by Markus Heitz
“Everyone says hello,” said Balyndis at last. “It would take too long to list all the names. You’ve got a lot of friends, you know. And Rodario wants to know about the orc who asked for directions.” She smiled. “I don’t think he got it.”
Tungdil laughed. “He’ll have to wait for the punch line.” He was silent for a while. “I’m afraid you’ll have to tell the high king that I haven’t decided how much longer I’m staying. I can’t work out where I belong. My heart belongs to the dwarves, but I like the company of humans, and sometimes I think I’m more like a human than a dwarf. They’re not as rigid in their thinking.”
“What about the freelings?”
“I can’t go back to Trovegold—not now. It reminds me of things I’d rather forget.” He looked at her gravely. “As soon as I’ve made my decision, I’ll let Gandogar know. Maybe I’ll go to the Outer Lands and look for the dwarves who carved that strange rune. If Gandogar needs me, he has only to say.”
She tried to smile. “It’s sad, you know. For the first time in history, we’ve got a real hero, and instead of living with his kinsfolk and sharing his wisdom with the high king, he worries about what to do with himself.” She tilted back her head to look up at a star that was shining more brightly than its fellows. “Maybe it’s part of being a hero. If you didn’t question yourself, you might get bigheaded.”
“Tell me about the dwarven kingdoms,” he said. “I’m tired of thinking about myself.”
Balyndis thought for a moment. “There isn’t much to report. The feud with the thirdlings is over, and the dwarves are united at last. A combined army from all five kingdoms is guarding the Eastern Pass.”
He was about to tell her about Salfalur’s threat, but he changed his mind. “What about the freelings?”
“Still free,” she reported. “King Gemmil decided to carry on as before. He’ll welcome any dwarf who wants to settle in his realm. It’s better that way. The freelings wouldn’t be happy in our kingdoms—but we’ll trade with each other and keep in touch.”
“Any news from the rest of Girdlegard?”
She shrugged. “Everything’s back to normal—except the beasts are gone. Even the dark water has disappeared and it’s fine to drink from the lakes. Every last bit of evil has been destroyed.” She sighed. “It’s almost too good to be true.”
Tungdil remembered how the malachite had shattered before his eyes. There’s nothing left that can harm us. “The dwarves will see to it that Girdlegard stays safe.”
“Oh,” said Balyndis, uncertainly. “I almost forgot. There’s a rumor that the diamond for Queen Isika hasn’t arrived. No one has seen the messenger or his guards.”
“What do you mean?” Tungdil shook his head incredulously. “What if it’s the ma…” he broke off, remembering that Balyndis knew nothing of the magic stone. “But it’s a symbol of friendship!”
“People are saying it was stolen. Queen Isika is scouring Rân Ribastur for the thieves. You can’t sell a stone like that—the culprits will be captured.”
Tungdil tried not to think about it. He was tired of being a hero. Someone else can deal with it… “What about you, Balyndis? How’s life in the fifthling kingdom?”
“It’s going well. We’ve rebuilt the halls, just as you said we should.” She flashed him a wonderful smile. “You’d be proud if you could see it—even Giselbert would be proud. Glaïmbar is doing his best to be a good king and he’s getting there, Tungdil.”
There was a short silence. “Is he a good husband as well?”
She swallowed. “He did everything he could.”
He stopped gazing at the stars and looked at her sharply. “Did?”
“He let me go,” she said tremulously. “One morning he put his arms around me, looked at me solemnly, and told me he was lifting the iron band.” She paused for a moment, regaining her composure, and Tungdil saw doubt, hope, and fear in her beautiful eyes. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “I asked what I’d done wrong.”
“What did he say?” said Tungdil, his throat suddenly dry.
“He said that he promised someone to make me happy and he couldn’t keep his promise without letting me go. He told me to follow my heart.” She hid her face in her hands, crying tears of relief. “I prayed to Vraccas every night, asking him to bring us together. Is it wrong of me to be glad?”
Even the stars seemed to be rejoicing. Thank you, Vraccas, thank you. Tungdil wanted to jump up and shout the good news across Gauragar. Vraccas has given me my heart’s desire. Restraining himself, he stroked her short hair, remembering her ordeal at the hands of the eoîl. She lifted her palms from her tear-streaked face and looked at him tenderly.
“No, it’s not wrong to be happy,” he assured her, pulling her close. Silently, he thanked Glaïmbar, whose selfless gesture commanded his unconditional respect. He kissed Balyndis, disentangled himself gently, and bent on one knee. “Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers, daughter of Borengar, will you meld your heart to mine and stay with me always, even if we live a thousand cycles?”
Balyndis dried her tears. “My heart has been melded to yours for as long as I’ve known you, Tungdil Goldhand. It’s yours to keep.”
They embraced, squeezing each other tightly, while the moon rose above them, casting a silvery glow over Idoslane. Nothing could separate them now.
Dramatis Personae
DWARVES
Firstling Kingdom
Xamtys Stubbornstreak II of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, queen of Borengar’s folk.
Gufgar Anvilstand of the clan of the Steely Nails, Xamtys’s deputy.
Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers, smith and custodian of the gates.
Bulingar Steelfinger, father of Balyndis.
Glaïmbar Sharpax of the clan of the Iron Beaters, warrior.
Fyrna Goodsoul of the clan of the Ore Finders, messenger.
Beldobin Anvilstand of the clan of the Steely Nails, messenger.
Secondling Kingdom
Balendilín Onearm of the clan of the Firm Fingers, king of Beroïn’s folk.
Boëndal Hookhand and Boïndil Doubleblade, known also as Ireheart, of the clan of the Swinging Axes, warriors and twins.
Thirdling Kingdom
Tungdil Goldhand, scholar and warrior.
Lorimbas Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, king of Lorimbur’s folk.
Romo Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, Lorimbas’s nephew.
Salfalur Shieldbreaker of the clan of the Red Eyes, thirdling commander-in-chief.
Theogil Hardhand of the clan of the Iron Knuckles, sentry.
Fourthling Kingdom
Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, high king and leader of Goïmdil’s folk.
Freelings
Gemmil Callusedhand, king of the freelings.
Sanda Flameheart, queen consort and freeling commander-in-chief.
Myrmianda Alabaster, medic and scholar.
Bramdal Masterstroke, executioner.
HUMANS
Andôkai the Tempestuous, maga and ruler of the enchanted realm of Brandôkai.
The fabulous Rodario, actor and impresario.
Furgas, theater technician and prop master.
Narmora, actress and wife of Furgas.
Dorsa, their daughter.
Rosild, nursemaid.
Prince Mallen of Ido, sovereign of Idoslane.
King Belletain, sovereign of Urgon.
King Bruron, sovereign of Gauragar.
Queen Umilante, sovereign of Sangpûr.
Queen Wey IV, sovereign of Weyurn.
Queen Isika, sovereign of Rân Ribastur.
King Nate, sovereign of Tabaîn.
Truk Elius, functionary in Hillchester.
Hosjep, carpenter.
Aspila, poor woman in Gastinga.
Ertil, cook in Porista.
Lirkim, courtier in Porista.
Nufa, famula of Nudin/Nôd’onn
.
Vallasin, head of Belletain’s army.
OTHERS
Ondori, älf from the kingdom of Dsôn Balsur.
Estugon, älf.
Djern, bodyguard in the service of Andôkai.
Liútasil, Lord of landur, kingdom of the elves.
Ushnotz, orcish prince of Toboribor.
Runshak, Ushnotz’s troop leader.
Acknowledgments
Tungdil and his dwarven friends are on the move!
The first expedition was a great success, with the little fellows proving their mettle in a victory against the odds. Soon the dwarves’ supporters were demanding to know what happened next. Well, a sequel can’t simply rehash the first book: It has to be as good, if not better, while covering new ground. I wanted The War of the Dwarves to be accessible to readers who aren’t familiar with Tungdil and his friends, so I based the story on two new developments: the simmering conflict between the dwarven folks, and the impending threat from the west. Prepare yourselves for some surprises: The story gets very, very dwarven, and you won’t know what’s coming next…
Thanks are due to Angela Kuepper, my editor, as well as to Nicole Schuhmacher, Sonja Rüther, Meike Sewering, Tanja Karmann, and Dr. Patrick Müller, all of whom read the book in its early stages. A special thank-you to Sally-Ann Spencer, translator and friend of the dwarves, who did a great job. Thanks also to my German publisher, Piper Verlag, for giving Tungdil & Co. a good home, and to Orbit for introducing them to the English-speaking world.
extras
meet the author
MARKUS HEITZ was born in 1971 in Germany. He studied history, German language, and literature and won the German Fantasy Award in 2003 for his debut novel, Shadows Over Ulldart. His Dwarves series is a bestseller in Europe. Markus Heitz lives in Zweibrücken.
introducing
If you enjoyed
THE WAR OF THE DWARVES,
look out for
BEST SERVED COLD
by Joe Abercrombie
Springtime in Styria. And that means war.
There have been nineteen years of blood. The ruthless Grand Duke Orso is locked in a vicious struggle with the squabbling League of Eight, and between them they have bled the land white. Armies march, heads roll and cities burn, while behind the scenes bankers, priests and older, darker powers play a deadly game to choose who will be king.
War may be hell but for Monza Murcatto, the Snake of Talins, the most feared and famous mercenary in Duke Orso’s employ, it’s a damn good way of making money too. Her victories have made her popular—a shade too popular for her employer’s taste. Betrayed and left for dead, Murcatto’s reward is a broken body and a burning hunger for vengeance. Whatever the cost, seven men must die.
Her allies include Styria’s least reliable drunkard, Styria’s most treacherous poisoner, a mass-murderer obsessed with numbers and a Northman who just wants to do the right thing. Her enemies number the better half of the nation. And that’s all before the most dangerous man in the world is dispatched to hunt her down and finish the job Duke Orso started…
Springtime in Styria. And that means revenge.
The sun was climbing now, and the bright world was full of color. The blood had drained from the sky and left it a vivid blue, white clouds crawling high above. Below, at the very bottom of a dizzy drop, the river wound through the wooded base of the valley, autumn leaves pale green, burnt orange, faded yellow, angry red, light-glinting silver on fast-flowing water. To the east, the forest crumbled away into a patchwork of fields—squares of fallow green, rich black earth, golden crop. Further still and the river met the grey sea, branching out in a wide delta, choked with islands. Monza could just make out the suggestion of tiny towers there, buildings, bridges, walls. Great Talins, no bigger than her thumbnail.
She narrowed her eyes against the stiff breeze, pushed some stray hair out of her face. “I never tire of this view.”
“How could you? That’s why I built the damn place. Here I can keep one eye always on my subjects, as a watchful parent should upon his children. Just to make sure they don’t hurt themselves while they play, you understand.”
“Your people are lucky to have such a just and caring father,” she lied smoothly.
“Just and caring.” Orso frowned thoughtfully towards the distant sea. “Do you think that is how history will remember me?”
Monza thought it incredibly unlikely. “What did Bialoveld say? History is written by the victors.”
The duke squeezed her shoulder again. “All this, and well-read into the bargain. Ario is ambitious enough, but he has no insight. I’d be surprised if he could read to the end of a signpost in one sitting. All he cares about is whoring. And shoes. My daughter Terez, meanwhile, weeps most bitterly because I married her to a king. I swear, if I had offered great Euz as the groom she would have whined for a husband more fitting of her station.” He gave a heavy sigh. “None of my children understand me. My great-grandfather was a mercenary, you know. A fact I do not like to advertise.” Though he told her every other time they met. “A man who never shed a tear in his life, and wore on his feet whatever was to hand. A low-born fighting man, who seized power in Talins by the sharpness of his mind and sword together.” More by blunt ruthlessness and brutality the way Monza had heard the tale. “We are from the same stock, you and I. We have made ourselves, out of nothing.”
Orso had been born to the wealthiest dukedom in Styria and never done a day’s hard work in his life, but Monza kept that to herself. “You do me too much honor, your Excellency.”
“Less than you deserve. Now tell me of Borletta.”
“You heard about the battle on the High Bank?”
“I heard you scattered the League of Eight’s army, just as you did at Sweet Pines! Ganmark says Duke Salier had three times your number.”
“Numbers are a hindrance if they’re lazy, ill-prepared, and led by idiots. An army of farmers from Borletta, cobblers from Affoia and merchants from Visserine. Amateurs. They camped by the river, thinking we were far away, scarcely posted guards. We came up through the woods at night and caught them at sunrise, not even in their armor.”
“I can see Salier now, the fat pig, waddling from his bed to run!”
“Faithful led the charge. We broke them quickly, captured their supplies.”
“Turned the golden cornfields crimson, I was told.”
“They hardly even fought. Ten times as many drowned trying to swim the river as died fighting. More than four thousand prisoners. Some ransoms were paid, some not, some men were hanged.”
“And few tears shed, eh, Monza?”
“Not by me. If they were so keen to live they could’ve surrendered.”
“As they did at Caprile?”
She stared straight back into Orso’s black eyes. “Just as they did at Caprile.”
“Borletta is besieged, then?”
“Fallen already.”
The duke’s face lit up like a boy’s on his birthday. “Fallen? Cantain surrendered?”
“When his people heard of Salier’s defeat they lost hope.”
“And people without hope are a dangerous crowd, even in a republic.”
“Especially in a republic. A mob dragged Cantain from the palace, hung him from the highest tower, opened the gates and threw themselves on the mercy of the Thousand Swords.”
“Hah! Slaughtered by the very people he labored to keep free. There’s the gratitude of the common man, eh, Monza? Cantain should have taken my money when I offered. It would have been cheaper for both of us.”
“The people are falling over themselves to become your subjects. I’ve given orders they should be spared, where possible.”
“Mercy, eh?”
“Mercy and cowardice are the same,” she snapped out. “But you want their land, not their lives, no? Dead men can’t obey.”
Orso smiled. “Why can my sons not mark my lessons as you have? I entirely approve. Hang only the leaders. And Cantain’s hea
d above the gates. Nothing encourages obedience like a good example.”
“Already rotting, with those of his sons.”
“Fine work!” The Lord of Talins clapped his hands, as though he never heard such pleasing music as the news of rotting heads. “What of the takings?”
The accounts were Benna’s business, and he came forward now, sliding a folded paper from his inside pocket. “The city was scoured, your Excellency. Every building stripped, every floor dug up, every person searched. The usual rules apply, according to our terms of engagement. Quarter for the man that finds it, quarter for his captain, quarter for the generals,” and he bowed low, unfolding the paper and offering it out, “and quarter for our noble employer.”
Orso’s smile spread as his eyes scanned down the figures. “My blessing on the Rule of Quarters! Enough to keep you both in my service a little longer.” He stepped between Monza and Benna, placed a gentle hand on each of their shoulders and led them back through the open windows. Towards the great round table of black marble that stood in the centre of the room and the great map spread out upon it. Ganmark, Ario, and Faithful had already gathered there. Gobba still lurked in the shadows, thick arms folded across his chest. “What of our one-time friends and now our bitter enemies, the treacherous citizens of Visserine?”
“The fields round the city are burned up to the gates, almost.” Monza scattered carnage across the countryside with a few waves of her finger. “Farmers driven off, livestock slaughtered, fields burned. It’ll be a lean winter for the good people of Visserine, and a leaner spring.”
“Excellent,” mused Orso.
“They will have to rely on the noble Duke Rogont and his Osprians,” said Ganmark, with the faintest of smiles.
Prince Ario snickered. “Much talk blows down from Ospria, always, but little help.”
“Visserine is poised to drop into your lap next year, your Excellency.”
“And with it the heart is torn from the League of Eight.”
“The crown of Styria, surely, will be yours.”
The mention of crowns teased Orso’s smile still wider. “And we have you to thank, Monzcarro. I do not forget that.”
