by Markus Heitz
“Yes,” he croaked: fear and the unnatural position made speech difficult.
“Very good,” laughed the stranger. “Think about it. We’re watching, right?” The hand let go of his hair and he received a mighty blow to the back of his head, probably with the handle of the knife. It was enough to disturb his vision for a moment. He could hear the man crawl off, get up and run. The danger was over.
Groaning, Rodario struggled out from under the wagon, stumbled up the steps to his caravan and then inspected the damage in a mirror.
There was a red line all along the front of his throat; the cut was bleeding badly and it was deep. It would be difficult to apply much pressure to the wound, but he made a linen pad and tied a scarf round to hold it in place. He’d go to some healer-woman in the morning. After they’d struck camp and got away.
“The adventure side is getting out of hand. Too much even for my taste,” he murmured, checking the bandage. Looking down at his fingers, sticky with his own blood, he started to feel giddy and sat down suddenly. “Much too much.”
He dealt with the pain by drinking the rest of the wine from the half-full bottle. It was a good thing the archer-woman had hit the lamp and not the bottle.
VI
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Idoslane,
Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Galloping ponies were seldom observed in Girdlegard. The thundering of small hooves did not really sound threatening, but, together with the sight of the grim-faced dwarves in the saddles and the clattering of weapons and armor, it ensured that any pedestrian on the roads would rapidly make way.
“Is it far now?” Boïndil regretted they weren’t using the tunnels—the easiest and quickest way to travel through Girdlegard. He was not particularly good on horseback and he was feeling stiff; his back hurt with each jolt the pony made. And he seemed to have swallowed several flies.
“You’ll manage.” Tungdil showed mercy neither to himself, nor to the ponies, nor to his friend. It was obvious why he was in such a hurry. Apart from the life of his partner Balyndis being at stake there was a diamond that had to be saved. He knew that the stone was far more valuable than it appeared, rough-cut as it was. “Only half an orbit still to go.”
They heard hoof-beats from behind getting closer. A horse came up level with their mounts—but in the saddle sat not a human but a solidly built dwarf! Ax-handles jutted out of the saddle-bags Tungdil could see bouncing up and down, and he could hear metal clanking.
The dwarf was dressed in black and wore dark brown leather armor and heavy boots. The shape of his beard was eccentric and there was blond hair round his mouth and chin but the rest of his face was shaved. Long light blond braids flew back with the wind; there was a black scarf covering his head.
Tungdil recognized him at once. “Bramdal Masterstroke!”
The other dwarf, considerably older, turned to him. “I know you,” he said loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the hooves. “Hillchester, wasn’t it? They mistook you for me.” He pulled hard on the reins to slow his horse down. “And you were off to the freelings. From what I hear, you made it.” They trotted along, side by side. “Who’d have thought you’d turn out a hero?” He smiled and reached down a broad hand. “Good to meet you again, Tungdil.”
Tungdil wasn’t sure how he felt about seeing him again. It had been thanks to Bramdal that he had found the way to the freelings and the city of Trovegold, Bramdal having given him the tip about the pond and the hidden entrance. But at the same time Tungdil despised his trade.
“Bramdal? The executioner? Selling body parts to the long-uns?” asked Ireheart. He sat up in the saddle. “Revolting. And thanks—it was your fault I ended up in that stinking water.”
“You must be Boïndil Doubleblade, then,” Bramdal grinned. “Two heroes off on their next adventure?”
“And you’ll be on your way to the next execution?” replied Tungdil. He did not want to give out any information.
“I’m riding to Porista. King Bruron pays well for my services. I’m training up his executioners.” He shrugged apologetically. “Afraid I can’t stop for a drink and a chat—got to hurry.”
“That means you’ll be doing yourself out of work,” grinned Ireheart.
“Yes. But I don’t care. I’m looking for a new line of work.” Bramdal seemed to have changed his mind about Vraccas’s injunction to protect humans from evil. In Hillchester he had told Tungdil that he was carrying out the dwarf-creator’s wishes by executing human criminals. He considered them malignant, just as other dwarves held orcs to be evil.
“In Trovegold?” Tungdil remembered the freelings’ city, which lay in a high-vaulted mile-long cavern. He heard again how the mighty waterfalls thundered and saw the gardens and the fortress where King Gemmil lived; he saw the dwarf priests praying and heard the hymns they sang echoing away. It had been wonderful, the time he had spent there.
“Going into trade,” said Bramdal. “If anyone knows how to make the equipment an executioner needs, it’s me. Why shouldn’t I use what I know? The kingdoms always need it and we’ve always got the craftsmen.”
“Has anything changed in Trovegold?” asked Tungdil, rather sadly.
“How long since you left?”
“It’ll be quite a few cycles; I’m not quite sure.” But that was a lie. Tungdil knew exactly when he’d last seen Gemmil. It was five cycles ago.
“Oh, a lot has changed. You’d hardly recognize the town. We’ve had to dig up the gardens to build workshops. The cave’s been extended by a mile to make room for everyone.”
“So many children?”
“Not just that: The Five Free Towns have grown in population. Trade with the dwarf realms has made the dwarf folk curious. It’s not just the outcasts who come to us; plenty turn up who want to get away from the clutches of their clans and their families.” Bramdal swiped at a bee that was buzzing around and investigating his jacket. “It’s obvious why the advantages of our community appeal.”
“Not sure about ‘advantages,’ ” grumbled Ireheart. “A dwarf needs stability.” He fell silent.
“May they all achieve happiness: some in the mountains, some below the ground. It’s a good way of life we have. Trade has brought prosperity.” Bramdal saw a crossroads. “Our paths split here. Did you know that Gemmil is dead?”
“No.” The news of the king’s death affected Tungdil, and Boïndil shook his head sadly, too. “How?”
“Murdered. We think it was one of the thirdlings. We caught a dwarf sneaking out of Trovegold, his clothes all covered in blood. He fought the guards like a berserker and killed seven of them before they shot him down. We still have no idea why he did it.”
“To make trouble,” Tungdil guessed. “If he was one of the dwarf-haters he’ll only have wanted to cause strife. It’s a terrible shame that the king who made me and my friends so welcome should die in that way. Who succeeded him?”
“Gordislan Hammerfist.”
“Hammerfist?” Ireheart pricked up his ears. “Did he give himself that name or is he an exile from the clan?
“Do you think it could be a relative of Bavragor Hammerfist?” Tungdil conjured up the picture of the secondling’s best stonemason, a barrel of a dwarf, strongly built, with huge, callused hands. He always wore an eye patch and they called him “the singing drunkard.” He had shown his courage in countless battles at Tungdil’s side and had died for the sake of the group fighting off the orcs at the Dragon’s Breath forge. Without his sacrifice they would never have escaped with the ax Keenfire.
Bramdal shook his head. “I don’t know. If members of the Hammer Fist clan tend to have dark brown eyes with a bit of red in them, then it could be he’s related. At any event, he has quite a tolerance for brandy when there’s a party on.”
Ireheart grinned. “No doubt about it. He’s related to Bavragor.” He grew serious. “What could have made him leave his own clan? I’ve not heard anything.”
“He�
�s been with us in Trovegold for some time.” They’d reached the crossing now and the time for parting was at hand. “A safe onward journey to you both and success in your endeavors,” said the executioner, turning his mount toward Porista. He lifted his hand to urge the horse to a gallop and soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.
“Strange kind of saddle he was using,” Tungdil said. It was a shame he’d not had time to ask about it.
“I’m glad he was going the other way,” said Ireheart, sounding relieved. “Or he’d have started to try and flog us something from his saddlebags. I can do without a thief’s desiccated finger or an adulterer’s pickled eyeball.” He spat. “It’s disgusting, what he does.”
Tungdil didn’t reply. Those few words with Bramdal had reminded him of a happier time in his life. “Trovegold,” he murmured. “I should go there again.”
“Better not,” was Ireheart’s ambiguous recommendation.
At last they reached the lush and luxuriantly blossoming land near the vaults where once Lot-Ionan had resided, one of the mightiest magi of Girdlegard.
Tungdil was pleased to be back, even though he had not been away very long. There was much he needed to tell Balyndis. If she saw how much weight he’d lost since leaving the Gray Range she’d know at once that he had changed.
“There we are,” he called out to Ireheart, pointing to a narrow path. “Relief is at hand for those saddle sores.”
They approached the large gate behind which his own small dwarf world lay hidden. Tungdil’s foster-father Lot-Ionan had spent all his time thinking up new spells, studying old rolls of parchment or training up his famuli. Until, that is, he had crossed magic swords with the traitor Nôd’onn. And lost.
Since that day the magus was nothing but a statue made of stone, lying somewhere in the ruins of Nudin’s palace in Porista. In these current times there was no one with sufficient magic powers to follow in his footsteps. Nor could any provide a replacement for the magic wellspring that had now dried up. That was what everyone had thought, at least. But now, with the news from landur of the mysterious diamond thief and their even more mysterious suit of armor. Someone must be using magic suddenly.
Tungdil stopped, dismounted and stood at the gate, lifting his hand to knock. Then he hesitated.
“Scared, Scholar?” Boïndil slipped out of the saddle and stretched, both hands in the small of his back. “I always knew that Elria was trying to drown us but who is the goddess responsible for creating ponies to torment us with?” He tapped his friend on the shoulder. “You can do it. You are coming home to her as the same Tungdil Goldhand she loved far more than the other one, the one I met a few orbits back in the Gray Range.” With the handle of his crow’s beak he gave three hard blows on the wooden gate.
“That’s all your doing.” Tungdil thanked him once more. “If you hadn’t made me face up to things…”
From the other side of the gate there was the sound of a bolt being drawn back. Then the gate was opened to admit them.
A surprise awaited.
On the threshold stood a female dwarf with long dark blond hair jutting out from under her impressive-looking helmet. Over the black leather raiment there hung a chain shirt hung with metal plates. She also had a protective skirt-like armor covering that reached down to her ankles; her shoes were reinforced with metal.
In her right hand she bore a shield, and in her left a studded flail, a type of morning star. Instead of one spiked iron globe there were three smaller metal balls, which had blades arranged in a circle round each of them. Weight, impetus and those blades, combined, would inflict terrible wounds.
And it was not Balyndis who had the weapon in her hand.
Nevertheless, Tungdil thought he recognized her. “Sanda?” The name slipped out, his voice incredulous. “Sanda Flameheart?”
“By Vraccas! The dead are come to life!” mouthed Ireheart, taking hold of his weapon.
The dwarf-woman smiled and hung the morning star back in its harness. “You are Tungdil Goldhand and Boïndil Doubleblade. Your words make that clear. It is an honor to greet you both.”
Tungdil stepped forward. “You have the advantage of us.” Then he saw that although she looked like Sanda Flameheart, one-time wife to King Gemmil, she was much younger. The down on her face had not turned silver and he’d be surprised if she were more than forty cycles old. Half a child still, but broad and strong as a warrior. Her thirdling ancestry could not be denied. “But who are you?”
She took off her helmet and showed them a friendly, and not quite so round a face. “I am Goda Flameheart from the Steadfasts clan of the thirdlings.” She gave Boïndil a direct, brown-eyed stare. “Sanda Flameheart, who died at your hand, was my great-grandmother.” Ireheart’s face grew pale, in striking contrast to his black beard. “I demand vengeance,” she demanded harshly. “Because you…”
“Where is Balyndis and how did you get in here?” interrupted Tungdil, finding it very strange that his wife had not appeared. He was afraid that Goda in her anger might have harmed her.
“She’s sleeping,” was the answer. “She’s not been well of late.” She stared at Ireheart again. “As I said, I want satisfaction from you, Boïndil Doubleblade.”
Ireheart looked her up and down. Now it occurred to him that running into Bramdal had been no accident. He should have known. “I understand what you want. I shall not fight with you, Goda. You are too young and inexperienced to have a chance against me. Let your clan send one of their warriors, or go and study and come back in fifty cycles and we will fight and you shall have your revenge, if Vraccas has no other plans for me and if he lets the fires in my life-forge continue to blaze.”
The dwarf-woman gathered her long hair into a pony-tail, tying it with a leather thong. The muscles twitched as she lifted her arms. She shook her head defiantly. “There are no others in my clan.” She certainly had the air of a warrior. “I insist.”
“No, by Vraccas. I don’t kill children!”
“So you refuse me? I’ll go through the dwarf-realms from land to land and I’ll blacken your name and say that Boïndil Doubleblade would not give satisfaction. You’ll bring shame on yourself and on the shade of your brother. You’ll be spat on, you and your clan. And they’ll spit on the memory of your brother, the hero.”
Quick as a flash the old rage flared up in the dwarf. The mad spark was back in his eyes, a light that had died five cycles before. He took two swift steps forward. And grabbed Goda by the leather dress she wore.
“No, Boïndil!” warned Tungdil.
“You shall have satisfaction,” he growled furiously to Goda, who stared at him with triumph and fear in her eyes. “Right now?”
“Right now,” she nodded. “Under my conditions?”
“Yes.”
“Swear by Vraccas and on your dead brother.”
Ireheart let go of her, stepped back and took hold of his crow’s beak. “I swear by Vraccas and by Boëndal. “He spat out the words before his friend could stop him. “Whatever happens to you now is your own fault.”
Goda nodded. “You took my great-grandmother away from me and she was forced into exile to live with the freelings. You killed my last living relative.” She drew her weapon. “Now it is your duty to train me.” She bowed her head.
Boïndil had been expecting an attack. It took a while before he realized what she was demanding of him. “Train you? In what, for Vraccas’s sake? Child, I thought…”
“I demanded recompense and you have promised it.”
“That is the satisfaction you are asking for?” The words tumbled out. “I can’t do that. How could I…?”
“Because of you a magnificent female warrior was sent to the forge of the eternal smith. You have stolen any possibility I might have had to take over from her and so it is only right that the one who subjugated Sanda should teach me.” Goda stayed resolute: “I take you at your words—at the words of your oath.” She went up to him and held out her weapon. “We call it the nigh
t star and I’m pretty good at it. What I need is an experienced teacher to show me the tricks to use in battle.”
Tungdil grinned at Ireheart. “Now see what it was like for me with Bavragor. He tricked me just like that,” he said. “I’ll see you inside.” He disappeared into the vaults to look for Balyndis. He wanted to greet her, take her in his arms and surprise her with how he looked now. There would be plenty of time later on for long talks with Goda.
Boïndil stared at the dwarf-woman and felt completely at a loss. It was true, he had sworn an oath. “Right,” he sighed. “I’ll quickly show you a few…”
“No,” said Goda. “You’ll teach me properly and you won’t stop until I’m at least as good as you. Same as my great-granny. And then we’ll fight to decide just how good your training has been.” She raised the night star and the blades grated against each other. “A proper fight, master.”
He rolled his eyes, put the crow’s beak on the ground and leaned his weight on the head of the weapon. “Goda, I may have been a good warrior, but I’m out of practice. And just because I’m a good warrior doesn’t mean I’m any good as a teacher.”
“You can say whatever you want, master; I’m not leaving your side until my training is complete.” The face of the dwarf-woman showed the familiar stubbornness of her people, coupled with the determination of all womankind. “Wherever you go, I’ll be there.”
And she stuck to his heels, as he attempted to enter the vaults, following him at half a pace. “You’re going to leave me in peace some of the time, though?” he asked over his shoulder.
“If you need to relieve yourself, master,” she answered, cockahoop that her trick had worked. “When shall we start the training sessions?”
Boïndil stared straight ahead, and a broad grin spread across his weathered face. He would be so tough with her that she’d leave of her own accord. And then he wouldn’t be breaking his oath. “The training starts now without a break.” He found a pile of old beams that Tungdil had placed tidily against a wall. “Carry those out, one by one and pile them up outside by the gate,” he ordered bad-temperedly.
