by Markus Heitz
“But how were you able to cut off its head with a dagger?” The jealous fiancé was not giving up.
“A knife-thrust to the heart was enough, sir.”
The girl’s betrothed looked over at the orc. “Excuse me, Gilspan, but the soldiers I’ve talked to always say you’ve got to cut the creatures’ heads off to properly do away with them.”
It went very quiet. Everyone was staring at the stuffed creature posed in the corner with its bared fangs, a remarkably lifelike figure in the dim light.
“Wasn’t it standing a bit differently when we came in?” whispered the damsel fearfully, sliding nearer to Gilspan. Her betrothed took her arm and pulled her back to his side.
“Yes, you’re right.” Her father went pale. “I swear by Palandiell he had his sword held upright before, not down in front of him.”
“What’s this? A horror story to frighten little children? I pulled his innards out through his doublet myself,” said the landlord. He went up to the creature.
There was a loud creaking noise and the upper torso of the orc turned in Gilspan’s direction.
The women screamed. The men drew their swords. “You idiot of a man! You’ve brought the evil one right into your own house!”
Gilspan was completely bewildered. He wanted to reply but the orc started making its way over, raising its sword arm and lunging at him.
The man disappeared screaming under the monster. He dropped his dagger, crawled out from beneath his attacker, slid under the nearest table and cried for help like an old spinster.
Upstairs, doors were opening, boots came clattering down the stairs and lanterns were brought to give a better light.
The orc lay motionless on the floor and laughed. And laughed and laughed… As more and more lamps came on the scene they saw it was not the monster, but a dwarf lying there, helpless with laughter. He got up and stood by the bar counter, slapping himself on the thigh.
His laughter infected the room, not least because of the relief everyone felt, and then because of Gilspan the hero quivering underneath the table.
Boïndil had played a joke on them all and had made the monster come to life by groaning a bit, pushing it and rocking it where it stood. “Now, my little linnet,” he said, bending down to look under the table. “Where is your bold courage now? Where did you get the orc?”
“I…” Gilspan was obviously thinking up a new lie.
“Think hard who you’re trying to trick here,” warned Ireheart, shaking a fist in his face.
“Bought it. I bought it, four cycles ago,” he admitted ruefully. “Like all the other stuff on the walls.” The guests laughed at him as he crawled out from his hiding place.
“Rotten stinking dwarf! You’ve ruined everything!”
“Me? It’s you who’ve ruined everything by your cowardice. If you’d been the man you pretend to be and had launched yourself at your attacker, everyone would be admiring you.” Boïndil nodded to the girl’s fiancé. “Well spotted. You do have to cut off their heads so that evil doesn’t restore their powers.” He raised his crow’s beak hammer and slung it through the creature’s head, severing the dried vertebrae so that the skull was caught on the weapon’s long spike. “It’d be really dead now.” He smashed the bone on the counter and fragments scattered far and wide. “Best to be on the safe side,” he grinned, shouldering his hammer.
The next day they continued their journey to landur.
Tungdil had slept through the tumultuous doings of the night. He got up in the morning, woken by Boïndil, and got ready for the journey in silence. Without stopping for breakfast they set off in a southwesterly direction.
The ponies trotted tirelessly on, following the road. They were surrounded by a richly varied landscape: it was still mountainous here, although a dwarf would call it hilly; sometimes they rode along the side of a ravine, sometimes through wide valleys, and then again across uplands from where they had a view over the wilder North Gauragar. They saw no thick forests: for that the soil was too poor.
Ireheart at the head of the column had some food on the way; Tungdil had bought a bottle of brandy from the innkeeper. He continued where he had left off the previous evening.
His friend looked back at him, shaking his head. “Do you really think drinking makes it better? You could have learned a lesson from Bavragor.”
Tungdil paid no attention and lifted the bottle once more to his cracked lips.
“That’s enough! It’s not going to bring Balodil back, Scholar!” Boïndil turned his pony round and rode back. “Make use of your life and respect his memory instead of wallowing in self-pity and making a fool of yourself.”
“No, it won’t bring Balodil back,” murmured Tungdil. “I told you, I’m drinking myself to death.” He belched, spat, and drank again.
“You want to die?” Ireheart jumped down out of the saddle, grabbed the startled dwarf by the collar of his leather doublet under the mail shirt and pulled him to the ground. He dragged him over to the edge of the precipice they were on. “You really want to die?” In a fury he wrested the brandy bottle out of his grasp and hurled it down the cliff. After a long fall it shattered, leaving a dark stain on the rock. “Then go after it!” he thundered. “Put an end to your miserable existence. Do it right now. But stop the self-pity. The lowliest of creatures has more dignity than you.”
Tungdil could not escape from Boïndil’s steel-hard grip. Without mercy the dwarf-twin pressed his face down over the drop.
A warm breath of wind came up from below, playing gently around his face as if inviting him to jump.
“Well, Scholar?” fumed Ireheart. “You say you want to die. Get on with it!” He grabbed the mail shirt and pulled with all his amazing strength. From somewhere deep inside, Tungdil’s instinct to resist awoke. It was a boundless urge, knowing neither rhyme nor reason. There was nothing to live for and yet still he held back and refused to take his place in the Eternal Smithy—if indeed there was a place for him there. He grasped the stunted grass, scraping his fingertips open on the stone. The pain cleared his alcohol-befuddled head.
“LET GO!” yelled Boïndil in his ear. “I’m making it easy for you and stopping you from wasting yet more money on brandy and beer.” He gave Tungdil a mighty kick in the side.
Tungdil cowered in pain, losing his grip. The top half of his body now lay over the cliff edge. “No, no!” he called out in desperation. “You…”
“I’ll tell them you were protecting me from bandits,” Ireheart continued relentlessly. “People will think of you as a hero who died in time to salvage the meager remains of his reputation.”
Another kick met Tungdil’s ribs. Yelling, he slid forward. Stones broke away and rolled down the steep slope, raising small clouds of dust on the way.
“NO!” Gathering the last of his strength, Tungdil pushed himself up off the ground, throwing his weight backwards. He hurled himself back, dragging Boïndil with him, and together they fell onto safer ground. “I’ve… changed… my mind,” he panted.
“Oh, and where does this sudden change of heart come from?”
Tungdil took a deep breath. “I can’t say. There’s a voice inside that won’t let me.”
“A voice called fear?”
Tungdil shrugged his shoulders. “No. No, it was something else. Life itself, I expect.”
“The voice of Vraccas,” replied Boïndil, getting up and proffering his hand. “He will need you and your Keenfire blade soon enough. New enemies are threatening your race. Perhaps it is your destiny to defeat them.”
Tungdil let himself be helped up, then he went over to the cliff edge and looked over. Only one small step and his troubles would be gone. He raised his foot… and again he felt the inner barrier.
“Still got a death wish?” growled his friend.
“No,” answered Tungdil slowly. “I wanted to be sure that I really want to live.” He turned away from the edge.
Ireheart held out the reins of his pony to him and Tungdil
took them. “That is what you want. I would have pushed you over if you hadn’t fought against me with all your strength.” His voice was earnest. “It’s the only way to find out if someone really wants to die.” A crooked smile crossed his face. “Believe me—I’ve been through the same treatment as you.”
“You were in despair at the death of your brother.” Tungdil understood now and watched the warrior climb back into the saddle.
“Half of me died when he did. Perhaps it was the better half. The other half dissolved into pitiless grief until I was convinced I wanted to die. Someone did to me what I just did to you and that made me see I preferred to be amongst the living rather than the dead. Vraccas knows why.” Grinning, he pointed to the road ahead. “But sending us to the elves is taking it a bit far.” He spurred his pony onwards.
Tungdil laughed quietly. “You’re right. Vraccas knows why.”
The shock of his salvation gave Tungdil now an extreme clarity of thought he had not known since before the death of his son. He had done everything wrong. For the past four cycles he had done everything wrong.
There was only one way out. He vowed to himself that he would return to Balyndis as soon as he could and beg her forgiveness for everything. The bitter words, the constant drinking, the rejection whenever she had tried to touch him. He could not forgive himself. Deep in thought, he stroked his pony’s soft muzzle.
Ireheart was a few paces ahead. “Coming, Scholar?” he called. “Or is the pony giving you some advice?”
“No,” Tungdil called back. “It’s telling me I’m too fat.”
“You should have asked me. I could have told you that.”
Tungdil took the pony by the reins and started to run. “You are a good friend,” he said and it was not clear which of the two he meant. The exercise would not hurt him, and it was a good few miles still to landur. Time to lose a few pounds.
IV
Girdlegard,
Queendom of Weyurn, Mifurdania,
Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle
Mind out, Rodario!” He heard Tassia’s warning just in time. He ducked, the slops aimed at his back missing him by inches and hitting the girl instead. She cried out and stumbled backwards into Mifurdania’s floodwaters, which washed the pail’s stinking contents from her dress.
“That’s good luck,” grinned Rodario, punching an injured pursuer full in the face as he was trying to jump onto the walkway from one of the boats. The thug landed in the water. Then the actor spun around, beaming. “Master Umtaschen? You haven’t forgotten me? Delighted to find you still so lively.”
“You foul seducer!” shouted the older man, who had attacked so suddenly with the bucket. “She was promised to the judge’s son. He would have none of her with your bastard in her belly!” He swung the bucket again. “I’ll have your balls off for that!”
“Master Umtaschen, it was your daughter who seduced me,” retorted Rodario, fending off the pail. “And I wasn’t the first. Believe me, I’d have noticed.” He grabbed the bucket and hurled it at the last of the band of pursuers Nolik’s father had sent after them.
The man, who had been balancing precariously debating his next move, was sent flying into the water to join Tassia and his comrade in thuggery.
“At least the others didn’t make her pregnant!” Umtaschen roared, swinging both fists.
“If that is the case, Master Umtaschen, I’ll be happy to meet with her again and show her a good time. It seems I have your blessing as long as I’m careful where I aim this time,” laughed Rodario as he took a sudden step forward.
Umtaschen sprang back out of range inside his house. “We’re not done yet!” he threatened and disappeared as fast as he could when Rodario gave a warning stamp with his foot.
Someone splashed him. He turned round.
A girl’s hand waved from below the edge of the landing stage. “Help me up before the other two get me,” Tassia called and he hurried over to haul her out. As she stood in front of him soaked to the skin, he could see how the water had made her dress transparent.
The two who had been following them had given up and were swimming back to their three colleagues on the other side of the canal.
“What do we do now?” asked Tassia, smoothing back her wet fair hair. In Rodario’s eyes she was temptation itself. “They’re bound to have gone to the Curiosum.”
“They didn’t find the necklace there so they think one of us has it,” Rodario said and nodded. “Hey, you blockheads!” he called out to the men, pretending to be holding something. “You want the necklace? Think again! Tell Nolik’s father we’re going to sell it. He can come to Mifurdania and buy it back.” One of the heavies was about to clamber onto the string of tethered boats, but Rodario moved up to the end of the landing stage. “Stop right there! If anyone follows us we’ll chuck the necklace into one of the canals and you can go diving for it.” A gesture from his leader stopped the man in his tracks. “Well done,” the actor praised him, taking Tassia’s hand and running off. “Stay where you are!” he warned and ran off round the corner with a laugh.
When they were passing under an awning formed by garments drying on a washing line, Tassia stopped. “Wait! Give me a leg up!”
Rodario did as she asked, and she placed one foot on his locked hands and wedged her other foot against the wall; sprightly, as if on solid ground, she filched a dark yellow dress from the line and jumped down again. Without taking any note of her surroundings she stripped off her wet clothing and slipped into the stolen garment; then she gave Rodario a passionate kiss, laughed and ran off.
“This wild creature will be the end of me or the making of me,” he grinned, hurrying after her.
Late in the afternoon they finally arrived at the forge where Lambus worked. Rodario wanted to thank him and to get a few more details about where Furgas might be.
The inner gate to the forge stood open. A fire burned in the furnace and two pieces of metal lay red-hot in the flames waiting to be worked on. They couldn’t see the blacksmith.
“Lambus, you old iron-basher,” called Rodario. “Are you here?” He stepped into the half light but before his eyes could adapt to the dark he tripped over something on the ground. “What the…?” He bent down and saw what had nearly made him fall: a young man’s outstretched legs. In the man’s side there was a gaping hole. Blood had spread over the floor. “Mind out, Tassia,” he warned the girl, who was hot on his heels. “There’s been a murder.”
“Perhaps one of the heavies sent by Nolik’s father?” She peered over his shoulder and went pale. She stepped back, retching, then turned and fled for the door to get fresh air.
Rodario studied the brutal wounds: the work of a very sharp ax. “I don’t think so. Those men didn’t have weapons that could make injuries like these.” Rodario got up and went over to look at the iron objects in the furnace. One of them could indeed have been an ax head. “Lambus?” he called out, taking a poker and moving slowly into the dark recesses at the back of the forge.
At that point a figure jumped out of the shadows at him.
With great presence of mind Rodario stepped to one side and a dagger just missed his throat. “Assassin!” he shouted and took a wild swing with the poker, hitting the dark-clad attacker full in the face so he collapsed in a groaning heap. The knife clattered to the floor. To be on the safe side he gave the man another blow with the poker, then grabbed him and dragged him over to the part of the outbuilding where there was better light. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
He saw a dirty face marked with burns. The man was a good fifty cycles old and looked more like a simple workman than a professional killer. The poker blow had broken his nose and knocked out two of his teeth. There was blood coming out of his nostrils and his mouth. In a daze, he was trying to break away, but couldn’t.
“Tassia, bring me a red-hot iron!” Rodario requested. “We can pierce his tongue with it.”
“No, let me go,” he mumbled, terrified. “He’ll kill
them if I’m not back on time.”
“Did you kill this man?” Rodario picked up the glowing metal and held it in the man’s face. His eyes widened in fear. “Who sent you and where is Lambus?”
The man was trembling like a fish on a hook. “I don’t know. Ilgar did it because the boy refused to come along and he threatened to betray us.”
Each answer brought more questions in its wake. “Get the story out, old man, or I swear—by Samusin—I’ll put out your eyes with this iron.” Rodario threatened the man again, putting on his most villainous expression, a face that went down well on stage. Not for a moment did he really intend to harm the old man any further.
“Are you a friend of the blacksmith?” the man asked, coming to his senses. “If so, by the grace of Palandiell, don’t tell anyone what you’ve seen. Tell them Lambus is off on his travels. Get rid of the boy’s body. That’s the only way your friend will ever be able to come back.”
“Is Furgas in the power of whoever’s got Lambus?” asked Rodario, guessing wildly. “He’s about my size, black hair and…”
The man’s face changed suddenly. He looked surprised. “You know the magister?”
“He’s my best friend.”
The man spat in his face. “May all the demons…”
Rodario heard a faint swishing noise, one he knew well from his adventures outside the world of theater. A jolt—and the man fell slack in his grip. An arrow shaft stuck out from the man’s back. Death had been instantaneous.
“Get down, Tassia. Get under cover,” called Rodario, going to one side to crouch down behind a heap of coal, and wiping the bloody spittle out of his face. There had been many times in his life when things had happened beyond his understanding, but so far, this was the height of not-understanding.
Quiet steps could be heard approaching; Rodario could hear the creak of leather armor straps, and iron rings clanked. There was the sound of a sword being drawn. When he saw a boot next to him he took hold of the tongs and dropped the red-hot metal down inside.
