The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “How many blows to fell a hero?” jeered Romo, circling the morning star above his head and preparing to strike. “Two at the most, I’ll warrant…”

  The balls spun toward him.

  Tungdil reached up and deflected them with his ax head. They hit a door and crashed through the timber. One of the chains got stuck in the wood and refused to yield to Romo’s increasingly vigorous efforts to pull it free.

  “How many strikes to fell a thirdling?” said Tungdil, dealing a one-handed blow to Romo’s torso. The blade cut through his chain mail and buried itself in his flesh. Blood spurted from the wound.

  Romo had no intention of conceding defeat. Abandoning his morning star, he thrust both gauntlets simultaneously into Tungdil’s face. Tungdil tumbled to the ground. His eyelids swelled, narrowing his vision, and blood trickled from a gash above his right eye.

  Romo pulled the ax from his torso and held it aloft. “More than you think!” he thundered, preparing to strike.

  Harsh yellow light filled the corridor.

  “Take that!” shouted a melodramatic voice behind Tungdil. He felt a rush of hot air as flames shot toward Romo, turning him into a living torch.

  The thirdling’s beard was ablaze and his skin was charred and cracked. A nauseating smell of burning flesh filled the air.

  Romo made no attempt to extinguish the flames. He took another step toward Tungdil and raised his arm to strike. Just then a figure cannoned into him from behind and his ax careered sideways. The blade embedded itself in the floor half a hand away from Tungdil’s chest.

  Growling, Romo shook off his assailant.

  “Huzzah!” shouted Ireheart, leaping up and brandishing his axes. “Come here so I can give you a taste of my blades!”

  “Stop,” called Tungdil. He clambered to his feet and pulled the morning star from the ruins of the door. “He’s mine.”

  Romo parried the first blow, but Tungdil struck again, and the metal balls slammed into the thirdling’s head, neck, and throat. He wobbled, but didn’t fall.

  Tungdil landed three hefty strokes in succession until at last Lorimbas’s nephew lay motionless on the floor. I never wanted to be a dwarf killer, thought Tungdil, dropping the morning star onto his enemy’s body. But Romo deserved to die.

  “That was no fun,” complained Ireheart. “He’d been burned to a cinder and injured already. Where’s the challenge in that?” He glanced around eagerly. “What happened to the chunky one? He’ll put up a better fight.”

  Meanwhile, his brother, assisted by Tungdil and Rodario, still glowing from his debut as a famulus, was attending to Myr.

  Tungdil, ignoring his own wounds, scooped the unconscious freeling off the cold flagstones and carried her back to their chamber where he tended to her until Narmora took charge. In short order, the maga restored the dwarf to her former condition, allowing her skin to grow back as smooth as ever, with no evidence of damage to the silvery down on her cheeks.

  Next Narmora turned her healing energies to Tungdil and mended his broken ribs. Lifting his arms gingerly, he discovered that the pain was gone. “Magic gives me goosebumps,” he said.

  “All magic, or just Samusin’s magic?” the maga enquired.

  “You pray to Samusin?” said Tungdil, surprised.

  “I was born of an älf—the other gods won’t have me. Listen, Tungdil, there’s no need to worry about Myr. She’s sound asleep and she won’t wake before morning. You may as well look for the missing thirdling.”

  “Salfalur,” he said grimly, picking up his ax and hurrying over to the twins who were hovering in the doorway with the impresario. “Thank you for your help back there,” he said to Rodario. “Can you tell us the fastest route out of Porista?”

  “My dear dwarf, I built this city,” bragged Rodario. “Well, I oversaw the building of it,” he appended, edging closer to the truth. “Furgas drafted the plans.”

  Boïndil frowned. “So you’re more a caretaker than an architect…”

  “I know this city like the back of my hand.” He tugged on his sleeve to hide the miniature tinderbox, a sophisticated device that threw flames at the tug of a cord. Several dwarves and humans had witnessed his fiery attack on Romo and were convinced of his magic powers.

  “Still doing party tricks?” laughed Boëndal. “You’re supposed to be a famulus, not a street magician.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” the impresario retorted touchily. “You wait, women will love it. I’ve got everything: thespian charm, writerly eloquence, natural good looks—and now mastery of the mystic arts.”

  Boïndil roared with laughter. “Not to mention the wandering eye of a philanderer.”

  “Come on,” said Tungdil, smiling in spite of himself. “We don’t have time for your nonsense, Rodario.”

  “My nonsense? I’ve never been so—” He saw the determined look on Tungdil’s face and set off through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace with the dwarves in his wake.

  The city wasn’t destined to sleep that night. Every street, every house, every chamber was searched by patrols of men, elves, and dwarves, but there was no sign of Salfalur.

  The thirdling had vanished, and with him Myr’s notes about Trovegold and the other cities. Soon Lorimbas would know every detail about Gemmil’s secret realm.

  Porista,

  Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

  Girdlegard,

  Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

  Tungdil was sitting at Myr’s bedside when she woke with a start. The delicate dwarf took a few moments to remember what had happened. “Did you stop them?” she asked weakly.

  He shook his head. “We couldn’t find Salfalur. He disappeared.”

  “We’ve got to warn Gemmil! The thirdlings will know everything about our realm.” She looked up at the ceiling and thumped the wall. “If only I hadn’t brought the books with me! I never thought my penny-pinching could cause such trouble. What if Lorimbas invades?”

  “Your penny-pinching?”

  “I only brought the books with me because I wanted to fill the empty pages. I knew I’d have lots to write about, and paper is expensive. It’s my duty as a scholar to chronicle everything I see and hear. I’m the eyes and ears of Trovegold. I can’t allow our history to be forgotten.” She ran a hand tentatively over her forehead, remembering her encounter with the wall. “Warriors never leave home without their weapons. I never go anywhere without my books.”

  He stroked her smooth cheeks. Belatedly she realized that she wasn’t in any pain. She raised a hand to her face.

  “You won’t find a scar,” Tungdil told her with a smile. “Narmora is a maga. She healed my ribs as well.”

  “A maga?” echoed Myr, impressed. She lay still for a moment and closed her eyes. She seemed to be searching for evidence—an inner voice, a hidden clue that might reveal the workings of the maga’s power. “I’ve read about magic,” she said, a little sheepishly. “I thought maybe you could feel it.”

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” he agreed with a grin. “There’s something odd about magic—it doesn’t suit us dwarves.”

  He was glad to see that Myr had made a full recovery. It seemed to confirm that he had made the right decision about melding his heart to hers. Just because he loved Balyndis didn’t mean he wasn’t genuinely fond of Myr. They were soul mates, brought together by their love of learning. As soon as he taught her to appreciate metalwork, they would make a perfect pair.

  Except you still love Balyndis, his inner demon reminded him slyly.

  Tungdil responded by leaning over and kissing Myr.

  Nice try, laughed the demon.

  Myr smiled uncertainly. “It was horrible, Tungdil. I found the thirdlings in our chamber, rummaging through my things. Romo—I think that’s what he said his name was—bashed me on the head and knocked me out. The next I knew, I was dangling from his shoulder. He threatened to kill me if I made a noise. Thank Vraccas you came along and saved me.”

  “It was nothing,�
� he said modestly. “Anyway, I probably wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your skill as a surgeon. Remember how we met? I had an älvish arrow in my shoulder, and another in my chest—you pulled them out and healed me.” He paused and looked at her gravely. “As soon as you’re well enough, we’ll be on our way. Meanwhile, there’s something I need to deal with. I’ve asked for an audience with Gandogar.”

  “With Gandogar? Why?” She tried to sit up in bed, but slumped sideways against his shoulder. “It’s all right. I think I’m still dizzy from being bashed on the head or colliding with the wall—or both.”

  He held onto her. “You’ll probably say I’m crazy, but I think it’s a cunning ploy.”

  She looked at him, startled. “What’s a ploy?”

  “I think the thirdlings don’t know anything about the avatars,” he explained. “If you ask me, they know we’re running scared, and they’re taking advantage of the situation. This could be their ultimate victory—it’s safer and more effective than a war. One in two of our kinsmen will die on the march to the Outer Lands. The paths are treacherous, it’s deepest winter, and we’ll have avalanches to contend with.”

  “Not to mention hunger,” she said sadly.

  “The thirdlings’ demands are designed purely to kill the maximum number of dwarves. They’re trying to trick us into leaving Girdlegard by spinning us a story about a secret weapon.” He looked into her red eyes. “The thirdlings are lying, and I can prove it. From what Boëndal told me about the first meeting, Romo didn’t say anything about the avatars, only about a threat from the west. He was stringing us along.”

  “If I were Gandogar, I’d want better evidence than that,” objected Myr. “What if Romo was referring to the avatars when he—”

  “Maybe he was,” cut in Tungdil. “The question is, why would the avatars kill Andôkai if Lorimbas were the threat?” He smiled. “First Romo was talking about stopping them, next he was going to destroy them. Which is it?”

  “Stopping, destroying—it’s the same to a warrior like him. He wasn’t the sort to care about distinctions.”

  “That’s not all, though. He couldn’t give any details about the weapon. No wonder—it doesn’t exist!”

  “What if the secret to stopping the avatars is so straightforward that he’d be giving away their bargaining power? Or maybe he likes being awkward.”

  “He could have told us something—like whether it’s an ax or a trebuchet or runes to be carved above the western gates,” insisted Tungdil, who felt like he was arguing his case before a judge. It seemed to him that Myr was being deliberately contrary.

  “You’re right to distrust him, but think how the dwarven monarchs will react. He’s promising to save Girdlegard, and you’re saying we can’t be helped.”

  “Why would they believe Romo? He hasn’t given them any proof,” said Tungdil moodily. He thought for a moment. “You’re right though. Sometimes the truth isn’t welcome.”

  “If I were Gandogar, I’d give Romo the benefit of the doubt. Imagine what it would be like watching Girdlegard go up in flames and knowing you could have saved it. I wouldn’t want to live with the guilt.”

  “You’d rather send thousands of dwarves to their deaths? Come on, Myr, you can’t agree to the banishment of the folks when there’s a good chance the thirdlings are lying! Even if we make it back to Girdlegard, we’ll have to fight or trick our way into our kingdoms. Meanwhile, Lorimbas and the thirdlings will be laughing themselves vraccasium-red.” He stood up. “I know you don’t agree with me, but it’s my duty to alert the high king to a possible plot.”

  “You need more evidence,” ruled Myr. “You haven’t persuaded me.” She pressed her lips to his hand. “Vraccas be with you.”

  We appreciate you sharing your suspicions,” began Gandogar.

  Tungdil knew at once what the high king was going to say. Myr was right, he thought. I need more proof. He didn’t bother to listen to rest of the speech; Gandogar’s objections were much the same as Myr’s.

  He glanced at the other delegates: King Balendilín, King Glaïmbar, and Queen Xamtys looked worried and dismayed. They must be wondering how to break the news to their clansfolk. How do you explain that the high king wants everyone to leave their kingdoms and risk their lives for a weapon that might not exist? He bowed and took a seat, even though Gandogar was still speaking.

  The dwarf of all dwarves didn’t seem offended by his rudeness. “I’ll go down as the worst high king in history, I know, but I’ve been left with no choice. Vraccas commanded us to give our lives for the safety of Girdlegard.” He stood up. “It’s settled: The dwarves will leave their kingdoms. Tungdil, you’ll have to tell Gemmil to abandon his realm. Now that the thirdlings know the location of the underground cities, they’re bound to attack.” He raised his hand in parting and left the chamber. The other delegates followed his lead.

  Tungdil covered his face with his hands. He couldn’t bear to think about the hardships awaiting his kin.

  The footsteps died away and the chamber was still. It didn’t occur to him that anyone was left, so he was startled when a hand squeezed his shoulder. Uncovering his eyes, he turned and looked into Boëndal’s bearded face.

  “You mustn’t give up, scholar.” He stepped aside, revealing a small band of dwarves looking grimly determined. “Not everyone thinks you’re wrong. The kings and queens chose not to heed you, but your efforts weren’t in vain. We saw the strength of your conviction, and we believe you.”

  One by one the delegates introduced themselves. Between them, they represented all four folks.

  “Well?” said Boïndil expectantly. “I hope there are enough of us. I’m assuming you’ve got a plan.”

  “I had a plan,” he said, thanking Vraccas for his small band of followers. A smile spread across his face. “But I’ve thought of a better one.”

  One of the delegates cleared his throat. “I won’t do anything to hurt my king, my clansfolk, or my family.”

  “You’re an honorable dwarf.” He scanned their faces. “I’d sooner chop off my head than put any of our kinsfolk in danger.” He beckoned them closer. “But I do have a mission for you. With your courage and Vraccas’s blessing…”

  “He’ll bless us all right,” said Boïndil confidently.

  “In that case, the thirdlings are in for a shock.” And he told them what he had in mind.

  Narmora leaped out of bed, rushed down the corridor, and ran into Furgas’s room. A moment later, Rodario was by her side.

  “Did you hear him scream?”

  “Fetch Myr,” she said tersely. “She’ll know what’s wrong.”

  Rodario hurried away.

  It’s happening too soon, thought Narmora distractedly. I don’t know how to cure him yet. She wiped the sweat from Furgas’s face.

  A pink blotch appeared on the cloth. Thin lines of blood were trickling from Furgas’s closed eyelids and mingling with his sweat. I don’t know how to counteract the poison. I need more time.

  She waited impatiently for Myr, who turned up a few minutes later with Tungdil.

  Myr examined her patient thoroughly, listening to his heartbeat, checking his breathing and smelling his skin before inspecting the contents of the chamber pot. “He’s feverish,” she announced, looking up at Narmora. “All the symptoms point to poisoning. He’s in a bad way, Estimable Maga. His heart is gathering speed like a runaway trip hammer—he’ll die if you don’t slow it down.”

  The maga shivered. “I’ve been working on a charm, but… I was wondering if you could give him something to ease the pain.”

  Myr raised her eyebrows. “You can’t cure his symptoms with your magic? The toxin must be awfully strong.”

  “Can you help him or not?” demanded Narmora more sharply than intended. “You said we need to slow his heart.”

  “I can’t do anything without knowing the make-up of the poison,” she said sadly. “His life is in your hands.” She packed her things and waited uncertainly nex
t to Tungdil, until the maga dismissed them with a nod.

  As soon as they were gone, Narmora slipped her hand beneath her bodice and pulled out the shard of malachite, running her finger over its surface and sloughing off the dried blood. It’s the only way. She washed the gem quickly, opened her bodice, and focused her mind, channeling her magic energy into the malachite.

  The stone began to glow, becoming warmer against her skin.

  Samusin, keep me from harm and save Furgas from suffering. She placed the tip of the stone on the pale skin below her sternum and tensed her muscles, preparing, as Nudin had done before her, to absorb the malachite’s power.

  Take my life, if you have to, Samusin, but let him live. She closed her eyes and drove the malachite into her chest.

  The pain was unbearable.

  A viridescent sun exploded within her, dousing her in a caustic tide that seared, froze, and swelled her veins, gathering inside her until she was sure she would burst like a rotten fruit. Suddenly it stopped.

  Narmora fell to her knees and retched. A puddle of green vomit collected on the floor. The next wave of nausea purged her stomach of its contents, the stinking torrent of malachite vomit narrowly missing Furgas’s bed.

  “Who are you?” called a voice.

  She retched again, raised herself on trembling arms, and turned her head, looking for the speaker. “Is someone there?” she gasped.

  “I can teach you things that will make you more powerful than any maga or magus in history,” the voice whispered. Nudin appeared in a corner of the room. He smiled at her warmly. His robes belonged to another, long-forgotten era.

  “You can’t be… We killed you at the Blacksaddle!”

  “I’d like to help you,” he said, morphing suddenly into the familiar bloated figure of Nôd’onn. His smile became a smirk. “All Girdlegard will cower in awe of you,” he promised. The air above Furgas’s bed seemed to shimmer, bringing forth the misty demon that Tungdil had slain at the Blacksaddle. “Poor soul, he’s dying,” whispered the mist, caressing Furgas’s cheeks. “You can save him. I’ve given you the power.”