The Revenge of the Dwarves

III

Girdlegard,

The Mountains of the Gray Range on the Northern Border of the Fifthling Kingdom

Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

Tungdil and Boindil were in one of Gandogar’s own chambers waiting impatiently for the high king to arrive. The dust of the Outer Lands was still chafing their skin and clinging to their beards, but nothing, not even the glimpse of a water trough, had kept them from the opportunity of an immediate meeting. There was simply too much to discuss.

“Did you see how she wept when we handed over her son’s helmet?” asked Boindil, filling a jug with water. For once he felt like quenching his thirst with water rather than beer-unlike Tungdil, who had already downed a tankard of the black stuff.

“It was better to let her assume that her son is dead,” insisted Tungdil.

“But you said yourself that he might well be alive, and that you didn’t trust those obvious signs.”

“Better to find her son within the cycle and bring him back to her, than to leave her in this uncertainty.”

Ireheart was silent. “And what do you think that figure was? And the strange thing behind it?”

“Maybe a gnome in disguise,” said Tungdil, gulping down a draught. “Or a dwarf?”

“Or an Undergroundling?”

Tungdil had asked himself this question countless times on the way back from the Stone Gateway.

The fact was that they had found indecipherable runes on the tunnel walls. He and Boindil had assumed they were of dwarf origin because of the perfection of the craft used in their execution.

It was also a known fact that old records and drawings described a race related to their own on the other side of the mountain chain encircling Girdlegard. It was they who had forged a first Keenfire so they must have loved working with red-hot metal and have been experts in the smithy. But regrettably it seemed that not a soul had ever seen one of them face to face. “I just don’t know,” admitted Tungdil honestly. “But if it was one of those dwarves, then we know now they don’t like us.”

The warrior’s brow furrowed, his expression thunderous. “You think they’re after our treasure?” He put the beaker down and ran his finger along the edge of his spurred ax. “Just let them try it,” he growled aggressively.

“Let us see why Gandogar wanted us back here so swiftly,” Tungdil said to calm him. “The messenger we found at the gate-he must have been sent out after us just after we left.”

“It can’t be anything terrible,” said the warrior twin, “or the guards at the gates would have been on high alert.”

The door opened to admit Gandogar. Three elves followed him, completely out of place here in their fine raiment, garments of delicate fabrics in the lightest of colors. In Tungdil’s view their robes alone were disturbing enough, contrasting with the muted browns and subdued tones that the children of the Smith preferred to wear.

But really, he thought, it wasn’t their apparel. It was the elves themselves he didn’t like. Not elves in general: he had nothing against them in principle. Their way of life, from their buildings to their clothing and their language: it all formed an organic whole in Alandur. But here their very presence struck a discordant note, like a shrill soprano singing out high above the mellow harmonies of a dwarf-voice choir.

Judging from the expression on Boindil’s face, he was of like mind. “It is something terrible,” he murmured, half in earnest, half in jest. “It’s delicate little elves.”

“So the heroes have returned!” Gandogar greeted them warmly, shaking hands. “Were you pleased to find your old friend, Tungdil?”

“Your little surprise worked well, Your Majesty,” Tungdil smiled.

Gandogar took a step to one side. “These are Eldrur, Irdosil and Antamar. A delegation from the elf ruler, Prince Liutasil-not messengers but ambassadors to initiate cooperation between our hitherto hostile peoples.” He presented the two dwarves.

The elves bowed to Tungdil and Ireheart. This gesture of respect would not have been so sincere ten cycles before-if indeed it would have been made at all. They had been warned about the likely state of Tungdil, otherwise the elf faces might have betrayed natural feelings of disgust.

Boindil could not help himself. “Well, knock me down with a shovelful of coals!” he laughed out loud. “The…” and he nearly said “pointy-ears,” “… elves and dwarves living under one roof?” He dug Tungdil in the ribs. “What do you say to that, eh, Scholar?”

Eldrur joined in with the laughter. “It may seem strange to you, Boindil Doubleblade, but our ruler considers it was high time this came about. He needed to wait until he had persuaded the last of the doubters in our ranks of the great benefits of close cooperation.” He looked around. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say we were moving in permanently. We shall be staying here for the next hundred orbits, as we shall do in all the dwarven kingdoms, to learn more about their land and culture.”

“Sounds like spying to me,” said Ireheart. “You want our formulae for iron and steel smelting, don’t you?” He winked at Tungdil.

“No, on the contrary. We want to share our knowledge with you. We are not looking for recompense, but I am sure that your people,” here Eldrur turned to Gandogar, “will reward us for our generosity. By this I do not mean with gifts of monetary value, but with the knowledge and rich experience of your forefathers.”

“So, not spies but blackmailers,” mouthed Boindil. He was enjoying himself. “Even if their speech is flowery.”

Tungdil answered, “At long last Girdlegard is uniting.” He licked his dry lips, wanting his next beer. “It seems exactly the right time, because we have something to report from our excursion into the Outer Lands.”

The elves exchanged glances. “The high king has already intimated something. You have shown courage again, Tungdil Goldhand,” Eldrur said, according him respect.

“I asked him to,” said Gandogar, inviting them over to partake of the modest refreshments on the table in the middle of the room. The word “modest” in connection with dwarven cuisine is always to be interpreted generously, as is familiar from their classic dishes. The elves appreciated the simmered mushrooms but their palates were offended when it came to the strongly spiced cheese or the dessert prepared from the intestines of gugul larvae. Tungdil was particularly cheered by the sight of a small barrel of black beer.

“We acquire the beetles from the freeling markets in the south, and we process them here ourselves,” explained the high king proudly. He had not noticed the faces of his elven guests, who were trying their best to appear hungry. Gandogar helped himself to the white cream. “If for nothing else, you have proved invaluable in opening up trade for us in this way,” he said to Tungdil, who was also tucking in, careful, however, to avoid those dishes that reminded him too acutely of time spent in the city of the freelings and with Myr.

“A dwarf-woman had asked us to look out for her son, Gremdulin,” said Tungdil, downing the next two tankards as he launched into his report on their trip to the Outer Lands. Ireheart had to signal to him that his speech was getting slurred. “We found piles of orc bones in a cave-the monsters had been slaughtered by the hundred, it seems. We were just about to investigate further when a dwarf we didn’t know turned up and somehow brought the whole cave crashing down around us. He was working with the weirdest machine. Never seen the like…” He gestured with his arms to indicate the dimensions. “When we’d escaped the rockfall we headed straight back out to the gate,” he said, hurriedly ending his report. He just managed to suppress a huge belch, disguising it as a long exhalation, but it was enough to shatter the equilibrium of the elves.

“I’ll wager they regret they ever came,” whispered Boindil merrily. “Look, their pointy ears are drooping. Maybe I can cheer them up with the one about the dwarf and the orc.”

Gandogar ignored the crude behavior of his heroes. “It sounds as if we have a completely new danger to contend with,” he said, concerned, addressing them all. “Do your people know about these machines Tungdil is describing?”

Eldrur hesitated, his brown gaze fixed on Tungdil’s empty tankard. “Forgive me if I speak bluntly, but can we really believe him? Is there not a possibility he may be exaggerating?” He glanced at Ireheart. “Is that exactly how it was, Boindil Doublebade, or did you both perhaps succumb to your thirst on the way?”

Had it been spoken before the death of his brother, the politely voiced insult would have brought Boindil vaulting over the table to grab the elf by the ears, using one hand to dunk the scoundrel’s face in the soup while he wielded his ax in the other to cut him into tiny slices.

But nowadays his combat-fury was stilled, and the curse was broken that made his blood boil. “I would say only this, Friend Elf: even if a dwarf is too drunk to tie his shoelaces, he will never, ever tell a lie.” And his laughter was as sharp-edged as the blade of an ax.

Eldrur realized his mistake and bowed in apology. “Forgive me, Tungdil Goldhand.”

Tungdil waved his hand dismissively. Even if he remained calm on the surface, the words of the elf were eating into him. He had reached the point where his reports were not being believed! He looked down at himself, noting the belly, the bits of food he had dropped and the dirt on the chain mail shirt that now fitted him as tightly as a sausage skin. His eye fell on the empty tankards. What has become of me? he asked himself in desperation and disgust-and then reached out for the next beer.

“No, I have never heard of any machinery like that, High King Gandogar,” said Eldrur. “Were there not some rumors once of a dwarf people known as the Undergroundlings? Perhaps-?”

The door opened and a messenger hurried in, drenched in sweat. “Excuse my bursting in, sire. My name is Beldobin Anvilstand from the Clan of the Steely Nails.” He made a bow to the high king. “I am sent by my Queen, Xamtys the Second, with this message for you, King Gandogar,” he said, out of breath. “You must read it at once! There are terrible things happening in the Red Mountain Range.”

The leather wallet changed hands and Gandogar broke the seal; he quickly read the lines and raised his eyes from the paper. “My friends, here we have the answer to our riddle.” He read the letter out:

Honored Majesty, High King Gandogar,

I fear we have underestimated the tenacity of our enemies.

After more than five cycles of quiet they have again set out to bring death and renewed destruction to our peoples with methods previously unknown.

I have already lost fifty-four good workers and ten of my warriors to an uncanny machine that travels through our tunnels attacking anything in its path. It has teeth, tongs, blades and other deadly weaponry with which it hacks and stabs. I have enclosed a drawing, in case your people or perhaps the fifthlings with whom you are staying currently, were to come across such a machine.

It is subverting any attempt on our part to repair the tunnel network, because no one dares enter the galleries. I understand the fear only too well. So far we have found nothing with which to combat this malign contraption, as it gives no warning when or where it may strike. We are not able to defend ourselves or prepare for its attacks. Traps we have tried have proved ineffective.

We know nothing about it. Only that it is immensely strong and heavy. It is partly steam-powered. I assume it is of a similar construction to the hoists we use to lift the wagons onto the rails, but it is smaller and it is mobile.

The runes on the armor plating make it clear that a thirdling force is behind it: “Beaten yet not destroyed, we bring destruction.”

I do not want the entire thirdling community blamed for the actions of an individual or of an ignorant and malicious minority. But they must all be interrogated to find out who is capable of constructing something like this.

I have sent warnings to all the other dwarf realms, because I do not know if the danger is targeted solely on us or whether-Vraccas help us-there are similar machines elsewhere.

The dwarf assembly must be called, so that we can decide on action.

May Vraccas bless you and keep you, High King Gandogar.

Queen Xamtys Stubbornstreak of the Clan of the Stubbornstreaks, in the Firstling Kingdom of Borengar’s Folk

“There we are! That’s the explanation. That figure in the tunnel was a thirdling,” Ireheart exclaimed, slamming his hand down so hard that the spoons rattled. “We must have discovered their base in the Outer Lands.”

Tungdil took a deep breath. He was not feeling well. He had swigged that beer far too quickly. “Why would they bother to dig to the outside and send their machines from the Outer Lands into our tunnels?” he objected, mumbling and burping.

“To advance unhindered-much less likely to be disturbed than coming overland from somewhere in the Outer Lands,” said Gandogar, agreeing with the dwarf-twin.

“It would explain why they were making the tunnels collapse behind them, like you said,” Eldrur chipped in. “They want to be sure they’re not found.” He continued the line of thought pursued by the previous speakers. “I think they must be based in the Outer Lands just on the other side of the border. They’re sending the machines in from there.”

Gandogar put the letter down on the table. “Xamtys is right. I’ll call an assembly. All the dwarf folks and the freelings, too, must decide on what to do. We’ll have to send a force out through the Northern Pass to find this fiendish workshop.”

“We’ve seen one at least of these evil bastards,” said Boindil, clenching his fists in anger. “If only we had been quicker… Who knows? Perhaps we could have put a swift end to all this horror.”

Tungdil was no longer in any condition to follow what was being said; the room was going round and his stomach was rebelling. “I must go,” he mumbled, getting up and swaying off toward the door. Boindil sprang to his aid in case he fell. “Leave me alone.” Tungdil pushed his friend away, “I can manage.” He stumbled off through the door and disappeared.

Ireheart watched in distress. He hardly recognized the good friend Tungdil once had been. Sighing deeply he returned to the table to face the disapproving elves and Gandogar’s anger. “It’s a fever he picked up on the journey,” he said in excuse. “It’s affecting his mind.”

Irdosil smiled; his light gray eyes said he believed not a single word yet he did not confront the lie, wanting to spare Boindil’s feelings. A dwarf did not tell lies.

“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.”

Boindil 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 Alandur, 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 Alandur to pay our respects in turn.”

Eldrur’s smile came out crooked. “Prince Liutasil will not be insisting the visit be reciprocated, Boindil 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, Boindil. 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. “Alandur 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…” Boindil attempted to change his sovereign’s mind. He and Eldrur were looking equally unhappy about this.

“No more objections, Boindil,” Gandogar said amicably. “It’s settled. You shall leave at daybreak with gifts for Lord Liutasil 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 Boindil 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 Alandur,” 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 Irdasil. “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 Irdosil. “What I was trying to say…”

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

Boindil 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.

O n 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

D ressed 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 eoil 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 to 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.”

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 Nod’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

T ungdil 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,” Boindil 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 Alandur,” Ireheart finally admitted.

“Why? Is this punishment for my behavior?”

“Actually… it was only me he sent,” Boindil 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?”

Boindil 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 Alandur. “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?”

“Boindil, what rubbish!” said Tungdil in surprise. “No dwarf would ever do such a thing.” He thought of Djer n, the bodyguard of Maga Andokai. 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 Djer n. Think of the one the avatars sent to kill Andokai.”

“That would explain why the other monsters haven’t attempted the North Pass,” grinned Ireheart. “If a whole family of Djer ns 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 Djer n 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?”

Boindil 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 under the shelter and got to work grooming.

Tungdil and Boindil stepped into the inn, amazed at the souvenirs and trophies displayed on the walls. The landlord had hung up old orc and alfar 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 Boindil, 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, Boindil,” 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!”

They were brought their drinks with bad grace. It might have been pure chance, but when Boindil’s tankard was set down, beer slopped over and spilled into his lap. Gilspan gave a false smile and an apology and hurried off.

“Bring me a jug of brandy,” Tungdil called out after him, lifting his tankard to his lips and emptying it in a single draught. He started on its successor greedily; the beer ran dark down his beard, staining it.

“How did it happen, Scholar?”

Tungdil wiped his mouth and his beard. “I was drinking too fast.”

“I meant, that you’re tipping it down you as if that old drunkard Bavragor were your baby brother,” Boindil insisted sharply. “Tell me why you’re like this now. And why Balyndis mourns.”

Tungdil was angry with himself for having let that slip out. “Because of Balodil.”

“Balodil.” The dwarf-twin leaned forward so low toward his friend that his black beard was nearly in his tankard. “And who is Balodil?”

“He’s our son.” Tungdil took a mouthful of brandy. “Was our son.”

Boindil was careful not to say anything. Gradually Tungdil’s words and his recent behavior merged to form a distressing picture.

Gilspan brought their food. Neither of them touched it despite the delicious smell and despite their hunger after the long journey. The past must first be dealt with.

“He was born four cycles ago and was the crowning of our love: the apple of our eye,” whispered Tungdil from a place far away, as he sat staring at the flicker of the candle flame. “I took him with me on an errand and I’d promised Balyndis I would look after him. But the wooden bridge I always used had been damaged in the flood.” He gulped down the brandy. His face was a single grimace of disgust. “I am Tungdil Goldhand, victor over Nod’onn and avatars, slaughterer of hundreds of orcs, and a scholar to boot. You’d think I could manage to cross a rickety bridge,” he said caustically, looking his friend in the face. “That old bridge, Boindil, showed me who was stronger. It collapsed under the cart and we were tipped into the river. My mail shirt pulled me down. I’d have drowned but for an empty barrel bobbing up under me.” The laughter and loud voices in the taproom behind them swallowed his words. “So now here I am, telling you about Balodil. How do you think the story goes for him?” This time he did not even trouble to pour the brandy into his cup, but drank straight from the jug. He set it down, gasped for air and belched. “I never found his body, however long I searched. Since that day I’ve hated myself. Balyndis can never forgive me and I… and I’ve taken to drink. I’m going to drink till it kills me.” He paused. “No, I’m going to drink so it kills me. Should have drowned with my son instead of living on like this. So I’m drowning my sorrows and myself in drink.” Disgusted, he pushed away the plate of stew.

“Scholar, it was an accident. Rotten timber,” objected Boindil, wanting to wrest away his guilt. “Rotten wood and the curse of the goddess Elria. It was the curse that struck you, dragging you, your son and the cart to the bottom. It was not your fault.”

“That’s what Balyndis says, too.” He lowered his head. “But I see that silent accusation in her eyes all the time. I fear our love went cold that very day. She thinks I don’t notice her feelings-she tries to hide the hatred and disgust. It is so cold now back in our vaults, colder than ever before. The grief in my heart has robbed me of any desire to live.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “So now you know why I’ve changed. I’m off to bed, Boindil.” He got up, swaying, stumbled off to the stairs and disappeared.

Ireheart wiped the tears away. He must help his friend and restore his love of life. There was only one way to do that.

“Vraccas, have mercy. And send your blessing to Tungdil.” He glanced at Gilspan, expansively welcoming new arrivals and showing off the orc he had dispatched; mine host was clapped heartily on the shoulder for his deeds of daring.

Boindil got up and plodded up the stairs. He had to speak to Balyndis: he simply could not believe she was harboring the feelings that Tungdil had described.

T he night was already far advanced.

Gilspan was at the table entertaining the other guests with yet another story about how he had killed his orc. “And when the Toboribor hordes came through close to our farm, I took up my weapon to defend my house. My father was far away from home, but he’d left me his dagger. I’d sworn on it that I’d protect my mother and all the people on our land.” He laid the dagger on the table as evidence.

“That was all you had?” breathed a girl of sixteen summers, traveling in the company of her parents and of her betrothed.

“Yes. And the orcs were not stopping! They arrived in the evening, a whole troop of them on the scavenge for provisions.” Gilspan sprang up. “I went up to their leader and challenged him to a duel. He had his sword and I attacked him with my dagger…”

“Oh, you’re so brave!” The girl clapped her hands and was lost in admiration.

“I thought the Blood of Girdlegard was supposed to render them immortal,” objected her fiance.

“It didn’t help him,” said Gilspan, waving his dagger in the air. “I got everywhere, stabbing away and slitting at him till I’d plunged the blade right into his heart and he fell dead at my feet.” He posed with one foot on a chair. “The others fled and the farm was saved. Because he died before the time of the Judgment Star the cadaver has survived all this time.”

The men gave him a round of applause, the women gave him some coins and the girl gave him a small silken square embroidered with her monogram.

“But how were you able to cut off its head with a dagger?” The jealous fiance was not giving up.

“A knife-thrust to the heart was enough, sir.”

The girl’s betrothed looked over at the orc. “Excuse me, Gilspan, but the soldiers I’ve talked to always say you’ve got to cut the creatures’ heads off to properly do away with them.”

It went very quiet. Everyone was staring at the stuffed creature posed in the corner with its bared fangs, a remarkably lifelike figure in the dim light.

“Wasn’t it standing a bit differently when we came in?” whispered the damsel fearfully, sliding nearer to Gilspan. Her betrothed took her arm and pulled her back to his side.

“Yes, you’re right.” Her father went pale. “I swear by Palandiell he had his sword held upright before, not down in front of him.”

“What’s this? A horror story to frighten little children? I pulled his innards out through his doublet myself,” said the landlord. He went up to the creature.

There was a loud creaking noise and the upper torso of the orc turned in Gilspan’s direction.

The women screamed. The men drew their swords. “You idiot of a man! You’ve brought the evil one right into your own house!”

Gilspan was completely bewildered. He wanted to reply but the orc started making its way over, raising its sword arm and lunging at him.

The man disappeared screaming under the monster. He dropped his dagger, crawled out from beneath his attacker, slid under the nearest table and cried for help like an old spinster.

Upstairs, doors were opening, boots came clattering down the stairs and lanterns were brought to give a better light.

The orc lay motionless on the floor and laughed. And laughed and laughed… As more and more lamps came on the scene they saw it was not the monster, but a dwarf lying there, helpless with laughter. He got up and stood by the bar counter, slapping himself on the thigh.

His laughter infected the room, not least because of the relief everyone felt, and then because of Gilspan the hero quivering underneath the table.

Boindil had played a joke on them all and had made the monster come to life by groaning a bit, pushing it and rocking it where it stood. “Now, my little linnet,” he said, bending down to look under the table. “Where is your bold courage now? Where did you get the orc?”

“I…” Gilspan was obviously thinking up a new lie.

“Think hard who you’re trying to trick here,” warned Ireheart, shaking a fist in his face.

“Bought it. I bought it, four cycles ago,” he admitted ruefully. “Like all the other stuff on the walls.” The guests laughed at him as he crawled out from his hiding place.

“Rotten stinking dwarf! You’ve ruined everything!”

“Me? It’s you who’ve ruined everything by your cowardice. If you’d been the man you pretend to be and had launched yourself at your attacker, everyone would be admiring you.” Boindil nodded to the girl’s fiance. “Well spotted. You do have to cut off their heads so that evil doesn’t restore their powers.” He raised his crow’s beak hammer and slung it through the creature’s head, severing the dried vertebrae so that the skull was caught on the weapon’s long spike. “It’d be really dead now.” He smashed the bone on the counter and fragments scattered far and wide. “Best to be on the safe side,” he grinned, shouldering his hammer.

T he next day they continued their journey to Alandur.

Tungdil had slept through the tumultuous doings of the night. He got up in the morning, woken by Boindil, and got ready for the journey in silence. Without stopping for breakfast they set off in a southwesterly direction.

The ponies trotted tirelessly on, following the road. They were surrounded by a richly varied landscape: it was still mountainous here, although a dwarf would call it hilly; sometimes they rode along the side of a ravine, sometimes through wide valleys, and then again across uplands from where they had a view over the wilder North Gauragar. They saw no thick forests: for that the soil was too poor.

Ireheart at the head of the column had some food on the way; Tungdil had bought a bottle of brandy from the innkeeper. He continued where he had left off the previous evening.

His friend looked back at him, shaking his head. “Do you really think drinking makes it better? You could have learned a lesson from Bavragor.”

Tungdil paid no attention and lifted the bottle once more to his cracked lips.

“That’s enough! It’s not going to bring Balodil back, Scholar!” Boindil turned his pony round and rode back. “Make use of your life and respect his memory instead of wallowing in self-pity and making a fool of yourself.”

“No, it won’t bring Balodil back,” murmured Tungdil. “I told you, I’m drinking myself to death.” He belched, spat, and drank again.

“You want to die?” Ireheart jumped down out of the saddle, grabbed the startled dwarf by the collar of his leather doublet under the mail shirt and pulled him to the ground. He dragged him over to the edge of the precipice they were on. “You really want to die?” In a fury he wrested the brandy bottle out of his grasp and hurled it down the cliff. After a long fall it shattered, leaving a dark stain on the rock. “Then go after it!” he thundered. “Put an end to your miserable existence. Do it right now. But stop the self-pity. The lowliest of creatures has more dignity than you.”

Tungdil could not escape from Boindil’s steel-hard grip. Without mercy the dwarf-twin pressed his face down over the drop.

A warm breath of wind came up from below, playing gently around his face as if inviting him to jump.

“Well, Scholar?” fumed Ireheart. “You say you want to die. Get on with it!” He grabbed the mail shirt and pulled with all his amazing strength. From somewhere deep inside, Tungdil’s instinct to resist awoke. It was a boundless urge, knowing neither rhyme nor reason. There was nothing to live for and yet still he held back and refused to take his place in the Eternal Smithy-if indeed there was a place for him there. He grasped the stunted grass, scraping his fingertips open on the stone. The pain cleared his alcohol-befuddled head.

“LET GO!” yelled Boindil in his ear. “I’m making it easy for you and stopping you from wasting yet more money on brandy and beer.” He gave Tungdil a mighty kick in the side.

Tungdil cowered in pain, losing his grip. The top half of his body now lay over the cliff edge. “No, no!” he called out in desperation. “You…”

“I’ll tell them you were protecting me from bandits,” Ireheart continued relentlessly. “People will think of you as a hero who died in time to salvage the meager remains of his reputation.”

Another kick met Tungdil’s ribs. Yelling, he slid forward. Stones broke away and rolled down the steep slope, raising small clouds of dust on the way.

“NO!” Gathering the last of his strength, Tungdil pushed himself up off the ground, throwing his weight backwards. He hurled himself back, dragging Boindil with him, and together they fell onto safer ground. “I’ve… changed… my mind,” he panted.

“Oh, and where does this sudden change of heart come from?”

Tungdil took a deep breath. “I can’t say. There’s a voice inside that won’t let me.”

“A voice called fear?”

Tungdil shrugged his shoulders. “No. No, it was something else. Life itself, I expect.”

“The voice of Vraccas,” replied Boindil, getting up and proffering his hand. “He will need you and your Keenfire blade soon enough. New enemies are threatening your race. Perhaps it is your destiny to defeat them.”

Tungdil let himself be helped up, then he went over to the cliff edge and looked over. Only one small step and his troubles would be gone. He raised his foot… and again he felt the inner barrier.

“Still got a death wish?” growled his friend.

“No,” answered Tungdil slowly. “I wanted to be sure that I really want to live.” He turned away from the edge.

Ireheart held out the reins of his pony to him and Tungdil took them. “That is what you want. I would have pushed you over if you hadn’t fought against me with all your strength.” His voice was earnest. “It’s the only way to find out if someone really wants to die.” A crooked smile crossed his face. “Believe me-I’ve been through the same treatment as you.”

“You were in despair at the death of your brother.” Tungdil understood now and watched the warrior climb back into the saddle.

“Half of me died when he did. Perhaps it was the better half. The other half dissolved into pitiless grief until I was convinced I wanted to die. Someone did to me what I just did to you and that made me see I preferred to be amongst the living rather than the dead. Vraccas knows why.” Grinning, he pointed to the road ahead. “But sending us to the elves is taking it a bit far.” He spurred his pony onwards.

Tungdil laughed quietly. “You’re right. Vraccas knows why.”

The shock of his salvation gave Tungdil now an extreme clarity of thought he had not known since before the death of his son. He had done everything wrong. For the past four cycles he had done everything wrong.

There was only one way out. He vowed to himself that he would return to Balyndis as soon as he could and beg her forgiveness for everything. The bitter words, the constant drinking, the rejection whenever she had tried to touch him. He could not forgive himself. Deep in thought, he stroked his pony’s soft muzzle.

Ireheart was a few paces ahead. “Coming, Scholar?” he called. “Or is the pony giving you some advice?”

“No,” Tungdil called back. “It’s telling me I’m too fat.”

“You should have asked me. I could have told you that.”

Tungdil took the pony by the reins and started to run. “You are a good friend,” he said and it was not clear which of the two he meant. The exercise would not hurt him, and it was a good few miles still to Alandur. Time to lose a few pounds.