The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  At least Xamtys’s news wasn’t all bad. Under her leadership, the firstlings were rebuilding their stronghold and repairing the damage inflicted by the meteor and the avalanche. Xamtys had vowed to repair the fortifications in record time so that her warriors would be ready to fight off the threat. Her tone was somber but quietly confident.

  Is she right to be hopeful? Can the threat be contained by an army of dwarves? The maga left the letter on the table and went to find her pupil, whom she had sent to the library to familiarize herself with scholarly script.

  The half älf had a natural gift for magic, but it wasn’t the same as the maga’s knowledge of spells and charms. Narmora’s magic derived from single syllables and an innate ability that had nothing to do with Andôkai’s art.

  Her älf mother had taught her a few simple formulae, but she had never encountered symbols and runes. Mornings were spent studying in the library, while afternoons and evenings were given over to practical exercises. The final hour before bedtime was reserved for Furgas. Every night she sat by his bedside, holding his hand, crying tears of rage, and vowing to wreak terrible vengeance on the villains who had reduced him to this state.

  Andôkai strode into the library. The chamber was lined from floor to ceiling with stacks containing books, manuscripts, atlases, and compendia. Some of the shelves were bowing dangerously under the weight of the recorded knowledge.

  It’s all a question of quantity, she thought to herself. With enough sheets of parchment, you could kill a troll. She swept past the stacks in search of her famula.

  Narmora, who had swapped her armor for loose-fitting robes that accommodated her rounded form, was sitting by a narrow window. The light shone directly on the pages of a hefty book. Particles of dust shimmered in the sun.

  “It’s time for some fresh air,” announced the maga, suddenly aware of the musty smell. The library was the biggest of its kind in Girdlegard, and it smelled of parchment, leather, glue, and dust. Andôkai, who preferred to devote her time to refining her combat skills, had almost forgotten the odor of books. Half an orbit in the stuffy library was enough to make her restless. “How are you getting on?”

  “Some of the runes are easy to remember,” said Narmora without looking up from the page. “But they stop me from learning anything else. It’s as if they don’t want me to forget them.” She stood up. “I can’t do it, maga. Half a cycle isn’t enough.”

  “You need only learn the basics,” said Andôkai reassuringly. “Thanks to your natural talent, you’re ten cycles ahead of most famuli.” She stopped short, realizing that the plate of food on Narmora’s desk was untouched. “You’re supposed to be looking after yourself,” she scolded. “How do you think the baby will grow if you’re not eating? You mustn’t starve yourself.”

  Narmora looked at the meat, vegetables, and bread in surprise. “I’m sorry, maga, I got distracted…” She picked up the plate and set off behind the maga, eating as she went. “You look worried. Has something happened?”

  Andôkai stopped in front of a bookcase, climbed the ladder and pulled out a book from the row of battered spines. “The firstlings have spotted something strange,” she called from the top of the ladder. “The Outer Lands are on fire.” She leafed through the book, closed it impatiently and took another volume from the shelf. “It appears that the magi have been regrettably short-sighted in their quest for knowledge. Every known fact about the kingdoms of Girdlegard and the art of magic is archived in the library, but I can’t find a single book about the land beyond our borders.” She gave up and left the volume on the top rung of the ladder. “The Outer Lands barely get a mention—except in relation to the explorers who ventured over the mountains. Most of them never came back.”

  “Surely there must be merchants who’ve been there,” said Narmora, gazing at the rows of books. “Didn’t any of the explorers keep a journal?”

  They left the library.

  “I think the only solution is to scour the other archives,” said Andôkai, unhappy at the prospect of leaving her realm. “I’m sorry to put you through this in your condition, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come too. We should be able to find what we’re looking for in the universities of Weyurn. The archivists keep detailed records of every occurrence, no matter how unremarkable, in the history of the realm.”

  They emerged into the courtyard. The sun was high in the sky, so they retreated to the shade of the arcades and Andôkai prepared to start the lesson.

  Narmora came to a halt and put down her plate. “We’ll have to take Furgas with us.” It was clear from her tone that she considered the matter settled.

  The maga had other ideas. “The roads of Girdlegard are full of potholes. How is Furgas supposed to rest when the carriage is tipping from side to side like a boat?”

  “Someone will have to look after him. You can’t expect Djern to nurse him to health.”

  “No, but I’m sure his best friend Rodario will jump at the chance to sleep in my chamber, regardless of whether I forbid it, which, needless to say, I will.”

  Narmora stared at her incredulously. “Estimable Maga, the impresario is an old friend, and I’m familiar with his talents: acting, orating, and philandering. On stage he makes a wonderful physician, but he isn’t the real thing. Quite frankly, I’d sooner trust Djern than him.”

  “Djern won’t be here; he’s going on a mission to the Outer Lands. We need to know what we’re up against and prepare ourselves accordingly. At present, our only intelligence is the firstlings’ description of a fire.” The maga had constructed her case in advance, realizing that she would have to persuade her famula of the merit of the plan. “Don’t worry about Furgas; I’ll renew the charm, and every third orbit Rodario will change the sheets. There won’t be anything else for him to do.” She pointed to the far end of the arcade. “Stand over there—we’re going to try something new.”

  The half älf took up position, but she wasn’t prepared to concede defeat. “Are you sure the charm will be strong enough? What if it wears off before we’re back?”

  Andôkai raised her arms and traced silvery syllables above her head. “Furgas would die,” she said candidly, casting the charm toward Narmora, who held out her palms defensively and uttered a simple incantation.

  The glittering jet of light turned a deep shade of green, slowed down and changed its trajectory, swooping upward and boring its way through the roof. The sky appeared through the marble.

  The maga could hardly believe her eyes. “You changed the energy,” she said in astonishment. “How did you do it?”

  Narmora smiled. “I suppose I must have muddled up the runes.”

  A crack appeared in the ceiling and fragments of marble showered to the ground. Crackling and hissing, a green bolt of lightning swooped toward Andôkai. The charm had returned and was pursuing its target with grim determination. The maga disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  A fragment of marble struck Narmora on the shoulder. Just then a searing pain ripped through her womb, stopping her breath.

  She doubled over and sank to her knees, clutching her belly. Looking down, she watched in horror as a dark tide washed over her robes; warm fluid was seeping from her body, drenching the cloth.

  No! She touched the sticky fabric with her hands and stared at her crimson fingers. Heat washed through her, but she was shivering with cold. “You’ve taken Furgas; spare me my child!” she pleaded helplessly. Her eyes turned the color of coal and dark lines appeared like cracks on her face, revealing her lineage.

  She held on to a column and tried to pull herself up, but her bloodied fingers slid over the polished marble and she sprawled against the floor. Her stomach landed on a splinter of stone.

  This time she knew for certain that something had burst. She curled up on the floor and screamed despairingly as she clutched her belly with shaking fingers, water streaming from her womb.

  No one paid much attention to the leper in the corner whose ravaged features were hidden almos
t wholly by yellowed dressings. Sometimes a bronze coin flew through the tavern in his direction, whereupon he rose to his feet, bowed several times and collected it gratefully.

  “Here, eat this and be on your way,” said the publican, depositing an ancient plate and a battered tankard on the table. He was careful not to touch the man’s hands, having noticed the rips in his gloves. Later, he would throw away the plate, tankard, and cutlery and scrub the bench and table with precious vinegar solution. It pained him to think of the cost, but the price of refusing charity to a leper was infinitely higher—the sick and infirm were under Palandiell’s protection, and she was dangerous in her wrath.

  The man bowed and made an incomprehensible whimpering noise; it seemed the disease had eaten away at his tongue, rendering him mute.

  Further along the bench, two women and a man, all dressed in plain garments, were talking so quietly that no one could divine the subject of their discussions. They treated the leper as if he weren’t there.

  “How am I supposed to know who paid them?” snapped the fair-haired woman.

  “That’s what I thought.” The man nodded. “No one at the guild knows anything about it. Frud and Granselm wanted the money for themselves.” He poured himself a goblet of wine and emptied it greedily. A look of satisfaction crept over his face. “Much good it did them, the greedy bastards.”

  “It’s the giant’s fault,” grumbled the brown-haired woman. “The guardsmen you can hide from, but the giant always knows where you are. If you ask me, there’s something unnatural inside that armor.”

  “It goes without saying,” agreed the fair-haired woman. “I mean, how many men do you know who are three paces tall?” She glanced at the leper who was dozing with his back to the wall. Her eyes came to rest on his pouch of coins.

  “Not here,” hissed the man. “Are you crazy? If someone were to—”

  “I know, I know,” she said carelessly. “I’m not suggesting we should actually… But if any of us were to meet him in an alleyway… Well, he’s practically dead already; I’m sure he won’t object.” She whinnied with laughter, and the others seemed to share the joke. “By the way,” she said, suddenly serious. “Have you heard that the maga is looking for secret supporters of Nudin?”

  “Nôd’onn, not Nudin,” the dark-haired woman corrected her. “The maga has placed a bounty on their heads. I was thinking we should find ourselves some likely suspects and hand them over to the guards. Presto, the money will be ours.”

  “Good thinking,” said the man enthusiastically. “Knowing Andôkai, she won’t bother with putting them on trial. Who can we frame? It can’t be anyone who’s liked or admired by the citizens with coin.”

  “I know just the person,” said the fair-haired woman, clapping him on the back. Her dark-haired companion laughed. “What makes them think that Nôd’onn still has followers in Porista?” she enquired.

  “Apparently, Frud and Granselm were carrying weapons embossed with the magus’s crest,” explained the man. “I don’t believe a word of it: They weren’t exactly friendly with the magus, and they avoided magic like the plague.”

  “Unless they were given those weapons by whoever was holding the purse strings,” reasoned the fair-headed woman, stealing a swig from her companion’s goblet. “It’s almost like someone wanted Andôkai to believe in a conspiracy. There’s something funny about this business.”

  A sudden noise sent them scrambling to their feet. The leper had woken up and was coughing and sputtering. They shifted along the bench to avoid being showered with phlegm.

  Still gagging, the leper hauled himself upright and staggered to the door. The other drinkers drew back and held their breath until he was safely out of the tavern. As soon as the door closed behind him, the publican rushed over with a bucket of vinegar solution and started scrubbing the table and bench.

  “Quick,” said the fair-haired woman, jumping up from the table. “I reckon his purse is going to need a new owner sooner than we thought.” They piled out of the tavern and stopped on the pavement, listening intently.

  The tinkling bell on the man’s ankle, designed to warn of his approach, drew his pursuers straight to him. With a smile, the fair-haired woman whipped out her dagger, holding it flat against her forearm to hide the blade from view. She set off after the tinkling leper, while her two companions hurried after her, watching her back.

  The man came into view. He was hobbling at great speed and seemed to have heard them coming. Cursing, he glanced over his shoulder and slipped into an alleyway. The tinkling stopped.

  “He’s seen us. After him!” They raced into the alleyway, the fair-haired woman charging ahead. After only a few paces, she tripped over a pile of dirty clothes and hit the cobblestones. The dagger flew from her hand. The man’s right foot got caught in a leather band to which a small metal bell was attached. They heard the familiar tinkling.

  Spitting angrily, the woman got to her feet and held up the discarded rags. “Look at this,” she said slowly. “He was only pretending to be a leper. This smells of… talcum powder or ointment or…” She ran her hands over the stains. “Paint!”

  “He was spying for the maga,” growled the man, checking the alleyway for signs of the impostor. “We need to catch him or we’ll be finished.” He sent the women in different directions and they fanned out, determined to secure the man’s silence once and for all.

  Rodario watched motionlessly from the doorway of a house as the fair-haired purse-snatcher tiptoed past him and continued along the alleyway, stopping occasionally to listen for telltale noises. The city was eerily quiet.

  It was a relief after countless nights of eavesdropping in the dingiest taverns of Porista to finally hear something of consequence, but he hadn’t allowed for the rapacious nature of the criminal mind, and his current predicament put a dampener on his mood.

  There could be little doubt that the trio intended to kill him: The look on their faces and the mention of the “guild” were evidence enough of that.

  So Frud and Granselm were paid to attack us, he thought, watching with relief as the woman disappeared from view. But I still don’t know who hired them, and I probably never shall.

  His mind chafed at the possibility that the daggers had been planted to make it look as if Nôd’onn’s famuli were behind the attack. He wondered whether someone held a grudge against the magus’s pupils and wanted them dead. But why bother with framing them? A tip-off would suffice… A smile spread over his handsome face. What a wonderful idea for my next play—a thrilling drama full of local color.

  He was about to disappear into the alleyway when the door behind him flew open. Pale light streamed out of the house and before he had time to react, someone grabbed him and pulled him backward. The door slammed shut, trapping him inside.

  “My apologies, worthy citizens of Porista,” said Rodario. “I can explain…” His arms were bent up behind him, and someone turned him round. He saw three figures wearing malachite robes and masks. One of his captors was a woman, as he could tell from her curves. “He’s a spy,” hissed the man, holding Rodario in a vice-like grip. “He was eavesdropping for the usurper.”

  The woman leaned over and examined his face. “I know him. He’s the actor in charge of the building work. The maga hired him when the other fellow was attacked.”

  Rodario had seen and heard enough to know whom he was dealing with. Under other circumstances he would have relished the prospect of rooting out Nôd’onn’s famuli, but not now. “Worthy citizens, you’re mistaken,” he said, trying to extricate himself from the situation with his dependable smile. “I’m not the fabulous Rodario—although he and I are very much alike.”

  “Only an actor would talk so prettily,” said the woman with a laugh. “It’s him, all right.” She nodded to the man behind Rodario. “Good work, famulus. It’s our chance to discover the maga’s next move.” She pointed to a chair. Rodario was hauled unceremoniously toward it and made to sit down, while his hands were
tied behind his back. The woman leaned over and looked him in the eye. “We know you’re in league with the maga. What does she mean by her games?”

  “I’m a lowly impresario,” he said sweetly. “All I want is to rebuild my theater but, after what you did to my poor friend Furgas, I’ve been lumbered with rebuilding the city as well.” He didn’t think for a moment that the famuli were responsible for the ambush, but he wanted to keep his newfound knowledge to himself.

  The woman immediately corroborated his suspicions. “We didn’t attack your friend,” she said angrily. “If we were going to attack anyone, we wouldn’t use daggers embossed with the magus’s crest. What bothers us is that Andôkai is bent on telling everyone that we were involved. First she steals Porista from its rightful owners, and now she’s turning the city against us. What does she mean to do next?”

  “Gentle lady, your grievance is with the maga, not with me. I wasn’t spying on you; I was fleeing from three unscrupulous reprobates who were after my purse. Your doorway offered protection, I took shelter, and your friend here mistook me for a spy.” He looked up at her imploringly. “If you let me go, the maga will never learn of our encounter. I’m none too fond of her either—she’s a cold-hearted, unfeeling woman who likes to make other people feel small.” As he talked, he pulled on the rope that bound his wrists, freeing himself by degrees. One of the men had stopped watching him and was sitting by the window, peering into the street. “I could spy for you, if you like,” Rodario offered boldly.

  He could tell from the woman’s face that she was ready to believe him, but his hopes were dashed when a fist appeared out of nowhere and punched him on the chin. “You treacherous windbag,” barked the second man. “Stop trying to deceive us with your silver-tongued lies. We know the maga is up to something. Why else would she leave the palace at the dead of nigh—”