by Markus Heitz
They set off through the passageways, taking the route that led to the forge where Boëndal was lying on his camp bed by the Dragon Fire furnace. Tungdil sat at the frozen dwarf’s bedside and talked to him as if he could hear every word.
Their hopes that Boëndal would make a miraculous recovery were disappointed that night.
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
The highwayman’s features were hidden beneath a mask, but Furgas recognized the voice immediately. He put his hands on his hips and confronted his assailant. “Don’t be an idiot, Rodario. If the guardsmen see you—”
“Your purse,” said the highwayman harshly, waving his dagger. “And make it snappy.”
“What, no flowery speeches?” Furgas stepped toward him. “Put away the dagger before someone sees us; we don’t want anyone rushing to my aid.”
The highwayman stood his ground and ran his finger menacingly along the blade. Furgas was assailed by doubt. In view of his prospective fatherhood, it seemed best to be careful. He unhooked his purse from his belt and threw it to the ground.
“That’s more like it,” growled the stranger, stooping as if to retrieve the loot. All of a sudden he threw up his arms, pulled the mask from his face and roared with laughter. “You fell for it,” crowed a jubilant Rodario. “How do you rate my performance now?”
“I could tell it was you,” said Furgas, picking up his purse. “What’s got into you?”
“Consider it payback,” said Rodario smugly. He paused for a moment to draw out his victory. “I heard the two of you slandering my reputation while I languished in my armored prison. Given the choice, I would have ambushed Narmora, but—”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t,” exclaimed Furgas. “The Curiosum would have to look for a new leading man.” He took the dagger from the impresario’s hand and tapped his forehead. “For someone who’s quite clever, you’re amazingly stupid.”
“Your money or your life,” said a voice from the rubble. “And make it snappy.”
Furgas rounded on his friend. “Don’t tell me there’s more!”
The impresario was white as a sheet. “Mine was a one-act play. I’m afraid he must be real.”
They turned around slowly to face a masked assailant holding a knife. The weapon glinted as it sped toward them. Skipping aside, Furgas plunged Rodario’s dagger into the highwayman’s arm.
The blade slid into the handle, re-emerging when the stranger stepped away. He and Furgas stared at the dagger in confusion.
“It’s a prop,” explained Rodario. “I’d never draw a real weapon on a friend.”
With a scornful laugh, the highwayman bore down on Furgas, slashing at him with the knife, which seemed to be coated with a strange yellow fluid. The prop master retreated, ducking and spinning away from the poisoned blade.
“I’m coming, Furgas,” shouted his friend, arming himself with a plank. Just then a second man stepped out of the rubble, raised a cudgel and brought it down on Rodario’s head. “How unsporting,” mumbled the impresario, drifting out of consciousness.
“Are you Furgas?” demanded his attacker. The voice echoed through Rodario’s dazed mind. He opened his eyes; a sword dripping with yellow fluid was pointed at his chest.
“Over here,” shouted the first man. “Furgas is over here.”
“If you’re looking for Furgas,” whispered Rodario feebly, “I’m your…” Despite his wooziness, he made a grab for the highwayman, but his fingers closed on thin air. The maneuver earned him a kick to the head, and darkness came over his mind.
Meanwhile, Furgas had been forced against the wall by the smaller of the men. “What do you want?”
“Your money,” hissed the highwayman. His companion ran over to join them. “Hand it over.”
Furgas unhooked his purse for a second time that evening and cast it to the ground. “There you go. It’s all I’ve got.”
The first man picked it up and weighed it in his hand. “Good. In that case, we’re done.” He was about to say something further when a shadow fell over them.
Looking up, they saw the dark outline of Djern’s armor silhouetted against the moonlit sky. The maga’s bodyguard was crouching on a raised portion of wall, in his left hand a sword two paces long. A purple glow emanated from the polished visor. Then the light intensified and Djern let out a terrible growl.
“Palandiell forfend…” stuttered the smaller highwayman, transfixed by the monstrous warrior. He took a few steps backward, unable to look away. “He’ll tear us to—”
Djern launched himself from the wall and soared through the air. Just then the second highwayman came at the astonished Furgas with his sword.
The blade rammed into his stomach, passing through his guts. A second later, the highwayman fell to the gutter as Djern, bringing down his sword, landed beside him and cut him lengthways in half.
The sword continued in a sweeping arc, lifting perpendicular to the floor as Djern whirled around and struck the other highwayman from behind. The blade caught the man above the pelvis, penetrated his unarmored midriff, and exited the other side, coming to rest in a wall.
Legs attached to his upper body by a ribbon of flesh, the highwayman slumped to the ground, whimpering unnaturally as his intestines poured from his stomach on a tide of crimson blood. A moment later, he was still.
Djern stepped over the corpse and retrieved his sword. Standing motionlessly by Furgas’s body, he waited until the torches of Andôkai’s guardsmen appeared in the distance; then, as the jangling armor grew louder, he slipped into the night.
V
Northern Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Five orbits had passed since Tungdil and Boïndil left the fifthling kingdom with a company of ten warriors on their way south through the sparsely populated countryside of Gauragar. They were looking for an entrance to the underground network, the location of which was marked on Tungdil’s map.
Springtime had arrived in northern Gauragar, breaking many cycles of bondage to the Perished Land. It seemed to the dwarves that everything was blossoming and burgeoning with new vitality. The flowers seemed to drip with honey-yellow nectar, and the pure country air was abuzz with industrious bees.
Not that the party, with the exception of Tungdil, took much interest in the scenery: In their view, nothing compared to the beauty of underground halls. Most were unaccustomed to daylight and resented the sunshine because it dazzled their eyes. To save their sight, they broke camp before dawn, slept in the afternoon and walked from dusk until the middle of the night.
It was Tungdil and Boïndil’s second journey south from the Gray Range. On the first occasion, many orbits previously, they had set off with the newly forged Keenfire, stopping in landur to throw off their pursuers, confident that neither Nôd’onn nor his orcish army would think to look for them in the home of their ancient foes. This time, they traveled due south, making straight for the nearest entrance to the underground network. Their mission was to find the outcasts, a mysterious group of dwarves who haunted the tunnels. No one knew exactly where they lived.
The company had left the fifthling kingdom in a hurry, which suited Tungdil on several counts.
For one thing, preparations were underway for Balyndis’s melding with the new fifthling king, and he didn’t want to add to his heartache by sticking around for the banquet. Quite apart from that, time was running out. Ushnotz’s scouts had made it as far as the Northern Pass, which meant the rest of the orcish army would be following close behind. Tungdil needed to find some reinforcements and get them to the fifthling kingdom before the hordes arrived. And he couldn’t discount the possibility of a separate invasion from the Outer Lands.
The journey passed mainly in silence; the exertion of marching, coupled with the weight of bedrolls and provisions, limited their conversation to the briefest of exchanges.<
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Boïndil, whose thoughts were with his brother, barely said a word. It had taken considerable effort to persuade him to leave his frozen twin, and he had done so only on the basis that Boëndal had no use for his axes, whereas Tungdil did.
On the morning of the sixth orbit they spotted the walls of a settlement. Adjusting his course, Tungdil made a beeline for the city. “Boïndil and I will find out what we can about the orcs. The rest of you get some sleep and be ready to leave this evening. With a bit of luck, we’ll reach the tunnels by dawn.”
Entering the city through the main gates, they were surprised by the lack of guards. By the time they made their way through the winding maze of narrow alleys, they were acutely aware of the silence.
“Humans are rarer than diamonds in this city,” grumbled Boïndil. “Do you think they’ve died of the plague?”
They headed for the nearest tavern to look for some answers.
The publican, a hirsute fellow of some forty cycles with the yellowest teeth that Tungdil had ever seen, practically fell over himself to welcome them. “It’s an honor to receive such distinguished guests,” he said with a bow. “Hillchester welcomes you.” He wiped his greasy hands on his apron. “I’ll give you my best room, of course, but I expect you’re in hurry to get to the market. The sun ceremony is the highlight of the cycle.”
Boïndil and the others stared at him in bemusement. They weren’t used to human ways.
“No wonder,” whispered Tungdil. “Everyone’s at the marketplace!” He followed the publican up the creaking staircase. “I’ll explain in a moment,” he hissed to Boïndil.
The publican rushed away and came back seconds later with a tub of water. While they washed the dust off their faces, Tungdil told them what he knew about the sun ceremony. “It’s a cyclical festival with stands selling food and drink and all kinds of attractions. There’ll be peddlers and hawkers and music and dancing… Boïndil and I will head over there now. If it’s worth seeing, the rest of you can take a look later—you’ll have something to tell the others back home.”
“Don’t wait for me,” said Boïndil, shooing him away. “If we search the city separately, we’ll be done in half the time.”
“Only if you promise to talk to them politely,” said Tungdil cautiously, remembering an earlier incident involving singed whiskers and an altercation in a tavern. It was a miracle that no one had been killed.
“Don’t worry, scholar, I know how to deal with long-uns,” breezed Boïndil, steering him out of the room. “See you at dusk.”
“Very well,” said Tungdil with a smile. “But I don’t want to have to break up any fights.” He closed the door behind him.
The spacious bar was remarkably empty. Sitting in the corner by the remains of the fire was a lone guest who, judging by his outfit, wasn’t a regular drinker at the tavern. He was wearing an expensively tailored tunic and knickerbockers of the finest cloth. His thin legs were clad in tights, and his fancy shoes were adorned with sparkling silver buckles. A ridiculous little hat perched on top of his bobbed black hair. He was clean-shaven and smelled as perfumed as a lady.
Tungdil couldn’t help grinning at his preposterous attire. To his astonishment, the man jumped to his feet and hurried over.
“There you are! I was beginning to think you weren’t coming!” he exclaimed, visibly relieved. “I’m Truk Elius. I’ll show you the way.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode to the door.
Tungdil scratched his beard. “I’m afraid I don’t…”
“Hurry up,” the man said sharply. “Come on, groundling, your services are required. We’re late enough already.” His pointed shoes drummed impatiently against the floor.
“Oh,” said Tungdil. He knew that most itinerant dwarves were blacksmiths, and it wasn’t uncommon for humans to assume that all dwarves were metalworkers. Still, blacksmiths weren’t in the habit of carrying weapons like Keenfire. The man was obviously stupid or blind. “You should probably ask someone else. I’m a bit out of practice.”
“Nonsense! Any groundling could handle a job like this.” The man’s blue eyes narrowed to slits. “Is this about money?” he asked suspiciously. “You’ll get the same as the others, and not a penny more. Another word, and I’ll report you as a troublemaker; you won’t be hired in Hillchester again.”
Tungdil decided to play along. Metalwork came easily to him, and it would be a good opportunity to ask some questions about the orcs. Besides, he didn’t want the citizens of Hillchester to think that his kinsfolk were unreliable—unlike gnomes and kobolds, the children of Vraccas could be trusted to keep their word. “I’ll do what I can, but it might take longer than usual—and I’m not a groundling; I’m a dwarf.”
Elius laughed. “After the first few strokes you’ll be fine.”
Tungdil had a sudden thought. “I haven’t brought any tools.”
“We’ve got everything set up for you,” said Elius, pointing to the door. “Let’s go.”
They hurried through the alleyways, heading for the center of Hillchester. Tungdil found himself jogging to keep up with the long-legged man.
Judging by the number of people who greeted them, Elius was a well-known personality in the town. After a while it dawned on the wheezing Tungdil that Truk wasn’t a forename, as he had supposed, but an honorific title. It seemed likely that his new employer was in the service of King Bruron.
Ahead of them, the alleyway broadened, opening into a proper street. Tungdil detected the hum of several hundred voices. They were still some distance away, but Tungdil guessed from the music and laughter that the festivities were in full swing.
Truk Elius rounded a corner and came to a halt. Tungdil stared at the vast gathering of people. From his standpoint, their legs and torsos formed a single impenetrable wall. There was no way through.
His pessimism wasn’t shared by Elius, who clearly thought it beneath him to make a detour around the square. “Out of the way,” he shouted, stepping briskly into the marketplace. “Out of the way, citizens of Hillchester!”
The crowd separated obediently, allowing the man and his stocky companion to pass.
After a while, Tungdil noticed a big wooden stage in the middle of the square. They seemed to be heading straight for it.
Standing on the rectangular platform were four soldiers and eight civilians dressed in nothing but thin, grubby rags. Steel handcuffs encircled their wrists, and blindfolds covered their eyes.
It looks like an execution, thought Tungdil, confused. Looking around, he realized that the festivities weren’t quite as harmless as he had imagined; the citizens of Hillchester were celebrating the imminent death of eight of their number—three women and five men. Elius ascended the steps to the platform, pausing when he realized that Tungdil had stopped. “Get a move on,” he ordered, signaling for him to follow.
It finally dawned on Tungdil that their route through the marketplace wasn’t a shortcut to the forge.
He thinks I’m an executioner! Tungdil stepped back. “There’s been a mistake,” he said loudly. “I’m not an executioner.”
The crowd gasped.
Elius strode down the steps toward him. “What’s this?” he hissed. “I warned you not to haggle. The rabble wants blood—if you don’t kill the prisoners, they’ll settle for yours.” He scrabbled around in his purse and pressed a few coins into Tungdil’s hand. “All right, here’s a little extra from me. Now get up there and do your job!”
“You don’t understand,” said Tungdil, determined to put an end to the confusion. “I’m not an executioner. My name is Tungdil Goldhand. I’m here on a—”
“Tungdil? I don’t know any Tungdils!” said Elius, taken aback. “We hired Bramdal, the best itinerant executioner in Gauragar.”
The crowd’s surprise turned to anger. It was clear from the shouts and jeers that they weren’t prepared to wait.
Elius glared at the dwarf. “I don’t care what your name is or who you are; all I need is a gro
undling.” He grabbed Tungdil’s shoulder and tried to drag him up the stairs, but the dwarf was determined not to budge. “Keep this up, and I’ll have you arrested,” threatened Elius. “I order you to behead them.”
“No,” said Tungdil, giving up on Elius and deciding to chance it with the crowd. The man seemed to fear the citizens of Hillchester, which Tungdil took as a positive sign. His legs carried him up the stairs and onto the podium.
A loud cheer went up from the assembled masses when the dwarf appeared on the stage. Tungdil looked at the rows of crazed faces, all baying for blood, and suspected that Elius was right. No one would leave the stage alive unless the execution went ahead. He and the eight prisoners were trapped.
The executioner’s block was at the center of the stage. The furrowed wood was stained with patches of dark red blood and bore the marks of countless executions. A broad-bladed ax lay two paces to the side.
The guards pushed a woman to the front of the stage. After a quick drum roll, a herald read out her name and her crime.
Tungdil gathered that his first victim was a disloyal spouse. The woman’s husband had died and she had been seen with a new suitor before the full period of mourning had elapsed. She wasn’t a murderer or a violent criminal; her only crime was love. Love. He suddenly thought of Balyndis.
The woman was dragged to the executioner’s block and forced to her knees. The guard’s movements were forceful and precise. He pushed her head against the wood, seized her long hair and wrapped it round a metal pole. Now her neck was exposed and she couldn’t turn her head or move. The drumming grew louder and faster.
A violent shove sent Tungdil stumbling forward. His hand touched the woman’s back, and he felt her shaking body through the flimsy fabric of her vest. Her sobs were barely audible, which made him pity her all the more. He stared at the soft, smooth skin on her neck and shoulders; she was only a girl, condemned to death by a law that, in Tungdil’s opinion, was downright absurd. If the humans want to kill her, they should do it themselves.