The Revenge of the Dwarves (17 page)

“Gandogar doesn’t know I’m here?”

“I left a message for him.”

“Have you
kidnapped
me?”

“No, by Vraccas, I certainly haven’t.” Ireheart was indignant. “I found you in your room and when I asked you if you would like to keep me company, you said yes.”

“Loud and clear?”

Boïndil laughed. “Seemed like a yes to me!” He indicated Tungdil should get back up. “To be honest, I thought it would do you good to have a change—see something new. Going to pay our respects to the Lord of the Elves is not that bad a job. And anyway, you two know each other already. It’s probably a good thing if their prince sees a dwarf face that’s familiar.” He quickly explained why they were heading for Âlandur. “As soon as all the dwarf delegates are assembled, Gandogar will send for us. We shan’t be missing anything. They need heroes like us.”

Tungdil looked in silence at the far Gray Mountains, then at the road ahead. “Right,” he said and got clumsily back into the saddle.

The ponies trotted along next to each other and Tungdil drank some water out of the leather bottle at his side and kept quiet; his head hurt too much for him to want conversation.

Not till late afternoon did he come to life and start to think of what had been said back at the high king’s court, and of what they had seen in the Outer Lands. He could not remember what Gandogar and the elves had said about the piles of orc bones, so he asked Ireheart, who looked at him in surprise. “Nothing at all. Eldrur stopped me and wanted to know how many snout-faced orcs had fallen foul of the unknown beasts.” He made a face and tossed his black plait back over his shoulder. “Do you think the thirdlings just ate them?”

Tungdil saw an inn at the crossroads they were nearing: This had to mean a bed and a beer. At least one beer. “We’ll stop here,” he decided. “Thirdlings wouldn’t eat orc flesh any more than we would. Not even if they were starving.”

“And… what about… the Undergroundlings?”

“Boïndil, what rubbish!” said Tungdil in surprise. “No dwarf would ever do such a thing.” He thought of Djer
n, the bodyguard of Maga Andôkai. Himself sprung from the evil one, he had nevertheless devoured the creatures of Samusin and Tion. Tungdil gave voice to his thoughts: “We know there are more of them than merely Djer
n. Think of the one the avatars sent to kill Andôkai.”

“That would explain why the other monsters haven’t attempted the North Pass,” grinned Ireheart. “If a whole family of Djer
ns has set up home in the Outer Lands by the Stone Gateway then we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Tungdil nodded. “Perfect for the thirdlings, if it’s them behind all this. They block the tunnels and dig passageways
in secret right into our territory to send their machines through, while the likes of Djer
n fend off the orcs and other monsters.”

His friend stayed silent for quite a while. “What do you think? Will the high king be sending an army to the Outer Lands to sniff out the thirdlings?”

“In my view Gandogar has no other choice,” said Tungdil, reining his pony to a standstill outside the inn, which seemed to have extensive stabling. Obviously the crossroads was a popular place for travelers and merchants to get fresh horses.

A boy came running up to lead away their animals. “Good evening, Master Dwarves. May Vraccas be with you,” he greeted them politely. “Fresh grass and oats for the ponies and a good room for the night for yourselves?”

Boïndil threw the boy a silver coin. “Will that get you to see to the animals and give them the best of care?”

“Of course, Master Dwarf,” the boy said happily. “I’ll soon have their coats shining!” He led them off to stand under the shelter and got to work grooming.

Tungdil and Boïndil stepped into the inn, amazed at the souvenirs and trophies displayed on the walls. The landlord had hung up old orc and älfar weapons and a collection of animal teeth. Long nails through the eye sockets fastened the skulls of monsters to the wooden beams.

“Take a look at that,” murmured Boïndil, nodding toward the corner by the taproom bar. A life-sized stuffed orc was mounted on a stand, right arm lifted as if to strike; in its left hand was a shield that bore the words: GILSPAN
KILLED ME. In large letters on the armor stood the prices for the drinks on offer.

“Not always easy to understand, these humans and their sense of humor,” remarked Tungdil as he crossed the crowded taproom to sit at a table by the window where the setting sun shone through.

A wiry young man approached, wearing an apron and a smile that would have done the Incredible Rodario proud. “Welcome, Master Dwarves, welcome to Gilspan’s Hunting Lodge.”

Ireheart chuckled into his beard. “So, you, my fine linnet, are Gilspan.”

“I most certainly am, Master Dwarf,” the young man retorted indignantly.

“How old were you when you say you killed that snout-face? Four or five cycles?” He gave a friendly laugh and pinched Gilspan’s arm. “Ha, your muscles are good enough for tray-carrying, but not for winning a fight, I’d wager. Did you find your orc lying dead on the battlefield?”

The first guests were turning round to see who it was, spoiling for a brawl by slighting mine host’s valor.

“I stabbed him in the heart, Master Dwarf!”

“In the heart, eh?” Ireheart turned to look at the stuffed orc. “And where does a greenskin keep its heart, then?”

Gilspan went red.

“Give it a rest, Boïndil,” interrupted Tungdil. “Bring us two strong beers, landlord, some hearty stew, and half a loaf to go with it.” He slid the coins over the counter. Still smarting from the insult, Gilspan took the money and went off.

“If he were half the man he thinks he is, he’d have challenged me to a fight on the spot,” muttered Ireheart. He searched for his pipe, filled it and lit it from a candle; molten wax formed a small puddle on the table as he did so. “He never killed that pig-face—I’d stake my beard on it!”

They were brought their drinks with bad grace. It might have been pure chance, but when Boïndil’s tankard was set down, beer slopped over and spilled into his lap. Gilspan gave a false smile and an apology and hurried off.

“Bring me a jug of brandy,” Tungdil called out after him, lifting his tankard to his lips and emptying it in a single draught. He started on its successor greedily; the beer ran dark down his beard, staining it.

“How did it happen, Scholar?”

Tungdil wiped his mouth and his beard. “I was drinking too fast.”

“I meant, that you’re tipping it down you as if that old drunkard Bavragor were your baby brother,” Boïndil insisted sharply. “Tell me why you’re like this now. And why Balyndis mourns.”

Tungdil was angry with himself for having let that slip out. “Because of Balodil.”

“Balodil.” The dwarf-twin leaned forward so low toward his friend that his black beard was nearly in his tankard. “And who is Balodil?”

“He’s our son.” Tungdil took a mouthful of brandy. “Was our son.”

Boïndil was careful not to say anything. Gradually Tungdil’s words and his recent behavior merged to form a distressing picture.

Gilspan brought their food. Neither of them touched it despite the delicious smell and despite their hunger after the long journey. The past must first be dealt with.

“He was born four cycles ago and was the crowning of our love: the apple of our eye,” whispered Tungdil from a place far away, as he sat staring at the flicker of the candle flame. “I took him with me on an errand and I’d promised Balyndis I would look after him. But the wooden bridge I always used had been damaged in the flood.” He gulped down the brandy. His face was a single grimace of disgust. “I am Tungdil Goldhand, victor over Nôd’onn and avatars, slaughterer of hundreds of orcs, and a scholar to boot. You’d think I could manage to cross a rickety bridge,” he said caustically, looking his friend in the face. “That old bridge, Boïndil, showed me who was stronger. It collapsed under the cart and we were tipped into the river. My mail shirt pulled me down. I’d have drowned but for an empty barrel bobbing up under me.” The laughter and loud voices in the taproom behind them swallowed his words. “So now here I am, telling you about Balodil. How do you think the story goes for him?” This time he did not even trouble to pour the brandy into his cup, but drank straight from the jug. He set it down, gasped for air and belched. “I never found his body, however long I searched. Since that day I’ve hated myself. Balyndis can never forgive me and I… and I’ve taken to drink. I’m going to drink till it kills me.” He paused. “No, I’m going to drink so it kills me. Should have drowned with my son instead of living on like this. So I’m drowning my sorrows and myself in drink.” Disgusted, he pushed away the plate of stew.

“Scholar, it was an accident. Rotten timber,” objected Boïndil, wanting to wrest away his guilt. “Rotten wood and the curse of the goddess Elria. It was the curse that struck you, dragging you, your son and the cart to the bottom. It was not your fault.”

“That’s what Balyndis says, too.” He lowered his head. “But I see that silent accusation in her eyes all the time. I fear our love went cold that very day. She thinks I don’t notice her feelings—she tries to hide the hatred and disgust. It is so cold now back in our vaults, colder than ever before. The grief in my heart has robbed me of any desire to live.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “So now you know why I’ve changed. I’m off to bed, Boïndil.” He got up, swaying, stumbled off to the stairs and disappeared.

Ireheart wiped the tears away. He must help his friend and restore his love of life. There was only one way to do that.

“Vraccas, have mercy. And send your blessing to Tungdil.” He glanced at Gilspan, expansively welcoming new arrivals and showing off the orc he had dispatched; mine host was clapped heartily on the shoulder for his deeds of daring.