The Revenge of the Dwarves

  “This is how we shall proceed,” said the high king. “A summons will go out this very day to all the dwarves.” He turned to the elves. “You are also welcome to attend our assembly.”

  Boïndil was about to object. He thought better of it and put some food in his mouth instead. He did not like the open manner Gandogar used with the elves. Letting the pointy-ears see their customs and way of life was one thing, but to admit them to their innermost decision-making circle was a step too far, he thought. Then it occurred to him that the arrangement went both ways. “So, who will be going to landur, Your Majesty?” he asked innocently, looking at Eldrur.

  “I don’t understand.” Gandogar was irritated. “What do you mean?”

  “Our return visit. Our elf friends are all out visiting at the moment, if I’ve got it right?” he expanded. “They are bound to expect the children of the Smith to send a delegation to landur to pay our respects in turn.”

  Eldrur’s smile came out crooked. “Prince Liútasil will not be insisting the visit be reciprocated, Boïndil Doubleblade. He is aware of the discomfort you face if you have to spend time under the open sky or in forests.”

  Ireheart folded his arms over his long black beard. “Not so fast, Friend Elf. If you can cope with spending time underground we can certainly manage to do the reverse. I’m not afraid of any tree.”

  Gandogar grinned. “A good idea, Boïndil. Why don’t you take on that responsibility?”

  “Me?” That was hardly the outcome the dwarf-twin had been expecting. “I think it’s better if I stay here, High King Gandogar. If we’re off to the Outer Lands you will have need of me.”

  “Of course, there was never any doubt about that. But it will be some time before all the dwarf clan delegates arrive,” said Gandogar unwaveringly. “landur is not far away, so I suggest you pay a courtesy visit to the realm of the elves. What more suitable ambassador than one of our greatest heroes?”

  “Your Majesty, I…” Boïndil attempted to change his sovereign’s mind. He and Eldrur were looking equally unhappy about this.

  “No more objections, Boïndil,” Gandogar said amicably. “It’s settled. You shall leave at daybreak with gifts for Lord Liútasil to thank him for his efforts to further understanding between our peoples. I shall send for you when our assembly reaches consensus and we are ready to set off for the Outer Lands.”

  He stood up and nodded to the elves. “Eldrur, if you would be good enough to compose a document in your own language, explaining my ambassador’s mission and stating that he bears with him the most cordial greetings of the high king of the dwarves.”

  “Certainly, Most High Majesty.” The elf bowed as Gandogar withdrew, leaving Boïndil and the other guests to their meal.

  Eldrur considered the warrior’s bearded face. Ireheart was picking reluctantly at his food. “You are cursing yourself, aren’t you?” he remarked, hitting the nail on the head.

  “No,” retorted Ireheart, chewing on a piece of mushroom. “I could hit myself in the face, though. With this weapon,” he said, pointing at the crow’s beak at his side.

  The elves laughed. It was a soft melodious sound: more a refined, tinkling chorus than merry heartfelt laughter. False as gnome-gold. “You will certainly be something of a novelty for landur,” predicted Eldrur, sounding anything but pleased.

  “That letter you’re writing for me to take—why don’t you tell your prince to send me straight home again?” Ireheart requested grimly.

  “Are you maybe not as tough as you were telling us?” joked Irdasíl. “What wouldn’t I give to be going in your place?”

  “No chance.” Ireheart gave him a disdainful glance, then looked back down at his plate. “You’re far too tall for a dwarf,” he muttered, shoving the plate away and getting up.

  “I didn’t mean I wished to go as a dwarf, I meant…”

  “So you don’t fancy being a dwarf, eh?” He looked out from under beetling black brows, laying hold of the handle of his weapon. “You got something against my race? Come right out and say it, my friend.”

  “No, no, not at all,” protested Irdosíl. “What I was trying to say…”

  Eldrur laughed. “He’s taking a rise out of you, Irdosíl—he’s joking, can’t you see?”

  Boïndil was grinning. “Took his time, didn’t he?” He sauntered off toward the door, crow’s beak hammer harmlessly shouldered. “Have you heard the one about the orc who stops to ask a dwarf the way?” The three elves shook their heads. “Then it’s high time the forests were told some proper jokes.” He winked and left them.

  Antamar, who so far had said nothing, looked at Eldrur. “Stupid mess.”

  “I know.” Eldrur was annoyed. “But what should we have done?”

  “Just now? Nothing.” Antamar regarded the others in turn. “But now you can compose a suitable letter for him to take with him.”

  Eldrur had noted the particular stress on the word “suitable.” That was enough.

  On the way to his room Tungdil had got lost a few times. Eventually someone showed him to a bed.

  He had not the slightest idea where he was, but his drinking instinct immediately found the bottle of brandy on the shelf.

  However much his stomach was protesting, he stood up and groped for the bottle, greedily pulling out the cork and taking a long swig.

  The sharp liquor was hardly down his throat before he was sick. The food he had eaten came up again and again, and the pot he had grabbed in his haste could not hold it all.

  He spluttered, gasping for air. Then he caught sight of his image in the large silver mirror. He saw himself in his full piteous glory: a bottle in one hand, a chamber pot in the other, beard and chain mail dripping with vomit, his body gross and his whole appearance utterly neglected. A fine figure of a hero now, indeed.

  Tungdil sank down on his knees; he could not take his eyes off the mirror, which showed him his own reflection in such merciless clarity.

  “No,” he whispered, hurling the brandy at the polished silver; the glass bottle shattered, sending a film of alcohol all over his own image. That ugly Tungdil was still staring at him with red eyes. “No,” he yelled, throwing the pot, but missing the mirror. He held his hands over his eyes. “Go away,” he roared and started to weep. “Go away, murderer! You killed him…” He sank down onto the flagstones and gave in to grief, sobbing and moaning until sleep took over.

  He never felt the strong arms lift him and carry him away.

  Girdlegard,

  Queendom of Weyurn, Mifurdania,

  Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

  Dressed simply and comfortably, Rodario was sitting on the steps of the caravan musing over a new play he might put on.

  He and his troupe were on a small island, camped just outside the town proper, which, ever since the earthquake, had been surrounded by Weyurn’s extensive stretches of water. The small lakes had multiplied and many citizens had lost all their possessions. Rodario’s company had done more of the journey by water or over islands than on terra firma, because relatively little of the queens’ realm of Weyurn had escaped the floodwaters. It was a strange sight.

  It was definitely time for a new heroic saga, now the old one about the victory over the eoîl and the avatars had lost its thrill for him. And the spectators were starting to feel the same way.

  Or maybe a comedy this time? he wondered. The audiences were demanding more entertainment, more wit and less pathos and slaughter nowadays. Times were good; the people of Girdlegard were free of cares and they wanted to laugh at on-stage innuendo.

  In thoughtful mood he watched Tassia hang out her washing between two of the caravans. The bright sun on her thin linen dress made it almost transparent in places. When she felt his eyes on her, desiring her, she stopped what she was doing, turned and gave him a wave.

  He lifted the hand with the quill in greeting. There was no question about it: she would play the main role in his new play and men would come in droves to the theater marquee t
o see her.

  “Yes, well, the men,” he murmured. He was jealously noting how Reimar, one of the workers who helped put up the tents, was handing her a flower. Tassia laughed happily and gave Reimar a kiss. On the mouth. And she was letting him put his arm round her waist.

  “Tassia, would you come over here, please?” he called, slightly louder than intended. “And you, Reimar—get off back to your work, now!”

  “At once, Master of the Word.” She pegged up a cotton bodice to dry, put her hand to Reimar’s cheek and sauntered over, carrying her empty washing basket. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need your advice.” He invented something on the spot; in reality he wanted her away from Reimar’s attentions. He held out his notes. “What do you think?”

  She took the sheets of paper and skimmed what he had written. “Impossible.”

  “Impossible?” he repeated, horrified, grabbing back the pages. “But it’s…”

  “Impossible to read,” she laughed, sitting herself on his lap. “Your handwriting is appalling. You’ll have to tell me what it’s all about.” She curled a lock of his long dark brown hair playfully round her finger. Then she grinned. “It was only an excuse, wasn’t it?”

  “Just to get you in my arms, O thou most enchanting of Girdlegard’s girls,” he said with a false smile indistinguishable from the genuine article unless you had known the man for over ten cycles.

  “Not just to drive poor Reimar away?” she needled. “He’s such a sweetie. And so strong. Those muscles…”

  “But no brains at all. And the manners of a pig.” Rodario stroked his beard. “And I’m far better-looking. So you see, he can’t compete at all.”

  Tassio kissed him on the forehead. “Sometimes, my dear stage-genius, a woman does not need a man with brains and fine manners,” she replied, opening her eyes wide and pretending to look innocent. It told him everything.

  He stood up abruptly, so she tumbled to the ground. “So you’re taking your pleasures behind my back?”

  “Do as you would be done by, my dear. Same standards for all,” she laughed, lying back in the grass with her hands clasped behind her blond head. “I’ve heard tales about you that would shame a randy rabbit. And I’ve seen those besotted females lining the streets of Mifurdania to flutter their lashes at you.” Tassia closed her eyes and turned her beautiful face toward the sun. “They may be a bit long in the tooth, but they seemed to have no objection to a dalliance with the Fabulous Rodario.”

  “Yes, you are right… women find me desirable.” The actor cleared his throat. “But since I’ve met you, Tassia, things have been different.”

  “Now, now,” she warned, waving a forefinger in warning. “If I were you I wouldn’t take an oath on that. I’m not blind, deaf or stupid, and I am definitely capable of identifying the sound of certain nocturnal activities.”

  Rodario was starting to perspire, and the spring sunshine was not the cause. His plan of attack was failing miserably. He was heading for a humiliating defeat. “I… I was practicing my swordplay.”

  “Is that why the caravan was rocking?”

  “There were quite a few leaps and lunges to practice.”

  “And what sword were you using, my darling?” asked Tassia, as sweet as candy. “Or perhaps it was a dagger. Or only a little pocket knife, the same as all the men?” She opened her eyes wide and flashed him a smile. “Fencing must be so hard, when you’re practicing lines for a woman’s part at the same time—groaning and the occasional husky “Oh, unbelievable!”

  Rodario stared at her; he opened his mouth but at first could only stammer and splutter before he was eventually overcome with laughter. Tassia joined in. “I think I’ll have to give up my title to you,” he said admiringly and sat down beside her on the fresh green grass.

  “Which one? Heart-breaker or Unbelievable?”

  “I must stop worrying about things I’ve always done,” he said, more to himself than to her. He lay back, head on his arm, looking at her. “You, my poor dear, have a lot of catching up to do, what with your husband being so much more interested in men than women.”

  Her cheeriness faded away. “Yes,” she said, close to tears, her chin starting to wobble. “Oh, it’s awful, isn’t it? Oh, the shame.” She hid her face in her hands. “Shame on me. The gods—”

  “Stop! Stop!” he interrupted her. “You were far too quick with the tears.”

  She stopped sniffing immediately and looked up at him through her fingers. “Too quick?”

  “More of a transition needed there, or no one will be convinced.” He pulled her hands away from her face and kissed her on the forehead. “Apart from that, my dear Tassia, you with your body and face of a temptress elf, I was quite impressed by your performance. You just need a little more practice.” She laughed and rolled over on top of him, giving him a good view down her front. He liked what he saw. “One day the Curiosum will belong to me and you’ll be dancing to my tune,” she threatened him jokingly.

  “No doubt about that. You’ve won Reimar over already and you’ll soon have all the others eating out of your hand. Even old Gesa.” He nodded and pushed her off. She yelped, landing on her backside in one of the few puddles in the field. Rodario stood up. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

  “Come and get me out!” she demanded.

  But that was when the idea for a storyline came to him. “Get yourself out, Tassia—I’ve got to go and write this down.” He hurried over to the steps where he had paper, quill and ink. “Inspiration doesn’t stick around—you have to get things written down when the ideas come.”

  The girl, swearing, clambered up and then came and stood by him, wringing the water out of her wet skirt over his head. “You should have some of this, too.”

  “Not now, Tassia.” He really was working. “I’ve had an idea for a comedy.”

  “Oh?” She sat down next to him. “What’s it about?” She wiped the drops off his face.

  “About a man and woman.”

  “How original.”

  He stopped writing to look at her. “Or rather, it’s about you and me.”

  Tassia looked interested. “Sounds like a love story.”

  “Exactly, my blond beauty. Our story will be the plot: a man, a girl married to a husband who prefers other men, an evil father, a swordfight, a relationship full of fire and passion, with wit and—”

  “… and some treasure,” Tassia interrupted.

  Rodario’s quill hurried over the paper. “Good thinking, good thinking,” he praised her. “But where do we get the treasure from?”

  She smiled brightly. “I could have stolen a fortune from the evil father of my man-loving onetime spouse,” she contributed.

  It sank in. “Oh, Tassia, no.”

  “Why not?” she said with a bold smile.

  “Tell me that bit isn’t true!”

  “But it is.” She took him by the hand, pulled him into his caravan and lifted one of the floorboards. She took out a bundle and opened it up. Rodario knew perfectly well this was not a hiding place he had selected. “Close the door,” she said. It was a necklace made of gold and in the middle there was a splendid gemstone that glittered and sparkled in the light from the window. Tassia held it out. “What do you say? Is that a treasure?”

  “In the name of goodness,” he breathed. “Is that… a diamond?” He took the jewel carefully and looked at it from all angles.

  “No. Nolik’s father is too much of a miser for that, even though he is drowning in gold. It’s an imitation cut from the finest rock crystal, Nolik said.”

  “Did he give you the necklace?”

  “Yes.” Tassia grinned. “But first he stole it from his father. He gave it to me to make up for how I was being treated. He won’t even know it’s missing.”

  Rodario disagreed. He thought the gold was very fine, and he knew that a crystal like that was of considerable value. “We ought to send it back,” he said.

  She took the jewel back. “Never.” She
was adamant. “Anyway, we’ll need it for the play. Why don’t you write up the argument we’ve just had?” She ran her finger across his cheek. “Dearest, if Nolik’s father hasn’t sent his bullies after us by now, he’s probably not going to. We’re three hundred miles away now and nobody’s tried to stop us. We’ve nothing to be afraid of.”

  He let himself be persuaded. Besides, he liked the idea of putting the necklace in his new drama. “In my play we shall be visited by evil villains who try and steal the necklace.” He grinned at her and planted a wild kiss on her mouth. “Oh, I can see it all.” He lifted his hand, painting in the air with dramatic gestures. “We are surrounded by villains but we fight our way free. Because the necklace, in reality, is far more than just a jewel.” He was getting carried away, his thoughts glowing and throwing off sparks. “Of course. The necklace is a key! The crystal opens… a secret grotto, and inside, there’s a chamber full of gold and diamonds.” A dreamy look came into his eyes and he struck a heroic pose familiar from his stage appearances. “Tassia, I am a genius! Nobody can doubt it, not even the gods. And there will be a fantastic swordfight in the final scene. Me against three, no, against seven men!”

  “But I’ll be in that fight, too,” she said. “You’ll have to give me fencing lessons.”

  Rodario gave a dirty laugh. “Which kind of swordfighting were you thinking of?” He bent over and stroked her hair. “This is going to be a huge success—it’ll soar like a comet.” His exuberance faded suddenly as he remembered: “But we need Furgas. He’s the only one who knows how to make all my ideas work.”

  Tassia wrapped the necklace back up and replaced it in the hiding place. “You’re really worried, aren’t you?” she said, surprised to note the seriousness so often lacking in the showman Rodario.

  He nodded. “I’ve been searching for five cycles and I’ve never given up because I’m convinced my friend is still alive and in trouble,” he explained, pulling her down to sit beside him on the bed. “Not physical danger, but I fear for his mind. He lost his partner and his two children in the battle at Porista. He was so bitter that in his fury against every living thing he just walked out. Never said goodbye or gave any idea where he was going.”