The Dwarves d-1

by Markus Heitz

  "The sooner we leave Sovereignston the better." Boлndal frowned in concern. "What possessed you to go wandering through the city on your own? An ax and a bit of learning aren't enough to protect you in a place like this." He thought for a moment. "If you ask me, it's not just the sigurdaisy wood they're after. Nфd'onn wants us dead because we know his secret." He woke Bavragor and Goпmgar to tell them what had happened, then went to join his brother in the stables. There would be no more sleep for any of them that night.

  What if it was Djerun after all? Tungdil dismissed the idea. The armored giant and the maga were miles away in the Outer Lands.

  At first light, the three players were waiting at the gates as agreed. Narmora was wearing a leather cape and the red head scarf that she never seemed to be without; and Furgas had put on a long coat to keep himself as dry as possible while the downpour showed no sign of letting up. The impresario seemed to have dressed in a hurry and was scanning the crowds nervously. The dwarves rolled up with their ponies and provisions.

  "What's wrong?" Boпndil asked Rodario. "Are the дlfar about?"

  "It's not дlfar he's worried about," replied Furgas. His tone implied that he had witnessed the scene before. "After last night's performance, he put on a private showing for the innkeeper's daughter and his wife."

  "Shush! Do you want me hounded out of town?" hissed Rodario, glancing back and forth on the lookout for angry faces. "They told me they were separated!"

  "There's always an excuse," Narmora said cynically. "It's a pity their cuckolded husbands won't believe you."

  Boпndil whinnied with laughter. "The innkeeper's wife and his daughter?"

  "Thirty-four cycles the one, and sixteen the other: spring and summer in one bed, with me, the king of seasons," he bragged.

  Narmora was unimpressed. "I'd say you're more of a wanton farmer who can't help plowing foreign fields. For the most part, they accept your attentions because they're neglected by their own farmers-or because they pity a man with such a miniscule plowshare."

  Rodario stopped searching the crowd and focused on sparring with Narmora. "My dear lady, I understand your fascination with my mighty apparatus, but I'm most discerning about my choice of fields. Stony meadows give you bruises; they may appeal to some laborers, but not to me." He flashed a smile at Furgas, then remembered what Boпndil had asked him. "Дlfar, did you say?" he inquired with sudden seriousness. "Right here in Sovereignston? Why didn't you-"

  "That's him!" the shout went up. "That's the scoundrel!" Rodario spotted the approaching pitchfork and fled. In no time he was through the gates and wending his way nimbly among the queuing carts. A moment later four men rushed past in hot pursuit.

  Bavragor and Boпndil fell about laughing, Boлndal shook his head silently, and Goпmgar clung to his shield, ready to take shelter in case the long-uns gave up on the adulterer and took their anger out on him.

  But the cuckolded husbands and their friends were intent on apprehending Rodario, who had successfully evaded them, leaving his pursuers searching furiously in the rain.

  The rest of the company left Sovereignston in a more dignified fashion.

  "Дlfar?" said Narmora, returning to the initial question. "Where?"

  "Yesterday in the city. I was attacked by one. You didn't see any, then?" Tungdil couldn't help feeling a mild aversion toward the actress, perhaps because of her elven looks. She's an ordinary woman, he told himself. That's all.

  She shook her head. "They left us alone. At least we're forewarned." She laid her right hand on Crescent.

  About a mile from Sovereignston they were reunited with the philandering impresario, who was waiting under a fir tree and trying to shelter from the rain.

  Bavragor couldn't help laughing. "I hope they were worth it!"

  "Indeed they were." A look of delectation came over Rodario's face. "I suspect I wasn't the first to enjoy their combined attentions, but they certainly knew how to please." Realizing that the ponies were getting away from him, he sped up to a jog. "That's all in the past now. Come, my loyal companions, let's make haste to the firstling kingdom where unparalleled wonders await us!" His stirring words were somewhat spoiled by the squelching beneath his feet, but he still cut a dash as an adventurer.

  Tungdil's memories of Sovereignston weren't nearly as fond. He picked up the pace, unmoved by the city's fluttering pennants and colorful panorama of tiled roofs. Nothing could induce him to look back. Hurrying away from the pride of Weyurn, he tried not to think of the дlf's murderous eyes.

  I hope my mysterious rescuer killed him.

  III

  Kingdom of Weyurn, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle As soon as the opportunity arose, the travelers purchased a small cart for their baggage and a pair of horses-one for Rodario and the other for Narmora and Furgas. From then on, the journey westward proceeded considerably faster, not to mention more comfortably.

  Rodario, fearing the wrath of the cuckolded husbands, was especially keen to make progress-although it didn't deter him from using his charm and eloquence to make a string of conquests on the way.

  A fierce northerly brought with it the season's first snowstorm, the white flakes settling on the frozen ground to form a thick icy layer. Winter seemed to descend on the land and its inhabitants faster and more vigorously than usual. Sleeping in the open was too dangerous, so the company camped out in places where they would be sheltered from the elements, under trees or rocky overhangs, or in derelict houses or ruined forts.

  The vast lakes that made up three-quarters of Weyurn's surface were covered in ice. The sun and clouds played on the frozen water, creating glorious displays of shadow and light, but the glittering spectacle could do nothing to win over the twins, who were too afraid of the icy depths to go fishing with Rodario and Furgas.

  "Ice is just as dangerous as water," Boпndil told them. He set about making a fire in the ruined temple where they were camping for the night. "It looks so pretty that you forget to be careful, and then whoa, you find yourself sinking to the bottom, never to be seen again."

  "It's like marriage," observed Rodario. "Women tempt you into their arms and before you know it, you're trapped for life. I'm more of the type for-"

  "Bedding other people's wives. Not to mention being beaten by angry husbands and dying of the clap," Narmora finished for him.

  "Still jealous, I see," he riposted, flashing her a dazzling smile as he hurried after Furgas, who was heading for a nearby stream.

  Boпndil chuckled. "My old billy goat was a bit like Rodario. He mounted anything that stayed still for two seconds."

  "What became of him?"

  "The old lecher jumped on a nanny goat and didn't notice that she was grazing near a cliff. He plummeted to his death." He ran a razor over his cheeks to get rid of the stubble that was drawing attention away from his magnificent beard.

  "In other words, Rodario will get his comeuppance by falling out of bed and breaking his neck," said Tungdil, grinning.

  "Who said anything about a bed? It might be the window!" Boлndal pointed out.

  His brother hooted with laughter. "What a sight!" He scrambled along a fallen column that was propped up amid the ruins and came to a halt at the top end where he could see for miles around. He took a seat and lit his pipe. Boлndal tossed him his share of the food. "It would serve the old prattler right," chuckled Boпndil, turning his attention hungrily to the cheese.

  Goпmgar, wrapped in two blankets with his shield laid across him like a third, had said nothing for some time. Eyes closed, he seemed to be asleep.

  The temple's moss-covered walls were alive with flickering shadows. Over the cycles, the frescoes had faded and there were holes in the crumbling plaster. Not that the dwarves would have recognized the painted deities anyway: To their minds, there was only one god and that was Vraccas. The rest weren't worth the time of day.

  The warmth from the blazing fire spread rapidly, casting a soft light throughout the temple and making the timeworn sculptu
res seem strangely alive.

  Tungdil found himself thinking of the performance in the Curiosum. He still couldn't decide how much of what he had seen had been acted by the players and how much had unfolded in his mind. It all seemed so real.

  Muttering to himself, Bavragor returned from his tour of the ruins. "Not bad," was his verdict on the masonry, "but not worthy of us dwarves."

  Tungdil offered him some bread and ham. "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

  Bavragor accepted the food. "Sounds ominous."

  "It's been playing on my mind. You know the business with your sister…"

  "Smeralda." Bavragor placed the sandwich on a stone to warm the bread and bring out the flavor of the meat. He took a long slug of brandy before continuing and said bitterly, "I can't forgive him for what he did."

  Tungdil didn't press him. He had a feeling that Bavragor was ready to open up to him, and after a while the mason cleared his throat.

  "She was a slip of a thing, a lass of forty cycles, but as soon as he clapped eyes on her, he wanted her for himself. She was as much of a warrior as he was, and she trained like a demon because she wanted to be able to fight by his side." He clenched his fists as the memories flooded back. "The rest of us were worried about his fiery spirit, and we begged her to stay away. Smeralda wouldn't listen, and everything went on as before. The two of them were fighting a band of orcs when he…" He broke off, covering his good eye with one hand and raising his pouch to his mouth with the other. "He killed her, Tungdil. He was so far gone in bloodlust that he took her for an orc."

  Tungdil pushed back the lump in his throat and blinked.

  "An orc! Afterward they said it was a tragedy and a terrible accident and he swears he can't remember a thing, but I couldn't care less: My sister died because of him. I don't know if you could forgive him, but I don't intend to."

  Tungdil knew there was nothing he could say. The story was unspeakably sad. He laid a hand on Bavragor's arm. "I'm sorry I put you through it again," he said simply.

  Listening to the mason had brought back the pain of losing Lot-Ionan and Frala, who had been like a sister to him. I can almost understand how he feels.

  "So now you know," sighed Bavragor, taking a deep breath and flushing away the memories with a long draft of brandy. His ham sandwich lay untouched and forgotten by the fire.

  Tungdil looked up and glanced at Boпndil, who was guarding the camp from his lookout on the fallen pillar and puffing on his pipe. Blue smoke rings wafted into the darkness, rising through the falling flakes, and Tungdil thought for a moment that he could hear the hiss of hot tobacco on snow.

  "The fieriness of his inner furnace is a curse," Boлndal said sadly. "He still can't remember what happened on the bridge. All he knows is that Smeralda was lying dead at his feet and he thought the orcs had killed her. When Bavragor and the others told him that she'd died by his axes…"

  "Weren't you with him?"

  "I wish I had been. I keep telling myself that if I hadn't been injured, I might have stopped him before it was too late." He scratched at a rusty patch on his chain mail and oiled the corroded links. "He calls out to her in his sleep sometimes. Trust me, scholar, he suffers just as much as Bavragor, but he'd never admit it."

  Boлndal filled his pipe and they took turns smoking, each pursuing his thoughts. Tungdil looked out of the crumbling window and saw that the snow was falling faster than before.

  A pair of snowmen appeared in the doorway: Furgas and Rodario were back from fishing. The prop master had caught two fully grown carp, but the impresario was clutching a single, insubstantial tench.

  "A god among plowmen, but a terrible fisherman," commented Bavragor, hoping that a bit of banter would dispel his gloomy thoughts.

  Rodario didn't rise to the taunt. "What's the use of being a god when the mortals forsake you?" He pointed to the crumbling, damp-ridden frescoes. "Deities need lesser beings to adore them, or they fade and die. They lose their purpose; there's no reason for them to exist."

  "Vraccas doesn't need a purpose," Boлndal told him firmly. "He created himself because it suited him, not because of anyone else."

  "I'm familiar with the creation myths, thank you, and I certainly don't need any sermons from you." The impresario turned his attention to filleting his fish. "We used to perform them on stage-very successfully, I might tell you. It's true what they say: Old stories are always the best, although in the present circumstances our play about Nфd'onn seems to strike a chord."

  That was Tungdil's cue to ask him about the theatrical effects he had witnessed in the Curiosum. Ever since the performance he had been longing to find out how they made the illusions seem so real.

  "You're interested in how we did it?" Rodario pointed his scaly knife at Furgas. "Ask the expert."

  While the impresario continued to hack away at the unfortunate tench, Furgas finished gutting the first carp and started on the second. "I know a fair bit about alchemy. That's how we make the smoke, for example. Thick smoke, wispy smoke, red smoke, black smoke, whatever we need. The science of the elements is fascinating."

  Alchemy was one of the subjects taught by Lot-Ionan at the school and Tungdil was familiar with some of the chemicals, having fetched and carried them often enough. "But how did you extinguish all the lamps at once?"

  "Magic," Rodario whispered, trying to look enigmatic. "You thought Nфd'onn was the only magus left in Girdlegard, didn't you?" He leaned over to Tungdil, fiddled with his ear, and pulled out a gold coin. "What do you say to that?"

  "Thank you," said Tungdil, snatching up the coin. He tested it with his teeth and knew at once that he'd been had. "Gold-plated lead," he reported. "And not even good-quality gold." He tossed back the coin. "Your magic's not up to much."

  "He's a conjurer, not a magus," laughed Boлndal, pointing at the impresario with the stem of his pipe.

  Rodario wagged a finger at him. "But the audience falls for it, and that's what counts. Why, even the ugly little bцgnilim were tricked by my art, and that, my friends, is what's known as success."

  "So it's all a case of conjuring, illusion, and alchemy," said Tungdil, summing up.

  Furgas nodded. "And makeup," he added, glancing at his slender mistress. "Makeup convinces the eye of what it otherwise only suspects. It turns Narmora into an дlf and sends the youngsters screaming to their parents." He laughed. "That's when we know that we're doing something right."

  "Just be thankful it was Tungdil and not our lunatic ax man who visited your theater," Bavragor said darkly. "He would have stormed the stage."

  "Poor Narmora," Boлndal murmured unthinkingly. "Even without makeup she looks remarkably like an elf. Nature can be cruel sometimes."

  The comment prompted smiles from Furgas and Rodario, but Narmora shot the startled secondling a murderous look. Tungdil and Bavragor fell about laughing, thereby waking Goпmgar, who peered nervously over his shield.

  "Oh," said Boлndal, embarrassed. "That came out all wrong. I didn't mean it that way," he apologized.

  "Are you sure I look like an elf, not an дlf?" Narmora said threateningly. Her eyes, so dark they were almost black, glowered at him angrily. "I hope none of you get a nasty shock tonight…" She stood up, straightened her head scarf, and left the ruined temple. Her silhouette melted into the darkness.

  "Ye gods, she's a natural," Rodario gushed. "Doesn't she play the role to perfection? Of course, I've no intention of telling her. She'd only demand a raise." He looked excitedly at the others for confirmation, and the dwarves concurred with mute nods. Boлndal was genuinely perturbed about what might befall him when he fell asleep that night.

  The men finished filleting their catch and soon there was a smell of roasted fish. They all tucked in hungrily.

  "There's one thing I don't understand," Tungdil said to Furgas. "How did you make the set? Everything-the woods, the palace… It looked so real."

  "Can you keep a secret?"

  "Of course!"

  "Do I have y
our word?"

  "Absolutely!"

  "Swear by the blade of your ax."

  Tungdil swore himself to absolute secrecy.

  "Magic," announced Furgas with a mischievous grin. He smoothed his mustache.

  "Uh-huh," sighed Tungdil, kicking himself for falling for the routine.

  Boлndal sat up with a jolt and stifled a scream. For all the shock of being woken, he was glad to have escaped the visions that had plagued his sleep.

  His relief was short-lived. On reaching for his crow's beak, he was alarmed to discover that the weapon was gone. Slender fingers encircled his wrist.

  He rolled over to find himself staring into the cruel, lean face of an дlf. Clad in full armor, she was crouched beside him, studying him with cold, dark eyes. I'm still dreaming, he told himself frantically. It can't be…

  "Let that be a lesson to you," he heard her hiss menacingly, just as his eyelids grew impossibly heavy and he drifted off to sleep.

  When he woke for the second time, he leaped up, spluttering and gasping, and whirled round to face the threat. This time his crow's beak was in its proper place and he snatched it up hastily.

  The players were asleep: Narmora in Furgas's arms, and Rodario, head resting in a pile of discarded fish skin, nestled beside the dying fire.

  Boлndal studied them carefully. It didn't look as though they were playing a joke on him. Heart still pounding, he recovered some of his composure and vowed never to offend the actress again.

  It occurred to him that Goпmgar was supposed to be keeping watch for them, but the lookout post was empty and the sentry had vanished. The horses and ponies were all safely tethered, but a trail of footprints led away from the door.

  Surely he's not daft enough to run away in a snowstorm? Boлndal took a few steps outside and was almost knocked over by a flurry of snowflakes that seemed intent on laying him out. Suddenly he spotted a figure crumpled in the snow.

  "Goпmgar!" Boлndal rushed over but the artisan didn't respond. Blood was trickling from a narrow gash in his head. Boлndal carried him into the ruined temple, laid him next to the fire, and threw on a couple of extra logs.