The Dwarves Omnibus

by Markus Heitz

  “That may be only partly so,” Esdalân chimed in. His voice sounded impossibly pure to human ears. “The elves of landur were never reputed to be very interested in magic. But others of my people, the elves of the Golden Plain, who were persecuted by the älfar, were more open to such arts. I remember hearing that the small number of Golden Plain elves that survived the älfar ravages fled to us in landur.”

  Tungdil noticed that the elf’s speech was changing, becoming more flowery and, to his ears, unbearable.

  “That makes things different. So we cannot exclude the possibility of there being a descendant of these magically endowed elves in the ranks of the atár. Perhaps the eoîl gave him part of the knowledge.” Lot-Ionan was summarizing. “That explains why they want the diamond.”

  Gandogar furrowed his brow. “Please don’t think I am being unreasonable, noble magus, but what if you or Dergard had the power of the stone. How powerful would that make you?”

  “If it is as Tungdil tells me, then this power would be…” He rubbed his white beard as he searched for the right word. “Immeasurable,” he said finally. “The power would be immeasurable.” He laughed slyly. “Have no fear, High King Gandogar. It does not entice me and for Dergard it is the same. We have the magic source to give us the same power. It would be nothing special for us. And then of course neither Dergard nor I are attracted to evil.”

  “Are you so sure?” Gandogar disappeared behind the bar and poured them all some simple country wine. “He was one of Nudin’s pupils. We know what happened to that magus.”

  “But don’t forget the particular circumstances, Your Majesty,” Lot-Ionan said, taking young Dergard’s part. “There is no daemon, sending out insidious messages. Our opponents are mighty but they are physical enemies. And thus we can confront them.” He held out his hand to receive the crockery mug, but gasped with pain. His back was troubling him with the movement. His eyes glazed and grew dim… Then he thought he saw a figure by the door. A strangely familiar figure. “Nudin?”

  “Noble Lot-Ionan, what is it?” The bearded face of Tungdil appeared suddenly in his field of vision, looking very worried. “Is it your back again?”

  The magus shook his head, emptied the mug of wine and asked for more. “There are probably still tiny fragments of stone embedded in my body,” he said slowly. “They affect my mind and make me see things that cannot be there.” He stood up and went over into the dark corner of the room where he had seen his old friend. But however hard he looked, to his great relief he could find no trace.

  “What is the matter, noble magus?”

  “Nothing. I must stretch my legs. My back. It hurts. I never noticed when I was a statue.” He returned to the group. “So what shall we do with the elves?” He picked up the thread again; he was cold now. “Shall we confront them and hear what they have to say, or shall we deal with the unslayables first?”

  “My feeling is we should not postpone the conflict with the princess,” said Mallen. “I’ll tell you why. I don’t like the idea of the elves following their own ends in the middle of a battle with the älfar and their new creatures, snatching the diamond for themselves and then carrying out unimaginable deeds with its power. Of course, they will defeat the evil, I have no doubt.” His gaze took in all of them. “But I don’t think they will let us influence their decisions after that. I want to have Rejalin as a hostage. Before the battle starts.”

  “A good plan. If the elves go along with it,” said Lot-Ionan, rubbing his eyes as if to punish his sight for the trick it had played on him.

  “Now, Prince Mallen has just said exactly what I was thinking. If they refuse, it will be obvious they’re up to no good,” said Esdalân, raking his fine hair with his fingers. “I would suggest taking no risks at all. Let’s impound all the elf warriors from landur—there aren’t many of them here at Toboribor.”

  “We’ll take Esdalân with us and he can address the assembly in the morning,” proposed Tungdil. “And then we’ll see what the elves say in response to your story.”

  “Don’t forget: We’re all willing to listen to Esdalân because we have already had experience of the atár.” Mallen turned to the elf. “But tomorrow you’ll be addressing a less compliant audience. King Nate from Tabaîn and Queen Isika are both strong contenders for the elf support camp. You may not win them round.”

  Esdalân bent his head graciously as if he were a monarch acceding to a request. “Thank you for your warning, Prince Mallen. But I am sure I shall open the humans’ eyes, though it cost me my life.”

  “Your life?” echoed Gandogar in horror. “No, no. We do not wish that. We cannot lose the only right-thinking elf in the whole of landur.”

  “It can’t be helped.” Esdalân was adamant. “I know Rejalin and can predict how she will react. I shall provoke her and from a certain point in my speech the line will have been crossed.” He laid his hand on Tungdil’s arm. “This I owe to you and to Girdlegard. My life was preserved by Sitalia when she sent a dwarf to me. I understand the will of the goddess. Our two peoples must proceed together against those who could bring about the destruction of the elves.”

  “Vraccas looks kindly on what is happening in this room.” Gandogar spoke with emotion. His brown eyes encompassed the small group of conspirators. “Yet we should not forget to pray for the success of our venture. We urgently need the support of the gods.” He planted his hand on the center of the table, and Esdalân laid his own hand on top. Mallen, Tungdil and Lot-Ionan followed suit.

  “May we meet with success,” the magus said gravely.

  Girdlegard,

  Kingdom of Idoslane,

  Four Miles from the Caves of Toboribor,

  Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

  Tungdil slept badly. He dreamed about Balyndis and Sirka. In the morning he awoke with only confused fragments still in his mind. Had the women been fighting about him or had he been fighting the women? Sirka had plunged her knife in his heart…

  He sat up as soon as the first birds were singing. He felt his breast where the pain had brought his dream to life.

  “A real nightmare,” he sighed, rubbing the sore place while he got to his feet. He washed and put on his clothes and armor. The face in the polished silver mirror was old and tired. Of course this could all be the effect of the old drinking bouts. Or of the frustration in his soul. It had not left him. “Have I done the right thing?” he asked his reflection, as so often in the past.

  “Are you sleep-walking or did you really get up this early?” said Ireheart, propping himself up on one elbow. “What’s the trouble? Birds too loud?”

  Tungdil turned round to face him. “Get up, Boïndil. I’ve got something to tell you.” And so, while he dressed, the warrior received a summary of the previous night’s events. “The assembly will be deciding today and I want you to keep an eye on Esdalân. Keep him safe from the elves. Protect him, not me.”

  Ireheart ran his hands through his black hair. It was still too short to braid. “Why didn’t you take me along to your meeting?” he asked disappointedly. “How have I forfeited your trust?”

  Tungdil was surprised. “I didn’t think to, because…” He was searching for a reason and could not find one at first. Well, not one he could actually voice.

  Boïndil was drawing his own conclusions. “It’s Goda, isn’t it?” He pulled on his boots. “You don’t trust her and you think I’ll tell her everything. You think she’s a spy for the dwarf-haters. Since our quarrel at the farm things haven’t been right. It’s not how we were at the beginning of this adventure, Scholar. I keep wondering which of us has changed. How did it happen?”

  “We have both changed, Ireheart.” Tungdil hooked a stool with his foot and sat down by his friend. “You’ve lost your heart to a dwarf we don’t know. She could be up to anything. You don’t see the danger and I’m probably over-reacting.” He smiled sadly. “And my heart is lost to a dwarf you absolutely abhor.”

  “Then it’s the fault of the w
omen, not us.” The warrior grinned. “It’s always the women.”

  Tungdil laughed quietly. “That’s being too simplistic.” He searched for the right words. “I’m not happy, Boïndil. Frustrated. In Girdlegard there’s nowhere I feel at home. I don’t belong with the humans. I don’t belong with the dwarves.”

  “You’ll be off to join the undergroundlings, then. I knew it.”

  “How…”

  “You’re the learned scholar, Tungdil. You sat around on your arse more than five cycles in Lot-Ionan’s vaults trying to be a decent settled dwarf. For the sake of Balyndis. But your heart and soul weren’t in it.”

  This took Tungdil by surprise. It was all true. He stared at his friend.

  “Now, with the unslayables, there’s a new challenge for you and then you’ll be off, over the hills and far away.” Ireheart smiled. “Whatever kind of dwarf you are, Tungdil, you’re not the type that likes settling down. There are a few more characteristics of the children of the Smith that have passed you by as well. Good thing, too. You got the dwarves and freelings together. You united the dwarf tribes and Gindlegard has you to thank that it still exists in its present form.” He patted Tungdil on the knee and stood up. “An ordinary dwarf like myself would never have managed all that. Vraccas made you like this to bring a bit of life into the race. Stay the way you are, Scholar. I’ll have to get used to it, even if it takes some time. You’ll have to excuse my grumbling. I am and remain your friend.” He held out his hand. “If you want my friendship.”

  “How would I cope without a bad-tempered honest dwarf?” Tungdil grasped his hand and they embraced. He was glad they had had this exchange. The black curtains between them were now swept away.

  Ireheart beamed with relief. “Now we’ve sorted that out, let’s see how pointy-ears deals with Esdalân’s accusations.” He shouldered the crow’s beak. “I said pointy-ears on purpose, because she’s not one of the elves we have to get on with.” He went over to where a canvas partition shielded Goda’s sleeping quarters. “Ho, it’s great to be able to say pointy-ears again.”

  Tungdil got himself a hearty breakfast. He sat quietly eating while Boïndil was briefing his trainee for the assembly session. It did not escape her notice that her mentor kept taking a sideways glance over to Tungdil. Finally she came over. “What can I do to convince you I am to be trusted? Give me a task, exact an oath from me—something to reassure you. I have Ireheart’s confidence.”

  “It’s not necessary, Goda,” Tungdil replied.

  “I want to get rid of these doubts you have about me,” she insisted. “We are both of the thirdling tribe. You know what it is like not to be trusted.”

  He stayed silent about his and Gandogar’s vague misgivings about letting the thirdlings reassemble as a tribe in their own right. “Yes, I do.” The memory of the rejection he had met with from Balyndis’s clan flashed through his mind. “And I don’t like having you so near me and Ireheart, Goda, when I have these doubts. But I have a duty to be cautious. If you were a spy for the dwarf-haters you could cause immense damage with what you might learn.”

  She glared at him. “So your doubts can’t be removed?”

  Looking at Boïndil, Tungdil said, “You have convinced my friend, Goda. Give me time. Maybe I can come to the same conclusion.”

  “Not everyone is like Myr.” Her words shot out.

  Tungdil was shocked. “No, they are not all like her,” he agreed softly, standing up and leaving the tent.

  Outside, in the light of the rising sun, he marched sharply off, up and down the hillocks until he found the highest. Here he sat down on the dew-fresh grass, out of breath now.

  He surveyed the scene spread out before him: smoke rose from a campfire or two. The army was starting to wake up, like the rest of Girdlegard.

  Perhaps Balyndis, back in the Gray Range, was also waking. Was she looking at Glaïmbar and thinking of him? Was she cursing his memory? Did she still love him but understand it could lead nowhere? He hoped that she understood.

  Tungdil snatched up a few blades of grass. What was going to happen to Sirka and him? Would he only disappoint her, too?

  Turning these thoughts over in his mind he remained on the hilltop until the sun climbed above the horizon. A fanfare signaled a meeting. He would arrive late, but no matter. They would not start without him.

  “Vraccas, guide me,” he begged, getting to his feet brushing the dew from his leather breeches and relishing the feel of the cool dawn air on his face.

  He could not have said why he did so, but he turned toward the north. There he saw, ten miles away, the wide snake heading toward them over the hills of Idoslane. An army of considerable size was marching to Toboribor.

  The ubariu: The thought shot through him. Without the fourthlings having noticed, Sundalôn had accompanied the army through the mountains to support his claim for the diamond. Tungdil tried to guess how many soldiers were involved. When Sirka had mentioned the number eighty thousand she had not been lying.

  Now they had to hurry.

  He started back down immediately. The meeting was going to be really interesting now. He wondered how Rejalin would react to the news of the approaching ubariu. Secretly Tungdil felt relieved to see the army. The elves would not dare to set out against such superior numbers.

  Gandogar would be shaken to hear that the dwarves were not in sole charge of Girdlegard’s safety. And had not been for several thousand cycles.

  “Yes, this is going to be lively,” he said to himself as he got near to the camp.

  Sentries from the outposts were dashing in to inform Mallen of the approach of what they took to be an orc army that had appeared out of nowhere.

  Tungdil went swiftly in, cutting a messenger off in mid-flow. “Your Highness. The approaching force is not an enemy,” he explained. “These people have kept Girdlegard safe in the past just as my own have done. I shall send Sirka out to them. She will return to us with a delegation of the ubariu.”

  Prince Mallen, surrounded by tumult, tried to think. “I have stopped being surprised by anything,” he said flatly. “Let us meet in the conference marquee.”

  Tugdil bowed and went off to give Sirka her instructions.

  Girdlegard,

  Kingdom of Idoslane,

  Four Miles from the Caves of Toboribor,

  Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

  The besieging armies were in complete uproar.

  Four hundred ubariu standards had appeared on the hills behind the encircling siege. Each of the banners measured five paces in length and one pace in breadth; the bright fabrics with their unfamiliar symbols flapped and swirled in the wind. The poles they were suspended from bent with the weight of the material and each standard needed four bearers. The noise of the flags whipping in the breeze was audible from afar.

  This sea of flags was enough to impress the humans, the dwarves and even the elves. For Tungdil there was, thanks to Sirka, the additional knowledge that each standard represented one thousand warriors encamped over the hills out of sight.

  Depicted in the arms Tungdil noted stylized weapons, patterns like flowers, and images of animals; still others reminded him of elaborate elf designs. No two were the same. He cast a final admiring glance their way and then entered the tent where all the monarchs had foregathered. Arguments were already underway and it was no surprise to see Rejalin deep in conversation with Isika and Ortger.

  Prince Mallen rose to his feet and rapped on the table for silence. “As we have all seen, something very unexpected has occurred,” he said in carrying tones, suppressing the last of Isika’s whispered comments. “Tungdil Goldhand, tell us what this means.”

  The dwarf got up. “The ubariu have come to secure the return of their property. Their envoy Sundalôn explained at the previous session what vital importance the diamond has for them and for the whole of Girdlegard.”

  “It’s a trick,” exclaimed Rejalin, radiant as the morning. “These are creatures of Tion, disguise
d as lambs but with the nature of beasts.”

  “Did we not agree we should not judge purely on appearances, princess?” Tungdil’s retort was still respectful in tone. “Must I remind you of your own relatives? If we followed your line of argument we would have to raise a hand against every elf in Girdlegard on the grounds that we cannot be sure there is no evil lurking in them.” He had chosen these harsh words with care, to enrage and provoke her before Esdalân appeared. The more disturbed her behavior in front of the sovereigns of Girdlegard, the better.

  The elf-woman was not going to do him the favor of a wild retort, but her eyes flashed in his direction. She sensed the dwarf was up to something.

  Before Tungdil could continue, a commotion at the entrance heralded seven of the unfamiliar ubariu. Sirka followed in their wake.

  The ubariu differed in appearance from their close relatives, the orcs: their stature was broader and more muscular. However, their faces were more finely drawn, if hardly more attractive; sharpened tusks protruded from between their lips and their skin was the darkest of greens.

  They wore skillfully fashioned iron armor quite unlike the crude harnesses the orcs would sport. Underneath was a layer of padded dark fabric and their feet were protected with boots. Their weapons were heavy curved swords, broad at the tip to enable a more powerful blow. They exuded a smell like lavender.

  Ireheart cursed under his breath and took firm hold of his crow’s beak. There was a sharp intake of breath from those present; Queen Wey was heard to groan.

  “Our greetings to all the rulers of Girdlegard.” The ubariu spokesman bowed. He surveyed the company with a pink-eyed gaze. The voice recalled that of an orc but his speech, though accented, was clearly enunciated. Like Sirka, of course, he was speaking a foreign language; Tungdil was astonished that the ubariu knew the common tongue the rest of them used. “My name is Flagur and I am here to help the ubariu,” and he pointed to Sirka, “win back their stolen diamond.”

  “But I thought the orcs were the ubariu?” said Isika, thoroughly confused.