Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

There was a red line all along the front of his throat; the cut was bleeding badly and it was deep. It would be difficult to apply much pressure to the wound, but he made a linen pad and tied a scarf round to hold it in place. He’d go to some healer-woman in the morning. After they’d struck camp and got away.

“The adventure side is getting out of hand. Too much even for my taste,” he murmured, checking the bandage. Looking down at his fingers, sticky with his own blood, he started to feel giddy and sat down suddenly. “Much too much.”

He dealt with the pain by drinking the rest of the wine from the half-full bottle. It was a good thing the archer-woman had hit the lamp and not the bottle.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Idoslane,

Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

Galloping ponies were seldom observed in Girdlegard. The thundering of small hooves did not really sound threatening, but, together with the sight of the grim-faced dwarves in the saddles and the clattering of weapons and armor, it ensured that any pedestrian on the roads would rapidly make way.

“Is it far now?” Boindil regretted they weren’t using the tunnels-the easiest and quickest way to travel through Girdlegard. He was not particularly good on horseback and he was feeling stiff; his back hurt with each jolt the pony made. And he seemed to have swallowed several flies.

“You’ll manage.” Tungdil showed mercy neither to himself, nor to the ponies, nor to his friend. It was obvious why he was in such a hurry. Apart from the life of his partner Balyndis being at stake there was a diamond that had to be saved. He knew that the stone was far more valuable than it appeared, rough-cut as it was. “Only half an orbit still to go.”

They heard hoof-beats from behind getting closer. A horse came up level with their mounts-but in the saddle sat not a human but a solidly built dwarf! Ax-handles jutted out of the saddle-bags Tungdil could see bouncing up and down, and he could hear metal clanking.

The dwarf was dressed in black and wore dark brown leather armor and heavy boots. The shape of his beard was eccentric and there was blond hair round his mouth and chin but the rest of his face was shaved. Long light blond braids flew back with the wind; there was a black scarf covering his head.

Tungdil recognized him at once. “Bramdal Masterstroke!”

The other dwarf, considerably older, turned to him. “I know you,” he said loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the hooves. “Hillchester, wasn’t it? They mistook you for me.” He pulled hard on the reins to slow his horse down. “And you were off to the freelings. From what I hear, you made it.” They trotted along, side by side. “Who’d have thought you’d turn out a hero?” He smiled and reached down a broad hand. “Good to meet you again, Tungdil.”

Tungdil wasn’t sure how he felt about seeing him again. It had been thanks to Bramdal that he had found the way to the freelings and the city of Trovegold, Bramdal having given him the tip about the pond and the hidden entrance. But at the same time Tungdil despised his trade.

“Bramdal? The executioner? Selling body parts to the long-uns?” asked Ireheart. He sat up in the saddle. “Revolting. And thanks-it was your fault I ended up in that stinking water.”

“You must be Boindil Doubleblade, then,” Bramdal grinned. “Two heroes off on their next adventure?”

“And you’ll be on your way to the next execution?” replied Tungdil. He did not want to give out any information.

“I’m riding to Porista. King Bruron pays well for my services. I’m training up his executioners.” He shrugged apologetically. “Afraid I can’t stop for a drink and a chat-got to hurry.”

“That means you’ll be doing yourself out of work,” grinned Ireheart.

“Yes. But I don’t care. I’m looking for a new line of work.” Bramdal seemed to have changed his mind about Vraccas’s injunction to protect humans from evil. In Hillchester he had told Tungdil that he was carrying out the dwarf-creator’s wishes by executing human criminals. He considered them malignant, just as other dwarves held orcs to be evil.

“In Trovegold?” Tungdil remembered the freelings’ city, which lay in a high-vaulted mile-long cavern. He heard again how the mighty waterfalls thundered and saw the gardens and the fortress where King Gemmil lived; he saw the dwarf priests praying and heard the hymns they sang echoing away. It had been wonderful, the time he had spent there.

“Going into trade,” said Bramdal. “If anyone knows how to make the equipment an executioner needs, it’s me. Why shouldn’t I use what I know? The kingdoms always need it and we’ve always got the craftsmen.”

“Has anything changed in Trovegold?” asked Tungdil, rather sadly.

“How long since you left?”

“It’ll be quite a few cycles; I’m not quite sure.” But that was a lie. Tungdil knew exactly when he’d last seen Gemmil. It was five cycles ago.

“Oh, a lot has changed. You’d hardly recognize the town. We’ve had to dig up the gardens to build workshops. The cave’s been extended by a mile to make room for everyone.”

“So many children?”

“Not just that: The Five Free Towns have grown in population. Trade with the dwarf realms has made the dwarf folk curious. It’s not just the outcasts who come to us; plenty turn up who want to get away from the clutches of their clans and their families.” Bramdal swiped at a bee that was buzzing around and investigating his jacket. “It’s obvious why the advantages of our community appeal.”

“Not sure about ‘advantages,’ ” grumbled Ireheart. “A dwarf needs stability.” He fell silent.

“May they all achieve happiness: some in the mountains, some below the ground. It’s a good way of life we have. Trade has brought prosperity.” Bramdal saw a crossroads. “Our paths split here. Did you know that Gemmil is dead?”

“No.” The news of the king’s death affected Tungdil, and Boindil shook his head sadly, too. “How?”

“Murdered. We think it was one of the thirdlings. We caught a dwarf sneaking out of Trovegold, his clothes all covered in blood. He fought the guards like a berserker and killed seven of them before they shot him down. We still have no idea why he did it.”

“To make trouble,” Tungdil guessed. “If he was one of the dwarf-haters he’ll only have wanted to cause strife. It’s a terrible shame that the king who made me and my friends so welcome should die in that way. Who succeeded him?”

“Gordislan Hammerfist.”

“Hammerfist?” Ireheart pricked up his ears. “Did he give himself that name or is he an exile from the clan?

“Do you think it could be a relative of Bavragor Hammerfist?” Tungdil conjured up the picture of the secondling’s best stonemason, a barrel of a dwarf, strongly built, with huge, callused hands. He always wore an eye patch and they called him “the singing drunkard.” He had shown his courage in countless battles at Tungdil’s side and had died for the sake of the group fighting off the orcs at the Dragon’s Breath forge. Without his sacrifice they would never have escaped with the ax Keenfire.

Bramdal shook his head. “I don’t know. If members of the Hammer Fist clan tend to have dark brown eyes with a bit of red in them, then it could be he’s related. At any event, he has quite a tolerance for brandy when there’s a party on.”

Ireheart grinned. “No doubt about it. He’s related to Bavragor.” He grew serious. “What could have made him leave his own clan? I’ve not heard anything.”

“He’s been with us in Trovegold for some time.” They’d reached the crossing now and the time for parting was at hand. “A safe onward journey to you both and success in your endeavors,” said the executioner, turning his mount toward Porista. He lifted his hand to urge the horse to a gallop and soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.