The Dwarves d-1

by Markus Heitz

  "My dear fellows, couldn't we save the discussion for another warmer time?" pleaded the shivering impresario. "I'm in danger of losing my toes to frostbite." He too was growing stalactites from his nose.

  Bavragor looked at him scornfully. "You're as bad as a girl-or as bad as Shimmerbeard, which comes to the same thing."

  "Take another slug of brandy," Goпmgar hissed angrily. "With any luck, you'll trip over and freeze to death. I've got a feeling you won't be much use to us anyway. With your shaky hands, it'll be a miracle if the spurs ever fit."

  "I'm surprised that someone as yellow-bellied as you can feel anything except the warm sensation in your pants," Bavragor said scathingly, not bothering to look round.

  Following Boлndal's advice, they fanned out in an arc formation, weapons at the ready, and rode cautiously into the gully toward the first of the defenses, forty paces away. The wall of weathered stone rose high into the wintry sky, the only way past it through a metal door inscribed with runes. The bricks themselves were just roughly hewn blocks of stone; the firstlings hadn't lavished much attention on the masonry.

  Tungdil spelled out the runes, the metal glowed, and the door swung open, allowing them to pass. "I wish everything were that easy. If it were all down to metalwork and reading, Nфd'onn would soon be dead." The company set off again.

  "Reading doesn't come naturally to everyone," said Boлndal from the back of the procession. "It's just as well we've got a scholar with us. Without your-" The links of his mail shirt tinkled softly and he stopped, eyes widening in alarm. "W-what in the name of Vraccas…" he stammered, reaching behind him.

  A black arrow was embedded in his back. Before he could alert the others, a second missile sang toward him, passing through his hand, piercing his armor, and tunneling into his back. By the time it came to a halt, the arrowhead had passed right through him and was protruding from his chest. Boлndal groaned and slid out of the saddle.

  "Wait!" the impresario shouted frantically, calling to his companions to stop. He tugged on the reins and felt a rush of air near his throat. The arrow whizzed past him and hit his horse in the neck. With a loud whinny, the animal crashed to the ground, sending the impresario tumbling through the snow.

  Djerun whipped round, only to be hit. The long arrow missed Andфkai and pierced Djerun's armor with a curious sound. Even now, the giant gave no audible sign of pain. Without hesitating, he turned away from the archer, putting himself between the maga and their foe. Andфkai cursed volubly and invoked a spell.

  "What is it?" cried Furgas, who was staring in confusion with the remainder of the group.

  "Over there!" Narmora pointed to a tall, fair-haired figure at the mouth of the gully. Even as they looked, the дlf nocked a fifth arrow to his bow. It hurtled toward them, this time heading straight for Tungdil.

  Hurrying to escape the feathered missile, he caught his foot in the stirrups and was trapped. Suddenly he was out of time. The arrow was only a finger length away when it stopped in midflight, suspended in the air. Its tip was pointed directly at his heart. Tungdil shuddered.

  "Quick, get Boлndal out of here," the maga panted. "We need to ride on. I can't maintain the charm for much longer."

  Boпndil's eyes flashed dangerously. "Accursed дlfar!" he shrieked dementedly. "Look, there's another one! Leave them to me!" He made to spur on his pony.

  "Stop!" Tungdil peered at the mouth of the valley. Two дlfar were standing side by side, waiting for the spell to break. "They'll shoot you dead as soon as you leave the maga's protection. Think of your brother, not revenge." He made a grab for Boпndil's reins.

  "Out of my way!" raged Ireheart, staring at him without a glimmer of recognition. He raised his arm to strike.

  "No, Boпndil!" shouted his brother, kneeling in the crimson snow. "You can't let it happen again!" He tried to lever himself up with his crow's beak, but one hand was still pinned to his back by the arrow. Eyes watering with pain, he mumbled something and keeled over.

  Boпndil let out a terrible howl and leaped from the saddle. "Please, Vraccas, he can't be dead. He just can't." He crouched beside him. "His heart's still beating," he told them, breaking off the shafts of the arrows and gathering his brother into his arms. "We need to get him to the stronghold."

  They tied the unconscious Boлndal to his startled pony and dragged the pair of them toward the next set of gates.

  Tungdil felt a knot of fear in his stomach when he saw the trail of blood in the fresh white snow. Even warriors aren't safe on a mission like this.

  He risked a glance over his shoulder. The fair-haired дlf looked remarkably like Sinthoras. Tungdil thought back to their last encounter in the desert village. Somehow, Sinthoras must have survived Djerun's attack. The tenacious дlf had returned to avenge himself and his mistress, whom the twins had slain in Greenglade.

  Sinthoras yanked something from his neck, wound it around an arrow, and took aim. There were 250 paces between the archer and his target, but Tungdil didn't doubt for a second that the deadly missile would cover the distance and more. The дlf released the string and a moment later a second shot followed from his companion's bow.

  "Look out!" Tungdil yelled to the others, promptly losing sight of the arrows, which were speeding toward them at an impossible rate.

  The air crackled as the first arrow hit Andфkai's protective shield, ripping through the magic barrier and allowing the second arrow to embed itself in Djerun's back.

  This time a dull moan sounded from the visor as the arrow penetrated the giant's armor and a jet of yellow fluid spurted from the wound. It was as if the tip had lanced a festering blister.

  Tungdil had seen the substance once before in Sovereignston when Djerun had saved his life. He came to my aid and got hurt in the process. The giant swayed, shook his head sluggishly, and walked on, his pace considerably slowed. "We need to keep moving!" someone shouted.

  They hurried on, running or riding accordingly, toward the second set of gates. Tungdil gave the command, they slipped through, and the door closed behind them; they no longer felt quite so exposed.

  "Hurry!" shouted Boпndil, spurred on by the circle of blood spreading from his brother and soaking the pony's coat.

  Meanwhile, the fluid seeping from Djerun's wound was turning from yellow to dark gray and his movements were increasingly labored.

  They scrambled down the gentle slope toward the third set of gates. Man, dwarf, or pony, it made no difference; they were floundering to their waists in snow.

  The landscape reminded Tungdil of a hill near Lot-Ionan's vaults where he used to go sledding with Frala and Sunja. He had an idea. Snatching the shield away from Goпmgar, he turned it over and laid it flat. "Put Boлndal on top. You'll get there faster like this."

  They placed the wounded dwarf on the shield, his brother squatted next to him, and the pair of them swooped down the white slope, speeding toward the third door, which opened mysteriously as they approached.

  The smooth underside of the shield raced over the snow, gathering speed all the time, but Boпndil could neither steer nor brake. He looked up to find himself heading straight for a group of sentries who had gathered in the gateway, weapons at the ready.

  Tungdil cupped his hands to his mouth. "We're from the secondling kingdom," he bellowed, his warm breath hanging in the air. "In the name of Vraccas, lower your axes!"

  The firstlings recognized that the intruders were dwarves and stepped aside just in time. The strange craft hurtled past, spraying glistening snow in all directions. Incredibly, no one was hurt.

  Panting and coughing, the rest of the company sprinted to the gates, only to be stopped by the guards. Dressed from head to toe in armor and wrapped up warmly against the cold, the firstlings looked at them suspiciously through a narrow chink in their cladding of metal and fur. They leveled their spears, axes, and war hammers at the ragged group.

  "May Vraccas our creator bless you and may the flames of your furnace never die. My name is Tungdil Gold
hand," he introduced himself, gasping for breath and glancing back to check for дlfar. "These are my friends and companions. We were sent here by the dwarven assembly on a mission regarding the safety of Girdlegard. I need to speak with your king."

  The thicket of metal parted to reveal a dwarf in chain mail, leather breeches, and a particularly striking cloak of white fur. "Many cycles have passed since we were visited by our cousins from the other ranges. Call me cynical, but isn't it strange that a collection of dwarves and long-uns should enter our kingdom just as Girdlegard is being threatened by the Perished Land?" The voice was unusually high-pitched for that of a man.

  "A fine sort of welcome this is!" growled Bavragor. He took a step forward, towering over the speaker by at least a head. "Look here, dwarf-with-no-name, I'm Bavragor Hammerfist of the clan of the Hammer Fists, a child of the Smith, a descendant of Beroпn, and your equal in merit and birth. Is this what the firstlings' hospitality has come to?"

  "Now, that's what I call a proper dwarven voice," said the other. The scarf was pulled away, unmasking the speaker's identity.

  Tungdil gasped in surprise. The face looked distinctly feminine. There was no beard, the features were soft and delicate, and the cheeks were covered in soft down that grew thicker and darker toward the hairline.

  "My name is Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers," she told them, not in the least bit intimidated. "I'm in charge of these gates, and I make no apology for vetting our visitors before I let them in."

  IV

  Borengar's Folk, Firstling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle It's a woman," said Bavragor, clearly nonplussed.

  "Oh, well spotted, Master Hammerfist," she teased smilingly. "What sharp eyes, I mean, eye, you have!" Turning to her guards, she gave orders for the injured Boлndal to be taken care of. Four firstlings shouldered the shield and carried it like a stretcher to the next set of gates. After waiting for Tungdil to nod his assent, Boпndil hurried after them.

  "The rest of you come with me. Her Majesty will be waiting in the great hall." The guardswoman looked Tungdil up and down curiously, then turned and led the way. No sooner had Tungdil warned her about the дlfar than she instructed a group of warriors to take up position by the trebuchets and ballistae on the third rampart.

  "What prompted you to build the defenses?" he asked.

  "Many cycles ago we had a problem with trolls. Tion tried to sneak them in through the back entrance. Our forefathers built the walls to keep them at bay and eventually the beasts were defeated." She glanced up at the sentry, who gave the all clear. "Looks like the дlfar have retreated. Why were they following you?"

  "That's something I'll have to discuss with your queen," said Tungdil, lowering his eyes to avoid her probing stare.

  "A dwarven queen!" exclaimed Rodario. "I wonder how the women came to wear the breeches." He sighed. "If only my blasted ink hadn't frozen. I'm never going to remember it all. Was it a female revolution?"

  Balyndis laughed. "A revolution? No, it's all very peaceable here. I thought men and women always shared the work."

  Djerun had stopped carrying Andфkai and was stumbling at the back of the group. On reaching the final set of gates, he came to a halt and leaned against the wall.

  He's badly hurt, thought Tungdil in alarm. In a way, he felt responsible because the giant had sustained his original injury in Sovereignston while fighting on his behalf.

  "It's not far now," the guardswoman reassured them. "I'll send for our healers as soon as we're inside." It didn't seem to occur to her that Djerun was far taller than any ordinary man.

  "That won't be necessary," Andфkai said quickly. "You go ahead, and I'll see to his injuries. He's too far gone for a physician; only my art can save him." The giant slid down the wall and slumped into the snow. Andфkai knelt beside him. She was exhausted from her confrontation with the дlfar, but she summoned the last of her strength. "We'll catch up with you," she said sharply. "Just go!" Her companions complied.

  So this is the firstling kingdom. Tungdil gazed up at the mountain's red flanks. Hewn into the lower slopes was a stronghold with nine giddy towers. The architectural style was different from that of Ogre's Death, the lines more flowing and not as angular and severe, although the building was similarly sturdy. Curiously, Borengar's masons had dispensed with ornamentation altogether.

  Abandoning their ponies, they made their way onto a wooden platform at the base of a tower. "Try to keep still. It'll probably feel a bit funny at first." Balyndis threw back a lever and up they shot, racing toward the top of the tower, past a narrow spiral staircase that led up to the battlements.

  On the way up, Tungdil heard the rattle of chains uncoiling and scraping over metal. Some kind of pulley system, but for passengers, not supplies. "You don't like stairs, then?"

  The guardswoman smiled, and Tungdil thought she looked awfully pretty. "It's less effort like this," she said.

  They drew level with the top of the tallest tower and walked out onto a parapet that led toward the main entrance via a single-span arch bridge.

  On either side of the walkway was a two-hundred-pace drop. Crows and jackdaws circled overhead and the chill wind blew stronger than ever. Narmora kept a hand on her head scarf to stop it from flying away.

  The vast gates, ten paces wide and fifteen paces high, remained closed as they approached. Instead, Balyndis led them into the great hall via a separate door.

  Bavragor glanced around and smiled smugly. "Just as I thought…" He didn't have to elaborate: His assessment of the masonry was sufficiently clear.

  The stronghold made little impression on the master mason, but Furgas, Narmora, and Rodario were blown away.

  "You hear stories about vast halls hewn into the mountain, but I never thought they were true," said Furgas, lowering his voice to a reverential whisper.

  "We'll have to build a new theater," the impresario told him. "A bigger stage will give the audience a better sense of the splendor." He reached out to touch the stone. "It's real, all right. I almost suspected it was cardboard. Ye gods, it's incredible, nay, miraculous/"

  The copper statues and bronze friezes proved popular, especially with the dwarves, who delighted in their intricacy. The artwork commemorated battles against Tion's minions, immortalizing great firstling warriors such as Borengar, founding father of the kingdom, and other great heroes and heroines of his folk.

  "This way," called their guide, hurrying ahead of the dawdling group toward the next of the kingdom's wonders, a series of breathtaking bridges.

  This time Bavragor was forced to admit that in matters of engineering, the firstlings were unsurpassed. There was insufficient rock to span the plummeting chasms, so gleaming plates of metal had been added to straddle the gaps, the sides secured with wrought-iron balustrades tipped with silver.

  When they came to the last of the bridges, their hobnailed boots rang out against the metal, each plate creating a different tone. The notes echoed through the cavernous passageway in a simple but pleasing tune.

  "I give in," said Rodario, overwhelmed by the magnificence of it all. "We'll go back to performing idiotic farces and forget the whole idea. No illusion in the world could do justice to this."

  "Nonsense," Furgas said briskly. "We can do it, but it'll cost a bit of coin."

  They slowly began to thaw out, the snow and ice melting from their garments and running down their mail, leaving them feeling immensely tired but warm.

  At length Balyndis came to a halt and knocked on a vast door. A shaft of gold shone through the crack, heralding the glories within.

  The rectangular chamber was clad from top to bottom in beaten gold. Warm light emanated from countless candles and lamps, reflecting off the burnished walls. The statues were cast from gold, silver, vraccasium, and rare precious metals quarried from the heart of the mountain. Each gleaming figure was draped with trinkets that could be swapped around at will.

  The queen was seated twenty paces away on a thron
e of pure steel. Guards of both sexes, all dressed in gold-plated mail, watched over her. The ceiling sparkled with ornate mosaics made of beaten silver, gold, and vraccasium tiles.

  "Did I say a bit of coin?" Furgas whispered to Rodario. "I meant, a lot."

  "Borengar's folk welcomes you," the queen said benevolently, signaling for them to approach.

  They filed into the hall, with Tungdil at the head of the procession. He bowed courteously, then sank to one knee. The other dwarves followed, but the players contented themselves with a bow. Tungdil introduced them, not forgetting Andфkai, Djerun, and the absent twins.

  "As for me," he concluded, hoping that his speech conformed to protocol, "I'm Tungdil Goldhand of Goпmdil's folk. A matter of grave importance brings us to your court."

  "Thank you, Tungdil Goldhand. My name is Xamtys Stubbornstreak the Second of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, ruler of the Red Range for thirty-two cycles. Your visit intrigues me. I have been without news of my royal cousins and their kingdoms for a good long while." Her mail was made of golden rings and she carried a four-pronged mace as a scepter. Her brown eyes regarded them keenly but kindly.

  They were offered refreshments: beakers of piping-hot drink. Rodario sipped contentedly, sighing as the warmth returned to his body for the first time in orbits.

  "You say you were brought here by a matter of grave importance?"

  "I'm afraid it's bad news," said Tungdil, launching into an account of the danger threatening Girdlegard, the deaths of the magi, the high king's frailty, and the trouble surrounding the succession. At last he turned to the purpose of their mission.

  "Which is why we're here, Your Majesty. We need you to lend us your most talented smith, a smith who can forge the blade by which Nфd'onn will fall. Help us, Queen Xamtys," he implored her. "Help us and save your folk."

  The firstling queen turned her brown eyes upon him and stroked the fair down on her cheeks. Suddenly she stopped fiddling and sat up straight. "It seems from your report that Girdlegard is in danger," she said thoughtfully. "We haven't seen the other candidate, which makes me fear the worst. The дlfar are accomplished marksmen, and perhaps Gandogar's expedition wasn't blessed with such protection…"