by Markus Heitz
"All the same, I feel safer at the anvil; a forge is where I belong." Tungdil decided not to dwell on the matter, so he opened his knapsack and pulled out Gorйn's books. The brothers watched as he slid the volumes out of their wax covering and examined them carefully.
"Well, what do they say, scholar?" Boпndil demanded impatiently. "Maybe that's your calling, to be a learned scribe or an engineer. The dwarves are renowned for being prodigious inventors."
"I can't make head or tail of them." To his immense disappointment, even the wording on the spine was written in scholarly script. "They were written for magi." In some ways it was surprising that Gorйn, an ordinary wizard, had been able to read them at all.
Tungdil tapped his forehead and scolded himself for being so slow. He had forgotten that the elf maiden would have been familiar with the workings of high magic. She must have helped Gorйn unlock the secrets of the books.
He stroked the leather binding of the books. Why are their contents so important to the дlfar? Since when have the elves' dark relatives been afraid of parchment and ink?
"We'll find out soon enough from Lot-Ionan," he said, trying to rally their spirits. He was just returning the books to their wrapping when his gaze fell on the bag of artifacts. It had suffered visibly from the journey. In spite of the hard-wearing leather, the pouch was bleached from the sun and scuffed in several places, and there were sweat marks and grease stains where it had come into contact with his food. A faint line stretched across its surface like a scar, an eternal reminder of its run-in with the orcish sword.
The longer Tungdil looked at the pouch, the more he desired to look inside. He had been fighting the urge to undo the colored drawstrings for some time.
What harm is there in looking? Surely I've got the right to know what I've been lugging about all this time. Besides, Gorйn is dead. Tungdil's self-control failed him.
Trying to look nonchalant, he reached for the pouch. He didn't want the others to know that the magus had forbidden him to look inside. He untied the knot and the drawstrings came open.
At that moment an ear-splitting, bone-shattering bang rent the air. A volley of sparks shot upward and exploded in a blast of color.
"By the hammer of Vraccas and his fiery furnace!" Leaping to their feet, the twins stood back-to-back, weapons at the ready.
Tungdil swore and tugged at the drawstrings, but the fireworks continued until he tied the knot exactly as it had been before. Lot-Ionan had booby-trapped the bag. He must have reckoned with his inquisitive nature and decided to teach him a lesson.
"What in all the peaks of Girdlegard was that?" Boлndal asked peevishly. "Not some magical nonsense, I hope."
"I just wanted to see…Well, I wanted to see if the booby trap worked," fibbed Tungdil, trying to breathe evenly. He was every bit as startled as the twins. "The magus put it there to, er, he put it there to stop the bag from being stolen!"
"All that noise from a little leather pouch?" Boпndil stared incredulously at the bag. "I still don't see what the fireworks are in aid of, unless the magus wanted whoever stole it to earn a fortune as a street magician."
"It's so I'll know where it is and be able to get it back," Tungdil told him, inventing an explanation that was rather more flattering than the truth. He didn't want them to know that his nosiness was to blame.
"If he didn't want it stolen, why didn't he put a proper spell on it?" growled Boпndil. He spat contemptuously in the bushes. "I always said that the long-uns' magic was no good."
His brother joined in. "He could have conjured a hammer to whack the villain on the head!" he suggested.
"Or a drawstring that crushes his wrists! That would teach the blackguard to keep his hands off other people's belongings."
Boлndal sat back down. "The magi work in mysterious ways. All that power and no common sense."
Tungdil swallowed, thankful that his punishment had been mild by comparison. "I'll pass on your ideas," he promised.
"We'll tell him ourselves!"
"No," he said quickly. "It would be best if you didn't. He doesn't take kindly to anyone interfering in his business, especially if they're strangers." He could feel his cheeks burning as he spoke, but luckily for him, the twins were busy poking about in the fire, trying to retrieve a portion of cheese that had been dropped in the confusion.
"A stunt like that could have been the death of us in Greenglade," muttered Boпndil. He looked at Tungdil sternly. "Leave the bag alone in the future!" Sighing, he impaled the morsel on a stick, dunked it briefly in some water to wash away the ash, and popped it into his mouth. "No harm done," he said.
But Tungdil had taken the lesson to heart. From now on I won't touch the bag except to sling it over my shoulder and take it off at night. For all he cared, it could be stuffed full of gold; nothing could persuade him to open the drawstrings.
VII
Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin, Girdlegard, Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle Rantja scanned the crowd. Assembled in the atrium were 180 trainee wizards, the best famuli in Girdlegard, all waiting to be welcomed by Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty. At the behest of their respective magi, they had journeyed to Porista to lend their magical power to the crusade against the Perished Land. The high-ceilinged room echoed with their expectant chatter.
"The girdle must be in trouble if lowly apprentices like us are being summoned to keep out Tion's hordes," said a voice in her ear. "You look prettier than ever, Rantja."
"Jolosin!" she exclaimed in delight, shaking his outstretched hand. It was then that she noticed his navy blue robe. "Oh my, you're a fourth-tier famulus already. How long did you have to pester Lot-Ionan before he caved in?"
"Only thirty-two cycles old and already in Nudin's fifth tier! I'm impressed," teased the dark-haired famulus admiringly. "How are you?"
"Fine." She smiled, then said soberly, "At least I was fine until I heard about the threat to Girdlegard." She pointed to the cuts on his fingers. "What happened there?"
"Don't ask," he muttered gloomily. "But between you and me, I'm working on a spell to make potatoes peel themselves. It's a relief to be out of the kitchen and doing something useful." He glanced around. "Have you seen the council?"
"No. Even my magus has disappeared," Rantja said anxiously. "What do you make of it?"
"All I know is that the rituals require their full attention, so they might not be able to brief us until later," he said uneasily. He took a leather pouch from his shoulder and tightened the green drawstrings. "Has it ever been this bad before?"
Rantja shook her head.
The doors swung open, and Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty stepped into the room. He was swaying slightly and his face looked drawn and tired.
"Welcome to Porista," he greeted them, his voice cracking as he spoke. To some of the famuli it sounded as if two people, a man and a woman, were talking at once. "These are dark times for our realms. Come this way and see for yourselves what the Perished Land has done." The magus turned toward the conference chamber, motioning the apprentices to follow.
"Are you sure he's not wearing heels?" Jolosin whispered, surprised. "He's bigger than when I last saw him-and fifty pounds heavier at least."
"I know. Everyone keeps saying he looks taller."
"Much taller, not to mention fatter. But men of his age aren't supposed to grow. A botched experiment, perhaps?"
They were less than a pace behind him now, and a sweet, almost putrid odor filled their noses. Jolosin put it down to moldering aftershave, but the magus seemed oblivious to the smell.
Just then Rantja skidded across the flagstones and would have fallen, if Jolosin hadn't reached out and caught her in time. "Thanks," she said, straightening up and hurrying on, propelled by the famuli behind them. The incident was over too quickly for anyone to notice the long crimson streak on the floor. The magus was leaking blood.
Nudin walked briskly, striking his staff against the marble at regular intervals and leading them through a maze of arcades and corridors un
til they reached a double door. His onyx-tipped staff glistened darkly as he raised his left hand.
"Steel yourselves," he warned them, and recited the incantation to open the doors.
Even before the doors were fully open, a fetid smell wafted out of the room, causing the famuli at the front of the queue to cover their faces. Rantja swayed and clutched at Jolosin, who steadied her bravely while he tried not to retch.
The magus was apparently unaffected by the stench. "See for yourselves why Girdlegard needs your help!" Hesitantly, the famuli entered the chamber.
There were cries of distress as the shocked apprentices surveyed the remains of their tutors: a statue, a heap of clothing, a rotting corpse, and in the case of Andфkai, a body so mutilated that its features were no longer recognizable.
"Palandiell have mercy on us," gasped Jolosin, staring in horror at Lot-Ionan's marble face. He would never have wished such a dreadful fate on his magus, no matter how many potatoes the wizard had forced him to peel. "Girdlegard is finished," he muttered despairingly, depositing the leather bag at the foot of the statue. Lot-Ionan had specifically asked him to bring it, and now he was dead. "If the council could do nothing, what hope is there for-"
He was silenced by the sound of a staff striking the floor. A hush descended on the chamber as everyone turned to face Nudin.
"We underestimated the power of the Perished Land," he said shakily. "It waited for us to channel the magic into the malachite, and then it attacked. The table was destroyed and I myself was almost killed. My good friends here"-he waved his staff in the direction of the fallen magi, whose rotting remains and frozen corpses reflected nothing of their former power- "were unlucky. As their most senior famuli, you are the highest-ranking wizards in Girdlegard." He stopped to cough up a mouthful of blood and staggered backward, leaning against the fossilized Lot-Ionan for support. "The attack has taken its toll on me, as you can see. It is our duty to repair the table as quickly as we can, for only then will we be able to repel the Perished Land. The survival of humankind depends on our success; ordinary armies will be helpless against the pestilence."
The famuli looked at one another bleakly, shaken to the core by Nudin's sobering words and the sight of their dead mentors.
"They were so powerful, but the Perished Land subdued them," whispered Jolosin despondently. "How are we supposed to-"
"We should give them a proper burial," Rantja said distractedly. "We can't just leave them here." She was trembling.
"Girdlegard is relying on you to be strong," Nudin exhorted them. "If you don't act now, we'll lose our only hope of repelling the Perished Land. You can mourn the dead when it's over." He traced a circle on the floor with his staff. "Gather round, join hands, and repeat the incantation after me."
The famuli did as instructed, Rantja and Jolosin standing side by side and drawing strength and comfort from each other.
Nudin took his place in the circle and laid his staff on the floor. His fat, clammy fingers reached for Jolosin's free hand and the unfortunate famulus clasped them with revulsion. "If you please, Estimable Magus, I've brought the artifacts you loaned to Lot-Ionan." He turned in the direction of the bag, and Nudin nodded curtly.
Then they began the incantation, calling on the magic to come forth and enter the splinters of the table. The hours wore away. Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin, Girdlegard, Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle It was raining at daybreak, or pouring, to be precise.
Summer in all its glory reigned over Girdlegard, but for the duration of a few hours the sun had retreated, allowing the sky to cloud over and quench the parched soil.
No doubt the vegetation was grateful for the downpour, but the dwarves were unimpressed. Huddled under a tree, they waited grumpily for the rain to stop.
"Now you see why we live in the mountains," scowled Boпndil, who was taking the opportunity to shave his cheeks. Over the past few orbits he had become increasingly restless. His warrior's heart longed for action so that he could swing his ax and shriek and spit at some orcs, but the chances of that in Lios Nudin were depressingly slim.
"What if he goes into a frenzy?" Tungdil asked Boлndal in a whisper. "Should 1 hide in a tree?"
The dwarf wrung the rainwater out of his plait and grinned from ear to ear. "You'll be safe so long as I'm around to direct his fury onto something else. I try to steer him clear of anything that breathes, and it works quite well, for the most part."
They kept their eyes fixed on the nearby thoroughfare, watching the carts and carriages roll past. One young couple seemed more interested in each other than in driving their oxen. The dutiful animals kept up a steady trot.
The sight of the lovers reminded Tungdil of a subject that had been bothering him for a while. He wondered whether to ask the twins' advice, although he was beginning to feel embarrassed about his ignorance of dwarven life. For someone who had spent his formative years surrounded by books, he asked incredibly foolish questions. So much for being a scholar! Curiosity got the better of him eventually. "What do girl dwarves look like?" he asked, avoiding their gaze.
There was silence.
The patter of rain on the leaves seemed deafeningly loud. The brothers let him stew for a while; then Boпndil said: "Pretty."
"Very pretty," added Boлndal, amplifying his brother's terse reply.
"Right."
There was silence again.
Overhead, the shower was easing, the drumming raindrops fading to a steady drip-drip of water trickling from the twigs and branches.
He tried again. "Do they have beards?"
Silence.
Tungdil became acutely aware of the rich variety of noises made by falling rain.
"Not beards, exactly," said Boпndil.
"More like wispy down," explained Boлndal. "It looks lovely."
No one spoke.
The sun burned a path through the dark gray cloud, and summer triumphed over Girdlegard. Tungdil decided to broach an even more delicate topic. "When men dwarves and girl dwarves-"
He broke off under the secondlings' withering stares. Boлndal took pity on him. "It's high time our scholar got to know his kin," he said dryly. He glanced up at the tree. "The downpour's over; let's go." He stood up, followed by his brother.
"You didn't answer my question!"
"You didn't ask a question, and anyway, you're the one with all the learning, not me."
"Do girl dwarves fight too?"
"Some do, but in our clan they mostly stay at home," said Boлndal as they moved off along the road. "Our womenfolk devote themselves to domestic duties: herding animals in the valleys, stocking our pantries, brewing beer, and making clothes."
"No good ever came of the sexes fighting side by side," Boпndil added darkly. He seemed to be speaking from experience, but there was something in his voice that warned Tungdil not to probe.
"Don't make the mistake of belittling their talents, though. They're just as proud as we are. Some of the best masons and smiths in the kingdom are women. When it comes to artisan contests, they use their chisels and hammers so proficiently that other competitors stop and marvel at their work."
"Anomalies and exceptions," growled Boпndil, who was obviously of the opinion that certain tasks were the preserve of male dwarves. "For the most part they belong by the hearth. The kitchen is their calling."
Tungdil had been listening attentively. "It's like that in human kingdoms too," he told them. The idea of female dwarves seemed more appealing than ever and he was eager to become acquainted with their kind.
At last they reached Porista. Tungdil gazed in wonderment at the turrets and domes of the palace, but his companions exchanged bored smiles, needing no further evidence that human architecture was inferior to their own.
Tungdil had been hoping to find Lot-Ionan and unburden himself of Gorйn's books and artifacts, but he was sorely disappointed. At the palace they were told that the council had dispersed some orbits earlier and that Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty was not receiving gues
ts. There was nothing for it but to follow Lot-Ionan to Ionandar.
They were on their way out of the city when Tungdil spotted a stable in one of the side streets. The horse inside it looked strangely familiar.
"Wait here," he instructed, striding toward the chestnut steed. He felt sure he had shod her not so long ago. He lifted her right foreleg and examined the shoe. The nails were unmistakably his own. "It's them," he hissed.
"Friends of yours?" asked Boлndal, whose crow's beak was resting casually on his shoulder. His brother was absent-mindedly stroking his freshly shaven cheeks in search of stray whiskers.
"Not exactly." Noting the bulging saddlebags, Tungdil fetched a bucket, turned it over, climbed on top of it, and fumbled with the buckles. The bag came open and the dwarf rummaged inside until his fingers came into contact with a jar. He pulled it out quickly.
"Remember the dead dwarf in the caravan?" His instincts had been right; the jar unscrewed to reveal a head. The bounty hunters had shaved the poor fellow's hair and beard so that the grisly trophy would fit inside the container, which was filled with honey to stop the air from getting in, thus preventing decay. Streaks of blood trailed through the golden fluid, staining it red. "We've found the villains who killed him."
There was a clatter of chain mail and the brothers were beside him like a shot. Neither spoke as they stared in horror at what had been done to their kinsman for the sake of a reward.
"By the blade of Vraccas, I'll cut them to pieces," roared Ireheart. Fury ignited within him, flushing him red and prompting his axes to fly into his hands. "Just wait until I-"
The door swung open and one of the headhunters walked into the stable from the house. Tungdil knew him immediately, and the recognition was mutual as the man stopped abruptly and swore. After considering the three dwarves for a moment, he decided that the odds were against him and fled.
"Cowardly as a runt," scoffed Ireheart. "Come back here and fight!" He chased him into the house, and there were sounds of a brief but energetic skirmish that climaxed in the man's dying screams.
