The Dwarves Omnibus

by Markus Heitz

  “Two cycles ago. I don’t blame you for being wary, but Sanda is an upstanding dwarf.” She shifted her weight, nudging closer to Tungdil and allowing their arms to touch. Tungdil pretended not to notice and stood his ground, willing Balyndis to see that he too had forged a bond with another dwarf.

  “Those who seek to become freelings must submit to certain tests,” continued Myr. “Sanda passed with flying colors and she’s proven her worth on countless occasions.”

  “She’s obviously popular with your king,” observed Balyndis. “It seems to me that Glaïmbar is right to be suspicious. If I were a thirdling spy, I’d make friends with my enemies before I betrayed them.”

  Myr’s face hardened. “Don’t let Sanda hear you talking like that, or she’ll challenge you to a duel. Warriors are very particular about their honor… Besides, she’s my friend.” Her red eyes bored into Balyndis like daggers; from now on, it was war.

  “I hope Vraccas helps me to conquer my doubts,” said Glaïmbar, sighing. “I daresay we’re honored to have the freelings as our guests.” He decided to steer the conversation to safer ground. “Tell me, Tungdil: Is Djern here for a reason?”

  Tungdil reached for the leather cylinder hanging from his shoulder and pulled out a scroll. Andôkai’s bodyguard had waited until the end of the battle to hand him a letter. Since then, he had been standing patiently by the waterfall, his armor gleaming majestically in the setting sun.

  Tungdil unfurled the roll of parchment and began to read aloud:

  Dearest Tungdil,

  The purpose of this letter is to secure the services of the finest smith in Girdlegard.

  Djern requires a new suit of armor and a tunic of chain mail. Enclosed are his measurements and the composition of the alloy, for the attention of Balyndis Steelfinger.

  When she comes to fitting the armor, Balyndis must bind her eyes and gauge the fit with her fingers. Make her promise to remain blindfolded until Djern is fully clad in his armor. This I ask for her own safety: No one must look on Djern’s face.

  As for the cost, tell her to name a sum and I will pay.

  Djern will be heading west across the Red Range. His instructions are to assess the situation in the Outer Lands and determine the nature of the threat. If the danger is real and not a figment of Nôd’onn’s imagination, we need to know what to expect.

  By the time you receive this letter, Narmora and I will be in Weyurn, where we hope to find record of migrants from the Outer Lands. Perhaps they will tell us something about their homeland.

  Vraccas be with you,

  Andôkai

  Tungdil lowered the letter and handed Balyndis the notes regarding the giant’s measurements and the composition of the alloy. “It’s lucky that Djern turned up when he did,” he observed. “He couldn’t have arrived at a better time. Thank goodness Andôkai worships Samusin. Her bodyguard restored the equilibrium.”

  The smith scanned the list of metals and glanced at the giant. “How will he know what I’m saying? I can’t speak his tongue.”

  “Andôkai will have thought of that,” replied Tungdil.

  Balyndis turned to leave, but he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Hang on,” he said, pulling her back. “I need you to promise not to look at Djern’s face.”

  “I wouldn’t look at his face for all the gold in Girdlegard,” she retorted sharply, shaking him off.

  Tungdil watched as she hurried away, followed by Glaïmbar. They exchanged a few words before Glaïmbar took charge of the clean-up operation and Balyndis attended to Djern. Tungdil gazed at her sadly. He wanted to call out and apologize for his childish behavior. He was already sorry for his rudeness: For some reason, he couldn’t keep a check on his thoughts and emotions when Balyndis was around. If he was honest with himself, he still loved her, in spite of his growing feelings for Myr.

  Do I really like Myr? Or am I just trying to punish Balyndis for choosing Glaïmbar? Sometimes he wished that he were back in Lot-Ionan’s school; life had been simpler then.

  Myr seemed to guess what he was thinking. She slipped her hand into his. “Isn’t it time we went to see your friend?” she asked. “I’d like to help him if I can.”

  Tungdil was too wrapped up in his thoughts to realize whom she meant, but then it dawned on him. “Come on,” he said, squeezing her hand impulsively. “Let’s see what you can do for Boëndal.”

  They hurried through the passageways of the fifthling kingdom and arrived in the forge.

  Boïndil was sitting on a stool beside the Dragon Fire furnace, regaling his frozen brother with stories about the battle against the orcs. Every now and then he thumped a battered helmet that he had stolen from an enemy head.

  “But it wasn’t the same without you. Nothing’s the same without you,” he finished sadly, noticing Tungdil and Myr.

  Boïndil had been trying to stay cheerful for the sake of his twin, but found it impossible to hide his feelings from the others. The truth was, it smote his soul to see Boëndal in a death-like sleep. He stood up and smoothed his black beard. What he was about to say didn’t come easily to a warrior. “Myr,” he began, “I saw you tending to the wounded on the battlefield, and I saw you cure Tungdil. You’re the best doctor I’ve ever known.” He swallowed. “I’m begging you: Bring Boëndal back to life. Cure my brother, and I’ll protect you with my life. Nothing and no one will ever hurt you.” He made room for her at Boëndal’s bedside.

  “I’d be honored to help,” Myr said simply. “You don’t need to promise anything in return.” Perching on the secondling’s bed, she laid a hand on his forehead, then lifted his eyelids to look at his pupils. “I can’t examine him properly in his clothes,” she told the others. “Let’s get everything off except his apron. I need to see if the blood is still flowing to his limbs.”

  Tungdil and Boïndil stripped the sleeping dwarf. The next hour passed in silence as Myr examined every inch of her patient’s body. Nothing escaped her scrutiny. “Your brother was blessed by Vraccas,” she pronounced. “His limbs are cold, but not frozen, and his skin looks healthy enough.”

  “So he’s basically all right,” said Boïndil eagerly.

  “I was worried he might have frostbite.” She lowered her head to listen to Boëndal’s heart and breathing. “It tends to affect the toes and fingers—the digit freezes, blackens, and eventually falls off. Sometimes the patient is too numb to realize what’s happening. It’s a nasty condition and impossible to treat.” She listened intently. “Extraordinary! His heart is beating, his lungs are working, but his body has slowed right down. His inner furnace must be burning very low.” A smile spread over her face. “That’s it! Fetch me a tub of warm water—and some beeswax!”

  “Warm water?” queried Boïndil doubtfully. “We tried that before. It didn’t work.”

  “Patience,” she said mysteriously.

  The tub was brought in. Myr produced a strip of leather, rolled it up to make a tube, and secured it with some cord. She placed an end between Boëndal’s blue lips and sealed his mouth and nose with warm wax, forcing him to breathe through the tube. “Right,” she declared purposefully. “Let’s get him into the water.”

  Soon the dwarf was submerged in the tub, his arms and legs weighed down with lead.

  “This will thaw him out and melt the ice in his brain,” she explained, fetching a shovel load of glowing coals from Dragon Fire. The hot coals hissed as they splashed into the water, warming the bath. Myr was careful not to let them fall on Boëndal.

  Tungdil checked the temperature with his hand. “It’s pretty hot already.”

  Boïndil leaned over, frowning anxiously. “You’ll boil him like a sausage if you’re not careful.” He glared at Myr as she stepped forward to empty another load of coals into the tub. “Put them back, Myr. You’ll stew him alive.”

  “I thought you wanted me to cure him,” she retorted. “Hot water won’t hurt him. He has to be immersed completely or his brain will clog with ice. I know what I’m doing, Boïn
dil.”

  She raised the shovel to tip out the coals, but Boïndil made a grab for the handle, forcing her to stop.

  “I said enough,” he growled, squaring his shoulders to prove he meant business. “I won’t stand by while you turn my brother into broth. You’ll have to think of another cure.”

  Her red eyes stared back at him fearlessly. “I’m the expert on this, Boïndil Doubleblade.” She tried to wrench the shovel away from him. He hadn’t reckoned with her resistance and pulled back too sharply.

  A large piece of coal separated itself from its white-hot neighbors, slid to the edge of the shovel and launched itself into the tub. Steam rose as it sank through the water.

  Tungdil, determined to save his friend from harm, plunged his hand into the tub and tried to catch the glowing coal. His fingers swept the water in vain.

  The fiery missile plummeted toward Boëndal’s bare chest and struck the skin on a level with his heart.

  Tungdil watched as the dwarf’s body twitched. “Did you see that?” he asked the others. “Boëndal just…”

  At that moment, the sleeping twin opened his eyes, sat up with a jolt, and tore the tube from his mouth. After a few gasps of air, he started coughing.

  “Lift him out,” said Myr, holding up some warm towels to swaddle the dripping dwarf.

  Boïndil wiped his brother’s face gently and waited for the coughing fit to pass. “You’re awake,” he said excitedly, throwing his arms around him.

  Boëndal tried to say something, but his voice was just a croak. He had to clear his throat a few times, and even then he could speak only in a feeble whisper. “What h… happened?”

  Thrilled by his friend’s recovery, Tungdil was about to launch into an account of everything that had happened since the avalanche, but Myr stopped him.

  “All in good time,” she said firmly. “Boëndal, we need to find you something to wear, then you should try to eat and drink a little. Your stomach needs to get accustomed to food again—no meat, no beer!” Her tone was so emphatic that no one, not even Boïndil, dared to object. “Give yourself time to adjust. You’re going to be just fine.” She smiled at him warmly.

  Boëndal looked at her in bewilderment. “Who are you?”

  “Myr melted your inner cold,” explained his brother. He clasped the freeling to his chest, overcome with gratitude. “Forgive me for doubting you. I promised to protect you if you healed him, and I will. Vraccas can smite me with his hammer if I ever forget my debt!”

  She laughed to see his bearded face light up with boyish excitement. “I forgive you,” she said happily.

  Tungdil made no mention of what he had observed. In his opinion, it was the falling coal, not Myr’s bath, that had woken Boëndal. Still, an apology was in order, and Myr might be glad of extra protection. He turned back to the bed. “How are you feeling, Boëndal?” he asked.

  Speaking seemed to cost the twin a great deal of effort. “My fingers are still numb,” he said ponderously. “I can feel them tingling. Thank Vraccas the White Death didn’t take me.”

  Myr reached for his left hand and massaged the fingers carefully. “Does that feel better?” Boëndal nodded. “Good,” she said, relieved. “The blood is coming back, so you won’t lose your fingers. You should start to perk up this evening, and by tomorrow you’ll be fighting fit. Just be sure to keep warm.” She smiled at him. “Great things lie ahead for you, Boëndal Hookhand. Vraccas went to a lot of trouble to keep you alive.” She dried her hands on the corner of one of his towels and yawned. “I hope you don’t mind if I excuse myself. I’m ready to drop.”

  Boëndal took her hand. “Thank you,” he whispered gratefully. “Whoever you are, wherever you come from, thank you for saving my life. From now on, your enemies will be my enemies. I’m forever in your debt.”

  “My name is Myrmianda Alabaster. It’s kind of you to thank me, but I don’t need a reward: It’s enough to see you awake.” She stroked his hand gently. “You’re warming up nicely.” She made sure that he was wrapped in the towels and stayed at his bedside until the clothes and food arrived. Once dressed, Boëndal wolfed down the meal while Boïndil sat beside him and started to recount their adventures, beginning with the forging of Keenfire and the journey to the Blacksaddle.

  “Come on,” said Tungdil to Myr. “Let’s find you somewhere to sleep.” They took their leave of the twins and hurried out of the forge. “There’s usually plenty of space in the halls, but what with the wounded and the other freelings… Still, we’re bound to find somewhere.”

  “Tungdil, I’m dead on my feet. Can’t I sleep in your chamber? I won’t be a nuisance, I promise. The floor will do just fine.”

  “Nonsense,” said Tungdil. “You can have my bed while I keep looking. Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?”

  She shook her head.

  It was only a short walk through the passageways to Tungdil’s chamber. He opened the door and ushered her in, then stepped back outside.

  “Can you give me a hand?” asked Myr, tugging tiredly on her chain mail. “I can barely lift my arms.”

  “Of course,” he said with a smile. “You know what the problem is? You need more muscles.”

  He walked in and showed her to the bed. “It’s not too soft, which means it’s perfect for us dwarves.” It occurred to him that softer beds might be customary in the freelings’ realm. “You can pad it out with blankets, if you like.”

  “No,” she said, suppressing a yawn. She lifted her arms over her head. “I’d fall asleep on a bed of nails right now. Do you think you could…?”

  He took hold of the bottom of her tunic and pulled it carefully over her head. Underneath she was wearing a padded jerkin with a V-shaped neckline that revealed her plump white breasts. Embarrassed, he draped the tunic on the rack designed to take his mail. “Sleep well, Myr.”

  “Mm, that feels good,” she said, reaching up and stretching luxuriously. She kicked off her boots and slipped into bed. “I’m going to sleep like a rock.” She smiled at him. “Thank you for letting me have your bed.” Her red eyes shifted to something behind him.

  Tungdil glanced at the half-open door in time to see a shadow speed down the corridor.

  “I’ll be dreaming of you,” whispered Myr, brushing her lips against his cheek and closing her eyes.

  The kiss had a paralyzing effect on Tungdil’s mind. At once he forgot everything, including his intention to speak to Sanda Flameheart…

  Balyndis was hammering furiously. Sparks flew in all directions, showering the furthest corners of the forge, while the Dragon Fire furnace continued to exude an incredible heat.

  Sweat was streaming from her body, even though she wore nothing but a thin linen shirt and lightweight leather breeches beneath her smith’s apron. Her head was covered with a scarf to protect her hair from sparks.

  The hammer rose and fell until the troublesome metal cracked. Cursing, she picked it up with her tongs and tossed it into a cart, where it landed on top of her previous four efforts. Later, the metal would be melted down to make weapons and tools.

  She waited until the jangling echo had faded from the forge.

  I may as well give up, she thought despondently, leaning against the anvil. She dipped a wooden ladle into the bucket of water beside her and took a sip. I can’t afford to be angry. It’s making me careless.

  She was furious with Tungdil on two counts: First, for refusing to see her point of view, and second, for carrying on with Myr. To top things off, Myr seemed very comfortable in the role of his girlfriend. Too comfortable.

  And Tungdil’s ploy was working: She was jealous.

  Why can’t he see that I love him?

  Clan law had forced her to betroth herself to Glaïmbar, but her heart still longed for Tungdil, even though she knew her fiancé to be a worthy dwarf. She had spent a good deal of time with Glaïmbar, who genuinely adored her. He knew of her feelings for Tungdil, but he wanted to love her and treat her well.

  Bal
yndis took another sip of water. I mustn’t be too hard on him; he doesn’t understand our traditions. Tungdil’s upbringing in Lot-Ionan’s school was the root of the problem. He was a dwarf at heart, but when it came to love, he behaved like a man. It didn’t help that his pride was hurt as well.

  Maybe one orbit he’ll understand that I couldn’t defy the will of my family and my clan. She got up and looked for something to distract her thoughts. Vraccas knows it wasn’t easy for me.

  She took out Andôkai’s letter and left the forge for the smelting works.

  Fires blazing, the blast furnaces were spewing out iron, steel, and bronze, from which the smiths fashioned tools, armor, and replacement parts for all manner of things. The new fifthling kingdom was taking shape.

  Balyndis chose one of the smaller furnaces that was designed for smaller quantities of metal. She went in search of the elements for the armor, as listed in Andôkai’s letter, and loaded them into carts. Together the metals would form the basis of Djern’s plate mail, just as the maga had prescribed.

  Astonishingly, Balyndis, who was a master smith, had never heard of the compound.

  “Drat!” She held the sheet of parchment in the air. Her sweat had drenched the paper and the ink had run in places, making it difficult to decipher the maga’s flowing script. Is that tionium—or palandium?

  It took a great deal of effort to make sense of the instructions and she privately doubted that the formula would work. It sounded too unlikely. If she had understood correctly, she was supposed to add small quantities of tin, copper, and mercury to the steel, followed by an equal quantity of vraccasium and…

  Tionium or palandium? Or tionium and palandium? The metals had similar properties, but tionium was black in color and belonged to the dark lord Tion, whereas palandium was silvery-white and four times cheaper. The goddess Palandiell was worshipped in the human kingdoms, so her metal was popular with Girdlegard’s smiths.

  I don’t know what to do. The formula is too vague. She ascended the steps leading to the hatch at the top of the furnace. The flames were burning fierce and white, fuelled by coals from the Dragon Fire furnace. The tin and other metals had been added already.