The Dwarves Omnibus

by Markus Heitz

  The other kings and queens had not thought it necessary to come to Pendleburg in person. Everything had been said and they had all accepted the decision of the magus. The diamond was to leave Girdlegard. The royal ambassadors were there out of courtesy, because Mallen had requested this final session.

  Soon Tungdil, Flagur and Sirka returned to the conference room.

  Ortger got up. “Welcome to Pendleburg. We are here to discuss recent events and to honor the heroes.” He sketched a bow in the direction of Flagur and Sirka. “Accept my thanks, Flagur, for your part in protecting Girdlegard; I know that you will continue to work for our benefit in your own land.” He turned to Tungdil and the magus. “And all honor to those who will be crossing the border and embarking on the rigors of a journey into the unknown. And now, Prince Mallen, the floor is yours.”

  The Idoslane prince rose. “I want to show our appreciation.” He addressed them with all due form. “A small ceremony to honor your departure. Of course it bears no relation to the celebrations we shall hold on your return.” He smiled at Tungdil. “May Vraccas guide your steps and protect you.”

  One by one the ambassadors conveyed their sovereigns’ messages of goodwill, promising praise, recognition and lasting gratitude on their return.

  Outwardly noncommittal, Tungdil listened and smiled. But inside he was simmering like boiling mountain blood. So the heroes were of no importance to the rulers; having risked life and limb they were to be greeted by substitutes offering formulaic phrases.

  Bylanta stood up and fixed her brown eyes on Tungdil. On the diminutive side, she had the classic stature of a fourthling woman dwarf; compared to Sirka she seemed as small as a gnome. Her long blond hair hung forward over her shoulder in a braid, her light chain mail tunic was decorated extravagantly with jewels and on her head she wore a skillfully worked crown sparkling with diamonds.

  “I am Balynta Slimfinger of the Silver Beard clan, queen over the fourthlings and sovereign in the Brown Range of Mountains.” Her voice was steady, clear and confident. “I shall accompany your procession to the gates of Silverfast. It will be an honor, Tungdil Goldhand, to ride with you. I offer you my friendship just as you gave your own to Gandogar.” She sat down.

  Ginsgar Unforce got to his feet. No dwarf could be of more impressive appearance; not even Glaïmbar, king of the fifthlings, came close. His fine red beard, broad shoulders, resolute attitude and the determination in his eyes, all made of him a rare figure of a dwarf.

  “I salute you, Tungdil Goldhand. I am Ginsgar Unforce of the Nail Smith clan of Borengar’s firstlings. As high king I bring you the greetings of the dwarf folks,” he said in a sonorous bass. “May you return safe and sound from the Outer Lands…”

  Bylanta turned her head. “How is it that here we apparently have a new high king, when he has not been chosen by myself or my clans? I have not heard of an assembly being called?” she said with surprise in her tone. “I thought a high king would be high king of all the dwarf folks, and not just of some?”

  “There was an assembly and an election,” replied Ginsgar, unmoved. “The warriors following me to landur to punish the elves for their treachery appointed me their high king. And there were dwarves from your clans, Bylanta, among them. So accordingly it is right that I be high king.”

  This came as news to Mallen and Ortger and the ambassadors. Lot-Ionan threw Tungdil a knowing look. Exactly what he and Rodario had feared now seemed to have happened: a war hero had declared himself ruler.

  Esdalân regarded Ginsgar with menace. “What have you done to landur, dwarf? The atár were your enemies, not my people. Not the green groves and the beautiful buildings. Not the ground on which you marched.”

  “We were hunting down the atár and we found them everywhere. They ambushed us from the protection of their temples and attacked us from the shelter of the woods and villages.” Ginsgar met and held the elf’s accusatory gaze. “And so we laid waste the land to destroy any cover.”

  “And the cradles of new-born infants? You thought them potential hiding-places?” Esdalân exclaimed furiously.

  “We slew the atár offspring. This must have been in your interest too, elf. They would only have created new perdition.” Ginsgar laid his hand on his war hammer. “When we have done with cleaning up landur the elves may return. Trees can regrow. So can your people.”

  “How many innocent victims have you murdered?”

  “We murdered none. We executed those who deserved death,” came Ginsgar’s swift retort. “You should be grateful. On your own you would never have defeated the atár.”

  Esdalân leaped up, knocking his chair over with a loud crash. “Support I would have welcomed, but what you have done, Ginsgar Unforce, was senseless slaughter! You are no better than orcs!” Leaning on the table in front of him, he whispered in despair, “Do you know how many of my people are still alive?”

  In a bored voice the dwarf answered, “I should think about a hundred.”

  “Thirty-seven,” shouted Esdalân. “Thirty-seven! And of those, ten are women and nine are children.”

  Ginsgar’s red eyebrows crunched together. “We were thorough. So now at least you present no threat to Girdlegard.”

  “It was blind vengeance. No more, no less.” The elf straightened with a jerk, tears streaming down his harmonious features, now a mask of hatred. He pointed at Ginsgar and continued in his own language until he turned and stalked out of the hall without looking right or left.

  “By Palandiell,” whispered Lot-Ionan. Rodario grew pale as a white-washed wall. “And we did nothing to stop them.” He put his hand on his belt where the diamond hung in a leather purse. “We let it happen.”

  “What else could we have done?” exclaimed Ortger. “It is a crying shame, of course, but tell me what choice we had?”

  Tungdil could not grasp it, either. What Ginsgar had done was unforgiveable. It was living proof of the cruelty of this self-appointed high king. “We are all guilty. Our joint armies should have set out from Toboribor to landur with all dispatch to prevent this wholesale slaughter.” He bestowed a withering glance on Ginsgar. “Do you know what you have done? You have thrown away our best opportunity of ever winning the elves’ gratitude. Instead of that you have ensured their renewed enmity.”

  “I’m really scared.” Ginsgar smiled and gave himself a little shake. “Thirty-seven pointy-ears are a true army to put the wind up the dwarf folks.”

  Bylanta spat at his feet. “You are as nothing, Ginsgar Unforce. I shall have you impeached before all the assembled clans of the five dwarf folks, so that you may be properly punished. I pray to Vracrass that the elves may one day become reconciled to us in some future orbit. Whether or not this involves your death.”

  “Now there’s a far better candidate for the throne,” Rodario murmured to Tungdil. “How about a high queen for a change? She has charisma, don’t you think?”

  Ginsgar regarded the blob of spittle by his boot. “Spit out your poison, Bylanta. It won’t kill me. I was chosen by all of the clans. That’s what counts. It doesn’t matter where or how.” He addressed the conference. “We’re done here. I’ve told you my wishes and I’m off. Perhaps I should go back to landur and check under all the bushes. Thoroughness is one of our best qualities.” He nodded, shouldered his war hammer and left the hall with his characteristic rolling gait.

  Now Tungdil had his certainty: in this land, where dwarves such as Ginsgar ruled in hatred, he did not wish to stay.

  He took hold of Sirka’s hand and pressed it firmly.

  XIX

  Girdlegard,

  Kingdom of Urgon,

  Pendleburg,

  Early Autumn, 6241st Solar Cycle

  Resounding hammer blows and complaining screams of metal on anvil could be heard all over the cloud-hung stronghold. Squadrons of gray rain clouds were driving across the land and not stopping at the castle walls. The cloud contents poured onto the stones as if wanting to wash out all the mortar and bring
down the defenses.

  Tungdil, in breeches, boots and leather apron, was spending most of his time in the forge turning the unslayable’s sword into a new weapon. With all his strength he was beating out the last trace of evil. He had written off the possibility of finding Keenfire, just as he had dismissed the possibility of a future in Girdlegard. The dwarf folks he had discarded from his mind as well.

  There was nothing to keep him here. Twice he had averted the impending downfall and destruction of Girdlegard, and this was his third and last mission. After that the dwarves could see how they coped without him. No matter what he did and how many lives were lost along the way, reason would not prevail. Not here and not with any of the peoples of Girdlegard.

  Anger strengthened his arm and sent his hammer blows off true. He interrupted his labors to wipe the sweat from his remaining eye; he no longer wore a bandage over the left where a simple white patch now covered the empty socket.

  He brandished the fruits of his toil toward the entrance. As yet he was not sure what was emerging from his handiwork. It was neither ax nor sword, nor club. He left it up to the fire, the hammer and the skill of his hands to form something completely new without a specific design.

  The metal must be an alloy he had not met before. He could hear as much from the sound it made; it sang in response to his forging. It had incredible stability, long refusing to give up its original shape to take on another. It was an age since he had been given such a challenge at the anvil.

  Hasty footsteps came splashing through puddles and over the wet flagstones. Sirka stumbled in at the threshold. Her sight was not as good as his own in this smoky twilight. “Tungdil?”

  He tapped the vice with his hammer to indicate where he stood. “Over here. By the furnace.”

  “We won’t be able to leave yet,” she said, feeling her way. “This rain has turned Urgon’s mountain streams to raging torrents. The king’s scouts report some of the roads have been washed away.” She had located him now and when she kissed him rainwater dripped from her nose down onto his. “We won’t be leaving for another seven orbits.”

  Tungdil nodded. Ortger would have to feed the hundred thousand for longer than he had bargained; provisions would have to be brought in from all over the kingdom. It was an enormous task. Gauragar and Idoslane were helping out with grain supplies. “I’m not ready, either.” He showed her what he had done so far.

  “Strange,” she said. “I’ve never seen a weapon like that.”

  “It will be worthy of a hero like myself,” he said, mockingly. “What are Goda and Ireheart up to?”

  “Now that they are committed to each other they are never apart,” grinned Sirka. “Dwarves, rain, a warm bed—you can work it out, can’t you? No better excuse than the weather for staying in. The master and his apprentice will be in training, I presume.”

  “Good, so no one will notice that I’ve been in the forge all this time.”

  Sirka watched the flames. “I shan’t ever really understand the fascination with forging like this.” She wiped her hand across her brow to remove the sweat now blended with raindrops. “I wonder what you’ll think of the way we make our metal goods.”

  Tungdil put the unfinished weapon back in the fire and laid his hammer down on the anvil before taking the dwarf-woman in his arms. She was wearing only a thin leather garment and her bodice lacing allowed him a good view of her brown skin. He stroked her shorn head tenderly and kissed her slowly as desire flamed up within him.

  He threw the hammer at the door to close it. The catch slipped down into place. She grinned and opened the fastenings of his leather apron.

  They made love for a long time on a blanket spread on the floor next to the furnace. Tungdil could never get enough of Sirka. He loved to stroke her dark skin and to feel the heat of her inner fire in the course of their love-play increasing until the sweat poured off her. The undergroundling woman had once spoken of belonging to a passionate folk. This did not merely apply to fighting.

  Afterwards they rested by the fire, watching the flickering tongues of flame.

  “It will be hard for you to leave your kinsfolk, Tungdil.”

  “I have no kinsfolk,” he countered. “I have been thinking a lot and have arrived at the conclusion that my heart only belongs to one other.” He kissed her throat. “That’s you. Otherwise, I’m like…” He had nearly betrayed his secret and spoken the name of the young älf. “… otherwise there’s no one. Do I go to the dwarves who are fighting under Ginsgar Unforce, making old enemies into new ones? Or do I go the humans? I wouldn’t feel at home with the elves, either.”

  “I’ll give you a new home for as long as you want. It’ll be up to you. You can always go away again, Tungdil. I know how you are—restless. You did warn me.” Sirka smiled and slipped her clothes on. Tungdil admired her sinewy body; it was tough and flexible enough for combat or for this kind of gymnastics. “And I in my turn warned you. There’s no forever for us. No eternally yours. Not usually, anyway.”

  “Your eternity, Sirka, would only be one or two cycles for me,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m likely to live up to ten times longer than you.”

  She threaded the laces back through the leather, fastening her bodice tight and depriving him of the last glimpse of her naked flesh. “That’s weird. If we have children you could outlive nine generations!”

  When he heard the word children he gave a start. Then he remembered that undergroundlings brought up their offspring quite differently from the traditions of his own kind. He relaxed again. If he were tempted to roam again he would not have to worry about the care of his own children. He was rather taken by the thought of leaving descendants in the land of the undergroundlings: a line of offspring that would live longer than all their neighbors.

  He got to his feet and started to dress. “Yes, it’s a weird thought,” he said, echoing her words. He kissed her again on the nape of her neck. “I can’t tell you how I’m looking forward to all the new things.”

  “Yes, as soon as we have restored the artifact,” she agreed, opening the door to let dull light into the workshop. It was still raining. “Afterwards it will all be very exciting,” she promised enticingly. “Not just because of me.” Then she hurried out and ran through the cloudburst to her quarters.

  Tungdil’s mood had improved and his fury had gone. “Oh, shit!” He had forgotten to take the metal out of the fire. If it had gone molten he would have wasted all his efforts.

  Swiftly he pulled it out with tongs, drawing it carefully from its burial place in the red-hot coals. Sparks whizzed and flew through the air until they cooled and fell to the ground as ash.

  The metal was now as soft as sun-warmed wax. It shone golden yellow like honey and there were long threads that cooled in the air and turned gray.

  “So, that’s what you want to look like?” he said to his new weapon, dousing it in a tub of water. The liquid bubbled and boiled and quickly reduced to half its volume while the metal cooled. Tungdil had never seen such an effect.

  He took the weapon out and turned it from side to side in wonder: it was black as the night and longer than the arm of a full-grown man. It was thicker on one side and had long drawn-out needle-thin points so that it looked like fish bones or a comb. On the other side it slimmed down like a blade and its center of gravity lay high up on the haft, which gave each swipe added momentum without detracting from its ease of wielding.

  “Right, so let’s give you your final form, shall we?” Tungdil pushed it into the furnace, heating it through once more. He worked to finesse the weapon until evening, giving it a rounded handle that he could clasp in both hands. It seemed to him that the metal had surrendered its resistance to him now.

  Night had long fallen and still he sat at work, sharpening the blade with a small grindstone. Bright sparks flew off in a sizzling arc, bouncing against the door. Tungdil tested the edge by taking a lump of coal and stroking the metal across it gently without applying any pressure. It sliced thr
ough the black stone as easily as if it had been air. He was satisfied for now.

  Tired and hungry he stomped across the site through the rain, his new weapon at his side. He needed food and drink.

  “Is it too late to bring you greetings from the towns of the freelings?”

  Tungdil stopped short and raised his weapon. A dwarf stood by the smithy in the pouring rain. His cape and hood were soaked and he must have been waiting by the window a long while. For a messenger this behavior was unusual. “Show me your face!”

  The dwarf approached, pulling back his hood. “I thought you would recognize my voice.”

  Tungdil found himself face to face with Bramdal Masterstroke. “You again?” Suspicion made him keep the blade raised diagonally before him. “What is it you want?”

  “I am to bring greetings from King Gordislan and the other town rulers and to wish you well for the journey to the Outer Lands.” Bramdal pointed to a roof overhang. “Can we go somewhere dry?”

  Tungdil did not believe the one-time executioner. “You’ve waited all this time outside the forge watching me and you grab me out here in the rain, just to say bon voyage?” Tungdil did not move. The rain did not bother him. “You’ll allow that’s a trifle odd?”

  “Nobody must know I’m speaking to you. My mission isn’t over when I’ve given you the good wishes.”

  “Have you got anything to back your story up, Bramdal?”

  Carefully Bramdal put a hand under his cape and pulled out a roll of leather. Then he handed Tungdil a signet ring. “This authenticates what I’m about to tell you. And this is Gordislan’s signet ring.” Water dripped from his yellow beard. “Come on, can we go inside?”

  Tungdil indicated the forge door with the tip of his weapon. In its dark warmth they refrained from lighting a lamp. Tungdil read the missive by the glow from the furnace and examined the ring minutely. Bramdal was in truth a trusted adviser to the king of Trovegold. “Perhaps you were always more than an executioner?”