The Dwarves d-1

by Markus Heitz

  Tungdil's heart went out to the mason. Bavragor wasn't the noisy, occasionally rude but fundamentally cheerful and resilient character he had taken him for. "We can't leave you in the fifthling kingdom," he protested, realizing at once how feeble he sounded. "We'll need your fists in the fight against Nфd'onn."

  Bavragor reached for his arm and squeezed it tightly. "No, Tungdil, you need warriors like the twins, true fighters whose confidence never falters." He released his grip. "Don't worry, my hands are steady enough to sculpt the strongest, most beautiful spurs ever fashioned by a dwarven chisel. I'll tell you about my sister another time. For now, I'd like a moment with my pouch."

  Tungdil got up and strolled over to the twins, who were snacking on ham and cheese. Poor Bavragor.

  Boлndal had observed the conversation from a distance, but refrained from asking questions because he didn't want Boпndil to get wind of the mason's distress. He offered Tungdil a morsel of goat cheese. "Well, scholar, only two more orbits and we'll be in the firstling kingdom-assuming we don't have any problems with the wagon."

  "Gandogar will be there already," Tungdil said gloomily.

  "For all we know, he might have gone the wrong way." Boпndil laughed and wiped his glistening brow. "I hope his blasted shortcut leads him straight into a fathomless chasm." Goпmgar glared at him. "You can stare all you like," Boпndil told him, rising to the silent reproach. "The king of the dwarves is sitting right here. Your king is a warmonger, a cowardly-"

  "That's enough, Boпndil!" Tungdil interrupted. "I know you'd rather be fighting than trundling along in a wagon, but you're going to have to keep your temper under control." He waited until Boпndil had finished growling. "Right, let's get going. The sooner the first leg of the journey is over, the better." He stood up and the other four followed him to the wagon. Will they ever stop squabbling?

  "I wonder what it's like in their kingdom," mused Boлndal, preparing to get the wagon rolling. "The firstlings are supposed to be consummate smiths. Do you think they'll forge me a weapon to beat my trusty crow's beak?"

  "Good thinking, brother," his brother applauded him. "Not many axes are as good as mine, but I'll lay them aside if the firstlings can do better."

  The wagon crept along the rail. Boлndal waited until they were inches from the downward slope, then jumped in and they thundered into the tunnel.

  Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle Bislipur knelt before the high king. "I came because you summoned me," he said, rising. "Not because you can change my mind."

  His obdurate tone left Gundrabur and his counselor in no doubt that the private meeting in the great hall would come to nothing. They could only hope and pray that Vraccas would knock some sense into Bislipur's intransigent skull. Gundrabur motioned for the burly dwarf to be seated.

  Bislipur appraised him intently. He looks weaker. His fingers are shaking and he can barely lift his arms. Nature is on my side.

  "We should have been straight with each other from the beginning," said Balendilнn, taking his place beside the king. "We're tired of game playing. I know we don't share the same opinions, but it's no excuse for scheming like kobolds."

  "Our folks have been offered a unique opportunity, and I'm trying to persuade the assembly to take it. Is that what you mean by scheming?" Gandogar's adviser retorted.

  "His Majesty and I have been wondering what could possibly motivate you to agitate for war," Balendilнn said forth-rightly. "It baffles us that you should wish to lead the children of the Smith against the elves when a battle of far greater magnitude awaits us."

  Bislipur seemed to find the topic too tedious to be worthy of anger. "Your Majesty, there's nothing to be gained by talking. Your concerns are as unintelligible to me as mine to you. I've got better things to do than-"

  "Better things?" Balendilнn cut in. "Such as what?"

  "Private cogitation," Bislipur answered dourly. Without waiting for the high king to dismiss him, he got up and limped to the door.

  "You're going to cogitate, are you?" Gundrabur called after him. "Well, here's something for you to consider: None of the fourthlings knows anything about your family."

  The dwarf stopped short, but didn't turn. "What are you insinuating?"

  "I'm not insinuating anything. I thought you should be warned."

  The elderly monarch paused and Balendilнn took over. "You questioned Tungdil's lineage, and you're entitled to do so. But I'm sure you've heard the maxim about scorched dwarves not playing with fire…"

  Bislipur strode toward him, his huge hands clenched into fists. "And you dare to accuse me of scheming like a kobold," he snarled. "What do you want?"

  "Nothing-although, of course, we may find ourselves obliged to share our suspicion that your ancestry is no clearer than that of the high king's nominated successor," the counselor said gravely. "Incidentally, the document accusing the elves of treachery was a fake."

  "You're lying!" Bislipur struck the marble table with a resounding thwack.

  "You don't look like a child of Goпmdil. No other fourthling comes close to rivaling your stature. You've never been seen polishing diamonds or fashioning trinkets, but your reputation as a strong and talented fighter is known even to the orcs. I learned this from my inquiries," Balendilнn told him coldly. "Anyone with a less charitable mind would be inclined to think you're one of Lorimbur's dwarves."

  "I have never heard such scandalous bile in all my life! By my beard, if you weren't a helpless cripple I'd fight you for insulting my honor with your lies!"

  Balendilнn listened in satisfaction. He had no evidence for his allegations, but he seemed to have touched a nerve. "This is what we propose: First, that you cease your scheming until one or the other of the companies returns from the expedition; and second, that you make it known that the elves' involvement in the fall of the fifthling kingdom can't be proven, since the document was forged. For our part, we'll say nothing of the doubts surrounding your lineage."

  "The outcome of the expedition must decide the succession," Gundrabur added. "Are we agreed?"

  Jaw clenched, Bislipur nodded curtly.

  "How about a beer to seal the truce?" proposed Balendilнn.

  Bislipur turned away. "Drink all you like. I have matters to attend to." He smiled balefully. "You needn't worry: I'll keep my word and say nothing about the succession. As for the business about the elves, I assume you'll permit me to convene an assembly so I can explain to the delegates." He took leave of the high king without bowing. I'll show you yet, he thought grimly. You're both mistaken if you think I care about your truce. From now on, I'll be more discreet about my scheming.

  An attendant appeared at the far end of the corridor. He was carrying a pitcher in one hand and three tankards in the other.

  Perfect timing, thought Bislipur. The high king's refreshments. This is my chance. He waited until the dwarf was level with him, then stumbled and clutched at him, knocking him over. Like a shot, Bislipur reached out and caught the pitcher and two of the tankards, allowing the third to shatter on the marble flagstones.

  "I'm really sorry," he said apologetically. "My lame leg is a curse on these slippery floors. Still, I managed to save everything except one of the tankards."

  It took a moment for the attendant to recover. He got up shakily and looked at the debris. "Er, actually, the tankard was for you. I'll go and fetch a-"

  "Don't trouble yourself," Bislipur interrupted. "I wasn't thirsty anyway. You may as well clear up the mess."

  The attendant stooped and gathered the pieces into his apron. "All done," he said, straightening up again. "Now, if you pass me the other tankards and the beer…"

  Bislipur hesitated and gave the pitcher a little shake, watching the layer of white foam slop back and forth without mingling with the beer. "Light on top and dark below," he said thoughtfully. He returned the vessels to the waiter. "Let's hope light will triumph over darkness in Girdlegard as well. You'd better hurry; the high ki
ng is thirsty."

  Humming contentedly, he set off to find the fourthling delegation, while the attendant continued down the corridor toward the great hall. Underground Network, Girdlegard, Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle The next downward pitch gave the wagon a burst of speed that sent them careering through the tunnel. For the first time Tungdil was obliged to pull sharply on the brake. Any faster, and we'll come flying off the rail. There was a flurry of sparks and a terrible squealing and screeching.

  "It's worse than Bavragor's singing," Boпndil objected, shouting above the noise. Obligingly, the mason burst into song, thereby adding to the din. Boпndil rolled his eyes despairingly.

  The tunnel opened out and they found themselves inside a natural grotto, shooting along an enormous bridge hewn from stone. A river raged beneath them, drowning out the squealing of brakes. Tendrils of spray splashed against the sides of the wagon; then they were back in the tunnel and racing on.

  "Did you see that?" marveled Tungdil.

  "How could we miss it?" Goпmgar said unhappily. "We could have fallen in and died."

  Tungdil was bubbling with enthusiasm. "What a spectacular bridge! Our forefathers must have been incredible masons."

  If Bavragor had been in the driver's seat, he would have turned back to take another look. "I bet it was sculpted by secondlings," he said proudly. "We're the only folk who could build a bridge like that." He paused, waiting for someone to contradict him. "In that case, I propose a toast…" Suddenly the wagon started to judder and rattle. "Steady on, Tungdil! You're spilling my drink and we don't want Goпmgar spewing all over the place."

  Tungdil was less inclined to joke. "There's gravel on the track. I'm worried we'll-"

  They felt a terrible jolt and the wagon tilted dangerously to the right. Orange sparks shot to the ceiling.

  Before the dwarves could react, the wagon lurched, turned over, bounced, turned over, and crashed to a halt. The tunnel ahead was blocked with fallen stone.

  Tungdil was catapulted into the air and had to curl into a ball to preserve his limbs. He hit the ground with a thud, grazed his face on the rock, and whacked his helmet against something unyielding. I suppose it was bound to end this way. He sat up groggily, looking for the others.

  The twins were already on their feet. Like Tungdil, they had scuffed and torn their breeches, but seemed otherwise unharmed.

  Bavragor picked himself up with a groan, clutching his hip. Only Goпmgar was lying still beside the battered wagon. His breath was coming in faint gasps.

  "Vraccas have mercy!" Tungdil made his way unsteadily toward the stricken dwarf. Much to everyone's relief, Boлndal and Boпndil took charge of the examination and declared the artisan to be intact.

  "We'll have you up in no time," said Bavragor, administering a sip from his pouch. "I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I'm making."

  The fragile fourthling wasn't much of a brandy drinker and came to with a splutter. Sitting up sharply, he yelped and clutched his right shoulder. He grimaced in pain. "It's broken, I know it is!" Boлndal bent down to take a closer look, but Goпmgar waved him away. "No! You'll only make it worse!"

  "Keep acting like that and I'll make it worse," Boпndil growled menacingly.

  "Come on, Goпmgar," Tungdil pleaded. "Boлndal and Boпndil are warriors. They know about injuries."

  "Cuts and bruises, maybe, but not broken bones," said Goпmgar, shrinking away. Groaning loudly, he struggled to his feet, his right arm dangling limply. "I've broken my collarbone," he whined. "I can't move my arm."

  "Here, have a sip of this to ease the pain," said Bavragor, tossing him the pouch. Goпmgar reached out and caught it with both hands. The others turned on him accusingly.

  "You lava-livered liar!" barked Boпndil. "Stringing us along, were you?"

  "I thought it was broken," Goпmgar protested hastily. "But I guess it was, er… dislocated! What a stroke of luck! I put it into joint when I moved. Did you hear it click?" He lifted his arm gingerly and feigned discomfort. "Hmm, it's still quite sore, but I should be able to put up with it." He returned the pouch to Bavragor. "You can keep your rotgut. It tastes like poison."

  "Next time I'd advise you to try a bit harder," fumed Boпndil. "Hoodwink us again, and I'll wallop your backside until it's redder than a forge."

  If only I hadn't chosen him in the first place, Tungdil thought ruefully. I didn't realize I was hanging a millstone around my neck. He could see now why the fourthling monarch had let him pick Goпmgar: The artisan was a pest. From now on I won't believe a single word he says.

  Tungdil decided to focus on their immediate plight: The tunnel leading west to the firstlings was completely blocked by an avalanche of rock, and the ingots and gems for Keenfire were scattered across the floor. He beckoned to Bavragor. "When do you think the roof collapsed?"

  The one-eyed mason inspected the rockfall, clambered all over it, and ran his fingers over the fractured stone. At length he returned. "Quite recently. There's a fair bit of dust about, but it must have come down with the ceiling. See how shiny these edges are?" He patted the warped chassis of the wagon. "We were lucky the wagon derailed itself when it did. If we'd hit this lot at full tilt…"

  "Do you think it was sabotage?"

  Bavragor rubbed the dust from his one good eye. "I can't say for sure, but it wouldn't surprise me." He stroked the wall lovingly. "It seems strange that the tunnel would collapse of its own accord after all these cycles."

  "It was probably your singing that did it," Goпmgar said witheringly. "Your singing and the idiot's lunatic yells."

  "You're the one who keeps whining. If I were the mountain, I'd cave in on myself rather than listen to your voice," the mason retorted.

  "You're both wrong," said Boпndil, not wanting to be outdone. "The tunnel split its sides laughing because of Goпmgar's size."

  The artisan opened his mouth to protest, but Tungdil ordered them to pile up the ingots and cover the treasure with rocks. "We're going up to the surface," he decided. "The next hatch isn't far from here. We'll leave the underground network, find a settlement, and buy a pony." He unfurled the map. "We can reenter the tunnel here. It's only eighty miles overland."

  "That's all very well, but what are we going to do without a wagon?" asked Boлndal.

  "If we don't find a wagon when we get to the tunnel, we'll buy a couple of extra ponies and ride the last two hundred miles." Tungdil rolled up the map and helped the others to stack the heavy ingots. He put the wood in his pack.

  He sneaked a sideways glance at his four companions. All this squabbling is bad for the mission. I need to make them work together or I won't have a company to lead at all. Help me, Vraccas.

  They bowed their heads and delivered a quick vote of thanks to their creator for saving their lives, then marched back through the tunnel. At last they came to a narrow flight of steps that zigzagged steeply to the surface.

  Bavragor led the way, but Goпmgar refused to follow. "Where are we?" he demanded suspiciously.

  "According to the map, we'll be entering Oremaira," said Tungdil. "It used to be ruled by Maira the Life-Preserver, but there's no telling what's happened since Nфd'onn took charge."

  "Not another enchanted realm," moaned Boпndil. He laid his hands on the hafts of his axes. "Still, it might be a chance to slay a few runts. I just hope the magus doesn't plague us with any of his tricks."

  The rest of the company nodded in mute agreement.

  After a long and arduous ascent the five dwarves reached a door inscribed with runes. Weapons at the ready, they prepared themselves for the outside world.

  The stairway led out into a cave some four paces high and seven paces wide. The noise of a waterfall roared in their ears. Water was streaming past the mouth of the cavern and tumbling down the mountainside, sending showers of spray that spattered their dusty mail, helms, and cloaks. Faint rays of sunshine sloped through the watery curtain, forming pools of light on the dank rock floor.

  "Bloody typical,"
shouted Boпndil, straining to drown out the noise. "I'll wash when I'm good and ready, not because of some blasted waterfall."

  His brother laughed. "And when might that be?"

  They found a narrow path that led past the waterfall toward a rocky plateau. With a bit of luck, we'll be able to see for miles, thought Tungdil.

  "Come on," he chivvied the others, "let's see where we are."

  One by one they edged past the cascading water, treading carefully because of the slippery stone. None of them escaped without a good soaking and Goпmgar was nearly knocked off his feet.

  It was around about noon when they emerged into the autumn sunshine. A rainbow was shimmering in the waterfall and the air smelled fresh and moist. They reached the edge of the plateau and peered down at the fifty-pace drop. The firs, pines, and spruces formed a dark green mass of bristling spears. Judging by the gathering clouds, they were about to be rained on.

  To the west, a vast lake shimmered on the horizon, but in the north they could see a collection of houses ringed by a wall. The settlement lay on the other side of the forest, and beyond that were fields.

  Tungdil was heartened by its proximity. It shouldn't take more than an orbit to get there. "Vraccas has been merciful," he told the others. "We'll have our pony in no time."

  "A town full of long-uns," Goпmgar said glumly. "What if they don't like us?"

  "Stop whining! We don't need the hillside caving in on us as well," snapped Boпndil. "I don't know why you're worried about long-uns. They might be tall, but I'm strong."