The Dwarves Omnibus

by Markus Heitz

  Booted feet thundered up the stairs and across the landing to their room. The next moment, armored guards burst inside, halberds pointing menacingly toward them.

  “Light, I need more light!” shouted someone, and in an instant lamps were passed forward and more guards thronged inside.

  The coins and the knife! Tungdil was about to throw the gold out of the window and tell Boïndil to put away the dagger, but already the room was bathed in light, revealing telltale red smudges on his fingers: The coins and the dagger were covered in blood.

  “By Palandiell,” exclaimed the captain of the guards, a strong man of some forty cycles with a small scar on the left side of his face. “I’ve never seen such brazen criminals. Just look at the ruffians! Sitting here calmly, dividing their loot.” His eyes shifted to the dagger in Boïndil’s hand. “He’s even holding the murder weapon!” He waved his men forward. “Arrest the lot of them, the men as well as the little fellows. We’ll soon find out which of them were embroiled in this dastardly business.”

  “What business would that be, oh worthy guardian of our municipal safety?” inquired Rodario in his most amiable and gracious tone. He could easily have been inquiring about the weather. He adjusted his undergarments with aristocratic elegance. “Perhaps you would care to enlighten us?”

  “Sir Darolan was murdered at knifepoint not three streets from here.” He glared at Boïndil. “The game’s up. You were seen and followed.” He turned to one of his men. “There’s a whole band of them. Professionals, I’ll warrant.”

  “I’m afraid there’s been a terrible misunderstanding,” chimed in Tungdil. He outlined what had happened before the arrival of the guards, holding up the lock of beard as evidence. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a snippet of fleece.

  The captain laughed in his face. “A likely story, groundling. I’ve never heard such nonsense.”

  “I know it sounds strange, but —”

  “Strange? It’s preposterous! I’m arresting you and your accomplices in the name of King Nate. One of you will sign a confession soon enough. We’ve solved every murder in this city by putting the suspects on the rack.”

  “As I was saying,” Rodario resumed smoothly, “the dwarves are nothing to do with us.” He winked furtively at Tungdil. “In fact, my companions and I were accompanying the lady when —”

  “Save your stories for the interrogator,” the captain interrupted him harshly. Just then his dour face brightened and he looked at them with sudden kindness. “Although, I must say, the evidence in your favor is quite compelling…” He took the strand of fake beard from Tungdil and gestured to the door. “We’ve been wasting our time,” he told his guards. “The real murderer led us here on false pretenses. We need to get after him before the trail goes cold.”

  “But, Captain!” one of his subordinates protested vigorously. “We saw the dwarf run into the tavern —”

  “Get a move on,” the captain ordered. “Outside on the double! We’ll never find him at this rate.” Realizing that he was not to be dissuaded, the baffled guardsmen followed his instructions and exited the room. Soon afterward their clunking armor could be heard through the open window.

  “That was close. Thank goodness he changed his mind.” Rodario breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Can we go to bed now?”

  Andôkai was already packing her things. “He’ll come to his senses before too long. The sooner we leave, the better. The spell won’t last forever.”

  “What do you mean, come to his senses? He’s always like that,” objected Boïndil, scratching his beard in confusion.

  “She means the captain, not Rodario,” explained Tungdil with a grin. It dawned on him why no one ever challenged Djerůn; the maga could obviously control people’s thoughts. “She put a spell on him. Why else would he let us go?” He stared pensively at a tuft of fleece that had stuck to his fingers. The whole thing was a setup and it almost succeeded. “Someone was trying to get us into trouble.”

  “And it nearly worked! The villain disguised himself as a dwarf,” said Boïndil, scandalized. He started to pack. “Just wait until I get my hands on him. He’ll wish he’d never been born.”

  “Children can’t move that fast,” mused Balyndis, gathering her things. “It must have been a gnome or a kobold or…”

  Tungdil raised his hands to his head in sudden understanding. “Of course! Bislipur’s gnome!” They hurried out of the room and down the stairs. “Sverd must have followed us and waited for the opportunity to land us in real trouble. Bislipur’s behind it all!”

  “You can’t fault the gnome’s persistence,” said Bavragor admiringly, tugging on the straps of his pack. “To think he followed us all this way.”

  “It would have been easy enough to track us,” argued Boïndil. He peered into the front room of the tavern before waving the others on.

  “Not necessarily,” countered Balyndis, impressed by Sverd’s tenacity. “He must have snuck into the firstling kingdom and found his way into the tunnels. That takes some doing.”

  “Remember the buckle we found in the runaway wagon?” Tungdil tiptoed to the door and scanned the street. “I knew I recognized it from somewhere.” He slipped out of the tavern with Boïndil at his side. “We’re safe,” he said. “They’re searching another street.”

  “You mustn’t run,” Boïndil told Goïmgar. “Running in the middle of the night only attracts attention. They’ll assume you’re a criminal.”

  The travelers proceeded at a leisurely pace, chatting and smiling as if they were out for a nighttime stroll. Nothing in their behavior suggested they were engaged in illicit activity or fleeing a murder scene. Djerůn stayed in the shadows, trying to keep a low profile.

  Before they could reach the gates, a group of guards approached on a routine patrol.

  “Remember, Goïmgar: Just stay calm,” whispered Boïndil.

  “Shush,” hissed Balyndis with one eye on the trembling artisan. “You’re only making things worse!”

  The guards were getting closer and had almost drawn level when a thin voice piped up. “Arrest the villains! Those are the culprits! Arrest them, guards! They’re getting away!”

  “That blasted gnome. I’ll wring his scrawny neck,” growled Ireheart, whipping out his axes to defend himself. The bewildered guardsmen looked to their leader for direction.

  Just then the captain of the first patrol burst onto the street, shouting orders for their arrest. Candles blazed in the windows, shutters were opened, and the city awoke from its slumber.

  “We don’t have time for explanations,” said Andôkai, drawing her sword. “They won’t believe us and we’ll rot in their dungeons.”

  “So what do we do?” demanded Bavragor, gripping the haft of his hammer, ready to fight his way out of the gates.

  “It’s probably best if I slip away now,” said Rodario, shouldering his precious bag of costumes and hastily taking his leave. “I’ll see you outside the city. I don’t want to get in your way.” He hurried into a side street before the guards could surround them.

  “Never trust an actor.” Narmora grinned and pulled out her weapons.

  Tungdil held up his ax, poll first. “Don’t kill unless you have to,” he instructed them. “We’re leaving Roodacre — whether they like it or not.”

  Tungdil couldn’t help noticing that their opponents were woefully underprepared. More accustomed to chasing purse snatchers and incarcerating drunks, the guards had little experience with combat and stood no chance of restraining four staunch dwarves, a maga, a half älf, and a giant.

  Furgas wasn’t much of a warrior, but he held his ground valiantly and cleared enough space for Narmora to swing her weapons unimpeded. Goïmgar was tasked with guarding the rest of the ingots.

  After the shortest of skirmishes, they hurried to the gates, where Rodario was conversing with a guard. The whole company descended on the distracted sentry before he could sound the alarm. When he eventually noticed the maga, it was already t
oo late.

  “You will let us through,” she intoned. “You will let us through and tell no one that we passed this way.” Even as she spoke, the sentry’s eyes glazed over and he raised the portcullis without a word.

  “Didn’t I do well?” the impresario said to Andôkai. “I bewitched his senses with my silvery speech, thus enabling the Estimable Maga to cast her spell. Magic certainly has its uses. I don’t suppose you’d consider a spot of backstage conjuring? Together we could put on a spectacle of such —”

  Furgas shook his head despairingly. “For pity’s sake, Rodario!”

  “There’s no harm in asking. We need to earn a living somehow when our amazing adventure is at an end.”

  Bavragor laughed. “Assuming you survive that long.”

  Buffeted by the wind, the rising portcullis made enough of a racket to wake the other sentries, whom Boïndil attacked with enthusiasm. He stuck to using his poll as instructed, but Tungdil detected the sound of splintering bone.

  He’s desperate to finish them off. He looked in consternation at the bloodied and oddly misshapen face of a sentry. The man keeled over as Ireheart landed a follow-up blow. With at least one dead, the company would be wanted for multiple murder as well as theft.

  Meanwhile, the portcullis was still rising slowly, but Sverd had followed them and was hiding in an alleyway, preparing to alert the guards a second time. “They’re escaping! The murderers are escaping through the gates!”

  Even the last determined sleepers in the city were torn from their slumber by his shouts. Everyone with two legs and a weapon found their way onto the street, including the first courageous members of the militia, who came running out of their houses, having barely stopped to dress.

  “Do something, Andôkai,” shouted Tungdil, terrified of what would happen to the citizens of Roodacre if the battle-crazed Boïndil was to rampage through the city. “We won’t be able to hold them off.”

  This time she didn’t turn to sorcery. “Djerůn,” she barked, and issued an unintelligible order.

  The giant stepped forward. The torches of the assembled crowd bathed his armor in flickering light, bringing the threatening visor to life. At that moment the helmet produced a noise unlike anything Tungdil had heard in his life. It was a cross between a reptilian hiss and the dull, ponderous rumble of an earthquake, a sound so full of aggression and menace that anyone in earshot knew instantly not to approach. Tungdil felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. He took a nervous step back.

  Inside the helmet, the violet glow intensified, streaming out of the eyeholes and outshining the torches. The horrified faces of the transfixed crowd were steeped in a purple light that was painful to behold.

  The second roar was even louder and more terrifying than the first. This time everyone, including the guardsmen, turned in panic and fled, running back through the streets and alleyways to safety.

  The portcullis was almost fully raised. “Let’s g-go,” stuttered Tungdil, still shaken by the sound of Djerůn’s voice. Assuming it was his voice…

  They ran into the night, glancing over their shoulders as they hurried down the snowy road. No one followed. The giant’s performance had made enough of an impression to dissuade the townspeople from hunting them down.

  As for Tungdil, he was more curious than ever about the armored warrior, although he suspected the truth would be less than reassuring. It’s not a human, at any rate, he decided.

  The company jogged in silence through the snow. After a while, Bavragor, who had fallen in line behind Goïmgar, pointed to the artisan’s back. “Where are the ingots?” he panted breathlessly, listening in vain for a response. “Hey, I asked you a question!”

  Goïmgar sped up, intent on getting far enough ahead before he dared to answer. “I lost them,” he said plaintively. “A guardsman knocked the bag from my hand and I couldn’t reach it in the scrum. I’m sorry, I honestly didn’t mean to —”

  “Didn’t mean to…? I’ll give you didn’t-mean-to, you worthless little —” Bavragor lunged at him but was restrained by Tungdil from behind.

  “It’s all right, Bavragor.”

  The mason was beside himself. His chestnut eye glinted angrily. “All right? We’ve lost every single one of the ingots! We can’t exactly fetch them now!”

  “We’ll be in the fifthling kingdom before you know it; we’re bound to find something there,” said Tungdil in a firm, confident voice that reminded everyone that he was the leader. To his mind, the matter was closed.

  “But you said we shouldn’t rely on finding materials on the way,” Bavragor objected stubbornly. “So why —”

  “What’s done is done,” Tungdil said sharply. “We’ll have to make the best of things.” He loosened his hold on Bavragor and clapped him on the back. “No matter what happens, we’re not going to let it stop us. We can’t! No one else is going to forge the ax and save Girdlegard. It’s up to us.”

  “It would be a darned sight easier without Goïmgar,” grumbled Bavragor. “He only drags us down.”

  “Vraccas must have made him part of this mission for a reason.” Tungdil noticed that the mason was wheezing. “Steady on, Bavragor, you’d better stop talking before you get a stitch. Goïmgar’s fitter than you.”

  “Cowards always make good runners.” Even as he spoke, there was a jangling noise and he stiffened. Before he could take another step, his legs buckled and he toppled over, raising a cloud of glistening snow. When the flakes settled, he was buried beneath a layer of white crystals. Sticking out of his neck was a bolt fired from a crossbow.

  The others, with the exception of Djerůn, threw themselves to the ground so as not to fall victim to the archer. Once again, Andôkai barked an unintelligible command, whereupon the giant scanned their surroundings and set off at a sprint.

  It definitely wasn’t an älf, thought Tungdil. Unlike Djerůn, he could see no sign of their hidden assailant. Guardsmen? But guardsmen carry torches…

  The maga crawled through the snow to examine the mason’s wound. Balyndis wriggled over to join her.

  “The tip stopped just short of his spine,” said Andôkai, after a cursory inspection. “If it weren’t for his cloak and the metal-plated nape of his helmet, it would have penetrated farther.” She gripped the shaft of the bolt resolutely and pulled it from his flesh. With her right hand she stemmed the blood from the wound. “I hope he’ll forgive me for using my dastardly magic to save his life.” She closed her eyes in concentration. “I can’t say I’ve had much experience in healing dwarves. I hope I can do it.”

  So do I. Something whirred past Tungdil, just missing his head; then a third missile rebounded off Goïmgar’s shield. They heard a high-pitched scream, which stopped abruptly as Djerůn seized his prey.

  He cast their tormentor into the snow beside them. A yellowy-green circle sullied the pristine snow around the diminutive corpse. A head with two long pointed ears plumped beside it.

  Goïmgar shrank back in horror. “Sverd!” The dead cross-bowman was Bislipur’s former slave. The artisan looked at the mangled gnome and shuddered, then stared at the dent in his shield where the third bolt had struck. “But why would he…” He broke off, not wishing to draw attention to the matter, but Tungdil finished the question for him.

  “Why would Sverd be aiming at you?” He stared into the gnome’s unseeing eyes, but Djerůn’s ruthless solution to the problem had ruled out all hope of an answer. “You were traveling with the wrong party, I suppose.”

  He bent down to pick up the now-redundant choker. Sverd was free at last, but not in the way he had hoped. Pensively, he pocketed the collar, intending to confront Bislipur with the evidence when they next met. As he looked down, he noticed a shiny lump of butter-yellow metal. Gold! There could be no further doubt that the gnome was responsible for the mishaps that had befallen them on their journey.

  Boïndil got straight to the point. “Bislipur is the most contemptible dwarf that ever lived.” He wiped the snow furiously from
his thick cloak and beard. “Setting his lackey on us and trying to have us killed! Dwarves don’t assassinate their kinsfolk; it’s the most dastardly crime a child of Vraccas could commit!”

  “The gnome did all his dirty work,” commented Tungdil, his mind still whirring. “Bislipur wasn’t going to kill us himself. He would have washed his hands of all responsibility.”

  “Just wait until I get hold of his wretched king,” threatened Boïndil, praying to Vraccas to hasten their encounter. “I’m going to beat him black-and-blue.”

  Still struggling to digest what had happened, Goïmgar shook his head slowly. “No, Gandogar would never have agreed to it; he’s not a murderer, whatever you think. Bislipur must have taken it upon himself to…” The artisan lapsed into a helpless silence, no longer sure what to believe.

  “Hang on a minute; you want Gandogar to be high king, don’t you?” Boïndil accused him suspiciously.

  “Of course I do! I said so from the start. But to murder a dwarf because of it…” He shuddered. “Bislipur must be mad,” he murmured, staring at Bavragor’s motionless form. “He must be so desperate for Gandogar to be crowned that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s insane.”

  Balyndis took Bavragor’s hand to comfort him. Slowly the open wound in his neck shriveled until only a small scar was left. Exhausted, Andôkai sank down and cooled her face on the snow.

  “I’ve healed the wound,” she said faintly. “In a moment he’ll…”

  “Magic,” Bavragor muttered sleepily. “I’ve been thinking; maybe it’s not so useless after all.” Groggily, but with a profoundly serious expression, he nodded to the exhausted maga. There was no need for him to thank her in any other way.

  A question if I may, glorious captain of our troupe.” The sun was just rising when Rodario, shivering with cold but gripping his duffel bag with grim determination, drew alongside Tungdil. The impresario pointed furtively at Djerůn. The events of the previous night had reminded him and the others that the giant was unlikely to be an unusually tall man. “What kind of creature is he?” The question was barely audible through the layers of scarf wrapped around his head.