The Dwarves (60 page)

Waiting at the other end of the alleyway was the älf from Mifurdania who had tried to slit his throat. His cloak was fluttering
in the stinking wind. He nocked a second arrow to his imposing bow and drew back his hand to release it.

At precisely that moment, Tungdil was bowled over by something that charged toward him from the side. All he saw was a flash
of violet light and a mask of gleaming silver before he was hit with such force that he soared through the air and landed
in the next passageway, skidding four paces and cutting a channel through the mud.

What on…
Head spinning, he rolled onto his back and held his ax at the ready, bracing himself for the älf to find him and kill him.
Nothing happened. Groaning, he stumbled to his feet. Every link in his mail shirt was oozing thick black mud. He looked dirtier
than a pig that had been rolling in the muck.

He peered around the corner warily. His cake was lying where he had dropped it, but the alley was deserted and his footprints
had been washed away by the driving rain. The only evidence of the disturbance was a black arrow and a strange yellow fluid
that formed a garish trail through the puddles and the mud.

Tungdil’s earlobe was throbbing.
Why didn’t the älf
kill me? Did someone stop him?
His body felt as if he’d collided with a wall. He tried to recall what had happened.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Djerůn had…

He gave up on the idea and bade a mournful farewell to the cake, then hurried through the streets, keeping an eye out for
any älfar who might be on his tail. On reaching the tavern, he raced upstairs and burst into their chamber to find Boëndal
on the point of going out.

“Hello, scholar. Is everything all right?”

“Not exactly,” said Tungdil, telling him quickly of the älf’s ambush and his miraculous escape.

“The sooner we leave Sovereignston the better.” Boëndal frowned in concern. “What possessed you to go wandering through the
city on your own? An ax and a bit of learning aren’t enough to protect you in a place like this.” He thought for a moment.
“If you ask me, it’s not just the sigurdaisy wood they’re after. Nôd’onn wants us dead because we know his secret.” He woke
Bavragor and Goïmgar to tell them what had happened, then went to join his brother in the stables. There would be no more
sleep for any of them that night.

What if it was Djerůn after all?
Tungdil dismissed the idea. The armored giant and the maga were miles away in the Outer Lands.

A
t first light, the three players were waiting at the gates as agreed. Narmora was wearing a leather cape and the red head
scarf that she never seemed to be without; and Furgas had put on a long coat to keep himself as dry as possible while the
downpour showed no sign of letting up. The impresario seemed to have dressed in a hurry and was scanning the crowds nervously.

The dwarves rolled up with their ponies and provisions.

“What’s wrong?” Boïndil asked Rodario. “Are the älfar about?”

“It’s not älfar he’s worried about,” replied Furgas. His tone implied that he had witnessed the scene before. “After last
night’s performance, he put on a private showing for the innkeeper’s daughter and his wife.”

“Shush! Do you want me hounded out of town?” hissed Rodario, glancing back and forth on the lookout for angry faces. “They
told me they were separated!”

“There’s always an excuse,” Narmora said cynically. “It’s a pity their cuckolded husbands won’t believe you.”

Boïndil whinnied with laughter. “The innkeeper’s wife
and
his daughter?”

“ Thirty-four cycles the one, and sixteen the other: spring and summer in one bed, with me, the king of seasons,” he bragged.

Narmora was unimpressed. “I’d say you’re more of a wanton farmer who can’t help plowing foreign fields. For the most part,
they accept your attentions because they’re neglected by their own farmers — or because they pity a man with such a miniscule
plowshare.”

Rodario stopped searching the crowd and focused on sparring with Narmora. “My dear lady, I understand your fascination with
my mighty apparatus, but I’m most discerning about my choice of fields. Stony meadows give you bruises; they may appeal to
some laborers, but not to me.” He flashed a smile at Furgas, then remembered what Boïndil had asked him. “Älfar, did you say?”
he inquired with sudden seriousness. “Right here in Sovereignston? Why didn’t you —”

“That’s him!” the shout went up. “That’s the scoundrel!” Rodario spotted the approaching pitchfork and fled. In no time he
was through the gates and wending his way nimbly among the queuing carts. A moment later four men rushed past in hot pursuit.

Bavragor and Boïndil fell about laughing, Boëndal shook his head silently, and Goïmgar clung to his shield, ready to take
shelter in case the long-uns gave up on the adulterer and took their anger out on him.

But the cuckolded husbands and their friends were intent on apprehending Rodario, who had successfully evaded them, leaving
his pursuers searching furiously in the rain.

The rest of the company left Sovereignston in a more dignified fashion.

“Älfar?” said Narmora, returning to the initial question. “Where?”

“Yesterday in the city. I was attacked by one. You didn’t see any, then?” Tungdil couldn’t help feeling a mild aversion toward
the actress, perhaps because of her elven looks.
She’s an ordinary woman,
he told himself.
That’s all.

She shook her head. “They left us alone. At least we’re forewarned.” She laid her right hand on Crescent.

About a mile from Sovereignston they were reunited with the philandering impresario, who was waiting under a fir tree and
trying to shelter from the rain.

Bavragor couldn’t help laughing. “I hope they were worth it!”

“Indeed they were.” A look of delectation came over Rodario’s face. “I suspect I wasn’t the first to enjoy their combined
attentions, but they certainly knew how to please.” Realizing that the ponies were getting away from him, he sped up to a
jog. “That’s all in the past now. Come, my loyal companions, let’s make haste to the firstling kingdom where unparalleled
wonders await us!” His stirring words were somewhat spoiled by the squelching beneath his feet, but he still cut a dash as
an adventurer.

Tungdil’s memories of Sovereignston weren’t nearly as fond. He picked up the pace, unmoved by the city’s fluttering pennants
and colorful panorama of tiled roofs. Nothing could induce him to look back. Hurrying away from the pride of Weyurn, he tried
not to think of the älf’s murderous eyes.

I hope my mysterious rescuer killed him
.

Kingdom of Weyurn,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

A
s soon as the opportunity arose, the travelers purchased a small cart for their baggage and a pair of horses — one for Rodario
and the other for Narmora and Furgas. From then on, the journey westward proceeded considerably faster, not to mention more
comfortably.

Rodario, fearing the wrath of the cuckolded husbands, was especially keen to make progress — although it didn’t deter him
from using his charm and eloquence to make a string of conquests on the way.

A fierce northerly brought with it the season’s first snowstorm, the white flakes settling on the frozen ground to form a
thick icy layer. Winter seemed to descend on the land and its inhabitants faster and more vigorously than usual. Sleeping
in the open was too dangerous, so the company camped out in places where they would be sheltered from the elements, under
trees or rocky overhangs, or in derelict houses or ruined forts.

The vast lakes that made up three-quarters of Weyurn’s surface were covered in ice. The sun and clouds played on the frozen
water, creating glorious displays of shadow and light, but the glittering spectacle could do nothing to win over the twins,
who were too afraid of the icy depths to go fishing with Rodario and Furgas.

“Ice is just as dangerous as water,” Boïndil told them. He set about making a fire in the ruined temple where they were camping
for the night. “It looks so pretty that you forget to be careful, and then whoa, you find yourself sinking to the bottom,
never to be seen again.”

“It’s like marriage,” observed Rodario. “Women tempt you into their arms and before you know it, you’re trapped for life.
I’m more of the type for —”

“Bedding other people’s wives. Not to mention being beaten by angry husbands and dying of the clap,” Narmora finished for
him.

“Still jealous, I see,” he riposted, flashing her a dazzling smile as he hurried after Furgas, who was heading for a nearby
stream.

Boïndil chuckled. “My old billy goat was a bit like Rodario. He mounted anything that stayed still for two seconds.”

“What became of him?”

“The old lecher jumped on a nanny goat and didn’t notice that she was grazing near a cliff. He plummeted to his death.” He
ran a razor over his cheeks to get rid of the stubble that was drawing attention away from his magnificent beard.

“In other words, Rodario will get his comeuppance by falling out of bed and breaking his neck,” said Tungdil, grinning.

“Who said anything about a bed? It might be the window!” Boëndal pointed out.

His brother hooted with laughter. “What a sight!” He scrambled along a fallen column that was propped up amid the ruins and
came to a halt at the top end where he could see for miles around. He took a seat and lit his pipe. Boëndal tossed him his
share of the food. “It would serve the old prattler right,” chuckled Boïndil, turning his attention hungrily to the cheese.

Goïmgar, wrapped in two blankets with his shield laid across him like a third, had said nothing for some time. Eyes closed,
he seemed to be asleep.

The temple’s moss-covered walls were alive with flickering shadows. Over the cycles, the frescoes had faded and there were
holes in the crumbling plaster. Not that the dwarves would have recognized the painted deities anyway: To their minds, there
was only one god and that was Vraccas. The rest weren’t worth the time of day.

The warmth from the blazing fire spread rapidly, casting a soft light throughout the temple and making the timeworn sculptures
seem strangely alive.

Tungdil found himself thinking of the performance in the Curiosum. He still couldn’t decide how much of what he had seen had
been acted by the players and how much had unfolded in his mind.
It all seemed so real.

Muttering to himself, Bavragor returned from his tour of the ruins. “Not bad,” was his verdict on the masonry, “but not worthy
of us dwarves.”

Tungdil offered him some bread and ham. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

Bavragor accepted the food. “Sounds ominous.”

“It’s been playing on my mind. You know the business with your sister…”

“Smeralda.” Bavragor placed the sandwich on a stone to warm the bread and bring out the flavor of the meat. He took a long
slug of brandy before continuing and said bitterly, “I can’t forgive him for what he did.”

Tungdil didn’t press him. He had a feeling that Bavragor was ready to open up to him, and after a while the mason cleared
his throat.

“She was a slip of a thing, a lass of forty cycles, but as soon as he clapped eyes on her, he wanted her for himself. She
was as much of a warrior as he was, and she trained like a demon because she wanted to be able to fight by his side.” He clenched
his fists as the memories flooded back. “The rest of us were worried about his fiery spirit, and we begged her to stay away.
Smeralda wouldn’t listen, and everything went on as before. The two of them were fighting a band of orcs when he…” He broke
off, covering his good eye with one hand and raising his pouch to his mouth with the other. “He killed her, Tungdil. He was
so far gone in bloodlust that he took her for an orc.”

Tungdil pushed back the lump in his throat and blinked.

“An orc! Afterward they said it was a tragedy and a terrible accident and he swears he can’t remember a thing, but I couldn’t
care less: My sister died because of him. I don’t know if you could forgive him, but I don’t intend to.”

Tungdil knew there was nothing he could say. The story was unspeakably sad. He laid a hand on Bavragor’s arm. “I’m sorry I
put you through it again,” he said simply.

Listening to the mason had brought back the pain of losing Lot-Ionan and Frala, who had been like a sister to him.
I can almost understand how he feels.

“So now you know,” sighed Bavragor, taking a deep breath and flushing away the memories with a long draft of brandy. His ham
sandwich lay untouched and forgotten by the fire.

Tungdil looked up and glanced at Boïndil, who was guarding the camp from his lookout on the fallen pillar and puffing on his
pipe. Blue smoke rings wafted into the darkness, rising through the falling flakes, and Tungdil thought for a moment that
he could hear the hiss of hot tobacco on snow.

“The fieriness of his inner furnace is a curse,” Boëndal said sadly. “He still can’t remember what happened on the bridge.
All he knows is that Smeralda was lying dead at his feet and he thought the orcs had killed her. When Bavragor and the others
told him that she’d died by his axes…”

“Weren’t you with him?”

“I wish I had been. I keep telling myself that if I hadn’t been injured, I might have stopped him before it was too late.”
He scratched at a rusty patch on his chain mail and oiled the corroded links. “He calls out to her in his sleep sometimes.
Trust me, scholar, he suffers just as much as Bavragor, but he’d never admit it.”

Boëndal filled his pipe and they took turns smoking, each pursuing his thoughts. Tungdil looked out of the crumbling window
and saw that the snow was falling faster than before.

A pair of snowmen appeared in the doorway: Furgas and Rodario were back from fishing. The prop master had caught two fully
grown carp, but the impresario was clutching a single, insubstantial tench.