The Revenge of the Dwarves

  She took his hand and pressed it in sympathy.

  Rodario gave an anguished smile. “I’ve been searching for him all this time. And when you told me you had seen him, I felt hope blossom all of a sudden, you know, like poppies blooming in a cornfield. I’m going to turn Mifurdania upside-down till someone tells me where he is.”

  “You will find him,” she said, stroking his hand affectionately.

  Rodario kissed her bare shoulder. He did not admit to her that he was also a little afraid of encountering his hitherto best friend. There was no way of knowing how Furgas would react. Tungdil had recounted a conversation and the Furgas he had described was not the one Rodario recognized. Someone had once said that death changes the living, too. Perhaps Furgas wouldn’t want any more to do with him.

  “I’ll find him,” he echoed Tassia’s thought. “The gods know what else will happen.”

  A little while later, Rodario, dressed as befitted a self-proclaimed emperor of the acting profession, paraded through the streets of Mifurdania with Tassia at his side. Or rather, they walked unsteadily along the narrow wooden causeways and bridges between the houses, because the lakes of Weyurn had spread all this way now.

  “They’ve turned the disaster to their advantage,” Rodario said admiringly as they traveled through his old territory, which had been razed to the ground by the orc hordes of the traitor Nôd’onn. “A city on stilts.” He pointed over to where a remnant of the wall could be seen above the water line. “That’s where Furgas and I and Tungdil and the other dwarves escaped through the gate when the city was attacked.” He was beginning to remember more and more about those events. “Come on, I’ll show you where the old Curiosum used to be.”

  They made their way through a labyrinth of alleyways that Rodario did not know at all. The town had little in common with the old Mifurdania, because it was smaller and more maze-like now. More than once they ended up back where they had started, but eventually he thought he had found the place.

  Disappointment hit him. There was nothing left of the once-imposing building—only a narrow house against whose walls the water was lapping gently.

  “There’s nothing left,” he said. “I’m sorry, Tassia.”

  “Master Rodario?” called a voice behind him, and someone clapped him on the shoulder, nearly flooring him. Two strong arms swiveled him around. “It is! It’s him! Ye gods help poor Mifurdania, the man’s come back!”

  The actor looked into the broad visage of a strongly built man of roughly fifty cycles. He looked vaguely familiar: thin shirt, dirty leather apron, forearms as thick as ax handles, short blond ash-covered hair—then he remembered. “Lambus!” he laughed. “My friend the smith!—still alive?”

  “The orcs didn’t finish me off, the waters didn’t get me, so I’m still here,” the man said merrily and glanced at Tassia. “When will we ever see you without a pretty girl at your side?” he joked.

  “When he’s dead,” Tassia grinned, holding out her hand. “I’m Tassia, his wife. I’m an actress.” Rodario looked extremely surprised and rolled his eyes, while she laughed, “We run the company together, the Curiosum.”

  “That’s not strictly…” he objected, not taking to the role he had been allocated, but he felt a sharp kick to his foot and fell silent.

  “It’s great to hear our famous Incredible Rodario has come back. Laughter is good for us! I’m sure we’ve all forgiven you the previous escapades. The cuckolds of Mifurdania will have long forgotten the bedroom farces you played out at their expense.” He grinned widely. “What a surprise to see you’ve settled down. But with a woman like her anyone would settle.” He pointed to a wine-shop. “Come on, both of you, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “I can hardly believe it, either. I must have been drunk when I said yes,” Rodario answered, digging Tassia in the ribs and making her gasp. She got her own back by kicking him on the shin.

  Lambus noticed nothing. He led them into the inn, sat down at the first table he came to and ordered a jug of wine and some water.

  “My broad-chested friend here,” Rodario said as he introduced the smith, “used to make all the things we needed for the Curiosum: swords, iron bars, metalwork—for all the contraptions and illusions that our props man thought up.”

  Lambus nodded. “Those were the days! That Furgas was a master! He’d come up with the most amazing effects. Where did he get those spectacular ideas? The gods know how many hours I spent at the forge cursing when things didn’t work right first time…” They raised their glasses. “Here’s to the old days!”

  “The old days!” Rodario chimed in. Tassia smiled.

  The smith downed his wine and looked up at his actor-friend expectantly. “So what have you got for me this time? Has your magic props man had some new ideas? It’s ages since I last saw him!”

  Rodario shook his head. “He’s not with the troupe now. That’s why I’m looking for him.”

  Lambus furrowed his brow. “You don’t say? So he’s touring with a company of his own?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He was here. He had a child with him.”

  Rodario nearly jumped over the table in excitement. “When? When? Lambus, tell me!”

  “Half a cycle ago—beginning of autumn.”

  “Go on!” encouraged Rodario, pouring the smith more wine. “Tell me everything! Where his house is, what he’s doing…”

  “He doesn’t have a house. Well, not in Mifurdania. He came by boat, a kind of barge affair.” Lambus thought hard. “He was buying stores for the winter, butter and lard, and then sacks of corn. He asked me for the old metal moulds we’d used for the cog-wheels for the shows.” His face grew more thoughtful still. “Because of all the food I assumed it was for your troupe going into winter quarters on one of the islands, to rehearse a new play.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Rodario. “Has he really taken on new actors?”

  “Perhaps he’d had enough of you?” said Lambus. “Did you have a fight? But I can’t imagine you two falling out.”

  Rodario did not feel like telling the whole story. “Do you know which island it was?”

  Lambus shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry. If you want to find him, it’ll be a long search. Since the big flood, islands come and go. Every day there’s something new on the waters.”

  Rodario sighed. At least he knew now that his friend was alive. But no more than that. “Did he tell you anything?”

  “No, not really.” The smith was a little awkward. “That is, he wanted me to go with him for four dozen orbits,” he admitted at last. “He offered me one hundred Weyurn crowns if I kept quiet about my work. I had to turn him down. I’ve got too many customers in the town I can’t afford to lose.” Lambus looked past Rodario and Tassia. “Is someone looking for you, do you think?”

  The couple froze, the same thought in their minds. “How many? What do they look like?” asked Rodario without turning round. All he had on him was one pitiful dagger.

  Lambus moved his head a little. “Eight. Tall. Big guys. I’d say they can carry heavy loads when they have to. Ordinary kind of clothes, but not from Weyurn.”

  “So much for that treasure no one was going to miss,” Rodario hissed to Tassia. “He won’t even notice the necklace is missing,” he mocked in falsetto.

  “Who says it’s got to be my fault? Perhaps it’s just some local fellows whose wives you seduced and they’re after your pocket knife,” she retorted sharply, exaggerating a deep, boasting voice: “Roll up, ladies. I have the stamina, I am Unbelievable!”

  “No, my dear. These bruisers are from Nolik’s father.”

  “Is this some new play you’re rehearsing?” asked Lambus enthusiastically. “It sounds great!”

  Rodario turned to the smith. “Lambus, my good man. The men behind us are not kindly disposed. Would you be good enough…?” He passed him a coin.

  The smith nodded. “Go out through the kitchen. I’ll try to keep them occupied if they see
you, Master Rodario.”

  The pair stood up slowly and went over to the landlord, who let them out through the back. But two more of the heavies were standing out there with cudgels in their hands.

  “There she is!” called one of them. He jumped at Tassia.

  “See—they are here because of you!” Rodario couldn’t resist the snide remark. He kicked the man in the groin, so that he collapsed in a moaning heap.

  Tassia skirted round him as he fell, and grabbed his cudgel. Resolutely she landed a great thud with it on the chin of the second bully, stunning him. He tottered backwards and before he could get his balance, Rodario hit him over the head with a crate of rotten fruit. He sank down motionless.

  “We make a damn good team,” he crowed. He was about to kiss Tassia when the back door flew open and four new opponents tumbled through.

  The girl raised her club: “Be off with you! That necklace belongs to me!”

  “Let’s get out of here!” Rodario took her by the hand and pulled her after him. Together they raced around the corner, not stopping until they came to a landing stage. The path ended too abruptly for his liking.

  However, the boats that had been tied up together formed a rudimentary if unstable bridge to the other side.

  “Follow me!” Rodario jumped and, in danger of being thrown off, balanced on the boats that were bobbing on the water like a handful of walnut shells. He managed to reach the narrow footpath on the other side. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Quiet, you!” Tassia made her way across after him. It was harder for her because he had already set the boats rocking. She ripped her skirt to give herself more freedom of movement.

  In the meantime Rodario had taken hold of the rope from the last of the barges and pulled it taut till she was by his side. Then he gave the boat a shove out onto the water. The bullies in hot pursuit were faced with a gap to jump.

  Two of them fell off into the ice-cold water. The third was about to attempt a leap across. Then Tassia saw a shadow fall over her from behind. An older man in local Mifurdanian attire stood in the doorway, about to empty some slops into the canal. He saw Rodario on the deck. “You?” He lifted his bucket to strike. “This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, you damnable seducer I’ll feed your manhood to the fishes!”

  Girdlegard

  Kingdom of Gauragar

  Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

  Tungdil was rocking back and forth, his head fit to burst. His brain throbbed and thumped and seemed keen to escape by way of his ears, but his throat was as dry and dusty as if he had been eating sand for three long solar cycles.

  He groaned, opening heavy lids, and blinked in the bright light, catching sight of his fingertips hanging an arm’s length away and gravel and scree passing by just underneath them. There was a strong smell of pony and he could hear the sounds of at least one other horse.

  If he put two and two together, he thought, he must be on a journey. Against his will.

  “Where…?” he croaked as he tried to sit up. This made him fall head first into the dust. His startled pony gave a leap to one side and the pack mule that was following bellowed in panic.

  “Calm down,” Boïndil soothed. “He won’t hurt you—he’s just fallen out of the saddle.” A concerned face showed itself over his own, a black beard tickling Tungdil’s nose. “Are you awake, Scholar?”

  Tungdil sat up and brushed the dirt from his breeches; he took a look around and saw trees, bushes and grass. It was not like this in the middle of the mountain. “Where am I?” He pulled himself up on the saddle and felt his head was ready to explode.

  “You’re with me,” was the dwarf-twin’s roundabout answer.

  “I can see that.” He turned round and recognized the outline of the Gray Range in the distance. You could still see the stronghold, if you knew it was there. The tower reached up to the sky like a torch made of stone. “What are we doing here?”

  “They’ve sent us on a mission. We’re the high king’s envoys to landur,” Ireheart finally admitted.

  “Why? Is this punishment for my behavior?”

  “Actually… it was only me he sent,” Boïndil said awkwardly. “But I thought a scholar might come in useful with the Sharp… with the Elves.” He swung himself up into the saddle. “So I brought you along.”

  “Gandogar doesn’t know I’m here?”

  “I left a message for him.”

  “Have you kidnapped me?”

  “No, by Vraccas, I certainly haven’t.” Ireheart was indignant. “I found you in your room and when I asked you if you would like to keep me company, you said yes.”

  “Loud and clear?”

  Boïndil laughed. “Seemed like a yes to me!” He indicated Tungdil should get back up. “To be honest, I thought it would do you good to have a change—see something new. Going to pay our respects to the Lord of the Elves is not that bad a job. And anyway, you two know each other already. It’s probably a good thing if their prince sees a dwarf face that’s familiar.” He quickly explained why they were heading for landur. “As soon as all the dwarf delegates are assembled, Gandogar will send for us. We shan’t be missing anything. They need heroes like us.”

  Tungdil looked in silence at the far Gray Mountains, then at the road ahead. “Right,” he said and got clumsily back into the saddle.

  The ponies trotted along next to each other and Tungdil drank some water out of the leather bottle at his side and kept quiet; his head hurt too much for him to want conversation.

  Not till late afternoon did he come to life and start to think of what had been said back at the high king’s court, and of what they had seen in the Outer Lands. He could not remember what Gandogar and the elves had said about the piles of orc bones, so he asked Ireheart, who looked at him in surprise. “Nothing at all. Eldrur stopped me and wanted to know how many snout-faced orcs had fallen foul of the unknown beasts.” He made a face and tossed his black plait back over his shoulder. “Do you think the thirdlings just ate them?”

  Tungdil saw an inn at the crossroads they were nearing: This had to mean a bed and a beer. At least one beer. “We’ll stop here,” he decided. “Thirdlings wouldn’t eat orc flesh any more than we would. Not even if they were starving.”

  “And… what about… the Undergroundlings?”

  “Boïndil, what rubbish!” said Tungdil in surprise. “No dwarf would ever do such a thing.” He thought of Djern, the bodyguard of Maga Andôkai. Himself sprung from the evil one, he had nevertheless devoured the creatures of Samusin and Tion. Tungdil gave voice to his thoughts: “We know there are more of them than merely Djern. Think of the one the avatars sent to kill Andôkai.”

  “That would explain why the other monsters haven’t attempted the North Pass,” grinned Ireheart. “If a whole family of Djerns has set up home in the Outer Lands by the Stone Gateway then we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  Tungdil nodded. “Perfect for the thirdlings, if it’s them behind all this. They block the tunnels and dig passageways in secret right into our territory to send their machines through, while the likes of Djern fend off the orcs and other monsters.”

  His friend stayed silent for quite a while. “What do you think? Will the high king be sending an army to the Outer Lands to sniff out the thirdlings?”

  “In my view Gandogar has no other choice,” said Tungdil, reining his pony to a standstill outside the inn, which seemed to have extensive stabling. Obviously the crossroads was a popular place for travelers and merchants to get fresh horses.

  A boy came running up to lead away their animals. “Good evening, Master Dwarves. May Vraccas be with you,” he greeted them politely. “Fresh grass and oats for the ponies and a good room for the night for yourselves?”

  Boïndil threw the boy a silver coin. “Will that get you to see to the animals and give them the best of care?”

  “Of course, Master Dwarf,” the boy said happily. “I’ll soon have their coats shining!” He led them off to stand unde
r the shelter and got to work grooming.

  Tungdil and Boïndil stepped into the inn, amazed at the souvenirs and trophies displayed on the walls. The landlord had hung up old orc and älfar weapons and a collection of animal teeth. Long nails through the eye sockets fastened the skulls of monsters to the wooden beams.

  “Take a look at that,” murmured Boïndil, nodding toward the corner by the taproom bar. A life-sized stuffed orc was mounted on a stand, right arm lifted as if to strike; in its left hand was a shield that bore the words: GILSPAN KILLED ME. In large letters on the armor stood the prices for the drinks on offer.

  “Not always easy to understand, these humans and their sense of humor,” remarked Tungdil as he crossed the crowded taproom to sit at a table by the window where the setting sun shone through.

  A wiry young man approached, wearing an apron and a smile that would have done the Incredible Rodario proud. “Welcome, Master Dwarves, welcome to Gilspan’s Hunting Lodge.”

  Ireheart chuckled into his beard. “So, you, my fine linnet, are Gilspan.”

  “I most certainly am, Master Dwarf,” the young man retorted indignantly.

  “How old were you when you say you killed that snout-face? Four or five cycles?” He gave a friendly laugh and pinched Gilspan’s arm. “Ha, your muscles are good enough for tray-carrying, but not for winning a fight, I’d wager. Did you find your orc lying dead on the battlefield?”

  The first guests were turning round to see who it was, spoiling for a brawl by slighting mine host’s valor.

  “I stabbed him in the heart, Master Dwarf!”

  “In the heart, eh?” Ireheart turned to look at the stuffed orc. “And where does a greenskin keep its heart, then?”

  Gilspan went red.

  “Give it a rest, Boïndil,” interrupted Tungdil. “Bring us two strong beers, landlord, some hearty stew, and half a loaf to go with it.” He slid the coins over the counter. Still smarting from the insult, Gilspan took the money and went off.

  “If he were half the man he thinks he is, he’d have challenged me to a fight on the spot,” muttered Ireheart. He searched for his pipe, filled it and lit it from a candle; molten wax formed a small puddle on the table as he did so. “He never killed that pig-face—I’d stake my beard on it!”