Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“Rubbish,” thundered Ireheart. “The mountains have enough gold to fill that town’s entire cave. Why would the secondlings or whoever want the outcasts’ gold?”

Tungdil leaned back against a tree, closing his eyes. “Soon the thirdlings will be getting the blame whenever anything happens. Suspicion will be rampant and no one will trust anyone anymore. That’s just what the dwarf-haters wanted, of course.” He looked up. “Bramdal, wherever you hear talk like that, tell them to pay no attention. The more discord there is, the quicker the dwarf-haters will have achieved their goal.”

The executioner nodded. “That’s what Gordislan Hammerfist said. I’m sure you know how hard it is to put such rumors down.” He placed his empty cup on the grass. “I’ll be off. Perhaps we’ll meet again. If we do, you mustn’t think straightaway I’m one of the bad ones,” he said to Ireheart. He got up and climbed onto his horse again. With his boot he fished for the patent ladder, pulling it up behind him. “May Vraccas bless you.” He lifted his hand in farewell and rode off.

Tungdil and Boindil watched him go. “Do you know what gets me?” Tungdil asked his friend. “He never wanted to know what we’ve got in the wagons.”

“I was right. He’s definitely a spy.” Boindil stood determined, hands on his hips.

Tungdil smiled. “Because he fancied Goda?”

“No,” said the twin. “Well, yes, because of that, too.” He sighed.

“Master! Tungdil!” called Goda. “Over here! I’ve found something!”

“Perhaps it’s your heart?” Tungdil teased Ireheart, who jabbed him in the ribs.

“Let’s hear no more of this sentimental nonsense,” he growled, getting up and running over. Tungdil followed him. It was still strange to see his friend without his long black braided plait.

Goda was kneeling by a bush, and she pushed the branches apart when the two dwarves came over. “Look!”

Amongst the foliage and purple flowers elf features were visible. The elf lay as if dead, with eyes closed and a few withered leaves on his face.

There were three arrows sticking out from the elf’s chest. The arrows had penetrated the leather armor and earth-colored clothing under it. Judging by the splendor of the finely embroidered garments this must be a high-status elf. The fact he wore only a limited amount of armor suggested he had been hunting. His camp was probably not be far away.

“He’s breathing!” said Ireheart, astonished, as he saw the chest move almost imperceptibly. “Well, these pointy… I mean, these elves, are tougher than they look!”

“Give me a hand.” Tungdil was sitting the injured elf up carefully so he could inspect the arrows. Two broke off, the third was still in the body. “By Vraccas! Those are elf arrows!”

“If it were one arrow, I’d think it was an accident,” said Ireheart. He studied the elf’s bloodstained back. “But with three I’d say it’s out of the question. Unless they choose to hunt their own kind.”

“Why would elves be killing each other?” Tungdil looked at the face. “Or perhaps we should be asking, why did they want to kill him ?”

“The arrows could be a trick-forgeries,” suggested Goda. “The thirdlings, perhaps?”

“No. They’d have used crossbows to put the blame on us. And they’d have dragged the body somewhere more public. And they wouldn’t have left the poor devil alive,” replied Tungdil. “No. This elf has been shot by his own kind. Either they’ve left him for dead, or he ran away and they lost him.”

Boindil regarded their unusual find. “What shall we do with him? Those wounds are deep. He’s not going to last long.”

Tungdil glanced at the wagons. “We’ll take him with us. If the elves wanted him dead, I want to know the reason.” He couldn’t remember reading about any internal strife in Alandur, but the strange conduct of the elf delegates, their secret message in invisible ink, the stone, those new buildings that had been kept hidden-they could all have some connection to this injured elf.

Perhaps it was a question of a personal vendetta or a high-ranking criminal who’d been challenged and pursued. No one knew how the elf folk managed their own affairs in the forests and groves. Anything was possible.

“Let’s make sure he stays alive and can open his eyes soon.” Tungdil called some of the other soldiers over so they could help carry the elf. They put him in one of the wagons, cushioning him on furs and skins. One of their healers saw to his wounds.

Tungdil gave the troop the order to move on. He wanted to make good use of the rest of the orbit’s sunlight to get as far as possible away from Alandur’s borders. It was not forbidden to transport injured elves in wagons, but it wasn’t the normal thing for a dwarf to be doing. If the worst came to the worst the dwarves might be accused of kidnapping.

So the troop trundled off toward the south with what now was a doubly sensitive cargo.

Whether he wanted to or not, Ireheart had to get back in the saddle again. Otherwise he’d be slowing everyone down. And as Goda did not seem to mind riding, he kept quiet himself. It would not make a good impression for the master to be making a fuss if the pupil was not complaining.

“Who was the dwarf you were talking to?” she enquired.

“No one you need to know about,” Ireheart replied rudely.

Goda raised her eyebrows. “A child of the Smith, riding on a full-size horse-unusual.”

“He’s not unusual. He’s an executioner.” Boindil was unsettled by her curiosity. “He kills criminals for the long-uns. For money.”

“Is his name Bramdal Masterstroke?” she asked excitedly.

Ireheart growled, “Yes. Why?”

“I’ve heard a lot about him. He fought at Blacksaddle and in Porista, they say. He killed ninety orcs all by himself. And a hundred avatars,” she enthused. “I’d love to meet him.”

“Pah, that’s nothing compared to what Tungdil and I have done. Or compared with the number of snout-faced orcs we two’ve split down the middle.” He turned round in the saddle to face her. “Forget about Bramdal. He may be a legend in his time but not in my eyes. Don’t trust him. Now, no more talk of him.”

She stared at him in surprise. “Yes, master.” She looked helplessly over to Tungdil, who shrugged his shoulders to say it was none of his business.

When the sun gave way to the night, Tungdil led his troop to the bank of a swift-flowing river, so that they could not be attacked from all sides at once. He wasn’t happy near water, because it brought back too many disturbing personal memories, but the security of their mission was paramount.

The team were lifting down the injured elf and starting to release the ponies from their traces. That’s when it happened.

The ponies whinnied and one after another reared up, kicking, and pulling away. With nothing to restrain them now, they made off along the river bank as if pursued by invisible spirits.

Tungdil knew why they had suddenly panicked and bolted. He had seen tiny bunches of feathers in the animals’ flanks. Blow-pipe arrows. And arrows did not just happen. Enemies had been following unseen hard on their heels, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

“To arms!” he called. “Undergroundlings!”

Ireheart and Goda hurried over while the other dwarves raced after the runaway wagons. “Why d’you say undergroundlings?” Boindil asked his friend. He looked around but saw nothing. Thirty dwarves were at their side now, axes and shields at the ready, but there was nobody to fight yet. “It might have been Bramdal.”

“No. The ponies were shot at with blow-pipes to make them bolt,” he said. “We didn’t see the attackers. That means they could just as easily have killed the lot of us. But they didn’t.”