Markus Heitz - The Dwarves

"I had to get through the undergrowth somehow." Tungdil reddened, hoping to goodness that no one would ask him to demonstrate his race's legendary axmanship. The truth was, he knew nothing of fighting.

Tungdil had learned everything he knew from Lot-Ionan, who took little interest in weaponry, sword fights, and close combat, leaving his ward without a military education. No one had ever shown him how to wield an ax in anger. The servants chopped wood or killed rats with their axes and that was as far as his handling of the feared dwarven weapon went. His race was supposed to be skilled in axmanship, but if faced with an aggressor, which well he might be, he was resigned to striking out haphazardly and praying that the beast would run away.

"The dwarves are great warriors, or so I've heard," said the veteran trooper. "Runs in the blood, does it? Is it true what they say about a single dwarf putting pay to a pack of ten orcs?"

Tungdil had long suspected that he wasn't a proper dwarf, but now his fears were confirmed. Listening to the men made him realize that his kinsfolk would laugh if they could see him, which put an end to his enthusiasm for meeting others of his race. Even the thought of the fairer sex seemed more alarming than appealing.

"Ten orcs," he said, hoping the trooper was right, "absolutely…" He yawned loudly, stretched, and rose. It was time to escape his own doubts, shake off his nosy questioners, and find a bed. "You'll have to excuse me: I need to get some sleep."

His fellow drinkers, their initial suspicions forgotten, were reluctant to let him go, but at length he was permitted to make his way to the second floor of the timber-frame house where the publican had quartered him for the night. The room was a dormitory, but a large one, and Tungdil had it to himself.

He used the washbowl to bathe his sweaty feet, which had been confined to his boots since the start of the journey. Savoring the luxury of his third beer, he stood by the window and gazed out over the tiled roofs of Goodwater.

The settlement was a good size, numbering a thousand or so dwellings. The villagers seemed to make their living from the surrounding fields and orchards and what wealth they had was now threatened by orcs. Tilogorn's anxiously awaited army would have to hurry if there was going to be anything left to save.

Tungdil dried his weary feet, folded his clothes over a chair, and buried himself in the thick feather duvet.

Silvery light shone on the leather bag destined for Gorйn, sorely testing his resolve.

Don't meddle with things that don't concern you, he told himself sternly.

Even as he fell asleep he thought of Lot-Ionan and Frala, whose talisman was looped through his belt. He missed the sound of her laughter. Tomorrow he would ask the publican for directions to the Blacksaddle and press on without delay.

Muffled sounds roused him from his sleep.

Two men were taking great pains to ready themselves for bed without making any noise. Outside a storm was howling and raging around the settlement.

A whispered exchange followed, during which Tungdil felt certain that he heard Lot-Ionan's name. He peered warily at the newcomers: a thin, well-dressed gentleman and a taller, broader fellow clad in leather mail with metal plating.

A merchant and his bodyguard? Their garments were clearly worth a gold piece or two. He caught sight of a simple yet striking trinket attached to the larger fellow's leather lapel. It was embossed with the seal of the magi.

They're envoys to the magi's council! "Are you headed for Ionandar?" he asked, abandoning all pretense of sleep. Curiosity had triumphed over caution.

The broad man frowned. "What makes you think that?"

"The brooch." He pointed to the man's gown. "You must be envoys."

The pair exchanged looks of surprise. "Who are you?" the bearer of the trinket demanded. Tungdil introduced himself. "What news of Lot-Ionan?" the man said sharply. "Is he well?"

"Perhaps you could tell me a little about yourselves first," the dwarf requested with impeccable politeness. They supplied him with their names and occupations: Friedegard, a first-tier famulus apprenticed to Turgur the Fair-Faced, and Vrabor, a warrior in the service of the magi. "Lot-Ionan is in excellent health," Tungdil informed them. "You'll see for yourselves when you get there." He struggled to contain himself, then gave in. "Pray, what is the…" He reconsidered and began more plainly: "What do you want with the magus?"

"Our business is with Lot-Ionan, not his message boy," Vrabor said dismissively, loosening the buckles on his armor. "Why do you think the council sent an envoy and not a town crier?"

He had barely finished speaking when the storm outside whipped into a frenzy, gusting through chinks in the walls and emitting a strange, unnatural whine, which was followed almost immediately by a high-pitched whistle.

Tensing, the two men reached for their swords.

Not a night to be abroad, thought the dwarf as he watched the moonlit scraps of cloud chase across the gloomy sky.

Just then a slender face appeared at the window. Tungdil looked into the gray-green eyes and felt his mind go numb. The apparition was more bewitching than frightening: Long dark hair swept the beautiful visage, the occasional strand plastered against the rain-drenched skin. So pale, so perfect was the being that it resembled a marble sculpture of an elf, its bedraggled locks like fine fractures in the stone.

The dwarf stared helplessly, transfixed by the creature's gaze. The countenance was attractive-of that there was no question-but it inspired in him an almost physical revulsion. It was too beautiful, almost cruelly so.

"Over there…" His breathless warning was enough to alert the envoys, who looked up and dove for cover.

At that moment there was an explosion of glass as a long black-fletched arrow shattered the window and whined through the air, planting itself in the wall.

"You get rid of them; I'll deal with the window," shouted Vrabor to his companion. Seizing the heavy table, he upturned it and slammed it into the wall, then hurriedly jammed some furniture against the makeshift barricade. There were no other openings for arrows to enter.

Meanwhile Friedegard, eyes closed and head bowed, was chanting silently and tracing strange symbols in the air. In his right hand was a coin-sized crystal set in gold.

"Can someone tell me what's going on?" Tungdil scrambled out of bed and grabbed his ax because it made him feel safer.

The envoys listened in silence. Although the wind had abated, the rain was falling more heavily than before. They strained their ears, but there was no sound of the mysterious bowman. He seemed to have vanished with the tempest.

"Has the elf gone?"

"I can't be sure," said Vrabor. "Perhaps." He sheathed his sword and sat down on the bed, hands resting on the cross guard of his weapon. "They could be biding their time."

"They?"

"Дlfar, two of them. They've been tailing us since Porista."

So it wasn't an elf after all…The дlfar, a race crueler than any other, were sworn enemies of the elves. They hated their cousins for their purity, a purity that the дlfar themselves had been denied. It was hatred and jealousy, according to the history books, that impelled them across the Northern Pass and into Girdlegard. "Is Lot-Ionan in danger?"

"Lot-Ionan will come to no harm," Vrabor assured him wearily. "The дlfar are powerless against the magi and they know it. The arrow was meant for Friedegard and me; they want to know what we're carrying. We knew they were following us as soon as we left the capital of Lios Nudin, but they waited until they could be sure of our destination before they attacked. I'm sorry, groundling," he said, responding to the unspoken question in Tungdil's eyes. "I'm sure you're a loyal messenger and I know we're indebted to your vigilance, but our business is between the council and Lot-Ionan. You'll have to save your questions for your return."