by Markus Heitz
Rodario waved airily. “Don’t apologize; I understand.”
The maga looked at him squarely. “Answer me this: Can you take over from Furgas?”
“Me?” He raised his arms in astonishment. “You’re asking me, the best impresario in Girdlegard, to rebuild your city?” He was about to refuse when something made him change his mind. “I can always try.”
“Trying isn’t enough; I need someone who can do it,” she snapped. “If you don’t have the skill, I’ll hire someone else.”
“Never fear, Estimable Maga,” he assured her. “While poor Furgas is in a coma, your city will be in capable hands.” She eyed him skeptically, but he was too busy thinking about his salary to care. He gave a flamboyant bow. “As for my own affairs, they can wait. The construction of my theater, the premiere of the masterpiece that I—”
“Very well,” she said, interrupting his overblown speech. “Go home, get some sleep, and be ready to start in the morning. I don’t want any extra delays.” She turned to Narmora. “I’ll ask for your things to be fetched to the palace; there’s no shortage of space, as you know. I’ll leave it to you to choose a room.”
“I’ll stay here with Furgas. It’s big enough for—”
“No,” ruled Andôkai. “Furgas needs peace and quiet. Too much noise could elevate his heart rate and push the poison through his system. Come, we’ve lingered long enough.” She steered them to the door. “You can visit every orbit,” she told Narmora. “Sit with him, hold his hand if you want to, but don’t speak to him, and stay no longer than an hour. The slightest agitation could be the death of him.” She opened the doors, and Djern shifted to let them pass. “I’ve got a few things to do here, but I’ll join you in a moment.”
Narmora accompanied Rodario out of the palace. “Would you do me a favor?” she asked. “You’re an expert in disguise and dissimulation. Can you find out whether the assassins were acting alone?”
He beamed. “You’ve come to the right man. I’ll slink through the streets of Porista at the dead of night, searching for the magus’s treacherous disciples and…” He trailed off, remembering his encounter with the cudgel. But the thought of poor Furgas gave him the courage to play the hero in a drama without a script. “I’ll disguise myself properly for my protection. Leave it to me. The city will be rid of Nôd’onn’s accursed famuli sooner than Andôkai thinks.”
“I’d rather you didn’t tell the maga.”
“You want revenge? Dearest Narmora, are you sure it’s advisable in your condition?”
“Right now I feel stronger than ever; I’d fight Djern if I had to.” She unlocked the side gate, reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’ll do it, won’t you, Rodario?”
He gave her a hug. “I’ll do it,” he said reassuringly. He looked both ways; there was no one in sight. “I promise,” he said with a wave, and hurried away.
Free from prying eyes, he found the courage to open his left hand.
All the while he had been hiding a drop of the mysterious substance that, according to Andôkai, was responsible for poisoning his friend. He had been spattered with it when the second highwayman mistook him for Furgas.
Rodario raised his hand to his eyes and peered at the strange fluid. It was yellow, almost luminescent, and it reminded him of something, but he couldn’t think what. He thought about what Andôkai had said about the blade. He had no recollection of a crest or any kind of symbol on the dagger; in fact, the only part of the story that he could corroborate wholeheartedly was that Furgas had been the target of the attack.
It seems like someone isn’t telling the truth… In an instant, his reservations vanished: He couldn’t wait to get to the bottom of the mystery, so long as it wasn’t anything too sinister or dangerous…
VI
Fallen Kingdom of Lesinteïl,
Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Tungdil’s weapons belt was stretched to its limits. The leather cut into his shoulder, embedding itself diagonally across his chest. His downward journey toward the safety of the water had ended with an almighty jolt, forcing the air from his lungs, but there was no danger of him fainting; the pain from the arrow wounds kept him agonizingly awake.
Above him, his captor panted with exertion. The female älf could barely hold him, let alone lift him onto the pier. Tungdil knew from her urgent shouts that she was calling for reinforcements: In a few moments, they would reel him in like a fish on a line, and there was nothing he could do.
He was trapped.
Dangling from his belt, he watched the blood leak from his chest and shoulders and splash into the pond below. Desperate to free himself, he thrashed around with his arms and legs, praying that the älf would be forced to release her grip. At last, one of his feet made contact with the pier, and he pushed off vigorously, shuttling back and forth.
The tactic seemed to work: His antagonist groaned with the effort and said something that he took to be a curse. “You’ll never take me alive,” he shouted defiantly, feeling her skid across the pier toward the water. “I’d rather drown us both.”
Shouts echoed across the pond as the älf’s companions rushed to her aid. Before he had time to realize what was happening, he felt himself being hauled inch by inch toward the pier.
He wasn’t ready to concede defeat.
The next time his boot hit the pier, he pushed back with all his might to catapult himself toward the middle of the pond. The älf and her friends clung on determinedly.
His belt was the first to give in.
The buckle, like most buckles, wasn’t designed to withstand the full weight of a dwarf, especially an armored warrior. The pin cut into the leather, which promptly gave way. Moving from hole to hole, the buckle chewed through the belt, slicing it in two.
Tungdil felt a rush of elation.
Then it dawned on him: Keenfire! His weak fingers snatched at the disappearing belt. I can’t let the älfar get…
Already he was plummeting through the water, which was as cold and forbidding as it looked from above. His chain mail weighed him down, dragging him relentlessly toward the bottom. He focused on holding his breath, a trick that he used to practice in the bath.
He seemed to fall for an eternity, sinking deeper and deeper. After a time, the darkness thickened, perhaps because of the water, perhaps because of his air-starved mind.
Tungdil could feel himself weakening. Briefly, he was tempted to open his mouth and fill his lungs with air, but his fading consciousness warned him that he would drown.
At last he saw light.
It was all around him, wrapping him in a comforting cocoon. Even as he reached out eagerly, he heard the roar of bellows. The eternal smithy! Vraccas has summoned my soul…
He got a clip on the ear for presuming to know the Smith’s intentions.
Shocked, he jerked away. A hand struck his cheek, knocking his head to the side.
He saw the blurry outlines of a dwarven god, who looked surprisingly like a regular dwarf. The red halo intensified, expanding into the darkness and filling it with light.
“That’s right, scholar,” the Smith said testily, preparing to strike again. “I’ll keep this up until you tell me to stop.”
An arm sped toward him. This time Tungdil had the presence of mind to reach up with his left hand and grab the dwarf’s wrist. “Stop,” he coughed, trying to drag himself out of the water. Someone reached down and hauled him out. He spewed a mouthful of water, coughing, sneezing, choking, and swallowing until his lungs filled with air.
He looked up. His cheeks were flushed from coughing, and his eyelids were swollen, but he could see.
Crouching beside him and beaming enthusiastically was a dripping wet Boïndil. Their watery journey had ended on the shores of an underground lake.
Tungdil traced the noise of roaring bellows to a waterfall that was tumbling into the middle of the pond from the ceiling of the cavern, ten paces above.
There was no sign of a furnace, only strings of lanterns with tinted panels that bathed the lake in a deep red glow.
The cavern itself was a mile long by a mile wide. Tungdil and Boïndil were sitting on the only section of dry rock; elsewhere the water came right up to the walls.
“Quite a drop, eh?” said Boïndil, pointing to the torrent of water. “It pitched us into the middle of the pool, and the current washed us ashore.” He furrowed his brow. “Are we the only survivors?”
Tungdil nodded weakly.
“Damn the älfar,” thundered Boïndil. “I’ll give those cowardly murderers a taste of my axes.” He thumped the floor with his hand, then remembered that he had something important to convey. “We’re in the realm of the freelings; they’re fetching a doctor.” He inspected Tungdil’s wounds. “You were lucky, scholar—assuming the arrows weren’t poisoned…”
“I’ll be fine,” said his friend in what he hoped was a convincing tone. The truth was, the cavern was still spinning, but then again, he had lost a lot of blood. Don’t let it be poison. He raised a hand and ran it over his chest, then looked for his weapons belt.
“You must have lost it on the way. The chute between here and the pond was pretty narrow; I almost got stuck.” Boïndil stood up and peered into the water. “I suppose you’ll have to dive for it.”
“It’s gone,” groaned Tungdil, laying his head against the ground. He was still too dizzy to sit up.
“Gone?” echoed Boïndil, fearing the worst. “Tell me you lost it in the water…” He kneeled down and stared at his friend in horror. “Are you certain? Anything would be better than losing Keenfire to our enemies.”
Tungdil made his report.
“That’s bad news,” muttered Boïndil. “Still, with a bit of luck, Keenfire could have fallen into the water while they were hauling up the belt.”
“Do you think we should—”
“We’ve brought a stretcher,” said a deep voice behind him. “We’re going to take you to a doctor; Gemmil will deal with you after that.”
Four dwarves with incredibly pale skin stepped into Tungdil’s line of sight. Bending down, they placed him gently on a stretcher.
After studying their faces, Tungdil concluded that they looked like ordinary dwarves, only paler and without the usual dark brown eyes. One of their number was almost entirely colorless: His red eyes smiled at Tungdil from an ashen face.
Boïndil, unnerved by the pallid dwarf, placed a hand on his ax. “I’ll hack them to pieces if they attack us,” he promised, lowering his voice so only Tungdil could hear. He nodded surreptitiously at the back of the colorless dwarf. “Do you think he’s a ghost? It doesn’t seem natural.”
Tungdil had considered the matter already. “On the contrary,” he said, remembering the books about animal life in Lot-Ionan’s library. “I’ve read of cave-dwelling frogs who are born with no eyes. They live in total darkness, and their skin is pure white.”
“I see,” said Boïndil uncertainly. He wrung out his beard and turned his attention to his plait, trailing water as he walked. “But the dwarves in the other kingdoms live in underground halls, so how come—”
“That’s different. They don’t stay underground forever, do they? They come up to the surface to tend their cattle, trade their goods, set out on adventures…” Tungdil hadn’t studied science in detail, but he was sure that the loss of pigment resulted from living in darkness for a considerable time.
They exited the cavern, leaving the thundering waterfall behind them. The corridors reminded Tungdil of ancient waterways carved by rivers through the rock. Straight ahead was a small metal door that led into a simple room. Tungdil’s stretcher was lowered onto a table.
“I was expecting worse,” said a clear, bright voice like the ring of a hammer against an anvil. “Cut away his garments; I need to see the wounds.”
Two dwarves fitted a pair of sharp-edged pliers around the bottom of his mail shirt, while a third dwarf squeezed the handles. Ring by ring, the blades cut through his armor as if it were paper, not metal. The mail shirt fell to the table in two neat halves. Next the dwarves tore open the leather jerkin, exposing his chest.
“Let’s see what the älfar have done to you,” said the voice. Its owner stepped into view: a delicate dwarf with snow-white skin.
The sight of the dazzling stranger sent Tungdil’s memories of Balyndis up in smoke. He had never seen a more beautiful dwarf-woman.
“I’m Myrmianda,” she said. Her red eyes smiled at him, traveling down his face to study the arrow shafts protruding from his naked chest. She was dressed in dark brown robes and a leather apron. A golden circlet rested on her head, holding back her long snowy hair. “Everyone here will vouch for my skill. I’m a medic—I know what I’m doing.”
She leaned closer to examine the flesh around the wounds. Her fingers were remarkably slender and delicate for a dwarf. He breathed in her scent, which was clean and fresh without a hint of sweat or smoke. If anything, he detected an aroma of herbs.
“No discoloration or swelling—Vraccas was on your side,” she told him. Straightening up, she signaled to her assistants, who maneuvered Tungdil into a sitting position, pushing away the remains of his chain mail and slitting open the rest of his jerkin. “The älfar use arrows with detachable heads. We can’t leave anything in the wounds, so it’s no use pulling on the shafts. The only solution is to push them through.”
No sooner had she finished speaking than she placed her middle and index fingers on the broken shafts and pushed the arrows through his flesh.
Tungdil clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together furiously. It felt like red-hot pokers were passing through his shoulder and his chest. Myrmianda reached around him, taking hold of the arrowheads and pulling them from his back.
“Not all my patients are as brave as this,” she said approvingly, casting the arrowheads into a tub of water and washing her bloodied hands. She took some wet moss from a bowl and placed thick compresses on his front and back; then, with the help of her assistants, she bandaged his wounds. “Blue moss,” she told him. “It’s the best way to stop the bleeding. We’ll wait a few hours and change the dressings, and by tomorrow you won’t feel a thing.” She added a powdered substance to a beaker of water, and thrust it into his hand. “Here, this should boost your strength and help against fever.”
“By the hammer of Vraccas, that’s what I call efficient,” Boïndil said to her admiringly. He was almost tempted to get himself injured so that he could profit from her skill.
The medic nodded briskly. “Thank you. I’ve treated a fair few arrow wounds in my time.”
Tungdil was transfixed. Myrmianda spoke educated dwarfish, her accent was faultless, and she was bound to be well read; her delicate stature pointed to cycles of handling parchment rather than laboring in the mines. In short, she was nothing like Balyndis, who was twice as muscular and imposing, as befitted a smith.
He gulped down the contents of the beaker. “I’m Tungdil Goldhand,” he said, pulling himself together. “And this is Boïndil Doubleblade of the clan of the Swinging Axes of Beroïn’s line.”
She dried her hands on a towel and placed it on a little table. “The hero of the Blacksaddle and his trusty companion,” she said, inclining her head toward them. “It’s an honor to meet you. As far as I’m aware, slaying Nôd’onn isn’t against the rules of the dwarven kingdoms, so you must be here by chance. Did you fall into the water when the älfar attacked?”
Tungdil wished that he could be more upfront with Myrmianda, who, apart from being exceptionally beautiful, had treated and bandaged his wounds. “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly, “we can’t discuss it until we’ve spoken to your king.”
For a moment she seemed disappointed, then she flashed him a smile that brought color to his cheeks. “In that case, I was wrong. You’re here for a reason, whatever it might be.”
Tungdil watched as she packed away her instruments: thin-bladed knives, hooks, surgical saws, an
d assorted paraphernalia that would be lethal in the hands of a warrior. Myrmianda rolled them up in a cloth, secured each end with a leather strap and took her leave. “I hope you feel better soon.”
A white-haired dwarf appeared at the door. His skin was whiter than white, and his eyes were the loamy brown of fresh soil. He wore a mail tunic, and an ax hung from his belt.
“May your inner furnace burn for many cycles,” he said welcomingly. “My name is Gemmil Callusedhand. I’m the elected sovereign of the freelings’ realm.”
Tungdil and Boïndil introduced themselves. Their names made an immediate impression on the king. “I’m honored by your visit. You bring news from the other kingdoms, I suppose?”
“Bramdal Masterstroke told us about your realm,” said Tungdil, launching into a lengthy explanation. He told Gemmil about the new fifthling kingdom, his meeting with the executioner, his efforts to find the exiles, and the älvish ambush at the pond. “Pardon me,” he said suddenly. “I should have started by thanking you for your assistance in defeating Nôd’onn. Your warriors stopped the orcs from overrunning the underground network, for which the kingdoms of Girdlegard will be forever in your debt.” He bowed as best he could with his bandaged chest. “Boïndil and I have particular cause to thank you—we couldn’t have forged Keenfire without the freelings’ help.”
“It’s as well you left a message in the tunnels,” said Gemmil, smiling. “We’re exiles, but even an exiled dwarf is a child of the Smith. Girdlegard’s safety is our priority; we couldn’t allow the magus to prevail.”
“Perhaps you could tell your subjects—”
“They’re not my subjects,” the king corrected him gently. “The dwarves in this realm are free in word and deed. We elect a king to take decisions on behalf of our community, and, at present, that honor falls to me. In three cycles, my term of office will be over, and we’ll hold another vote.”