by Markus Heitz
Tungdil and Boïndil watched him go. “Do you know what gets me?” Tungdil asked his friend. “He never wanted to know what we’ve got in the wagons.”
“I was right. He’s definitely a spy.” Boïndil stood determined, hands on his hips.
Tungdil smiled. “Because he fancied Goda?”
“No,” said the twin. “Well, yes, because of that, too.” He sighed.
“Master! Tungdil!” called Goda. “Over here! I’ve found something!”
“Perhaps it’s your heart?” Tungdil teased Ireheart, who jabbed him in the ribs.
“Let’s hear no more of this sentimental nonsense,” he growled, getting up and running over. Tungdil followed him. It was still strange to see his friend without his long black braided plait.
Goda was kneeling by a bush, and she pushed the branches apart when the two dwarves came over. “Look!”
Amongst the foliage and purple flowers elf features were visible. The elf lay as if dead, with eyes closed and a few withered leaves on his face.
There were three arrows sticking out from the elf’s chest. The arrows had penetrated the leather armor and earth-colored clothing under it. Judging by the splendor of the finely embroidered garments this must be a high-status elf. The fact he wore only a limited amount of armor suggested he had been hunting. His camp was probably not be far away.
“He’s breathing!” said Ireheart, astonished, as he saw the chest move almost imperceptibly. “Well, these pointy… I mean, these elves, are tougher than they look!”
“Give me a hand.” Tungdil was sitting the injured elf up carefully so he could inspect the arrows. Two broke off, the third was still in the body. “By Vraccas! Those are elf arrows!”
“If it were one arrow, I’d think it was an accident,” said Ireheart. He studied the elf’s bloodstained back. “But with three I’d say it’s out of the question. Unless they choose to hunt their own kind.”
“Why would elves be killing each other?” Tungdil looked at the face. “Or perhaps we should be asking, why did they want to kill him?”
“The arrows could be a trick—forgeries,” suggested Goda. “The thirdlings, perhaps?”
“No. They’d have used crossbows to put the blame on us. And they’d have dragged the body somewhere more public. And they wouldn’t have left the poor devil alive,” replied Tungdil. “No. This elf has been shot by his own kind. Either they’ve left him for dead, or he ran away and they lost him.”
Boïndil regarded their unusual find. “What shall we do with him? Those wounds are deep. He’s not going to last long.”
Tungdil glanced at the wagons. “We’ll take him with us. If the elves wanted him dead, I want to know the reason.” He couldn’t remember reading about any internal strife in landur, but the strange conduct of the elf delegates, their secret message in invisible ink, the stone, those new buildings that had been kept hidden—they could all have some connection to this injured elf.
Perhaps it was a question of a personal vendetta or a high-ranking criminal who’d been challenged and pursued. No one knew how the elf folk managed their own affairs in the forests and groves. Anything was possible.
“Let’s make sure he stays alive and can open his eyes soon.” Tungdil called some of the other soldiers over so they could help carry the elf. They put him in one of the wagons, cushioning him on furs and skins. One of their healers saw to his wounds.
Tungdil gave the troop the order to move on. He wanted to make good use of the rest of the orbit’s sunlight to get as far as possible away from landur’s borders. It was not forbidden to transport injured elves in wagons, but it wasn’t the normal thing for a dwarf to be doing. If the worst came to the worst the dwarves might be accused of kidnapping.
So the troop trundled off toward the south with what now was a doubly sensitive cargo.
Whether he wanted to or not, Ireheart had to get back in the saddle again. Otherwise he’d be slowing everyone down. And as Goda did not seem to mind riding, he kept quiet himself. It would not make a good impression for the master to be making a fuss if the pupil was not complaining.
“Who was the dwarf you were talking to?” she enquired.
“No one you need to know about,” Ireheart replied rudely.
Goda raised her eyebrows. “A child of the Smith, riding on a full-size horse—unusual.”
“He’s not unusual. He’s an executioner.” Boïndil was unsettled by her curiosity. “He kills criminals for the long-uns. For money.”
“Is his name Bramdal Masterstroke?” she asked excitedly.
Ireheart growled, “Yes. Why?”
“I’ve heard a lot about him. He fought at Blacksaddle and in Porista, they say. He killed ninety orcs all by himself. And a hundred avatars,” she enthused. “I’d love to meet him.”
“Pah, that’s nothing compared to what Tungdil and I have done. Or compared with the number of snout-faced orcs we two’ve split down the middle.” He turned round in the saddle to face her. “Forget about Bramdal. He may be a legend in his time but not in my eyes. Don’t trust him. Now, no more talk of him.”
She stared at him in surprise. “Yes, master.” She looked helplessly over to Tungdil, who shrugged his shoulders to say it was none of his business.
When the sun gave way to the night, Tungdil led his troop to the bank of a swift-flowing river, so that they could not be attacked from all sides at once. He wasn’t happy near water, because it brought back too many disturbing personal memories, but the security of their mission was paramount.
The team were lifting down the injured elf and starting to release the ponies from their traces. That’s when it happened.
The ponies whinnied and one after another reared up, kicking, and pulling away. With nothing to restrain them now, they made off along the river bank as if pursued by invisible spirits.
Tungdil knew why they had suddenly panicked and bolted. He had seen tiny bunches of feathers in the animals’ flanks. Blow-pipe arrows. And arrows did not just happen. Enemies had been following unseen hard on their heels, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
“To arms!” he called. “Undergroundlings!”
Ireheart and Goda hurried over while the other dwarves raced after the runaway wagons. “Why d’you say undergroundlings?” Boïndil asked his friend. He looked around but saw nothing. Thirty dwarves were at their side now, axes and shields at the ready, but there was nobody to fight yet. “It might have been Bramdal.”
“No. The ponies were shot at with blow-pipes to make them bolt,” he said. “We didn’t see the attackers. That means they could just as easily have killed the lot of us. But they didn’t.”
Shouts and frenzied whinnying caught their attention. The entire mounted unit had crashed to the ground, ponies struggling in the dust. A rope had been spanned across their path at knee height, abruptly stopping their pursuit. Some were stunned, or unable to rise, but the others jumped bravely back into the saddle despite their cuts and bruises and took off after the wagons.
“It was a trap,” growled Ireheart, his head down between his shoulders. “Come out here, you bare-faced cowards!” he yelled, stepping forward in challenge. “That’s not how a dwarf fights! If you’ve a proper dwarf amongst you, come out, instead of skulking in the undergrowth like some scurvy gnome!”
There was a rustling and cracking in the reeds twenty paces off.
Ireheart’s eyes flashed. “We’re off to mow a meadow, Goda!” He stormed off, the dwarf-girl following boldly.
In Tungdil’s imagination there rose the image of the dead twin Boëndal at his friend’s side in the place of the young thirdling girl. With Goda trained to the peak of perfection, these two would make as good a fighting partnership as the brothers had always done. “After them!” he commanded. “Try not to kill any undergroundlings. They have spared us harm where they could.”
A posse fanned out into the mass of thin grasses that stood four times as high as their heads.
Tungdil hoped they wo
uld find one of the strange dwarves. Otherwise there was no chance of regaining the diamonds they had already lost to the undergroundlings.
The further they moved in amongst the tall grasses the paler that hope became. They had reached the far side of the reeds without coming across a soul.
“Over there!” called Goda, pointing to a figure heading for an incline to the side of the grass stalks. Taller than a dwarf, but too small to be a human.
Tungdil swung round and chased after the undergroundling, Goda and Ireheart at his side. The other dwarves were too far away to overtake their quarry.
The fugitive disappeared over the brow of the hill, the three dwarves in hot pursuit, not losing or gaining any ground all the while.
“This isn’t working,” muttered Boïndil, raising his crow’s beak hammer and hurling it as he ran. “Fly, hammer, and stop him!” he called after it.
Whirling round in circles during flight, the heavy weapon covered the intervening distance with ease. The blunt end hit the undergroundling on the thigh, bringing him to the ground. He slid downhill on the slippery wet grass, and lay there groaning.
“A masterly throw,” Tungdil complimented him. He had been afraid the weapon’s mighty spur, as long as a forearm, would bury itself in the undergroundling’s back and kill him stone dead. Ever since Ireheart had regained his love of fighting there was no holding him back.
“Never throw your weapon unless you have a spare one with you,” Goda mocked. “Master, you—”
“Ho, not so fast.” Boïndil raised his broad fist. “I’ve still got these two weapons, pupil mine. They’re quite sufficient for an opponent like this one. If it was orcs I’d have had to think of something else.”
“You’re making excuses,” she complained. “If I’d done that you’d have made me drag heavy beams about or do some other useless task.”
“Yes,” he admitted with a laugh. “But that’s because I’m the master.”
They reached the injured undergroundling, who was trying to sit up. Tungdil knelt by him and laid him back down. “Take it easy,” he said reassuringly. “We don’t mean you any harm.”
It was a dwarf, definitely, even if there was no beard, even if the facial features were much harder, the stature somewhat taller and the skin darker than usual. The hair was braided and dyed dark green, dark blue and black. It grew back from the middle of the skull, with the hairless brow displaying tattooed designs.
He wore no armor. The only protection against weather and weapons alike was thick leather clothing. On his feet were thin-soled leather boots. And one of those very boots delivered a sharp kick to Tungdil’s chin, sending him flying.
As he fell backwards he heard Ireheart shout out, then his friend landed in a heap on top of him, his nose streaming blood.
“He kicked me!” said Ireheart, amazed, wiping the blood away. “The scoundrel kicked me like a dog!” He sprang up in a fury. “I’ll tear him apart with my bare hands, the baldy-patch!”
Tungdil stood up and saw the undergroundling was escaping with practiced ease from the wrestling holds Goda was attempting. In a swift counter-move he gripped her forearm and shoulder and used her own body weight to throw her. She crashed to the ground.
“Don’t kill him, Boïndil!” he shouted.
Ireheart’s wild attack would not go well, at least not for the warrior twin.
In fact the undergroundling moved neatly and fast as if dancing with his opponent. As soon as an opportunity presented itself he would grab a handhold on a belt or the mail shirt and use the leverage it gave him.
This time it was the weapon belt. Ireheart was lifted up again, crashing down onto his front, cursing so viciously that the setting sun had to seek the shelter of the nearby clouds.
“He’s cracked my bones!” he shouted, pounding the grass with his fist. “By Vraccas, what a bastard! That’s not fighting! That’s cobold tricks!”
The undergroundling limped off at a run.
Tungdil chased him, glad he had got back his old stamina. Forty orbits ago he would not have been able to run like this and would have collapsed in a gasping heap. “Stop! We need to talk about the diamonds!” he called. “They’re important for us.”
The undergroundling certainly wasn’t paying any attention to his words but Boïndil’s hammer-throw had taken its toll.
After two hundred paces on the open plain Tungdil got close enough to launch himself on his opponent, bringing him down, but even as they fell the undergroundling, with remarkable agility and slippery as an eel, turned and twisted under him and would have escaped if Goda had not whacked him over the head with the handle of her night star flail. He sank down unconscious.
“Thanks, Goda,” gasped Tungdil, sitting on top of their captive to tie him up, hand and foot, using their belts. He wouldn’t get away now.
When he searched the undergroundling’s pockets he found a number of the red-feathered blow-pipe arrows. And a little bottle with an evil-smelling liquid, which he assumed was a poison for the arrow tips.
Ireheart lumbered up. “Next time he’ll have to use a proper weapon for a proper dwarf,” he said crossly, holding his left hand pressed against his chest. He examined the captive with his eyes. “What? Only a dagger?”
The undergroundling’s eyelids fluttered and opened. He did not struggle anymore, knowing that escape was impossible now. He studied the faces of his captors. “Let me go,” he said in a striking low voice with a harsh accent. It sounded aristocratic—like the tones Rodario sometimes adopted to make fun of people. “I’ve done nothing to you.”
“Done nothing?” Ireheart pointed to his right shoulder. “You’ve dislocated my shoulder with your damned wrestling throws.”
“You tried to kill me. If I had wanted to kill you I would have done so,” was the reply. “So don’t complain.”
Ireheart laughed in disbelief. “Hark at that! By Vraccas, have you been chewing on the old hulto-herb?”
Tungdil signaled to him not to go overboard. Goda stepped up to her master’s side and was granted a look of grateful praise, because it was down to her that they even had a captive to interrogate. Her proud smile calmed him in a trice.
“I am Tungdil Goldhand. This is Boïndil Doubleblade and this, Goda Flameheart. Many of our people have lost friends and family in trying to protect the diamond that you want to steal from us. What is it about?”
Some of the other dwarves had come up to join them now. Someone told Tungdil in a whisper that the wagons had been found. The chests containing the stones had all been broken open and the stones had gone.
“We don’t steal. We take back what is rightfully ours,” said the undergroundling. “It was a broka that took them and carried them off. We had been searching for many star-courses before the ubariu told us where they were.”
“What’s a broka?”
He thought for a while before replying. “You’d say elf-woman.”
Tungdil nodded to Ireheart. “As I thought. We called her eoîl and she brought terror to Girdlegard. But she gave the stone amazing power.”
“It always was a powerful artifact,” the undergroundling responded. “And it doesn’t alter the fact that the diamond’s ours.”
“Can you take us to your leader?” Tungdil untied the belt on the captive’s hands, and then the bonds round his feet and stood back up. “Your attacks must stop. We all need a solution.” He held out his hand to help him up.
“Scholar, they’re in league with the orcs,” Ireheart warned. “I don’t think we can trust them.”
The undergroundling pretended not to hear the objection, and stood up without taking the proffered hand. “I’ll take you where you can wait for Sûndalon. That’s all.” He brushed the grass off his clothing.
“The three of us will come with you. You take the lead.” Tungdil gave orders for the other dwarves to wait back at camp. “Do you have a name?”
“Yes. I do.” He nodded and limped off. Boïndil was pleased about the limp. It made up
for the appalling pain in his arm.
Suddenly he felt Goda’s hand on his right shoulder. Her other hand grasped his arm, forcing it backwards. He gritted his teeth as the bone slotted back into its socket. For one moment their faces were very close. He could feel her breath on his skin.
“Forgive me, master. The less time you have to tense up, the easier it is to deal with the dislocation.”
“It’s fine,” he said and smiled at her. Not as her master, but as a dwarf. A dwarf in love. Then he cleared his throat, moved swiftly to the side and stepped past her. “Come on, let’s catch up. We don’t want to abandon the scholar.”
Goda had noticed the difference in the smile. That would explain his over-reaction when she had gone on about Bramdal. “Oh, Vraccas.” She gave a deep sigh and followed.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Thirty-eight Miles West of Porista,
Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
The wagons hurtled through the landscape. The Curiosum had seldom been in such a tearing hurry to get to the next venue.
The reason was obvious. Furgas must inform the rulers what had happened on the thirdling island. But there was going to be a real problem with that.
“And he still hasn’t spoken a word?” Tassia asked again as she sat next to her lover on the driving seat of the first wagon, tossed about as the vehicle rattled along. “So he’s just sitting around mending props and his theater gadgets from the old days?”
“Yup. His mind is busy trying to forget what he’s gone through these past five cycles.” Rodario slowed the wagon; he had seen a place off the road where they could camp for the night. It was important none of the vehicles damaged an axle now when the end of the journey was practically in sight.
They made a circle with the caravans. Rodario helped Tassia down and tried—though not very hard—to avoid looking down her cleavage. “Oh, now I know what I’ve been missing.” He grinned and then kissed her.
She laughed and tapped him with a pile of papers she had been sitting on. “And how many women did you gladden in Mifurdania while I was busy taking my troupe north?”