Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

Risava bent down and touched his wound as if by mistake; the rest of his sentence disappeared in a howl of pain.

For Tungdil the hint was enough. He grabbed her arm and twisted it. “You know about the source?”

Risava stared at him stubbornly and remained silent.

“Tell him,” said Dergard. He took a deep breath to relieve the pain in his side. “Perhaps he knows what we can do. The fate of Girdlegard is at stake now, not just our own futures as famuli.”

“So what are you supposed to tell me?” Tungdil increased the pressure on her arm. Her wrist would soon snap. “It’ll be difficult to do magic without your arm.”

She clenched her teeth, tears streaming down her face. “I’ll turn you to ashes with a single spell,” she grunted.

“But you can’t,” he replied, twisting further. There was a grating sound. “Speak now or watch your bones stick out through the skin.”

Risava moaned. “A new magic source,” she stuttered. He let go of her arm. She curled up in pain, her forearm against her chest. “We have found a new source, but it’s in Weyurn. Under the lake. It’s too deep to get to.”

Tungdil felt enormous relief. He felt elated for the first time. There was going to be an answer to the threat from the unslayables. Lot-Ionan, the submerging island and the famuli-together they gave him the answer to the prayers he had sent up to Vraccas.

But he forced himself to conceal his feelings. If they really had Nudin’s archive and had studied his spells they must not be allowed to learn that it might be possible to get down to the lakebed. Not until Lot-Ionan was restored to life and could decide for himself. “We shall see what we can come up with,” he said calmly. “First take me and my friends to where the statue is. Lot-Ionan shall be in my care from now on.”

“What are you going to come up with that hasn’t already occurred to us?” objected Risava. “The water is many hundred paces deep according to the fishermen we’ve asked. No diver can get near. If you could get down you’d never get back up.”

“My race has achieved many things,” he smiled at her. “Now, let’s get some of my friends and we’ll bring the statue to safety.” Tungdil opened the door, one hand still keeping Keenfast at the ready.

Dergard pointed to Lomostin. “What about him?”

Tungdil gave him an encouraging glance. “A medicus will come and see to him. As soon as we have the statue.” He waved the others out, closed the door and blocked it from the outside using a flagstaff that he’d taken off the wall, jamming it under the door handle.

T he performance was going very well.

The great and the good of Girdlegard were sitting in the Curiosum watching the action on stage with refined smiles. The script was from Tassia’s pen. Those who were not so great and good were splitting their sides with laughter. The combination of Tassia’s acting talent and her undoubted physical charms had enthralled the audience.

Rodario, not needed in this first act, was watching the spectators happily, if slightly enviously, through a hole in the scenery. Tassia was his creation but she was getting all the attention these days. She was overtaking him in the theater hierarchy here-in his own troupe and in front of his own audience.

“Look, Furgas,” he whispered. “The men adore her and the women admire her.”

“You’ve conjured your rival up yourself,” the props man retorted quietly, as he checked the strings that controlled the smoke colors and the flames-anything to do with his special stage effects.

He had spent the preceding orbits sorting out any small hiccoughs in the various contraptions. Time had not left his inventions unscathed. But now everything ran like clockwork. The scenery changed by itself, with the sun rising and sinking automatically. Trees moved in the wind and Furgas had even introduced some artificial forest smells to make the illusion complete.

“Have I said how glad I am to have you back with us?” Rodario said seriously.

“Because I’ve repaired everything?” his friend grinned.

Rodario turned to face him. “Not only that,” he smiled back, clapping him on the shoulder.

“I’m very glad to be out of the clutches of the thirdlings. I’m in your debt.” When the cue came on stage, Furgas tugged the yellow string and the lamp above Tassia went dark. The light faded gradually, the sun set, and the night sky was revealed, to murmured appreciation from the audience.

The actor laughed out loud. “You’re working off your debt to me splendidly.”

A door flew open and Tungdil stepped into their narrow space backstage. “Oh, sorry. I thought it was the side entrance.”

“It is. For the actors,” hissed Rodario. “Quiet. You’re much too late for the performance. We haven’t got any more seats but you can watch from the gangway. I will give permission,” he said graciously.

“There’ll soon be a seat free. I need Ireheart.” He pushed Rodario aside and looked through the spyhole to find his friend in the audience.

“What’s happened?” asked Furgas tensely. “Have the monsters arrived?”

“No. Something good’s happened at long last,” he whispered happily. “Three famuli have turned up-they stole Lot-Ionan’s statue and they tell me there’s a way to bring him back to life. One of them’s injured; up in my room. I’m going off with the other two to collect the statue.”

“By Palandiell! Can it be true?” Rodario bent down. “Shall I stop the performance?”

“No, I want to be absolutely sure they’ve got the statue, and I want it in my hands before we tell anyone else.” Tungdil beamed at him. “And they know where the source is.”

“What source?” Furgas pulled the red string now, letting a cloud of fog rise onto the stage. “ The source?”

“The magic source, exactly. The one the monsters get their power from.” He hurried to the corridor that led to the auditorium. “I’ll tell you more later,” he said excitedly. “I’ve got to get on now.” He nodded to them both. “There’s hope. Great hope.” Then he disappeared.

Watching through the spyhole, Rodario saw Tungdil go up to Ireheart and Goda. The three of them left the marquee at once. “What do you say to that?” he smiled. “It’s just one momentous occasion after another. I’ve got more material than I can ever turn into plays.” He stroked his beard. “I’ll start up another Curiosum,” he decided. “Tassia can run it. What do you think?”

“Smart idea, Rodario,” said Furgas. “That’s the way to sideline your rival-promote her.”

Rodario nodded. “Exactly. And she’ll be eternally grateful to me. Lovemaking right, left and center, nights of passion whenever I knock on her door.” He heard his cue and adjusted his costume before he stepped out through the curtain on stage, winking at Furgas. “I’m terribly pleased with myself.”

The scene was an adaptation of the time Nolik had stormed into his caravan. Here on stage the number of attackers had obviously been increased for the sake of the action; the fight for Tassia’s affections and the struggle for the jewelry were even more dramatic. Soon the ruffians lay senseless on the floor or had taken flight.

“And thus love and a sword triumph over adversity.” Rodario addressed the spectators.

Tassia joined him, holding up the necklace. “And the necklace makes up for everything I had to endure.” The thin gold shimmered and glowed; the rock crystal flashed in the lamplight from the stage and sent sparks dancing over the audience-over humans, dwarves and elves. Tassia threw herself into Rodario’s embrace. “What are you going to give me to make up for what I shall have to endure with you?” she asked, fluttering her lashes.