The Dwarves d-1

by Markus Heitz

  His antagonist had no choice but to comply. To Balendilнn's astonishment, he seemed neither angry nor resentful.

  "I swear that neither of us will promote our separate causes until the new high king has returned," he promised, choosing his words with care. "We may disagree on certain matters, but we share a common enemy: evil in all its forms. As dwarves, we are committed to wiping out evil wherever it occurs and we shall not tire in our duty."

  A loud cheer went up as the pair shook hands and looked each other in the eye. No one could tell that their gazes were locked in an oath of eternal enmity.

  "As a sign of my good faith, I should like to suggest that we begin our crusade against evil this very moment," announced Bislipur. "Will we stand by while orcs murder and pillage before the gates of this stronghold?" He turned to the crowd and raised his voice to a rallying shout. "We must clear Ogre's Death of this plague!"

  On hearing the cheers, he knew he had judged the mood right. "My messenger is heading through the tunnels to the fourthling kingdom, as I speak. He will return with five thousand of our finest warriors," he proclaimed to the astonished Balendilнn and the crowd. "Together the dwarves of Beroпn and Goпmdil will chase the orcs from these gates. United our folks will prevail!" He threw up his arms and brandished his double-bladed ax, dazzling the dwarves with reflected light. "This is our chance to realize Gundrabur's dream of a common dwarven army!"

  The cheering redoubled and the mountain shook with the drumming of axes.

  Balendilнn bore the treachery smilingly and gazed intently into Bislipur's hard face. You don't fool me, you devious bastard. Are the warriors meant for your protection, or are you after the high king's throne? Would you stage a coup so you can have your elven war?

  Bislipur stared back, his cold eyes boring into him mercilessly. "May the hunt begin, King Balendilнn," he said, descending from the dais. Balendilнn was left to wonder who the quarry might be.

  II

  Enchanted Realm of Oremaira, Girdlegard, Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle The following morning, after a cold night that heralded the coming of winter, they loaded the ingots onto the ponies and headed west. The smoke had cleared above the deserted streets of Mifurdania and tiny black dots lay unmoving at the foot of the settlement's walls. Every dot was a corpse and they covered the area in a sea of black.

  Tungdil hated Nфd'onn and the orcs more violently than ever. First Goodwater, then Greenglade, and now Mifurdania and all the other villages, hamlets, and farms: Half of Girdlegard has been razed to the ground. He spotted a cloud of dust on the horizon: The army of orcs was heading northwest. I'll do whatever it takes, he promised himself.

  Much to the dwarves' disgust, their provisions for the journey consisted almost entirely of bread and dried fruit, which they were forced to eat for want of anything else. In their haste to leave Mifurdania, they had forgotten to stock up on victuals and no one was inclined to venture back. They were all the more grateful when Goпmgar found a few wild mushrooms, even though they had to eat them raw.

  "Do you really mean to take them with us?" asked Boпndil, casting a quick look over his shoulder at Rodario and his companions, who were bringing up the rear.

  "We'll decide when we get to the tunnel," said Tungdil.

  "It's eighty miles to the next entrance, and if we can't find it, we'll continue on foot."

  "On foot? Can't you buy us each a pony?" demanded Goпmgar.

  Boпndil harrumphed. "A bit of exercise might be just the thing for your puny little legs. It's time you pulled yourself together and started acting like a dwarf. Even the female long-un is tougher than you."

  After two orbits of marching in the pouring rain, they reached a low-lying area bounded to the north by imposing mountains-the Sovereign Stones, as they were labeled on the map. Nestled in the foothills was the human settlement of Sovereignston, which Tungdil remembered was famous for its wealth. It was the fashionable place for Weyurn's gentry to build their palatial villas and stately homes. The attraction was not so much the mountain air, but the prestige to be gained by living there-and of course, the social whirl.

  "We'll stay only long enough to buy some ponies," Tungdil told his companions on approaching the gates. "It'll be cheaper and safer to look for provisions and ponies in the poorer parts of town. We'll leave the rich folk and their villas well alone."

  "What a terrible pity," said Rodario in an exaggeratedly aristocratic voice. "It seems churlish not to visit our wealthy neighbors after living on their doorstep all this time." He was relieved to see that the solid city walls were lined with armed guards: The orcs would never be able to get hold of them once they passed through the gates. He turned to his companions excitedly. "Why don't we put on a play? Nothing long or complicated-just a short, impromptu performance. We'd earn enough bronze coins to fill our bags with victuals and keep the proverbial wolf from the door."

  "Can't you speak normally for a change?" growled Boпndil, scratching his stubbly cheeks, which were long overdue for a shave.

  "I shall speak in whichever way I choose, master dwarf," the actor said huffily. "Some people are blessed with communicative talents beyond the level of primitive grunts, burps, and growls. I don't see why I should disguise the magnificence of my education when you do nothing to hide the paucity of yours."

  "Fine," Boпndil muttered malevolently. "We'll see how far your fine words get you when we meet a pack of orcs."

  His brother changed the subject by asking how the impresario had breathed fire at the bцgnilim.

  Rodario beamed. "You can thank Furgas for that. The trick is to fill a tube with lycopodium spores, put on the dragon mask, and blow through the tube. The spores pass over a burning wick at the mouth of the mask, and the monster spews fire." He rolled up his sleeves. "I use a smaller version when I'm playing the magus. The tube runs down my forearm, connecting a leather purse of spores at my elbow with a miniature tinderbox just inside my cuff." He held up his arm and gestured expansively to demonstrate the technique. "I squeeze the purse like so, and the seeds shoot down the tube. Meanwhile, the pressure on the pouch activates a cord that pulls the flint backward and produces a spark. Presto, the seeds are ignited as they exit my sleeve!" His hands mimicked the flight of a fireball. "So there you have it: a magic trick for magic flames."

  Boлndal, who had been following the explanation carefully, shot Furgas an admiring look. "An ingenious invention!" The prop master accepted the compliment with a nod.

  They joined the back of a queue of wagons and carriages owned by Mifurdanians and merchants who had fled the unfortunate city.

  Sentries were checking the vehicles, noting exactly what they were carrying, and demanding a toll. No distinction was made between farmers, traders, and other travelers, so the city of Sovereignston made a considerable profit from the dwarves. Not only that, but as visitors to the kingdom of Weyurn, Tungdil and the others were restricted to the poorest districts of the city and given the address of a boarding-house in which they were required to stay.

  Thus constrained, they trudged up a narrow street and turned into a passageway that was barely wide enough for single file. Both sides of the alley were crammed with timber houses whose upper stories jutted out dangerously, almost meeting overhead. The uneven cobblestones never saw daylight. All in all, it wasn't dissimilar to an underground gallery, except for the stench of sewage and detritus. Mounted on one of the bulging walls was a sign showing a prancing pony; they had found their address.

  With a shudder of disgust, Rodario searched the pockets of his rain-drenched coat, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed it to his mouth and nose.

  "With all due respect," he said firmly, "nothing could induce me to sleep in such a hovel." It was evident from their expressions that Furgas and Narmora felt the same. "Fortunately, I have a solution to our dilemma. My companions and I will spend the night in more salubrious accommodations, and we'll meet you tomorrow morning at the gates. You'll have time to buy your ponies and so forth, and
we'll find a venue and put on a play. How does that sound?"

  The suggestion was greeted enthusiastically by Boпndil, who was tired of the actor's voice.

  Rodario didn't wait for further permission, but strode away at once, his vibrant robes flapping around his legs. There was no denying that he looked like a nobleman, but the duffel bag rather ruined the effect. Furgas and Narmora followed him down the alleyway, boots squelching as they trudged through the foul-smelling mud.

  "To be honest with you, I think they've got a point," ventured Goпmgar, peering after them regretfully. "I don't much like the look of it either."

  "We were told to stay here," Boлndal reminded him, steering the ponies into the barn while the others made for the door. "I'll see to the ponies and keep an eye on the ingots. They'll be safer in the stables, I'll warrant. I'll sound my horn if I need you."

  "Very well. I'll order you some food," Tungdil promised. He pushed open the door and stepped into an impenetrable fog of smoke. Quite apart from the cloud of tobacco, it was evident that the chimney needed a thorough sweep. They made their way through the crowd of drinkers, sat down at a table by the fire, and stretched their soggy boots toward the flames.

  "At least we won't be sleeping outside again," said Goпmgar, softening. "I can't stand the rain." The others nodded in silent agreement: None of them were accustomed to coming into contact with water unless they chose to-which was seldom enough. "If only it were a bit more homely…"

  Tungdil was happy to forgo all other comforts, provided that the roof didn't leak. The heat from the fire was beginning to dry his leather garments, and he closed his eyes with a contented sigh. Soon the conversation faded to an indistinct hum as he gave into his tiredness and dozed. He woke when the publican arrived with a tray of food and beer ordered by Bavragor. "Do you have a room for us? We're not fussy, so long as it's warm and dry."

  The man nodded. "Come this way." The dwarves grabbed their packs, picked up their plates and tankards, and filed out behind him. They weren't sorry to be leaving the other drinkers, whose demeanor failed to inspire much trust.

  The chamber to which the publican led them was a garret room with a chimneybreast at one end. The warmth exuding from the brickwork was enough to heat the whole room. "Another beer for the gentleman?" Bavragor accepted with a nod.

  They hung their clothes to dry on a rope around the chimney, then Boпndil, wearing nothing but chain mail and breeches, left the chamber to take his turn in the stables.

  Tungdil waited until Boлndal had joined them, then took off his boots, stood them next to the chimneybreast, and climbed into a little bed. "Time for an afternoon nap," he told the others, pulling up the sheets. "I'll go into town and ask about the firstlings later. It would be good to know what to expect."

  "It's been such a long time since anyone heard from them," said Bavragor, shaking his tankard and gazing at the swirling beer. "What if something's happened to them?"

  "I expect they're just loners like you," Boлndal teased him. He stripped to his chain mail and underwear and climbed into bed.

  The mason finished his beer, burped, and polished off the leftovers of Boлndal's meal. "I'd really like to meet them," he admitted. "I've been asking Vraccas to keep them safe." He fell silent and stuffed his pipe with tobacco.

  Tungdil was staring at the beams overhead. The fine cracks in the paint reminded him of the way the дlf's face had fractured. "He knew my name."

  "What's that, scholar?" Boлndal asked drowsily.

  "The дlf knew my name." He reached for the head scarf that Frala had given to him. There was something soothing and reassuring about the cloth. "They know more about me than I thought," he said uneasily.

  "The most powerful of Tion's creatures are frightened of a dwarf," observed Bavragor with a low chuckle. He lit his pipe, filling the chamber with the smell of tobacco spiced with a hint of brandy. It was surprisingly pleasant. "That's the way we like it."

  Goпmgar glanced over at Tungdil. "I don't blame you for being concerned," he said with feeling. "I wouldn't want to be chased by a band of дlfar who know exactly who I am."

  "Yes, but that's because you're a coward." The insult left Bavragor's lips before he had time to consider.

  "If you haven't got anything useful to say, you may as well go to bed," Tungdil told him sharply. They won't give each other a chance.

  He saw Goпmgar look at him, then pick up his sword and shield and take up position on his bed, keeping a careful eye on the window and the door.

  Tungdil couldn't be sure whether the artisan was sitting watch for himself or the others. He was still considering the matter when he fell asleep.

  It was dark outside when Tungdil opened his eyes.

  His boots and clothes were drier than they had been in ages. No one else was awake, not even Goпmgar, who was snoring with his head lolling back against the wall. From the nose down, there was nothing to be seen of him except for his shield.

  It seemed a good time to get on with procuring the ponies and provisions, so Tungdil pulled on his warm clothes and dry boots, slipped into his mail tunic, and jammed his ax into his belt. At the last moment he decided to leave the sigurdaisy wood behind for safekeeping; then he left the chamber and went down to the bar, stopping to tell the publican that he'd be back in a couple of hours. He stepped outside.

  The rain was still falling in torrents. A cold, malodorous wind gusted through the narrow streets. Nothing in his surroundings hinted at the opulence of the dwellings that graced the city's upper slopes. It's all very well for the rich folks in their mansions, high above the slums, he thought to himself. Everyone down here is forced to look up at them, not knowing whether to hate them or admire them for their wealth.

  He had several run-ins with particularly persistent beggars and on one occasion he was chased by a pair of aging harlots who demanded to know if certain parts of his anatomy were as small and hairy as the rest.

  Tungdil ignored them because they offended his romantic sensibilities. His idea of love was gleaned from fiction and from Frala and her husband. He stroked his lucky scarf and tried to picture her in his mind. Knowing that he would never see her or her children again was even harder to deal with than the death of Lot-Ionan. He would have done everything in his power to be a good guardian to Sunja and Ikana.

  The incessant rain, gray skies, and general squalor of Sovereignston did nothing to improve his mood. He had to walk for what seemed like hours before he found a dealer who sold ponies, and even then he was instructed to call back the next morning. His next stop was a grocery store, where he bought provisions for the journey and succumbed to the temptation of buying a cake. He hadn't felt hungry until he saw it, but the mixture had risen perfectly to form a soft brown crust. The cinnamon streusel topping had melted in places, and delectable golden clumps nestled alongside rum-soaked raisins and sunken slices of fruit. Tungdil took a deep breath and bought the whole cake to share with the others, trusting to the baker to brighten his mood.

  In the dark he set off through the streets, carrying his well-wrapped cake and other purchases. Mud and detritus clung to his boots, making them squelch unpleasantly. Not all the streets were properly cobbled, and parts of the waterlogged city were no better than mud slicks. Why would anyone want to live in this godforsaken place?

  It was inevitable that he would fall over, and fall over he did. He stepped on a soggy pile of horse dung, skidded on his right leg, and stumbled, reaching down with one hand to save his clothes from the worst of the muck. Somehow or other he managed not to drop the cake. Underground vaults and strongholds are a thousand times better than this.

  His thoughts were cut short by a sudden gust of wind. Something whizzed to the left of his head, grazing his ear. Whatever it was, it was painful, and he yelped in surprise, reaching up to touch his neck. Warm blood trickled over his fingers.

  Turning sharply, he whipped out his ax. "If you think you can part me from my money or my cake-" The threat was left unfinishe
d. They've found us.

  Waiting at the other end of the alleyway was the дlf from Mifurdania who had tried to slit his throat. His cloak was fluttering in the stinking wind. He nocked a second arrow to his imposing bow and drew back his hand to release it.

  At precisely that moment,' Tungdil was bowled over by something that charged toward him from the side. All he saw was a flash of violet light and a mask of gleaming silver before he was hit with such force that he soared through the air and landed in the next passageway, skidding four paces and cutting a channel through the mud.

  What on… Head spinning, he rolled onto his back and held his ax at the ready, bracing himself for the дlf to find him and kill him. Nothing happened. Groaning, he stumbled to his feet. Every link in his mail shirt was oozing thick black mud. He looked dirtier than a pig that had been rolling in the muck.

  He peered around the corner warily. His cake was lying where he had dropped it, but the alley was deserted and his footprints had been washed away by the driving rain. The only evidence of the disturbance was a black arrow and a strange yellow fluid that formed a garish trail through the puddles and the mud.

  Tungdil's earlobe was throbbing. Why didn't the дlf kill me? Did someone stop him? His body felt as if he'd collided with a wall. He tried to recall what had happened. If I didn't know better, I'd think Djerun had…

  He gave up on the idea and bade a mournful farewell to the cake, then hurried through the streets, keeping an eye out for any дlfar who might be on his tail. On reaching the tavern, he raced upstairs and burst into their chamber to find Boлndal on the point of going out.

  "Hello, scholar. Is everything all right?"

  "Not exactly," said Tungdil, telling him quickly of the дlf's ambush and his miraculous escape.