by Markus Heitz
They were brought a decent meal and a large jug of beer.
Goda was getting a lesson from the warrior twin about standing firm in battle. Boïndil was showing her the various methods of sweeping an opponent off his feet with the edge of a shield.
“You have to make yourself heavy,” he explained, ramming his own shield against hers. There was a loud crash and the dwarf-woman retreated two paces. “Make yourself heavy, I said!” he scolded.
“But I had my whole weight on the floorboards,” she protested.
“Standing firm is a skill.” He waved her back into position. “But it’s more than just having broad feet and sturdy thighs. Stand so that your center of gravity is between your two feet, then bend your knees slightly and bring your head in and down.” He demonstrated. “Now try to push me over.”
Goda lifted her shield, took a run-up and slammed against her instructor. The noise was ear-splitting.
Boïndil didn’t budge. “That’s what I meant by making yourself heavy. It’s important to be able to withstand an opponent’s attack—an orc in a fury, if need be.” He rubbed his belly. “And they’re twice as heavy as me.” He tapped her shield. “Try again. We’ll practice all night if we have to.”
“Ho, stop there,” called Tungdil, who was writing notes on the discussion in the assembly. There were still some puzzles. Speaking to Balba Chiselstrike, the only one to escape from Paland, had not thrown up any clues. She couldn’t recall any of the elf runes on the wheeled monster. Even Furgas could not remember any elaborate runic designs. But Tungdil knew the rune was there. Each of the creatures had been carrying one. Now he was annoyed not to have peace and quiet to work things out. “I’m trying to think. How can I when you two are carrying on like a couple of Vangas?”
“What are you trying to work out? It’s time for fighting now, not thinking, Scholar.” Ireheart’s eyes were blazing. “We haven’t found any orcs yet but these machines are quite something.” He whirled his shield around. “Ha! I’m itching to measure my skills against one of the undergroundlings!”
“Haven’t you already done that?” Tungdil remarked. “You lost, didn’t you?”
“That wasn’t a proper fight, for Vraccas’s sake. That was like trying to catch an eel.” He gave himself a shake. “When I say fight I mean axes and blades and heavy weapons. Crashing and clattering. I don’t really think they’re related to us.”
The way he said it, he’d already made up his mind: dismissive of them. Tungdil looked up. “They are dwarves. Nothing can change that.”
“Well, they see themselves as brothers to those orcs.” Goda’s answer was too swift. It seemed the two of them had already been discussing this during their combat exercises. “Their god created them at the same time. What was it they call him?”
“Ubar,” Tungdil supplied. He put his arm on the back of the chair, his expression reproachful. “I’m glad you two agree about something for once. But you sound just like the elf princess.”
Ireheart made a face. “Scholar. We can’t make common cause with the undergroundlings. They’re taller than us, they fight differently and they don’t even use axes. Only this…” He made the shape with his hands. “… this toothpick thing. No, we weren’t made from the same stuff as them.” He nodded at Goda, who charged at him again. Another mighty crash.
“You are being unfair,” said Tungdil, shaking his head.
“And you are obsessed,” the dwarf countered. “I saw how you were constantly watching them. It was obvious you wanted to talk to them to find out more. It stops you being objective. That’s science for you.”
“On the contrary. My judgment is extremely objective.” Tungdil wasn’t taking this lying down. “I’m probably the only one in all the five dwarf folks who is looking at them clearly. From everything you say it’s obvious how blinkered your viewpoint is. And you’re one of the few who are more open to new ideas…”
“And you have the right to judge others?” Ireheart charged Goda, who was steadier on her feet this time. This earned her a nod of respect. And a long gaze right into her eyes. Perhaps overlong.
She lifted her shield to cut his stare short.
“I’m not judging anyone.” Tungdil sat sighing over his notes. He was regretting this conversation. He knew it was no use talking to a stubborn dwarf like Ireheart. Every word would be misunderstood. “I’ll speak to Furgas later, to see if I can find out anything else about these creatures’ weak points. We won’t stand much of a chance without that knowledge. None of us—not even you.”
“We’ll see. My crow’s beak always finds a crevice to latch onto.” Ireheart was offended. “Come on, Goda. We’ll go and practice outside.” She rolled her eyes and followed him.
But once the others had left the room Tungdil was not able to regain his train of thought. Instead he mulled over Boïndil’s words.
His friend was right. He was indeed fascinated by the undergroundlings. He knew hardly anything about them apart from their appearance being different from his own. He didn’t know how they lived in the Outer Lands, nor what the values and philosophy of their community might be.
He stood up and went over to the window to look down onto Porista. Its roofs, smoking chimneys, laundry fluttering on washing-lines all gave an impression of settled permanence. People had found the place they wanted to remain, they had started their families there.
This all ran contrary to his own feelings. He did not feel at home either with the dwarf folk or with the exiles, or with the humans. Even Balyndis could no longer give him that feeling of belonging; he was a loner, a fighting scholar.
Or perhaps, deep down, he did not really want that safety, that sense of belonging?
“Am I destined to be an eternal wanderer? Should I maybe go back to the Outer Lands with the undergroundlings? To help them restore the diamond to its rightful place?” He spoke quietly. “Will I find happiness, Vraccas?”
He looked at the jug of beer. The alcohol was calling to him, its smell reminding him of nights he had spent under its influence. When drunk he had ceased to quibble and worry.
Tungdil tried to resist the temptation but still he moved over toward the table. Just as he stretched out his hand to the handle of the jug there came a knock.
He dropped his hand at once and went over to open the door.
In the doorway there stood an undergroundling. A woman.
He had noticed her on the journey. Her skin was as dark brown as a nomad’s and she had kept near him on the march. She wore a beige tunic embroidered with thorny branches, fastened at the front with lacing, but showing part of her breasts. Now he could see her for the first time without the rather intimidating helmet. He stared at her shaven head. He had not been prepared for that. A woman without her crowning glory!
“May I come in?” she asked him with a smile. Her speech had the attractive lilt of a foreigner’s.
“Of course,” he said quickly, stepping aside to let her in. She was a hand’s breadth taller than he was. “What message does Sûndalon send?”
She strolled around the room, stopping to examine the sketches in his little notebook. Her clear blue gaze alighted on the helmet he had drawn. “You’ve drawn mine!”
“Yes. Should I not have done that?”
“It doesn’t worry me.” She held out her hand and he noticed a wide scar on it. “I am Sirka.”
He shook hands with her. “Pleased to meet you. My name you already know, I think.” He waited in vain for her to tell him Sûndalon’s message.
“It would be strange if I didn’t,” she replied with another smile.
He cleared his throat. “Forgive me if I was staring just now. The dwarf-women of Girdlegard have a different skin color and they don’t shave their heads. They wear their hair long.” He was feeling awkward.
“I don’t suppose we have very much in common,” said Sirka. “Sûndalon tells me you’re a scholar.” She took up the little notebook and turned the pages. “You are interested in every
thing that’s new?”
“I am.” Tungdil was caught unawares by the dwarf-woman’s behavior—she suddenly stepped toward him, tossing the notebook onto the table.
She put her hands to his face, and pressed a kiss onto his lips. He did not try to push her away. “I like you very much, Tungdil,” she confessed, running her fingers over his chest. “I would love to show you something new, if you’d let me do that?” There was no doubt what the offer entailed.
“You undergroundlings indeed have little in common with our dwarf-girls,” Tungdil stated, with the touch of her lips still felt on his own. He had enjoyed the kiss. A great deal.
So much that this time it was Tungdil who kissed her. His placed his hands on Sirka’s slim hips and pulled her to him. He could smell the intense perfume on her neck, could feel the warmth of her body through the thin tunic. His hands wandered up to the laces of her gown… Then his conscience flared up.
“No,” he said hoarsely and quickly stepped away. “I belong to another.”
But Sirka followed him and embraced him. “What does that mean, ‘belong’?”
He avoided her and put a chair between the two of them. “Sirka, you flatter me,” he said, trying hard to control his feelings and not give in to her urging. “But I am tied to Balyndis and as long as that is so I cannot allow myself to indulge in an adventure like this.”
She laughed. “Oh, I understand. You people go in for lasting relationships.”
“Don’t you?”
“No, we love for as long as we like. When feelings change, we part. Perhaps for a while, perhaps for ever. It makes life easier, Tungdil. Life is short enough.” Sirka gazed at him. “You’re looking for something new? How would this be: Accompany us to Letèfora. On the way I’ll tell you everything you need to know about our people.”
“Letèfora is…?”
“A town. One of many in my homeland. And very different from towns in Girdlegard.”
“Yes,” he said, without a moment’s hesitation. “That would be delightful,” he added more thoughtfully.
She laughed and gave him another kiss, running her fingers through his hair and stroking his beard. “That would be delightful,” she repeated as she went to the door. “We shall be seeing a lot of each other, Tungdil. I shall teach you well. The lesson you missed today we can take up again at leisure.” She opened the door and left the room.
Tungdil sat down. He was aflame, with her scent still in his nostrils and the taste of her mouth in his own. Sirka had captured him with her open unaffected manner. It was not only her physical charms he was thinking of. He was looking forward to the lessons she had promised him.
But first he would send a letter to Glaïmbar and talk to Balyndis. Or, better still, he would write her a long letter.
He took a sheet of paper and wrote a few lines to Glaïmbar first, sealing the note and laying it on the table in front of him.
Then he started the letter to his consort Balyndis, ending his relationship with her. Not an easy task, even for a scholar like himself.
The words would not flow smoothly from the pen. He was struggling. He wrote that he would never be able to make her happy. Not in the long term. Not how she would wish it. And the long term, for his people, was a very long time. He did not want to do this to her.
Meeting the undergroundling woman was only a prompt for this parting. He had long been aware in himself that things were not as they should be, but he had always sought the reason elsewhere. He had never been more certain than now that Balyndis deserved better than this.
In his choice of phrasing he was scrupulous to take the blame on himself and not to give her the impression that she bore any responsibility for the failure of their partnership. His lines would affect her harshly, all the same.
This letter, too, he sealed and laid on top of the note to Glaïmbar.
There was no going back. The meeting with Sirka brought home to him what was missing in his life: passion. Something new. Scholarship and the spirit of enquiry were his curse. He did not want safety and shelter.
“Vraccas, what malleable stone did you take when you formed me?” he sighed. He had absolutely no desire to attend the theater performance.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Porista,
Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tungdil woke with a start. He must have dropped off over his notes and in the meantime night had fallen in Porista.
Standing up and stretching his aching back, he heard the vertebrae click back into place.
Sleep had brought no brilliant ideas about how to catch the elves out and expose their malice. He had no evidence—only the undergroundlings’ warnings and his own observations back in landur. The elf they had found in the forest was still lying unconscious in the guesthouse on the edge of town, where they had left him guarded by ten soldiers. They had managed to keep his presence quiet.
“If only he’d come round.” Tungdil shook his head. He picked up the tankard of beer. This particular temptation must be removed before he went to bed. He opened the window and chucked the contents out. It splashed onto the cobbles. The danger was past. “Why isn’t everything that simple?”
A shadow swung down from the roof and in through the window, striking him on the chest.
Tungdil crashed back and hit his head on the edge of the table. He saw stars.
Three black-garbed figures leapt in. Their faces were masked and they carried short swords. One secured the door, and the other two pinioned Tungdil’s arms. A blade was pressed against his throat.
“Where is it?” whispered a female voice.
“Where’s what?”
“Keenfire!” she hissed.
“Hey, thickheads,” said the man at the door, pointing to where the ax hung in its case from a protruding beam against the wall.
“Samusin is with us. It’s going to be easier than I thought,” she laughed. “I was afraid we’d have to deal with that mad fighting dwarf and his apprentice as well.” The man next to her stood up and reached for the ax.
This galvanized Tungdil into action. He jerked his head to one side and thrust the blade away, forcing it into the woman’s unprotected thigh. He reaped a small cut on his hand but she received a deep slash on her leg.
“It’s mine,” he yelled, drawing his knife. He had soon realized that these intruders were not trained assassins or experienced thieves. They were mere beginners and he was eager to find out why they had set their sights on the most important weapon in Girdlegard.
The woman yelped with pain and he whacked her on the forehead with the handle of his dagger so that she collapsed on the floor. He set after the man who had just grabbed the ax, stabbing him from behind in the leg.
The man roared and spun round, swinging Keenfire to attack him. Tungdil ducked and the tip of the ax buried itself in a wooden post.
“Let go,” growled Tungdil threateningly, leaping forward knife in hand to force his adversary to retreat.
The man crashed against a chest of drawers and the blade struck him in the side; he broke off cursing and pressed his hands over the spurting wound.
Tungdil wrenched the ax out of the wooden beam and whirled it in his hands. Watchfully he approached the last of the three masked intruders. “Now tell me who you are and how you got the crazy idea to steal Keenfire from me.”
The man brandished his short sword, the blade quivering. “Get back!”
“On the contrary.” Tungdil feigned an ax-blow, and while the other was trying to dodge it, he kicked him in the groin so he sank groaning to his knees. Tungdil placed the heavy blade at his neck to let him feel its deadly pressure. “Well?”
“Kill us and you will never see Lot-Ionan again,” the woman spoke, pulling herself upright on the post. She let herself fall, groaning, onto a chair and examined the wound in her thigh.
“So you’re the ones who stole him?”
“I said right at the start that it was a stupid idea to steal th
e dwarf’s ax,” moaned the man who had been stabbed in the side. “Get a medicus. I’m bleeding to death here.”
“No one leaves this room till I know who you are.” Tungdil stood threateningly at the door.
The woman pulled off her face-mask and used the cloth to bind her wound. She was no older than eighteen cycles. A hank of light brown hair had escaped from her headscarf. “I’m Risava of Panok. That’s Dergard, and he’s Lomostin. We were Nôd’onn’s famuli and ever since his death when the force fields were lost we’ve been trying to find a way to bring magic back to Girdlegard,” she revealed to the astonished dwarf. She stood up and limped over to where the injured man lay.
“What do you want with Lot-Ionan’s statue if you were followers of Nôd’onn?”
Risava looked at the men, who both took off their masks. “We were going to try to free him from the spell. He can help us. Our land needs the skills of magic so that we can stop the creatures who are hunting down the diamond.” Her face darkened. “If you had only listened to Nôd’onn this would never have happened.”
Tungdil thought she must be joking. “Andôkai said the petrification spell was irreversible.”
“Perhaps for Andôkai it was,” Risava spoke with disdain.
“Have a care,” warned Lomostin. “Don’t tell him too much.”
“Wrong.” Tungdil stroked his ax. “Tell him everything. It is better for your health. You can still cast spells if need be without your foot.”
Risava moved back and spoke to her companions. Tungdil did not take his eyes off them and readied himself to prevent them escaping.
At last she turned back to him. “Right, I’ll explain. Andôkai did not have the knowledge that we have. We have spent the last few cycles studying Nudin’s secret library and learning magic spells. In theory. But we do not have the magic energy to give life to the formulae.” Risava indicated the ax. “We thought we’d be able to get enough magic force from Keenfire to free Lot-Ionan. He would know what to do.”
“He would never teach you.” Tungdil did not dare to believe what she was saying. He could not tell whether she was speaking the truth or not.