The Dwarves Omnibus

by Markus Heitz

  “Stopping, destroying—it’s the same to a warrior like him. He wasn’t the sort to care about distinctions.”

  “That’s not all, though. He couldn’t give any details about the weapon. No wonder—it doesn’t exist!”

  “What if the secret to stopping the avatars is so straightforward that he’d be giving away their bargaining power? Or maybe he likes being awkward.”

  “He could have told us something—like whether it’s an ax or a trebuchet or runes to be carved above the western gates,” insisted Tungdil, who felt like he was arguing his case before a judge. It seemed to him that Myr was being deliberately contrary.

  “You’re right to distrust him, but think how the dwarven monarchs will react. He’s promising to save Girdlegard, and you’re saying we can’t be helped.”

  “Why would they believe Romo? He hasn’t given them any proof,” said Tungdil moodily. He thought for a moment. “You’re right though. Sometimes the truth isn’t welcome.”

  “If I were Gandogar, I’d give Romo the benefit of the doubt. Imagine what it would be like watching Girdlegard go up in flames and knowing you could have saved it. I wouldn’t want to live with the guilt.”

  “You’d rather send thousands of dwarves to their deaths? Come on, Myr, you can’t agree to the banishment of the folks when there’s a good chance the thirdlings are lying! Even if we make it back to Girdlegard, we’ll have to fight or trick our way into our kingdoms. Meanwhile, Lorimbas and the thirdlings will be laughing themselves vraccasium-red.” He stood up. “I know you don’t agree with me, but it’s my duty to alert the high king to a possible plot.”

  “You need more evidence,” ruled Myr. “You haven’t persuaded me.” She pressed her lips to his hand. “Vraccas be with you.”

  We appreciate you sharing your suspicions,” began Gandogar.

  Tungdil knew at once what the high king was going to say. Myr was right, he thought. I need more proof. He didn’t bother to listen to rest of the speech; Gandogar’s objections were much the same as Myr’s.

  He glanced at the other delegates: King Balendilín, King Glaïmbar, and Queen Xamtys looked worried and dismayed. They must be wondering how to break the news to their clansfolk. How do you explain that the high king wants everyone to leave their kingdoms and risk their lives for a weapon that might not exist? He bowed and took a seat, even though Gandogar was still speaking.

  The dwarf of all dwarves didn’t seem offended by his rudeness. “I’ll go down as the worst high king in history, I know, but I’ve been left with no choice. Vraccas commanded us to give our lives for the safety of Girdlegard.” He stood up. “It’s settled: The dwarves will leave their kingdoms. Tungdil, you’ll have to tell Gemmil to abandon his realm. Now that the thirdlings know the location of the underground cities, they’re bound to attack.” He raised his hand in parting and left the chamber. The other delegates followed his lead.

  Tungdil covered his face with his hands. He couldn’t bear to think about the hardships awaiting his kin.

  The footsteps died away and the chamber was still. It didn’t occur to him that anyone was left, so he was startled when a hand squeezed his shoulder. Uncovering his eyes, he turned and looked into Boëndal’s bearded face.

  “You mustn’t give up, scholar.” He stepped aside, revealing a small band of dwarves looking grimly determined. “Not everyone thinks you’re wrong. The kings and queens chose not to heed you, but your efforts weren’t in vain. We saw the strength of your conviction, and we believe you.”

  One by one the delegates introduced themselves. Between them, they represented all four folks.

  “Well?” said Boïndil expectantly. “I hope there are enough of us. I’m assuming you’ve got a plan.”

  “I had a plan,” he said, thanking Vraccas for his small band of followers. A smile spread across his face. “But I’ve thought of a better one.”

  One of the delegates cleared his throat. “I won’t do anything to hurt my king, my clansfolk, or my family.”

  “You’re an honorable dwarf.” He scanned their faces. “I’d sooner chop off my head than put any of our kinsfolk in danger.” He beckoned them closer. “But I do have a mission for you. With your courage and Vraccas’s blessing…”

  “He’ll bless us all right,” said Boïndil confidently.

  “In that case, the thirdlings are in for a shock.” And he told them what he had in mind.

  Narmora leaped out of bed, rushed down the corridor, and ran into Furgas’s room. A moment later, Rodario was by her side.

  “Did you hear him scream?”

  “Fetch Myr,” she said tersely. “She’ll know what’s wrong.”

  Rodario hurried away.

  It’s happening too soon, thought Narmora distractedly. I don’t know how to cure him yet. She wiped the sweat from Furgas’s face.

  A pink blotch appeared on the cloth. Thin lines of blood were trickling from Furgas’s closed eyelids and mingling with his sweat. I don’t know how to counteract the poison. I need more time.

  She waited impatiently for Myr, who turned up a few minutes later with Tungdil.

  Myr examined her patient thoroughly, listening to his heartbeat, checking his breathing and smelling his skin before inspecting the contents of the chamber pot. “He’s feverish,” she announced, looking up at Narmora. “All the symptoms point to poisoning. He’s in a bad way, Estimable Maga. His heart is gathering speed like a runaway trip hammer—he’ll die if you don’t slow it down.”

  The maga shivered. “I’ve been working on a charm, but… I was wondering if you could give him something to ease the pain.”

  Myr raised her eyebrows. “You can’t cure his symptoms with your magic? The toxin must be awfully strong.”

  “Can you help him or not?” demanded Narmora more sharply than intended. “You said we need to slow his heart.”

  “I can’t do anything without knowing the make-up of the poison,” she said sadly. “His life is in your hands.” She packed her things and waited uncertainly next to Tungdil, until the maga dismissed them with a nod.

  As soon as they were gone, Narmora slipped her hand beneath her bodice and pulled out the shard of malachite, running her finger over its surface and sloughing off the dried blood. It’s the only way. She washed the gem quickly, opened her bodice, and focused her mind, channeling her magic energy into the malachite.

  The stone began to glow, becoming warmer against her skin.

  Samusin, keep me from harm and save Furgas from suffering. She placed the tip of the stone on the pale skin below her sternum and tensed her muscles, preparing, as Nudin had done before her, to absorb the malachite’s power.

  Take my life, if you have to, Samusin, but let him live. She closed her eyes and drove the malachite into her chest.

  The pain was unbearable.

  A viridescent sun exploded within her, dousing her in a caustic tide that seared, froze, and swelled her veins, gathering inside her until she was sure she would burst like a rotten fruit. Suddenly it stopped.

  Narmora fell to her knees and retched. A puddle of green vomit collected on the floor. The next wave of nausea purged her stomach of its contents, the stinking torrent of malachite vomit narrowly missing Furgas’s bed.

  “Who are you?” called a voice.

  She retched again, raised herself on trembling arms, and turned her head, looking for the speaker. “Is someone there?” she gasped.

  “I can teach you things that will make you more powerful than any maga or magus in history,” the voice whispered. Nudin appeared in a corner of the room. He smiled at her warmly. His robes belonged to another, long-forgotten era.

  “You can’t be… We killed you at the Blacksaddle!”

  “I’d like to help you,” he said, morphing suddenly into the familiar bloated figure of Nôd’onn. His smile became a smirk. “All Girdlegard will cower in awe of you,” he promised. The air above Furgas’s bed seemed to shimmer, bringing forth the misty demon that Tungdil had slain at
the Blacksaddle. “Poor soul, he’s dying,” whispered the mist, caressing Furgas’s cheeks. “You can save him. I’ve given you the power.”

  Narmora was dazzled by a bright green light. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the mist was gone and the room was silent except for Furgas’s muffled groans.

  I must have imagined it. She looked down to see that the wound had closed without leaving a scar or a telltale malachite glow. The skin was flawless and a single droplet of crimson blood marked the place where the stone had entered her breast.

  Furgas cried out in agony, his body convulsing with pain.

  “I’m here,” she said weakly, clutching the bed and stumbling to her feet. She laid a hand on his dressings. Now we’ll see the extent of my powers.

  In a clear voice she uttered the first of many incantations, taking her time over the syllables that came unbidden to her lips as she commanded the poison to leave Furgas’s body.

  At once she heard a hissing noise.

  Sulfur-yellow vapor rose from the motionless body and melted into the air. Meanwhile, tiny yellow droplets appeared on Furgas’s skin, dancing like spilt water on a stove. Soon the sheets were drenched in yellow.

  Furgas’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. He started to moan.

  Am I killing him? thought Narmora in alarm, starting to lift her hand.

  “Keep going!” commanded a voice beside her. “You have the power to cure him, Narmora. His eyes will open, you’ll see.” Nôd’onn smiled at her encouragingly. “Trust in me and the power of the stone. You’re a maga: He’s in good hands.”

  Narmora could see him clearly now. He bore no trace of the wounds inflicted at the Blacksaddle. “You’re an illusion,” she said firmly. “Be gone!”

  Nôd’onn pointed to Furgas’s stained bandages. “You’ve got to keep going,” he told her.

  Narmora turned her attention back to Furgas. Strange words of healing surfaced in her memory and she continued her incantations.

  Poison was still seeping from Furgas’s pores, but suddenly he stopped groaning, drew a sharp intake of breath, and lay still.

  “No!” cried Narmora despairingly, rushing to the head of the bed and stroking his face. “What have I done?”

  Furgas opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling in surprise. At last he noticed Narmora and raised a hand to her face. “Narmora…”

  She swallowed, then threw her arms around him, laughing and crying. Furgas sat up and clasped her tightly. “You’re back,” she sobbed happily. “Thank Samusin, you’re back!”

  Furgas seemed bewildered by the outburst of affection, but enjoyed it all the same. “I remember now…” he said slowly. “We were attacked… What happened after that?” He kissed her shiny black hair and took her head in his hands so that he could look at her properly. His gaze fell on her slender waist. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked, startled.

  “Stay there! It’s time you met your daughter,” said Narmora, racing off to fetch Dorsa.

  She handed the baby gently to Furgas, who was weeping with joy. “She had a brother, but he didn’t live,” she said. Her eyes glistened as she recounted the events leading up to the accident that killed their child.

  Furgas stroked his daughter. “At least we’ve got Dorsa,” he said gruffly, kissing her tiny head. He pulled Narmora to him. “I love you, Narmora. I love you both. After the orbits of torment, this moment is all the more precious.”

  Narmora gave him a lingering kiss. “Get some sleep, my darling. Everything else can wait until the morning. I’m afraid there’s a long road ahead if our family is to live happily in Porista. We’ll need my talents and your technical wizardry.” She snuggled closer, holding her breath for a second as Nôd’onn appeared at the end of the room. The apparition faded away.

  Kingdom of Dsôn Balsur,

  Girdlegard,

  Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

  Hosjep was sitting atop the largest mangonel, banging nails into the sturdy timber and wrapping rope around the framework to absorb the impact of the throwing arm.

  All around him, carpenters were at work in their lofty perches, twisting rope, adjusting leather buffers, and hammering nails into wood. On the ground, others were chopping and planing raw timber to make beams and struts for the next consignment of mangonels.

  Many orbits had passed since the älfar burned down the siege engines. The nighttime raid had led to huge losses for the allies, not to mention a standoff between the elves and the dwarves, but the biggest casualty was morale. The savagery of the älfar’s attack had dented confidence in an allied victory, prompting mass desertions. Many of Hosjep’s fellow workers had abandoned their posts.

  Hosjep had been tempted to join them, but the money was too good. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have ventured within a hundred miles of Dsôn Balsur, but the army had secured his services with the promise of gold. He had already been paid more than he earned in an average cycle.

  He looked across at the swathe of scorched earth bordered on both sides by gloomy forest. From his vantage point, he could see that the allies were barely a mile from the plains. Soon the army would be able to advance unhindered.

  Beyond the forest, the stronghold of Arviû blotted the landscape like a malignant cyst, its dark walls casting a shadow across the verdant plains.

  To cheer himself up, he imagined what Dsôn Balsur would look like when the älfar were gone. Beautiful, he thought, his spirits lifting a little.

  From the stronghold, the grassy plains extended for miles, dipping on the horizon to form a crater, from which rose a tapering tower, shimmering bone-white in the sun. This then was the heart of the älvish kingdom, the target of the allied campaign.

  Hosjep picked up his hammer and returned to work. I wouldn’t want to be a soldier, he thought with a shiver. This is close enough for me.

  Hours later, he was still clambering over the enormous mangonel, but the gathering gloom brought an end to the orbit’s work. He began to climb down carefully. Without a rope to hold on to or a net to catch him, the slightest clumsiness could see him falling ten paces to the ground.

  Down below, the latest recruits had arrived and fires were being lit. The soldiers had dug a moat around the camp, filled it with rags dipped in pitch and tar, and set light to the mix. Any älf that tried to breach the ring of fire was liable to burn to death. The order had been given for more pitch and tar to be added every hour. The foul-smelling concoction had been mixed to a sticky gloop to ensure it served its purpose rather than leaching into the soil. No one minded the stench or the acrid smoke—it was better than dying at the hands of the älfar.

  Hosjep was in good spirits. The siege engines would soon be back in action, reaching toward the stronghold of Arviû with their powerful arms. Barrels of oil and petroleum were arriving from the human kingdoms, and in ten orbits the army would have sufficient fuel to finish the campaign. All in all, the allies were in an excellent position.

  But fear, superstition, and rumor prevailed.

  Time for some hot grub and a tankard of ale. After a solid orbit’s labor, Hosjep was looking forward to his bed of fresh hay. He jumped onto the mangonel’s throwing arm and started to walk carefully to the ground. His eyes were drawn to the ring of fire around the camp. The flames were cowering fearfully at the bottom of the ditch.

  He stopped in his tracks.

  Every light in the camp was burning low. The campfires were dying, the candles on the makeshift tables were sputtering, and the oil lamp above the commander’s tent was barely alight. A moment later, the camp was plunged into darkness.

  Hosjep listened to the silence. Everyone was waiting and praying for the moment to pass.

  Every light had retreated, including the moon and stars. I’ve never seen it so dark. It seemed to Hosjep that the camp had been dunked in black ink, making it impossible to see further than his nose.

  The horses flared their nostrils and tried to break free. Whinnying in terror, t
hey strained against their hitching posts, pulling until the wooden stakes jerked out of the ground.

  Hosjep heard the sound of splintering timber, then thousands of hooves stampeded through the camp, trampling tents and soldiers. The spooked horses could see no better than the men, but their nostrils told them to run. Hosjep clung to the arms of the mangonel as the fleeing herd collided with the frame. Great clouds of dust rose from the churned-up ground, mixed in with cold cinder from the fires. At last the deafening stampede was over and the whinnying faded: The horses were out of the camp.

  “Get in formation!” commanded an officer, apparently undaunted. He had to shout to be heard above the welter of screams and shouts. “Third company to me, pikemen at the front—” An armored body hit the ground.

  The soldiers didn’t need eyes to know what had happened.

  “Run!” shouted someone. A weapon clattered to the ground and footsteps raced away. “They’re here! They’re in the camp!”

  Hosjep pressed himself against the mangonel, lying flat against the throwing arm between the uprights of the frame. If the darkness were to lift, he wanted as little as possible of his profile to be visible from the ground.

  Death descended on the camp.

  It started with a single, drawn-out scream of agony, then the slaughter began. Hosjep heard noises that would haunt him for the rest of his life, tortured wails and terrible weeping, blown to him on the cruelest of winds.

  The älfar seemed to know exactly where to find the soldiers. Arrows ripped through the air in all directions, and Hosjep was hit by a stray missile that embedded itself in his leg. He clenched his jaw and swallowed the pain.

  Time dragged on, but at last the clattering of swords and screams of the wounded died away. The moon and stars broke through the cloud, revealing the carnage below.

  Corpses were strewn several deep across the battlefield, covering the ground like a gory carpet of torsos, limbs, and blood.

  Älfar stepped lightly over them, looking for survivors. The living were pulled out from under the dead and killed in the cruelest fashion.