by Markus Heitz
"Any tidings from Greenglade?"
"The elf maiden is dead. The northern pestilence laid waste to the forest, and King Bruron is worried that wayfarers might get themselves killed. He wants to set fire to it." Sami made a show of unpacking his herbal soaps. "Perhaps you groundlings could do with some of these."
"Just because we're dwarves doesn't mean we stink!" growled Ireheart. "I'll put you in a lather, you lanky-legged rascal!"
"My mistake," Sami said hurriedly. "I thought he wanted something for a lady friend."
"Actually, Boпndil, the peddler's probably got a point," Tungdil said slyly, throwing him a bar of plain soap. He also bought a jasmine-scented soap, a patterned comb, and a doll each for Ikana and Sunja.
Boпndil sniffed the soap, scratched at it, and put a shaving in his mouth. "Ugh, it tastes disgusting! I'm not washing with that!" He tossed it disdainfully into his bag.
"So the Perished Land is still advancing?" probed Boлndal.
"It looks that way. Most of Вlandur has fallen already and the elves are under constant attack. Some have fled to the plains of Tabaоn, or so I've heard." The peddler packed the gifts in coarsely woven cloth. "Everyone says the дlfar are getting the better of them. They've taken the other elven kingdoms, and if you ask me, Вlandur will be next. It's only a matter of time before the дlfar conquer the last of their land." He handed the parcel to Tungdil. "A silver coin, please, master groundling."
"Dwarf," Tungdil corrected him.
"Pardon me?" "We're dwarves, not groundlings."
"Of course," Sami said, again hurriedly. "Absolutely." He cast a distrustful glance at Boпndil, who was admiring his shaven cheeks in a mirror.
Tungdil was still digesting the news about Вlandur. "What do you think the assembly will have to say about it all?" he asked the twins.
"Serves the elvish tricksters right," said Boпndil with a shrug. "Most of them are dead already and the others will follow if they set foot in our range. The pointy-ears aren't welcome near Ogre's Death; I don't care whether they call themselves elves or дlfar, they won't be moving in with us."
Tungdil scratched his beard. "What of the orcs?" he asked Sami.
"Oh, they're in three places at once, if you believe the rumors." The peddler looked at them dolefully. "It's not safe on the roads anymore. Tion's creatures are on the rampage and King Bruron can't do anything to stop them. Innocent folks like us have to fear for our lives and our wares."
Boпndil scanned the horizon longingly and licked his lips. Tungdil heard him making "oink" noises under his breath.
A while later they took their leave of the peddler and rode on.
To keep their purse stocked with coins, Tungdil jobbed as a smith, helped by the brothers, who also ornamented window frames and doorways with wonderful carvings. That way they kept themselves in ham and cheese while making good progress toward Lot-Ionan's vaults.
"You've got bits of cheese in your beard," Tungdil said to Boпndil at the end of a meal.
"What of it?"
"Well, it's not nice to look at," he answered, trying to be diplomatic.
Boпndil ran a hand over his chin and dislodged the largest morsels.
"There's still…"
"Look here," Boпndil told him brusquely, "the rest can stay where it is. It keeps the whiskers sleek and smooth." As if to emphasize the point, a bread crumb fell from his lips and landed in his beard.
Tungdil had an image of the hairs coming to life and feeding on the scraps. It would explain why nits weren't a problem; the whiskers would gobble them up before they had a chance to settle. "Surely the girl dwarves must have something to say about your-"
"There you go again!" Boпndil clapped Tungdil on the back and grinned lewdly. There was cheese between his teeth. "Always on about girl dwarves."
"Patience, scholar," Boлndal advised him. "Play your cards right, and you'll find out firsthand. You're not bad-looking; I'm sure we'll find you a suitable lass."
"And then what do I do?"
"You make eyes at her, of course." Boлndal gave him a playful dig in the ribs. "You sing her a song. You give her a hand-forged ring. Then you kiss her feet, cover her in a nice thick coating of her favorite cheese, swing her four times in a circle, and the gates to her Girdlegard will open."
"That's…It doesn't say that in the books," said Tungdil, bewildered. He looked at Boлndal, whose eyes sparkled roguishly. Boпndil couldn't contain himself any longer and let out a side-splitting guffaw.
"Idiots," huffed Tungdil. "It's not funny, you know. I can't help it if I've never met a female dwarf."
"We didn't mean to offend you," apologized Boпndil, wiping away tears of merriment. "But maybe you should try it; it seems to work for Boлndal!"
That was it; his brother dissolved into laughter too, the gentle hills of Ionandar echoing with their mirth.
"Just be yourself," said Boлndal, endeavoring to be serious. "I can't speak for everyone, but it's no good pretending to be something you're not."
"He used to say he was a poet," his brother chuckled. "His lady friends never believed it, but with you it might work."
"What sort of presents do they like best?"
"Ah, very cunning," exclaimed Boлndal. "Sorry, scholar, but you can't bribe your way into a lady's heart. There's no secret formula. Either she likes you, and she'll tell you as much; or she doesn't."
"And she'll tell you about that too," Boпndil added merrily.
"I wouldn't wish that on anyone," said his brother, "but if she likes you, well… anything is possible. But enough about womenfolk."
Their journey continued, and after several orbits Tungdil began to recognize his surroundings, which meant they were getting closer to Lot-Ionan's vaults.
He was looking forward to seeing the famuli and being reunited with Frala and her daughters. They'll never believe that I'm an heir to the throne! To prove that he hadn't forgotten her, he knotted Frala's scarf around his belt.
After a while they came to a river. A ferry was moored on the opposite bank near the ferry master's house and smoke was rising from the chimney.
Tungdil reached up to ring the bell that was suspended from a tree beside the berth. That way the ferry master would know to come and fetch them.
Boпndil grabbed his hand. "What are you doing?"
"I'm calling the ferry, unless you'd prefer to swim," said Tungdil. "It's either that or get the boat."
Boпndil eyed the swirling water. The river was lapping against the banks. "We'll go a different way," he decided. "It's too deep here. We could fall in and drown."
"You could fall off your pony and break your neck," Tungdil countered sharply. "Come on, Boпndil, it's too far to the next crossing-two orbits, at least." When he saw the twins' stony faces, he knew it was useless to protest. "It's this way," he sighed, pointing upriver. "But I don't see what's wrong with the boat."
It was all the encouragement that Boлndal needed to launch into the story of why dwarves and water didn't get along.
"Long ago, Elria put a curse on us. Elria was born of water and water was her element. From the beginning, she took a dislike to the dwarves-Vraccas's fire-loving, furnace-tending children couldn't have been more different from her water-dwelling creatures. To protect her children, she put a curse on the dwarves, and now any dwarf who ventures into water outside his kingdom is doomed to drown."
Lakes, rivers, ponds, or streams-according to the twins, even puddles could pose a mortal danger, and they avoided water at all costs.
"It's an excellent excuse for not washing," Tungdil told them.
They rode until nightfall and arrived the following orbit at the ford. When the time came to cross, the brothers waded nervously through the fast-flowing water, the river swirling ferociously about their thighs as if it intended to carry them off.
It was evening when they finally neared the entrance to the tunnel leading into Lot-Ionan's vaults. Boлndal and Boпndil grew uneasy at the thought of wizardry and sp
ells.
"I didn't like coming here the first time," grumbled Boпndil. "Lot-Ionan is a nice enough fellow, I'll grant you, but he's a magus. At least we dwarves have the good sense to know that hocus-pocus never did anyone any good. We stay away from it. If Vraccas had wanted us to dabble in magic, he would have given us wands." He stared at Tungdil suspiciously. "You understand that, don't you? I hope he hasn't given you any daft ideas…"
"I can't weave magic," Tungdil said soothingly. "I've never even tried." He stopped for a second and looked at the brothers imploringly. "Promise me you'll treat him respectfully. Without his charitable intervention, there wouldn't be another claimant to the throne. In fact, it's only because of his salutary-"
"Listen to him!" Boлndal said sarcastically, mimicking his voice. "Do you hear the scholar speaking? Quite the gentleman, isn't he? He must be refining himself for highfaluffing conversations with a more h-h-educated race."
"Highfalutin," Tungdil corrected him with a smile. "All right, point taken. Either way, be nice to him or say nothing at all. You can wait at the gates if you'd rather. I'll be fine on my own."
It was already dark by the time they got there. Even from a distance Tungdil could see that the door to the tunnel was ajar. It was usually bolted and protected with a magic incantation, but one of the famuli must have forgotten to do his job.
Tungdil grinned mischievously, his tanned face creasing around his eyes. Whoever was guilty of such negligence would soon regret it. He intended to give the vault's inhabitants the shock of their lives.
"Tut-tut," Boпndil said disapprovingly when they reached the open door. "The confounded thing better not close behind us. What if it's a trap to catch innocent travelers?"
"Why would the magus want to trap travelers?" his brother inquired.
"To try out new gobbledygook on them, of course! You don't think he'd experiment on his own apprentices, do you? He needs to be sure that his wizardry works." He looked to Lot-Ionan's protйgй for confirmation, but Tungdil chose not to get involved. Boпndil unhooked an ax from his belt and mumbled threateningly into his beard. "If any of those wand-wielders so much as looks at me oddly, I'll show them what for."
Boлndal burst out laughing. "Don't worry, I'll be sure to punish them if they turn you into a mouse or a bar of soap." He gave the butt of his crow's beak an affectionate pat, but his brother was frowning grimly.
Tungdil noted their squared shoulders; it was clear from their posture that they were ready to fight. He decided to head off any possible misunderstandings by leading the way.
"Keep the noise down," he told them. "I want to take them by surprise."
Boпndil looked skeptical. "Seems to me that's just asking for trouble. What if they put a spell on us by accident? They might not recognize you in time."
Tungdil waved dismissively and stepped into the vaults. At once he was surrounded by the familiar aroma of paper, papyrus, parchment, and a hundred dusty books, mixed in with the smell of stone and a hearty whiff of supper. "Boiled potatoes and meat," he declared.
He looked over his shoulder at the twins, who were more interested in studying the tunnel and speculating in low tones about who had built the vaults and why.
"You can tell it's the work of long-uns," Boпndil was saying. "Do you see this? I noticed it last time as well. To think they didn't bother to work with the rock! They've cut through the strata with no concern for the veins." He pointed at something. "If they'd troubled themselves to look properly, they wouldn't have got themselves into such a mess. Even I could do better, and I'm a warrior!"
"A precarious design." Boлndal was gazing at the ceiling that was propped up every few paces by pillars and struts. "There's too much sand in the soil. An engineer or a miner would never have taken such a risk." He prodded the ceiling gently with his crow's beak, loosing a shower of mud and stone. "I'm no expert, but they should have dug the whole thing out. See how the warmth has dried the sand strata and made them all crumbly? Your magus needs a lesson or two in how to dig tunnels. It's a good thing we're here."
"Shush," Tungdil reminded them firmly. "You'll spoil the surprise."
"No sentries, no alarm system, nothing!" Boпndil rolled his eyes. "No wonder Vraccas told us to take care of the long-uns! The whole place would be easier to conquer than a dead dragon's den. Dwarves are more careful," he continued in a whisper still loud enough for Tungdil to hear.
Tungdil tiptoed on. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light, but the vaults were too quiet for his liking. There was no chattering of voices or banging of doors. If it hadn't been for the tantalizing smell of supper, he would have suspected the magus of moving his school elsewhere.
"Maybe they've abandoned the vaults and left the cook behind," mused Boпndil out loud. "Hardly surprising, given the state of the place."
The comment earned him a reproving look from Boлndal. "Surely they'd take the cook with them?" he couldn't help asking.
"Not necessarily." Boпndil grinned. "He might be so bad at his job that they've made him stay and practice until the ceiling caves in. Either that, or he's stewing in his soup."
Tungdil was too intent on reaching the magus's study to listen to their chatter. He knocked on the door. No one answered, so he walked straight in.
"I'll wait out here with Boпndil," Boлndal called after him. "We don't want to spoil the reunion."
On entering the room, Tungdil could scarcely believe his eyes. One half of the study was in a state of chaos with books, sheets of paper, and scribblings strewn over the floor; the other half was impeccably neat.
Tungdil had never seen such orderliness in Lot-Ionan's study. The books were stacked on the shelves in alphabetical order, the paper had been left in tidy piles, and the quill and inkwell were in their proper places.
He must have dreamed up a new charm that makes the mess tidy itself, he thought, impressed. He could see the logic in trying it out on one half of the study, but there was still no sign of the magus. I hope the spell didn't tidy him away.
He wandered round the chamber, looking for anything that might explain the silence in the vaults.
Boпndil sighed loudly. "Waiting is a hungry business," he declared. "I'm off to find the kitchens. If we ask nicely, they might spare us a bite."
"We should take Tungdil with us," his brother said anxiously. "The long-uns won't know who we are, don't forget."
"All the more reason for introducing ourselves." Boпndil was too hungry to worry about being cautious. "You can wait if you like, but there's a hole in my belly stretching down to my knees." He strode off.
Boлndal was reluctant to let him go anywhere unsupervised. They were guests at the school, and guests were expected to behave with a modicum of decorum, which didn't come naturally to his twin.
"Tungdil, we're off to the kitchens," he shouted. "I'll keep an eye on Boпndil, don't worry!" He hurried to catch up with his brother, who was disappearing around the corner.
The twins had no trouble finding their bearings in the vaults. Vraccas had given his children an infallible sense of direction when it came to orienting themselves underground. They knew instinctively whether a passageway would slope upward, downward, or curve gradually to one side, and they had no need of the stars to plot their course. In this instance, they were guided by the tantalizing smell.
All the rooms they passed were empty: There wasn't a soul in sight.
"Maybe it's dinnertime," Boлndal suggested hopefully, trying to ignore his growing unease.
They made for the passageway, where the smell of meat was strongest. Their tunics and armor clanked softly while their heavy boots clumped rhythmically on the floor. At last they reached a door that led into the kitchen, judging by the splashes and smears.
Boлndal tried to surge ahead to make a more orderly entrance, but his brother beat him to it. He gave the door an almighty shove.
Four great hearths burned in the high-ceilinged room, but otherwise the kitchens were as deserted as everywhere else. Curio
usly, there was evidence of recent activity: The stoves were roaring and supper simmered and hissed in covered pans. Large round cooking pots hung above two of the hearths, chunks of meat rising to the surface and sinking into the bubbling brown broth.
By now Boлndal had a definite feeling that something was wrong. Abandoned rooms and brimming cauldrons: It simply didn't add up. What's going on? He scanned the kitchen carefully.
"This is more like it," Boпndil said cheerfully. He let go of his ax, tore off a piece of bread, and headed purposefully for the nearest stove. Balancing on a stool, he lifted the lid of a pan and peered inside-juicy slabs of simmering meat and gravy. His mouth began to water. "It would be rude not to taste it."
He dunked a sizable hunk of bread into the sauce and prepared to swallow the morsel in one bite.
"Stop!"
His brother's warning brought him to a sudden halt. "What now?" he snapped, his stomach growling in protest at being neglected for so long. "Can't you see I'm eating?"
Boлndal had positioned himself next to the door, crow's beak at the ready. Judging by his stance, he was anticipating trouble. "I don't mean to spoil your appetite, but take a look over there."
Boпndil followed his gaze. The butcher's block, used ordinarily for chopping and filleting meat, was piled high with bones that had no place in a kitchen. Four skulls in particular held their attention: They were human in form.
It took a while for Boпndil to link the bones to the broth, but then he hurled away the dripping bread in disgust and jumped to the ground, drawing his axes.
"When I get hold of that magus, there won't be a spell in the world that can save him," he muttered darkly.
"Humans and wizards aren't usually cannibals," Boлndal told him. "If you ask me, there's been a change of guard. The magus didn't forget to lock the door; someone attacked." He peered into the corridor. "It's time we found our scholar."
Walking back-to-back, they retraced their steps through the eerily empty passageways, Boпndil leading and Boлndal following and watching his back.
Tungdil sat down on the footstool next to Lot-Ionan's armchair and waited impatiently for the magus to return. For want of anything better to do, he dusted off his garments. All he could think about was what the magus would say when he made his report. He had already decided to start with the most important business-Gorйn's books. There was no reason to believe that Lot-Ionan would divulge their mysterious contents, but Tungdil hoped he would.
