The Dwarves Omnibus

by Markus Heitz

  He waved at them all, responding to their hearty welcome as he strode at the high king’s side through their ranks. “My thanks,” he called joyfully. “Thanks to you all.”

  The applause swelled and he heard his name shouted.

  He could easily have been running the gauntlet of their disapproval, it struck him. For his wife Balyndis was once married to Glaïmbar Sharpax from the Iron Beater clan of Borengar’s people: the same man who now held no less a title than ruler of all the fifthlings.

  Meeting Glaïmbar would be the biggest challenge. The people of the Gray Range had seemingly forgiven him for being with Balyndis now, but did there have to be so many of them? He smiled at them bravely and breathed a sigh of relief when safely within the enormous corridor that led inside the mountain.

  Gandogar stopped at the entrance; he noticed that Tungdil’s joy was not unmixed. “Are you all right?”

  The dwarf did not answer at first. “It’s strange. On the one hand my heart sings like sounding iron smitten on the smith’s anvil. But on the other…” He broke off, fell silent, then cleared his throat. “I think it’s just that I am not used to having so many dwarves around me all at once, Gandogar.” He smiled, lifting his hand in excuse. “Normally it’s just the one dwarf, my wife.”

  “I understand. In part,” responded Gandogar. “How you can live so isolated, far from any company—that’s a mystery to me. All those strangers around one can be frightening.” He winked. “I know what it is like. My wife’s clan is enormous. I’m always terrified of their family visits.”

  Tungdil laughed. Meanwhile one of the dwarves had taken the reins of his loyal pony, promising the best of grooming and care. Tungdil and the high king progressed through the corridors, passages and rooms; the music and the sounds of rejoicing from the crowds grew quieter now.

  Tungdil recalled… Here he and his comrades had encountered nothing but dust and rubbish. After the defeat of the fifthlings, Tion’s monsters had ruled in these mountains for hundreds of cycles.

  But now it was over. Delegations of all the dwarf folk had come and brought new life after the victory. The Gray Range pulsated; Tungdil could hear children’s laughter. What pain he felt at that sound.

  “We haven’t been content merely to make good the damage to the stonework on the walls and in the rooms,” he heard a man’s voice in the adjacent passageway. A dwarf came out with his retinue. “We have created new halls. New halls for the children growing up in the light of the sun that rises up over the Dragon’s Tongue, the Great Blade and the other mountain peaks.”

  Tungdil recognized the impressive figure and the characteristic voice at once; he would have preferred not to meet this dwarf until later on. “Greetings, King Glaïmbar Sharpax,” he said, bowing. He was surprised to see a female dwarf in an embroidered brown robe standing behind the ruler, a newborn baby on her arm. “May I congratulate you on the birth of your child?”

  Glaïmbar, taller and more solid in stature than Gandogar, ran a hand over his luxuriant black beard. “My thanks, Tungdil Goldhand, and welcome to my kingdom.” He pointed to the baby. “These are the true fifthlings. The rest of us will keep their kingdom safe until they are old enough to defend it for themselves.” He held out his hand; the metal plates on his elaborate armor clinked as he moved. “I can see the concern in your eyes, Tungdil. We shall let bygones be bygones. My heart has found another and I harbor no grudge, neither against you nor against Balyndis. Tell her so when you return.”

  In spite of the many adventures he had experienced in his short life, and the many lucky escapes from perilous situations, Tungdil had seldom felt so strong a sense of relief as now. He grasped the king’s hand in both his own, shaking it so vigorously that Gandogar restrained him. “Stop, my friend. Glaïmbar will need that arm again,” he laughed indulgently; he knew the history these two shared.

  A swift glance at Glaïmbar’s face showed Gandogar that the king of the fifthlings was also taken aback by the lack of care in Tungdil’s appearance. This was not how a hero should look, even if he had withdrawn from society and lived away from them all for such a long time.

  “Sadly, I don’t need my arms for fighting anymore,” added Glaïmbar after a pause. “It has grown quiet on the Northern Pass.”

  “Be content, King Glaïmbar,” said Tungdil. He felt as if a leaden weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Following on from the rapturous welcome he’d been met with, here were words of forgiveness from a former rival; two of his greatest fears were resolved. But still he warned himself not to be too trusting. Until he saw deeds to back up the words of reconciliation, he must remain on his guard. “Your arms will soon be tired from rocking the child.”

  “Come. I will show you the new treasures of our flourishing dwarf kingdom.” Gandogar, Glaïmbar and Tungdil walked away together to explore the fortress.

  Each dwarven folk had contributed the finest of its handiwork and skills. The secondling stonemasons had executed immaculate repairs and excavated new accommodation quarters and halls, forming pillars and bridges of stone with an accuracy that beggared belief.

  The smithies of the firstlings had supplied decorative strengthening girders, fretted screens, metal furniture and fencing, lamps and other articles.

  The fourthlings brought the arts of their colleagues to perfection by studding them with precious stones, polished for sparkle.

  Together with artistic murals in gold and vraccasium and other precious metals from the devastated remains of the vanquished fifthling realm, the new occupants had created the finest of dwarf kingdoms. Here, all the best had been brought together.

  Glaïmbar enjoyed the admiration he saw in the eyes of his high-ranking guests. “You see how the whole of the Gray Range territories have become a center of excellence. And the cream of the thirdling warriors are training us in new methods of combat, so we may better protect our wealth and the land of Girdlegard,” he concluded as they completed their tour and made for the assembly hall.

  Tungdil remembered this unusual room clearly; it was constructed like a theater with a circular floor area, twenty paces across. The walls had a broad ledge at waist height—about four paces wide—then continued in the vertical plane.

  Here was the place he had made the proposal that Glaïmbar should be crowned king. Here it was he had renounced his own claim. What would have happened if I had been king of the fifthlings? he wondered, gazing at the empty rows. Would things have turned out better, or worse?

  There was to be no voting in the chamber today. Instead, the clan leaders were waiting to feast with them. They were all sitting in the center of the first level at a long table that seemed to bear every dish the dwarven cuisines could offer.

  When the three stepped into the room, conversations ebbed away and all those present got to their feet. Knees were bent in homage, swords held aloft, heads bowed. It was the silent pledge, a promise to give life and limb for the high king. “Rise and eat,” spoke Gandogar, taking his place at the end of the table. “Let us enjoy our meal. I am hungry from our walk. Thirsty, too. Let us talk later.” Tungdil sat at his left side, Glaïmbar at his right. The meal began and the musicians struck up.

  Tungdil partook of the feast with delight, his palate enchanted by the variety of tastes: spiced root jelly, roast goat meat, kimpa mushrooms, sour cheese with herbs, and steaming hot dumplings made of root flour. The feast was such a contrast to the simple fare of his life in the mines—neither he nor Balyndis were accomplished cooks—the other thing was that he liked the food of humans, but she preferred a more traditional diet. The compromises usually tasted rather disappointing.

  He wiped his fingers on his dirty beard. So enthusiastically was he attacking his food that he missed the horrified glances of the clan leaders. They were disturbed at his lack of grooming.

  Gandogar passed him a tankard of beer. “Here, taste this. You don’t have stuff like that back home, do you?”

  It won’t have been meant unkindly, but it made its
mark through the wafer-thin mental armor. His expression clouded over. “I am content with what I have.” He took a helping of the roast, sinking his teeth into the goat flesh; brownish-red gravy dripped through his matted beard as if it were blood trickling down. His abrupt movements were at odds with his words.

  “Do you have any children yet?” asked Glaïmbar, not knowing that this was another sensitive area. “Who knows when we will need the next heroes, and if your children—”

  Tungdil threw down the piece of meat, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his mail shirt and gulped down his beer. Then he motioned to a dwarf standing by to bring him more. “Please, tell me why you have summoned me, King Gandogar,” he said, changing the subject so emphatically that even the simplest of minds got the point.

  Glaïmbar and the high king exchanged looks. “As I said before, it is all very quiet now, Tungdil,” said the king, continuing to eat. “This makes me uneasy.”

  “Rightly so,” agreed the other. “For a whole cycle now we’ve been seeing a lot of orc activity in the Brown Ranges; they’re all surging over the pass as if the forces of goodness were pursuing them.” He was served dessert. “But at the Stone Gate it’s as quiet as the grave.”

  “These last four cycles we could have safely left the gates open and nothing would have happened,” added Glaïmbar.

  Tungdil recognized the pudding at once and took some. It was a light sweet cream that he’d had before, back with the freelings of Trovegold—in the house of the dwarf Myr, who had betrayed him and paid for it with her life. The woman he had loved.

  The choice of dessert was a mistake. The first spoonful brought back the bitter-tasting memories that wrecked his appetite. He reached for the beer again.

  “That is strange indeed,” he grunted rather than said. He cleared his throat and swallowed down the images of the past. A lot of beer would be needed to keep those pictures in their place. “Have you sent out scouts?”

  “No,” answered Glaïmbar. “We didn’t want to waken any sleeping ogres until we had completed and extended our defenses.”

  “That’s why you are here. We thought of sending out a small party and we thought of you, Tungdil Goldhand, to lead it.” Gandogar took over. “You’ve been to the Outer Lands, I hear.” He pointed to the hero’s ax, resting next to his chair. “You have the ax Keenfire to overcome all adversaries. You are the best choice for such an undertaking.”

  Tungdil pushed his full plate away and asked for a third tankard of beer. He was stilling his hunger with the barley now. As so often in the recent past. “Yes, Your Majesty. I have been to the Outer Lands. I stayed about the length of an orbit. It was foggy; I lost three men to the orcs and in one of the caves I discovered a rune that I couldn’t decipher. It wasn’t worth going.” He poured the beer down his throat, clanged the tankard down and suppressed a belch. “You must admit, it’s not a lot of experience.”

  “Nevertheless, we need to find out what’s happening there.” The high king did not sound as if he would accept a refusal on Tungdil’s part, not even an implied one. “I want you to set off tomorrow for the Stone Gate. You’ll take a group of our best warriors with you to the Outer Lands, and you’ll see what’s what.”

  Tungdil had started on the fourth tankard, but put it back down on the table. “It’ll be foggy, king, that’s what. You know what fog is like. How many shades of gray do you want me to describe when I get back?”

  “Hang on, Goldhand,” warned Glaïmbar, delicately eating his dessert. “You may have to offer the high king an apology if you see hordes of monsters assembling there to attack us.”

  Tungdil turned back to his beer and then looked at Glaïmbar. So he was keen to send him to the Outer Lands, was he? Perhaps the mooted reconciliation hadn’t been so genuine, after all? He was ashamed of harboring this uncharitable thought. He was as suspicious as a gnome.

  Cursing, he put down his beer. “Excuse my surly tone, King Gandogar,” he said quietly. “Of course I will go to the Northern Pass.” Turning to Glaïmbar, “I’ll be happy to encounter Tion’s creatures. And if I die in battle, I don’t care! Because…” He pressed his lips together. “Forgive me. I am too tired to be good company.” He got up, bowed to the two rulers, grabbed the tankard and left the dining hall.

  The dwarves all followed him with their eyes, chewing their food in silence. No one spoke. No one wanted to voice the growing doubts about their hero.

  Gandogar regarded Tungdil’s uneaten food with concern. “Something has changed him.”

  “Changed him?” echoed Glaïmbar. “I’m sure it’s to do with Balyndis.”

  “He will find someone at the Stone Gate he can talk to about it. Someone that’s closer to him than we are.” Gandogar took a mouthful of beer, while Glaïmbar stared at him.

  “He is coming?”

  “No,” the king’s answer rang hollow in the tankard. Gandogar blinked over the rim, set the tankard down, swirled the remaining liquid round the sides to clear the froth and downed the rest of the beer in one. “He is already here, my good Glaïmbar.”

  Girdlegard,

  In the Red Mountains on the Eastern Border of the Firstling Kingdom

  Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

  Fidelgar Strikefast, a well-built dwarf with a bright yellow beard, sat down, took the small metal box out of his rucksack and placed it in front of him on the stone table. He had completed his first round and was granting himself a rest in the extensive cavern whose high roof rested on stone pillars. In the old days there had been wagons running here on the rails, but in recent cycles there had been little call for them. His task was to check out the passages, and they were all long.

  Baigar Fourhand, working away with a hammer and a hook at an upturned wagon, turned to look at him. He had draped the braids of his brown beard over his shoulder to keep them out of the way of the red-hot forge. Next to him there was a portable smithy as used by traveling craftsmen. It was large enough to let him carry out minor repairs. “Everything nice and quiet?” he asked and looked at the box with curiosity.

  “Now that I’ve killed four orcs and wiped out a troll, yes,” he joked, taking out two beakers and a flask engraved with the sign for gold. “No, it’s all quiet.”

  Now Baigar put his tools on one side and nosed his way forward. “What have you got there?”

  “A Trovegold novelty.” Fidelgar stroked the edges of the little box, opened the clasps and lifted the lid with care. The smell of spices and brandy wafted out. Baigar saw some brown objects inside that were about the size and shape of a finger. “Smoke rolls.”

  “From Trovegold? The city where the freelings live?”

  “Exactly. One of their traders passed through. I just had to buy some.” He took a smoke roll out and held it out to Baigar. “Rolled tobacco leaves stored in spices. Or maybe they put the spices in.”

  As Baigar sniffed at the smoke roll his beard braids slid back down over his chest. “So you cut a bit off and stick it in your pipe?”

  “No. You don’t need a pipe. The freelings have thought up something to save time.” Fidelgar stood up, went over to the forge and used the tongs to extract a red-hot coal. He put one end of the smoke roll in his mouth and held the other end to the glowing coal. There was a hissing sound as the tobacco caught. “Then you drag on it like with a pipe,” he explained indistinctly. Several quick puffs and he was closing his eyes in pleasure. It smelled good, like vanilla and honey and some other aromas he could not name.

  “That looks like a great idea.” Baigar took a roll out and copied what the other dwarf had done. The smoke was stronger-tasting, and hotter, than what he was used to from his pipe. And the effect was more powerful. His head was spinning. “I would never have thought that trading with the freelings would bring us so many advantages.” He waved the glowing smoke roll in the air. “And I don’t just mean this thing here. What about gugul meat? And then their herbs are really useful, I’m told.”

  Fidelgar moved his smoke roll to the side
of his mouth and opened the flask, pouring a clear liquid into the two beakers. “And they have this Trovegold goldwater. It’s a liquor with flakes of gold in it.” He nodded encouragingly. “Tastes great.”

  “Flakes of gold? In liquor?” Baigar sipped at it, trying out the thin flakes on his tongue. “Tastes like…” He smacked his lips as he searched for the right word. “Gold… Nothing else can describe that exquisite taste.” He gave a contented sigh. “Incredible. I can feel it coursing through me; the tiredness is disappearing and my mood is lifting. Seems like a miracle cure.”

  “The gold or the alcohol?” Fidelgar grinned. “They can adapt the taste according to which spirits you have and what type of gold you use. You can’t get nearer to gold than that, now can you?” He took another mouthful of it and pulled on the smoke roll again. He took a look around. “Incredible how peaceful everything is.”

  Baigar puffed away and tried making smoke rings. “Sure about that? No rock gnomes?”

  “Would I be sitting here smoking?” Fidelgar glanced at the broken wagon Baigar had been working at. “Why bother mending the cars if we don’t use the tunnels anymore?”

  “You never know,” replied Baigar. “And anyway, we do use them. We send out the building squads in them to do repairs. And why do you do your guard rounds if there are no monsters left in Girdlegard?”

  “Because you never know,” laughed Fidelgar. He pointed to the four tunnels the rails ran into. “It’s a shame. Just when our dwarf folks are united, these underground networks are still lying useless. Curse that earthquake the Judgment Star caused.”

  “Never fear. Vraccas is on our side.” Baigar shook his head. “We’re getting round to mending the main tracks. Just yesterday one of the gangs managed to clear a good half-mile of tunnel.” He sighed. “The rubble is just the half of it. It’s an enormous job renewing the rails that were damaged in the rockfalls. Some of the rails have to be forged new on site.” He pointed over to the wagon. “If you have rails that are bent like that then the axles get out of shape. That’s happening all the time when the work squads use them. All means more work for me.”