The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  She raised the shovel to tip out the coals, but Boïndil made a grab for the handle, forcing her to stop.

  “I said enough,” he growled, squaring his shoulders to prove he meant business. “I won’t stand by while you turn my brother into broth. You’ll have to think of another cure.”

  Her red eyes stared back at him fearlessly. “I’m the expert on this, Boïndil Doubleblade.” She tried to wrench the shovel away from him. He hadn’t reckoned with her resistance and pulled back too sharply.

  A large piece of coal separated itself from its white-hot neighbors, slid to the edge of the shovel and launched itself into the tub. Steam rose as it sank through the water.

  Tungdil, determined to save his friend from harm, plunged his hand into the tub and tried to catch the glowing coal. His fingers swept the water in vain.

  The fiery missile plummeted toward Boëndal’s bare chest and struck the skin on a level with his heart.

  Tungdil watched as the dwarf’s body twitched. “Did you see that?” he asked the others. “Boëndal just…”

  At that moment, the sleeping twin opened his eyes, sat up with a jolt, and tore the tube from his mouth. After a few gasps of air, he started coughing.

  “Lift him out,” said Myr, holding up some warm towels to swaddle the dripping dwarf.

  Boïndil wiped his brother’s face gently and waited for the coughing fit to pass. “You’re awake,” he said excitedly, throwing his arms around him.

  Boëndal tried to say something, but his voice was just a croak. He had to clear his throat a few times, and even then he could speak only in a feeble whisper. “What h… happened?”

  Thrilled by his friend’s recovery, Tungdil was about to launch into an account of everything that had happened since the avalanche, but Myr stopped him.

  “All in good time,” she said firmly. “Boëndal, we need to find you something to wear, then you should try to eat and drink a little. Your stomach needs to get accustomed to food again—no meat, no beer!” Her tone was so emphatic that no one, not even Boïndil, dared to object. “Give yourself time to adjust. You’re going to be just fine.” She smiled at him warmly.

  Boëndal looked at her in bewilderment. “Who are you?”

  “Myr melted your inner cold,” explained his brother. He clasped the freeling to his chest, overcome with gratitude. “Forgive me for doubting you. I promised to protect you if you healed him, and I will. Vraccas can smite me with his hammer if I ever forget my debt!”

  She laughed to see his bearded face light up with boyish excitement. “I forgive you,” she said happily.

  Tungdil made no mention of what he had observed. In his opinion, it was the falling coal, not Myr’s bath, that had woken Boëndal. Still, an apology was in order, and Myr might be glad of extra protection. He turned back to the bed. “How are you feeling, Boëndal?” he asked.

  Speaking seemed to cost the twin a great deal of effort. “My fingers are still numb,” he said ponderously. “I can feel them tingling. Thank Vraccas the White Death didn’t take me.”

  Myr reached for his left hand and massaged the fingers carefully. “Does that feel better?” Boëndal nodded. “Good,” she said, relieved. “The blood is coming back, so you won’t lose your fingers. You should start to perk up this evening, and by tomorrow you’ll be fighting fit. Just be sure to keep warm.” She smiled at him. “Great things lie ahead for you, Boëndal Hookhand. Vraccas went to a lot of trouble to keep you alive.” She dried her hands on the corner of one of his towels and yawned. “I hope you don’t mind if I excuse myself. I’m ready to drop.”

  Boëndal took her hand. “Thank you,” he whispered gratefully. “Whoever you are, wherever you come from, thank you for saving my life. From now on, your enemies will be my enemies. I’m forever in your debt.”

  “My name is Myrmianda Alabaster. It’s kind of you to thank me, but I don’t need a reward: It’s enough to see you awake.” She stroked his hand gently. “You’re warming up nicely.” She made sure that he was wrapped in the towels and stayed at his bedside until the clothes and food arrived. Once dressed, Boëndal wolfed down the meal while Boïndil sat beside him and started to recount their adventures, beginning with the forging of Keenfire and the journey to the Blacksaddle.

  “Come on,” said Tungdil to Myr. “Let’s find you somewhere to sleep.” They took their leave of the twins and hurried out of the forge. “There’s usually plenty of space in the halls, but what with the wounded and the other freelings… Still, we’re bound to find somewhere.”

  “Tungdil, I’m dead on my feet. Can’t I sleep in your chamber? I won’t be a nuisance, I promise. The floor will do just fine.”

  “Nonsense,” said Tungdil. “You can have my bed while I keep looking. Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?”

  She shook her head.

  It was only a short walk through the passageways to Tungdil’s chamber. He opened the door and ushered her in, then stepped back outside.

  “Can you give me a hand?” asked Myr, tugging tiredly on her chain mail. “I can barely lift my arms.”

  “Of course,” he said with a smile. “You know what the problem is? You need more muscles.”

  He walked in and showed her to the bed. “It’s not too soft, which means it’s perfect for us dwarves.” It occurred to him that softer beds might be customary in the freelings’ realm. “You can pad it out with blankets, if you like.”

  “No,” she said, suppressing a yawn. She lifted her arms over her head. “I’d fall asleep on a bed of nails right now. Do you think you could…?”

  He took hold of the bottom of her tunic and pulled it carefully over her head. Underneath she was wearing a padded jerkin with a V-shaped neckline that revealed her plump white breasts. Embarrassed, he draped the tunic on the rack designed to take his mail. “Sleep well, Myr.”

  “Mm, that feels good,” she said, reaching up and stretching luxuriously. She kicked off her boots and slipped into bed. “I’m going to sleep like a rock.” She smiled at him. “Thank you for letting me have your bed.” Her red eyes shifted to something behind him.

  Tungdil glanced at the half-open door in time to see a shadow speed down the corridor.

  “I’ll be dreaming of you,” whispered Myr, brushing her lips against his cheek and closing her eyes.

  The kiss had a paralyzing effect on Tungdil’s mind. At once he forgot everything, including his intention to speak to Sanda Flameheart…

  Balyndis was hammering furiously. Sparks flew in all directions, showering the furthest corners of the forge, while the Dragon Fire furnace continued to exude an incredible heat.

  Sweat was streaming from her body, even though she wore nothing but a thin linen shirt and lightweight leather breeches beneath her smith’s apron. Her head was covered with a scarf to protect her hair from sparks.

  The hammer rose and fell until the troublesome metal cracked. Cursing, she picked it up with her tongs and tossed it into a cart, where it landed on top of her previous four efforts. Later, the metal would be melted down to make weapons and tools.

  She waited until the jangling echo had faded from the forge.

  I may as well give up, she thought despondently, leaning against the anvil. She dipped a wooden ladle into the bucket of water beside her and took a sip. I can’t afford to be angry. It’s making me careless.

  She was furious with Tungdil on two counts: First, for refusing to see her point of view, and second, for carrying on with Myr. To top things off, Myr seemed very comfortable in the role of his girlfriend. Too comfortable.

  And Tungdil’s ploy was working: She was jealous.

  Why can’t he see that I love him?

  Clan law had forced her to betroth herself to Glaïmbar, but her heart still longed for Tungdil, even though she knew her fiancé to be a worthy dwarf. She had spent a good deal of time with Glaïmbar, who genuinely adored her. He knew of her feelings for Tungdil, but he wanted to love her and treat her well.

  Balyndis t
ook another sip of water. I mustn’t be too hard on him; he doesn’t understand our traditions. Tungdil’s upbringing in Lot-Ionan’s school was the root of the problem. He was a dwarf at heart, but when it came to love, he behaved like a man. It didn’t help that his pride was hurt as well.

  Maybe one orbit he’ll understand that I couldn’t defy the will of my family and my clan. She got up and looked for something to distract her thoughts. Vraccas knows it wasn’t easy for me.

  She took out Andôkai’s letter and left the forge for the smelting works.

  Fires blazing, the blast furnaces were spewing out iron, steel, and bronze, from which the smiths fashioned tools, armor, and replacement parts for all manner of things. The new fifthling kingdom was taking shape.

  Balyndis chose one of the smaller furnaces that was designed for smaller quantities of metal. She went in search of the elements for the armor, as listed in Andôkai’s letter, and loaded them into carts. Together the metals would form the basis of Djern’s plate mail, just as the maga had prescribed.

  Astonishingly, Balyndis, who was a master smith, had never heard of the compound.

  “Drat!” She held the sheet of parchment in the air. Her sweat had drenched the paper and the ink had run in places, making it difficult to decipher the maga’s flowing script. Is that tionium—or palandium?

  It took a great deal of effort to make sense of the instructions and she privately doubted that the formula would work. It sounded too unlikely. If she had understood correctly, she was supposed to add small quantities of tin, copper, and mercury to the steel, followed by an equal quantity of vraccasium and…

  Tionium or palandium? Or tionium and palandium? The metals had similar properties, but tionium was black in color and belonged to the dark lord Tion, whereas palandium was silvery-white and four times cheaper. The goddess Palandiell was worshipped in the human kingdoms, so her metal was popular with Girdlegard’s smiths.

  I don’t know what to do. The formula is too vague. She ascended the steps leading to the hatch at the top of the furnace. The flames were burning fierce and white, fuelled by coals from the Dragon Fire furnace. The tin and other metals had been added already.

  I can’t ask Andôkai, Balyndis thought glumly, weighing the tionium in one hand and the palandium in the other. She hesitated for a moment and read the formula again, but she was still none the wiser. By now the other metals were beginning to coalesce. She had to act fast.

  Pulling on thick leather gloves to protect her hands from the rising heat, she dropped the black metal carefully through the hatch and followed it with the palandium. Andôkai worships the god of equilibrium; Samusin will balance everything out.

  She turned a winch to lower the lid over the hatch and keep in the heat.

  Back on ground level, she worked the enormous bellows and pumped air into the furnace, fanning the flames. Every now and then she opened a hatch and tossed in some white-hot coals from Dragon Fire until the furnace had reached the requisite temperature. She retreated to a safe distance of four paces.

  A chimney channeled the foul-smelling gases away from the underground halls, drawing them through a duct in the ceiling to the surface.

  Balyndis waited until she was sure that the metals had combined, then, taking a long stick, she broke the clay seal at the base of the furnace.

  Golden and gleaming, the liquid alloy streamed forth. Balyndis skimmed the slag from the top as it flowed through a clay conduit on its way to a cart lined with firebricks. Surrounded by the heat of the furnace, she felt completely at home. Beads of sweat formed on her skin, evaporating almost instantly. She watched in anticipation as the alloy cooled and dulled.

  Picking up a pair of tongs, she took hold of the red-hot hook on the end of the cart and pulled the precious load along the rail that led from the smelting works to the forge. “Right,” she said to herself. “Let’s see what happens when Samusin entrusts a formula to a dwarf…”

  Wind Chime Island,

  Kingdom of Weyurn,

  Girdlegard,

  Late Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

  Towering waves crashed toward the shore, dashing themselves to pieces on the rocks.

  A host of tiny droplets rose high above the roiling lake and lingered, almost suspended for an instant, before dropping into the waves below and disappearing without trace. The air glistened moistly above the cliff, shrouding an ancient temple built in honor of Palandiell.

  Inside the building, Narmora gathered the shawl about her shoulders and shivered. Even the thick walls of the former temple did little to muffle the constant pounding of waves against the shore. The change of season had brought storms to Wind Chime Island, with spring doing battle with summer, and winter seizing the chance to sidle in.

  “What possessed you to store your books here?” Andôkai asked the chief archivist, a balding man of some sixty cycles. His costly robes looked shabby and ill-fitting, and his nose was permanently red, owing to a fondness for drink. The maga eyed him reprovingly. “It’s too damp for a library.”

  “I’m afraid the timing of your visit is most unfortunate. The damp spell will be over in a couple of orbits. Wind Chime is known throughout Weyurn for its temperate weather.” Bowing respectfully, he led the women through the stacks to a cabinet measuring seven paces high and crammed with books. “The official records from the last hundred cycles,” he said with a flourish. “Births, marriages, and deaths.”

  “Do you keep separate records for migrants?” asked Narmora, hoping to limit the scope of the search. She had no desire to spend longer than necessary on the island, to which she had taken an instant dislike. Besides, she was worried that Dorsa, a delicate child by nature, would catch a chill. “We’re looking for settlers from the Outer Lands,” she explained.

  The archivist thought for a moment. “With a bit of luck and Palandiell’s blessing, you’ll find what you’re looking for in the south wing.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “These records deal only with Her Majesty’s subjects. Outsiders, including migrants from the rest of Girdlegard, are listed in the other wing.” He set off down the corridor to show them the way.

  Narmora lagged a few paces behind, watching as Andôkai, brandishing a decree from Queen Wey, attempted to commandeer the library staff and anyone else with the power of reading to help with her quest.

  In word and deed, Narmora was a model famula—hard-working and loyal. Since the accident, she had applied herself more diligently than ever to her studies, delighting the maga with her progress.

  But Narmora’s motivation for learning magic had changed. The threat from the west and the future of Girdlegard were secondary concerns. After the whispered conversation with Rodario that night in Porista, Narmora had returned to Furgas’s bedside and sworn an oath of revenge that required her to bide her time and study patiently while disguising the rancor and fury that filled her thoughts.

  The little party reached the south wing of the library. Andôkai turned to her famula and pointed to the stacks on the right. A wooden stepladder led up to additional shelves behind a balustrade. “You start on this side, and I’ll work toward you. The others can take the lower shelves.”

  Narmora nodded and ascended the creaking steps to the narrow gangway. A low rail protected careless readers from tumbling ten paces to the floor. Andôkai waved to her from the other side and pulled out a folio. Dust scattered everywhere as she turned the first page.

  Narmora reached for a volume as well and began to read, her eyes roving over the spidery handwriting without attending to the meaning. How could you go to such lengths to bend me to your will? She leafed through the volume, seeing nothing but the maga’s betrayal on every page.

  The story recounted to her by the ashen-faced Rodario pointed to a single, terrible, explanation: Andôkai had orchestrated the attack on Furgas as a means of recruiting Narmora as her famula. The maga’s strange behavior, the deaths of the highwaymen, Djern’s determination to silence Nôd’onn’s former famula—it all added
up.

  She turned the page absentmindedly.

  You’ll be sorry for teaching me your art, she thought grimly, glancing at Andôkai. She was prepared to bide her time until Furgas was cured and the threat from the west discounted or defeated, but sooner or later the maga would pay for her treachery, and Djern himself would be powerless to help her. Narmora felt nothing but loathing for the woman who had put her husband in a coma and killed her baby son.

  Anger simmered inside her, and she turned her mind to other thoughts, afraid that her älvish heritage would betray her hidden rage.

  “I think I’ve found something,” called Andôkai suddenly.

  Her dutiful famula hurried over.

  “Seventy cycles ago, a group of travelers arrived in Gastinga,” the maga continued. “It says here that they came from the Outer Lands. Their children or grandchildren should still be alive.” She summoned the archivist and enquired about the location of the place.

  “It’s here on the island,” he said. “It takes two orbits to get there. I’ll loan you one of my assistants to show you the way.”

  “Splendid,” exclaimed Andôkai, satisfied. “Samusin has rewarded us for the long and wearisome journey from Porista.”

  The man cleared his throat. “Perhaps the Estimable Maga could refrain from invoking foreign gods in the library; it’s a consecrated building.”

  Andôkai turned her head slowly and jutted out her angular chin. “I’ll speak the name of my god whenever and wherever I please. Samusin saved me from Nôd’onn and lent me his power in the fight against the Perished Land. My fellow magi, devotees of the gentle Palandiell, didn’t fare so well. It seems to me that my foreign god is more deserving of your respect.” She gestured to the shelves. “And don’t lecture me about desecrating your temple. Palandiell left here when you filled her house with books.” She started down the ladder. “I want to ride within the hour. Tell your man to be ready.” Her boots clacked harshly against the tiled floor.