The War of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  Narmora raised her eyebrows and smiled sympathetically at the archivist, before following the maga out of the room. “I’m going to check on Dorsa,” she told her mentor. “Who knows, I might be in time to stop Rosild unpacking our trunks.” Without waiting for the maga’s approval she hurried through the corridors of the vaulted building, once home to Palandiell’s priests before the temple was converted to a library and a new place of worship built in honor of the goddess.

  She found her daughter in the arms of Rosild, the nursemaid employed by Andôkai for the duration of the trip. Rosild was still young and her breasts were plump with milk. It was a mystery to Narmora why the maid had agreed to leave her own small child and her family to accompany them on their journey. Unless she was forced…

  “She’s a thirsty wee thing,” said Rosild. She smiled proudly. “See, she’s putting on weight.” She handed the baby to Narmora, who noticed the difference at once. The maid seemed to be gathering the courage to say something. She took a step forward. “There’s something else I’ve noticed,” she said nervously.

  “She’s filling out nicely—”

  “No, I don’t mean that.” Rosild adjusted the blanket to reveal Dorsa’s right ear. “Maybe it’s just me, but the tip of her ear looks pointed.” She paused, waiting for confirmation or perhaps a word of praise. “It’s only a little thing, but she’ll be teased for it later,” she added when Narmora was silent. “We used to trim the ears of our hunting dogs at home. I don’t see why it wouldn’t work on a—”

  “No,” said Narmora firmly. “No one lays a hand on my daughter. She’ll look fine when she’s older, I’m sure.” She tucked the ear under the blanket. “I don’t want you speaking of this to anyone, do you hear?”

  Rosild nodded, her gaze lingering briefly on Narmora’s red headscarf. She looked away quickly.

  “Very good, Rosild. Pack our trunks—we’re leaving in an hour.”

  With her daughter on her arm, she left the chamber and made herself comfortable in the great hall where a fire was roaring in an open hearth. The warmth drove out the cold of the wind and the spray, and Narmora and her child enjoyed the respite.

  “We’ll be back in the sunshine soon,” she assured the sleeping Dorsa.

  Gastinga, the village that they were heading for, lay further inland, and Narmora was looking forward to escaping from the damp.

  The journey to Wind Chime Island hadn’t been easy. Following the quake, the lakes that covered fifty per cent of Weyurn’s surface had overflowed, their waters combining to form great reservoirs. The flooding had claimed a handful of casualties, and the survivors had taken their misfortune in their stride, as Narmora and Andôkai had observed. Most had abandoned their homes and moved to one of Weyurn’s many islands. The majority of Weyurnians lived on the lakes.

  Narmora didn’t like the thought of it. To her mind, the islands seemed dangerously impermanent, and she was sure that some of them pitched and rolled with the waves.

  It was said that a few of the smaller islets floated across the lakes like croutons in soup. The islanders floated with them, putting down anchor wherever the fishing was particularly good. Narmora felt queasy at the notion of drifting to and fro.

  When the first log, a vast piece of timber bigger than the average man, had burned to a cinder, Narmora piled on more. Physically, she wasn’t strong enough to shift the logs from the woodpile at the end of the hall to the hearth in the middle, so she used magic instead. As if lifted by an invisible hand, four logs rose in the air and traveled through the hall, lowering themselves dutifully onto the flames and catching fire.

  By now, simple spells came easily to Narmora, and she performed the conjuration while singing softly to Dorsa in the tongue of her mother, a beautiful, melancholy language that Furgas loved to hear.

  The thought of Furgas reminded her to send a prayer to Samusin and Tion, entreating them to keep him well. Rodario had sworn solemnly to do everything in his power for Furgas, and on this occasion she believed him. He knew as well as she did that Furgas was in a critical state.

  “Andôkai told me to fetch you,” said Rosild behind her. “She’s ready to leave.”

  Narmora stopped singing abruptly.

  “What a lovely song,” observed the maid. “What language was it? I couldn’t make sense of the words.”

  “I made it up,” said Narmora, clasping the sleeping Dorsa and rising to her feet. “It’s nonsense really, but Dorsa seems to like it.” She left the room, taking care not to meet the maid’s gaze.

  “You’ll have to teach it to me,” decided Rosild, shouldering her bags and following her mistress outside.

  Fifthling Kingdom,

  Girdlegard,

  Late Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

  Balyndis ran her hand over the mail-clad arm, feeling the powerful wrist and the formidable muscle beneath her fingertips as she groped her way toward the shoulder. She checked the alignment of the spaulders and breastplate. Fitting armor to a warrior over twice her size was quite a challenge, and wearing a blindfold made things worse.

  Orbits had passed while she hammered the plates into shape. Some required hinges, while others were simply laced together—although the instructions called for metal cable instead of standard leather thongs.

  He won’t be undressing in a hurry, thought Balyndis, who was beginning to wonder whether Djern ever removed his armor at all.

  The final adjustments could be made only while the giant was wearing the suit, so Balyndis had blindfolded herself securely, remembering how Tion’s beasts had screamed in terror on seeing Djern’s face. To make doubly sure, she kept her eyes closed whenever her head was turned toward him.

  The maga’s measurements were incredibly precise. Most of the plates fitted perfectly, and a tap of the hammer brought the others into line.

  Once the fit of the armor had been verified, Balyndis could set about patterning the armor as the maga had prescribed. Some of the runes were to be engraved, others etched with acid, and thin strips of gold and silver hammered into the grooves.

  Since starting work, Balyndis had noticed a strange noise, similar to a growl, that seemed to be coming from Djern, although his chest was completely still.

  To Balyndis’s surprise, his warm breath smelled fresh. She had expected him to stink like an orc, so either the smells of the smithy were masking the stench, or Djern was cleaner than she had thought. There was no obvious evidence of perspiration, whereas a man wearing a full suit of armor could be smelled from a hundred paces or more.

  Balyndis worked swiftly. She strapped the plates around his arms and instructed him to flex his muscles while she listened intently. The joints were perfect—no grating or creaking to indicate rubbing or stress.

  Relieved, she climbed down from the platform and returned to the anvil. Lifting her blindfold, she reached for Djern’s helmet. The shiny demonic visor contrasted strikingly with the matt surrounds, and a thin strip of black tionium emphasized the ferocious eyes. Proudly, she wiped the helmet with a cloth and added a drop of oil to the hinges.

  “All done,” she called, not knowing whether the giant could understand her. “If this isn’t enough to frighten your enemies, I don’t know what will.” She tied the blindfold around her head and picked up the helmet, remembering to collect the skullcap, made of leather-lined mail. With her free hand, she felt her way along the rope leading back to the giant.

  Just then disaster struck.

  Balyndis stepped on something, probably a lump of coal. Her foot slid away from her.

  She skidded, overbalanced, and flung out her arms to break her fall. The helmet whizzed past her, one of the spikes coming within a knife’s edge of her eye. It snagged on her blindfold and pulled it off.

  The next Balyndis knew, she was sprawled on the floor, arms stretched in front of her, skullcap and helmet clutched in one hand. Raising her head, she looked up and froze.

  Djern was leaning against the anvil in front of her—and her blindfold was
off.

  Balyndis had seen some unpleasant sights in her time. She had fought in gruesome battles, dueled with hideous orcs and plug-ugly ogres, and waded in rivers of blood and spilt intestines. As a warrior, she was unshakable; but the visage before her filled her with terror.

  Her mouth opened in a silent scream.

  Massive fangs protruded from Djern’s jaws, strong enough to bite through the toughest sinew and crush the strongest bone. The giant’s skull resembled that of a human, only many times bigger, and his skin looked pale and sickly, revealing the yellow blood in his pulsing veins. He had no ears, and his nose consisted of two triangular holes.

  His enormous eyes bored into the stricken dwarf. Slowly, he straightened up, walked over, and reached out an armored hand, the fingers of which could crush boulders.

  He knows I’ve seen him. Dear Vraccas, he’ll kill me. Balyndis tried to run away, but her stomach was cemented to the ground.

  His fingers closed around her mail shirt and lifted her into the air. Trembling, she let go of the skullcap and the helmet, but Djern caught them before they hit the floor. He strode toward the platform, deposited Balyndis on top of it, and placed the skullcap and helmet in her hands. His little finger stretched toward her, sliding the blindfold over her eyes.

  She blinked in confusion. He spared me! The strange growling noise resumed, which she took to mean that Djern was ready for her to continue. In any case, it was clear that she was never to mention that she had looked on his face.

  Taking a deep breath, she commanded her trembling fingers to be still. A little clumsily at first, then with more assurance, she fitted the skullcap and lowered the helmet over his head, removing her blindfold as soon as the terrifying visage was hidden behind the gleaming visor. Sighing with relief, she got down from the platform and took a few paces back to admire her work.

  Djern drew himself up to his full height.

  Balyndis felt a rush of admiration for the giant. He seemed to like his new armor—and if he didn’t, he made no objection. The maga’s illegible writing had forced her to deviate from the instructions on several occasions, but Djern seemed happy with the result.

  She had half expected her improvised formula to end in disaster, but the armor looked fine. Vraccas and Samusin be praised!

  Bowing to acknowledge her skill, Djern picked up his weapons, returned them to their sheaths, and marched to the door, his armor gleaming darkly in the flickering light from the many hearths.

  Satisfied with her efforts, but relieved that the job was done, Balyndis wiped the perspiration from her face and noticed that her arms felt like lead. The constant hammering had sapped her strength.

  I’ll drink a tankard to a job well done, she decided. She left the forge without getting changed and headed to the tavern to celebrate with a tankard of good, strong beer before bed.

  Congregated around the bar were some smiths and a few masons, whose hair, beards, and garments were covered in powdered stone. They clinked tankards with Balyndis and congratulated her on Djern’s new armor.

  “Have you heard?” asked one of them excitedly. “We’ve repaired the Stone Gateway. The doors are locked and bolted again.”

  “That’s fabulous news!” she said, joining in the general jubilation. “You must have been busy while I was in the forge.” She shook the mason’s hand enthusiastically, raising clouds of dust. “No more orcs, bögnilim, or other invaders. To think that the northern border is secure.” Her heart swelled with pride at the thought that northern Girdlegard was safe because of the dwarves. “To the children of the Smith,” she cried, raising her tankard. “To the children of the Smith!” replied the others. They raised their tankards, and a few moments later, one of the dwarves burst into song.

  “The bad times are over,” murmured Balyndis happily, taking another long sip and wiping the foam from her lip. “The Northern Pass is sealed, the dwarves stand united, and we’ve found some new friends.” She raised her tankard again, this time nodding at a pale dwarf who was celebrating with the group. “How do you like it here?”

  “For the most part, very well. I wonder what Tungdil will make of our realm. I think it’s harder for a freeling to adapt to the rules than the other way round.”

  “Oh,” said Balyndis, instantly deflated. She wondered whether Tungdil’s decision to leave the kingdom had anything to do with her. I should really speak to him. “So Tungdil was serious about visiting the freelings? When does he go?”

  “He left four orbits ago,” said one of the masons. “He and the twins set off for Trovegold as soon as the Stone Gateway was secure.”

  Balyndis was shocked that he had left without saying goodbye. Is he punishing me for accepting Glaïmbar? She had an unpleasant thought. “Was the freeling doctor with him?”

  The mason nodded.

  Of course she was.

  The others stared in surprise as she emptied her tankard and left without a word.

  Wind Chime Island,

  Kingdom of Weyurn,

  Girdlegard,

  Late Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

  It didn’t take long for the carriage to convey its unusual passengers to Gastinga.

  They broke their journey only once, and that was to make way for a battalion heading west. Under Andôkai’s interrogation, the commander told them proudly that he and his men were on a royal mission to investigate a possible threat to the kingdom from the Outer Lands. The maga wished them luck and waved them on their way.

  “None of them will make it back,” she predicted as the battalion marched past. A few of the men turned their heads and peered into the carriage. “They won’t know the territory, and they’re trained to fight on water,” she said, drawing the curtains. “They’ll never survive a battle on land.” She knocked on the roof of the carriage to tell the coachman to drive on.

  As the road bore to the left, Gastinga emerged through a gray haze of rain.

  A collection of tiny houses with clapboard roofs cowered against the ground, sheltering from the swirling winds. Lush green grass surrounded the buildings, and a few boys were watching over a little herd of white cows. Neither the children nor the animals seemed to mind the rain.

  So much for it being warmer here. Narmora checked to make sure that her daughter was properly swaddled in her bassinet. Dorsa seemed to like the movement of the carriage—at any rate, she was fast asleep.

  Following the guide’s instructions, the coachman drew up outside a house and the guide jumped out to fetch the village mayor. The poor fellow was dragged away from his midday meal and marched through the rain to the carriage, where he waited by the window, his flat shoes sinking into the waterlogged grass.

  Andôkai seldom bothered with salutations and social niceties when dealing with the lower ranks. “We’re looking for relatives of settlers who arrived here seventy cycles ago,” she said without preamble. “Where can we find them?”

  “At least have the decency to introduce yourself,” said the poor man, trying belatedly to exert some authority. “What do you want with them?”

  The maga stared at him scornfully. “My name and my business needn’t concern you; suffice to say, I’m more important than a mayor. I assume from your reaction that the family is known to you. Kindly tell me where they are.” She locked gazes with the man until he looked away. “Is there a reason why we can’t see them?”

  “No,” he replied, raising his arm and pointing down the road. “It’s the last house on the left.” He hunched his shoulders and hurried back inside.

  Narmora noticed his wife and children peering at them through the window, noses pressed to the crown glass pane. They had probably never seen a carriage of any description in their lives.

  With a crack of the whip, the coachman drove away. The wheels of the carriage were still turning when Andôkai jumped out, followed closely by Narmora. The maga hammered on the door until a man of some fifty cycles opened up. His surprise and displeasure changed to undisguised hostility as he studied the wom
en in silence, waiting for them to speak.

  “Are you going to let us in?” demanded the maga. It was an order, not a request.

  “What for?” he growled. “Your carriage is twice as big as my house.” He looked them up and down, trying to guess the reason for their call. “What do you want?” he asked in a heavy dialect.

  “We’d like to talk to you, if we may,” said Narmora politely. “It’s raining out here, and our cloaks are getting wet.”

  “In that case you’d better talk quickly,” snapped the man.

  “Listen to me, peasant,” said Andôkai, her temper fraying. “We’re here to protect Girdlegard from a threat from the Outer Lands.” She glowered at him murderously. “If you know what’s good for your wife and children, you’ll let us in without delay.”

  A woman’s voice sounded from inside the house, and the man, swearing sullenly, stepped aside to let them pass.

  They found themselves in a cottage barely bigger than a hut. The walls were black with soot, and seven children were cramped into the tiny room, the youngest barely half a cycle old; the eldest had seen eight cycles at most.

  Sitting at the table was their mother, dressed in a coarse linen tunic and a woolen jacket. She looked nervously at the strangers whose cloaks alone were worth more than her house.

  Tallow candles permeated the room with a smell of burning fat. The children slept in bunks stacked in a corner of the room, and a ladder led up to an alcove, separated from the main room by a curtain, which was all the privacy that the parents could afford.

  To Narmora’s surprise, the heap of blankets on one of the lower bunks rolled over and coughed. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a wrinkly old woman whose shriveled body was barely visible among the sheets.

  “Thank you for letting us in,” said Narmora, nodding kindly at the wife, a woman of forty cycles or so. “Are you descended from the travelers who arrived here from the Outer Lands?”

  The woman looked questioningly at her husband, who was standing, arms folded in front of his chest, by the door. He shrugged and turned away.