Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

If Tungdil were not mistaken there had been a slight change in his friend’s attitude toward the girl: he looked at her more often than before, and did so not with the eyes of a master observing an apprentice but with the eyes of dwarf attracted to dwarf-woman. Like now.

“Does she please you?” he asked with a smile.

“What?” Boindil jerked upright and even blushed a little. He immediately turned his gaze to the road.

“In the progress she’s making?” said Tungdil, making the question more objective.

“Oh yes, of course,” answered Boindil in relief. He looked at his friend. “But that’s not what you meant, is it?”

Tungdil only grinned and pointed to the wood on their left. It had to be the easternmost point of Alandur, or at least it was composed of the same trees that grew in the elf groves. “It’s time for a break.”

He had the troop stop in the cool shade and rest a while. Even if the children of the Smith regularly did guard duty on the surface, a long march such as this was unusual for most of them.

Ireheart left Goda to keep watch. When they had moved away from her, he took up the thread once more. “You are right, Scholar,” he sighed. “It makes me happy to see her. And I am dreading the day when she leaves.”

“You will have her with you for a long time yet. It will take cycles for a good warrior-girl to be trained.” Tungdil winked, but then he grew serious. “You’ve really fallen for her.”

Boindil sat down, one hand on his weapon. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? My heart is on fire. It was her that re-awoke my lust for fighting. And I know that it can’t go anywhere. I killed a relative of hers. Goda will never see me any other way. She will hate me. I can sense it, even though she hides her true feelings.”

Tungdil thought back to the conversation with Balyndis. He did not tell his friend that Goda had originally arrived with the intention of killing him. Now would not be a good time to tell him that. Instead he said, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Oh, do you think she likes me? After I murdered her grandma?”

“You’ll have to find out.”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I courted a dwarf-girl, Scholar?” Ireheart gave a helpless sigh.

“Somebody told me that you have to rub them with their favorite cheese and then spin them round four times to win their heart,” laughed Tungdil, citing the not entirely serious advice the twin-dwarf had once given him. “But really-just be yourself.” Those had been Boendal’s words of wisdom. “She’s a thirdling. She has no clan, no family. That should make it easier for you. You don’t have to impress or convince anybody else.”

He thought back ruefully to when he had first spoken to the father of Balyndis. He had been rejected out of hand, but in the end she had remained resolute and had left husband and clan for his sake and for their love. Now the bond between them was breaking, and the recriminations that he leveled at himself could not be dismissed. He felt he had betrayed her, but knew they could no longer live as man and wife.

“Oh, Vraccas,” said Ireheart despairingly. “It’s all too much. An honest fight and you know where you are. But this love stuff… it’s complicated.”

Tungdil did not envy his friend’s state of mind and hoped that things would work out for him. “Stick with it and wait for the right moment.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “And whatever you do, don’t listen to what others in your clan have to say about it.”

Ireheart grinned. “Oh, I have no reputation left to lose. You forget-I’m a friend of yours, Scholar.”

A rider was approaching them from the south. At first, given the rider’s size, they took it to be a child on horseback but they soon saw they were mistaken. Dark clothing, a scarf round the head, full saddlebags clanking.

“The executioner again?” Boindil was surprised. “Can’t just be coincidence.”

“It won’t be coincidence.”

“Then send him packing if he tries to join us here. I don’t trust him.”

“Wait and see.”

Bramdal pulled up his horse where Tungdil and Boindil were resting. “Greetings,” he laughed down at them. “Mind if I join you for a breather?”

“So, have you finished your business in Porista?” To Boindil’s surprise, Tungdil gestured for him to sit with them. “We’ve got some tea if you want.”

“Great.” Bramdal reached behind and pulled out a kind of rope ladder. He stepped onto it out of the stirrup, and from there down onto the grass. “Neat, eh?” he grinned. “I thought, why should a dwarf go slowly on a pony when he can go fast on a horse? So I came up with this contraption and got the saddle made.”

Ireheart shook his head and looked up. The executioner had chosen a particularly tall mount. “You won’t get me up on one of those.”

“But there’s a very good view.” Bramdal followed Tungdil over to where the tea was brewing. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. What brings you to the north?” asked Tungdil.

“I’m heading back to Hillchester.” Bramdal blew gently on his hot tea. “King Bruron wants me to start a school.”

“For executioners, I assume.”

“Absolutely. He didn’t want it to be in Porista, for fear of tarnishing his new capital city’s reputation,” grinned the dwarf. “Although I only carry out the letter of the law. Odd, isn’t it? The humans set the death penalty and then want nothing to do with it.”

Tungdil smiled. “We didn’t come across each other in Porista.”

“No, I’ll have been too busy.” Bramdal winked. “You don’t believe me. What do you think then? That I’m a spy for the dwarf-haters?”

“Yes,” Ireheart jumped in, his hands on the crow’s beak handle.

Bramdal laughed out loud, sounding genuinely amused. His gaze went past the warrior over to Goda, and his curiosity was aroused. “A fine-looking dwarf-girl. She looks nice and strong. I bet she wields her weapon with a strong hand. Excellent material for an executioner.”

“Leave her alone,” was Boindil’s immediate response. “She is my pupil,” he added quickly. “If she’s going to be doing any beheading then it’ll be orc heads that roll.” He was getting hot and bothered, the blood surging in his ears. Was it jealousy?

“I understand. Your pupil,” said Bramdal with a grin, leaving his true meaning unspoken. He sipped his tea. “I was talking to Gordislan Hammerfist in Porista. He’s worried about Trovegold: it’s been attacked.”

Tungdil let out his breath. “Thirdling machines?”

“No, it was sabotage.” Bramdal looked serious. “The sluice on the dam was jammed full open and a third of Trovegold left under water. The townspeople eventually managed to repair the damaged sluice, otherwise even more of the freelings would have drowned.”

“How many were lost?” Ireheart wanted to know.

“Two hundred and eleven. More than thirty houses will have to be rebuilt.” He lowered his eyes despondently. “No, it wasn’t the dwarf-haters’ machines; they can’t reach us through the cave network. They’re using other methods of attack.” He poured himself some more tea. “The worst thing is there’s no one to actually blame. The guards out at the sluice were all killed. Nobody saw the murderers.”

“That’s terrible.” Tungdil was moved.

“The flood means Trovegold is a hotbed of suspicion now. There are accusations it was the clan-dwarves and not the thirdlings at all. They think wealth is causing envy amongst the dwarf folks-they all want our vraccasium and gold. One of the dwarves in the fourthling clan assembly is supposed to have said we were trying to curry favor with Vraccas with all these sacrifices and donations, and that it’s unfair and has got to be stopped. Others suggested the leaders want to force the dwarves back into the dwarf realms again.” Bramdal was silent, waiting for a reaction.