The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “I don’t understand, madam,” said the woman to Narmora. “We’re honored by your visit, to be sure, but…” A worried look crossed her face. “It’s not bad news, is it? You’re not going to make us leave Weyurn…” She got up, cradling the baby in her arms. “I know we haven’t made much of the land here, but the soil isn’t right for farming. My husband is a good man, but the fields are like bogs—”

  “It’s all right, woman,” Andôkai said sharply. “We’re here to find out about your homeland, not to drive you off your land.” She pulled up a stool and sat down, using her cloak as a cushion. “What are people in the Outer Lands afraid of? Evil spirits? Ferocious beasts? The dark power of an evil magus?”

  “My homeland?” The woman gave the baby to her husband and sat down, visibly relieved.

  Narmora produced four gold coins from her purse and laid them in the woman’s chapped hands. “Here, take these,” she said gently. “Don’t feel obliged to earn the money by embroidering your tale. We’re interested in the truth.”

  The woman stared at the shiny gold coins. “So much?” she said uncertainly. “We could live on these for a cycle. Nothing I can tell you is worth that much.”

  Her husband strode over and pocketed the coins. “Who are we to refuse their generosity? The money was weighing on her purse.”

  “Is your husband from the Outer Lands as well?” enquired Narmora.

  The woman shook her head. “He’s from Weyurn. Aspila is my name. My mother was just a girl when she crossed the Red Range. Her mother left the Outer Lands because of the war.”

  The maga cleared her throat. “Let’s not get distracted,” she said tersely. “Did your mother tell you legends about terrifying creatures? Maybe she told you a story about a creature so terrible that no one believes it exists…”

  Alarmed by the maga’s harsh manner, Aspila turned to Narmora. “The war was started by the amsha,” she said, resuming her story. “No one knows where they came from. Before anyone knew it, they were massed at the border, and the kingdom was at war. The king and his army could do nothing to stop them, so my grandmother took her daughter and fled. The amsha killed my grandfather and his three brothers, and my grandmother was all alone. She and my mother settled in Weyurn.” She paused and frowned. “Can you think of another word for amsha?” she asked her husband. “Amsha is what they call them over there.”

  “What does it matter?” said Andôkai impatiently. “Since you’re intent on telling me about a war that doesn’t interest me in the slightest, I may as well ask her.” She turned to the woman on the bunk. “Are you her mother?”

  Aspila looked confused. “But the amsha are a threat. They’re gods—powerful gods. Before the invasion, people thought they were a myth, a scary story to make their children behave. Then they found out they were real.”

  At last she had the maga’s attention.

  “Why didn’t you say so?” snapped Andôkai. “Start from the beginning. What exactly are the amsha?”

  Aspila wrung her hands awkwardly, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know what they’re called.” She looked to the ceiling as if the answer were hanging from the rafters beside the mangy leg of ham.

  Narmora smiled and endeavored to compensate for the maga’s harshness. Samusin must be proud of me today. “Why don’t you tell us the rest of the story?” she suggested. “We might be able to work it out.”

  The woman nodded and began her tale.

  In the beginning, the deities created themselves, each more magnificent, splendid, and courageous than the next. Before long, two of their number, Tion and Vraccas, or Kofos and Essgar in the language of my mother, got into an argument about which of the deities was the best.

  Kofos insulted Essgar and provoked his wrath. The god of the smithy left his forge and struck the arrogant Kofos with a red-hot hammer. Ten times he hit him, and ten times a piece of the deity fell to the ground and came to life in the form of a god. The amsha—ten living fragments of the dark lord Kofos—were born.

  After the tenth blow, Kofos lay stricken on the ground, and Essgar heeded his pleas for mercy.

  When Kofos picked himself up, he was surprised to see ten miniature versions of himself flocking around his feet. The bold little fellows demanded to be eaten, insisting that they belonged together as one.

  Kofos had no intention of obliging. Laughing scornfully, he raised his boot to crush them. The amsha took flight and swore to avenge themselves on Kofos and his creation.

  The ten gods stuck together and devoted themselves to their goal, namely the destruction of Kofos’s work.

  That was the start of the amsha’s campaign.

  Intent on punishing Kofos, they hunted the creatures known as orcs, wiped out trolls and ogres, and slaughtered the beasts that Kofos had created to torment our people. Their strength increased by the orbit as they harnessed the power of the beasts they destroyed.

  In time, they gathered a following of warriors who saw them as gods of peace. Only the amsha’s disciples were spared the fire of their wrath.

  Aspila broke off her story to fetch some water.

  Narmora breathed out in relief. “Orc-killing, Tion-hating gods aren’t much of a threat to our kingdoms. Prince Mallen would welcome them with open arms.”

  “There’s more to the story, madam,” said Aspila. “The amsha are still on a quest to wipe out evil. They were chipped from the body of a god by a red-hot hammer, and fire is their element. The heat they exude is so ferocious that the ground burns beneath their feet. Sometimes they stop for a while, and everything around them turns to ash. I’ve heard of lakes and rivers drying up as they pass. Everyone is afraid of them. When they invaded, the king summoned the best magicians, the purest creatures, the most honorable men and blameless women. He thought that if he gathered a band of beings who were free from evil he could keep the amsha at bay.”

  “Did it work?”

  Aspila shook her head. “I don’t know, madam. My grandmother left before the amsha reached her village.”

  Narmora remembered the comet that had passed over Girdlegard and enquired whether Aspila knew of a similar incident.

  “Oh yes,” said a quavery voice.

  To the visitors’ astonishment, the old woman sat up in bed and looked at them with lively eyes.

  “Kofos was struck eleven times, not ten. The last blow was so powerful that the eleventh amsha was catapulted into the firmament and shot through the skies like a ball of fire. My mother used to say that the missing amsha would come back to find his brothers, and the eleven deities would light up the skies with their wrath.”

  Andôkai placed her fingertips together. The old woman’s story fitted with the firstlings’ reports of a blazing fire in the west. She glanced at Narmora, who was thinking the same. “Thank you,” she said, feigning disappointment. “You tell a good story—not exactly what we were looking for, but you’ve earned the coins.” She got up and left.

  “May the gods be with you,” said Narmora, taking another coin from her purse and pressing it into Aspila’s hand. “Don’t neglect your farm—the money won’t last forever.”

  She ran the few paces to the carriage and slammed the door behind her to keep out the rain. The coachmen drove off before she had time to sit down.

  Andôkai was staring through the rain-streaked glass. Narmora could tell that she was worried. In spite of what she had said to Aspila, the story of the amsha was exactly what they were looking for: It proved that Nôd’onn’s warnings were real.

  Perhaps we were wrong to kill him, thought Narmora uneasily. She stroked her sleeping daughter’s cheeks. The rulers of Girdlegard would never have agreed to a truce, she reasoned. The magus betrayed them and caused the deaths of thousands of dwarves, elves, and men. A terrible thought occurred to her. Our purest creatures have all been killed. Bands of marauding orcs had slaughtered the last remaining unicorns in the woods of Mifurdania. No other creature in Girdlegard was as good or pure.

  “Av
atars.” Andôkai’s plait unfurled from her hood and draped itself over her shoulder as she pressed her head against the window. “If there’s any truth in the legend, the amsha are avatars—manifestations of the divine in earthly form, which is to say, god-like beings that can’t be destroyed by ordinary weapons.” She looked at Narmora. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “From now on, I’ll have to study twice as hard,” she said gravely. Her thoughts turned to little Dorsa. I want you to have a proper homeland, not a barren desert of soot and ash. “Should we tell the rulers of the other kingdoms?” she asked, keeping her eyes on her daughter’s face.

  Andôkai was struck by her famula’s reluctance to meet her gaze, but she decided not to pry. “It’s for the best. I’ll call a meeting of all the leaders of Girdlegard when Djern returns from the Outer Lands. The news is too important to be communicated by letter. The kings and queens of Girdlegard will discuss the matter in Porista. Perhaps by then Queen Wey will have tidings of her warriors.” She turned to Rosild and looked at her menacingly. “Not a word of this to anyone, or you’ll never suckle another child. The people of Girdlegard will learn of the threat from their leaders, not from an idle-tongued girl. No one will hear about the avatars until I’ve found a means of combating the threat.”

  Rosild paled and nodded hastily, swearing in the name of Palandiell not to breathe a word of what she knew.

  “Good,” declared Andôkai. “Let’s make haste to Porista. Narmora, you and I have work to do.”

  “Of course,” said the half älf vaguely, still gazing at her child. She was thinking about how the maga had unwittingly earned herself a reprieve: The avatars had to be defeated before Furgas’s suffering could be avenged. She turned to the maga and smiled.

  Rodario’s former leading lady was still a consummate actress.

  PART TWO

  I

  Kingdom of Gauragar,

  Girdlegard,

  Late Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

  Do you think you’ll regret your decision?” asked Myr, looking determinedly ahead. As she walked, she slathered her fair skin with bluish ointment from a little pot to keep off the sun.

  Tungdil sensed that something was bothering her. Either she didn’t want him to visit the realm of the freelings, or she was embarrassed to be seen with him, or she was worried about him leaving the fifthling folk. Maybe she blames herself…

  “I won’t regret it,” he said after a while. He kept walking, eyes fixed on the horizon as the sun sank lower and lower, bathing Girdlegard in fierce red light. “You don’t think I left because of you, do you?”

  “Left the kingdom, or left Balyndis?”

  Tungdil had to think for a moment. “Left Glaïmbar and Balyndis,” he said firmly. “At any rate, it wasn’t because of you—which isn’t to say you don’t matter to me. You’re different to other dwarf maidens; you’re a breath of air for my scholarly soul.” He turned his head and they gazed at each other for a moment. Her red eyes were full of hope.

  “I need time, Myr. I can’t make sense of what I’m feeling because my heart and mind are so confused.” He smiled wryly. “It will do me good to get away. It’s why I left the fifthling kingdom—to figure out what I want. Besides, I’m curious to see how the freelings live.”

  She averted her gaze, focusing on a point in the distance. They had been marching toward the pond for orbits. “It’s all right,” she said, nodding slowly. “I can wait.”

  Tungdil’s train of thought was interrupted by a sudden noise. He turned round to see Boëndal doubled up with laughter, arms braced against his thighs, howling with mirth. Tears were streaming from his eyes.

  Tungdil smiled. “I haven’t seen anyone laugh like that since the joke about the orc who wanted directions from a dwarf. What did you say to him?”

  Boïndil shrugged. “Nothing. I was telling him about the realm of the freelings and he laughed in my face,” he reported in a slightly wounded tone. “I explained how we had to jump into a p—”

  His words were drowned out by another roar of laughter as Boëndal sank to his knees, shaking with mirth. For a moment, conversation was impossible.

  “Look what you’ve done to me,” spluttered Boëndal. “I was nearly frozen to death, and now you’ve practically killed me with your jokes.” He stood up and brushed the dirt from his breeches. “A pond!” he muttered, still hiccoughing with laughter. “As if a dwarf would dip a toe in Elria’s accursed water!” Wiping the tears from his eyes, he looked up and saw their faces. At last it dawned on him that Boïndil was serious. “No,” he said, horrified. “We’re not really going to…? I mean, all the way to the bottom?” He was too traumatized to say the words “water” or “pond”.

  Boïndil clapped him on the back. “It’s all right, brother. Tungdil and I jumped in last time, and it’s over before you know it. If you get scared, just look at the fish.”

  Boëndal cast a skeptical look at Myr. “It can’t be the only way into your realm,” he said suspiciously. “How are your warriors going to get home? Don’t tell me they’re going to jump into the water like an army of frogs.”

  She grinned, showing her pearly white teeth. “There are other entrances, but Gemmil told us to keep them secret. I took Tungdil and your brother by a different route, but they were blindfolded first.” She returned the pot of ointment to her pack and led them into the woods surrounding the pond. “I’m sorry, Boëndal, but you’re going to have to take the plunge. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  “No,” said Boïndil crossly. “It’s much, much worse. I had brackish water in my ears for orbits, and Elria was laughing in my head.”

  “At least it proves that dwarves don’t necessarily drown in deep water,” said Tungdil, trying to make them see the bright side.

  Boëndal frowned, all trace of amusement vanishing from his face. His mood was grim as they marched through the forest that was formerly home to Lesinteïl’s elves, and he continued to scowl as they stole through the meadow on the lookout for enemies. By the time they discovered the bleached bones of their murdered comrades, his brow was creased in a permanent frown.

  The party collected the scattered remains and buried them under a pile of stones. With the skeletons laid to rest, the dead dwarves would be free to warm their souls in Vraccas’s smithy.

  It was dusk when they stepped onto the pier. Each of them held a chunk of granite as large as a dwarven head—Myr had advised them to use the debris from the elves’ ruined temple to speed their journey to the bottom of the pond. They gathered at the end of the pier.

  “I’ll go first,” said Myr, beaming at Boëndal, who was eying the water suspiciously. She stepped off the pier and disappeared into the darkness below.

  “She’s gone,” he said anxiously. “Are you sure we should…”

  “Ha, you were brave enough to fight Nôd’onn, and now you’re scared of a pond,” his brother said airily.

  “Weren’t you thrown into the water by a bull?” asked Tungdil, raising an eyebrow.

  Boïndil waved a hand dismissively. “That was last time.” He stepped to the edge of the pier and looked down at the water with distaste. “Accursed pond. It’s dark and cold,” he grumbled, leaping into the air and landing in the water with an almighty splash. He disappeared.

  “I suppose I’ve got no choice,” sighed Boëndal, resigning himself to his fate. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and held his nose. A moment later, he was gone.

  It was left to Tungdil to bring up the rear. The water closed over his head and he found himself staring into inky blackness. It was only because of the pressure in his ears that he knew that he was sinking, pulled down by the weight of his armor, his ax, and the granite.

  He heard the sound of a waterfall, and a moment later he was falling with the cascading water, which pushed him under the surface of the pool. The current brought him up again and deposited him on the bank.

  Coughing and spluttering, he clambered to his feet. The twins
were there too, and he could tell from their noisy expiration that their lungs were filled with water. Myr was tightening her belt, which had loosened when she jumped.

  “Next time I’m going a different way,” spluttered Boëndal, shaking himself vigorously and spraying water in all directions. He and the others were soaked through, and water was streaming from their undergarments and collecting on the floor. “How am I going to dry my chain mail?” he growled, running a hand over his chest. “You’d better have some good oil.”

  Myr ran a hand through her bedraggled hair and laughed. “We’ll find you some warm clothes,” she promised, striding to a vast oak door with thick iron bands. She knocked loudly. “And I’m sure I can get you some oil.”

  A panel opened and a pair of red eyes peered at Myr and the others. The dwarf disappeared, then the bolts slid back and the door swung open, admitting them to the freelings’ realm.

  In the next chamber, Gemmil was waiting to greet them. He shook hands with them one by one, although the twins seemed a little wary.

  “Did Sanda and her army get there in time?” he asked anxiously. Myr gave a brief account of how the orcs had been defeated. “And the fifthlings have repaired the Stone Gateway,” she recounted. “For the first time in a thousand cycles, the northern border is secure.”

  “My heart weeps for our fallen comrades,” the freeling leader said gravely. “Before you go, we’ll raise a tankard to our victory and remember the dead.” He pointed to a pile of blankets. “Wrap yourselves in those. You’ll catch a chill.”

  “Clothes would be more practical,” grumbled Boïndil.

  “You’ll find clean outfits in your lodgings,” the king told him, opening a door at the back of the room. Outside a wagon was waiting for them. Tungdil and the others clambered in, and they set off, juddering and rattling, along the underground rail. Some time later the wagon stopped and everyone got out. The king led them through a magnificent hall to a double door.

  “Follow me,” he said, pressing his ring against the runes engraved in the door. The symbols pulsed with light and the doors swung open, spilling pale light toward them. “Enter, friends. Welcome to the realm of the freelings.”