Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

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.