The Dwarves Omnibus

by Markus Heitz

  On he marches, axes raised

  While our singers sing his praise

  The fearless warrior will not rest

  Helped by Vraccas in his quest.

  For Girdlegard he gives his life

  Murdered by a deadly knife

  As he crumples to the ground

  Let these halls with song resound

  To praise our dwarven hero.

  His savage killers surge ahead

  Trampling on the valiant dead

  Dwarven fighters bar their path

  Sealing off the mountain pass.

  More invaders flood the gates

  But our warriors never rest

  Helped by Vraccas in their quest

  And our singers sing the praises

  Of our warriors, axes raised

  Long live our dwarven heroes!

  To Tungdil’s surprise, one of the songs was dedicated to the battle of the Blacksaddle, while another darker ballad described the loss of Keenfire and the battle for the fifthling kingdom. He found the lyrics deeply affecting—so much so that his mood became quite melancholy. Thankfully, the ballad was brief, and the next number was a drinking song. Soon he was humming along to a ditty about the elves, taught to him by the twins.

  Created by Sitalia from dew, soil, and sun

  In elegance and beauty second to none

  But appearances aren’t everything

  As every dwarf knows

  If you meet an elf

  You’ll come to blows.

  Pointy ears and a pointy chin

  Sticking-out ribs and much too thin

  Their skin is smooth, they smell like flowers

  They talk to trees, they sleep in bowers

  They can’t grow beards, they spurn our wealth

  Three cheers to Vraccas for not making me an elf!

  Gullible humans admire their grace

  Tricked by the charm of the elfish face

  But appearances aren’t everything

  As every dwarf knows

  The stuck-up elves

  Love no one but themselves.

  Pointy ears and a pointy chin

  Sticking-out ribs and much too thin

  Their skin is smooth, they smell like flowers

  They talk to trees, they sleep in bowers

  They can’t grow beards, they spurn our wealth

  Three cheers to Vraccas for not making me an elf!

  And now we come to the moral of the song

  The elves are weak and the dwarves are strong

  Ask any maiden and her choice is clear

  A dwarf’s mighty hammer outdoes an elfish spear!

  In the intervals between choirs, musicians came onto the stage with horns, flutes, goat-leather bagpipes, and drums of all shapes and sizes.

  Tungdil barely noticed the passing hours; he was too caught up in the music to feel tired. A shiver of pleasure ran down his back.

  “Thank you,” he whispered to Myr. “Thank you for sharing this with me. Thank you for everything.” He kissed her. “If I were to offer you a ring, what would you say?”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Tungdil Goldhand.”

  Seven orbits later, Tungdil was sitting in Myr’s library, reading an account of the freelings’ origins.

  The history of the realm was chronicled on numerous stone tablets in the temple, and Myr had gone to the trouble of transcribing the inscriptions and collating them in manuscript form. She had incorporated sketches of the city, including views from the stronghold and the plateau. Another manuscript described her home city of Gemtrove, which, as Tungdil gleaned from the sketches, was an architectural masterwork.

  Myr’s meticulous draftsmanship rivaled anything he had seen in Lot-Ionan’s books. She’s a real scholar, he thought admiringly as he leafed through her work.

  Just then someone knocked at the door.

  Assuming it was a patient for Myr, he stayed in his armchair, but the knocking became more insistent, eventually reaching a volume impossible to ignore. Cursing Sanda for breaking his ribs, he got up slowly and went to investigate the source of the racket.

  “What are you doing here?” he exclaimed, staring in astonishment at the pair of bedraggled warriors on the doorstep.

  “Confounded water!” thundered Boïndil. “Next time those avatars decide to fall out of the sky I hope they have the decency to vaporize the freelings’ pond.” He wrung out his beard, dripping brackish water all over Myr’s steps. “We’ve come to fetch you, scholar.” A strand of duckweed had attached itself to his hair. He pulled it out and stamped on it angrily. “Nasty Elrian mischief! She nearly got me this time.”

  Boëndal dried his eyes on his sleeve before realizing that the fabric was wetter than his face. “I swore never to enter that water again, but how else were we supposed to find you?” he said, aggrieved.

  They hovered on the doorstep uncertainly. Last time Myr had been quite insistent about keeping the carpet dry.

  “It’s good to see you both,” said Tungdil, shepherding them into the kitchen where they could drip to their heart’s content on the floor. “Start from the beginning. What brings you to Trovegold?” Miniature lakes formed around the twins’ feet as water streamed from their garments onto the tiles.

  “We’re taking you to Porista,” said Boïndil, making himself at home. He was already tucking into the leftovers from lunch. “Mm, I’d forgotten about Myr’s cooking.”

  “Does Andôkai need me? Is it about Keenfire?” asked Tungdil, as baffled as before.

  “No.” Boëndal paused for a moment to wipe his face on a dishtowel. Boïndil took it from him and dried his beard. “It’s losing its shine,” he murmured peevishly. “I should probably grease it. Beards aren’t supposed to get wet.”

  His brother returned to the matter in hand. “You won’t believe what’s happened while you’ve been here in Trovegold.” He gave a brief account of the conference, the news from the Outer Lands, and the events leading up to the maga’s death. “Narmora has taken the reins—no one else in Girdlegard knows anything of the magic arts. And Gandogar wants you to be there when Romo outlines his proposal to Liútasil and the men.”

  Me? Once Tungdil had overcome his initial surprise, he realized why he had been chosen to represent the dwarves. The thirdlings banned the dwarves of Beroïn, Borengar, Giselbert, and Goïmdil from attending the meeting. “He chose wisely. I’m a thirdling, so Romo will have to let me in.”

  Boïndil finished scooping out the contents of a beetle carapace and replaced it on the sideboard. “By the way, I’ve got a bone to pick with you. Why didn’t you tell me you were planning to stay in Trovegold? It isn’t nice to lie to an old friend.”

  Tungdil smiled and held out his hand. “No hard feelings, Boïndil. I was afraid you might drag me away by my beard.”

  “Too right I would!” chuckled Boïndil, helping himself to a dumpling. He dipped it in some cold gravy and popped it in his mouth. “One of these is worth four dozen runts,” he said approvingly. “Although there’s nothing to stop me fighting and eating.”

  Tungdil was brooding over the news. “It doesn’t bode well for Girdlegard,” he muttered. A new challenge and the awkwardness of seeing Balyndis awaited him in Porista, whereas in Trovegold he led a peaceful scholarly life with Myr, interrupted only by training sessions with Sanda and the occasional afternoon in the forge.

  He glanced into the adjoining room and glimpsed the diamond-studded weapons belt given to him by Giselbert Ironeye. It was hanging on the wall beneath two crossed axes—his own work, of course.

  Boëndal followed his gaze. “It doesn’t bode well,” he agreed, although it wasn’t clear whether he was referring to the changes in Girdlegard or in his friend.

  “You’re living the scholar’s life, are you?” mumbled Boïndil, picking up another dumpling and waving it vaguely in the air. “No chain mail, comfortable boots—are you sure you haven’t put on weight?”

  Tungdil laughed and fetched three glasses of
beer. “I doubt it. I’m taking lessons in axmanship from Sanda Flameheart. You should see her muscles; she’d lay you out cold in a fight.”

  “It’s easy to impress a novice,” said Boïndil, smiling. “She probably hasn’t fought a true warrior. I’d show her who’s boss.” He swallowed the dumpling, washed it down with a draft of beer, and belched loudly.

  “It’s time to dust off your weapons belt,” said Boëndal earnestly. “I hope you’re not too settled here. Gandogar needs you in Porista; no one can go to the meeting but you.”

  Boïndil, always the pragmatist, pushed past him and unhooked the belt and one of the axes from the wall. He handed them to Tungdil. “Don’t make me force you,” he said with a wink. “Are you ready?”

  The front door opened, and Myr walked in, carrying her medicine bag. “Vraccas almighty, we’ve been flooded!” she said in mock horror. “I thought they’d fixed the sluice for the canals…” She put her hands on her slender waist and followed the trail of water to her guests. “So it was you!” she said, pretending to be cross. “I see you found the kitchen.” Laughing, she hugged Boïndil and then Boëndal. “I smell dumplings,” she commented, sniffing the air. “That’s strange—they’ve disappeared…”

  “It’s your own fault,” protested Boïndil. “You left them unguarded.”

  “I assume you didn’t come here to steal my food,” she said, noting their earnest faces. Boëndal explained the purpose of their visit. “If Tungdil’s leaving, so am I,” declared Myr. “I’ll accompany the three of you as far as Porista, and we’ll see from there. I can’t bear to separate our freshly melded hearts.”

  “Freshly melded?” exclaimed Boëndal. “Congratulations! May Vraccas bring you happiness and wealth.” He shook hands with them vigorously. “We should have brought a present.”

  Boïndil responded to the unexpected news by choking on a handful of cranberries and would have died an in-glorious and untimely death, were it not for Myr, who thumped him on the back. The red-faced warrior took a sip of beer. “To the happy couple,” he gasped.

  Tungdil showed them the ring on the middle finger of his right hand and the smaller version worn by Myr. He had forged them himself. “We had the ceremony in the temple.” And no one was there to stop us, he added silently.

  “In that case, we’ll take two scholars to Porista,” said Boëndal, smiling. “All the better for Girdlegard and the dwarves.”

  Myr beamed. “I can’t wait to see a human city. How am I going to find enough parchment for all my sketches and notes?” She hurried upstairs. “We’ll set off as soon as I’ve packed a few things…”

  “Personally, I’d rather dry out first,” said Boïndil, tapping his foot against the floor. His boot squelched unpleasantly. “There’s no point in getting blisters.”

  Before they left, Tungdil paid a final visit to the stronghold and took his leave of Gemmil and Sanda. As usual, he was greeted warmly, and Sanda offered him a drink. He gave as full an account as possible of the situation in Porista. “It’s essential I go,” he concluded.

  Sanda had been listening attentively. “I know Romo Steelheart. His uncle dotes on him. He’s a dedicated dwarf killer, one of the worst I’ve ever met. He was trained by Salfalur himself. Entrusting Romo with the fate of Girdlegard is like asking an orc to look after a playground. Lorimbas is up to something serious.” She glanced at Gemmil. “Romo doesn’t make deals; he’s there to enforce his uncle’s will. He won’t back down.” She turned back to Tungdil. “Romo and his associates can’t be trusted. The meeting could be an ambush—or worse. You’ll have to watch your back.”

  “I’ll remember your advice,” he thanked her with a bow. “Myr and I will return to Trovegold as soon as we can.”

  “Myr’s going with you?” asked Sanda, taken aback. Almost immediately she recovered her composure and smiled.

  Tungdil decided that she was probably pleased at the prospect of not being watched for a while. Except Myr says she doesn’t know about the surveillance… Arrangements had already been put in place for Myr’s friends to keep an eye on Sanda during her absence.

  “Perhaps you could give the high king my regards,” said Gemmil. “I’d like to pay a visit to Gandogar once Girdlegard’s safety has been assured. I think a meeting would be useful. I don’t suppose many of the freelings would be interested in rejoining their folks, but a trade relationship would benefit us all. I’ll leave it to you to describe our realm and assure him that we’re not a band of criminals and murderers. May Vraccas be with you on your journey.”

  “I’ll talk to Gandogar for you,” promised Tungdil. “He’ll hear nothing but praise from me.”

  He left the modest hall and was halfway down the stairs when footsteps sounded behind him. Turning, he found himself looking at the tattooed features of the queen.

  “You won’t like what I’m going to tell you,” she said gravely, “and you probably won’t believe me, but be warned: Whatever happens on your journey, keep a close eye on Myrmianda.” She glanced about nervously to satisfy herself that they were unobserved.

  Tungdil frowned and took a small step away from her. “I don’t follow.” His eyes searched her face, looking for an explanation. “What’s Myr got to do with anything?”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you,” she said obscurely. “Myrmianda is who she is because of her family. You mustn’t breathe a word of what I’ve told you, especially not to her.” A sentry appeared at the top of the steps and watched them from afar. “I know she’s spying on me,” she whispered. “Myrmianda could outscheme a gnome. For your own sake, don’t trust her.” She held out her hand. “This is for Gandogar,” she said loudly. “May Vraccas protect you and your friends.”

  Looking into her eyes, it seemed to Tungdil that she was telling the truth. She’s a thirdling, though, and Myr thinks she’s a spy, he reminded himself as he continued down the stairs. I don’t see why she’d try to drive us apart—unless she’s plotting something in Trovegold or conspiring with the thirdlings in Porista…

  Barely an hour later he was marching through the tunnels toward the surface with Myr and the twins.

  When he looked into Myr’s warm, red eyes, the conversation with Sanda seemed ridiculous. Soon afterward, when Myr kissed him lovingly, he forgot what the thirdling had said.

  Porista,

  Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

  Girdlegard,

  Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

  I did it for you, Furgas. Narmora kneeled at her husband’s bedside, pressed her forehead against his cold hand, and buried her face in the covers. I punished her and took her power so that I might cure you. It won’t be long until Dorsa can meet her father.

  She got up, kissed his colorless lips, and slipped out of the room. She could feel the warmth of the malachite crystal around her neck. The stone had absorbed the maga’s magic, transferring her power to Narmora, who intended to use the crystal to cure Furgas—as soon as she learned how.

  The half älf’s satisfaction at killing her hated mentor had been disappointingly brief. With Furgas critically ill and Girdlegard in danger, she hadn’t been able to enjoy the victory as much as she had hoped. She ran a hand over her bodice, feeling the malachite splinter beneath the fabric.

  Rodario emerged from one of the passageways and walked alongside her. They hadn’t seen each other for orbits; in fact, they had barely spoken since Andôkai’s death. “I keep thinking about what happened,” he began. “An awful business.”

  “Ideal for one of your plays,” she said tersely.

  “Too dramatic,” he countered. “Even for me. My valued spectators would storm out of the Curiosum if I were to tell them that Girdlegard’s only maga was dead, killed—in all probability—by Tion’s descendants, the devious avatars, more dangerous than anything our kingdoms have ever—”

  She stopped and glared at him. “You’ve been eavesdropping on the assembly!”

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping. I just happened to overhear.” He
assumed a look of wounded innocence. “The walls are extremely thin.” His hand slapped the sturdy marble. “Well, some of them are…”

  She set off again, with Rodario walking determinedly alongside her.

  “I suppose you know what would really upset my spectators?” he said softly.

  “The abysmal acting?”

  “No, my sharp-tongued beauty.” He barred her way. “The calculated murder of the maga by her famula, who committed her heinous crime in front of Girdlegard’s assembled kings and queens, none of whom realized what was unfolding before their eyes.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” hissed Narmora, rounding on him.

  “An excellent question—and one that I was saving for you. I saw what you did, Narmora.”

  “And what would that be?”

  As a longstanding friend of Narmora’s, Rodario refused to be intimidated. “I followed the dwarves into the conference chamber. I was standing beside you, in case you needed help. I saw what you did with the crystal.”

  “I see.” Her dark eyes seemed to look right through him. “And what are you going to do about it?”

  He pouted. “Nothing. Provided that—”

  She stuck her chin out scornfully. “The fabulous Rodario, a blackmailer.”

  “Oh please,” he said dismissively, “I’m too classy for blackmail, and besides…” He took a step closer and looked her in the eye. “I’m Furgas’s friend. Whether I’m your friend or not is another matter. You’re not the old Narmora anymore.”

  “How could I not change?” she said, her haughtiness evaporating. “Andôkai deserved to die—you of all people should know that. I’ve studied hard to get this far—I can handle the avatars.”

  “No one, not even the most diligent famula, can become a fully fledged maga in the space of half a cycle.” He tilted his head to one side and stared at her bodice, eying the spot where the shard of malachite was hidden. “Unless of course…”

  She strode past him in the direction of the conference chamber. “If you’ve got something to say, I recommend you say it,” she snapped.

  “Fine,” he said calmly, setting off behind her at a leisurely pace. “I’m going wherever you’re going. I want to be privy to all your decisions. From now on, I’m here to advise you—like Furgas would, if he were well.”