The Dwarves Omnibus

by Markus Heitz

  The delegates watched as the sturdy figures receded into the distance, their unwieldy armor echoing through the shadowy corridors long after they disappeared from view.

  Led by Gandogar, the dwarves rejoined the discussions as soon as Rodario brought word that Romo and his companion had left the chamber.

  “These are dark times for Girdlegard,” said Mallen, stepping forward to shake hands with the dwarves. “We’re saving our kingdoms and losing the dwarves. It’s a high price to pay. Perhaps we should fight the thirdlings instead.”

  “No,” replied Gandogar firmly. “We can’t waste precious time. The dwarves will return when the danger is over.”

  “You can count on our support,” promised Mallen. There were no words to express his gratitude, so he inclined his head respectfully instead.

  “If the thirdlings break their promise, you won’t be the only one after their blood,” said Liútasil to Tungdil. “We’ll kill them faster than it takes eleven demigods to burn Sitalia’s forests. If the thirdlings have deceived us, the elves will make them pay.” He turned to Gandogar. “From now on, the selfless dwarves and their noble high king will be immortalized in our songs. No one in landur will speak ill of the four dwarven folks who sacrificed their kingdoms for our safety.” The lord of the elves bowed before the dwarf of all dwarves, showing his deference. One by one the monarchs followed his example and bowed before leaving the room.

  “I’ll accompany Romo in person and find out the truth about their weapon,” said Narmora, preparing to leave. “If they’ve lied, they’ll have an angry maga to deal with as well as a dwarven hero and an elven lord. Gandogar and the other monarchs can take care of the survivors.” Signaling for Rodario to follow her, she withdrew to her wing of the palace.

  The deputations from the dwarven kingdoms took their leave. Most were hoping to drown their sorrows in beer and mead.

  At last only Tungdil, the twins, and Balyndis were left.

  Boïndil remembered something that had been puzzling him. “Balyndis, how did you know it wasn’t Djern?”

  “I never forget a piece of metalwork,” she said, smiling. “Especially not a suit of armor like that. The etchings and engravings on the breastplate weren’t my work—they were passable imitations, but nothing more.” Her face fell. “Unfortunately, I didn’t spot the forgery in time.” She stepped forward and gave Tungdil a tentative embrace. “May Vraccas bless your melding with a warm hearth and a casket of gold,” she said in a strained voice. “We won’t see each other for a while, I suppose.”

  Closing his eyes, he filled his nostrils with her scent. He hadn’t missed it until now, but it was so familiar, so precious. He knew it was the last time he would hold her in his arms.

  I still love her, he thought forlornly, clasping her to him and pressing his lips against her brow. “Vraccas be with you,” he murmured, too choked to say anything else.

  For Balyndis it came as a shock to see the truth in his eyes, and Tungdil was startled to see the tenderness and sorrow in her face. She still loved him; she loved him in spite of the way he had shunned her. He reached for her hand, but she took a step back and shook her head. “Glaïmbar is waiting,” she said in a smothered voice, turning away.

  He watched her go, remembering all the other goodbyes, too many goodbyes. “Myr is waiting too,” he whispered.

  “We’re still here, you know, scholar,” said Boïndil with his usual lack of tact. He looked at him intently. “You and Myr should join our deputation. How about it?”

  Boëndal suspected that their friend had other plans. He was sure he had seen a hint of a smile playing on Tungdil’s lips. “Have you thought of a way to foil the thirdlings?”

  “Maybe,” said Tungdil cagily, laying a hand on Boëndal’s shoulder. “I haven’t quite conquered my doubts—but I’ll come straight to you and Boïndil when I’m ready.”

  Boëndal grinned. “I knew you weren’t destined to spend your orbits in an armchair! Vraccas has sent a spark of heroism to relight your fires. Whatever you’re planning, count us in: We’ll storm the Black Range if we have to.” He set off with his brother in the direction taken by Balyndis.

  Tungdil wandered through the palace, vacillating between confidence and doubt. Soon he was hopelessly lost, but he kept walking, deep in thought. Balyndis’s farewell was playing on his mind.

  His wounds from their separation were as painful as ever. He realized now that scarring wasn’t the same as healing, and even Myr was a salve, not a cure—she took his mind off the pain, but she couldn’t make it go away. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her; he just loved the smith more.

  How can you think about Balyndis when the future of Girdlegard is at stake? He shivered at the thought of the decision he had to make. Vraccas give me wisdom. It took a while for him to regain his bearings among the endless passageways and chambers of the palace. At last he found himself outside the conference chamber.

  Striding past an archway, he noticed three short figures at the end of a shadowy corridor. One was small and dainty, the next was broad-shouldered, and the third was noticeably taller and larger.

  That sounds like… Myr! Tungdil stopped in his tracks and hurried back to the corridor. “Hello, Myr!” he called cheerfully. “Don’t tell me you got lost as well!”

  The smallest of the three figures gave the biggest dwarf a shove. Tungdil heard a muffled shriek, followed by a clatter of weaponry, and a sickening thud.

  His warrior’s spirit ignited. Whipping out his ax, he sprinted down the corridor and threw himself between the dainty freeling and the other dwarves. “Back off,” he said menacingly, noticing the gashes in Myr’s left cheek. Blood was streaming down her face, streaking her pale complexion. Now it’s personal…

  Romo, holding two thick tomes in one hand, reached for his morning star with the other. His gauntlet shimmered red with Myr’s blood. “Lorimbur be praised,” he spat. “Not everyone has the privilege of killing Girdlegard’s favorite dwarf.” He threw the books to his companion. “Take these, Salfalur. My uncle can’t wait to read them.”

  Salfalur! The dwarf who killed my parents! Tungdil stared at the powerful dwarf, who caught the books, and turned to flee. The tattoos made his ferocious features look doubly sinister, almost demonic.

  “No,” shrieked Myr, pulling a dagger from her belt. She launched herself at the brawny thirdling. “Give me back my work!”

  Salfalur waited unflinchingly for the dagger to thud against his chain mail. The tip broke off. Raising an armored fist, he punched the little dwarf’s wounded face. Myr flew back as if struck by Vraccas’s hammer, hit the wall, and slumped to the ground. “Come on, Romo,” commanded Salfalur. “We’re leaving before the maga and her famulus catch up with us.”

  Romo roared with laughter. The chains of his morning star whirred menacingly, the spiked balls circling above his head. “And let the scumbag live? I’ve never spared a child of Vraccas, and I won’t start now.”

  At last Tungdil shook off the paralysis induced by finding Salfalur and seeing Myr hurt. He saw the morning star coming and ducked.

  “You’ve killed your last dwarf, Romo Steelheart,” he growled, ramming the sharp end of his ax into the thirdling’s thigh. He drew the weapon back and used the momentum to lunge at him with the blade.

  Cursing, Romo dodged the blow and hobbled backward. Features distorted by hatred and rage, he stared at his bleeding thigh. “Die, you traitor!” he thundered, taking the morning star in both hands and swinging it at Tungdil again and again.

  Tungdil knew that the haft of his ax, albeit reinforced with steel, was no match for the morning star. Rather than risk losing his only weapon, he focused on staying out of reach.

  The metal balls cannoned into the walls of the passageway, sending shards of marble flying through the air, but Romo’s assault continued unabated. Cursing and panting, he pursued his adversary with relentless zeal.

  Stepping backward, Tungdil stumbled over Myr and was punished for his carele
ssness by a terrible blow. One of the steel balls crashed into his arm, while another collided with his broken ribs. Bent double with agony, he focused his energy on keeping hold of his ax.

  “How many blows to fell a hero?” jeered Romo, circling the morning star above his head and preparing to strike. “Two at the most, I’ll warrant…”

  The balls spun toward him.

  Tungdil reached up and deflected them with his ax head. They hit a door and crashed through the timber. One of the chains got stuck in the wood and refused to yield to Romo’s increasingly vigorous efforts to pull it free.

  “How many strikes to fell a thirdling?” said Tungdil, dealing a one-handed blow to Romo’s torso. The blade cut through his chain mail and buried itself in his flesh. Blood spurted from the wound.

  Romo had no intention of conceding defeat. Abandoning his morning star, he thrust both gauntlets simultaneously into Tungdil’s face. Tungdil tumbled to the ground. His eyelids swelled, narrowing his vision, and blood trickled from a gash above his right eye.

  Romo pulled the ax from his torso and held it aloft. “More than you think!” he thundered, preparing to strike.

  Harsh yellow light filled the corridor.

  “Take that!” shouted a melodramatic voice behind Tungdil. He felt a rush of hot air as flames shot toward Romo, turning him into a living torch.

  The thirdling’s beard was ablaze and his skin was charred and cracked. A nauseating smell of burning flesh filled the air.

  Romo made no attempt to extinguish the flames. He took another step toward Tungdil and raised his arm to strike. Just then a figure cannoned into him from behind and his ax careered sideways. The blade embedded itself in the floor half a hand away from Tungdil’s chest.

  Growling, Romo shook off his assailant.

  “Huzzah!” shouted Ireheart, leaping up and brandishing his axes. “Come here so I can give you a taste of my blades!”

  “Stop,” called Tungdil. He clambered to his feet and pulled the morning star from the ruins of the door. “He’s mine.”

  Romo parried the first blow, but Tungdil struck again, and the metal balls slammed into the thirdling’s head, neck, and throat. He wobbled, but didn’t fall.

  Tungdil landed three hefty strokes in succession until at last Lorimbas’s nephew lay motionless on the floor. I never wanted to be a dwarf killer, thought Tungdil, dropping the morning star onto his enemy’s body. But Romo deserved to die.

  “That was no fun,” complained Ireheart. “He’d been burned to a cinder and injured already. Where’s the challenge in that?” He glanced around eagerly. “What happened to the chunky one? He’ll put up a better fight.”

  Meanwhile, his brother, assisted by Tungdil and Rodario, still glowing from his debut as a famulus, was attending to Myr.

  Tungdil, ignoring his own wounds, scooped the unconscious freeling off the cold flagstones and carried her back to their chamber where he tended to her until Narmora took charge. In short order, the maga restored the dwarf to her former condition, allowing her skin to grow back as smooth as ever, with no evidence of damage to the silvery down on her cheeks.

  Next Narmora turned her healing energies to Tungdil and mended his broken ribs. Lifting his arms gingerly, he discovered that the pain was gone. “Magic gives me goosebumps,” he said.

  “All magic, or just Samusin’s magic?” the maga enquired.

  “You pray to Samusin?” said Tungdil, surprised.

  “I was born of an älf—the other gods won’t have me. Listen, Tungdil, there’s no need to worry about Myr. She’s sound asleep and she won’t wake before morning. You may as well look for the missing thirdling.”

  “Salfalur,” he said grimly, picking up his ax and hurrying over to the twins who were hovering in the doorway with the impresario. “Thank you for your help back there,” he said to Rodario. “Can you tell us the fastest route out of Porista?”

  “My dear dwarf, I built this city,” bragged Rodario. “Well, I oversaw the building of it,” he appended, edging closer to the truth. “Furgas drafted the plans.”

  Boïndil frowned. “So you’re more a caretaker than an architect…”

  “I know this city like the back of my hand.” He tugged on his sleeve to hide the miniature tinderbox, a sophisticated device that threw flames at the tug of a cord. Several dwarves and humans had witnessed his fiery attack on Romo and were convinced of his magic powers.

  “Still doing party tricks?” laughed Boëndal. “You’re supposed to be a famulus, not a street magician.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” the impresario retorted touchily. “You wait, women will love it. I’ve got everything: thespian charm, writerly eloquence, natural good looks—and now mastery of the mystic arts.”

  Boïndil roared with laughter. “Not to mention the wandering eye of a philanderer.”

  “Come on,” said Tungdil, smiling in spite of himself. “We don’t have time for your nonsense, Rodario.”

  “My nonsense? I’ve never been so—” He saw the determined look on Tungdil’s face and set off through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace with the dwarves in his wake.

  The city wasn’t destined to sleep that night. Every street, every house, every chamber was searched by patrols of men, elves, and dwarves, but there was no sign of Salfalur.

  The thirdling had vanished, and with him Myr’s notes about Trovegold and the other cities. Soon Lorimbas would know every detail about Gemmil’s secret realm.

  Porista,

  Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

  Girdlegard,

  Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

  Tungdil was sitting at Myr’s bedside when she woke with a start. The delicate dwarf took a few moments to remember what had happened. “Did you stop them?” she asked weakly.

  He shook his head. “We couldn’t find Salfalur. He disappeared.”

  “We’ve got to warn Gemmil! The thirdlings will know everything about our realm.” She looked up at the ceiling and thumped the wall. “If only I hadn’t brought the books with me! I never thought my penny-pinching could cause such trouble. What if Lorimbas invades?”

  “Your penny-pinching?”

  “I only brought the books with me because I wanted to fill the empty pages. I knew I’d have lots to write about, and paper is expensive. It’s my duty as a scholar to chronicle everything I see and hear. I’m the eyes and ears of Trovegold. I can’t allow our history to be forgotten.” She ran a hand tentatively over her forehead, remembering her encounter with the wall. “Warriors never leave home without their weapons. I never go anywhere without my books.”

  He stroked her smooth cheeks. Belatedly she realized that she wasn’t in any pain. She raised a hand to her face.

  “You won’t find a scar,” Tungdil told her with a smile. “Narmora is a maga. She healed my ribs as well.”

  “A maga?” echoed Myr, impressed. She lay still for a moment and closed her eyes. She seemed to be searching for evidence—an inner voice, a hidden clue that might reveal the workings of the maga’s power. “I’ve read about magic,” she said, a little sheepishly. “I thought maybe you could feel it.”

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” he agreed with a grin. “There’s something odd about magic—it doesn’t suit us dwarves.”

  He was glad to see that Myr had made a full recovery. It seemed to confirm that he had made the right decision about melding his heart to hers. Just because he loved Balyndis didn’t mean he wasn’t genuinely fond of Myr. They were soul mates, brought together by their love of learning. As soon as he taught her to appreciate metalwork, they would make a perfect pair.

  Except you still love Balyndis, his inner demon reminded him slyly.

  Tungdil responded by leaning over and kissing Myr.

  Nice try, laughed the demon.

  Myr smiled uncertainly. “It was horrible, Tungdil. I found the thirdlings in our chamber, rummaging through my things. Romo—I think that’s what he said his name was—bashed me on the head and knocked
me out. The next I knew, I was dangling from his shoulder. He threatened to kill me if I made a noise. Thank Vraccas you came along and saved me.”

  “It was nothing,” he said modestly. “Anyway, I probably wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your skill as a surgeon. Remember how we met? I had an älvish arrow in my shoulder, and another in my chest—you pulled them out and healed me.” He paused and looked at her gravely. “As soon as you’re well enough, we’ll be on our way. Meanwhile, there’s something I need to deal with. I’ve asked for an audience with Gandogar.”

  “With Gandogar? Why?” She tried to sit up in bed, but slumped sideways against his shoulder. “It’s all right. I think I’m still dizzy from being bashed on the head or colliding with the wall—or both.”

  He held onto her. “You’ll probably say I’m crazy, but I think it’s a cunning ploy.”

  She looked at him, startled. “What’s a ploy?”

  “I think the thirdlings don’t know anything about the avatars,” he explained. “If you ask me, they know we’re running scared, and they’re taking advantage of the situation. This could be their ultimate victory—it’s safer and more effective than a war. One in two of our kinsmen will die on the march to the Outer Lands. The paths are treacherous, it’s deepest winter, and we’ll have avalanches to contend with.”

  “Not to mention hunger,” she said sadly.

  “The thirdlings’ demands are designed purely to kill the maximum number of dwarves. They’re trying to trick us into leaving Girdlegard by spinning us a story about a secret weapon.” He looked into her red eyes. “The thirdlings are lying, and I can prove it. From what Boëndal told me about the first meeting, Romo didn’t say anything about the avatars, only about a threat from the west. He was stringing us along.”

  “If I were Gandogar, I’d want better evidence than that,” objected Myr. “What if Romo was referring to the avatars when he—”

  “Maybe he was,” cut in Tungdil. “The question is, why would the avatars kill Andôkai if Lorimbas were the threat?” He smiled. “First Romo was talking about stopping them, next he was going to destroy them. Which is it?”