The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  The half älf leaned over her mentor. “Look at me,” she whispered in the dark tongue of the älfar. She tilted Andôkai’s head toward her. “Narmora is your death. I will take your life and drain you of your magic. None of this need have happened if you’d left us alone.”

  The maga tried to lean forward, but all she could manage was a feeble groan. Her eyes glazed over.

  After checking that her hands were hidden by her robes, Narmora withdrew the splinter and pocketed the malachite. Her bloodied fingers were unlikely to attract suspicion, given the maga’s injuries and the pool of blood that surrounded her body. Straightening up, she turned to address the delegates.

  “Andôkai the Tempestuous is no more,” she announced, voice cracking with feigned grief. She raised a hand to wipe away a nonexistent tear. “Girdlegard’s last maga is dead.”

  A horrified silence descended on the chamber.

  “You shall take her place, Narmora,” said Gandogar calmly, stepping forward. “You were her famula; you shall lead us in the battle against the avatars.”

  “You’re doomed already,” said a gruff voice from the doorway. “You can’t beat the avatars with magic or an army. You’ll never find a way of halting their advance.”

  The dwarves, elves, and men turned to the doorway and hefted their weapons, readying themselves for the next unwelcome surprise.

  Before them was a lone dwarf. His face was covered in intricate tattoos and he was armed to the teeth. In his right hand was a three-balled morning star. “My name is Romo Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, nephew of Lorimbas Steelheart, king of the thirdlings and ruler of the Black Range. I have a proposal to make to Lord Liútasil and the delegations from the human kingdoms.” A second dwarf, broader and more muscular than Lorimbur’s brawny nephew, appeared behind him. Sunlight gleamed on his bald head.

  “The thirdlings want to help us fight the avatars?” whispered Queen Wey, surprised.

  “What kind of proposal?” muttered Balyndis to Glaïmbar. She had a fair idea that it wouldn’t be good news.

  “Call it an offer you can’t refuse,” said Romo, grinning maliciously. “My uncle knows how to combat the threat from the west.” He swung his morning star in the direction of the dwarven delegation. “I’ll explain once they’ve left. My uncle refuses to negotiate with the dwarves of Beroïn, Borengar, Giselbert, and Goïmdil.”

  Trovegold,

  Underground Network,

  Kingdom of Gauragar,

  Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

  Sanda ducked just in time, allowing the blade to sail over her head as she dropped to one knee and lunged forward.

  The blow was dealt with such precision and power that Tungdil didn’t have time to avoid the blunted ax.

  Neither his weapons belt, his chain mail, nor his leather jerkin did anything to slow the blade as it thudded against his ribcage, winding him momentarily and bringing tears to his eyes.

  “Stop!” shouted Myr in alarm, hurrying over to inspect his chest. “You’re supposed to be coaching, not killing him,” she scolded, as Sanda picked herself up from her knees and smiled at Tungdil without a hint of contrition.

  “Don’t make such a fuss, Myr,” she said coolly. “He’s only bruised his ribs. Pain is an excellent teacher.” The commander-in-chief made no secret of her dislike for the pale-faced medic. “He’s learned an important lesson, and he’ll live to fight again.” She turned to Tungdil, expecting him to agree.

  “It was careless of me,” he admitted, yelping internally as Myr proceeded to prod his ribs.

  “They’re broken, not bruised,” she hissed. “Your muscles are in danger of squeezing out your brain. A blunted ax isn’t a toy, you know.”

  Sanda’s tattoos, animated by fury, rearranged themselves across her face. She swung her ax playfully, but there was menace in her eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re here to advise me, Myrmianda. I’ll remember not to tap my blunted weapon against your delicate little head.” Snorting angrily, she abandoned the training session, leaving Myr and Tungdil to show themselves out of the stronghold.

  “I thought I was a decent warrior,” said Tungdil, who had been practicing his axmanship every orbit in preparation for fighting Salfalur. Groaning, he lowered himself onto a marble pew. “Even the twins said I was passable, but Sanda is in a different league. Boïndil could learn a thing or two from her, I reckon.”

  “You’ll get there in the end,” she soothed him. “Lift up your shirt: I need to palpate your ribs.”

  Palpate. He felt like kissing her on the spot. It was such a fine, scholarly word.

  “She’s fought more battles than you’ve seen cycles—she’s three times as old as you, remember.” She clicked her tongue disapprovingly at the sight of the bruise on his chest. “No more training today,” she ruled. “We’re going home so I can ice your chest. Once the swelling has gone down, we’ll put some ointment on the bruise.”

  Tungdil struggled clumsily to his feet. He had been injured more times than he cared to remember, and it never got any less painful. Slowly, he and Myr left the stronghold and made their way down a winding path that afforded excellent views of the city.

  Tungdil remembered the heated exchange between Sanda and Myr. “Why doesn’t she like you?” he asked. “I didn’t think Sanda was a dwarf hater.”

  “You don’t have to be a thirdling to dislike other dwarves,” she said with a smile. “The feeling is mutual.”

  “Why don’t you like each other?” he persisted.

  She winked at him cheekily. “Why do you think, Tungdil Goldhand? What could possibly cause a quarrel between two female dwarves?”

  He grinned. “Don’t tell me you were vying for the affections of a handsome warrior!” He glanced back at the stronghold. “It wasn’t Gemmil, was it?”

  Myr blushed and turned her pretty face toward the waterfalls. “I’m from Gemtrove, our southernmost city. Gemmil was one of the first dwarves I met when I moved to Trovegold. We were getting on really well—until Sanda muscled in. I wasn’t afraid to tell her what I thought of her, and she made it fairly clear that she didn’t like me. At least it’s in the open. I’d find it hard to be civil to a thirdling spy.”

  “You don’t mean that, do you?”

  “I most certainly do. The thirdlings hate the descendants of Lorimbur’s brothers, the freelings included. They don’t care that we’ve cut our ties with the other kingdoms—we’re still enemies in their eyes. Spies like Sanda are sent to snoop on defectors and gather intelligence about our realm.”

  “What does Gemmil think? Don’t say you haven’t told him.”

  “Oh, I’ve told him, all right.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He laughed it off. Gemmil is blinded by love, but I’ve recruited some friends to keep an eye on Sanda. She can’t do anything without us knowing.”

  “That’s why she hates you?”

  “She hasn’t found out yet. No, Sanda hates me because she thinks I’m after Gemmil. She said I was pretending to like you because I wanted to trick her into feeling safe.” She turned her red eyes on Tungdil and seemed to read his thoughts. “I’m not interested in Gemmil. I like you, Tungdil Goldhand.”

  It wasn’t his intention to kiss her, but he found himself pressing his lips against hers. They were soft, tempting, and sweet, with a taste like spiced honey. A tingle of excitement ran through him, and he felt strangely light-headed.

  Myr hesitated for a moment before kissing him back. At last he pulled away and they looked at each happily, smiling in contented silence as they strolled through the streets of Trovegold.

  Maybe she’s the one for me, he thought while he waited for Myr to buy a few things for dinner. Surely I’m over Balyndis by now. Myr smiled at him before turning back to order a punnet of stone fruit. His heart gave a little leap like it used to do for Balyndis. Yes, he decided, relieved. Myr is the one for me. The rest of the way home, he had his arm around her shoulders.

  After a
quick nap, a hearty dinner, and a pause to apply Myr’s ointment, which helped to soothe the pain, Tungdil left the house and allowed himself to be guided through the city by Myr. After a while they reached the far wall of the cavern and joined crowds of dwarves flocking into a tunnel. Tungdil pestered Myr to tell him where everyone was going, but she told him to wait and see.

  They strode through a beautifully hewn gallery, and Tungdil spotted a blue light ahead. The hum of conversation grew louder as they approached.

  At last the passageway opened into an artificial cavern. Tungdil and Myr were standing at the highest vantage point, at the top of a series of terrace-like platforms. Carved into each platform was a long marble pew, and most of the dwarves were seated already. The bottommost terrace was a large stage, clearly visible from everywhere in the room. The walls were studded with blue crystals that provided ample light.

  “A play!” said Tungdil. “Just wait until I tell Rodario. I bet he’d love to perform in Trovegold.” Myr looked at him blankly. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I forgot you hadn’t met him. He’s an impresario—and a philanderer. He was part of the expedition to forge Keenfire.”

  “We’re not here for a play,” she told him. “Every cycle we hold a singing competition in honor of Vraccas. Each of our five cities sends a choir. It’s a big occasion.” She pointed to the stage where the members of the first choir were preparing to sing. The assembled dwarves stamped their boots against the stone floor to show their appreciation. A thunderous rumble echoed through the room. Myr reached for Tungdil’s hand. “You’ll love it, I promise.”

  The concert began.

  The first song was nothing like the mystical hymns of the priests at the temple. The baritone and bass voices sang of underground riches, beautiful caverns and grottoes, hidden treasure, and the hundred-and-one shades of gray in a single piece of rock. The themes were quintessentially dwarven, and other verses dealt with forging axes or building bridges over chasms.

  Soon the choir raised their powerful voices to the heroes of yore, singing of glorious deeds and great victories over Tion’s minions. Tungdil listened to the stirring words.

  On he marches, axes raised

  While our singers sing his praise

  The fearless warrior will not rest

  Helped by Vraccas in his quest.

  For Girdlegard he gives his life

  Murdered by a deadly knife

  As he crumples to the ground

  Let these halls with song resound

  To praise our dwarven hero.

  His savage killers surge ahead

  Trampling on the valiant dead

  Dwarven fighters bar their path

  Sealing off the mountain pass.

  More invaders flood the gates

  But our warriors never rest

  Helped by Vraccas in their quest

  And our singers sing the praises

  Of our warriors, axes raised

  Long live our dwarven heroes!

  To Tungdil’s surprise, one of the songs was dedicated to the battle of the Blacksaddle, while another darker ballad described the loss of Keenfire and the battle for the fifthling kingdom. He found the lyrics deeply affecting—so much so that his mood became quite melancholy. Thankfully, the ballad was brief, and the next number was a drinking song. Soon he was humming along to a ditty about the elves, taught to him by the twins.

  Created by Sitalia from dew, soil, and sun

  In elegance and beauty second to none

  But appearances aren’t everything

  As every dwarf knows

  If you meet an elf

  You’ll come to blows.

  Pointy ears and a pointy chin

  Sticking-out ribs and much too thin

  Their skin is smooth, they smell like flowers

  They talk to trees, they sleep in bowers

  They can’t grow beards, they spurn our wealth

  Three cheers to Vraccas for not making me an elf!

  Gullible humans admire their grace

  Tricked by the charm of the elfish face

  But appearances aren’t everything

  As every dwarf knows

  The stuck-up elves

  Love no one but themselves.

  Pointy ears and a pointy chin

  Sticking-out ribs and much too thin

  Their skin is smooth, they smell like flowers

  They talk to trees, they sleep in bowers

  They can’t grow beards, they spurn our wealth

  Three cheers to Vraccas for not making me an elf!

  And now we come to the moral of the song

  The elves are weak and the dwarves are strong

  Ask any maiden and her choice is clear

  A dwarf’s mighty hammer outdoes an elfish spear!

  In the intervals between choirs, musicians came onto the stage with horns, flutes, goat-leather bagpipes, and drums of all shapes and sizes.

  Tungdil barely noticed the passing hours; he was too caught up in the music to feel tired. A shiver of pleasure ran down his back.

  “Thank you,” he whispered to Myr. “Thank you for sharing this with me. Thank you for everything.” He kissed her. “If I were to offer you a ring, what would you say?”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Tungdil Goldhand.”

  Seven orbits later, Tungdil was sitting in Myr’s library, reading an account of the freelings’ origins.

  The history of the realm was chronicled on numerous stone tablets in the temple, and Myr had gone to the trouble of transcribing the inscriptions and collating them in manuscript form. She had incorporated sketches of the city, including views from the stronghold and the plateau. Another manuscript described her home city of Gemtrove, which, as Tungdil gleaned from the sketches, was an architectural masterwork.

  Myr’s meticulous draftsmanship rivaled anything he had seen in Lot-Ionan’s books. She’s a real scholar, he thought admiringly as he leafed through her work.

  Just then someone knocked at the door.

  Assuming it was a patient for Myr, he stayed in his armchair, but the knocking became more insistent, eventually reaching a volume impossible to ignore. Cursing Sanda for breaking his ribs, he got up slowly and went to investigate the source of the racket.

  “What are you doing here?” he exclaimed, staring in astonishment at the pair of bedraggled warriors on the doorstep.

  “Confounded water!” thundered Boïndil. “Next time those avatars decide to fall out of the sky I hope they have the decency to vaporize the freelings’ pond.” He wrung out his beard, dripping brackish water all over Myr’s steps. “We’ve come to fetch you, scholar.” A strand of duckweed had attached itself to his hair. He pulled it out and stamped on it angrily. “Nasty Elrian mischief! She nearly got me this time.”

  Boëndal dried his eyes on his sleeve before realizing that the fabric was wetter than his face. “I swore never to enter that water again, but how else were we supposed to find you?” he said, aggrieved.

  They hovered on the doorstep uncertainly. Last time Myr had been quite insistent about keeping the carpet dry.

  “It’s good to see you both,” said Tungdil, shepherding them into the kitchen where they could drip to their heart’s content on the floor. “Start from the beginning. What brings you to Trovegold?” Miniature lakes formed around the twins’ feet as water streamed from their garments onto the tiles.

  “We’re taking you to Porista,” said Boïndil, making himself at home. He was already tucking into the leftovers from lunch. “Mm, I’d forgotten about Myr’s cooking.”

  “Does Andôkai need me? Is it about Keenfire?” asked Tungdil, as baffled as before.

  “No.” Boëndal paused for a moment to wipe his face on a dishtowel. Boïndil took it from him and dried his beard. “It’s losing its shine,” he murmured peevishly. “I should probably grease it. Beards aren’t supposed to get wet.”

  His brother returned to the matter in hand. “You won’t believe what’s happened while you’ve b
een here in Trovegold.” He gave a brief account of the conference, the news from the Outer Lands, and the events leading up to the maga’s death. “Narmora has taken the reins—no one else in Girdlegard knows anything of the magic arts. And Gandogar wants you to be there when Romo outlines his proposal to Liútasil and the men.”

  Me? Once Tungdil had overcome his initial surprise, he realized why he had been chosen to represent the dwarves. The thirdlings banned the dwarves of Beroïn, Borengar, Giselbert, and Goïmdil from attending the meeting. “He chose wisely. I’m a thirdling, so Romo will have to let me in.”

  Boïndil finished scooping out the contents of a beetle carapace and replaced it on the sideboard. “By the way, I’ve got a bone to pick with you. Why didn’t you tell me you were planning to stay in Trovegold? It isn’t nice to lie to an old friend.”

  Tungdil smiled and held out his hand. “No hard feelings, Boïndil. I was afraid you might drag me away by my beard.”

  “Too right I would!” chuckled Boïndil, helping himself to a dumpling. He dipped it in some cold gravy and popped it in his mouth. “One of these is worth four dozen runts,” he said approvingly. “Although there’s nothing to stop me fighting and eating.”

  Tungdil was brooding over the news. “It doesn’t bode well for Girdlegard,” he muttered. A new challenge and the awkwardness of seeing Balyndis awaited him in Porista, whereas in Trovegold he led a peaceful scholarly life with Myr, interrupted only by training sessions with Sanda and the occasional afternoon in the forge.

  He glanced into the adjoining room and glimpsed the diamond-studded weapons belt given to him by Giselbert Ironeye. It was hanging on the wall beneath two crossed axes—his own work, of course.

  Boëndal followed his gaze. “It doesn’t bode well,” he agreed, although it wasn’t clear whether he was referring to the changes in Girdlegard or in his friend.

  “You’re living the scholar’s life, are you?” mumbled Boïndil, picking up another dumpling and waving it vaguely in the air. “No chain mail, comfortable boots—are you sure you haven’t put on weight?”

  Tungdil laughed and fetched three glasses of beer. “I doubt it. I’m taking lessons in axmanship from Sanda Flameheart. You should see her muscles; she’d lay you out cold in a fight.”