by Markus Heitz
"I've been robbed!" the dwarf bellowed without slowing. "Your precious theater is harboring a thief!"
"The only thief in this theater is you, my stunted friend," the actor said waspishly. "You're stealing my time, not to mention plundering my patience, neither of which you can afford. Kindly take your thieving presence out of my theater and allow those of more cultured sensibilities to see the rest of the play, which shall have the finale it deserves!"
On hearing the cheers and laughter, he took a deep bow.
Jackass, muttered Tungdil. Bursting out of the theater, he stopped on the street, looked both ways, and ran on. On rounding the next corner, he spotted his man. The scoundrel had slung the stolen pack over his shoulder in order to free his hands.
"Stop! That's my bag you've stolen!" Tungdil set off in hot pursuit.
At the end of the third street he still had the thief in his sights, but somewhere along the fourth street, after what must have been the tenth sudden change in direction, the fellow vanished into a marketplace. Tungdil was left stranded among a crowd of people with no hope of spotting his knapsack amid the seething mass.
The sigurdaisy wood! He felt hot and cold all over at the thought that the relic was lost. Of all the misfortunes that could have befallen him, this was surely the worst. I didn't come all this way to be thwarted by a petty criminal! he thought determinedly, forcing himself to continue the chase.
Still gripping his ax with one hand, he used the other to push his way through the crowd until he reached a table piled high with woven baskets. He clambered on top.
From this angle the situation looked no better than before. The only way of recovering the bag was to enlist the help of the guards, but his plight was unlikely to elicit much sympathy-and understandably so. What could he possibly say to convince them of the importance of retrieving his pack?
Er, excuse me, I know the town's surrounded by orcs, but I've lost a lump of wood. I was hoping to use it to save Girdlegard and its inhabitants from the Perished Land.
No one would ever believe him.
He jumped to the ground and set off toward the tavern where, Vraccas willing, Bavragor and Boпndil would be waiting. To his unspeakable dismay he realized that he was lost.
Tungdil had sent his companions to the tavern without checking its name. Now his only hope of finding them was to return to the gates.
Which gates? Did we enter from the north?
He started on his way, grumbling to himself and glancing up from time to time to check his position against the watchtowers that rose above the sloping roofs. Striding along determinedly, he passed a dingy side street without slowing and heard a muffled groan.
He stopped in his tracks, gripped his ax with both hands, and doubled back. Stepping warily into the darkness, he spotted a tall, slender figure whose garments were enveloped by a dark gray cape.
At his feet was the villain who had stolen Tungdil's pack.
The thief was lying on the cobbles, bleeding from a dozen stab wounds, while his killer rummaged eagerly through the bag.
Tungdil's instincts told him something was wrong. In height and build the stranger looked less like a man than an дlf. Vraccas be with me, he murmured.
The knapsack's new owner buckled the lid, grabbed the straps with his left hand, and hid the bag beneath his cape. Groaning in agony, the thief rolled onto his back and clutched the ground. His assassin was unmoved by his suffering and strolled away without looking back.
"Excuse me! That's my bag," shouted Tungdil.
The stranger whipped round and his cape flew open, obscuring his face. Tungdil was still trying to get a proper look at him when two heavy objects collided with his chest. The throwing knives glanced off his chain mail, clattering to the cobbles.
Before Tungdil could recover, his crafty assailant had taken off down the alleyway and rounded the next bend. The dwarf was at a disadvantage because of his stumpy legs, and by the time he reached the corner, the stranger was nowhere in sight.
Tungdil stepped back into the shadows and leaned against a wall to catch his breath. One blasted misfortune after the next! What have I done to displease you, Vraccas?
He felt an arm wrap itself around his neck. A narrow blade flashed in front of his face and came to rest against his bare throat.
"It's your knapsack, is it?" whispered a voice in his ear. "In that case, you must be Tungdil. We weren't expecting you here. A friend of mine has been longing to make your acquaintance ever since you murdered his companion in Greenglade."
Tungdil tried to prize away the arm, but the pressure on his neck increased.
"Keep still," the voice commanded. "You've got some explaining to do."
"I'm not telling you anything," Tungdil said defiantly, now certain that the stranger was one of Nфd'onn's дlfar.
"We'll see about that." His attacker stepped backward, dragging Tungdil beneath a covered archway at the front entrance to a house. Total darkness engulfed them. "Where are you taking the relic?"
The dwarf maintained a stubborn silence.
"Talk or I'll kill you."
"You'll kill me anyway. What difference does it make?"
The дlf laughed. "The difference between a quick death and an agonizing end. Let's try again. Are you alone?"
Footsteps hurried along the alleyway, accompanied by clunking mail. Two figures rounded the corner. The дlf fell silent.
By some vindictive twist of fortune, Boлndal and Goпmgar chose precisely that moment to make their appearance.
Boлndal was doing his best to reassure the wary artisan that neither Bavragor nor Boпndil had any intention of carrying out their threats. Tungdil heard him vow to protect Goпmgar from any rash acts of vengeance; then he and the fourthling disappeared from sight.
"Very well," the дlf whispered, "so there are five of you. What is the purpose of your journey?"
"To foil you, your master, and all of your ilk!" Tungdil said loudly, choosing that moment to make his escape. He made a grab for the knife and threw his weight backward, hoping to ram his captor against the wall. The дlf stepped aside, and Tungdil barreled into the brickwork, still struggling ferociously to fend off the blade.
The noise was enough to alert the other dwarves. They rushed to his aid.
"Is that you, scholar?" Boлndal skidded to a halt in front of the archway, leveled his crow's beak, and barred the way. Skulking behind him was Goпmgar, doing a convincing impression of a two-legged shield.
The дlf thrust his knee into Tungdil's nose guard, forcing the metal into his face. Tungdil's eyes watered, blurring his vision; then the knife tore a gash in his unprotected left arm. The дlf set about making his escape.
I don't think so! Tungdil darted after the knapsack and managed to catch hold of the flap. He clung to it, growling, and aimed his ax at his antagonist's wrist.
The дlf whipped his hand away and the blade missed, slicing through the air, hitting the knapsack, and slitting the canvas. The flap came away in Tungdil's hands, and he lost his balance and fell.
"I've got what I came for." The situation was too perilous for the дlf and he turned to leave, trying to wrong-foot the experienced Boлndal, who saw through the feint and timed his attack to perfection. The deadly tip of the crow's beak passed through the leather armor, penetrating deep into the flesh.
The дlf uttered an unintelligible curse and staggered sideways, stepping into a lone shaft of light. His deep blue eyes became two dark pits.
But that was only the beginning of his transformation. Thin lines appeared on his pale skin, and in no time his face and throat were patterned with what looked like tiny cracks. Clutching his wounded side, he stumbled down the alleyway, the knapsack bouncing on his back.
"He's not going anywhere!" Boлndal was about to sprint after him when Tungdil called him back.
"Let him go. For all we know, it might be a trap."
"But he's got the knapsack!"
Tungdil wiped the blood from his nose, then pr
oudly produced the sigurdaisy relic. "This is what he was after, and it's right here with me!"
"How did he find you in the first place?"
"I'll explain on the way. We'd better get back to the others." He gave a quick nod to Goпmgar. "Don't worry, those hotheads won't hurt you."
"I told them to close the door after you," the artisan said softly. "Honestly, I did."
"It's all right, Goпmgar," Tungdil reassured him, although deep down he wasn't sure what to believe. The fourthling had forfeited his right to be trusted, and there was still no sign of him understanding what the mission was all about.
"We ought to warn the guards that at least one дlf has found his way inside the gates," Boлndal reminded him. "Whichever way you look at it, it's bad news for Mifurdania. It's probably a trick to open the settlement to the orcs."
"They know we're here now," Goпmgar pointed out. "Do you think they'll come after us?"
"They've been after us all along," Tungdil told him bluntly. "It's a shame they had to find us. We need to get back to the tunnel as soon as we can. The дlfar don't know about the underground network."
The trio hurried through the streets until they reached the southern gates, where Tungdil told the sentries of his brush with the дlf. Then they set off toward the alehouse where Bavragor and Boпndil had been instructed to wait.
They were still some distance from the rundown tavern when the sound of Ireheart's ranting reached their ears. They heard cracking wood, then a chorus of screams.
"Bavragor and Boпndil! The дlfar must have found them!" Boлndal charged ahead to save his twin.
Just then glass sprayed everywhere as a narrow window shattered and a man hit the cobbles with a thud. The next unfortunate was ejected from the tavern together with the door. Bruised and bleeding, he picked himself up and fled.
The three dwarves rushed inside to be met with a scene of devastation. It looked as if a tornado had hit the bar. Nothing was in its proper place, the chairs, tables, and benches broken or upturned and the floor strewn with groaning bodies. All had taken a beating, some more severely than others.
At the heart of the carnage was Boпndil, glowering like a dwarven god of vengeance. He was busy ridding a man, hair by hair, of his mustache. There was no sign of Bavragor.
"What's got into you?" his brother asked incredulously, staring at the mess. "Is this your doing?"
Ireheart turned to face them, and they saw his singed beard. "You'd better believe it!" he slurred. "The long-uns set fire to my whiskers, so I gave them a good walloping." He giggled and plucked out another hair. "This ruffian started it. I only meant to punish him for ruining my beard, but the others piled in. I suppose I should thank them, really; it made a better fight."
"Tell him I'm sorry," groaned his victim. "It was a misunderstanding. I was offering him a light for his pipe, that's all. I'm begging you, make him stop hurting me."
Ireheart seized him by the ears and looked at him blurrily. "Will you never, ever burn another hole in a dwarf's bearded glory?"
"Never," the man whimpered.
"Then swear it!" The man complied and was released.
"Get out of my sight," barked Boпndil. As a parting shot, he grabbed another clump of hair and aimed a kick at the man's behind. He sat down on the table, laughing, and reached for his tankard. He took a noisy slurp. "I haven't had this much fun in ages," he burped. Just then he spotted Goпmgar. "Ah, there's our little flower."
"He's drunk as a skunk," said his brother, pursing his lips.
"Where's Bavragor?" asked Tungdil. Keeping tabs on this lot is worse than herding cats, he thought crossly. "Don't tell me we'll have to look for him too."
"Oh, him… He'll be back in a moment. He went to buy a pony so we can fetch the ingots from the-"
"Boпndil!" His brother snatched away the tankard and pulled him down from the table. "What in the name of Vraccas are you thinking? We're in a strange town, the orcs are at the gates, and all you can do is drink yourself silly. You're as bad as Bavragor!"
"So that's the thanks I get for buying two ponies," came an offended voice from the door. "He's the one who's been beating up locals, not me!"
"I told you he'd be back!" Boпndil said happily. He seized the tankard from Boлndal and knocked it back. "There, try taking it from me now!" He grinned and burped again.
"Orcs!" They heard the shout even before the guard rushed in. "To arms! To arms! The southern gates have fallen and the enemy has invaded! To arms, good people of Mifurdania, to arms!" He stopped short, noticing the bodies strewn around the room. "What in the name of…"
"To arms!" shouted Boпndil excitedly. "Let's get the runts! Oink, oink!" He drew his axes and stumbled to the door. His brother pulled him back and gave him a good talking to.
"Boлndal didn't mean what he said," Tungdil told Bavragor, hoping that the comment wouldn't spark another feud.
"Old Hookhand can say what he likes; he's usually right," the mason said mildly. "You'll find a couple of ponies waiting for us outside. I got them cheap, but they're sturdy little beasts."
"We need to get out of here," muttered Tungdil, deciding to save the story of what had happened in the theater until they were safely out of town-not that he had the faintest idea as to how they would escape. "The дlfar are after me."
"In that case, we need a plan," observed Bavragor.
"I've been thinking, scholar," said Boлndal. "Our enemy will be focusing on the main gates, so all we need is a side exit. Once we're out, we can hack our way through the fringes of the battle." He glanced at his brother, whose uncharacteristic silence was explained by the fact that he was snoring in the doorway. "Obviously, the circumstances aren't ideal," he finished with a sigh.
Goпmgar shuddered. "Through the battle?" In his mind's eye he was already fleeing from snarling orcs, grunting bцgnilim, and nimble-footed дlfar, while arrows rained down on him and swords, spears, and pikes slashed and jabbed all around. "Are you sure that's wise?"
"I don't suppose you can fly, can you?" asked Bavragor. The artisan shook his head wretchedly. "In that case, we don't have a choice."
There was a loud crash behind them. Ireheart had gone down like a felled oak and was lying inert on the floor. His loud snores were the only indication that he hadn't been smitten by Vraccas's hammer.
"A fat lot of use he is," Goпmgar said accusingly. "Just when we could do with a bloodthirsty warrior, he knocks himself out on beer. Think of how many orcs he could have butchered for us."
"I know." Bavragor nodded, helping Boлndal to drape the unconscious Boпndil over one of the ponies. "It beats me how he got into this state. The long-uns' beer is no better than flavored water."
"He drank five whole tankards of it," Goпmgar told him. He looked at the mason in sudden amazement. "You're not saying…"
"I had seven, not counting the two at the market." He winked at the smaller dwarf and passed him both sets of reins. "Here, look after the ponies."
Hefting his mighty war hammer, he took up position at the rear of the procession. Boлndal and Tungdil took the lead.
From time to time they heard the clatter of swords, but they avoided trouble by taking frequent detours and keeping out of sight. The tactic was to Goпmgar's taste.
People were charging past them in every direction, some armed and rushing to defend the town, others clutching their children and possessions and hoping to find refuge in passageways and backstreets that hadn't yet fallen to the orcs.
Another doomed settlement, thought Tungdil, remembering the charred wreckage of Goodwater. He knew what the orcs would do to Mifurdania and he was tempted to forget about the mission and rush to the townspeople's aid. They were desperately in need of a few extra axes. He wondered whether to declare a change of plan.
What if one of us gets killed? If we don't forge Keenfire, Girdlegard will be lost. He agonized for a moment and decided that he had to put the mission first, regardless of how hard it was to leave the Mifurdanians to their
fate. May the gods preserve you, he thought bleakly, lowering his head.
Boлndal laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. It was clear from his expression that he shared Tungdil's torment.
At length they reached the eastern battlements and discovered a small door watched over by a pair of sentries. Moments later, a bugle sounded and the sentries grabbed their spears and raced to the northern gates. The streets and marketplaces echoed with the sounds of fighting as the orcs advanced through Mifurdania, beating back the defenders.
The dwarves inspected the door. Heavy-duty chains and padlocks prevented anyone from tampering with the four steel bolts.
"Well, well, well," said a disapproving voice. "What do we have here? Five plump cannonballs on legs…I hope you weren't intending to slip out unnoticed."
The man who stepped out of the side street had an aristocratic face and a pointed beard. His flamboyant robes looked expensive. Behind him was a tall, slender woman in leather armor with a crimson head scarf over her long black hair. A plainly dressed man with gray-green eyes, dark hair, and a thin mustache brought up the rear. All three were carrying duffel bags.
"Dear me, little giants," said the man with the pointy beard, "didn't anyone tell you that this door is out of bounds?"
"Thieves, are you?" growled Bavragor, grasping his hammer in his brawny hands.
The man laughed theatrically. "Thieves! That's a good one! What funny little fellows… No, my bearded warrior, we're not even commoners, let alone common thieves! Surely you don't need two eyes to see that?"
The snarling and grunting was getting louder all the time.
"Let me through," the dark-haired woman commanded. She pushed past the bewildered dwarves and lifted her sword belt to reveal a leather pouch. Producing a number of finger-length implements, some sharpened to a point, others curved or bent at right angles, she set to work on the locks. Soon there was a click.
"I knew they were thieves," said Bavragor, pleased to be proven right.
