The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “You pass the crown between you?” exclaimed Boïndil, laughing out loud. He clearly found the notion quite preposterous. “That’s a fine kind of monarchy!”

  “The best,” agreed Gemmil, failing to take offense.

  “Your Majesty,” said Tungdil, jumping in before Boïndil could insult the king again. “The freelings came to the aid of Girdlegard when it mattered. Would you be willing to fight with us again?” He summarized what he and Boïndil had seen at the Stone Gateway and outlined his fears about the army of orcish revenants marching north. “We think Ushnotz wants to seize the Stone Gateway. The new fifthling folk won’t survive the invasion of four thousand undead beasts, not to mention an influx of orcs from the Outer Lands, which is exactly what will happen if the missing scout tells his cousins that our defenses are down. Without you and your warriors, the kingdom will fall before our masons can fashion its gates. Only the freelings can reach us in time.”

  The king frowned, his eyebrows joining together in a long white line that reminded Tungdil of a ridge of salt. “This is bad news indeed—and the loss of Keenfire makes it all the more serious. If the ax fell into the water, we won’t get it back.”

  “If it’s gone, it’s gone,” said Boïndil lightly, knowing that Tungdil would be blaming himself for its loss. “We’ll get Balyndis to make a new one. Keenfire was forged to wipe out evil, so it won’t be much good in the hands of an älf. Besides, their axmanship is atrocious.”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” said Tungdil thoughtfully. “Keenfire is a special dwarven weapon, a symbol of our victory over Tion’s hordes. Its loss will do us greater injury than any number of undead orcs.” He turned to the king. “Please, Your Majesty, I entreat you in the name of Glaïmbar Sharpax, king of the fifthlings, don’t let us fight this threat alone. Your warriors will give our kinsmen new courage. A doubting dwarf is easily conquered; your army will make us strong.”

  Gemmil came straight to a decision. “I’ll send out messengers to spread the news. As soon as I’ve raised an army, I’ll dispatch it to the fifthling kingdom.” He stroked his white beard. “If the orcs attack before my warriors get there, you’ll have to hold out as best you can—Vraccas willing, it won’t be for long. Go back and tell your king that the freelings will answer his call.”

  “How many can we count on?”

  “As many as I can find,” said Gemmil with a shrug. His eyes settled on Tungdil’s bandages. “You won’t survive another run-in with the älfar. Take Myr, some of her assistants, and a few of my warriors. I can’t have you traveling alone.” He turned to leave.

  “Can I ask a question, Gemmil?”

  The king stopped at the door and nodded for Tungdil to continue.

  “Our intention is to rebuild the kingdom in Giselbert’s name. Would any of you like to join us?”

  “And swap our freedom for the unbending laws of a dwarven kingdom?” Gemmil paused. “It’s a charitable offer, Tungdil Goldhand, but we should focus on winning the battle against the orcs. After that, I’d like you to visit us properly so you can see the difference between the freelings and the other folks. I think you’ll understand why most of us would prefer to stay here.”

  “What nonsense!” trumpeted Boïndil. “I’ve never heard such foolishness from a king.” He stomped toward the door, stopped in front of Gemmil, and looked him in the eye. “We’re just as free as you are!”

  “I suppose you’re allowed to do whatever you please?”

  “Too right we are,” said Boïndil stubbornly.

  “So you wouldn’t have a problem disobeying your chieftain’s orders if you thought he was wrong?”

  Boïndil was momentarily thrown. “Our chieftains are always right,” he snapped testily, looking to Tungdil for support. The argument wasn’t going as he had intended, but he was too hotheaded to back down.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Wise chieftains never engage in pointless feuds about long-forgotten grievances.”

  “Our chieftains never forget a grievance,” growled Boïndil.

  “I’m sure they don’t,” said Gemmil. “And I expect they’re happy for you to meld the maiden of your choice…”

  The disgruntled warrior said nothing, folding his hands in front of his chest.

  “I’m not trying to score points,” said Gemmil earnestly. “I was merely suggesting that your laws aren’t always fair.”

  Looking at the monarch’s face, Tungdil was convinced of his integrity, and even Boïndil was appeased.

  “Change isn’t welcome in the old dwarven kingdoms,” the king continued. “The chieftains and elders are too attached to the power inherited from their forefathers. I can introduce you to dwarves who campaigned for greater freedom and were banished from their kingdoms. They’re freelings now, of course.”

  Boïndil, who had been racking his brains for a comeback, spotted a weakness in Gemmil’s argument. “Let’s not forget that you accept all kinds of outcasts into your realm—murderers, troublemakers, and the like. Not all of them were banished for speaking out of turn. Surely it can’t be good to have criminals in your ranks?”

  The king seemed suddenly eager to put an end to the debate. “We never ask why a dwarf was banished from his kingdom; all that matters is that he accepts our ethos and contributes to the common good.” He stepped backward into the corridor. “You’d do well to remember that some of our so-called criminals will soon be defending your kingdom against the orcs. Whatever their misdeeds, dwarves who risk their lives for the good of Girdlegard won’t be made to hump coals in Vraccas’s smithy. Our god will forgive their sins.”

  The door closed behind him with a bang.

  “Ha, did you hear that?” cackled Boïndil smugly. “He didn’t answer my question. Maybe he’s not so clever after all!”

  “You shouldn’t have provoked him,” scolded Tungdil, who secretly agreed with Gemmil on a number of points. “We need his help, remember.” He slid down from the stretcher and walked over to his friend, who draped a blanket over his shoulders. “At least we’ve got what we came for; our poor companions won’t have died in vain.”

  They kneeled down in front of the hearth, feeling the comforting warmth of the little fire. Closing their eyes, they prayed to Vraccas to bless their fallen companions and summon them to his smithy.

  Tungdil’s thoughts turned to the freelings.

  He was especially keen to see one of their cities. I wonder if they’ve got their own architecture, he mused. This question and a dozen others would remain unanswered until the last army of orcs had been chased out of Girdlegard, but Tungdil was determined to return one orbit and see how the freelings lived. I’d like to stay for long enough to understand their customs.

  Tungdil was thrilled by the thought of seeing new things and discovering different ways of life. While dwarves like Boïndil were happiest in their kingdoms, Tungdil longed to know as much as possible about the wider world. He was interested, for example, in how Myr’s assistants had cut through his chain mail. The sharp-edged pliers were like nothing he had seen.

  Boïndil finished praying and made his way to the corner of the room where the freelings had left them some food. He shoved a hunk of bread into his mouth and beckoned to Tungdil.

  “Dig in,” he instructed him between mouthfuls, spraying his beard with crumbs. “It’s going to be a tough march with your injuries, but at least Myrmianda can help.”

  I’m glad I was wounded, thought Tungdil, picturing the freeling’s face. Even the soft down on her cheeks was the color of snow with a faint hint of silver…

  He felt a pang of guilt, and the vision of Myr morphed into Balyndis. He remembered how he had given her his heart. It doesn’t count anymore, he told himself. She’s melded to Glaïmbar. “We’ll be in capable hands,” he said casually. He strolled over to join Boïndil in the corner.

  “Their food tastes nice enough,” said the secondling grudgingly. He could barely talk because his cheeks were fit to burst. “Still, I’m not sure I l
ike the idea of fighting shoulder to shoulder with criminals. How do we know they weren’t banished for murdering other dwarves?” He helped himself to a wedge of cheese that smelled strong enough to asphyxiate a band of orcs. “Dwarves don’t get banished for no reason.” He stopped munching and looked at Tungdil questioningly. “Their kinsfolk were right to banish them, weren’t they, scholar?”

  Tungdil nodded briefly and pretended to be swallowing a mouthful of bread. He reached for the jug of dark ale.

  Gemmil’s criticisms of the dwarven kingdoms had struck a chord.

  He wasn’t prepared to admit as much to Boïndil, but he could see the sense in the freelings’ ideals. He had been brought up in a school where opinions were exchanged freely and nothing was exempt from scholarly consideration. Tungdil had been taught that ideas were fluid and ever-changing, but the outlook of the dwarves resembled their kingdoms: rigid, inflexible, and unyielding.

  Boïndil stopped gulping down his food and stared absentmindedly at the wall. He seemed to be lost in thought. “Which way round is it?” he said slowly. “Does Vraccas want us to carry the spark of change to the fifthlings’ furnace, or is he testing our faith?”

  Tungdil could barely mask his surprise; he hadn’t expected Boïndil, who was usually very traditional, to ponder such things. “It’s a tricky question and I don’t know the answer,” he replied. He leaned forward abruptly and picked up his tankard. Pain coursed through him, reminding him of his punctured shoulder and chest. He set down the tankard with a curse. “They’re going to help us, and that’s the main thing. The rest will take care of itself.”

  Boïndil wiped his mouth and burped. “How big is their realm? Ten square miles? Fifty square miles? How many warriors do you think they can send?” He helped himself to some beer and refilled Tungdil’s tankard. “I’ll wager three hundred at most.”

  “Three hundred might be enough. We’ll wait until Ushnotz and his troopers set their ladders against our walls; then we’ll tip them over and shower them with stones.” He clinked tankards with Boïndil. “With Gemmil’s help, we’ll put an end to the beasts once and for all.”

  “Some of the runts have fled to Toboribor,” said the secondling. “I suppose it’s a bit far for our armies… Do you think Mallen can handle them himself?”

  “Without your axes?” Tungdil shook his head in despair. “I can’t help wondering when you’ll finally tire of killing orcs. At this rate you’ll still be chasing runts when you’re a frail old dwarf of seven hundred cycles.”

  “I’ll be dead by then,” he said in a matter-of-fact way that chilled his friend’s blood. “A spear or an arrow will see to that. It’s all right, scholar,” he added, noticing Tungdil’s expression, “I don’t want to die. When I lost Smeralda, I prayed to Vraccas to kill me on the spot, but now I give thanks for every orbit. When my time is up, I want to go out as a hero, like Bavragor did.” He raised his tankard to Tungdil and emptied it in a single draft. “To Bavragor Hammersmith and all those who died for Keenfire and Girdlegard.”

  “Vraccas preserve the rest of us from joining them too soon,” added Tungdil, downing his beer. Don’t worry, he promised his fallen friends. Keenfire won’t be lost forever. A plan was taking shape in his mind. When the battle was over, he would come back with a big net and sweep the bottom of the pond—and if that failed, he would retrieve the ax from Dsôn Balsur as soon as the allies defeated the älfar. Either way, he would get the ax back, but the coming battle would be fought without it. Its loss could cost us dear. The beer tasted suddenly bitter in his mouth.

  Pendleburg,

  Southwest Urgon,

  Girdlegard,

  Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

  You opened my eyes to the dishonesty of the dwarves,” said King Belletain. “Palandiell must have sent you.” He was sitting in bed, his back propped up with countless cushions. His leather armor had been exchanged for a loose purple robe.

  Three physicians attended his every move, dabbing continuously at his fractured skull. Pink, viscous fluid seeped into their sponges.

  Belletain pointed to the trio and snorted derisively. “Look at those crows! They circle me all the time—they’re hoping I’ll die.” The physician standing closest to him received a violent shove. The man stumbled, bowl, sponge, and fluid dropping to the floor. “Confounded crows,” the king screamed, his face flushing red. “Caw-caw, caw-caw!” He flapped his arms up and down. “I’m not your carrion! I’m not dead yet! I’m the eagle of Urgon, I’m master of you all!”

  Ha, he’s lost his mind. The dwarf was careful not to show a reaction. What a stroke of luck. He’ll do exactly as I say…

  Belletain lowered his arms. “I have news for your uncle, Romo Steelheart. I think it will please you.” He assumed an air of mystery and beckoned for the dwarf to approach. “Come here, and I’ll whisper in your ear. I don’t want the crows to hear us.”

  Romo, leaning in to listen, smelled the odor of rotten gums on his breath.

  “They’re watching me all the time,” the king continued. “I can’t get rid of them, you know.” He laid an arm around Romo’s shoulder and tapped his index finger against the dwarf’s armored chest. “It will be our secret—a secret between me, the eagle of Urgon, and you, my little falcon with the beard.” He chuckled like a child. “Your king and I are going to get on famously. We’ll throw the fourthlings out of their stronghold!” His eyes rolled back in his head. “The Brown Range is mine! Mine, do you hear? The fourthlings should be paying me, and they’re squatting on my land. You were right, Romo: It’s time I threw them out. My soldiers will…”

  “Please, Your Majesty,” ventured one of the physicians, “you should be resting. Too much excitement will add to the swelling in your brain. Here, this infusion will lower your blood pressure.” Concerned, he examined a crack in the king’s skull. The blood was flowing faster than ever.

  “Caw-caw, caw-caw,” chortled Belletain, raising a hand to his mouth.

  The second physician tried to maneuver him back into position, hoping to make him sit upright and stem the flow of blood. Belletain punched him in the stomach. “Get back, winged devil,” he raved.

  “We’re trying to help you, Your Majesty,” the bruised attendant soothed him. “Your mind will clear when you’ve had some sleep. Gandogar isn’t—”

  “Eavesdropper!” screeched Belletain. He lunged forward and before Romo could stop him, he had seized the dwarf’s morning star and smashed the three metal balls into the physician’s head, shattering his skull. “No more cawing,” he said triumphantly. He tossed the weapon back to Romo. “Come, little falcon, help your new friend to get rid of the other nasty crows.” A malevolent smile spread over his face as he looked at the remaining attendants.

  Romo weighed the morning star in his hand.

  “Don’t listen to him,” begged one of the men. “The king hasn’t been himself since the ogre cracked his skull. He won’t survive without our—”

  Belletain pressed his hands to his ears. “Stop their cawing! I can’t bear it any longer, my little falcon. I need new birds—birds that sing!”

  The dwarf took a step forward and the attendants backed away. “It’s all right,” he said reassuringly. “I wouldn’t dream of hurting you.” Just then he swung the morning star into the crotch of the man on his left and sent his spiked fist into the belly of the man on his right. They slumped to the floor, writhing in pain. “But a king’s word is law.” He raised the morning star and brought it down forcefully. After two brutal blows, the whimpering stopped. The three attendants lay motionless beside their monarch’s bed, their heads a pulpy mess of gore and shattered bone.

  “My loyal falcon,” squealed the king. “The crows have stopped cawing.”

  “I’ll send some new attendants from our kingdom,” promised the dwarf, wiping his dripping weapon on the dead men’s clothes. “They’ll banish the pain from your skull, and they won’t make a peep.”

  “Good,” sighed the king, slumping c
ontentedly onto his pillows. “No more cawing—what a blessing.” He gazed out of the window at the grassy slopes. The sun was shining and the fields looked green and lush; there would be plenty of straw by the autumn. “Lothaire’s death will be a-ven-ged,” he chanted, fitting the words to the tune of a traditional Urgonese folk song. “And Gandogar’s treachery will be re-ven-ged…” He turned and looked Romo in the eye. “Rivers of blood and mountains of gold; that’s the price they’ll pay,” he declared firmly. “Tell your uncle that we have an agreement: If he can come up with a strategy, my warriors will do the rest. They’re experienced in warfare and fleet of foot. The highest peaks, the narrowest paths, the steepest chasms—nothing can make them fall. They will go where the eagle commands them. And when they hear the truth about my beloved nephew’s death, their hearts will burn with fury.”

  Romo bowed. “I’m glad you’ve heeded my warnings. Lesser rulers have been fooled by the reputation of the other dwarven folks. You’re a wise king indeed.” He backed away toward the door.

  “Send a few lackeys to take away the bodies. I’ll feed them to the other crows.” He stretched out his arms cheerfully. “I can feel the wind beneath my wings. The eagle is soaring, thanks to his little friend, the falcon.” He waved him away. “Come back soon. We need to finalize our plans.”

  “You have my word, Your Majesty.” The dwarf stepped out of the chamber, closed the door carefully and let out a hearty laugh. It had cost considerable effort to hide his amusement. The next step was to surround the king with thirdling physicians, and Belletain would be welded to him for life.

  My uncle will be well pleased. He set off through the corridors, whistling. He was anxious to leave at once, not least because he wanted to know if Mallen had been brought to his knees by the orcs.

  Porista,

  Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

  Girdlegard,

  Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

  Xamtys’s message to the rulers of Girdlegard confirmed Andôkai in her determination to make a maga of Narmora as quickly as possible. The firstling kingdom crushed by a shooting star, the Outer Lands engulfed in flames… Samusin, god of equilibrium, what danger is gathering in the west?