The Revenge of the Dwarves

  “Oh, Vraccas,” said Ireheart despairingly. “It’s all too much. An honest fight and you know where you are. But this love stuff… it’s complicated.”

  Tungdil did not envy his friend’s state of mind and hoped that things would work out for him. “Stick with it and wait for the right moment.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “And whatever you do, don’t listen to what others in your clan have to say about it.”

  Ireheart grinned. “Oh, I have no reputation left to lose. You forget—I’m a friend of yours, Scholar.”

  A rider was approaching them from the south. At first, given the rider’s size, they took it to be a child on horseback but they soon saw they were mistaken. Dark clothing, a scarf round the head, full saddlebags clanking.

  “The executioner again?” Boïndil was surprised. “Can’t just be coincidence.”

  “It won’t be coincidence.”

  “Then send him packing if he tries to join us here. I don’t trust him.”

  “Wait and see.”

  Bramdal pulled up his horse where Tungdil and Boïndil were resting. “Greetings,” he laughed down at them. “Mind if I join you for a breather?”

  “So, have you finished your business in Porista?” To Boïndil’s surprise, Tungdil gestured for him to sit with them. “We’ve got some tea if you want.”

  “Great.” Bramdal reached behind and pulled out a kind of rope ladder. He stepped onto it out of the stirrup, and from there down onto the grass. “Neat, eh?” he grinned. “I thought, why should a dwarf go slowly on a pony when he can go fast on a horse? So I came up with this contraption and got the saddle made.”

  Ireheart shook his head and looked up. The executioner had chosen a particularly tall mount. “You won’t get me up on one of those.”

  “But there’s a very good view.” Bramdal followed Tungdil over to where the tea was brewing. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. What brings you to the north?” asked Tungdil.

  “I’m heading back to Hillchester.” Bramdal blew gently on his hot tea. “King Bruron wants me to start a school.”

  “For executioners, I assume.”

  “Absolutely. He didn’t want it to be in Porista, for fear of tarnishing his new capital city’s reputation,” grinned the dwarf. “Although I only carry out the letter of the law. Odd, isn’t it? The humans set the death penalty and then want nothing to do with it.”

  Tungdil smiled. “We didn’t come across each other in Porista.”

  “No, I’ll have been too busy.” Bramdal winked. “You don’t believe me. What do you think then? That I’m a spy for the dwarf-haters?”

  “Yes,” Ireheart jumped in, his hands on the crow’s beak handle.

  Bramdal laughed out loud, sounding genuinely amused. His gaze went past the warrior over to Goda, and his curiosity was aroused. “A fine-looking dwarf-girl. She looks nice and strong. I bet she wields her weapon with a strong hand. Excellent material for an executioner.”

  “Leave her alone,” was Boïndil’s immediate response. “She is my pupil,” he added quickly. “If she’s going to be doing any beheading then it’ll be orc heads that roll.” He was getting hot and bothered, the blood surging in his ears. Was it jealousy?

  “I understand. Your pupil,” said Bramdal with a grin, leaving his true meaning unspoken. He sipped his tea. “I was talking to Gordislan Hammerfist in Porista. He’s worried about Trovegold: it’s been attacked.”

  Tungdil let out his breath. “Thirdling machines?”

  “No, it was sabotage.” Bramdal looked serious. “The sluice on the dam was jammed full open and a third of Trovegold left under water. The townspeople eventually managed to repair the damaged sluice, otherwise even more of the freelings would have drowned.”

  “How many were lost?” Ireheart wanted to know.

  “Two hundred and eleven. More than thirty houses will have to be rebuilt.” He lowered his eyes despondently. “No, it wasn’t the dwarf-haters’ machines; they can’t reach us through the cave network. They’re using other methods of attack.” He poured himself some more tea. “The worst thing is there’s no one to actually blame. The guards out at the sluice were all killed. Nobody saw the murderers.”

  “That’s terrible.” Tungdil was moved.

  “The flood means Trovegold is a hotbed of suspicion now. There are accusations it was the clan-dwarves and not the thirdlings at all. They think wealth is causing envy amongst the dwarf folks—they all want our vraccasium and gold. One of the dwarves in the fourthling clan assembly is supposed to have said we were trying to curry favor with Vraccas with all these sacrifices and donations, and that it’s unfair and has got to be stopped. Others suggested the leaders want to force the dwarves back into the dwarf realms again.” Bramdal was silent, waiting for a reaction.

  “Rubbish,” thundered Ireheart. “The mountains have enough gold to fill that town’s entire cave. Why would the secondlings or whoever want the outcasts’ gold?”

  Tungdil leaned back against a tree, closing his eyes. “Soon the thirdlings will be getting the blame whenever anything happens. Suspicion will be rampant and no one will trust anyone anymore. That’s just what the dwarf-haters wanted, of course.” He looked up. “Bramdal, wherever you hear talk like that, tell them to pay no attention. The more discord there is, the quicker the dwarf-haters will have achieved their goal.”

  The executioner nodded. “That’s what Gordislan Hammerfist said. I’m sure you know how hard it is to put such rumors down.” He placed his empty cup on the grass. “I’ll be off. Perhaps we’ll meet again. If we do, you mustn’t think straightaway I’m one of the bad ones,” he said to Ireheart. He got up and climbed onto his horse again. With his boot he fished for the patent ladder, pulling it up behind him. “May Vraccas bless you.” He lifted his hand in farewell and rode off.

  Tungdil and Boïndil watched him go. “Do you know what gets me?” Tungdil asked his friend. “He never wanted to know what we’ve got in the wagons.”

  “I was right. He’s definitely a spy.” Boïndil stood determined, hands on his hips.

  Tungdil smiled. “Because he fancied Goda?”

  “No,” said the twin. “Well, yes, because of that, too.” He sighed.

  “Master! Tungdil!” called Goda. “Over here! I’ve found something!”

  “Perhaps it’s your heart?” Tungdil teased Ireheart, who jabbed him in the ribs.

  “Let’s hear no more of this sentimental nonsense,” he growled, getting up and running over. Tungdil followed him. It was still strange to see his friend without his long black braided plait.

  Goda was kneeling by a bush, and she pushed the branches apart when the two dwarves came over. “Look!”

  Amongst the foliage and purple flowers elf features were visible. The elf lay as if dead, with eyes closed and a few withered leaves on his face.

  There were three arrows sticking out from the elf’s chest. The arrows had penetrated the leather armor and earth-colored clothing under it. Judging by the splendor of the finely embroidered garments this must be a high-status elf. The fact he wore only a limited amount of armor suggested he had been hunting. His camp was probably not be far away.

  “He’s breathing!” said Ireheart, astonished, as he saw the chest move almost imperceptibly. “Well, these pointy… I mean, these elves, are tougher than they look!”

  “Give me a hand.” Tungdil was sitting the injured elf up carefully so he could inspect the arrows. Two broke off, the third was still in the body. “By Vraccas! Those are elf arrows!”

  “If it were one arrow, I’d think it was an accident,” said Ireheart. He studied the elf’s bloodstained back. “But with three I’d say it’s out of the question. Unless they choose to hunt their own kind.”

  “Why would elves be killing each other?” Tungdil looked at the face. “Or perhaps we should be asking, why did they want to kill him?”

  “The arrows could be a trick—forgeries,” suggested Goda. “The thirdlings, perhaps?”
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  “No. They’d have used crossbows to put the blame on us. And they’d have dragged the body somewhere more public. And they wouldn’t have left the poor devil alive,” replied Tungdil. “No. This elf has been shot by his own kind. Either they’ve left him for dead, or he ran away and they lost him.”

  Boïndil regarded their unusual find. “What shall we do with him? Those wounds are deep. He’s not going to last long.”

  Tungdil glanced at the wagons. “We’ll take him with us. If the elves wanted him dead, I want to know the reason.” He couldn’t remember reading about any internal strife in landur, but the strange conduct of the elf delegates, their secret message in invisible ink, the stone, those new buildings that had been kept hidden—they could all have some connection to this injured elf.

  Perhaps it was a question of a personal vendetta or a high-ranking criminal who’d been challenged and pursued. No one knew how the elf folk managed their own affairs in the forests and groves. Anything was possible.

  “Let’s make sure he stays alive and can open his eyes soon.” Tungdil called some of the other soldiers over so they could help carry the elf. They put him in one of the wagons, cushioning him on furs and skins. One of their healers saw to his wounds.

  Tungdil gave the troop the order to move on. He wanted to make good use of the rest of the orbit’s sunlight to get as far as possible away from landur’s borders. It was not forbidden to transport injured elves in wagons, but it wasn’t the normal thing for a dwarf to be doing. If the worst came to the worst the dwarves might be accused of kidnapping.

  So the troop trundled off toward the south with what now was a doubly sensitive cargo.

  Whether he wanted to or not, Ireheart had to get back in the saddle again. Otherwise he’d be slowing everyone down. And as Goda did not seem to mind riding, he kept quiet himself. It would not make a good impression for the master to be making a fuss if the pupil was not complaining.

  “Who was the dwarf you were talking to?” she enquired.

  “No one you need to know about,” Ireheart replied rudely.

  Goda raised her eyebrows. “A child of the Smith, riding on a full-size horse—unusual.”

  “He’s not unusual. He’s an executioner.” Boïndil was unsettled by her curiosity. “He kills criminals for the long-uns. For money.”

  “Is his name Bramdal Masterstroke?” she asked excitedly.

  Ireheart growled, “Yes. Why?”

  “I’ve heard a lot about him. He fought at Blacksaddle and in Porista, they say. He killed ninety orcs all by himself. And a hundred avatars,” she enthused. “I’d love to meet him.”

  “Pah, that’s nothing compared to what Tungdil and I have done. Or compared with the number of snout-faced orcs we two’ve split down the middle.” He turned round in the saddle to face her. “Forget about Bramdal. He may be a legend in his time but not in my eyes. Don’t trust him. Now, no more talk of him.”

  She stared at him in surprise. “Yes, master.” She looked helplessly over to Tungdil, who shrugged his shoulders to say it was none of his business.

  When the sun gave way to the night, Tungdil led his troop to the bank of a swift-flowing river, so that they could not be attacked from all sides at once. He wasn’t happy near water, because it brought back too many disturbing personal memories, but the security of their mission was paramount.

  The team were lifting down the injured elf and starting to release the ponies from their traces. That’s when it happened.

  The ponies whinnied and one after another reared up, kicking, and pulling away. With nothing to restrain them now, they made off along the river bank as if pursued by invisible spirits.

  Tungdil knew why they had suddenly panicked and bolted. He had seen tiny bunches of feathers in the animals’ flanks. Blow-pipe arrows. And arrows did not just happen. Enemies had been following unseen hard on their heels, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

  “To arms!” he called. “Undergroundlings!”

  Ireheart and Goda hurried over while the other dwarves raced after the runaway wagons. “Why d’you say undergroundlings?” Boïndil asked his friend. He looked around but saw nothing. Thirty dwarves were at their side now, axes and shields at the ready, but there was nobody to fight yet. “It might have been Bramdal.”

  “No. The ponies were shot at with blow-pipes to make them bolt,” he said. “We didn’t see the attackers. That means they could just as easily have killed the lot of us. But they didn’t.”

  Shouts and frenzied whinnying caught their attention. The entire mounted unit had crashed to the ground, ponies struggling in the dust. A rope had been spanned across their path at knee height, abruptly stopping their pursuit. Some were stunned, or unable to rise, but the others jumped bravely back into the saddle despite their cuts and bruises and took off after the wagons.

  “It was a trap,” growled Ireheart, his head down between his shoulders. “Come out here, you bare-faced cowards!” he yelled, stepping forward in challenge. “That’s not how a dwarf fights! If you’ve a proper dwarf amongst you, come out, instead of skulking in the undergrowth like some scurvy gnome!”

  There was a rustling and cracking in the reeds twenty paces off.

  Ireheart’s eyes flashed. “We’re off to mow a meadow, Goda!” He stormed off, the dwarf-girl following boldly.

  In Tungdil’s imagination there rose the image of the dead twin Boëndal at his friend’s side in the place of the young thirdling girl. With Goda trained to the peak of perfection, these two would make as good a fighting partnership as the brothers had always done. “After them!” he commanded. “Try not to kill any undergroundlings. They have spared us harm where they could.”

  A posse fanned out into the mass of thin grasses that stood four times as high as their heads.

  Tungdil hoped they would find one of the strange dwarves. Otherwise there was no chance of regaining the diamonds they had already lost to the undergroundlings.

  The further they moved in amongst the tall grasses the paler that hope became. They had reached the far side of the reeds without coming across a soul.

  “Over there!” called Goda, pointing to a figure heading for an incline to the side of the grass stalks. Taller than a dwarf, but too small to be a human.

  Tungdil swung round and chased after the undergroundling, Goda and Ireheart at his side. The other dwarves were too far away to overtake their quarry.

  The fugitive disappeared over the brow of the hill, the three dwarves in hot pursuit, not losing or gaining any ground all the while.

  “This isn’t working,” muttered Boïndil, raising his crow’s beak hammer and hurling it as he ran. “Fly, hammer, and stop him!” he called after it.

  Whirling round in circles during flight, the heavy weapon covered the intervening distance with ease. The blunt end hit the undergroundling on the thigh, bringing him to the ground. He slid downhill on the slippery wet grass, and lay there groaning.

  “A masterly throw,” Tungdil complimented him. He had been afraid the weapon’s mighty spur, as long as a forearm, would bury itself in the undergroundling’s back and kill him stone dead. Ever since Ireheart had regained his love of fighting there was no holding him back.

  “Never throw your weapon unless you have a spare one with you,” Goda mocked. “Master, you—”

  “Ho, not so fast.” Boïndil raised his broad fist. “I’ve still got these two weapons, pupil mine. They’re quite sufficient for an opponent like this one. If it was orcs I’d have had to think of something else.”

  “You’re making excuses,” she complained. “If I’d done that you’d have made me drag heavy beams about or do some other useless task.”

  “Yes,” he admitted with a laugh. “But that’s because I’m the master.”

  They reached the injured undergroundling, who was trying to sit up. Tungdil knelt by him and laid him back down. “Take it easy,” he said reassuringly. “We don’t mean you any harm.”

  It was a dwarf, definitel
y, even if there was no beard, even if the facial features were much harder, the stature somewhat taller and the skin darker than usual. The hair was braided and dyed dark green, dark blue and black. It grew back from the middle of the skull, with the hairless brow displaying tattooed designs.

  He wore no armor. The only protection against weather and weapons alike was thick leather clothing. On his feet were thin-soled leather boots. And one of those very boots delivered a sharp kick to Tungdil’s chin, sending him flying.

  As he fell backwards he heard Ireheart shout out, then his friend landed in a heap on top of him, his nose streaming blood.

  “He kicked me!” said Ireheart, amazed, wiping the blood away. “The scoundrel kicked me like a dog!” He sprang up in a fury. “I’ll tear him apart with my bare hands, the baldy-patch!”

  Tungdil stood up and saw the undergroundling was escaping with practiced ease from the wrestling holds Goda was attempting. In a swift counter-move he gripped her forearm and shoulder and used her own body weight to throw her. She crashed to the ground.

  “Don’t kill him, Boïndil!” he shouted.

  Ireheart’s wild attack would not go well, at least not for the warrior twin.

  In fact the undergroundling moved neatly and fast as if dancing with his opponent. As soon as an opportunity presented itself he would grab a handhold on a belt or the mail shirt and use the leverage it gave him.

  This time it was the weapon belt. Ireheart was lifted up again, crashing down onto his front, cursing so viciously that the setting sun had to seek the shelter of the nearby clouds.

  “He’s cracked my bones!” he shouted, pounding the grass with his fist. “By Vraccas, what a bastard! That’s not fighting! That’s cobold tricks!”

  The undergroundling limped off at a run.

  Tungdil chased him, glad he had got back his old stamina. Forty orbits ago he would not have been able to run like this and would have collapsed in a gasping heap. “Stop! We need to talk about the diamonds!” he called. “They’re important for us.”