The War of the Dwarves Page 15

  “Get me out of this helmet,” came Rodario’s muffled voice. “I can’t breathe!”

  Furgas, chief theater technician at the Curiosum, examined the broken clasp. “You’ve ruined the mechanism. It won’t be easy.” He got to work on the visor and a few moments later, Rodario’s aristocratic features were revealed. His pointed beard had suffered terribly from his unconventional exit from the stage. In fact, his whiskers were sticking out in all directions as if to express their shock.

  “Thank you,” he said gratefully. He turned to Narmora and looked at her expectantly. “What did you think?”

  “A hero must wear his armor convincingly or the audience will boo him off the stage. You were swaying from side to side.”

  “Don’t you know anything about tactics?” said Rodario sniffily. “A good warrior wrong-foots his opponents.”

  “Narmora has a point; you need more practice,” chimed in Furgas. He was dressed in tight black clothes and his hair was specked with powder. He tried to shake it out. “For my part, I need to work on the effects. Another flash of light like that, and our audience will be blinded. On the whole it was good, though.” He thumped Rodario’s armored back. “Oh, one last thing—why was Andôkai’s costume so skimpy?”

  “Skimpy? The Estimable Maga likes to flaunt her figure. I can’t be blamed for portraying her as she is.”

  “Of course not,” said Narmora sweetly. “But what possessed you to cast her as your mistress?” Her smile became decidedly arch. “I hope you haven’t forgotten she’s sending Djern to watch the play. You remember Djern, don’t you? Three paces tall, bristling with weaponry and strong as ten men… Oh, and he’s fast as an arrow as well.”

  The impresario turned to Furgas. “I don’t like to tell you this,” he said in a wounded tone, “but your wife is a heartless harridan who takes pleasure in other people’s misfortunes.”

  “Only in yours,” Narmora corrected him with a smile. “Anyway, you should be grateful to me. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  He narrowed his eyes and cast her a scornful glance. “My dear Narmora, I’m using my artistic freedom. Even the Estimable Maga must submit to the playwright’s pen.” He turned again to Furgas. “Since your wife has no compassion, perhaps you, as a caring father-to-be, will have the goodness to free me from this metal dungeon…” He stuck his arms out tentatively and managed to lift them as far as his waist. “How can anyone fight in this get-up?”

  “Most warriors manage to stay upright,” said Furgas dryly. “Wait here while I fetch my tools. You’ve twisted everything out of shape.”

  Narmora went with him to the cramped workshop where he designed and tested all kinds of incredible theatrical effects. Furgas could build props, make fireworks, cause flames to appear from nowhere, and create illusions worthy of a magus, for which he was rewarded by the audience’s gasps and cheers.

  He gathered up a hammer, a pair of dainty pliers, a chisel, and a crowbar, while Narmora examined his latest drawings.

  “A crane on wheels,” she said admiringly.

  “It saves the effort of taking it to pieces and moving it by cart. We can roll it wherever it’s needed.” He beamed. “We’re making good progress. It won’t be long before Porista rises from the rubble, a hundred times more splendid than before.”

  Narmora kissed him impulsively. “Our child will grow up in a city built by its father,” she said proudly. “Think what you’ve achieved here!”

  “I’m glad you persuaded me to work for the maga.” He put his arms around her tenderly, taking care not to squash her belly. “If it weren’t for you, I might have turned down the chance to rebuild Porista. I had another offer from Girdlegard’s leading actor. He wanted to reopen the Curiosum in Mifurdania, you know.”

  “Girdlegard’s leading actor—do I know him?” quipped Narmora, ruffling Furgas’s spiky black hair. “I’m proud of what you’re doing. You’re too talented for the theater.”

  “I heard that!” came an indignant shout from the stage. “I heard everything! Stop delaying him, you poison-tongued witch! You’ll be sorry if I expire!”

  Furgas laughed and stroked Narmora’s face. “The theater has its attractions—but the maga pays better.” He pressed his lips to hers. “Why don’t you go ahead? The hero of Girdlegard needs a hand with his armor.”

  Narmora unwrapped her arms from his neck, walked to the back door and opened the latch. Turning, she watched as he hurried out with his tools to rescue his friend.

  Even as she stood there, she knew that Furgas meant more to her than anything in the world. Andôkai could offer her all the money and power in Girdlegard, but it wouldn’t match their love. Maybe the maga is right, and the gift of magic lies within me, but I’m happy to let it slumber.

  Her gaze fell on a sheet of foolscap half-hidden by a pile of drawings. She pulled it out and gasped. It was a design for the most beautiful cradle she had ever set eyes on. How sweet of him to hide it from me. She slipped out quietly and closed the door.

  Inside, Furgas was attending to the trapped impresario. He worked a chisel between the buckled plates and pried apart the armor. “I don’t believe there’s a warrior in Girdlegard who could damage his armor as thoroughly as you.”

  Rodario nodded modestly. “Excellence comes naturally.”

  Screeching in protest, the plates returned to their original position. Furgas took up the pliers to straighten the hasps. “I’m glad you moved the Curiosum to Porista.”

  “What choice did I have? I needed my brilliant Furgas to dazzle the audience with his fireworks. The Curiosum depends on your jaw-dropping, purse-opening tricks.” Realizing that he had furnished his friend with grounds for a pay rise, the impresario bit his lip. “It’s a shame the people of Porista aren’t especially wealthy,” he added hastily. “A few lucky souls are on the maga’s payroll, but the rest of us make do with what we’ve got.”

  Furgas smiled to himself. “I’m sure you won’t live in penury for long. You own the best theater in the bright new city of Porista at the heart of Girdlegard’s only enchanted realm—and the playhouse was a gift from Andôkai, don’t forget.” The pliers battled with a steel fastening, forcing it into shape. Furgas finished the job with his fingers by unhooking the breastplate deftly. “There you go.”

  “Excellent work, my dear Furgas.” The impresario pulled off his helmet, shook his hands free of his gauntlets and smoothed his tousled beard. “It was getting hot in there. Why would anyone want to be a warrior? Thank the gods that acting is a talent that appeals to women as well as lovers of the arts.”

  “It didn’t work on Andôkai,” commented Furgas, gathering his tools and setting off for his workshop.

  Rodario picked up his armor and hurried after him. “O cruel Furgas,” he wailed. “You break my heart with the mention of her name.” He flung out his right arm dramatically. “Look, there it lies, broken into a thousand pieces. How will I find the strength to make it whole again? Have you no pity?”

  “You seem to have forgotten we’re not rehearsing anymore,” said the prop master, returning the hammer, chisel, and pliers to their proper places. “Leave the armor on the workbench. I’ll take a look at it tomorrow.”

  The heartbroken Rodario forgot his sorrows and deposited the armor happily on the bench. “My dear friend, an actor must exercise his talents. My words must flow freely and effortlessly like water in a stream.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to divert your waterway to the tavern; I’m sure the gentlewomen of Porista and their daughters will find it most refreshing.” Furgas extinguished all the lamps but one, locked the back door, and propelled his friend through the theater. “Be careful about flowing too freely. We don’t want hordes of husbands, fiancés, fathers, and brothers banging on our door. Remember what happened in Sovereignston?”

  Rodario silenced him with an imperious wave. “I don’t water every blossom,” he said dismissively. He turned on his heels, picked up his cloak and tossed it over his shoulder the
atrically. “But if they incline their petals prettily toward me… I’m too well mannered to refuse.”

  The Curiosum was four hundred or so paces from the palace and even closer to the market. They left through the front entrance. Furgas padlocked the door and held out his hand. “Good night, you old charmer. Sooner or later your little Rodario will end up on the end of a pitchfork or dangling from a flagpole.”

  “Even then its prodigious size will put other men to shame.” Rodario winked at him roguishly. “I appreciate your concern.” He pointed to the brightly lit windows of a tavern. “How about a beverage? I’d be flattered if the architect of the new Porista would buy me a glass of wine.” His proposal was rejected. “In that case, I’ll meander among the flowerbeds of Porista.” He raised his left hand and placed his right on his heart. “Don’t worry; I’ll stick to the path.”

  Furgas smiled and started on his usual route home. He and Narmora had found an abandoned house near the marketplace, within easy reach of the many building sites under his jurisdiction. The physical labor was accomplished by those who were builders by trade; his job was to make their work as easy and efficient as he could. Andôkai the Tempestuous wasn’t known for her patience, and she was depending on Furgas to rebuild the city overnight.

  For his part, he suspected that her interest in restoring Porista had little to do with the good of its citizens. More buildings meant more people, and more people meant a greater chance of finding suitable candidates to train in the art of magic, which would spare the maga a troublesome journey in search of apprentices.

  Just then a shadowy figure leaped out of the rubble and barred his path. A dagger glinted in the darkness. “Your money or your life!”

  Northern Pass,

  Fifthling Kingdom,

  Girdlegard,

  Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

  Tungdil set off in pursuit of the orc, followed by Boïndil and the trio of warriors. They were halfway down the stairs when they found themselves knee-deep in fog. Thick clammy air swirled around their legs like fast-flowing water. Tungdil hesitated for a moment, reluctant to venture any further. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself sternly.

  Everything inside him rebelled at the notion of walking through the fog, but he knew the others were looking to him for leadership. Swallowing his misgivings, he waded into the murky air. There was something about it that reminded him of the mist-like demon that had taken control of Nôd’onn’s mind. It’s only fog, he reassured himself.

  They left the tower and turned left, hurrying toward the border. The visibility worsened with every step.

  Glancing back at the others, Tungdil could tell that they shared his unease. The cold air stuck in their throats, making it difficult to breathe, and small droplets of water settled on their beards, hair, and mail. Soon their vague sense of trepidation hardened into dread.

  “This is worse than a laundry,” grumbled Boïndil, breaking the silence. “Where’s the blasted orc? Anyone would think the fog was protecting him.”

  Just then they heard a familiar jangling.

  “Did you hear that?” said Boïndil, raising his axes. “We’ve got him.”

  The orc was nowhere to be seen.

  They pressed on, but the wearer of the armor stayed ahead of them, jangling in the distance, hidden from view.

  Apart from clouding their sight, the fog dulled their hearing and warped their sense of time. Tungdil couldn’t say for certain how long they had been walking, and his inner compass, which worked perfectly in passageways, tunnels, and caverns, proved useless in the fog. From what he could see, it was definitely getting darker—much darker.

  “Stop,” he commanded. He heard four sets of boots behind him skidding to a halt. It was too dark to see his companions. “Can anyone hear the orc?”

  No answer.

  The hairs on Tungdil’s neck stood on end. He raised his ax warily. “Boïndil?”

  Suddenly the sound of armor was much closer. Clunk, clunk. A shadow loomed out of the mist; its contours looked orcish.

  The beast lunged at Tungdil with a two-handed sword.

  “At least someone can hear me,” muttered Tungdil, dodging the blow. He brought his ax down smartly as the beast stumbled past. The blade connected, and the orc howled in pain; then the fog closed over him, concealing him from view. This isn’t going to be fun.

  Not wanting to give himself away, Tungdil kept quiet and refrained from calling to his friends. His priority was to find his bearings before the orc attacked again. He stepped carefully backward, expecting to come up against a wall of rock, but there was nothing behind him: He had wandered off the track.

  Clunk, clunk.

  This time the jangling came from the left. Alerted by the noise, Tungdil whirled round, dropped into a half crouch and launched himself at the orc. The blade cut into his enemy’s leg, severing it at the knee. Shrieking, the orc dropped his sword and pitched forward.

  “You might live forever, but you’ll never grow another leg,” said Tungdil, taking aim at his head.

  Even as the ax chopped down, the orc rolled over and the blade hit the ground. With a scornful grunt, he crawled toward his sword.

  Tungdil knew he had to act quickly before noise of the scuffle drew other beasts to the scene.

  The orc’s right hand was already closing around the hilt of his two-hander when Tungdil’s ax sped toward him, cutting effortlessly through helmet and skull, and embedding itself at the base of the neck.

  The orc slumped to the ground. Tungdil set his right boot on the stricken beast’s breastplate and levered his weapon from the corpse. There was no guarantee that cleaving a skull vertically was enough to kill a revenant, so he positioned himself over the twitching body and severed the creature’s head from its shoulders.

  Stopping to catch his breath, he leaned on his ax and listened to the silence. After a few moments he was forced to the conclusion that, contrary to his hopes, Boïndil and the others weren’t somewhere in the vicinity, hidden by the fog. The orc’s shrieking would have drawn Boïndil to him as surely as sparkling diamonds attract a kobold. What a sinister place.

  He set off and kept walking until he came to a wall. The gray rock was hard and brittle with ridges sharp enough to injure a careless dwarf. The wall hadn’t been worked or polished, which confirmed his suspicion that he had left the dwarven track.

  The mist had led him astray.

  Judging by the unremitting darkness, he had wandered into a cave of gigantic proportions. Every nerve in his body was as taut as a bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest noise. The swirling mist played tricks on his mind, conjuring orcs and other phantoms in the shadows.

  He tried to remember what he knew of the Outer Lands. His old tutor, Lot-Ionan, had shown little interest in discovering what lay beyond Girdlegard’s borders, and the same applied to the dwarves, who stuck to their side of the mountains.

  Apart from a few anecdotes told by merchants and migrants, the only descriptions of the Outer Lands were hundreds of cycles old, dating back to expeditions sent out by human kings. Most of the explorers had never returned, and in human folklore, the territory outside Girdlegard’s belt of mountains belonged to the souls of the dead. Tungdil, lost in the shifting fog, shuddered at the thought. If his soul had to go anywhere, he would rather it went to Vraccas’s smithy.

  More determined than ever to get out of the cavern, he decided to follow the wall. Placing one hand lightly against the stone and gripping the ax with the other, he set off as quietly as possible. Deep down, he was terrified about what had become of Boïndil and the others.

  After a time, his fingertips brushed against a strange set of grooves. He stopped to examine the wall. A rune! The symbol was unfamiliar to the dwarf, but there was no mistaking the craftsmanship. Elves and dwarves were known for the elegance of their script, but for all the symbol’s ornateness, it didn’t look elvish. It could almost be dwarven, thought Tungdil, recalling the ancient stories of the undergroundlings, who w
ere reputed to inhabit the Outer Lands. What if they’re dwarves like us?

  He strained his ears. Clunk, clunk.

  Tungdil whirled around in surprise. I cleaved his neck. Surely he can’t have survived? His confusion gave way to fear. “Boïndil, is that you?” he whispered hopefully.

  Clunk, clunk.

  The noise was definitely getting closer. Backing away, Tungdil pressed himself against the wall, peered in both directions and filled his nostrils with cold, damp air. The only discernible odor was the smell of wet stone.

  Clunk. The noise was no more than two arm-lengths away from him. He heard gravel cracking beneath a booted foot.

  It seemed to Tungdil that he was surrounded by orcs. He saw them towering over him, he smelled their filthy odor, and his heart beat furiously in his chest. Turning his head this way and that, he waited for the attack that would surely come.

  A squat shadow appeared before him.

  “Take that, you villain!” shouted Tungdil, sprinting to the right and raising his ax. The blade connected with a steely clatter. He pulled back to take another strike, but his weapon was stuck.

  “Careful, scholar,” snorted a voice from the fog. “You could kill a dwarf with a blow like that.”

  As Tungdil’s panicked eyes refocused, he realized that Boïndil was the target of his attack. The secondling had crossed his axes defensively, trapping Tungdil’s weapon in a triangle of steel.

  “Vraccas almighty, I thought you were an orc.” It was a relief to be reunited with at least one of his companions. “Where are the others?”

  “No idea. I thought they were with you.”

  “Did you hear me killing the orc?”

  “You killed an orc without me?”

  “I chopped his head off and then—”

  Clunk.

  Tungdil gave his friend an almighty shove, and Boïndil toppled backward into the fog. A split-second later, an orc charged out of the darkness, his sword whistling toward the spot where the two friends had been standing. Neither was hurt.