Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

Now Tungdil had his certainty: in this land, where dwarves such as Ginsgar ruled in hatred, he did not wish to stay.

He took hold of Sirka’s hand and pressed it firmly.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Urgon,

Pendleburg,

Early Autumn, 6241st Solar Cycle

Resounding hammer blows and complaining screams of metal on anvil could be heard all over the cloud-hung stronghold. Squadrons of gray rain clouds were driving across the land and not stopping at the castle walls. The cloud contents poured onto the stones as if wanting to wash out all the mortar and bring down the defenses.

Tungdil, in breeches, boots and leather apron, was spending most of his time in the forge turning the unslayable’s sword into a new weapon. With all his strength he was beating out the last trace of evil. He had written off the possibility of finding Keenfire, just as he had dismissed the possibility of a future in Girdlegard. The dwarf folks he had discarded from his mind as well.

There was nothing to keep him here. Twice he had averted the impending downfall and destruction of Girdlegard, and this was his third and last mission. After that the dwarves could see how they coped without him. No matter what he did and how many lives were lost along the way, reason would not prevail. Not here and not with any of the peoples of Girdlegard.

Anger strengthened his arm and sent his hammer blows off true. He interrupted his labors to wipe the sweat from his remaining eye; he no longer wore a bandage over the left where a simple white patch now covered the empty socket.

He brandished the fruits of his toil toward the entrance. As yet he was not sure what was emerging from his handiwork. It was neither ax nor sword, nor club. He left it up to the fire, the hammer and the skill of his hands to form something completely new without a specific design.

The metal must be an alloy he had not met before. He could hear as much from the sound it made; it sang in response to his forging. It had incredible stability, long refusing to give up its original shape to take on another. It was an age since he had been given such a challenge at the anvil.

Hasty footsteps came splashing through puddles and over the wet flagstones. Sirka stumbled in at the threshold. Her sight was not as good as his own in this smoky twilight. “Tungdil?”

He tapped the vice with his hammer to indicate where he stood. “Over here. By the furnace.”

“We won’t be able to leave yet,” she said, feeling her way. “This rain has turned Urgon’s mountain streams to raging torrents. The king’s scouts report some of the roads have been washed away.” She had located him now and when she kissed him rainwater dripped from her nose down onto his. “We won’t be leaving for another seven orbits.”

Tungdil nodded. Ortger would have to feed the hundred thousand for longer than he had bargained; provisions would have to be brought in from all over the kingdom. It was an enormous task. Gauragar and Idoslane were helping out with grain supplies. “I’m not ready, either.” He showed her what he had done so far.

“Strange,” she said. “I’ve never seen a weapon like that.”

“It will be worthy of a hero like myself,” he said, mockingly. “What are Goda and Ireheart up to?”

“Now that they are committed to each other they are never apart,” grinned Sirka. “Dwarves, rain, a warm bed-you can work it out, can’t you? No better excuse than the weather for staying in. The master and his apprentice will be in training, I presume.”

“Good, so no one will notice that I’ve been in the forge all this time.”

Sirka watched the flames. “I shan’t ever really understand the fascination with forging like this.” She wiped her hand across her brow to remove the sweat now blended with raindrops. “I wonder what you’ll think of the way we make our metal goods.”

Tungdil put the unfinished weapon back in the fire and laid his hammer down on the anvil before taking the dwarf-woman in his arms. She was wearing only a thin leather garment and her bodice lacing allowed him a good view of her brown skin. He stroked her shorn head tenderly and kissed her slowly as desire flamed up within him.

He threw the hammer at the door to close it. The catch slipped down into place. She grinned and opened the fastenings of his leather apron.

They made love for a long time on a blanket spread on the floor next to the furnace. Tungdil could never get enough of Sirka. He loved to stroke her dark skin and to feel the heat of her inner fire in the course of their love-play increasing until the sweat poured off her. The undergroundling woman had once spoken of belonging to a passionate folk. This did not merely apply to fighting.

Afterwards they rested by the fire, watching the flickering tongues of flame.

“It will be hard for you to leave your kinsfolk, Tungdil.”

“I have no kinsfolk,” he countered. “I have been thinking a lot and have arrived at the conclusion that my heart only belongs to one other.” He kissed her throat. “That’s you. Otherwise, I’m like…” He had nearly betrayed his secret and spoken the name of the young alf. “… otherwise there’s no one. Do I go to the dwarves who are fighting under Ginsgar Unforce, making old enemies into new ones? Or do I go the humans? I wouldn’t feel at home with the elves, either.”

“I’ll give you a new home for as long as you want. It’ll be up to you. You can always go away again, Tungdil. I know how you are-restless. You did warn me.” Sirka smiled and slipped her clothes on. Tungdil admired her sinewy body; it was tough and flexible enough for combat or for this kind of gymnastics. “And I in my turn warned you. There’s no forever for us. No eternally yours. Not usually, anyway.”

“Your eternity, Sirka, would only be one or two cycles for me,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m likely to live up to ten times longer than you.”

She threaded the laces back through the leather, fastening her bodice tight and depriving him of the last glimpse of her naked flesh. “That’s weird. If we have children you could outlive nine generations!”

When he heard the word children he gave a start. Then he remembered that undergroundlings brought up their offspring quite differently from the traditions of his own kind. He relaxed again. If he were tempted to roam again he would not have to worry about the care of his own children. He was rather taken by the thought of leaving descendants in the land of the undergroundlings: a line of offspring that would live longer than all their neighbors.

He got to his feet and started to dress. “Yes, it’s a weird thought,” he said, echoing her words. He kissed her again on the nape of her neck. “I can’t tell you how I’m looking forward to all the new things.”

“Yes, as soon as we have restored the artifact,” she agreed, opening the door to let dull light into the workshop. It was still raining. “Afterwards it will all be very exciting,” she promised enticingly. “Not just because of me.” Then she hurried out and ran through the cloudburst to her quarters.

Tungdil’s mood had improved and his fury had gone. “Oh, shit!” He had forgotten to take the metal out of the fire. If it had gone molten he would have wasted all his efforts.

Swiftly he pulled it out with tongs, drawing it carefully from its burial place in the red-hot coals. Sparks whizzed and flew through the air until they cooled and fell to the ground as ash.

The metal was now as soft as sun-warmed wax. It shone golden yellow like honey and there were long threads that cooled in the air and turned gray.

“So, that’s what you want to look like?” he said to his new weapon, dousing it in a tub of water. The liquid bubbled and boiled and quickly reduced to half its volume while the metal cooled. Tungdil had never seen such an effect.