The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  The underground halls of a dwarven kingdom are nothing compared to this, she thought sadly, watching as the blood-red sun dropped beneath the jagged edge of the crater.

  She turned and looked up at the palace, a vast and extravagant tower made of bone.

  The bones varied in size, some belonging to men and orcs, others to giants and dragons, while the largest came from terrifying creatures whose names were unknown. Slotting together neatly, they made up the first hundred paces of the palace’s walls, into which bas-reliefs and ornaments had been carved. The walls needed constant reinforcing, owing to the crumbliness of bone, but the älfar had plenty of enemies, so the palace was never in danger of falling down.

  The next eight hundred paces were made of pure elf bone, harvested from the archers of the elven kingdoms. The tower culminated in a slender spire.

  In the dying light of the sun, the walls turned a rich honey-yellow, which darkened to orange and turned a deep crimson, as if the palace were drenched in groundling blood. Ondori never tired of the view.

  “So you’re alive?” said a voice behind her. “Does that mean we can hope for the siblings’ mercy too?”

  Smiling, Ondori turned to see Estugon and her other loyal friends who had accompanied her on the quest to avenge her parents. “The siblings have been most merciful. Our journey isn’t over; tomorrow we leave for the north.”

  The others glanced at each other uncertainly. “You mean we’re not being sent to the front?” asked Estugon, surprised.

  “No, our orders are to claim a share of the orcs’ new kingdom,” said Ondori, raising Keenfire. She quickly explained their mission.

  “It’s hardly a punishment,” commented Estugon, gazing up at the palace. She watched as the sclera of his eyes turned white, revealing his irises. Now that his dark älvish eyes were hidden, he looked as flawlessly beautiful as an elf.

  “Tion has smiled upon us,” he murmured, dropping to his knees. “Thank you, Nagsor and Nagsar Inàste. Your trust will be rewarded.” The others followed his example and kneeled to pray.

  Ondori stood before them and produced a thin-bladed knife. “Stand up so that I might bless you as our lady blessed me,” she said, preparing to perform the ritual that Nagsar Inàste had performed on her. None of her friends flinched as she drew the knife across their foreheads. It was an honor, a distinction, to be marked by the immortal siblings. They would wear the symbol of Nagsor and Nagsar with enduring pride.

  “We should get some rest,” said Ondori. “We’ll need to ride hard if we’re to catch the orcish brutes.”

  “Another chance to kill a few groundlings,” said Estugon happily. “Inàste willed us to find your parents’ murderers in Lesinteïl and destroy them. May her name be praised.”

  “One of the groundlings still lives. My father mentioned three warriors; I saw no sign of the missing twin.”

  “He must have escaped.”

  “Whoever heard of a groundling abandoning his brother and his friends? The others came from the north; I reckon we’ll find our missing warrior with his kinsfolk in the Gray Range. Nagsor and Nagsar were merciful indeed to entrust us with this mission.” She weighed Keenfire in her hand, returned it to her weapons belt, and shook her head. The prospect of having to wield the ax against the orcs filled her with dread. “Why would anyone choose to fight with an ax? You’d think the groundlings would find them heavy and cumbersome. I don’t want to waste my energy levering their clumsy weapon from the corpses of my foes.”

  She left the plateau and started down a staircase of five hundred steps, at the bottom of which her companions had left their mounts. The animals—a collection of shadow mares and a fire bull—were waiting patiently; there was no need to tether them because their obedience was absolute.

  “Groundlings might be small but they’re powerful,” Estugon reminded her. “I suppose it comes from burrowing through rock all the time. I can’t imagine them with swords or longbows—their fingers would be too short.” The others joined in his mocking laughter.

  Ondori went over to Agrass, her powerful fire bull, and examined its hind legs. The dwarf’s axes had cut deep gouges into its flesh, and the loyal animal had been lucky to survive. Scabs had formed over the wounds and the edges were peeling away, revealing new, smooth skin. The bull’s legs would be permanently scarred. Ondori patted its flanks lovingly and swung herself into the saddle.

  Her companions preferred to ride shadow mares, but Ondori considered them too weak for battle. “I know what you think of Agrass,” she told them, turning the bull and rubbing its powerful neck. “But your pretty horses would have died of these wounds.”

  The others laughed. “It’s a shame he’s so slow,” teased Estugon, circling Ondori on his snorting mare.

  The red-eyed bull watched the nervous mare and lowered its head, shaking its fearsome mask. Ondori dug her heels into its flanks to encourage it forward. Using its long horns like a shovel, Agrass scooped up the mare and rider and tipped them over as if they weighed nothing at all.

  “You were saying…?” crowed Ondori as Estugon lay in the dust.

  The mare scrambled up, pawing the ground frantically and raising sparks. It bared its spiked teeth and prepared to strike back. Lowering its head, the bull braced itself for the charge.

  Estugon called back his mare. “All right, you’ve proved your point,” he conceded, swinging himself into the saddle. “Still, you’d never keep up in a race.”

  “Strength and agility are what matters,” she retorted confidently. “I prefer to vanquish my enemies; I don’t need to run away.”

  Turning back, she took a final look at the shimmering lights of her beloved Dsôn, letting her gaze linger on its sinister glow. Many orbits would pass before she next saw the city; whether it would still be standing, only Samusin and Tion could tell.

  7 Miles From the Fifthling Kingdom,

  Gray Range,

  Girdlegard,

  Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

  Myrmianda’s fingers peeled back the dressings. She seemed satisfied that the wounds were healing nicely. “Well done, Tungdil,” she said, head bent over his chest.

  “The credit’s all yours,” he said, relieved. “You stopped the infection.”

  “You’re tough enough to fight an infection on your own.” She exchanged the dry compress for a new wad of moss and replaced the bandages carefully. The old compress was consigned to the campfire and went up in flames. “You’ll be as strong as granite by the time you fight the orcs.” At last, as Tungdil was hoping she would, she looked up and smiled.

  A smile from Myrmianda was guaranteed to lift his spirits. Tungdil was fast becoming attached to the slender freeling, and Myr, as he was permitted to call her, seemed to value his company as well. No topic of conversation was too obscure or esoteric, and Tungdil was reminded of the lively discussions in Lot-Ionan’s school. With Myr to talk to, the long orbits of marching became a pleasure, not a chore.

  It wasn’t often that Tungdil came across someone who knew as much as he did, but in Myr he found a kindred spirit. The freeling was undeniably pretty, but her mind was every bit as attractive as her face. Each was perfect in itself, and they complemented each other superbly, like an anvil and a forge.

  “As strong as granite, eh?” Smiling, he stretched out his arms while she helped him into the jerkin and mail shirt loaned to him by Gemmil. “I’ll hold you to that.” He wandered away to join Boïndil by the fire.

  “Thank you, Vraccas,” he whispered. “Thank you for leading me to the freelings’ realm.” After the pain of losing Balyndis, he was dreading the orbit when Myr would go home. He could visit her for a time, but he couldn’t stay forever—he was committed to rebuilding the fifthlings’ halls. Or am I? The fifthling kingdom was Glaïmbar’s responsibility, now that he was king.

  What am I to do? Deep in thought, he stared across the fire at Myr as she packed away her instruments. The strength of his feelings surprised him.

  “Got a crus
h on her, scholar?” teased Boïndil, who was melting some cheese in the fire. “What’s the use of being clever if you can’t resist a pretty face?”

  There was something about his tone that prompted Tungdil to ask, “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  “Me? Jealous? Of course not!” Boïndil nibbled on the cheese, grunted discontentedly, and returned it to the fire. “Who do you take me for? I’m not a lovesick maiden, I’m a warrior! Warriors don’t get jealous, they get… disappointed, I suppose.” He inclined his head toward Myr. “Who am I supposed to talk to while you’re chatting with her?” He waved the skewer above the flames. “The other outcasts aren’t exactly talkative, I can tell you.” Aggrieved, he slid the cheese from the skewer and stuffed it into his mouth with a thick slice of bread.

  “Did you want to talk about something specifically?”

  “Just things,” said Boïndil indistinctly, still chomping on the bread. “About the älfar who attacked us. About the strange bull and its fearsome horns. About how we’re going to manage without Keenfire. About Boëndal. About whether the runts are attacking our kinsfolk. About the rune we found in the Outer Lands.” He reeled off the list, his voice increasing in volume with every word. “I’ve heard you, scholar, tying your tongue in knots to impress that albino rabbit. I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve forgotten why we’re here.”

  The conversation around them stopped. Myr, who was explaining something to a couple of freelings, broke off and stared in silence at the warrior.

  Tungdil had a bad feeling about the situation. Boïndil’s inner furnace was burning high, he hadn’t used his axes for orbits, and he was desperate to avenge their fallen companions. But Tungdil’s uneasiness also stemmed from guilt; he had upset his friend.

  The warrior took another bite of cheese, this time crunching through the skewer. Too agitated to notice, he ground the wood between his teeth. “You’ve got a mighty short memory, Tungdil Goldhand.”

  “You said to forget her,” said Tungdil weakly.

  “I said to forget about getting melded to her,” barked the warrior, who obviously deemed it unnecessary to lower his voice. “Not about everything else! Doesn’t duty mean anything to you?”

  “Duty?” exclaimed Tungdil. “I’m tired of hearing about duty. Everyone wants to talk about duty—Lot-Ionan, the late high king, the dwarven assembly, and now you. I’ve had enough! From now on, I’ll decide what I’m going to do, and the kings, the chieftains, and the clans can—”

  “Oh really?” interrupted Boïndil heatedly. “Is that what you’ve learned from the outlaws and thieves? I suppose you don’t know any better—you didn’t grow up in a dwarven kingdom. You’re not a proper…” He bit off another section of skewer and clamped his mouth shut. Wood splintered between his teeth.

  It was too late already; Tungdil knew exactly what his friend had intended to say. He glared at him angrily. “Go on, Boïndil. You may as well say it to my face. I know what my kinsfolk say about me in private.” When no answer was forthcoming, he carried on. “Tungdil Goldhand is a thirdling, a foundling raised by men, a warrior who only became a hero because he alone could wield the ax.” He stared into the flames. “If the late high king hadn’t sent for me, I wouldn’t be here at all. If it weren’t for him, I’d be shoeing horses for the humans or earning my keep as a freeling smith. It’s not my fault you’re saddled with me.”

  Boïndil was already regretting his words. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, hoping to repair the damage. “Without you, Girdlegard would be ruled by Nôd’onn and…” He gave up and tried another tack. “Forget what I said,” he pleaded. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  Tungdil smiled sadly and laid a hand on his shoulder. “No, Boïndil, you spoke from the heart and so did I.” He got up and walked away from the fire. His friend started to follow, but Myrmianda signaled that she would go.

  She found him under a tree, passing a pebble from hand to hand.

  “I didn’t realize that being a hero was so difficult,” she said, sitting next to him on the grass. “I heard what Boïndil said: You were in love with a maiden and it didn’t work out.”

  He sighed. Now she’ll get the wrong idea… “Her name was Balyndis Steelfinger. She and I were going to get melded and live together in the Gray Range.”

  “But she broke off the engagement because her clansfolk disapproved,” finished Myr. “Listen, Tungdil, you’ll get over her eventually,” she soothed him. Her fingers reached for the pebble, and for a moment, they held hands. “Maybe I can mend your heart,” she whispered, withdrawing her fingers slowly.

  “Myr, I’ve been meaning to tell you…” Tungdil felt suddenly sick with nerves as if he were traveling through the tunnels of the underground network at breakneck speed.

  Myr shuffled over until she was facing him and laid a slender finger on his lips. “It’s all right, Tungdil. I’m not promised to anyone, and the decision is mine to make as I please. I’ve never met anyone who knows half as much as you. I don’t care a jot about your lineage; I like you for who you are. Besides, I’ve met plenty of thirdlings who are perfectly decent dwarves.” Moonlight shimmered on her pale hair and downy cheeks, bathing her in silvery light, and her red eyes sparkled alluringly. “Don’t be afraid to let your heart bleed—it’s nature’s way of cleaning the wound.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his brow. “Wait until you’re sure that healing, not vengeance, is what you yearn for. If the warmth you feel is more than a passing spark, come to me, and I will nurse your broken heart.” She sat back on her heels and looked up at the sky.

  Together they contemplated the starry firmament above the Gray Range. “Thank you,” said Tungdil after a while.

  “I was only telling you how I feel,” she said simply.

  “Yes, but you’re so understanding. You’ve done so much for me,” he said fervently. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

  “My pleasure,” replied Myr with a tinkling laugh that charmed Tungdil’s ears. “It’s not often that I meet a dwarf like you—educated, battle-hardened, and handsome.”

  He lowered his head bashfully.

  “Oh goodness, I’ve embarrassed you,” she apologized. “Maybe we should talk about something else like Boïndil suggested—the älfar, or Keenfire, or even about the Outer Lands. The two of you have been there, haven’t you? What’s it like?”

  “Foggy,” said Tungdil with a wry smile. His mind traveled back to their expedition to the Northern Pass and he described how he and Boïndil had left the safety of Girdlegard and wandered for hours in the fog. A shiver ran down his back.

  Myr hunched her shoulders as if she too could feel the sinister fog. “I don’t know how you kept your cool in such a dreadful place—I would have charged around in a panic and tumbled into a crevasse. It’s a shame we don’t know more about the dwarves who live there. What did you call them? Undergroundlings?”

  “They’re hardly mentioned in our records.” Tungdil looked at her intently. “How old are you, Myr? You know an awful lot.”

  She beamed. “I’m still young—104 cycles. I can’t really remember my parents—they were killed by rockfall when I was a child. My adoptive parents were new to the realm. They brought a lot of books from their kingdom. Miraculously, the volumes survived the journey through the pond, and that’s how I learned to read. I studied those books until I knew every line and every rune by heart.”

  “No wonder you know so much.”

  “That was just the start,” she said, smiling. “After that, I wanted to read more. I must have knocked on every door in the city, asking for books. I was so busy reading that it didn’t occur to me that dwarves are supposed to be metalworkers and warriors.” She laughed. “There goes Myr, carrying her books,” she said, putting on a mocking voice. “Isn’t she skinny?” She gave him a dig in the ribs. “Imagine my satisfaction when I found myself stitching the wounds of the dwarves who teased me for reading. I took my time with those stitches, I can tell you.” She mimed pul
ling the needle very slowly through the skin.

  “Ouch!” exclaimed Tungdil. “But tell me, did your real parents have… I mean, did you get your…” He broke off, wondering how to frame the question.

  Myr seemed to know what he meant. “Did my parents look like albino rabbits? Yes, my parents and my grandparents were freelings—they were born in our realm. I think the paleness comes from—”

  “… generations of living underground,” chimed in Tungdil excitedly, pleased to see his hypothesis confirmed. “Salamanders are the same.” It occurred to him belatedly that the comparison was likely to cause offense. Fearing that Myr would be angry, he fell over himself to explain.

  “I expect you’re right,” she said, sharing his excitement. “Most of my kinsfolk never venture to the surface. Why would they? Our realm is more than big enough. We’re not accustomed to living in traditional dwarven strongholds. It’s a good thing the fifthling kingdom is just around the corner—I can hardly wait to find out what it’s like.”

  “Right now, it’s unfinished,” said Tungdil, thinking of the construction work. He was more interested in talking about the freelings’ realm. “What’s your architecture like?”

  “You’d like our cities—lots of multistoried stone buildings in great big grottos, with skies of rock and twinkling gems. We’ve got lakes as well, and some of my kinsfolk can fish from their windows. They set up their rods and wait for a bite.”

  Tungdil couldn’t begin to imagine what life would be like with the freelings. Still, it was good that Myr had spoken of cities in the plural: Gemmil had more than one settlement in his realm. “How many dwarves—”

  Laughing, she got to her feet and held out her hand. “Come on, the others will be wondering where we’ve got to. I’ve given away too many of our secrets—you’ll have to visit us if you want to learn more.”