Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“Didn’t you say he’d lost his partner and his children?” she asked, standing up and leaning against the door. “Perhaps he’s found someone new.”

“You mean the child he had with him?” Rodario started tidying the mess. “I don’t understand. He loved Narmora more than anything.”

“People’s feelings change.”

“Sure, anyone else’s,” he agreed. “Not with Furgas. You don’t know him or you wouldn’t say that. Only if he’d changed completely.”

“Mm.” She had her hand on the door handle. “And what if it’s not his kid? Perhaps he’s just taken it in?” Tassia smiled at him. “I’d better leave you in peace to finish your sorting and your thinking.”

“Great. Off you go.”

She laughed winningly. “The queen knows when she is not wanted.” And she stepped out.

“Tassia!”

“Yes?”

Rodario pointed at her throat. “The necklace.”

“Oh.” She ran her hand over the necklace that was catching the light so brilliantly. “It feels so nice against my skin.”

“Don’t wear it while we’re here in Mifurdania,” he told her. She took it off, ready to put it back in the hiding place. “But later we’ll use it on stage a lot as a prop.”

She blew him a kiss and ran out. He was left with the unwelcome task of restoring order in his domestic realm.

That done, he sat down on the caravan steps with a lamp and wrote some more of the play.

It came easily; Tassia and the events of the day were inspiring him. Everything they had been through found a place in the drama-it was full of passion, adventure and secrets.

How it was going to end wasn’t yet clear. For that he’d have to find Furgas first.

He was pouring himself some wine from the only bottle to have survived when he heard Tassia’s laugh. It was a very particular laugh.

Jealousy flared up. He put the glass down and went over to Reimar’s quarters. He stood on tiptoe outside the window and peeped through. Hearing that laugh had aroused his suspicions and now he was sure. His Queen of the Stage was cheating on him. So, she was seeking entertainment elsewhere. And Reimar, that bear of a man, was assisting her, not completely selflessly, in her quest.

Rodario returned to his narrow steps and picked up the glass. He laughed. He laughed and laughed until he was out of breath and inquisitive heads popped out of neighboring caravans. Even Reimar came out, a towel round his middle, to see what was up. The actor pointed at him and started laughing again, tipped over backwards, gasping for air.

“All right, folks,” he waved the observers away. “It’s only my normal attack of evening madness. It gets me whenever I hear another man making love to my woman.”

Reimar blushed and whizzed back inside his caravan. Rodario had hysterics again.

He looked up at the stars, veiled now by a thin screen of clouds that had covered them in milk. “O ye gods! That’s some girl you’ve sent me!” He grinned. “She’s paying me back for what I used to get up to with other women.” He emptied his glass. “I’m wise to your game. Was it your idea, Samusin, god of justice?” he called out, raising his glass and saluting the stars. “I thank you! I’ve not been this inspired for ages.” Cool dark wine ran down his throat. He put the vessel down and started writing.

Time sped by, but he was on fire. He cut bits out, wrote anew and changed the wording of act after act, scene after scene. It was thirsty work. Without looking, he stretched out his hand for the bottle; there was a tinkle of broken glass and the lamp he’d been using went out.

He looked up in surprise. He couldn’t have knocked it over, his hand had been lower.

A mistake, it seemed. The lamp was still in the same place, just behind him to one side on the top step. Rodario stared at the arrow that had shattered it and then buried itself in the wood. Half an ell to the left and it would have got him straight in the eye!

The archer-woman from Mifurdania! he realized in a flash as he dived to one side, crawling under the wagon. He listened out.

There were insects humming, the odd cricket chirping, the horses were dozing quietly in their temporary paddock, and Hui the gray and black hunting dog lay snoring in the grass, head on its paws.

Altogether it sounded like a perfectly normal night-apart from Tassia’s faint moans, Reimar’s loud groans and the complaints from the overworked caravan springs.

Amazing! They are bonking their brains out while I’m the victim of an assassin. So ran his gallows humor as he looked at the wagon where the girl and the workman were enjoying themselves so violently that the lamps swung to and fro. This had nothing in common with what he and Tassia had shared earlier. But what had she said? Sometimes a woman just needs a man with muscles.

Flock. A second arrow landed close to him, hitting the wood. Then a third clanged onto the metal wheel hub and broke. He threw himself flatter still and stared out at the darkness being used for cover. He didn’t want to wake the others. There was too high a risk that one of his troupe would be injured, or even killed, whether by accident or design. “Pssht, you so-called watchdog,” he hissed, “psssht. Get up, hound.” The dog opened one eye and wagged its tail. “No! No wagging. Be a bad dog. Find, go get it! Fetch! Bite!”

The hound got up and took a leisurely stretch, then trotted over to where Rodario lay under the caravan and licked his face.

“Stop that!” The actor fended off these wet offerings of affection. “Kill!” He pointed over at the other side. “Fetch!”

Hui had finally got it. He lifted his nose and sniffed, then, nose to the ground and tail straight out behind, he sloped off in the direction Rodario had indicated.

The showman felt bad about sending the dog out. He peered out again and soon could see neither the dog nor the assassin. And Reimar’s wagon wasn’t swaying anymore. They’d had enough, then.

A cold blade touched his throat. “Disappear, you!” said a rough voice. The smells of cold smoke, rust and heated metal met his nose. “First thing in the morning. Pack your stuff and scram. Take your painted wagon and be off! Out of here!”

“May I ask…?”

He felt a sharp pain at the base of his throat where the blade had cut into his skin. “Get out of here and stop asking questions about the magister, got it?” the voice whispered in his ear. “We’re watching you, showman.”

Reimar’s door opened a fraction and Tassia looked out to see whether he was still sitting on his steps. Seeing him gone and the lamp extinguished she flitted out of the caravan.

“Look at your fine mistress, showman. If you keep on trying to find Furgas, she will die,” the man threatened. His hair was grabbed and his head forced up and back until his forehead touched the underside of the caravan. “And then you. Then the rest of your troupe. Then the magister.”

There was a further jab to his neck, this time a deeper cut. Something warm dripped down over his Adam’s apple, and Rodario felt sick. He couldn’t think of how to extricate himself. He was at the mercy of whoever it was crouched behind him, ready to kill with a movement of his hand.

“Yes,” he croaked: fear and the unnatural position made speech difficult.

“Very good,” laughed the stranger. “Think about it. We’re watching, right?” The hand let go of his hair and he received a mighty blow to the back of his head, probably with the handle of the knife. It was enough to disturb his vision for a moment. He could hear the man crawl off, get up and run. The danger was over.

Groaning, Rodario struggled out from under the wagon, stumbled up the steps to his caravan and then inspected the damage in a mirror.