by Markus Heitz
“I don’t get it,” said Rodario. “Has he really taken on new actors?”
“Perhaps he’d had enough of you?” said Lambus. “Did you have a fight? But I can’t imagine you two falling out.”
Rodario did not feel like telling the whole story. “Do you know which island it was?”
Lambus shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry. If you want to find him, it’ll be a long search. Since the big flood, islands come and go. Every day there’s something new on the waters.”
Rodario sighed. At least he knew now that his friend was alive. But no more than that. “Did he tell you anything?”
“No, not really.” The smith was a little awkward. “That is, he wanted me to go with him for four dozen orbits,” he admitted at last. “He offered me one hundred Weyurn crowns if I kept quiet about my work. I had to turn him down. I’ve got too many customers in the town I can’t afford to lose.” Lambus looked past Rodario and Tassia. “Is someone looking for you, do you think?”
The couple froze, the same thought in their minds. “How many? What do they look like?” asked Rodario without turning round. All he had on him was one pitiful dagger.
Lambus moved his head a little. “Eight. Tall. Big guys. I’d say they can carry heavy loads when they have to. Ordinary kind of clothes, but not from Weyurn.”
“So much for that treasure no one was going to miss,” Rodario hissed to Tassia. “He won’t even notice the necklace is missing,” he mocked in falsetto.
“Who says it’s got to be my fault? Perhaps it’s just some local fellows whose wives you seduced and they’re after your pocket knife,” she retorted sharply, exaggerating a deep, boasting voice: “Roll up, ladies. I have the stamina, I am Unbelievable!”
“No, my dear. These bruisers are from Nolik’s father.”
“Is this some new play you’re rehearsing?” asked Lambus enthusiastically. “It sounds great!”
Rodario turned to the smith. “Lambus, my good man. The men behind us are not kindly disposed. Would you be good enough…?” He passed him a coin.
The smith nodded. “Go out through the kitchen. I’ll try to keep them occupied if they see you, Master Rodario.”
The pair stood up slowly and went over to the landlord, who let them out through the back. But two more of the heavies were standing out there with cudgels in their hands.
“There she is!” called one of them. He jumped at Tassia.
“See—they are here because of you!” Rodario couldn’t resist the snide remark. He kicked the man in the groin, so that he collapsed in a moaning heap.
Tassia skirted round him as he fell, and grabbed his cudgel. Resolutely she landed a great thud with it on the chin of the second bully, stunning him. He tottered backwards and before he could get his balance, Rodario hit him over the head with a crate of rotten fruit. He sank down motionless.
“We make a damn good team,” he crowed. He was about to kiss Tassia when the back door flew open and four new opponents tumbled through.
The girl raised her club: “Be off with you! That necklace belongs to me!”
“Let’s get out of here!” Rodario took her by the hand and pulled her after him. Together they raced around the corner, not stopping until they came to a landing stage. The path ended too abruptly for his liking.
However, the boats that had been tied up together formed a rudimentary if unstable bridge to the other side.
“Follow me!” Rodario jumped and, in danger of being thrown off, balanced on the boats that were bobbing on the water like a handful of walnut shells. He managed to reach the narrow footpath on the other side. “What are you waiting for?”
“Quiet, you!” Tassia made her way across after him. It was harder for her because he had already set the boats rocking. She ripped her skirt to give herself more freedom of movement.
In the meantime Rodario had taken hold of the rope from the last of the barges and pulled it taut till she was by his side. Then he gave the boat a shove out onto the water. The bullies in hot pursuit were faced with a gap to jump.
Two of them fell off into the ice-cold water. The third was about to attempt a leap across. Then Tassia saw a shadow fall over her from behind. An older man in local Mifurdanian attire stood in the doorway, about to empty some slops into the canal. He saw Rodario on the deck. “You?” He lifted his bucket to strike. “This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, you damnable seducer I’ll feed your manhood to the fishes!”
Girdlegard
Kingdom of Gauragar
Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tungdil was rocking back and forth, his head fit to burst. His brain throbbed and thumped and seemed keen to escape by way of his ears, but his throat was as dry and dusty as if he had been eating sand for three long solar cycles.
He groaned, opening heavy lids, and blinked in the bright light, catching sight of his fingertips hanging an arm’s length away and gravel and scree passing by just underneath them. There was a strong smell of pony and he could hear the sounds of at least one other horse.
If he put two and two together, he thought, he must be on a journey. Against his will.
“Where…?” he croaked as he tried to sit up. This made him fall head first into the dust. His startled pony gave a leap to one side and the pack mule that was following bellowed in panic.
“Calm down,” Boïndil soothed. “He won’t hurt you—he’s just fallen out of the saddle.” A concerned face showed itself over his own, a black beard tickling Tungdil’s nose. “Are you awake, Scholar?”
Tungdil sat up and brushed the dirt from his breeches; he took a look around and saw trees, bushes and grass. It was not like this in the middle of the mountain. “Where am I?” He pulled himself up on the saddle and felt his head was ready to explode.
“You’re with me,” was the dwarf-twin’s roundabout answer.
“I can see that.” He turned round and recognized the outline of the Gray Range in the distance. You could still see the stronghold, if you knew it was there. The tower reached up to the sky like a torch made of stone. “What are we doing here?”
“They’ve sent us on a mission. We’re the high king’s envoys to landur,” Ireheart finally admitted.
“Why? Is this punishment for my behavior?”
“Actually… it was only me he sent,” Boïndil said awkwardly. “But I thought a scholar might come in useful with the Sharp… with the Elves.” He swung himself up into the saddle. “So I brought you along.”
“Gandogar doesn’t know I’m here?”
“I left a message for him.”
“Have you kidnapped me?”
“No, by Vraccas, I certainly haven’t.” Ireheart was indignant. “I found you in your room and when I asked you if you would like to keep me company, you said yes.”
“Loud and clear?”
Boïndil laughed. “Seemed like a yes to me!” He indicated Tungdil should get back up. “To be honest, I thought it would do you good to have a change—see something new. Going to pay our respects to the Lord of the Elves is not that bad a job. And anyway, you two know each other already. It’s probably a good thing if their prince sees a dwarf face that’s familiar.” He quickly explained why they were heading for landur. “As soon as all the dwarf delegates are assembled, Gandogar will send for us. We shan’t be missing anything. They need heroes like us.”
Tungdil looked in silence at the far Gray Mountains, then at the road ahead. “Right,” he said and got clumsily back into the saddle.
The ponies trotted along next to each other and Tungdil drank some water out of the leather bottle at his side and kept quiet; his head hurt too much for him to want conversation.
Not till late afternoon did he come to life and start to think of what had been said back at the high king’s court, and of what they had seen in the Outer Lands. He could not remember what Gandogar and the elves had said about the piles of orc bones, so he asked Ireheart, who looked at him in surprise. “Nothing at all. Eldrur stopped me a
nd wanted to know how many snout-faced orcs had fallen foul of the unknown beasts.” He made a face and tossed his black plait back over his shoulder. “Do you think the thirdlings just ate them?”
Tungdil saw an inn at the crossroads they were nearing: This had to mean a bed and a beer. At least one beer. “We’ll stop here,” he decided. “Thirdlings wouldn’t eat orc flesh any more than we would. Not even if they were starving.”
“And… what about… the Undergroundlings?”
“Boïndil, what rubbish!” said Tungdil in surprise. “No dwarf would ever do such a thing.” He thought of Djern, the bodyguard of Maga Andôkai. Himself sprung from the evil one, he had nevertheless devoured the creatures of Samusin and Tion. Tungdil gave voice to his thoughts: “We know there are more of them than merely Djern. Think of the one the avatars sent to kill Andôkai.”
“That would explain why the other monsters haven’t attempted the North Pass,” grinned Ireheart. “If a whole family of Djerns has set up home in the Outer Lands by the Stone Gateway then we’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Tungdil nodded. “Perfect for the thirdlings, if it’s them behind all this. They block the tunnels and dig passageways in secret right into our territory to send their machines through, while the likes of Djern fend off the orcs and other monsters.”
His friend stayed silent for quite a while. “What do you think? Will the high king be sending an army to the Outer Lands to sniff out the thirdlings?”
“In my view Gandogar has no other choice,” said Tungdil, reining his pony to a standstill outside the inn, which seemed to have extensive stabling. Obviously the crossroads was a popular place for travelers and merchants to get fresh horses.
A boy came running up to lead away their animals. “Good evening, Master Dwarves. May Vraccas be with you,” he greeted them politely. “Fresh grass and oats for the ponies and a good room for the night for yourselves?”
Boïndil threw the boy a silver coin. “Will that get you to see to the animals and give them the best of care?”
“Of course, Master Dwarf,” the boy said happily. “I’ll soon have their coats shining!” He led them off to stand under the shelter and got to work grooming.
Tungdil and Boïndil stepped into the inn, amazed at the souvenirs and trophies displayed on the walls. The landlord had hung up old orc and älfar weapons and a collection of animal teeth. Long nails through the eye sockets fastened the skulls of monsters to the wooden beams.
“Take a look at that,” murmured Boïndil, nodding toward the corner by the taproom bar. A life-sized stuffed orc was mounted on a stand, right arm lifted as if to strike; in its left hand was a shield that bore the words: GILSPAN KILLED ME. In large letters on the armor stood the prices for the drinks on offer.
“Not always easy to understand, these humans and their sense of humor,” remarked Tungdil as he crossed the crowded taproom to sit at a table by the window where the setting sun shone through.
A wiry young man approached, wearing an apron and a smile that would have done the Incredible Rodario proud. “Welcome, Master Dwarves, welcome to Gilspan’s Hunting Lodge.”
Ireheart chuckled into his beard. “So, you, my fine linnet, are Gilspan.”
“I most certainly am, Master Dwarf,” the young man retorted indignantly.
“How old were you when you say you killed that snout-face? Four or five cycles?” He gave a friendly laugh and pinched Gilspan’s arm. “Ha, your muscles are good enough for tray-carrying, but not for winning a fight, I’d wager. Did you find your orc lying dead on the battlefield?”
The first guests were turning round to see who it was, spoiling for a brawl by slighting mine host’s valor.
“I stabbed him in the heart, Master Dwarf!”
“In the heart, eh?” Ireheart turned to look at the stuffed orc. “And where does a greenskin keep its heart, then?”
Gilspan went red.
“Give it a rest, Boïndil,” interrupted Tungdil. “Bring us two strong beers, landlord, some hearty stew, and half a loaf to go with it.” He slid the coins over the counter. Still smarting from the insult, Gilspan took the money and went off.
“If he were half the man he thinks he is, he’d have challenged me to a fight on the spot,” muttered Ireheart. He searched for his pipe, filled it and lit it from a candle; molten wax formed a small puddle on the table as he did so. “He never killed that pig-face—I’d stake my beard on it!”
They were brought their drinks with bad grace. It might have been pure chance, but when Boïndil’s tankard was set down, beer slopped over and spilled into his lap. Gilspan gave a false smile and an apology and hurried off.
“Bring me a jug of brandy,” Tungdil called out after him, lifting his tankard to his lips and emptying it in a single draught. He started on its successor greedily; the beer ran dark down his beard, staining it.
“How did it happen, Scholar?”
Tungdil wiped his mouth and his beard. “I was drinking too fast.”
“I meant, that you’re tipping it down you as if that old drunkard Bavragor were your baby brother,” Boïndil insisted sharply. “Tell me why you’re like this now. And why Balyndis mourns.”
Tungdil was angry with himself for having let that slip out. “Because of Balodil.”
“Balodil.” The dwarf-twin leaned forward so low toward his friend that his black beard was nearly in his tankard. “And who is Balodil?”
“He’s our son.” Tungdil took a mouthful of brandy. “Was our son.”
Boïndil was careful not to say anything. Gradually Tungdil’s words and his recent behavior merged to form a distressing picture.
Gilspan brought their food. Neither of them touched it despite the delicious smell and despite their hunger after the long journey. The past must first be dealt with.
“He was born four cycles ago and was the crowning of our love: the apple of our eye,” whispered Tungdil from a place far away, as he sat staring at the flicker of the candle flame. “I took him with me on an errand and I’d promised Balyndis I would look after him. But the wooden bridge I always used had been damaged in the flood.” He gulped down the brandy. His face was a single grimace of disgust. “I am Tungdil Goldhand, victor over Nôd’onn and avatars, slaughterer of hundreds of orcs, and a scholar to boot. You’d think I could manage to cross a rickety bridge,” he said caustically, looking his friend in the face. “That old bridge, Boïndil, showed me who was stronger. It collapsed under the cart and we were tipped into the river. My mail shirt pulled me down. I’d have drowned but for an empty barrel bobbing up under me.” The laughter and loud voices in the taproom behind them swallowed his words. “So now here I am, telling you about Balodil. How do you think the story goes for him?” This time he did not even trouble to pour the brandy into his cup, but drank straight from the jug. He set it down, gasped for air and belched. “I never found his body, however long I searched. Since that day I’ve hated myself. Balyndis can never forgive me and I… and I’ve taken to drink. I’m going to drink till it kills me.” He paused. “No, I’m going to drink so it kills me. Should have drowned with my son instead of living on like this. So I’m drowning my sorrows and myself in drink.” Disgusted, he pushed away the plate of stew.
“Scholar, it was an accident. Rotten timber,” objected Boïndil, wanting to wrest away his guilt. “Rotten wood and the curse of the goddess Elria. It was the curse that struck you, dragging you, your son and the cart to the bottom. It was not your fault.”
“That’s what Balyndis says, too.” He lowered his head. “But I see that silent accusation in her eyes all the time. I fear our love went cold that very day. She thinks I don’t notice her feelings—she tries to hide the hatred and disgust. It is so cold now back in our vaults, colder than ever before. The grief in my heart has robbed me of any desire to live.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “So now you know why I’ve changed. I’m off to bed, Boïndil.” He got up, swaying, stumbled off to the stairs and disappeared.
; Ireheart wiped the tears away. He must help his friend and restore his love of life. There was only one way to do that.
“Vraccas, have mercy. And send your blessing to Tungdil.” He glanced at Gilspan, expansively welcoming new arrivals and showing off the orc he had dispatched; mine host was clapped heartily on the shoulder for his deeds of daring.
Boïndil got up and plodded up the stairs. He had to speak to Balyndis: he simply could not believe she was harboring the feelings that Tungdil had described.
The night was already far advanced.
Gilspan was at the table entertaining the other guests with yet another story about how he had killed his orc. “And when the Toboribor hordes came through close to our farm, I took up my weapon to defend my house. My father was far away from home, but he’d left me his dagger. I’d sworn on it that I’d protect my mother and all the people on our land.” He laid the dagger on the table as evidence.
“That was all you had?” breathed a girl of sixteen summers, traveling in the company of her parents and of her betrothed.
“Yes. And the orcs were not stopping! They arrived in the evening, a whole troop of them on the scavenge for provisions.” Gilspan sprang up. “I went up to their leader and challenged him to a duel. He had his sword and I attacked him with my dagger…”
“Oh, you’re so brave!” The girl clapped her hands and was lost in admiration.
“I thought the Blood of Girdlegard was supposed to render them immortal,” objected her fiancé.
“It didn’t help him,” said Gilspan, waving his dagger in the air. “I got everywhere, stabbing away and slitting at him till I’d plunged the blade right into his heart and he fell dead at my feet.” He posed with one foot on a chair. “The others fled and the farm was saved. Because he died before the time of the Judgment Star the cadaver has survived all this time.”
The men gave him a round of applause, the women gave him some coins and the girl gave him a small silken square embroidered with her monogram.