The War of the Dwarves

  Ondori, älf from the kingdom of Dsôn Balsur.

  Estugon, älf.

  Djern, bodyguard in the service of Andôkai.

  Liútasil, Lord of landur, kingdom of the elves.

  Ushnotz, orcish prince of Toboribor.

  Runshak, Ushnotz’s troop leader.

  Acknowledgments

  Tungdil and his dwarven friends are on the move!

  The first expedition was a great success, with the little fellows proving their mettle in a victory against the odds. Soon the dwarves’ supporters were demanding to know what happened next. Well, a sequel can’t simply rehash the first book: It has to be as good, if not better, while covering new ground. I wanted The War of the Dwarves to be accessible to readers who aren’t familiar with Tungdil and his friends, so I based the story on two new developments: the simmering conflict between the dwarven folks, and the impending threat from the west. Prepare yourselves for some surprises: The story gets very, very dwarven, and you won’t know what’s coming next…

  Thanks are due to Angela Kuepper, my editor, as well as to Nicole Schuhmacher, Sonja Rüther, Meike Sewering, Tanja Karmann, and Dr. Patrick Müller, all of whom read the book in its early stages. A special thank-you to Sally-Ann Spencer, translator and friend of the dwarves, who did a great job. Thanks also to my German publisher, Piper Verlag, for giving Tungdil & Co. a good home, and to Orbit for introducing them to the English-speaking world.

  extras

  meet the author

  MARKUS HEITZ was born in 1971 in Germany. He studied history, German language, and literature and won the German Fantasy Award in 2003 for his debut novel, Shadows Over Ulldart. His Dwarves series is a bestseller in Europe. Markus Heitz lives in Zweibrücken.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  THE WAR OF THE DWARVES,

  look out for

  BEST SERVED COLD

  by Joe Abercrombie

  Springtime in Styria. And that means war.

  There have been nineteen years of blood. The ruthless Grand Duke Orso is locked in a vicious struggle with the squabbling League of Eight, and between them they have bled the land white. Armies march, heads roll and cities burn, while behind the scenes bankers, priests and older, darker powers play a deadly game to choose who will be king.

  War may be hell but for Monza Murcatto, the Snake of Talins, the most feared and famous mercenary in Duke Orso’s employ, it’s a damn good way of making money too. Her victories have made her popular—a shade too popular for her employer’s taste. Betrayed and left for dead, Murcatto’s reward is a broken body and a burning hunger for vengeance. Whatever the cost, seven men must die.

  Her allies include Styria’s least reliable drunkard, Styria’s most treacherous poisoner, a mass-murderer obsessed with numbers and a Northman who just wants to do the right thing. Her enemies number the better half of the nation. And that’s all before the most dangerous man in the world is dispatched to hunt her down and finish the job Duke Orso started…

  Springtime in Styria. And that means revenge.

  The sun was climbing now, and the bright world was full of color. The blood had drained from the sky and left it a vivid blue, white clouds crawling high above. Below, at the very bottom of a dizzy drop, the river wound through the wooded base of the valley, autumn leaves pale green, burnt orange, faded yellow, angry red, light-glinting silver on fast-flowing water. To the east, the forest crumbled away into a patchwork of fields—squares of fallow green, rich black earth, golden crop. Further still and the river met the grey sea, branching out in a wide delta, choked with islands. Monza could just make out the suggestion of tiny towers there, buildings, bridges, walls. Great Talins, no bigger than her thumbnail.

  She narrowed her eyes against the stiff breeze, pushed some stray hair out of her face. “I never tire of this view.”

  “How could you? That’s why I built the damn place. Here I can keep one eye always on my subjects, as a watchful parent should upon his children. Just to make sure they don’t hurt themselves while they play, you understand.”

  “Your people are lucky to have such a just and caring father,” she lied smoothly.

  “Just and caring.” Orso frowned thoughtfully towards the distant sea. “Do you think that is how history will remember me?”

  Monza thought it incredibly unlikely. “What did Bialoveld say? History is written by the victors.”

  The duke squeezed her shoulder again. “All this, and well-read into the bargain. Ario is ambitious enough, but he has no insight. I’d be surprised if he could read to the end of a signpost in one sitting. All he cares about is whoring. And shoes. My daughter Terez, meanwhile, weeps most bitterly because I married her to a king. I swear, if I had offered great Euz as the groom she would have whined for a husband more fitting of her station.” He gave a heavy sigh. “None of my children understand me. My great-grandfather was a mercenary, you know. A fact I do not like to advertise.” Though he told her every other time they met. “A man who never shed a tear in his life, and wore on his feet whatever was to hand. A low-born fighting man, who seized power in Talins by the sharpness of his mind and sword together.” More by blunt ruthlessness and brutality the way Monza had heard the tale. “We are from the same stock, you and I. We have made ourselves, out of nothing.”

  Orso had been born to the wealthiest dukedom in Styria and never done a day’s hard work in his life, but Monza kept that to herself. “You do me too much honor, your Excellency.”

  “Less than you deserve. Now tell me of Borletta.”

  “You heard about the battle on the High Bank?”

  “I heard you scattered the League of Eight’s army, just as you did at Sweet Pines! Ganmark says Duke Salier had three times your number.”

  “Numbers are a hindrance if they’re lazy, ill-prepared, and led by idiots. An army of farmers from Borletta, cobblers from Affoia and merchants from Visserine. Amateurs. They camped by the river, thinking we were far away, scarcely posted guards. We came up through the woods at night and caught them at sunrise, not even in their armor.”

  “I can see Salier now, the fat pig, waddling from his bed to run!”

  “Faithful led the charge. We broke them quickly, captured their supplies.”

  “Turned the golden cornfields crimson, I was told.”

  “They hardly even fought. Ten times as many drowned trying to swim the river as died fighting. More than four thousand prisoners. Some ransoms were paid, some not, some men were hanged.”

  “And few tears shed, eh, Monza?”

  “Not by me. If they were so keen to live they could’ve surrendered.”

  “As they did at Caprile?”

  She stared straight back into Orso’s black eyes. “Just as they did at Caprile.”

  “Borletta is besieged, then?”

  “Fallen already.”

  The duke’s face lit up like a boy’s on his birthday. “Fallen? Cantain surrendered?”

  “When his people heard of Salier’s defeat they lost hope.”

  “And people without hope are a dangerous crowd, even in a republic.”

  “Especially in a republic. A mob dragged Cantain from the palace, hung him from the highest tower, opened the gates and threw themselves on the mercy of the Thousand Swords.”

  “Hah! Slaughtered by the very people he labored to keep free. There’s the gratitude of the common man, eh, Monza? Cantain should have taken my money when I offered. It would have been cheaper for both of us.”

  “The people are falling over themselves to become your subjects. I’ve given orders they should be spared, where possible.”

  “Mercy, eh?”

  “Mercy and cowardice are the same,” she snapped out. “But you want their land, not their lives, no? Dead men can’t obey.”

  Orso smiled. “Why can my sons not mark my lessons as you have? I entirely approve. Hang only the leaders. And Cantain’s head above the gates. Nothing encourages obedience like a good example.”


  “Already rotting, with those of his sons.”

  “Fine work!” The Lord of Talins clapped his hands, as though he never heard such pleasing music as the news of rotting heads. “What of the takings?”

  The accounts were Benna’s business, and he came forward now, sliding a folded paper from his inside pocket. “The city was scoured, your Excellency. Every building stripped, every floor dug up, every person searched. The usual rules apply, according to our terms of engagement. Quarter for the man that finds it, quarter for his captain, quarter for the generals,” and he bowed low, unfolding the paper and offering it out, “and quarter for our noble employer.”

  Orso’s smile spread as his eyes scanned down the figures. “My blessing on the Rule of Quarters! Enough to keep you both in my service a little longer.” He stepped between Monza and Benna, placed a gentle hand on each of their shoulders and led them back through the open windows. Towards the great round table of black marble that stood in the centre of the room and the great map spread out upon it. Ganmark, Ario, and Faithful had already gathered there. Gobba still lurked in the shadows, thick arms folded across his chest. “What of our one-time friends and now our bitter enemies, the treacherous citizens of Visserine?”

  “The fields round the city are burned up to the gates, almost.” Monza scattered carnage across the countryside with a few waves of her finger. “Farmers driven off, livestock slaughtered, fields burned. It’ll be a lean winter for the good people of Visserine, and a leaner spring.”

  “Excellent,” mused Orso.

  “They will have to rely on the noble Duke Rogont and his Osprians,” said Ganmark, with the faintest of smiles.

  Prince Ario snickered. “Much talk blows down from Ospria, always, but little help.”

  “Visserine is poised to drop into your lap next year, your Excellency.”

  “And with it the heart is torn from the League of Eight.”

  “The crown of Styria, surely, will be yours.”

  The mention of crowns teased Orso’s smile still wider. “And we have you to thank, Monzcarro. I do not forget that.”

  “Not only me.”

  “Curse your modesty. Benna has played his part, and our good friend General Ganmark, and Faithful too, but no one could deny this is your work. Your commitment, your single-mindedness, your swiftness to act. You shall have a great triumph, just as the heroes of ancient Aulcus did. You shall ride through the streets of Talins and my people will shower you with flower petals in honor of your many victories.” Benna grinned, but Monza couldn’t join him. She’d never had much taste for congratulations. “They will cheer far louder for you, I think, than they ever will for my own sons. They will cheer far louder even than they do for me, their rightful lord, to whom they owe so much.” It seemed that Orso’s smile slipped, and his face looked tired, and sad, and worn without it. “They will cheer, in fact, a little too loudly for my taste.”

  There was the barest flash of movement at the corner of her eye, enough to make her bring up her hand on an instinct.

  The wire hissed taut around it, snatching it up under her chin, crushing it chokingly tight against her throat.

  Benna started forward. “Mon—” There was a glint of metal as Prince Ario stabbed him in the neck. He missed his throat, caught him just under the ear.

  Orso stepped carefully back as blood speckled the tiles with red. Foscar’s mouth fell open, wine glass dropping from his hand, shattering on the floor.

  Monza tried to scream, but only spluttered through her half-shut windpipe, made a sound like a pig honking. She fished at the hilt of her dagger with her free hand but someone caught her wrist, held it fast. Faithful Carpi, pressed up tight against her left side.

  “Sorry,” he muttered in her ear, pulling her sword from its scabbard and flinging it clattering across the room.

  Benna stumbled, gurgling red drool, one hand clutched to the side of his face, black blood leaking out between white fingers. His other hand fumbled for his sword while Ario watched him, frozen. He drew a clumsy foot of steel before General Ganmark stepped forward and stabbed him, smoothly and precisely—once, twice, three times. The thin blade slid in and out of Benna’s body, the only sound the soft breath from his gaping mouth. Blood shot across the floor in long streaks, began to leak out into his white shirt in dark circles. He tottered forwards, tripped over his own feet and crashed down, half-drawn sword scraping against the marble underneath him.

  Monza strained, every muscle trembling, but she was held helpless as a fly in honey. She heard Gobba grunting with effort in her ear, his stubbly face rubbing against her cheek, his great body warm against her back. She felt the wire cut slowly into the sides of her neck, deep into the side of her hand, held fast against her throat. She felt the blood running down her forearm, into the collar of her shirt.

  One of Benna’s hands crawled across the floor, reaching out for her. He lifted himself an inch or two, veins bulging from his neck. Ganmark leaned forwards and calmly ran him through the heart from behind. Benna quivered for a moment, then sagged, pale cheek smeared with red. Dark blood crept out from under him, worked its way down the cracks between the tiles.

  “Well.” Ganmark leaned down and wiped his sword on the back of Benna’s shirt. “That’s that.”

  Mauthis watched, frowning, slightly puzzled, slightly irritated, slightly bored, as though at a set of figures that wouldn’t quite add.

  Orso gestured at the body. “Get rid of that, Ario.”

  “Me?” The Prince’s lip curled even further.

  “Yes, you. And you can help him, Foscar. The two of you must learn what needs to be done to keep our family in power.”

  “No!” Foscar stumbled away. “I’ll have no part of this!” He turned and ran from the room, his boots slapping against the marble floor.

  “That boy is soft as a lady’s glove,” muttered Orso at his back. “Ganmark, help him.”

  Monza’s bulging eyes followed them as they dragged Benna’s corpse out through the doors to the balcony, Ganmark grim and careful at the head end, Ario cursing as he daintily took the boots. They heaved Benna up onto the balustrade and rolled him off. Like that he was gone.

  “Ah!” squawked Ario, waving one hand. “Damn it! You scratched me!”

  Ganmark stared back at him. “I apologize, your Highness. Murder can be a painful business.”

  The Prince looked round for something to wipe his bloody hands on. He reached for the rich hangings beside the window.

  “Not there!” snapped Orso. “That’s Kantic silk, at fifty scales a piece!”

  “Where, then?”

  “Find something else, or leave them red! Sometimes I wonder if your mother told the truth about your paternity, boy.” Ario wiped his hands sulkily on the front of his shirt while Monza stared, helpless, face burning from lack of air. Orso frowned over at her, a blurred black figure through the wet in her eyes, the hair tangled across her face. “Is she still alive? Whatever are you about, Gobba?”

  “Fucking wire’s caught on her hand,” hissed the bodyguard in her ear.

  “Find another way to be done with her, then, lackwit.”

  “I’ll do it.” Faithful pulled the dagger from her belt, still pinning her wrist with his other hand. “I really am sorry.”

  “Just get to it!” growled Gobba.

  The blade went back, steel glinting in a shaft of light. Monza stomped down on Gobba’s foot with all the strength she had left. The bodyguard grunted, grip slipping on the wire, and she dragged it away from her neck, growling, twisting hard as Carpi stabbed at her.

  The blade went well wide of the mark, slid in under her bottom rib. Cold metal, but it felt burning hot, a line of fire from her stomach to her back. It slid right through and the point pricked Gobba’s gut.

  “Gah!” He let go the wire and Monza lashed at him with her elbow and sent him stumbling. She shrieked, wailed, blubbered, mindlessly. Faithful was caught off-guard, fumbled the knife as he pulled it out of her and s
ent it spinning across the floor. She kicked at him, missed his groin and caught his hip, bent him over. She snatched at the grip of a dagger at his belt, dragged it from its sheath, but her cut hand was clumsy and he caught her wrist before she could ram the blade into him. They wrestled with it, teeth bared, gasping spit in each others’ faces, lurching back and forward, their hands sticky with her blood.

  “Kill her!”

  There was a crunch and her head was full of light. The floor cracked against her skull, slapped her in the back. She spat blood, mad screams guttering to a long drawn croak, clawing at the smooth floor with her nails.

  “Fucking bitch!” The heel of Gobba’s big boot cracked down on her right hand and sent pain lancing up her forearm, tore a sick gasp from her. His boot thudded down again across her knuckles, then her fingers, then her wrist. At the same time Faithful’s foot was thudding into her ribs, over and over, making her cough and shudder. Her shattered hand twisted, turned sideways on. Gobba’s heel crashed down and crushed it flat into the cold marble with a splintering of bone. She flopped back, hardly able to breathe, the room turning over, paintings of history’s winners grinning down.

  “You stabbed me, you dumb old bastard! You stabbed me!”

  “You’re hardly even cut, fathead! You should’ve kept a hold on her!”

  “I should stab the useless pair of you!” hissed Orso’s voice. “Just get it done!”

  Gobba’s great fist came down, dragged Monza up by her throat. She tried to grab at him with her left hand but all her strength had leaked out through the hole in her side, the cuts in her neck. Her clumsy fingertips only smeared red traces across the side of his stubbly face. Her arm was dragged away, twisted sharply behind her back.

  “Where’s Hermon’s gold?” came Gobba’s rough voice. “Eh, Murcatto? What did you do with the gold?”

  Monza forced her head up. “Lick my arse, cocksucker.” Not clever, perhaps, but from the heart.

  “There never was any gold!” snapped Faithful. “I told you that, pig!”