Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“It’s sharp. I’ve never seen anything like it. What are you calling it?”

Tungdil shrugged his shoulders.

The warrior lifted it up, weighing it in his hands, attempted a few swipes and looked round for something to try it out on. A footstool fell victim to the blade.

The cutting edge had sliced through the finger-thick wood without a splinter.

“By Vraccas!” Ireheart laid the blade on the table. “Extraordinary. Light as a dagger, cuts like the sharpest of swords and behaves like an ax.” He contemplated his own hand and saw a drop of blood on the ball of his thumb. “And it’s thirsty for my blood,” he laughed. “There are sharp metal bits still to be filed off.”

Tungdil’s brow furrowed. He knew it had been smooth as marble to hold just now. That was why rough-textured leather was used to wrap the grip. He took a deep breath. “I’ll have to give it another going-over.”

“Why not Bloodthirster?” Ireheart joked. “It would be a good name.” He took some of the water and grabbed a large slice of ham.

“What particular exercise are you and Goda working on at the moment?” Tungdil liked the name Ireheart had suggested. “Wrestling moves?”

Boindil felt himself go red. “Very observant, scholar.”

“You’re practicing enough to make the walls shake.” Behind them they heard the scornful voice of Rodario, who was joining them at table.

“I shan’t be taking instruction from you,” said the twin, sinking his teeth into the ham. “You are a master of a different sort of wrestling.”

“There hasn’t been any wrestling with anyone for some time, Master Hot Blood.” Rodario sat down at his side. “I’m staying true to my Tassia.”

“Of course you are.” Ireheart waved aside the protest. “If that’s the truth then this piece of meat will fly.” He picked it up and let go. It dropped straight onto the table. “Not looking good, sir actor.”

Tungdil laughed and Rodario joined in. “I’m happy for you, Ireheart,” he said. “A lady at last to soften your warrior soul and to harden other parts.”

Boindil grinned broadly. “It’s all ended well. I would never have thought it possible.”

“There can’t only be bad things in life, otherwise the world would cease,” said Tungdil. “Enjoy what you have.”

“They’re doing that all the time,” said Rodario, poking fun again. His well-meant mockery revealed the friends’ joy at the young love of these two dwarves.

“We’re wrestling. That’s all. We want to keep fit for the adventures that await us in the Outer Lands. I shall be going with you,” Ireheart told Tungdil. “This adventure will be my greatest yet.”

Rodario clapped. “Before either of you asks: I too would deem it an honor to accompany you. In those far-off lands there are scenes and stories with which I shall delight my valued audiences.”

“You too?” Ireheart exclaimed. “Vraccas help us! He’ll talk us to death. Or make something explode at the wrong time.”

“Huh, very funny.”

“Word gets round. Like what you did in the belly of the machine. Could all have been done differently, you know.”

“Yes, mock away, you destroyer of bedsteads. But I tell you I shall be of supreme use on the trip.” He stood up, pretending to be offended. “Just so’s you know: Ortger has chosen a different route. The roads are narrower but they’re passable. We can leave in the morning, Lot-Ionan says. Chop chop, off to bed now, my heroes. And no more wrestling, Ireheart. Not tonight. Or at least pull the bed away from the wall.” Rodario disappeared with a grin on his face.

Tungdil was pleased. The delay had been long enough to finish making the weapon. Excellent.

“If it’s true what the Emperor of Boasters and Big Mouths has just said,” Ireheart said, “I’ll get some rest.” He laid his hand on Tungdil’s shoulder. “Are you sure you want to leave Girdlegard forever?” he asked, his voice earnest now.

“Yes, Ireheart. I don’t want to see them slip into the next catastrophe, and this time one they’ve made for themselves.”

“You mean Ginsgar’s work?”

“What else? In the worst case it’ll mean dispute amongst the dwarf folks. Some will join Ginsgar the Self-Appointed and the others will insist on their traditions, call an assembly and choose a different high king.” He took a drink of water and thought of what Bramdal had said. “Where will it end, Boindil? Can you tell me?”

Ireheart lowered his head. “Ginsgar asked me to take command of his bodyguard,” he admitted quietly. “I told him I’d think about it.”

“That you’d think about it?” Tungdil was about to reproach his friend but stopped. “Yes, you are right. You must work it out for yourself. I have no right to tell you what you should do. I’m leaving here.”

Ireheart sat down again. “It’s not easy, Scholar. Some of Ginsgar’s views are sensible but on the other hand he is a warmonger. He will prove a high king devoid of any mercy.” Ireheart ran a hand over his short black plait.

“Think on my words: the freelings and the thirdlings will be his new foes.” Tungdil cut off a slice of cheese. “If you take command you’ll be fighting all the time. I know it’s what you love to do but shouldn’t you be happier fighting orcs and monsters, not your own kind?” He put the food in his mouth and got up. “Think about that while you’re deciding. Ginsgar Unforce will be going down in the chronicles as a notorious figure. Not as a good high king.” He patted him on the shoulder. “Good night, Ireheart. Speak to Goda and make up your mind. You’ve time enough before you return to Girdlegard.” He picked up his weapon and walked out past his friend.

On the way he ran his hands over the blade and tested the sharpness, but now it felt rough on his hands. He had not been careful enough and it had cut him-not deep but enough to draw blood.

“That name is the right one for you,” he said to his weapon. “From now on you shall be known as Bloodthirster. You will drink the blood of many monsters, I promise. And you shall serve me well.” He studied the red drops on the blade. “But you shall never taste dwarven blood. If you do, I shall shatter you into a thousand pieces.”

A soft shimmer was visible down the length of the blade. It may have been a reflection of the lamplight but Tungdil chose to read it as acceptance. The pact had been made.

Girdlegard,

Fourthling Realm,

Brown Mountains, Fortress Silverfast,

Early Autumn, 6241st Solar Cycle

B ylanta held out her hand to Tungdil. “May Vraccas protect you from all the dangers of the Outer Lands and bring you safely back to us.”

“He will indeed,” he replied courteously as he shook the queen’s slender hand. He was not about to let her know that he didn’t intend to return.

They were standing beneath the four intact towers on the stronghold walls at Silverfast. This was where the acronta had long maintained the illusion of an enemy siege. There was no trace of their presence now. All you could see were piles of orc bones with the flesh chewed off them. The fourthlings had decided to leave them as a deterrent.

“I hope that Ginsgar Unforce may soon meet his death.” He expressed his thoughts openly. “If not, there will be grim times ahead for the dwarves.”

“Honestly spoken.” Balyanta looked at him appraisingly. “Then let us be frank, Tungdil Goldhand: the dwarf folks need someone who can stand up to Ginsgar. Not easy after his victories in Alandur. He has so many followers and much clandestine support in the dwarf realms.”

“Glaimbar…”

“No, it’s you who are needed, I think. Balendilin the Second is not strong enough anymore; with one arm he doesn’t stand a chance. No one will listen to Malbalor because he’s from the thirdlings and Ginsgar has spread poison about them.”