Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“We’ll see. My crow’s beak always finds a crevice to latch onto.” Ireheart was offended. “Come on, Goda. We’ll go and practice outside.” She rolled her eyes and followed him.

But once the others had left the room Tungdil was not able to regain his train of thought. Instead he mulled over Boindil’s words.

His friend was right. He was indeed fascinated by the undergroundlings. He knew hardly anything about them apart from their appearance being different from his own. He didn’t know how they lived in the Outer Lands, nor what the values and philosophy of their community might be.

He stood up and went over to the window to look down onto Porista. Its roofs, smoking chimneys, laundry fluttering on washing-lines all gave an impression of settled permanence. People had found the place they wanted to remain, they had started their families there.

This all ran contrary to his own feelings. He did not feel at home either with the dwarf folk or with the exiles, or with the humans. Even Balyndis could no longer give him that feeling of belonging; he was a loner, a fighting scholar.

Or perhaps, deep down, he did not really want that safety, that sense of belonging?

“Am I destined to be an eternal wanderer? Should I maybe go back to the Outer Lands with the undergroundlings? To help them restore the diamond to its rightful place?” He spoke quietly. “Will I find happiness, Vraccas?”

He looked at the jug of beer. The alcohol was calling to him, its smell reminding him of nights he had spent under its influence. When drunk he had ceased to quibble and worry.

Tungdil tried to resist the temptation but still he moved over toward the table. Just as he stretched out his hand to the handle of the jug there came a knock.

He dropped his hand at once and went over to open the door.

In the doorway there stood an undergroundling. A woman.

He had noticed her on the journey. Her skin was as dark brown as a nomad’s and she had kept near him on the march. She wore a beige tunic embroidered with thorny branches, fastened at the front with lacing, but showing part of her breasts. Now he could see her for the first time without the rather intimidating helmet. He stared at her shaven head. He had not been prepared for that. A woman without her crowning glory!

“May I come in?” she asked him with a smile. Her speech had the attractive lilt of a foreigner’s.

“Of course,” he said quickly, stepping aside to let her in. She was a hand’s breadth taller than he was. “What message does Sundalon send?”

She strolled around the room, stopping to examine the sketches in his little notebook. Her clear blue gaze alighted on the helmet he had drawn. “You’ve drawn mine!”

“Yes. Should I not have done that?”

“It doesn’t worry me.” She held out her hand and he noticed a wide scar on it. “I am Sirka.”

He shook hands with her. “Pleased to meet you. My name you already know, I think.” He waited in vain for her to tell him Sundalon’s message.

“It would be strange if I didn’t,” she replied with another smile.

He cleared his throat. “Forgive me if I was staring just now. The dwarf-women of Girdlegard have a different skin color and they don’t shave their heads. They wear their hair long.” He was feeling awkward.

“I don’t suppose we have very much in common,” said Sirka. “Sundalon tells me you’re a scholar.” She took up the little notebook and turned the pages. “You are interested in everything that’s new?”

“I am.” Tungdil was caught unawares by the dwarf-woman’s behavior-she suddenly stepped toward him, tossing the notebook onto the table.

She put her hands to his face, and pressed a kiss onto his lips. He did not try to push her away. “I like you very much, Tungdil,” she confessed, running her fingers over his chest. “I would love to show you something new, if you’d let me do that?” There was no doubt what the offer entailed.

“You undergroundlings indeed have little in common with our dwarf-girls,” Tungdil stated, with the touch of her lips still felt on his own. He had enjoyed the kiss. A great deal.

So much that this time it was Tungdil who kissed her. His placed his hands on Sirka’s slim hips and pulled her to him. He could smell the intense perfume on her neck, could feel the warmth of her body through the thin tunic. His hands wandered up to the laces of her gown… Then his conscience flared up.

“No,” he said hoarsely and quickly stepped away. “I belong to another.”

But Sirka followed him and embraced him. “What does that mean, ‘ belong ’?”

He avoided her and put a chair between the two of them. “Sirka, you flatter me,” he said, trying hard to control his feelings and not give in to her urging. “But I am tied to Balyndis and as long as that is so I cannot allow myself to indulge in an adventure like this.”

She laughed. “Oh, I understand. You people go in for lasting relationships.”

“Don’t you?”

“No, we love for as long as we like. When feelings change, we part. Perhaps for a while, perhaps for ever. It makes life easier, Tungdil. Life is short enough.” Sirka gazed at him. “You’re looking for something new? How would this be: Accompany us to Letefora. On the way I’ll tell you everything you need to know about our people.”

“Letefora is…?”

“A town. One of many in my homeland. And very different from towns in Girdlegard.”

“Yes,” he said, without a moment’s hesitation. “That would be delightful,” he added more thoughtfully.

She laughed and gave him another kiss, running her fingers through his hair and stroking his beard. “That would be delightful,” she repeated as she went to the door. “We shall be seeing a lot of each other, Tungdil. I shall teach you well. The lesson you missed today we can take up again at leisure.” She opened the door and left the room.

Tungdil sat down. He was aflame, with her scent still in his nostrils and the taste of her mouth in his own. Sirka had captured him with her open unaffected manner. It was not only her physical charms he was thinking of. He was looking forward to the lessons she had promised him.

But first he would send a letter to Glaimbar and talk to Balyndis. Or, better still, he would write her a long letter.

He took a sheet of paper and wrote a few lines to Glaimbar first, sealing the note and laying it on the table in front of him.

Then he started the letter to his consort Balyndis, ending his relationship with her. Not an easy task, even for a scholar like himself.

The words would not flow smoothly from the pen. He was struggling. He wrote that he would never be able to make her happy. Not in the long term. Not how she would wish it. And the long term, for his people, was a very long time. He did not want to do this to her.

Meeting the undergroundling woman was only a prompt for this parting. He had long been aware in himself that things were not as they should be, but he had always sought the reason elsewhere. He had never been more certain than now that Balyndis deserved better than this.

In his choice of phrasing he was scrupulous to take the blame on himself and not to give her the impression that she bore any responsibility for the failure of their partnership. His lines would affect her harshly, all the same.

This letter, too, he sealed and laid on top of the note to Glaimbar.

There was no going back. The meeting with Sirka brought home to him what was missing in his life: passion. Something new. Scholarship and the spirit of enquiry were his curse. He did not want safety and shelter.

“Vraccas, what malleable stone did you take when you formed me?” he sighed. He had absolutely no desire to attend the theater performance.