by Markus Heitz
His misgivings soon disappeared, vanishing as mysteriously and abruptly as they had come. Every now and then his friend would speak to him and offer his advice, rounding out his plan with helpful suggestions and ideas.
We are one, he thought gratefully. Together we will save the race of men.
And yet your cause has been betrayed.
How so?
One of your apprentices, Heltor, talked to a man by the name of Gorén, a former famulus of Lot-Ionan’s. Our friends heard them talking at the doors of the palace when the council was in session. He thinks he knows our secret and how we can be sundered.
Nudin was aghast. Sundered? That’s impossible. I can’t allow it!
Listen to me, Nôd’onn. Gorén won’t be working alone. Lot-Ionan gave him books that tell of our pact. They’re jealous of your knowledge and power. Don’t let them tear us apart. We are one!
Nudin decided to have Gorén killed. The älfar will deal with him. They’ll bring back the books and have the famulus punished.
If you kill Gorén, the others will be suspicious. You’ll have to kill them all.
No, I’ll reason with them. They’re bound to understand if I explain it to them, as you explained it to me. Just think what we could achieve with the power of six magi. We’ll be able to advance on different fronts and our friends will be grateful for the speedy victory.
The spirit doubted the wisdom of the scheme but said nothing to oppose it, fearing that a disagreement might alienate the magus. I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed, my one and only friend.
“I hope not,” Nudin said softly. He turned his attention to a book whose contents he knew by heart: There was nothing in his library that wasn’t present inside his head.
A drop of blood fell onto the open page, obscuring four characters so that the word became unreadable. Blood seeped from his nose and his eyes, slowly at first, then faster and faster until it became a constant stream.
Nôd’onn knew what lay in store. He rose quickly and hurried to his bed. His bones creaked, his head throbbed, his brain hissed, and his skin stretched painfully as he suddenly gained another few inches in height.
He screamed, cried, bit his lips until they bled, and thrashed about so violently that he fell out of bed and blacked out.
When he woke, the suffering was a distant memory and all he felt was the habitual desire to eat. His regular feasts resulted in enormous weight gain, obliging his tailors to replace his wardrobe every week.
He scrubbed the blood from his face and his hands. How much longer until it stops hurting?
Not long, the voice whispered. All this knowledge is too much for a human body. It needs more room. You won’t come to any harm, I promise. We are one.
Nudin made his way hungrily to the dining hall and had his servants set the long trestle table. He ate enough to feed a whole family, but his appetite wasn’t sated and the cook had to bring out a pair of sizzling roast chickens before he declared himself full. As he rose from the table he noticed that his sleeves were too short.
A female älf entered the room, holding a letter in her hand…
PART TWO
I
Enchanted Realm of Oremaira,
Girdlegard,
Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle
Tungdil was so wrapped up in the story that he couldn’t be sure how much of the drama had been enacted by the players and how much he had imagined for himself.
The spell was finally broken when a hand reached out from the curtain at the rear of the box, took hold of his knapsack, and pulled it carefully by the straps.
Tungdil saw none of this and was alerted only when the villain lost patience and jerked the bag across the floor. He turned just in time to see the filcher’s fingers disappearing behind the curtain, together with his pack.
“Hey! Stop thief!” he shouted furiously. “Come back with my bag!” Whipping out his ax, he stormed into the aisle, his hobnailed boots clattering on the floorboards. “I’ll teach you to respect other people’s property!”
The dramatic tension barely withstood his heavy footsteps and was demolished by his booming voice. There were angry shouts from the audience, most of them directed at the victim and not the thief.
Count yourselves lucky, Tungdil thought grimly, ignoring the outcry. He raced after the dark-robed figure, his short legs powering up and down and filling the auditorium with a thunderous rumble.
“Perhaps the gentleman could make a little less noise!” boomed the counterfeit Nôd’onn from the stage. His älf emissary put her hands on her slender hips and frowned. She was clad in black armor and looked remarkably convincing despite the ruined play. The fearsome magus was just an indignant actor. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to entertain our audience!”
“I’ve been robbed!” the dwarf bellowed without slowing. “Your precious theater is harboring a thief!”
“The only thief in this theater is you, my stunted friend,” the actor said waspishly. “You’re stealing my time, not to mention plundering my patience, neither of which you can afford. Kindly take your thieving presence out of my theater and allow those of more cultured sensibilities to see the rest of the play, which shall have the finale it deserves!”
On hearing the cheers and laughter, he took a deep bow.
Jackass, muttered Tungdil. Bursting out of the theater, he stopped on the street, looked both ways, and ran on. On rounding the next corner, he spotted his man. The scoundrel had slung the stolen pack over his shoulder in order to free his hands.
“Stop! That’s my bag you’ve stolen!” Tungdil set off in hot pursuit.
At the end of the third street he still had the thief in his sights, but somewhere along the fourth street, after what must have been the tenth sudden change in direction, the fellow vanished into a marketplace. Tungdil was left stranded among a crowd of people with no hope of spotting his knapsack amid the seething mass.
The sigurdaisy wood! He felt hot and cold all over at the thought that the relic was lost. Of all the misfortunes that could have befallen him, this was surely the worst. I didn’t come all this way to be thwarted by a petty criminal! he thought determinedly, forcing himself to continue the chase.
Still gripping his ax with one hand, he used the other to push his way through the crowd until he reached a table piled high with woven baskets. He clambered on top.
From this angle the situation looked no better than before. The only way of recovering the bag was to enlist the help of the guards, but his plight was unlikely to elicit much sympathy — and understandably so. What could he possibly say to convince them of the importance of retrieving his pack?
Er, excuse me, I know the town’s surrounded by orcs, but I’ve lost a lump of wood. I was hoping to use it to save Girdlegard and its inhabitants from the Perished Land.
No one would ever believe him.
He jumped to the ground and set off toward the tavern where, Vraccas willing, Bavragor and Boïndil would be waiting. To his unspeakable dismay he realized that he was lost.
Tungdil had sent his companions to the tavern without checking its name. Now his only hope of finding them was to return to the gates.
Which gates? Did we enter from the north?
He started on his way, grumbling to himself and glancing up from time to time to check his position against the watchtowers that rose above the sloping roofs. Striding along determinedly, he passed a dingy side street without slowing and heard a muffled groan.
He stopped in his tracks, gripped his ax with both hands, and doubled back. Stepping warily into the darkness, he spotted a tall, slender figure whose garments were enveloped by a dark gray cape.
At his feet was the villain who had stolen Tungdil’s pack. The thief was lying on the cobbles, bleeding from a dozen stab wounds, while his killer rummaged eagerly through the bag.
Tungdil’s instincts told him something was wrong. In height and build the stranger looked less like a man than an älf. Vraccas be with me, he murmu
red.
The knapsack’s new owner buckled the lid, grabbed the straps with his left hand, and hid the bag beneath his cape. Groaning in agony, the thief rolled onto his back and clutched the ground. His assassin was unmoved by his suffering and strolled away without looking back.
“Excuse me! That’s my bag,” shouted Tungdil.
The stranger whipped round and his cape flew open, obscuring his face. Tungdil was still trying to get a proper look at him when two heavy objects collided with his chest. The throwing knives glanced off his chain mail, clattering to the cobbles.
Before Tungdil could recover, his crafty assailant had taken off down the alleyway and rounded the next bend. The dwarf was at a disadvantage because of his stumpy legs, and by the time he reached the corner, the stranger was nowhere in sight.
Tungdil stepped back into the shadows and leaned against a wall to catch his breath. One blasted misfortune after the next! What have I done to displease you, Vraccas?
He felt an arm wrap itself around his neck. A narrow blade flashed in front of his face and came to rest against his bare throat.
“It’s your knapsack, is it?” whispered a voice in his ear. “In that case, you must be Tungdil. We weren’t expecting you here. A friend of mine has been longing to make your acquaintance ever since you murdered his companion in Greenglade.”
Tungdil tried to prize away the arm, but the pressure on his neck increased.
“Keep still,” the voice commanded. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”
“I’m not telling you anything,” Tungdil said defiantly, now certain that the stranger was one of Nôd’onn’s älfar.
“We’ll see about that.” His attacker stepped backward, dragging Tungdil beneath a covered archway at the front entrance to a house. Total darkness engulfed them. “Where are you taking the relic?”
The dwarf maintained a stubborn silence.
“Talk or I’ll kill you.”
“You’ll kill me anyway. What difference does it make?”
The älf laughed. “The difference between a quick death and an agonizing end. Let’s try again. Are you alone?”
Footsteps hurried along the alleyway, accompanied by clunking mail. Two figures rounded the corner. The älf fell silent.
By some vindictive twist of fortune, Boëndal and Goïmgar chose precisely that moment to make their appearance.
Boëndal was doing his best to reassure the wary artisan that neither Bavragor nor Boïndil had any intention of carrying out their threats. Tungdil heard him vow to protect Goïmgar from any rash acts of vengeance; then he and the fourthling disappeared from sight.
“Very well,” the älf whispered, “so there are five of you. What is the purpose of your journey?”
“To foil you, your master, and all of your ilk!” Tungdil said loudly, choosing that moment to make his escape. He made a grab for the knife and threw his weight backward, hoping to ram his captor against the wall. The älf stepped aside, and Tungdil barreled into the brickwork, still struggling ferociously to fend off the blade.
The noise was enough to alert the other dwarves. They rushed to his aid.
“Is that you, scholar?” Boëndal skidded to a halt in front of the archway, leveled his crow’s beak, and barred the way. Skulking behind him was Goïmgar, doing a convincing impression of a two-legged shield.
The älf thrust his knee into Tungdil’s nose guard, forcing the metal into his face. Tungdil’s eyes watered, blurring his vision; then the knife tore a gash in his unprotected left arm. The älf set about making his escape.
I don’t think so! Tungdil darted after the knapsack and managed to catch hold of the flap. He clung to it, growling, and aimed his ax at his antagonist’s wrist.
The älf whipped his hand away and the blade missed, slicing through the air, hitting the knapsack, and slitting the canvas. The flap came away in Tungdil’s hands, and he lost his balance and fell.
“I’ve got what I came for.” The situation was too perilous for the älf and he turned to leave, trying to wrong-foot the experienced Boëndal, who saw through the feint and timed his attack to perfection. The deadly tip of the crow’s beak passed through the leather armor, penetrating deep into the flesh.
The älf uttered an unintelligible curse and staggered sideways, stepping into a lone shaft of light. His deep blue eyes became two dark pits.
But that was only the beginning of his transformation. Thin lines appeared on his pale skin, and in no time his face and throat were patterned with what looked like tiny cracks. Clutching his wounded side, he stumbled down the alleyway, the knapsack bouncing on his back.
“He’s not going anywhere!” Boëndal was about to sprint after him when Tungdil called him back.
“Let him go. For all we know, it might be a trap.”
“But he’s got the knapsack!”
Tungdil wiped the blood from his nose, then proudly produced the sigurdaisy relic. “This is what he was after, and it’s right here with me!”
“How did he find you in the first place?”
“I’ll explain on the way. We’d better get back to the others.” He gave a quick nod to Goïmgar. “Don’t worry, those hotheads won’t hurt you.”
“I told them to close the door after you,” the artisan said softly. “Honestly, I did.”
“It’s all right, Goïmgar,” Tungdil reassured him, although deep down he wasn’t sure what to believe. The fourthling had forfeited his right to be trusted, and there was still no sign of him understanding what the mission was all about.
“We ought to warn the guards that at least one älf has found his way inside the gates,” Boëndal reminded him. “Whichever way you look at it, it’s bad news for Mifurdania. It’s probably a trick to open the settlement to the orcs.”
“They know we’re here now,” Goïmgar pointed out. “Do you think they’ll come after us?”
“They’ve been after us all along,” Tungdil told him bluntly. “It’s a shame they had to find us. We need to get back to the tunnel as soon as we can. The älfar don’t know about the underground network.”
The trio hurried through the streets until they reached the southern gates, where Tungdil told the sentries of his brush with the älf. Then they set off toward the alehouse where Bavragor and Boïndil had been instructed to wait.
They were still some distance from the rundown tavern when the sound of Ireheart’s ranting reached their ears. They heard cracking wood, then a chorus of screams.
“Bavragor and Boïndil! The älfar must have found them!” Boëndal charged ahead to save his twin.
Just then glass sprayed everywhere as a narrow window shattered and a man hit the cobbles with a thud. The next unfortunate was ejected from the tavern together with the door. Bruised and bleeding, he picked himself up and fled.
The three dwarves rushed inside to be met with a scene of devastation. It looked as if a tornado had hit the bar. Nothing was in its proper place, the chairs, tables, and benches broken or upturned and the floor strewn with groaning bodies. All had taken a beating, some more severely than others.
At the heart of the carnage was Boïndil, glowering like a dwarven god of vengeance. He was busy ridding a man, hair by hair, of his mustache. There was no sign of Bavragor.
“What’s got into you?” his brother asked incredulously, staring at the mess. “Is this your doing?”
Ireheart turned to face them, and they saw his singed beard. “You’d better believe it!” he slurred. “The long-uns set fire to my whiskers, so I gave them a good walloping.” He giggled and plucked out another hair. “This ruffian started it. I only meant to punish him for ruining my beard, but the others piled in. I suppose I should thank them, really; it made a better fight.”
“Tell him I’m sorry,” groaned his victim. “It was a misunderstanding. I was offering him a light for his pipe, that’s all. I’m begging you, make him stop hurting me.”
Ireheart seized him by the ears and looked at him blurrily. “Will you never,
ever burn another hole in a dwarf’s bearded glory?”
“Never,” the man whimpered.
“Then swear it!” The man complied and was released.
“Get out of my sight,” barked Boïndil. As a parting shot, he grabbed another clump of hair and aimed a kick at the man’s behind. He sat down on the table, laughing, and reached for his tankard. He took a noisy slurp. “I haven’t had this much fun in ages,” he burped. Just then he spotted Goïmgar. “Ah, there’s our little flower.”
“He’s drunk as a skunk,” said his brother, pursing his lips.
“Where’s Bavragor?” asked Tungdil. Keeping tabs on this lot is worse than herding cats, he thought crossly. “Don’t tell me we’ll have to look for him too.”
“Oh, him… He’ll be back in a moment. He went to buy a pony so we can fetch the ingots from the —”
“Boïndil!” His brother snatched away the tankard and pulled him down from the table. “What in the name of Vraccas are you thinking? We’re in a strange town, the orcs are at the gates, and all you can do is drink yourself silly. You’re as bad as Bavragor!”
“So that’s the thanks I get for buying two ponies,” came an offended voice from the door. “He’s the one who’s been beating up locals, not me!”
“I told you he’d be back!” Boïndil said happily. He seized the tankard from Boëndal and knocked it back. “There, try taking it from me now!” He grinned and burped again.
“Orcs!” They heard the shout even before the guard rushed in. “To arms! To arms! The southern gates have fallen and the enemy has invaded! To arms, good people of Mifurdania, to arms!” He stopped short, noticing the bodies strewn around the room. “What in the name of…”
“To arms!” shouted Boïndil excitedly. “Let’s get the runts! Oink, oink!” He drew his axes and stumbled to the door. His brother pulled him back and gave him a good talking to.
“Boëndal didn’t mean what he said,” Tungdil told Bavragor, hoping that the comment wouldn’t spark another feud.
“Old Hookhand can say what he likes; he’s usually right,” the mason said mildly. “You’ll find a couple of ponies waiting for us outside. I got them cheap, but they’re sturdy little beasts.”
