The Revenge of the Dwarves (79 page)

“Now that they are committed to each other they are never apart,” grinned Sirka. “Dwarves, rain, a warm bed—you can work it out, can’t you? No better excuse than the weather for staying in. The master and his apprentice will be in training, I presume.”

“Good, so no one will notice that I’ve been in the forge all this time.”

Sirka watched the flames. “I shan’t ever really understand the fascination with forging like this.” She wiped her hand across her brow to remove the sweat now blended with raindrops. “I wonder what you’ll think of the way we make our metal goods.”

Tungdil put the unfinished weapon back in the fire and laid his hammer down on the anvil before taking the dwarf-woman in his arms. She was wearing only a thin leather garment and her bodice lacing allowed him a good view of her brown skin. He stroked her shorn head tenderly and kissed her slowly as desire flamed up within him.

He threw the hammer at the door to close it. The catch slipped down into place. She grinned and opened the fastenings of his leather apron.

They made love for a long time on a blanket spread on the floor next to the furnace. Tungdil could never get enough of Sirka. He loved to stroke her dark skin and to
feel the heat of her inner fire in the course of their love-play increasing until the sweat poured off her. The undergroundling woman had once spoken of belonging to a passionate folk. This did not merely apply to fighting.

Afterwards they rested by the fire, watching the flickering tongues of flame.

“It will be hard for you to leave your kinsfolk, Tungdil.”

“I have no kinsfolk,” he countered. “I have been thinking a lot and have arrived at the conclusion that my heart only belongs to one other.” He kissed her throat. “That’s you. Otherwise, I’m like…” He had nearly betrayed his secret and spoken the name of the young älf. “… otherwise there’s no one. Do I go to the dwarves who are fighting under Ginsgar Unforce, making old enemies into new ones? Or do I go the humans? I wouldn’t feel at home with the elves, either.”

“I’ll give you a new home for as long as you want. It’ll be up to you. You can always go away again, Tungdil. I know how you are—restless. You did warn me.” Sirka smiled and slipped her clothes on. Tungdil admired her sinewy body; it was tough and flexible enough for combat or for this kind of gymnastics. “And I in my turn warned you. There’s no
forever
for us. No
eternally yours
. Not usually, anyway.”

“Your eternity, Sirka, would only be one or two cycles for me,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m likely to live up to ten times longer than you.”

She threaded the laces back through the leather, fastening her bodice tight and depriving him of the last glimpse of her naked flesh. “That’s weird. If we have children you could outlive nine generations!”

When he heard the word children he gave a start. Then he remembered that undergroundlings brought up their offspring quite differently from the traditions of his own kind. He relaxed again. If he were tempted to roam again he would not have to worry about the care of his own children. He was rather taken by the thought of leaving descendants in the land of the undergroundlings: a line of offspring that would live longer than all their neighbors.

He got to his feet and started to dress. “Yes, it’s a weird thought,” he said, echoing her words. He kissed her again on the nape of her neck. “I can’t tell you how I’m looking forward to all the new things.”

“Yes, as soon as we have restored the artifact,” she agreed, opening the door to let dull light into the workshop. It was still raining. “Afterwards it will all be very exciting,” she promised enticingly. “Not just because of me.” Then she hurried out and ran through the cloudburst to her quarters.

Tungdil’s mood had improved and his fury had gone. “Oh, shit!” He had forgotten to take the metal out of the fire. If it had gone molten he would have wasted all his efforts.

Swiftly he pulled it out with tongs, drawing it carefully from its burial place in the red-hot coals. Sparks whizzed and flew through the air until they cooled and fell to the ground as ash.

The metal was now as soft as sun-warmed wax. It shone golden yellow like honey and there were long threads that cooled in the air and turned gray.

“So, that’s what you want to look like?” he said to his
new weapon, dousing it in a tub of water. The liquid bubbled and boiled and quickly reduced to half its volume while the metal cooled. Tungdil had never seen such an effect.

He took the weapon out and turned it from side to side in wonder: it was black as the night and longer than the arm of a full-grown man. It was thicker on one side and had long drawn-out needle-thin points so that it looked like fish bones or a comb. On the other side it slimmed down like a blade and its center of gravity lay high up on the haft, which gave each swipe added momentum without detracting from its ease of wielding.

“Right, so let’s give you your final form, shall we?” Tungdil pushed it into the furnace, heating it through once more. He worked to finesse the weapon until evening, giving it a rounded handle that he could clasp in both hands. It seemed to him that the metal had surrendered its resistance to him now.

Night had long fallen and still he sat at work, sharpening the blade with a small grindstone. Bright sparks flew off in a sizzling arc, bouncing against the door. Tungdil tested the edge by taking a lump of coal and stroking the metal across it gently without applying any pressure. It sliced through the black stone as easily as if it had been air. He was satisfied for now.

Tired and hungry he stomped across the site through the rain, his new weapon at his side. He needed food and drink.

“Is it too late to bring you greetings from the towns of the freelings?”

Tungdil stopped short and raised his weapon. A dwarf stood by the smithy in the pouring rain. His cape and hood were soaked and he must have been waiting by the window a long while. For a messenger this behavior was unusual. “Show me your face!”

The dwarf approached, pulling back his hood. “I thought you would recognize my voice.”

Tungdil found himself face to face with Bramdal Masterstroke. “You again?” Suspicion made him keep the blade raised diagonally before him. “What is it you want?”

“I am to bring greetings from King Gordislan and the other town rulers and to wish you well for the journey to the Outer Lands.” Bramdal pointed to a roof overhang. “Can we go somewhere dry?”

Tungdil did not believe the one-time executioner. “You’ve waited all this time outside the forge watching me and you grab me out here in the rain, just to say bon voyage?” Tungdil did not move. The rain did not bother him. “You’ll allow that’s a trifle odd?”

“Nobody must know I’m speaking to you. My mission isn’t over when I’ve given you the good wishes.”

“Have you got anything to back your story up, Bramdal?”

Carefully Bramdal put a hand under his cape and pulled out a roll of leather. Then he handed Tungdil a signet ring. “This authenticates what I’m about to tell you. And this is Gordislan’s signet ring.” Water dripped from his yellow beard. “Come on, can we go inside?”

Tungdil indicated the forge door with the tip of his weapon. In its dark warmth they refrained from lighting a lamp. Tungdil read the missive by the glow from the
furnace and examined the ring minutely. Bramdal was in truth a trusted adviser to the king of Trovegold. “Perhaps you were always more than an executioner?”

Bramdal nodded. “Gemmil and others before him used to send me out on missions to observe the humans and report what they said about the dwarves. We were waiting for the right moment for the towns to start trading with them.” He installed himself on the anvil, drawing his cape off and hanging it up to dry. “We knew the dwarves would resent it and that we would have to think carefully about this move. Your visit helped. But the future isn’t going to be easy.”

“It seems to me that recently the free towns have chosen to align themselves with the humans.”

“Your impression is correct. We are very concerned about developments up in the mountains. I heard the exchange between Ginsgar and Balyndis. What Ginsgar thinks of the towns is an open secret. That’s the reason we’ll soon be making open advances to the humans. The death of Gandogar was the last straw.”

“You’re here to tell me that?”

Bramdal nodded slowly. “Yes. The town kings think you are a sensible smith-child and they’re placing their hopes on you. They expect you will be the facilitator between the dwarf folks in the coming dispute about the high kingship. There is no hero greater than yourself, so they want you to be the first to learn their plans. It’s pretty certain that the dwarf folks won’t understand our motives.”

“The freelings are afraid of their own kinsmen? And so
they are looking to the humans for allies? Is that how far it’s come?”

“If Ginsgar is the new high king, yes.” Bramdal picked up his cape and reversed it to dry the other side. “We heard Ginsgar wants to annex the free towns and get his hands on their wealth.”

“And you want to increase trade with the humans so they’ll come to your aid if you’re in trouble. I can see what you’re driving at. But why must no one know we’re talking?”

“Gordislan is afraid Ginsgar already has a plan up his sleeve and will implement it at once if he hears the towns are preparing for an attack. We’d have no time to arrange an alliance with the humans.”

Tungdil fed the furnace, stirring the glowing coals and using the bellows to encourage the flames. There was a crackling response and the temperature started to rise. “Tell the monarchs that I’m honored by their trust. But I don’t intend to come back to Girdlegard any time soon.” Tungdil saw the fire’s glow reflected in Bramdal’s pale brown eyes. “And that’s a secret, too. The free kings must know I won’t be there for them if there is a clash. They will have to sort things out by themselves.”

“You’re going to abandon your responsibilities?” Bramdal was astonished.

“I have no more responsibilities here. It is enough. I have saved Girdlegard twice and together with my friends I’m about to do it for a third time. Others must take over. I am for distant horizons.”

The executioner returned his gaze. “How would you
feel if you came back and saw war had broken out? War amongst the children of the Smith? That the gates were broken and hordes of monsters had overrun Girdlegard?”

He strode nearer. “And knowing you could have prevented it?”

Tungdil smiled, unmoved by his words. “I would say that others had failed to think and act. I have been Girdlegard’s protector for so long now and I am not the only dwarf with a head on his shoulders. Tell the kings that they may rely on Bylanta’s wisdom. They should appeal to her for support.”

“But your word is weightier with the clans.”

“I am a thirdling, Bramdal, and have never sought to conceal my lineage. Ginsgar would use that to undermine my reputation.” He went to the door and stepped across the threshold. “Give Gordislan my message. I shall not change my mind.” He nodded goodbye. “So it was never just coincidence that we kept meeting?”

“Nothing in life is pure coincidence, Tungdil Goldhand.” Bramdal moved closer to the fire. “I shall take them your message. And I shall pray to Vraccas that he will change your mind.”

“You’re welcome to try. It’s not going to work.” Tungdil closed the door behind him and marched through the puddles to cross the yard. He knew this exchange was going to trouble him but he was determined to leave Girdlegard to its fate. Deep in thought he entered the room where his meal had been waiting for him. He still avoided beer and wine and took only water.

“There he is, our scholar!” Ireheart entered, for a change
not wearing his mail shirt but only the leather undertunic. And it had not been properly fastened. It looked as if he had put it on in a hurry. Tungdil showed him the weapon he had been forging. “So is that the unslayable’s sword?”

Wordlessly chewing his food, Tungdil pushed the blade over to his friend, handle first.

“It’s sharp. I’ve never seen anything like it. What are you calling it?”

Tungdil shrugged his shoulders.

The warrior lifted it up, weighing it in his hands, attempted a few swipes and looked round for something to try it out on. A footstool fell victim to the blade.

The cutting edge had sliced through the finger-thick wood without a splinter.

“By Vraccas!” Ireheart laid the blade on the table. “Extraordinary. Light as a dagger, cuts like the sharpest of swords and behaves like an ax.” He contemplated his own hand and saw a drop of blood on the ball of his thumb. “And it’s thirsty for my blood,” he laughed. “There are sharp metal bits still to be filed off.”

Tungdil’s brow furrowed. He knew it had been smooth as marble to hold just now. That was why rough-textured leather was used to wrap the grip. He took a deep breath. “I’ll have to give it another going-over.”

“Why not Bloodthirster?” Ireheart joked. “It would be a good name.” He took some of the water and grabbed a large slice of ham.

“What particular exercise are you and Goda working on at the moment?” Tungdil liked the name Ireheart had suggested. “Wrestling moves?”

Boïndil felt himself go red. “Very observant, scholar.”

“You’re practicing enough to make the walls shake.” Behind them they heard the scornful voice of Rodario, who was joining them at table.