a fallen column that was propped up amid the ruins and came to a halt at the top end where he could see for miles around. He took a seat and lit his pipe. Boëndal tossed him his share of the food. “It would serve the old prattler right,” chuckled Boïndil, turning his attention hungrily to the cheese.
Goïmgar, wrapped in two blankets with his shield laid across him like a third, had said nothing for some time. Eyes closed, he seemed to be asleep.
The temple’s moss-covered walls were alive with flickering shadows. Over the cycles, the frescoes had faded and there were holes in the crumbling plaster. Not that the dwarves would have recognized the painted deities anyway: To their minds, there was only one god and that was Vraccas. The rest weren’t worth the time of day.
The warmth from the blazing fire spread rapidly, casting a soft light throughout the temple and making the timeworn sculptures seem strangely alive.
Tungdil found himself thinking of the performance in the Curiosum. He still couldn’t decide how much of what he had seen had been acted by the players and how much had unfolded in his mind. It all seemed so real.
Muttering to himself, Bavragor returned from his tour of the ruins. “Not bad,” was his verdict on the masonry, “but not worthy of us dwarves.”
Tungdil offered him some bread and ham. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
Bavragor accepted the food. “Sounds ominous.”
“It’s been playing on my mind. You know the business with your sister…”
“Smeralda.” Bavragor placed the sandwich on a stone to warm the bread and bring out the flavor of the meat. He took a long slug of brandy before continuing and said bitterly, “I can’t forgive him for what he did.”
Tungdil didn’t press him. He had a feeling that Bavragor was ready to open up to him, and after a while the mason cleared his throat.
“She was a slip of a thing, a lass of forty cycles, but as soon as he clapped eyes on her, he wanted her for himself. She was as much of a warrior as he
was, and she trained like a demon because she wanted to be able to fight by his side.” He clenched his fists as the memories flooded back. “The rest of us were worried about his fiery spirit, and we begged her to stay away. Smeralda wouldn’t listen, and everything went on as before. The two of them were fighting a band of orcs when he…” He broke off, covering his good eye with one hand and raising his pouch to his mouth with the other. “He killed her, Tungdil. He was so far gone in bloodlust that he took her for an orc.”
Tungdil pushed back the lump in his throat and blinked.
“An orc! Afterward they said it was a tragedy and a terrible accident and he swears he can’t remember a thing, but I couldn’t care less: My sister died because of him. I don’t know if you could forgive him, but I don’t intend to.”
Tungdil knew there was nothing he could say. The story was unspeakably sad. He laid a hand on Bavragor’s arm. “I’m sorry I put you through it again,” he said simply.
Listening to the mason had brought back the pain of losing Lot-Ionan and Frala, who had been like a sister to him. I can almost understand how he feels.
“So now you know,” sighed Bavragor, taking a deep breath and flushing away the memories with a long draft of brandy. His ham sandwich lay untouched and forgotten by the fire.
Tungdil looked up and glanced at Boïndil, who was guarding the camp from his lookout on the fallen pillar and puffing on his pipe. Blue smoke rings wafted into the darkness, rising through the falling flakes, and Tungdil thought for a moment that he could hear the hiss of hot tobacco on snow.
“The fieriness of his inner furnace is a curse,” Boëndal said sadly. “He still can’t remember what happened on the bridge. All he knows is that Smeralda was lying dead at his feet and he thought the orcs had killed her. When Bavragor and the others told him that she’d died by his axes…”
“Weren’t you with him?”
“I wish I had been. I keep telling myself that if I hadn’t been injured, I might have stopped him before it was too late.” He scratched at a rusty patch on his chain mail and oiled the corroded links. “He calls out to her in his sleep sometimes. Trust me, scholar, he suffers just as much as Bavragor, but he’d never admit it.”