The Dwarves Omnibus

by Markus Heitz

  “What are you waiting for?” snarled the guard. “Hurry up and chop off her head. There’s another seven to go.”

  “For the last time, I’m not an executioner!” shouted Tungdil, holding Keenfire in the air. “My name is Tungdil Goldhand. This blade killed Nôd’onn and freed you from the Perished Land. I’m not your henchman.” He picked up the executioner’s ax and held it out for the guard to take. “Here, do it yourself if you’re so keen for her to die. I won’t do it for you.”

  His speech caused an uproar. Pushing and shoving, the crowd surged forward, determined to see blood.

  “Now look what you’ve done, you stupid groundling,” snapped Elius, staring fearfully at the mob. It was clear that the soldiers were barely able to restrain the frenzied crowd.

  Tungdil offered him the ax without a word.

  “What are you doing? I’m not an executioner, I’m a Truk,” said Elius indignantly. He stooped down and shoved his face into Tungdil’s, filling the dwarf’s nostrils with his perfume. “You’ll rot in prison for this, groundling,” he hissed with a shake of his ridiculous little hat. “Although I’ve a mind to throw you to the crowd.”

  Another cheer went up, louder and more triumphant. Tungdil and Elius swung round.

  A powerfully built dwarf was limping across the stage toward them. He was dressed in black with brown leather armor and heavy boots. His features were hidden by a leather mask, and long fair braids hung down from his chin.

  His footsteps thudded against the planked floor. “I was delayed,” he said tersely. Without another word, he took the executioner’s ax from Tungdil and marched to the block. He didn’t stop to take aim, just hefted the weapon with two hands and swung it mid-stride.

  The blade cut a whistling arc through the air and connected with the prisoner’s neck, killing her outright. Her head thudded to the floor, and blood spurted from the grisly stump. Her headless torso twitched a final time, showering the front row of spectators with droplets of blood, then her body fell from the block.

  The black-clad dwarf sliced through her hair to free the head from the pole. He held it up for the crowd to see. The ax had chopped cleanly through skin, sinew, and bone. Bramdal certainly knew his stuff.

  “Get out of my sight,” hissed Elius to Tungdil, who quickly obliged. Hurrying away from the stage, he found himself a spot not far from the marketplace and settled down to wait for Bramdal. It didn’t occur to him to return Elius’s money; gold was gold.

  The crowd cheered for a bit, then went quiet, a pattern that repeated itself at irregular intervals another seven times. Then the music started and the citizens of Hillchester laughed, cheered, danced, and celebrated while the severed heads were hoisted on flagpoles next to the stage.

  A short while later, the black-clad dwarf appeared at Tungdil’s side. A few specks of gore flecked his boots and his armor, but his clothes bore no trace of his grisly work. Tungdil looked him up and down. His leather mask was dangling from his belt.

  “I heard about the mix-up,” laughed the executioner. “It’s not often I’m mistaken for another dwarf.” He held out his hand. “I’m Bramdal Masterstroke.” There was a pause while he waited for Tungdil to reply.

  Tungdil studied his features. Bramdal Masterstroke, professional executioner, was many cycles older than he was, but his deep brown eyes were bright and shiny. Despite his gruesome trade and the many deaths he had witnessed, he seemed neither gloomy nor remorseful.

  Tungdil cleared his throat. “Why do you do this?” he demanded, gesturing toward the eight heads hoisted from the flagpoles.

  “Why not? Some dwarves are smiths, some are bakers, and I’m an executioner. It’s just a trade.” His eyes smiled at Tungdil from under the black headscarf that covered his fair hair. His cheeks were shaven except for a small circle around his mouth and chin. “Shall we go somewhere quieter?”

  They set off down the alleyway.

  “Which kingdom are you from, Tungdil Goldhand?” enquired the executioner in a soft, gentle voice. “I’d like to hear news of my kinsfolk. It’s a rare pleasure to meet another dwarf, and you don’t look like a tinker or a traveling smith. Are you an exile?”

  “I was going to ask you the same,” said Tungdil, thanking Vraccas for introducing him to the dwarf. In spite of the initially unpromising circumstances of their encounter, it looked as though Bramdal might be the key to locating the tunnel-dwelling dwarves. “Are you an outcast?” he demanded.

  Bramdal laughed. “Yes and no. I’ve found a new home, far away from the other folks. I didn’t like the rules in my kingdom, so I broke them on purpose. I’m an exile by choice.” He played with his corn-colored braids. “Nothing would induce me to go back. How about you?”

  Tungdil was about to introduce himself properly and explain the nature of his mission and the fortuitousness of their encounter when he suddenly thought the better of it and decided to let Bramdal think that he was an outcast too. “I loved a maiden and her heart belonged to me, but she was promised to someone else. I killed him in a quarrel.” The lie came easily—too easily. He looked away.

  Bramdal nodded. “Not all of our laws are just, and it’s time they were changed.” He looked at Tungdil intently. “What if I were to tell you that there’s a place where dwarves aren’t tied to the precepts of family and clan?”

  He stopped in front of a tavern and held the door open for Tungdil, who was digesting the news. They sat down by the fire and the executioner ordered two beers.

  “Is there really such a place?” asked Tungdil, after taking a long draft of beer.

  Bramdal nodded. “There is indeed, Tungdil Goldhand. It’s a place where dwarves live together as equals, free from the tyranny of traditions and laws.”

  “Isn’t it chaos?”

  “We still have rules,” admitted the executioner. “The king and queen make sure we stick to them, but it’s basic stuff about working for the common good and not harming each other. There’s nothing about clan lore and other bunkum. We’re equals, and no one can tell us what to do.”

  Tungdil looked at Bramdal over the rim of his tankard. “So why are you in Gauragar, chopping off heads?”

  “For the money, of course,” the executioner said coolly. “I used to be really busy when the Perished Land was still around. With revenants all over the place, my skills were in demand. Besides, I like to help humans; it’s our Vraccas-given task.”

  “Help them?” exclaimed Tungdil. “You’ve made it your business to kill them. How does that make you different to an orc?”

  “I’m protecting them from themselves. I don’t kill for the sake of killing; my duty is to clear out the dross. Vraccas wants us to help the humans, so I rid them of lawbreakers like the eight men and women on the stage. A quick blow to the neck, and the city is a safer place. Criminals are as dangerous as orcs.”

  “What about the widow who didn’t stick to the mourning period? Was she a danger?”

  “She broke the law, and that’s the danger. It’s not my place to question their laws,” said Bramdal, emptying his tankard. “It’s stupid to have too many laws, but it’s important to keep the ones you’ve got. Humans, elves, dwarves—we’re all the same.” He cocked his head. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

  “What question?”

  “About your lineage.”

  “I’m a…” He stopped short, unsure of what to say. The beer and the memory of Balyndis weighed on his heart.

  “Only a thirdling would hesitate like that,” observed Bramdal. His voice was calm and non-judgmental. “You’re not obliged to answer. In any case, lineage doesn’t matter where I come from.”

  Tungdil leaned forward. “Do you mean you’ve got thirdlings in your kingdom?”

  Bramdal roared with laughter, delighted by Tungdil’s amazement. “Our halls are open to all exiles, regardless of where they come from—including members of the thirdling kingdom. All we ask is that everyone sticks to the rules; if they don’t…” He laid his ri
ght hand on his ax.

  The executioner’s explanation only added to Tungdil’s confusion. He was looking forward to seeing the outcasts’ kingdom for himself. “How do I get there?” he asked. “I’d like to visit the place you speak of. Are you sure they’ll let me in?”

  Bramdal gave him directions to a pond that Tungdil judged to be located near the entrance to the tunnels. “Strap weights to your ankles and jump into the pool. It’s important to sink to the very bottom—only then will you be admitted to the freelings’ halls.”

  “Is that what you call yourselves?”

  “Free by nature, free by name.” Glancing up, Bramdal spotted a man sitting two tables to their left. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, picking up his rucksack and limping across the bar. He and the man talked in hushed tones.

  Tungdil wasn’t sure what to make of the instructions. Dwarves were famously suspicious of water, regardless of the depth.

  He still had painful memories of traveling across Girdlegard with the twins, neither of whom would set foot on a boat, resulting in constant detours. Like most of their kinsfolk, they believed that contact with water would lead to certain death. In their opinion, any lake, tarn, river, or stream outside a dwarven kingdom was a threat.

  How am I going to get Boïndil to weigh himself down and jump into a pond when he won’t even tread in a puddle? Tungdil leaned back in his chair and racked his brains. He had to hand it to the outlaws—it was the perfect way of hiding their existence from the other folks. It’s going to be a real challenge. He watched the man push a couple of coins toward Bramdal, in return for which he was handed a small object wrapped in cloth.

  “What was that about?” asked Tungdil nosily when the executioner returned.

  “You don’t want to know. It’s superstitious human stuff,” replied Bramdal in a tone that was affable but firm.

  Rather than press him for details that he probably wouldn’t get, he tried another tack. It had occurred to him that some of the dwarf-like inhabitants from the Outer Lands might have crossed into Girdlegard, and he wondered whether Bramdal might have met one. “You’ve been living with the freelings for a while. Have you ever seen an undergroundling in your realm?” He ran a finger around the rim of his tankard and traced a moist rune on the tabletop. It was the mysterious symbol from the cave. “Do you know what this means?”

  Bramdal raised his eyebrows. “No idea. Undergroundlings, did you say?”

  It was too much to hope for. “It’s just a rumor I’d heard of. Where are you heading now? The roads aren’t safe at the moment. An army of orcs is marching north toward the Gray Range—we had a run-in with some of their scouts.”

  The executioner shook his head, braids flying to the side. “It’s all right, I’m on my way south. I’m needed in the next city: The prisons are overflowing with criminals and justice must be done.” He held out his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Tungdil Goldhand,” he said solemnly. “Perhaps our paths will cross again. I hope I’ve been of some assistance. May Vraccas guide you to your goal.” He shouldered his rucksack and limped to the door. Outside, it was pouring with rain. Bramdal took a step back, put up his hood, and slipped away.

  “Excuse me, but do you happen to know what the executioner sold to that man?” asked Tungdil when the publican collected his empty tankard. The man bent down and whispered in his ear. Tungdil’s eyes widened: Bramdal was trading in body parts.

  “They make excellent talismans,” explained the publican. “Candles from the tallow of murderers will cure most illnesses, and a thief’s little finger is good against fire. I’ve got one myself.” He raised his hand with the empty tankards and pointed to the ceiling. A shriveled scrap of blackened flesh was fixed by a nail to the beam. With a bit of imagination, it was possible to make out the shape of a finger. “This street has been struck by lightning on two occasions, but my tavern has never been hit.”

  Tungdil shuddered and paid up quickly, keen to escape before he was hit on the head by a dead man’s finger. He set off to tell his friends of his discovery. The outcasts would be easier to find than he had imagined—although there was still the challenge of persuading his companions to dive into a pond.

  As he trudged through the alleyways of Hillchester, he realized that Bramdal hadn’t told him the reason for his banishment. The word murder haunted his thoughts.

  At last the laughter died down.

  Boïndil ran a hand over his eyes to wipe away his tears of mirth, while the others lay back on their beds and struggled for breath.

  “That was a good one, scholar,” chuckled Boïndil. “But, joking aside, how do we get to their realm?”

  Tungdil sighed. “I just told you. I was quoting Bramdal exactly.”

  Boïndil’s grin disappeared. “Let me get this straight: You’re asking me to jump into a pond.” He leaned forward and sniffed Tungdil’s breath. “Ha, no wonder! How many tankards have you had? Weights on my ankles, I ask you!” He noticed the grave expression on Tungdil’s face. “By the hammer of Vraccas, I won’t do it! Elria’s curse is bad enough, but drowning ourselves on purpose…” He folded his arms in front of his chest and stuck out his chin, black beard aquiver. “Not in a million cycles!”

  “How do we know that Bramdal’s not a thirdling?” piped up one of the others. “He could have made up the stuff about the entrance to trick us into drowning.”

  Boïndil whipped around. “Exactly!” he said fiercely. “It’s a trick! We’ll get there, and he’ll be hiding in the bushes, waiting for us to drown in his confounded pond. I bet he’s dreaming up a way to thieve our armor.”

  “There might be dwarf-eating fish in the water,” ventured one of his companions.

  Tungdil raised his eyebrows. “All right,” he challenged them. “Name me a dwarf who died by drowning.”

  “I’ve heard all kinds of terrible stories,” said Boïndil balefully. “I can’t remember the poor fellows’ names.”

  “I’m not talking about stories,” persisted Tungdil. “I want names: names of friends, friends of friends, or relatives, who died by drowning. It seems to me that Elria had plenty of opportunity to kill us on the way to the Blacksaddle, but no one died, as far as I know.” He stared into their wrinkly faces. “Well?”

  No one said a word. Boïndil examined the runes on his axes while the others stared at the ceiling or rearranged their clothes.

  “I won’t do it,” said Boïndil at last. “I don’t mind looking at the pond, but it had better be shallow. If it’s deeper than my knees, we’ll head for the tunnels, like we said.”

  “Fine,” said Tungdil, pulling off his boots. It seemed futile to discuss the matter any further, especially when he himself was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the scheme. “We’ll get moving as soon as I’ve had a bit of sleep.” He lay down on the straw mattress and dozed for a while, only to be woken by jangling chain mail. He looked up to see Boïndil standing by his bed. “I meant to tell you: I spoke to a merchant, and he reckoned he’d seen some orcs.”

  Tungdil sat up. “How long ago and where?”

  “He said they were coming from the east—from Urgon, he thought. They were marching toward the Gray Range, and he said they were moving fast.”

  Tungdil leaped out of bed, fetched the map from his rucksack and laid it on the floor for the others to see. He traced the route with his finger.

  “They must have turned east around here,” he surmised, pointing midway between the dead glade and Dsôn Balsur. “By sticking close to the border with Urgon, they slipped past the allied army and the älfar without being seen.” For an orc, Ushnotz was remarkably cunning. “Where exactly did the merchant say they were?”

  Boïndil placed a finger on the map. According to Tungdil’s calculations, the spot was only four hundred miles from the fifthling kingdom. Gauragar was hilly, but there weren’t any proper mountains or other obstacles to slow them down. The territory suited the dwarves, but their longer-legged foes would have the advantage. Orcs we
re formidable marchers.

  Tungdil rolled up the map and stowed it into his rucksack. Even if everything went to plan, he couldn’t bank on recruiting the outcasts in time to save the fifthling kingdom. His boots were still wet, but he pulled them on regardless, and reached for his cloak.

  “We’re leaving,” he told the others. “From now on, we only stop if we have to.”

  The next orbit, the dwarves had a niggling feeling that something was wrong. It wasn’t tiredness or stomach cramps or any physical sensation, just a general uneasiness that made them nervous and withdrawn. All around them the grass was getting greener as if to flaunt its victory over the Perished Land, but the burgeoning vegetation did nothing to ease their trepidation, and they longed for their mountain homes.

  The mood became tenser and the dwarves more irritable, but they kept themselves going with the occasional song. After a time, the path led into a forest, and the singing dried up. From then, they continued in silence, trudging bad-temperedly along the overgrown track.

  Tungdil had a fair idea what was causing their edginess, but he wasn’t inclined to share the news. The others would hardly be heartened to know that they were traveling through Lesinteïl, former home of the northern elves.

  The älfar had conquered the kingdom many cycles ago and wiped out their cousins, before invading the Golden Plains, killing the elves, and founding the älfar kingdom of Dsôn Balsur. Only Liútasil’s elves in the dense forests of landur had survived the älfar’s crusade against their race.

  Tungdil suspected that he and his friends had crossed into the first of the fallen elven kingdoms, and that Lesinteïl was expressing its old antipathy toward the dwarves. Either that, or the land was drenched in the sinister memory of Sitalia’s slaughtered elves.

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t reckoned with eagle-eyed Boïndil, who spotted the remains of a statue half hidden by a thicket of brambles and creepers.

  “By Vraccas, if that isn’t a statue of Sitalia!” he exclaimed, bringing the little procession to a halt. “What’s it doing in a godforsaken forest like this? Don’t tell me we’re in landur already!”