The Dwarves (28 page)

They were on their way out of the city when Tungdil spotted a stable in one of the side streets. The horse inside it looked
strangely familiar.

“Wait here,” he instructed, striding toward the chestnut steed. He felt sure he had shod her not so long ago. He lifted her
right foreleg and examined the shoe. The nails were unmistakably his own. “It’s them,” he hissed.

“Friends of yours?” asked Boëndal, whose crow’s beak was resting casually on his shoulder. His brother was absentmindedly
stroking his freshly shaven cheeks in search of stray whiskers.

“Not exactly.” Noting the bulging saddlebags, Tungdil fetched a bucket, turned it over, climbed on top of it, and fumbled
with the buckles. The bag came open and the dwarf rummaged inside until his fingers came into contact with a jar. He pulled
it out quickly.

“Remember the dead dwarf in the caravan?” His instincts had been right; the jar unscrewed to reveal a head. The bounty hunters
had shaved the poor fellow’s hair and beard so that the grisly trophy would fit inside the container, which was filled with
honey to stop the air from getting in, thus preventing decay. Streaks of blood trailed through the golden fluid, staining
it red. “We’ve found the villains who killed him.”

There was a clatter of chain mail and the brothers were beside him like a shot. Neither spoke as they stared in horror at
what had been done to their kinsman for the sake of a reward.

“By the blade of Vraccas, I’ll cut them to pieces,” roared Ire-heart. Fury ignited within him, flushing him red and prompting
his axes to fly into his hands. “Just wait until I —”

The door swung open and one of the headhunters walked into the stable from the house. Tungdil knew him immediately, and the
recognition was mutual as the man stopped abruptly and swore. After considering the three dwarves for a moment, he decided
that the odds were against him and fled.

“Cowardly as a runt,” scoffed Ireheart. “Come back here and fight!” He chased him into the house, and there were sounds of
a brief but energetic skirmish that climaxed in the man’s dying screams.

“ Don’t —” Tungdil’s shouted warning came too late. “He would have been more use to us alive,” he finished mildly. He could
hardly blame Boïndil: The fiery warrior was at the mercy of his temper and came to his senses only when his opponent lay bleeding
on the floor.

“We’ll wait for the others to return,” Boëndal said phlegmatically. “Didn’t you say there were five of them in total?” Tungdil
nodded, and they took up position in the stable.

It was early evening when the men returned. Judging by their sullen faces, their honey pots were empty and their efforts had
been in vain.

Waiting for them behind the door was the vengeful Ire-heart, an ax in each hand and seconded by his brother, who had concealed
himself among the straw. The twins were so accustomed to fighting together that any intervention on Tungdil’s part was likely
to be a hindrance, so he lurked in the background and kept out of the way.

Once the men had entered the stable and dismounted, Boëndal and Boïndil nodded to each other and launched their assault.

“Leave one of the villains alive!” shouted Tungdil, joining the tail end of the charge.

Alerted by the commotion, one of the headhunters turned and reached for his sword.

The blade was only halfway out of its scabbard when Boïndil’s ax thudded into his left hip. The force of the blow sent him
tumbling against the wall. Before he could recover, the dwarf’s second ax hit his right calf, hewing skin and sinew and shattering
his knee. The man collapsed in screams of pain.

Satisfied with the crippling effect of his blows, Ireheart moved on. Cackling terribly, he hurled himself on the next of his
foes.

His brother was left to deal with the remaining men. Shoulders squared, he charged toward the first of the two, leveling his
crow’s beak as he ran.

His opponent had enough time to snatch his shield from the horse and thrust it in front of his body, but he underestimated
the weapon’s force. The spike at the tip of the crow’s beak pierced the metal, ripping through the shield and stabbing the
man in the arm. Wood and metal had done nothing to repel the weapon; now flesh and bones yielded too. The soldier screamed.

Boëndal jerked the spike out of the shield and rammed the poll against the man’s unprotected knee. The force was enough to
smash the joint and buckle the leg. The second headhunter was down.

“I’ll show you what happens to spineless dwarf killers!” Boiling with rage, Ireheart slashed at his opponent with fast, powerful
strokes.

Tungdil could see that the men were doing their best to parry the frenzied blows of their attackers, but their expressions
revealed the hopelessness of their plight; where there was fear, defeat often followed, and so it was this time.

Boïndil whirled his axes above his head. Unable to guess the direction of the attack, the panicked headhunter turned to his
horse.

His legs outpaced the dwarven warrior, but his speed was no match for Boëndal’s weapon. The crow’s beak soared through the
air, hitting the man’s back just as he was swinging himself into the saddle. The impact cracked his ribs, stopping him momentarily.
It gave Ireheart enough time to catch up.

“You’re too tall for my liking, long-un,” he snorted, slashing at the man’s legs and severing his tendons. His victim toppled,
and Ireheart dealt him a double blow to the collarbone that finished him off.

The dwarf went in search of the fourth headhunter, who was cowering behind the mound of straw. “Now it’s your turn!” Ireheart’s
chain mail was spattered with his opponents’ blood and his eyes glinted crazily. “Who do you pray to? Palandiell? Samusin?”

The man cast down his sword and raised his hands. “I surrender,” he said hastily.

Ireheart bared his teeth. “Too bad,” he growled, thrusting his axes into his enemy’s unprotected midriff. The man collapsed
amid agonized groans. He died quickly but painfully, as Tungdil could tell from his muted whimpers.

Tungdil surveyed the stable. The chief headhunter, whom Ireheart had put out of action at the beginning of the fight, was
lying in a pool of blood. He seemed to be fading rapidly. The dwarves hurried over.

“Who pays for your handiwork?” demanded Tungdil. “Tell us, and you’ll be spared.”

“We’ll leave you to drown in your blood if you don’t,” Ire-heart said threateningly.

“Bind my wounds,” the man implored them, pressing his hand to the flowing gash in his hip. “In the name of Palandiell, have
mercy on me.” The blood was flowing so fast that Tungdil doubted anything could save him; the magic of a magus, perhaps, but
certainly not a bandage.

Ireheart turned on him furiously. “Tell us, or I’ll let my axes do the talking!” Before he could make good on the threat,
the headhunter expired.

The dwarves left his side and hurried to the remaining survivor, whose shield and arm had been pierced by Boëndal’s crow’s
beak.

The man was gritting his teeth. Pride prevented him from screaming aloud, but the pain from his shattered knee was almost
too much to bear.

“Be m-merciful,” he stammered. “I don’t know much, but I’ll tell you. We heard about the reward in Gauragar — they were offering
gold in return for groundlings’ heads.” He pointed to Tungdil. “It was just after we met him.”

“Who’s
they?
” bellowed Ireheart. He laid the bloodied blade of one of his axes against the man’s throat.

“The guild! The master of the guild!” he choked fearfully. “He sent us here. We harvest the heads and every thirtieth orbit
he sends a man to fetch the jars. We get our share of the reward — thirty coins apiece for each head.”

“The guild? What guild?” demanded Tungdil.

“The guild of the bounty hunters.” The man groaned as the pain threatened to overwhelm him. “Let me go now. I’ve told you
everything I know.”

Tungdil believed him, but he knew the twins would never let him live. His murderous deeds would have to be punished.

“You’re not going anywhere.” Ireheart’s axes settled the matter before Tungdil could object. The headhunter had breathed his
last.

“Come on,” Boëndal said evenly. “We need to get out of here before the watchmen arrive.”

Hefting their bags, they hurried out of the city in the direction of Ionandar. At first they were worried that someone would
find the bodies and chase after them, but no one did.

Tungdil felt a pang of conscience. “It wasn’t right to kill them,” he said, as they were sloshing their way through puddles
and mud. “We should have handed them over to the watchmen along with the jar.”

Boïndil’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me I should have let the villains live?” He shook the raindrops from his beard.
“They would have been tried and hung anyway. What difference does it make?”

“They deserved to die, I know. But if we’d…” Tungdil couldn’t think of how to describe his nagging guilt in a way that Ireheart
would understand.

Boëndal leaped to his brother’s defense. “No, scholar, there are no two ways about it. They murdered for money and died because
of it. What does it matter that we killed them? Boïndil’s right: The long-uns would have hung them, but we saved them the
trouble —
and
we avenged the dead dwarf.” He tossed his plait over his shoulder to signal that his mind was made up. “It was the right
thing to do.”

Tungdil could find no argument that might persuade him otherwise. He was still too much the scholar to understand his companions’
dwarven way of thought.

“We need to press on,” Boïndil reminded them in a more conciliatory tone. “The high king is waiting.” The battle in the stable
had cooled his raging temper and he was calmer again.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

I
can’t keep this up for much longer,” Rantja muttered despairingly.

“You mustn’t stop now,” whispered Jolosin. “If any of us leaves the circle, the ritual will be broken. I owe it to my magus;
we all owe it to Girdlegard to keep going.”

Just then he heard a change in Nudin’s voice. The croaky rasp became a high-pitched purring that didn’t seem to belong to
him at all. After a while it lowered to a bass tone so deep that it vibrated through the apprentices’ bodies. None of them,
not even the highest-ranking famuli, had heard anything like it.

And yet it worked.

Pulsing with light, the dark green fragments of malachite rose into the air and came to rest three paces above the floor.
Even the splinters in the decaying flesh of Maira the Life-Preserver left her body, exiting with a gentle pop as they bored
through her skin.

“What did I tell you?” said Jolosin, giving Rantja’s hand an encouraging squeeze. “We’re nearly there now.”

Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty began a new incantation and the famuli resumed their chanting, only to break off shortly afterward,
unable to follow the words. Babbling and gibbering incoherently, the magus had lost his thread. With the rest of the circle
reduced to silence, the ritual was doomed.

Meanwhile, the fragments of malachite clustered together in a flat disc, ten paces in diameter. The glowing circle began to
spin.

“Is this part of the ritual? I’ve never done this before,” hissed Jolosin. Rantja made no reply.

The disc spun faster and faster, the splinters drawing closer as the speed increased. Soon the individual fragments joined
together in a circular sheet of flawless crystal.

“My magus knows what he’s doing,” Rantja whispered proudly, breathing a sigh of relief.

A hush descended on the room as the ring of apprentices watched in awed silence while the glowing malachite morphed under
Nudin’s command. At last the impressive spectacle drew gasps of admiration and relief from some of the famuli.

“We did it!” Jolosin was about to throw his arms around Rantja but was stopped by the magus, who tightened his grip on his
hand.

Nudin spoke, uttering a single, unintelligible word.

A splinter flew out of the disk and pierced Jolosin in the chest. No one noticed.

“What…” Groaning, the young man tried to free his hand and touch the spot where the jagged splinter had entered his flesh
and buried itself deep inside his chest. He could feel the blood seeping from the wound and trickling down his abdomen, but
Nudin was gripping him firmly in his cold, clammy clasp.

“Estimable Magus,” Jolosin said, his voice strained with pain, “I’m… I’m hurt. I’ve been hit by a shard.”

Nudin turned his pale bloated face toward him. His pupils were dilated, almost obscuring his irises. Then the black dots turned
the color of tarnished silver. His misty eyes glinted.

“I know, my boy. I needed your magic. There was no other way.” He squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It won’t hurt for long.”
The magus closed his eyes.

Another tiny splinter of malachite flew across the room and hit Rantja. From then on, the splinters followed in quick succession,
striking the apprentices so rapidly that half of their number had been wounded before the others noticed. They called to the
magus for help.

“Stay where you are or everything will be ruined,” he commanded, eyes still closed.

The remaining famuli were unpersuaded by his words. Rather than stay and be killed by the lethal crystal, they decided to
run for cover, but by then it was too late. As they tried to pull away, they realized with horror that their hands were stuck
together, tying them to one another until they too were struck by shards.

The malachite disc sent dark bolts in the direction of each famulus, green light caressing their bodies eagerly in search
of the splinters and slipping inside the wounds.

Nudin looked up, an insane glimmer in his eyes. Throwing open his cloak, he uttered another incomprehensible command.

At once a finger-length shard of malachite flew toward him on a bolt of green lightning and planted itself in his chest. The
beam intensified, pulsing and rippling with light, while the tendrils of energy binding the famuli to the crystal faded and
dimmed. Soon they were gone altogether.