The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “It’s easy to impress a novice,” said Boïndil, smiling. “She probably hasn’t fought a true warrior. I’d show her who’s boss.” He swallowed the dumpling, washed it down with a draft of beer, and belched loudly.

  “It’s time to dust off your weapons belt,” said Boëndal earnestly. “I hope you’re not too settled here. Gandogar needs you in Porista; no one can go to the meeting but you.”

  Boïndil, always the pragmatist, pushed past him and unhooked the belt and one of the axes from the wall. He handed them to Tungdil. “Don’t make me force you,” he said with a wink. “Are you ready?”

  The front door opened, and Myr walked in, carrying her medicine bag. “Vraccas almighty, we’ve been flooded!” she said in mock horror. “I thought they’d fixed the sluice for the canals…” She put her hands on her slender waist and followed the trail of water to her guests. “So it was you!” she said, pretending to be cross. “I see you found the kitchen.” Laughing, she hugged Boïndil and then Boëndal. “I smell dumplings,” she commented, sniffing the air. “That’s strange—they’ve disappeared…”

  “It’s your own fault,” protested Boïndil. “You left them unguarded.”

  “I assume you didn’t come here to steal my food,” she said, noting their earnest faces. Boëndal explained the purpose of their visit. “If Tungdil’s leaving, so am I,” declared Myr. “I’ll accompany the three of you as far as Porista, and we’ll see from there. I can’t bear to separate our freshly melded hearts.”

  “Freshly melded?” exclaimed Boëndal. “Congratulations! May Vraccas bring you happiness and wealth.” He shook hands with them vigorously. “We should have brought a present.”

  Boïndil responded to the unexpected news by choking on a handful of cranberries and would have died an in-glorious and untimely death, were it not for Myr, who thumped him on the back. The red-faced warrior took a sip of beer. “To the happy couple,” he gasped.

  Tungdil showed them the ring on the middle finger of his right hand and the smaller version worn by Myr. He had forged them himself. “We had the ceremony in the temple.” And no one was there to stop us, he added silently.

  “In that case, we’ll take two scholars to Porista,” said Boëndal, smiling. “All the better for Girdlegard and the dwarves.”

  Myr beamed. “I can’t wait to see a human city. How am I going to find enough parchment for all my sketches and notes?” She hurried upstairs. “We’ll set off as soon as I’ve packed a few things…”

  “Personally, I’d rather dry out first,” said Boïndil, tapping his foot against the floor. His boot squelched unpleasantly. “There’s no point in getting blisters.”

  Before they left, Tungdil paid a final visit to the stronghold and took his leave of Gemmil and Sanda. As usual, he was greeted warmly, and Sanda offered him a drink. He gave as full an account as possible of the situation in Porista. “It’s essential I go,” he concluded.

  Sanda had been listening attentively. “I know Romo Steelheart. His uncle dotes on him. He’s a dedicated dwarf killer, one of the worst I’ve ever met. He was trained by Salfalur himself. Entrusting Romo with the fate of Girdlegard is like asking an orc to look after a playground. Lorimbas is up to something serious.” She glanced at Gemmil. “Romo doesn’t make deals; he’s there to enforce his uncle’s will. He won’t back down.” She turned back to Tungdil. “Romo and his associates can’t be trusted. The meeting could be an ambush—or worse. You’ll have to watch your back.”

  “I’ll remember your advice,” he thanked her with a bow. “Myr and I will return to Trovegold as soon as we can.”

  “Myr’s going with you?” asked Sanda, taken aback. Almost immediately she recovered her composure and smiled.

  Tungdil decided that she was probably pleased at the prospect of not being watched for a while. Except Myr says she doesn’t know about the surveillance… Arrangements had already been put in place for Myr’s friends to keep an eye on Sanda during her absence.

  “Perhaps you could give the high king my regards,” said Gemmil. “I’d like to pay a visit to Gandogar once Girdlegard’s safety has been assured. I think a meeting would be useful. I don’t suppose many of the freelings would be interested in rejoining their folks, but a trade relationship would benefit us all. I’ll leave it to you to describe our realm and assure him that we’re not a band of criminals and murderers. May Vraccas be with you on your journey.”

  “I’ll talk to Gandogar for you,” promised Tungdil. “He’ll hear nothing but praise from me.”

  He left the modest hall and was halfway down the stairs when footsteps sounded behind him. Turning, he found himself looking at the tattooed features of the queen.

  “You won’t like what I’m going to tell you,” she said gravely, “and you probably won’t believe me, but be warned: Whatever happens on your journey, keep a close eye on Myrmianda.” She glanced about nervously to satisfy herself that they were unobserved.

  Tungdil frowned and took a small step away from her. “I don’t follow.” His eyes searched her face, looking for an explanation. “What’s Myr got to do with anything?”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you,” she said obscurely. “Myrmianda is who she is because of her family. You mustn’t breathe a word of what I’ve told you, especially not to her.” A sentry appeared at the top of the steps and watched them from afar. “I know she’s spying on me,” she whispered. “Myrmianda could outscheme a gnome. For your own sake, don’t trust her.” She held out her hand. “This is for Gandogar,” she said loudly. “May Vraccas protect you and your friends.”

  Looking into her eyes, it seemed to Tungdil that she was telling the truth. She’s a thirdling, though, and Myr thinks she’s a spy, he reminded himself as he continued down the stairs. I don’t see why she’d try to drive us apart—unless she’s plotting something in Trovegold or conspiring with the thirdlings in Porista…

  Barely an hour later he was marching through the tunnels toward the surface with Myr and the twins.

  When he looked into Myr’s warm, red eyes, the conversation with Sanda seemed ridiculous. Soon afterward, when Myr kissed him lovingly, he forgot what the thirdling had said.

  Porista,

  Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

  Girdlegard,

  Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

  I did it for you, Furgas. Narmora kneeled at her husband’s bedside, pressed her forehead against his cold hand, and buried her face in the covers. I punished her and took her power so that I might cure you. It won’t be long until Dorsa can meet her father.

  She got up, kissed his colorless lips, and slipped out of the room. She could feel the warmth of the malachite crystal around her neck. The stone had absorbed the maga’s magic, transferring her power to Narmora, who intended to use the crystal to cure Furgas—as soon as she learned how.

  The half älf’s satisfaction at killing her hated mentor had been disappointingly brief. With Furgas critically ill and Girdlegard in danger, she hadn’t been able to enjoy the victory as much as she had hoped. She ran a hand over her bodice, feeling the malachite splinter beneath the fabric.

  Rodario emerged from one of the passageways and walked alongside her. They hadn’t seen each other for orbits; in fact, they had barely spoken since Andôkai’s death. “I keep thinking about what happened,” he began. “An awful business.”

  “Ideal for one of your plays,” she said tersely.

  “Too dramatic,” he countered. “Even for me. My valued spectators would storm out of the Curiosum if I were to tell them that Girdlegard’s only maga was dead, killed—in all probability—by Tion’s descendants, the devious avatars, more dangerous than anything our kingdoms have ever—”

  She stopped and glared at him. “You’ve been eavesdropping on the assembly!”

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping. I just happened to overhear.” He assumed a look of wounded innocence. “The walls are extremely thin.” His hand slapped the sturdy marble. “Well, some of them are…”
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  She set off again, with Rodario walking determinedly alongside her.

  “I suppose you know what would really upset my spectators?” he said softly.

  “The abysmal acting?”

  “No, my sharp-tongued beauty.” He barred her way. “The calculated murder of the maga by her famula, who committed her heinous crime in front of Girdlegard’s assembled kings and queens, none of whom realized what was unfolding before their eyes.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” hissed Narmora, rounding on him.

  “An excellent question—and one that I was saving for you. I saw what you did, Narmora.”

  “And what would that be?”

  As a longstanding friend of Narmora’s, Rodario refused to be intimidated. “I followed the dwarves into the conference chamber. I was standing beside you, in case you needed help. I saw what you did with the crystal.”

  “I see.” Her dark eyes seemed to look right through him. “And what are you going to do about it?”

  He pouted. “Nothing. Provided that—”

  She stuck her chin out scornfully. “The fabulous Rodario, a blackmailer.”

  “Oh please,” he said dismissively, “I’m too classy for blackmail, and besides…” He took a step closer and looked her in the eye. “I’m Furgas’s friend. Whether I’m your friend or not is another matter. You’re not the old Narmora anymore.”

  “How could I not change?” she said, her haughtiness evaporating. “Andôkai deserved to die—you of all people should know that. I’ve studied hard to get this far—I can handle the avatars.”

  “No one, not even the most diligent famula, can become a fully fledged maga in the space of half a cycle.” He tilted his head to one side and stared at her bodice, eying the spot where the shard of malachite was hidden. “Unless of course…”

  She strode past him in the direction of the conference chamber. “If you’ve got something to say, I recommend you say it,” she snapped.

  “Fine,” he said calmly, setting off behind her at a leisurely pace. “I’m going wherever you’re going. I want to be privy to all your decisions. From now on, I’m here to advise you—like Furgas would, if he were well.”

  She laughed. “How do you think the kings and queens of Girdlegard will like the idea of sharing their confidences with an impresario? Not everyone wants to be featured in your plays.”

  He jogged to catch up with her. “That’s easily solved,” he said brightly. “You’ll tell them I’m your famulus.” He raised his right hand and looked at her solemnly. “Think of the benefits—I can help with your lines. Listen, Narmora,” he said sincerely, “I want to be your friend. You need someone you can trust, someone you can share your thoughts with. I’m offering you my help.”

  They hurried through the arcades in silence. At the door to the conference chamber, Narmora stopped and turned to Rodario. “You’re right, a friend is exactly what I need.” She smiled, and for a few heartbeats she was the old Narmora, leading lady of the Curiosum. “Come on, it’s time to save Girdlegard.” She threw open the doors and walked in.

  The leaders of the other kingdoms were waiting for her. Only the dwarves were missing. In the interests of Girdlegard, they had agreed to absent themselves from the assembly, as per Romo’s churlish instructions. Narmora had promised to brief them later.

  The half älf sat down on the throne belonging to Andôkai, while Rodario claimed the chair beside her and tried to look the part. “This is my famulus, Rodario,” she introduced him. “The late maga discovered his talent for magic and schooled him in the mystic arts. He will continue his studies under me.”

  Rodario rose and gave a deep bow. The combination of his aristocratic features and fine robes would have dazzled a lesser audience. “My gifts as an actor are well known, but Andôkai made a secret of my apprenticeship. I’m delighted to announce that my growing skill as a weaver of enchantment will be placed in the service of our new maga, Narmora the Unnerving, as she leads the fight against Tion’s fiery avatars. With my help—”

  “A fat lot of good he’ll do,” jeered Romo, cutting short the impresario’s speech. He glanced at Narmora. “She won’t defeat the avatars either. Not even the famous Andôkai could halt their advance.” He stood up, crossed the chamber and came to a halt beneath the copper dome, armor glistening in the intersecting rays of sunlight from the lofty windows. His companion, a taciturn, almost man-high dwarf, watched impassively from his seat.

  Prince Mallen of Idoslane leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “And I suppose Lorimbas is the only one who can stop them?”

  Romo bowed. “Greetings, Prince Mallen. My uncle was wondering how your kingdom was faring. We saw the smoke rising over Idoslane from our watchtowers across the border. It must be hard without our mercenaries to beat back Toboribor’s orcs.”

  “Enough of this childishness,” snapped Narmora. “We’re here to listen to your proposal—although, frankly, it seems a waste of time.”

  The thirdling bridled and was about to retaliate when someone hammered on the door.

  Remembering the last interruption, Narmora rose uneasily from her throne and walked to the door.

  “The hero of the Blacksaddle!” exclaimed Rodario, who had followed her. He couldn’t contain his surprise. “What an honor!”

  Narmora held out her hand and Tungdil clasped it warmly.

  “I wish the circumstances were more favorable, but it’s good to see you,” he said with a smile. He was accompanied by the twins and a pale dwarf with white hair and red eyes. “This is Myrmianda Alabaster, my spouse,” he said briefly. “I’m here for a reason. I’d like to take part in the discussions on behalf of the dwarven folks.”

  “No,” growled Romo, his face contorting with rage. His tattoos looked darker and more menacing than ever as he glowered at the unknown dwarf. “The terms are clear: The descendants of—”

  “I’m a thirdling,” said Tungdil politely, raising the ax in his right hand. “If I understand correctly, the dwarves of Lorimbur aren’t excluded from the proceedings.” He rapped his weapon against the floor, the metal ax head clattering against the flagstones. “Either the meeting is open to thirdlings, or you and your companion are barred as well.” He stared fearlessly into the eyes of the furious dwarf. “Very well,” he said, claiming the chair previously occupied by Gandogar. “The three of us will stay. I hope I haven’t missed much. Tell me, Romo, how exactly is your uncle going to stop the avatars?”

  Mallen, eyes sparkling with amusement, gave his friend an encouraging nod. He and the other rulers, with the exception of Belletain, were heartened by Tungdil’s early victory in the war of words.

  Romo, though, had regained his composure. “I see you haven’t brought Keenfire,” he said, hoping to humiliate his new adversary. “I heard a rumor that it was stolen.”

  “It’s on loan to a mortal enemy,” said Tungdil lightly. “She’s sworn to kill me, so I know she’ll bring it back.” He cocked his head. “I thought you said Keenfire couldn’t help us?”

  Mallen chuckled.

  “It can’t,” Romo growled. He let his gaze travel over the faces of the assembled rulers. “My uncle saw the comet in the firmament and knew at once that the avatars were here. I expect you were wondering why we retook the Blacksaddle. Our archives are hidden in the stronghold, and we wanted them back. It was worth it: We learned from our forefathers’ writings how the avatars can be destroyed. There’s a secret weapon.”

  “Little maids,” interjected Belletain, his dull eyes fixed on the thirdling. “Sharpen their heads, that’s the important bit. Take as many as you like.”

  “No, worthy Belletain, there’s no need to sacrifice the maidens of Urgon,” said Romo. “As you know, my folk were created by Vraccas, but we despise the rest of his creation, including the avatars, who were brought into being by the hammer of the Smith. The Vraccas-hewn, Tion-bodied demigods must be destroyed.”

  Queen Wey cleared her throat. “In the name of Elria, how?”


  “If I were to tell you, you’d defeat them, and where would be our reward? With Lorimbas’s help, Girdlegard can defeat the avatars. That’s all you need to know.” He waited in silence for the protests to die down.

  “What kind of reward did you have in mind?” enquired Tungdil, looking at Romo through narrowed eyes. He feared the worst.

  “Nothing too unreasonable,” replied Romo. The men and elves leaned forward in anticipation, but Romo’s words were addressed to Tungdil alone. “The dwarves of Beroïn, Borengar, Giselbert, and Goïmdil must leave these lands without delay. Once they’re gone, the thirdlings will save Girdlegard from the avatars and send warriors to defend the gates of the other four kingdoms. Our folk is numerous and powerful.” He smiled maliciously. “The children of Vraccas must decide whether Girdlegard shall be destroyed.”

  III

  Porista,

  Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

  Girdlegard,

  Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

  The thirdlings are crafty,” said Gandogar, looking into the worried faces of the other dwarven monarchs. “It’s not war they’re after. They want to kick us out of Girdlegard by other means.”

  Boïndil clenched his fists. “I’d like to give Romo a taste of my axes.”

  “It wouldn’t help,” Tungdil reminded him.

  “No, but it would make me feel better.” The warrior snorted impatiently. “I’m angry enough to kill an army of runts and stamp on their plug-ugly—”

  “Shush,” said Boëndal. “Some of us are trying to think.”

  Gandogar and the rest of the dwarven delegation were seated at a table in one of the palace’s many rooms. Laid out before them was a map of Girdlegard. Hours had passed since they started discussing what to do about Romo’s proposal, and still no one had come up with a viable solution. They had until dusk to reach a decision, and the light was fading fast.

  “Why didn’t he want us there when he told them about the weapon?” asked Balyndis.

  At the sound of the smith’s voice, Tungdil reached for Myr’s hand as if to prove to himself that he loved her. He felt as if he were dangling over an open mineshaft, with only Myr to stop his fall. Looking up, he saw that Balyndis was holding hands with Glaïmbar. I’ve moved on, he told himself firmly, although he couldn’t help thinking that Balyndis looked pretty. His heart sped up a little. Because I’m agitated, he reasoned. He was furious at the thirdlings for exploiting Girdlegard’s predicament for their own ends.