The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “Only two droplets?” she asked teasingly, turning back to her plate.

  His eyes twinkled. “We’ll see what happens next time. Incidentally, where did you get the wine?”

  “It’s from the maga’s cellars. It pays to be on the right side: The winner takes all.”

  “Do you think the avatars mind that you’re dining with Narmora’s former aide?”

  “Former?” she queried, eying him intently.

  Rodario felt suddenly queasy. Has she guessed? “Well…” He cleared his throat. “I’m a citizen of Porista, and Porista belongs to the avatars, so I’m assuming I work for them.”

  “I applaud your wisdom. It will save you a lot of trouble.” She laughed a tinkling laugh. “No, the avatars don’t mind. Their enemies are right to be terrified, but innocent people have nothing to fear.”

  “I imagine the maga’s servants were relieved,” he remarked, trying to steer the conversation to Dorsa. “Didn’t Narmora have a personal maid?”

  Lirkim nodded and popped a morsel of meat into her mouth. He waited while she chewed her mouthful and swallowed it down. “Yes, Rosild and her baby daughter are still in the palace. She’s an excellent cook. Nothing much has changed, as you can see.”

  “The avatars aren’t nearly as frightening as I’d heard,” he said, trying not to look relieved by the news that Rosild and Dorsa were well.

  “Really?” Lirkim rested her cutlery on her plate. “What have you heard?”

  “Everyone says they’re mythical creatures, fiery beings that scorch the earth beneath their feet…” He stopped short. “It doesn’t make sense, if you think about it.”

  “Of course it doesn’t, otherwise Porista wouldn’t be standing now. What else have you heard? It sounds like good material for a play.”

  “For several plays.” Passing off the story as hearsay, he described what he had seen in Dsôn Balsur, including everything from the cloud of fire to the soldiers’ shining armor. He didn’t mention the deaths of the avatars. Lirkim listened attentively and seemed amused. “According to some, they even captured a dwarf-woman,” he added. “Personally, I don’t believe it. What would the avatars want with a dwarf?” He speared a piece of meat on his fork.

  “Much of what you say is true,” she said, smiling. She took a sip of wine, prompting him to toast her again and refill her glass. He had been plying her with alcohol for over an hour, and he was gratified to see that her cheeks were a healthy red. “The rest is smoke and mirrors.” She clapped a hand to her mouth and looked worried. “Forget what I said.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, laughing it off. “I’m not going to report you to the avatars. I’m sure they’re capable of conjuring as many illusory dwarf-women as they please.”

  “Oh, she’s real enough. They took her prisoner because she had a secret.” She laughed girlishly. “But groundlings are tough little characters.”

  “A secret, you say? Don’t tell me the celestial avatars are interested in turning iron into gold?” He chuckled contentedly to set her at ease.

  “The avatars don’t need gold.” She clinked glasses again with Rodario. “No, the dwarf-woman knows how to make a special… It’s old news, anyway. Things have moved on.” Her eyelids were getting heavier and she reached for his thigh. “Well, my fabulous Rodario, perhaps we should…?”

  “Absolutely,” he said eagerly. “Who cares about a dwarf-woman’s secrets?”

  “The avatars don’t.” She got up and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Soon they’ll be so powerful that even the gods will fear them. They’ll take whichever lands they like and rule over vast swathes of territory. They’ll be mightier than the mightiest kings, all-powerful and invincible, and Girdlegard…” She bit her lip, a gesture that Rodario would normally have found incredibly alluring. “But enough of that.”

  Rodario was never slow to show off his manhood, but Lirkim’s description of the avatars had roughly the same effect as ice in his breeches or an angry husband in the room. His ardor was gone.

  Just then the door flew open with a bang.

  There’s the husband, so where’s the ice? He knew from the sound, a sound he had heard on countless occasions, that the person was furious—as furious as a cuckold had every right to be.

  A fair-haired man of thirty cycles burst into the room. He was wearing white robes and carrying a short staff like a shepherd’s crook. Behind him were three soldiers whose faces Rodario recognized from his arrival at the palace earlier that evening. The cozy little dinner had reached a premature end. “Are you married?” he hissed at Lirkim, who shook her head and seemed taken aback by the intrusion. “I guess the avatars don’t approve of my presence after all…”

  “That’s him,” cried one of the soldiers, pointing his sword at Rodario. “I told you, Fascou, it’s definitely him.”

  “Move away, Lirkim.” The man in the robes looked at her sternly.

  She put herself between the soldiers and Rodario. “No, Fascou, you’re not going to hurt him. Go back to tinkering with the force fields and leave us alone. You’ve got the groundling to entertain you; let me have my fun.”

  “Come on, Lirkim,” he said soothingly. “You’ve had a bit to drink, but the man you’re protecting is our enemy. His name is Rodario and—”

  “The fabulous Rodario,” she said thickly. “I know. He’s an impresario and he owns the Curiosum. He’s—”

  The man stepped forward and held out his hand, beckoning to her. “His name is Rodario the Fablemaker, and he’s apprenticed to Narmora.”

  The soldier nodded. “That’s right, I saw him on the battlefield. Throwing fire, he was, and melting my comrades like butter in the sun.”

  Rodario couldn’t believe it. His biggest dream was to be recognized by strangers, for his reputation to extend beyond the confines of a particular city or realm. At last he had attained true celebrity—and it was likely to end in his death.

  A good actor never disappoints his audience… Standing tall, he grabbed the astonished Lirkim with his left hand and flung his right arm toward the white-robed man. “Rodario the Fablemaker is my name!” he proclaimed, letting out an evil-sounding cackle. “Stay where you are! Move and this innocent woman will…”

  Suddenly, faster than a gust of wind can snuff out a candle, a blinding light appeared before him. Dazzled, he saw nothing but brilliant whiteness. He let go of Lirkim, who had turned into a fiery sun.

  Furgas led the group confidently through the dark corridors of the palace. At last they reached the great hall. The avatars obviously weren’t worried about the dwarf escaping because the doors had been left wide open.

  “What if it’s a trap?” asked Boëndal, but Ondori was already inside, reconnoitering the room. She returned in an instant.

  “We’ve found the groundling,” she reported, stepping aside to let them in.

  It was immediately clear why no one was guarding the hall.

  Balyndis was lying on the floor in the middle of the room. Her legs and arms had been broken, and bits of bone were poking through her skin. She was smeared with blood and pus, and her bare chest was covered in cuts and burn marks. Clumps of brown hair lay scattered on the flagstones. Her hands and feet were shackled and chained to the floor.

  Tungdil’s eyes welled with tears. What have they done to you? He kneeled down and placed his hand on her brow. She’s feverish. Raising his ax, he smashed through her chains. She didn’t acknowledge his presence or register the noise: Her eyes were closed.

  “I’ll teach them to torture a dwarf,” growled Ireheart, enraged by the sight of the suffering Balyndis. His eyes glinted wildly. “By the ax of Beroïn, I’ll rip them to pieces with my hands.”

  Boëndal took off his coat and gave it to Tungdil to wrap around their motionless friend. “It’s bad enough what they’ve done to her body. What about her mind?”

  “The fact that she’s alive is proof of her resilience—she’s still holding out, despite what they’ve done to her.” Tungdil
picked her up and balanced her on his shoulder. “They would have killed her if she’d cracked.”

  He made up his mind to show no mercy to the false avatars, who claimed to be fighting in the service of good. Nothing could justify their treatment of those who stood in their way.

  He turned around and froze. On the other side of the hall, in the eastern corner, was his foster father, Lot-Ionan.

  “But it’s impossible,” he whispered. He took a few uncertain paces toward the magus before realizing his mistake: He was looking at a statue. His beloved Lot-Ionan, who had raised and schooled him, had been turned to stone. Nôd’onn had killed him.

  The spell can’t be reversed. He remembered what Andôkai had told him, and a sob rose in his throat as he thought of Lot-Ionan and Frala and the happy times in the magus’s realm. He stroked the statue tenderly and walked away. Now wasn’t the time for mourning, only revenge.

  They hurried back to Rosild who was waiting anxiously with Dorsa in her arms. She found an extra blanket and they wrapped it around Balyndis to protect her from the cold. Furgas volunteered to carry the unconscious dwarf. Their presence in the palace hadn’t been detected.

  The procession was led by Ondori, followed by the dwarves, Furgas and Balyndis, and Rosild and Dorsa. Slowly but surely they edged toward freedom and at last they left the palace and entered the grounds, steering a course for the hidden gate.

  The double-dealing hussy! She’s an avatar! Rodario was obliged to behave in a deplorably unchivalrous fashion. He aimed a kick at what he believed to be Lirkim’s posterior, although he couldn’t be certain because of the glare. She stumbled forward. There was a crash, and the light went out.

  He aimed his flamethrowers at the soldiers and shouted a few improvised incantations. When he heard their cries, he followed up with a couple of phials of acid and threw himself under the table.

  He firmly expected to be transformed into a heap of ashes, but nothing happened. There was an overwhelming smell of burning, but it was coming from several paces away.

  Gradually, his vision cleared. The three soldiers were lying dead or dying on the floor, and the white-robed avatar was no more, one of the phials having hit him on the head and the acid eaten away most of his skull and face.

  “Ha!” Thrilled by his unexpected victory, Rodario emerged from his hiding place. “That’ll teach you to pick a fight with Rodario the Fablemaker!” Lirkim was resting face down on the table, her plate and two platters hidden beneath her chest. She had hit her head and knocked herself out. “You’ve only got yourself to blame,” he rebuked her. “I don’t take kindly to being played.”

  I knocked out two avatars! He put his hands on his hips and laughed like one of his characters on the stage. I’m taking you with me. My friends will be interested to hear what you’ve been up to with the force fields.

  He grabbed the woman by the shoulders, sat her up, and proceeded to divest her of her powers by removing her jewelry and putting it in his pockets. Then he gave her another good draft of wine and cracked the empty decanter against her head to make doubly sure that she wouldn’t wake up, which seemed unlikely, considering she was already inebriated and stunned.

  Hoisting her over his shoulder, he was suddenly aware of a commotion in the corridor. With a sinking heart he realized that the palace guards were on their way. I suppose the flamethrowers weren’t terribly subtle. His valor melted like an actor’s make-up in the sun.

  His feet took him to the window. He could see figures in the garden—small figures. He opened the catch. “Hello down there! Guess what? I’ve purloined an avatar!” He pointed to her posterior. “I’m afraid her pseudo-divine friends have taken umbrage. Perhaps you could be so kind as to—”

  “Stop talking and jump!” yelled Boïndil, signaling frantically. “We know a way out.”

  “I’m usually very courteous,” he said apologetically to the unconscious Lirkim before tossing her out of the window. She dropped through the air and came to rest in the snow. A moment later he landed beside her. After assuring himself that her heart was still beating, he threw her over his shoulder and hurried after his companions, who were busy conjuring an opening in an apparently solid wall.

  Leaving the palace behind them, they raced through the deserted streets. Snow was falling heavily, covering their tracks, and it was impossible to see further than five paces.

  “What luck,” remarked the impresario, panting under the weight of his burden. He saw Balyndis on Furgas’s shoulder and Dorsa in Rosild’s arms. “The gods are on our side tonight. Balyndis, the baby, and an avatar—what a haul!”

  “Avatar?” snorted Boïndil. “What are you blathering about now?” Weighed down by his heavy armor, he was almost as breathless as the impresario, who wasn’t accustomed to carrying anything but his quill. To his relief, the three dwarves slowed their pace. Furgas, by contrast, showed no sign of tiring.

  “Her name is Lirkim. She told me she was a courtier—at least, that’s what I assumed she was, and she didn’t correct me. A friend of hers burst in on us while we were having a cozy dinner, and I saw through her disguise.”

  “Ha, what kind of an avatar would allow herself to be captured by an actor,” jeered Boïndil, wheezing.

  Rodario’s captive murmured something, and the others heard the words “avatar” and “eoîl.” Ondori listened carefully, then cuffed the woman roundly. “It was an incantation,” she explained. “I didn’t want her causing trouble.”

  “Save your breath for running,” panted Tungdil, who already had a stitch.

  At last they reached the marketplace and found Ertil, who was waiting for them behind a stack of empty kegs. He was just unbolting the hatch when Ondori whirled round and stared into the swirling snow.

  Something was awry. The flakes were melting and turning to slush. A moment later, raindrops pattered against their armor.

  “Quick, get in,” she said, nocking an arrow to her bow. Furgas carried Balyndis to safety and Rosild hurried after him, followed by Rodario and his captive.

  A gleaming gold sphere whizzed toward them through the rain, expanding and becoming brighter as it sped toward Boïndil, who was last in line for the stairs.

  Even as he closed his visor, the sphere slammed into his chest, turning him into a blazing fireball. Tungdil and Boëndal felt the heat through their armor, and Ondori screamed in pain.

  Crackling, the unnatural fire died down. Boïndil was still standing, miniature flames licking his spaulders and greaves. They sputtered and expired—Djern’s armor had proven its worth.

  “They’re here,” shouted a man’s voice through the darkness. A moment later, he appeared before them in a column of light. “Hurry!”

  “Ha, so your magical piffle paffle didn’t work! I can’t wait to see the color of an avatar’s—sorry, conjurer’s—blood!” Boïndil threw himself on the avatar. His brother charged after him, brandishing his crow’s beak.

  “For Balyndis!” shouted Tungdil, joining the fight.

  The self-declared demigod hurled lightning at his attackers to keep them at bay, but no curse or firebrand could match the strength and determination of three angry dwarves.

  Tungdil felt like a lump of ore in a blast furnace. The armor protected him from the flames, but the metal was getting unbearably hot. He was sure he would roast inside his breastplate if the avatar weren’t dealt with soon.

  The blades of the dwarves’ weapons were red with heat, and the hafts were already in danger of igniting. Even as the wood began to crumble, Tungdil and the others came in striking distance of their foe.

  It was hard to see the avatar in the dazzling light, but they made out his outline. Boïndil landed two powerful blows, and the glow faded to reveal a man of some sixty cycles, with blood spilling from his thighs. He was staggering backward, sword in front of him to fend off the dwarves.

  He didn’t stand a chance.

  His flowing white robes offered no protection against the long, curved spur of the crow’s be
ak and the red-hot blades of dwarven axes. Weapons slashed at him from three sides until at last he lay bleeding and groaning in the gutter. Boëndal made certain that he was dead by smashing his skull with the butt of his weapon, then they hurried to the sewers and locked the hatch.

  “We got him,” Boïndil told the others, who were looking at the trio expectantly. “But it’s darned hot in here.”

  “Where’s Ondori?” asked Rodario, hoisting Lirkim over his shoulder and hurrying after Tungdil.

  “Ondori!” The dwarves hadn’t noticed her absence. “I heard her screaming, but…”

  “She must have died in the fire,” said Boïndil, smiling darkly. “Serves her right.” He stomped to the head of the procession. “I was wondering how we were going to get rid of the one-eyed murderess. Still, I’d rather have killed her myself.”

  No one expressed regret at the passing of Ondori—but no one could say for certain that she was dead.

  Incredibly, they managed to rejoin the army of firstlings, thirdlings, freelings, and älfar unscathed. Some of the units had advanced to within ten miles of Porista.

  Tungdil went straight to Narmora, who healed the worst of Balyndis’s wounds and did her best to alleviate the pain, leaving the rest to Balyndis’s almost indestructible dwarven constitution.

  The maga had barely finished treating Balyndis when she heard a baby crying. At once, Narmora the Unnerving vanished, and the anxious parent came to the fore. A moment later, the little family was reunited, with Narmora hugging Dorsa, then Furgas, then Dorsa again. The dwarves couldn’t help but feel moved, and even the ferocious Boïndil wiped a tear from his whiskery cheek.

  Tungdil spent the rest of the orbit at Balyndis’s bedside. He washed her carefully, sponging away the soot and dried blood, then salved her burns and squeezed some water between her lips. Her eyes remained closed.

  Toward evening, Boëndal burst in. “We’re ready to interrogate the prisoner,” he announced. “Narmora wants you there—we need to find out as much as we can.”