by Markus Heitz
Boëndal filled his pipe and they took turns smoking, each pursuing his thoughts. Tungdil looked out of the crumbling window and saw that the snow was falling faster than before.
A pair of snowmen appeared in the doorway: Furgas and Rodario were back from fishing. The prop master had caught two fully grown carp, but the impresario was clutching a single, insubstantial tench.
“A god among plowmen, but a terrible fisherman,” commented Bavragor, hoping that a bit of banter would dispel his gloomy thoughts.
Rodario didn’t rise to the taunt. “What’s the use of being a god when the mortals forsake you?” He pointed to the crumbling, damp-ridden frescoes. “Deities need lesser beings to adore them, or they fade and die. They lose their purpose; there’s no reason for them to exist.”
“Vraccas doesn’t need a purpose,” Boëndal told him firmly. “He created himself because it suited him, not because of anyone else.”
“I’m familiar with the creation myths, thank you, and I certainly don’t need any sermons from you.” The impresario turned his attention to filleting his fish. “We used to perform them on stage — very successfully, I might tell you. It’s true what they say: Old stories are always the best, although in the present circumstances our play about Nôd’onn seems to strike a chord.”
That was Tungdil’s cue to ask him about the theatrical effects he had witnessed in the Curiosum. Ever since the performance he had been longing to find out how they made the illusions seem so real.
“You’re interested in how we did it?” Rodario pointed his scaly knife at Furgas. “Ask the expert.”
While the impresario continued to hack away at the unfortunate tench, Furgas finished gutting the first carp and started on the second. “I know a fair bit about alchemy. That’s how we make the smoke, for example. Thick smoke, wispy smoke, red smoke, black smoke, whatever we need. The science of the elements is fascinating.”
Alchemy was one of the subjects taught by Lot-Ionan at the school and Tungdil was familiar with some of the chemicals, having fetched and carried them often enough. “But how did you extinguish all the lamps at once?”
“Magic,” Rodario whispered, trying to look enigmatic. “You thought Nôd’onn was the only magus left in Girdlegard, didn’t you?” He leaned over to Tungdil, fiddled with his ear, and pulled out a gold coin. “What do you say to that?”
“Thank you,” said Tungdil, snatching up the coin. He tested it with his teeth and knew at once that he’d been had. “Gold-plated lead,” he reported. “And not even good-quality gold.” He tossed back the coin. “Your magic’s not up to much.”
“He’s a conjurer, not a magus,” laughed Boëndal, pointing at the impresario with the stem of his pipe.
Rodario wagged a finger at him. “But the audience falls for it, and that’s what counts. Why, even the ugly little bögnilim were tricked by my art, and that, my friends, is what’s known as success.”
“So it’s all a case of conjuring, illusion, and alchemy,” said Tungdil, summing up.
Furgas nodded. “And makeup,” he added, glancing at his slender mistress. “Makeup convinces the eye of what it otherwise only suspects. It turns Narmora into an älf and sends the youngsters screaming to their parents.” He laughed. “That’s when we know that we’re doing something right.”
“Just be thankful it was Tungdil and not our lunatic ax man who visited your theater,” Bavragor said darkly. “He would have stormed the stage.”
“Poor Narmora,” Boëndal murmured unthinkingly. “Even without makeup she looks remarkably like an elf. Nature can be cruel sometimes.”
The comment prompted smiles from Furgas and Rodario, but Narmora shot the startled secondling a murderous look. Tungdil and Bavragor fell about laughing, thereby waking Goïmgar, who peered nervously over his shield.
“Oh,” said Boëndal, embarrassed. “That came out all wrong. I didn’t mean it that way,” he apologized.
“Are you sure I look like an elf, not an älf?” Narmora said threateningly. Her eyes, so dark they were almost black, glowered at him angrily. “I hope none of you get a nasty shock tonight…” She stood up, straightened her head scarf, and left the ruined temple. Her silhouette melted into the darkness.
“Ye gods, she’s a natural,” Rodario gushed. “Doesn’t she play the role to perfection? Of course, I’ve no intention of telling her. She’d only demand a raise.” He looked excitedly at the others for confirmation, and the dwarves concurred with mute nods. Boëndal was genuinely perturbed about what might befall him when he fell asleep that night.
The men finished filleting their catch and soon there was a smell of roasted fish. They all tucked in hungrily.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Tungdil said to Furgas. “How did you make the set? Everything — the woods, the palace… It looked so real.”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course!”
“Do I have your word?”
“Absolutely!”
“Swear by the blade of your ax.”
Tungdil swore himself to absolute secrecy.
“Magic,” announced Furgas with a mischievous grin. He smoothed his mustache.
“ Uh-huh,” sighed Tungdil, kicking himself for falling for the routine.
Boëndal sat up with a jolt and stifled a scream. For all the shock of being woken, he was glad to have escaped the visions that had plagued his sleep.
His relief was short-lived. On reaching for his crow’s beak, he was alarmed to discover that the weapon was gone. Slender fingers encircled his wrist.
He rolled over to find himself staring into the cruel, lean face of an älf. Clad in full armor, she was crouched beside him, studying him with cold, dark eyes. I’m still dreaming, he told himself frantically. It can’t be…
“Let that be a lesson to you,” he heard her hiss menacingly, just as his eyelids grew impossibly heavy and he drifted off to sleep.
When he woke for the second time, he leaped up, spluttering and gasping, and whirled round to face the threat. This time his crow’s beak was in its proper place and he snatched it up hastily.
The players were asleep: Narmora in Furgas’s arms, and Rodario, head resting in a pile of discarded fish skin, nestled beside the dying fire.
Boëndal studied them carefully. It didn’t look as though they were playing a joke on him. Heart still pounding, he recovered some of his composure and vowed never to offend the actress again.
It occurred to him that Goïmgar was supposed to be keeping watch for them, but the lookout post was empty and the sentry had vanished. The horses and ponies were all safely tethered, but a trail of footprints led away from the door.
Surely he’s not daft enough to run away in a snowstorm? Boëndal took a few steps outside and was almost knocked over by a flurry of snowflakes that seemed intent on laying him out. Suddenly he spotted a figure crumpled in the snow.
“Goïmgar!” Boëndal rushed over but the artisan didn’t respond. Blood was trickling from a narrow gash in his head. Boëndal carried him into the ruined temple, laid him next to the fire, and threw on a couple of extra logs.
“I…” Goïmgar’s teeth were chattering furiously. “I slipped.”
Boëndal covered him with two blankets. He can’t even pee without getting himself in a fix. Tactfully, he refrained from comment: Goïmgar had humiliated himself sufficiently already. Why Tungdil had picked the troublesome artisan was beyond him, especially with four perfectly acceptable diamond cutters to choose from. Vraccas is bound to have his reasons, he thought philosophically, as the bundle of misery slowly began to thaw. His beard, hair, and eyebrows were streaming with icy water.
Boëndal leaned over to talk to him. “Were you trying to get yourself killed out there?”
“No,” came the eventual reply.
“Be more careful in the future. We need you for our mission.”
“You mean the impostor needs me to help him steal the throne,” the shivering artisan muttered
darkly.
Boëndal didn’t bother to reply: The fourthling still hadn’t grasped that more was at stake than the succession, despite Tungdil’s well-meaning attempts to set him straight. How can anyone be so obtuse? Everything depends on the success of our mission, but he’s too stubborn to see it.
Goïmgar stopped shivering and stared straight past him toward the rear of the temple, where the marble gods were grouped. He gulped. “How many?” he whispered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“How many statues were here when we arrived?”
Boëndal thought for a moment. “Seven. Four big ones and three small ones.”
Goïmgar closed his eyes. “There are eight of them,” he hissed. “Five big ones. What are we going to do?”
“Which one wasn’t there before?” Boëndal’s fingers were already wrapped round the haft of his crow’s beak. He tensed his muscles.
“The third from the right.”
“Fine. I’ll go in for the attack and shout to wake the others. Meanwhile, you grab your shield and back me up until Boïndil takes over.”
“Me?”
“Who else am I supposed to ask?”
Before Goïmgar could protest, the crow’s beak swung up in a half circle, its long tip speeding toward the area just above the hips where there were no bones to slow its path. The wound would be deep and deadly. Like a miniature pennant, Boëndal’s plait traced the weapon’s movement in the air.
“For Vraccas!” he bellowed.
The statue shattered under the force of the blow, the crow’s beak smashing through the crumbling stone and dashing it to pieces. The damage to the deity, carved lovingly by humans, was absolute and irrevocable.
“Sorry,” Goïmgar said contritely, “I meant third from my right.” By then it was too late.
The hitherto inanimate statue suddenly came to life. Its eyes glowed lilac beneath its visor.
“Of all the dumb mistakes…” Boëndal swore under his breath and made to strike again.
His titanic adversary had other ideas. Moving with a speed that belied its size, the statue seized the dwarf’s forearms in its enormous hands and lifted him clean into the air. Boëndal found himself dangling two paces above the ground. His weapon clattered to the cracked marble floor.
His brother was on his feet already. “Let go of him!” Whipping out his axes, he was about to launch himself on his colossal opponent when he was blinded by a flash of light. The glare was so bright that he had to look away.
“That’s enough, Boïndil,” commanded a distinctive female voice. The glare softened to a weak glow, allowing them all to see.
The speaker emerged from behind the remaining statues and joined the giant’s side. Her crimson cloak was streaked with melting snow and she was holding a glowing sphere. “You can put Boëndal down now, Djerůn. I think they know who we are.”
“Andôkai!” cried Tungdil in astonishment, lowering his ax. “You’re back!”
She threw back her hood to show them her face.
“Andôkai? Andôkai the maga of Brandôkai? Andôkai the Tempestuous?” inquired Rodario. He didn’t seem to notice that his cheeks were covered in fish scales and that he was scarcely looking his best. “Isn’t she supposed to be dead?” He stared at her brazenly. “Confound it, you’re right!” He turned to Furgas and Narmora. “Andôkai’s alive. We’ll have to rewrite the play.”
“What play?” Slipping the globe inside her cloak, the maga strode to the fire and warmed her hands. Djerůn lowered Boëndal to the floor. “What’s he talking about? Who is he, anyway?”
“An impresario,” Tungdil said apologetically. It took all his self-control not to bombard her with questions.
“I see. I’ve been immortalized in a play already, have I? I hope the actress is suitably —”
Rodario was about to launch into a flattering explanation when Boëndal rounded on the maga.
“What the blazes was your giant up to? How was I supposed to know he was spying on us? I could have killed him!”
“He wasn’t spying; he was guarding your camp. And no, there was never any danger of you killing him,” she informed him in a condescending tone. She took off her cloak to allow the warmth to penetrate her other clothes. Underneath she was wearing full armor, thick winter garments, and a sword. She was broad-shouldered by nature, and the layers only added to her bulk. “He was here at my request to protect you from the älfar. They’ve been following you since Mifurdania.”
“I knew they were hunting us,” wailed Goïmgar.
Boïndil laughed. “I’d rather die in a fight with the älfar than be saved by a beast. Leave the pointy-ears to me.” He stroked the short hafts of his axes.
“I doubt you would have spotted them in time. They managed to follow you this far without you seeing them,” the maga said gravely. “Djerůn killed a couple of them three miles from here, but two escaped. I sent Djerůn ahead in case they tired of tracking you and decided to attack.”
“So it was him who rescued me in Sovereignston! I thought as much,” said Tungdil.
Andôkai nodded. “I’m afraid your attacker got away.”
“I wouldn’t have let the pointy-eared murderer escape with his life,” growled Boïndil. “My enemies never get the better of me, even if I have to chase them down.”
“I’m assuming you’ve never been shot at by an älf archer.” She gave the dwarf a pitying look. “And anyway, warriors who run after their enemies should be careful about being trapped.”
“My enemies never trap me,” Boïndil said mulishly. He took up his old position atop the fallen pillar.
The extra height brought him level with the giant. He peered through the visor, curious to see what lay among the shadows, but his eyes, despite being accustomed to darkness, failed to penetrate the gloom. It was as if Djerůn’s helmet contained nothing but bottomless space.
The others sat down in a circle around the fire.
By this time the players were wide-awake. While Narmora returned her fantastical weapons to her belt, Rodario whipped out his notepad and quill, only to discover that the ink was frozen solid. Djerůn had already retreated to the rear of the temple, where he transformed himself into a statue and waited in the gloom.
Tungdil waited for everyone to settle. “What changed your mind, maga?” he asked at last. “How did you find us?”
“Your new companions can be trusted, I assume?”
“They helped us get here. You can trust them.”
Boïndil grunted disapprovingly from his perch.
“You can trust us with your lives,” Rodario declared expansively, seizing the opportunity to introduce the troupe in characteristically florid style. “We know all about Keenfire, of course. In fact,” he said, waving his arms extravagantly, “we rescued these future heroes, these champions of legends as yet unwritten, from a fate most foul by plucking them from the claws and swords of a pack of vicious bögnilim. We’re completely reliable, most Estimable Maga.”
Under normal circumstances his smile had the power to melt the thickest ice and soften the hardest stone, but this time it failed: Andôkai was unmoved.
“You made me come back,” she said accusingly, glaring at Tungdil. “It’s your fault for hounding me about my duty. Everything you said kept running through my head until I couldn’t take it any longer. My conscience wouldn’t let me abandon Girdlegard and so I returned. Besides, there are a thousand reasons why Nôd’onn deserves to die.”
Her face seemed less severe in the flickering light of the fire, her features somehow softer, more feminine. Rodario couldn’t take his eyes off her and was hanging on her every word. He seemed to regard her forbidding charm and stern manner as a challenge to his seductive powers.
“So I went back to Ogre’s Death and took another look at the passage that I hadn’t been able to make sense of. You remember, don’t you? The only remaining uncertainty in the plan…” Gazing into the flames, she motioned with her hand, marshaling the sparks in
to the script of the common tongue. One by one the words flared up and faded in an instant.
Rodario read them aloud: “Keenfire must be forged by the undergroundlings, then wielded by the undergroundlings’ foe.” He snatched up a piece of charred wood. “I need to write it down before I forget. What use is a quill without ink? I could kick myself for letting it freeze.”
“You write, and I’ll kick,” Bavragor said magnanimously.
“The gods save me from your hulking boots,” exclaimed Rodario, shooing him away. “Wait and see, we’ll have the best play ever performed in Girdlegard!” His hand moved busily across the page. “They’ll be fighting to get through the door!” He was about to launch into another effusive speech, but Furgas jabbed him in the ribs.
“The undergroundlings’ foe,” murmured Tungdil, unable to mask his disappointment. What could it mean?
Boëndal couldn’t make sense of it either. “We’ve got no shortage of foes. Ogres, for example” — he cast a sideways glance at Djerůn — “not to mention orcs, bögnilim, and all the other beasts created by Tion to plague the kingdoms of men, elves, and dwarves. Come on, scholar, surely you can think of something. A bit of book-learning might be exactly what we need.”
Bavragor took a swig of his brandy. “We could have a bit of fun with this. Why don’t we catch an orc and torture him until he agrees to clobber Nôd’onn? Or maybe we could talk an ogre into taking a swipe at him with our ax.”
“I guess that’s the end of the expedition, then,” said Goïmgar, readily accepting defeat. He suddenly paled. “Who’s going to tell the others? King Gandogar doesn’t know!”
Tungdil expelled his breath in a long sigh. “Are you absolutely sure of the meaning?” he asked slowly.
The maga nodded. “I’m afraid so. I read it over and over again.”
“Do you have any suggestions?” He glanced at Djerůn. She smiled. “Djerůn isn’t your foe, if that’s what you’re thinking. He can’t do it.”
Tungdil scratched his beard, which had grown to something approaching its former length. “Then we’re facing a considerable obstacle.” He looked into the faces of his companions. “I don’t know what to suggest.” He lay down and pulled up his blanket. “Maybe Vraccas will send me some inspiration in the night. Get some rest; we’re bound to need our strength for whatever lies ahead.”