Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

He took the weapon out and turned it from side to side in wonder: it was black as the night and longer than the arm of a full-grown man. It was thicker on one side and had long drawn-out needle-thin points so that it looked like fish bones or a comb. On the other side it slimmed down like a blade and its center of gravity lay high up on the haft, which gave each swipe added momentum without detracting from its ease of wielding.

“Right, so let’s give you your final form, shall we?” Tungdil pushed it into the furnace, heating it through once more. He worked to finesse the weapon until evening, giving it a rounded handle that he could clasp in both hands. It seemed to him that the metal had surrendered its resistance to him now.

Night had long fallen and still he sat at work, sharpening the blade with a small grindstone. Bright sparks flew off in a sizzling arc, bouncing against the door. Tungdil tested the edge by taking a lump of coal and stroking the metal across it gently without applying any pressure. It sliced through the black stone as easily as if it had been air. He was satisfied for now.

Tired and hungry he stomped across the site through the rain, his new weapon at his side. He needed food and drink.

“Is it too late to bring you greetings from the towns of the freelings?”

Tungdil stopped short and raised his weapon. A dwarf stood by the smithy in the pouring rain. His cape and hood were soaked and he must have been waiting by the window a long while. For a messenger this behavior was unusual. “Show me your face!”

The dwarf approached, pulling back his hood. “I thought you would recognize my voice.”

Tungdil found himself face to face with Bramdal Masterstroke. “You again?” Suspicion made him keep the blade raised diagonally before him. “What is it you want?”

“I am to bring greetings from King Gordislan and the other town rulers and to wish you well for the journey to the Outer Lands.” Bramdal pointed to a roof overhang. “Can we go somewhere dry?”

Tungdil did not believe the one-time executioner. “You’ve waited all this time outside the forge watching me and you grab me out here in the rain, just to say bon voyage?” Tungdil did not move. The rain did not bother him. “You’ll allow that’s a trifle odd?”

“Nobody must know I’m speaking to you. My mission isn’t over when I’ve given you the good wishes.”

“Have you got anything to back your story up, Bramdal?”

Carefully Bramdal put a hand under his cape and pulled out a roll of leather. Then he handed Tungdil a signet ring. “This authenticates what I’m about to tell you. And this is Gordislan’s signet ring.” Water dripped from his yellow beard. “Come on, can we go inside?”

Tungdil indicated the forge door with the tip of his weapon. In its dark warmth they refrained from lighting a lamp. Tungdil read the missive by the glow from the furnace and examined the ring minutely. Bramdal was in truth a trusted adviser to the king of Trovegold. “Perhaps you were always more than an executioner?”

Bramdal nodded. “Gemmil and others before him used to send me out on missions to observe the humans and report what they said about the dwarves. We were waiting for the right moment for the towns to start trading with them.” He installed himself on the anvil, drawing his cape off and hanging it up to dry. “We knew the dwarves would resent it and that we would have to think carefully about this move. Your visit helped. But the future isn’t going to be easy.”

“It seems to me that recently the free towns have chosen to align themselves with the humans.”

“Your impression is correct. We are very concerned about developments up in the mountains. I heard the exchange between Ginsgar and Balyndis. What Ginsgar thinks of the towns is an open secret. That’s the reason we’ll soon be making open advances to the humans. The death of Gandogar was the last straw.”

“You’re here to tell me that?”

Bramdal nodded slowly. “Yes. The town kings think you are a sensible smith-child and they’re placing their hopes on you. They expect you will be the facilitator between the dwarf folks in the coming dispute about the high kingship. There is no hero greater than yourself, so they want you to be the first to learn their plans. It’s pretty certain that the dwarf folks won’t understand our motives.”

“The freelings are afraid of their own kinsmen? And so they are looking to the humans for allies? Is that how far it’s come?”

“If Ginsgar is the new high king, yes.” Bramdal picked up his cape and reversed it to dry the other side. “We heard Ginsgar wants to annex the free towns and get his hands on their wealth.”

“And you want to increase trade with the humans so they’ll come to your aid if you’re in trouble. I can see what you’re driving at. But why must no one know we’re talking?”

“Gordislan is afraid Ginsgar already has a plan up his sleeve and will implement it at once if he hears the towns are preparing for an attack. We’d have no time to arrange an alliance with the humans.”

Tungdil fed the furnace, stirring the glowing coals and using the bellows to encourage the flames. There was a crackling response and the temperature started to rise. “Tell the monarchs that I’m honored by their trust. But I don’t intend to come back to Girdlegard any time soon.” Tungdil saw the fire’s glow reflected in Bramdal’s pale brown eyes. “And that’s a secret, too. The free kings must know I won’t be there for them if there is a clash. They will have to sort things out by themselves.”

“You’re going to abandon your responsibilities?” Bramdal was astonished.

“I have no more responsibilities here. It is enough. I have saved Girdlegard twice and together with my friends I’m about to do it for a third time. Others must take over. I am for distant horizons.”

The executioner returned his gaze. “How would you feel if you came back and saw war had broken out? War amongst the children of the Smith? That the gates were broken and hordes of monsters had overrun Girdlegard?”

He strode nearer. “And knowing you could have prevented it?”

Tungdil smiled, unmoved by his words. “I would say that others had failed to think and act. I have been Girdlegard’s protector for so long now and I am not the only dwarf with a head on his shoulders. Tell the kings that they may rely on Bylanta’s wisdom. They should appeal to her for support.”

“But your word is weightier with the clans.”

“I am a thirdling, Bramdal, and have never sought to conceal my lineage. Ginsgar would use that to undermine my reputation.” He went to the door and stepped across the threshold. “Give Gordislan my message. I shall not change my mind.” He nodded goodbye. “So it was never just coincidence that we kept meeting?”

“Nothing in life is pure coincidence, Tungdil Goldhand.” Bramdal moved closer to the fire. “I shall take them your message. And I shall pray to Vraccas that he will change your mind.”

“You’re welcome to try. It’s not going to work.” Tungdil closed the door behind him and marched through the puddles to cross the yard. He knew this exchange was going to trouble him but he was determined to leave Girdlegard to its fate. Deep in thought he entered the room where his meal had been waiting for him. He still avoided beer and wine and took only water.

“There he is, our scholar!” Ireheart entered, for a change not wearing his mail shirt but only the leather undertunic. And it had not been properly fastened. It looked as if he had put it on in a hurry. Tungdil showed him the weapon he had been forging. “So is that the unslayable’s sword?”

Wordlessly chewing his food, Tungdil pushed the blade over to his friend, handle first.