The Dwarves Omnibus

by Markus Heitz

  “Every älf in this kingdom lost loved ones at the Blacksaddle,” the lady of Dsôn said calmly. “Does it give you the right to forsake your duty and settle a private score? No, Ondori, you were wrong to act as you did. It’s as well that you returned to us with the weapon—we have a use for it already.”

  “You wanted to go to the Gray Range, and now you shall,” said Nagsor, his voice no longer friendly. “You and your friends are to leave tomorrow. Take Keenfire with you, and join forces with the orcs. We’ll see what happens to the groundlings’ courage when they hear how you robbed them of their hero and their ax. The orcs will break their defenses; you will break their will.”

  “I beg your pardon, your Highness. Which orcs?”

  “Thousands of troopers skirted our eastern border,” explained the älvish lord. “They were heading north—we think they mean to seize the groundlings’ hall.”

  Ondori was taken aback by the news. “Why didn’t they stop to help us?” she asked angrily. “Surely they must have realized that Dsôn Balsur was under attack? I don’t see why we should repay the stinking cowards for their treachery by lending them the mightiest weapon in the land. What will we get in return?”

  “Power,” chorused the voices.

  “Your task is to ensure that we are party to the orcish victory,” explained Nagsor. “We can’t allow the orcs to defeat the groundlings without our help. You must stake our claim to the underground kingdom: The Gray Range is to be our refuge if Dsôn Balsur falls.”

  “If Dsôn Balsur falls?” echoed Ondori. The prospect of the älfar’s defeat was so shocking that she almost forgot to avert her gaze from the all-powerful rulers. “But the humans have advanced barely half a mile. They’ll never…”

  “The humans are paying dearly for laying siege to our borders. Hundreds have died already. Their stubborn generals refuse to heed the advice of the elves, and their soldiers are easy targets for our archers.” The lady of Dsôn leaned forward, as Ondori knew from her rippling hem. “But our troops are outnumbered. Every orbit the enemy grows more powerful as new recruits flock to the front, drawn by the promise of stolen älvish riches. The alliance between the men, elves, and dwarves is stronger than ever. Their purpose is clear: to destroy Dsôn Balsur. Together they can defeat us—it’s only a matter of time.”

  Fabric rustled, and a hand settled gently on Ondori’s head. She saw a gleaming blade engraved with runes. Its tip touched her forehead and cut a line from left to right. The blade came toward her again as Nagsar used the blood to trace a symbol on her brow.

  “May Inàste be with you, Ondori,” she said. “Bless your friends as I have blessed you, then ride to the fifthling kingdom. Your heart may not quicken at the prospect of aiding the orcs, but the future of our kingdom is in your hands.” The lady’s voice was so gentle, so melodious that Ondori scarcely felt the gash in her brow.

  “What if the orcs don’t want our help, Nagsar Inàste?”

  “Then you must take this ax and slay their chieftain. Let them see the extent of our power. A handful of groundlings are rumored to live in the stronghold, but you will lead the charge against them. Intimidate the troopers and they will obey.”

  Ondori felt Nagsar lift her hand from her head, signaling that it was time for her to go.

  Still kneeling and with her head bowed, she shuffled backward away from the steps, holding Keenfire on the cushion in front of her. Little by little she retreated across the black marble floor.

  At last she was out of the throne room and the blind doormen stepped forward to close the black tionium doors. She stood up and inspected the legend engraved on the metal.

  LOOK NOT UPON

  THE EVERLASTING CHILDREN OF INÀSTE

  NAGSOR AND NAGSAR

  BROTHER AND SISTER

  WHOSE BEAUTIFUL COUNTENANCES

  TORTURE THE EYES

  RAVAGE THE SOUL

  AND CONSUME THE HEART WITH

  DEADLY FIRE

  BOW YOUR HEAD IN REVERENCE

  AND FEAR

  Ondori shuddered, remembering how close she had come to lifting her gaze. No one knew exactly what happened to those who disregarded the warning, but from time to time an älf would be summoned by the immortal siblings, never to be seen again, a sure sign that the penalty was death.

  Ondori dislodged the dried blood from her eyelids, taking care not to smudge the symbol on her brow.

  “It’s time for you to leave,” said one of the doormen, fixing her with his unseeing gaze. “Come with me.” He marched toward her and positioned himself at her side, his movements so precise and confident that Ondori almost doubted his blindness. “Put your hand on my shoulder,” he instructed her. She felt the cool metal of his ceremonial armor beneath her right palm.

  The beauty of the high-ceilinged corridors was lost on Ondori’s guide. Panels of gleaming silver and matt tionium accentuated the polished darkness of the wooden walls, while colorful murals, painted with the blood of the älfar’s enemies, depicted glorious victories—the conquest of the elves, the defeat of the human armies, the seizure of new land, and the creation of Dsôn Balsur, the beautiful, sinister jewel in the älfar’s crown.

  Ondori stopped short, noticing an empty panel on the wall. The best artists among her folk had sketched the outlines of a magnificent painting showing the death of Liútasil, lord of the elves. Will it ever be finished?

  The blood of different creatures gave rise to an impressive array of colors. Ondori spotted the insipid red of humans, the green hues of orcs and bögnilim, the bright red of the elves, and the dark crimson of the groundlings.

  It took a great deal of skill to paint with blood. The artists added special herbs and essences to stop it clotting, but the mixture had to be used at once. Ondori thought of the empty easels in her parents’ home. Her mother had been an accomplished artist, but the groundlings had murdered her in Greenglade, and none of her daughters felt like painting anymore.

  “Keep walking,” said her escort, placing his hand over her own and propelling her onward.

  Soon they were at the doors leading out of the siblings’ palace. Groaning, the vast panels of stonewood swung open and slammed behind her. The rumbling echo lasted for a while, then everything was still.

  The älf strode across the deserted courtyard, pearl-shaped fragments of bone crunching under her boots. The perfectly round balls had been fashioned from the bones of elves, dwarves, men, orcs, and all manner of Tion’s beasts. The blanched gravel covered the courtyard and the alleyways of Dsôn, cushioning the älfar’s feet. The white of their enemies’ bones contrasted nicely with the somber buildings of the city.

  Ondori reached the edge of the plateau. An evening breeze ruffled her long brown hair and played with the edges of her mask.

  Dsôn lay in the middle of a crater measuring ten miles across and two miles deep.

  According to älvish legend, the hollow had been formed by a black teardrop from Inàste’s eye. The elves of the Golden Plains had shoveled soil into the crater, but the älfar had defeated them and seized their kingdom, using the loose earth to create a mountain over three miles high. At its summit was the majestic palace of Nagsor and Nagsar.

  Ondori gazed down at the city of her birth. Most of the buildings were made of blackwood, a wood so strong that stone foundations were unnecessary for any structure with fewer than eight stories.

  The wood’s special properties had enabled Dsôn’s architects to exercise their talents and break away from the box-like dwellings favored by men. Seen from above, the city was a dark mosaic of sloping angles, perfect curves, elegant ornaments, twisting turrets, and cupolas, connected by luminous white streets. By day, Dsôn glittered with silver, tionium, and precious gems, but some of the alloys and gemstones were visible only in the moonlight. The true splendor of the city was apparent only after dark.

  The underground halls of a dwarven kingdom are nothing compared to this, she thought sadly, watching as the blood-red sun dropped beneath the jag
ged edge of the crater.

  She turned and looked up at the palace, a vast and extravagant tower made of bone.

  The bones varied in size, some belonging to men and orcs, others to giants and dragons, while the largest came from terrifying creatures whose names were unknown. Slotting together neatly, they made up the first hundred paces of the palace’s walls, into which bas-reliefs and ornaments had been carved. The walls needed constant reinforcing, owing to the crumbliness of bone, but the älfar had plenty of enemies, so the palace was never in danger of falling down.

  The next eight hundred paces were made of pure elf bone, harvested from the archers of the elven kingdoms. The tower culminated in a slender spire.

  In the dying light of the sun, the walls turned a rich honey-yellow, which darkened to orange and turned a deep crimson, as if the palace were drenched in groundling blood. Ondori never tired of the view.

  “So you’re alive?” said a voice behind her. “Does that mean we can hope for the siblings’ mercy too?”

  Smiling, Ondori turned to see Estugon and her other loyal friends who had accompanied her on the quest to avenge her parents. “The siblings have been most merciful. Our journey isn’t over; tomorrow we leave for the north.”

  The others glanced at each other uncertainly. “You mean we’re not being sent to the front?” asked Estugon, surprised.

  “No, our orders are to claim a share of the orcs’ new kingdom,” said Ondori, raising Keenfire. She quickly explained their mission.

  “It’s hardly a punishment,” commented Estugon, gazing up at the palace. She watched as the sclera of his eyes turned white, revealing his irises. Now that his dark älvish eyes were hidden, he looked as flawlessly beautiful as an elf.

  “Tion has smiled upon us,” he murmured, dropping to his knees. “Thank you, Nagsor and Nagsar Inàste. Your trust will be rewarded.” The others followed his example and kneeled to pray.

  Ondori stood before them and produced a thin-bladed knife. “Stand up so that I might bless you as our lady blessed me,” she said, preparing to perform the ritual that Nagsar Inàste had performed on her. None of her friends flinched as she drew the knife across their foreheads. It was an honor, a distinction, to be marked by the immortal siblings. They would wear the symbol of Nagsor and Nagsar with enduring pride.

  “We should get some rest,” said Ondori. “We’ll need to ride hard if we’re to catch the orcish brutes.”

  “Another chance to kill a few groundlings,” said Estugon happily. “Inàste willed us to find your parents’ murderers in Lesinteïl and destroy them. May her name be praised.”

  “One of the groundlings still lives. My father mentioned three warriors; I saw no sign of the missing twin.”

  “He must have escaped.”

  “Whoever heard of a groundling abandoning his brother and his friends? The others came from the north; I reckon we’ll find our missing warrior with his kinsfolk in the Gray Range. Nagsor and Nagsar were merciful indeed to entrust us with this mission.” She weighed Keenfire in her hand, returned it to her weapons belt, and shook her head. The prospect of having to wield the ax against the orcs filled her with dread. “Why would anyone choose to fight with an ax? You’d think the groundlings would find them heavy and cumbersome. I don’t want to waste my energy levering their clumsy weapon from the corpses of my foes.”

  She left the plateau and started down a staircase of five hundred steps, at the bottom of which her companions had left their mounts. The animals—a collection of shadow mares and a fire bull—were waiting patiently; there was no need to tether them because their obedience was absolute.

  “Groundlings might be small but they’re powerful,” Estugon reminded her. “I suppose it comes from burrowing through rock all the time. I can’t imagine them with swords or longbows—their fingers would be too short.” The others joined in his mocking laughter.

  Ondori went over to Agrass, her powerful fire bull, and examined its hind legs. The dwarf’s axes had cut deep gouges into its flesh, and the loyal animal had been lucky to survive. Scabs had formed over the wounds and the edges were peeling away, revealing new, smooth skin. The bull’s legs would be permanently scarred. Ondori patted its flanks lovingly and swung herself into the saddle.

  Her companions preferred to ride shadow mares, but Ondori considered them too weak for battle. “I know what you think of Agrass,” she told them, turning the bull and rubbing its powerful neck. “But your pretty horses would have died of these wounds.”

  The others laughed. “It’s a shame he’s so slow,” teased Estugon, circling Ondori on his snorting mare.

  The red-eyed bull watched the nervous mare and lowered its head, shaking its fearsome mask. Ondori dug her heels into its flanks to encourage it forward. Using its long horns like a shovel, Agrass scooped up the mare and rider and tipped them over as if they weighed nothing at all.

  “You were saying…?” crowed Ondori as Estugon lay in the dust.

  The mare scrambled up, pawing the ground frantically and raising sparks. It bared its spiked teeth and prepared to strike back. Lowering its head, the bull braced itself for the charge.

  Estugon called back his mare. “All right, you’ve proved your point,” he conceded, swinging himself into the saddle. “Still, you’d never keep up in a race.”

  “Strength and agility are what matters,” she retorted confidently. “I prefer to vanquish my enemies; I don’t need to run away.”

  Turning back, she took a final look at the shimmering lights of her beloved Dsôn, letting her gaze linger on its sinister glow. Many orbits would pass before she next saw the city; whether it would still be standing, only Samusin and Tion could tell.

  7 Miles From the Fifthling Kingdom,

  Gray Range,

  Girdlegard,

  Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

  Myrmianda’s fingers peeled back the dressings. She seemed satisfied that the wounds were healing nicely. “Well done, Tungdil,” she said, head bent over his chest.

  “The credit’s all yours,” he said, relieved. “You stopped the infection.”

  “You’re tough enough to fight an infection on your own.” She exchanged the dry compress for a new wad of moss and replaced the bandages carefully. The old compress was consigned to the campfire and went up in flames. “You’ll be as strong as granite by the time you fight the orcs.” At last, as Tungdil was hoping she would, she looked up and smiled.

  A smile from Myrmianda was guaranteed to lift his spirits. Tungdil was fast becoming attached to the slender freeling, and Myr, as he was permitted to call her, seemed to value his company as well. No topic of conversation was too obscure or esoteric, and Tungdil was reminded of the lively discussions in Lot-Ionan’s school. With Myr to talk to, the long orbits of marching became a pleasure, not a chore.

  It wasn’t often that Tungdil came across someone who knew as much as he did, but in Myr he found a kindred spirit. The freeling was undeniably pretty, but her mind was every bit as attractive as her face. Each was perfect in itself, and they complemented each other superbly, like an anvil and a forge.

  “As strong as granite, eh?” Smiling, he stretched out his arms while she helped him into the jerkin and mail shirt loaned to him by Gemmil. “I’ll hold you to that.” He wandered away to join Boïndil by the fire.

  “Thank you, Vraccas,” he whispered. “Thank you for leading me to the freelings’ realm.” After the pain of losing Balyndis, he was dreading the orbit when Myr would go home. He could visit her for a time, but he couldn’t stay forever—he was committed to rebuilding the fifthlings’ halls. Or am I? The fifthling kingdom was Glaïmbar’s responsibility, now that he was king.

  What am I to do? Deep in thought, he stared across the fire at Myr as she packed away her instruments. The strength of his feelings surprised him.

  “Got a crush on her, scholar?” teased Boïndil, who was melting some cheese in the fire. “What’s the use of being clever if you can’t resist a pretty face?”

/>   There was something about his tone that prompted Tungdil to ask, “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  “Me? Jealous? Of course not!” Boïndil nibbled on the cheese, grunted discontentedly, and returned it to the fire. “Who do you take me for? I’m not a lovesick maiden, I’m a warrior! Warriors don’t get jealous, they get… disappointed, I suppose.” He inclined his head toward Myr. “Who am I supposed to talk to while you’re chatting with her?” He waved the skewer above the flames. “The other outcasts aren’t exactly talkative, I can tell you.” Aggrieved, he slid the cheese from the skewer and stuffed it into his mouth with a thick slice of bread.

  “Did you want to talk about something specifically?”

  “Just things,” said Boïndil indistinctly, still chomping on the bread. “About the älfar who attacked us. About the strange bull and its fearsome horns. About how we’re going to manage without Keenfire. About Boëndal. About whether the runts are attacking our kinsfolk. About the rune we found in the Outer Lands.” He reeled off the list, his voice increasing in volume with every word. “I’ve heard you, scholar, tying your tongue in knots to impress that albino rabbit. I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve forgotten why we’re here.”

  The conversation around them stopped. Myr, who was explaining something to a couple of freelings, broke off and stared in silence at the warrior.

  Tungdil had a bad feeling about the situation. Boïndil’s inner furnace was burning high, he hadn’t used his axes for orbits, and he was desperate to avenge their fallen companions. But Tungdil’s uneasiness also stemmed from guilt; he had upset his friend.

  The warrior took another bite of cheese, this time crunching through the skewer. Too agitated to notice, he ground the wood between his teeth. “You’ve got a mighty short memory, Tungdil Goldhand.”