The Dwarves (71 page)

He was watched by Boïndil, who sighed incredulously to communicate his opinion of washing and water in general. The secondling
stared up at Djerůn, who had taken his place on the floor while Andôkai stood at the window and drew the rudimentary curtains.
She had taken off her cloak. “Well, long-un,” he said to the giant, “you and I are both dying to slay a dozen runts, but don’t
forget: If we come across a pack of them, the first ten belong to me.”

Djerůn maintained his customary silence.

Boïndil shrugged, went to the window, and climbed out onto the roof. He soon spotted Goïmgar. “You should see this,” he called
out to the others. “The artisan is marching up and down the street.”

“Tell him to come back in,” said Tungdil, who was poring over the map. The city walls did nothing to assure him of their safety.
We’ve had proof enough that the älfar can slip past sentries with ease.
If their enemies had spies anywhere near the city, they would know by now that the odd-looking group had found its way to
Roodacre.
They’ll come for us and they won’t give in until they’ve seen their mission through.

“He says he won’t,” Boïndil bellowed through the window.

“Pretend you’ve seen an älf,” suggested Bavragor, offering a morsel of genuine dwarven cheese to Balyndis. “That should do
the trick.” Andôkai wrinkled her nose in disgust at the smell, but said nothing.

Sure enough, a few moments later they heard the rush of footsteps on the stairs; then the artisan burst into the dormitory,
banging the door behind him and dropping the heavy oak panel into the latch.

Boïndil abandoned his post and climbed back inside, his chain mail clinking softly. “You were lucky,” he said gravely. He
curled his long plait into a pillow and lay down. “The älf was right behind you.”

Goïmgar turned a deathly shade of pale.

Roodacre,

Kingdom of Tabaîn,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
ungdil was woken by the sound of scraping metal. He opened his eyes.

Djerůn had got to his feet and drawn his mighty sword. He was holding the weapon outstretched in his right hand, blade angled
toward the door. Andôkai, still in bed, was wide-awake too. She signaled to Tungdil, instructing him to keep quiet and lie
still.

They watched as a thin strip of wood slipped through the doorframe and rose toward the latch, pushing the oak beam noiselessly
out of the catch. Little by little the door came open. Faint light sloped into the dormitory from the corridor, illuminating
the outline of a stocky figure.

The intruder was roughly the size of a dwarf. He was wearing a helmet and, judging from his silhouette, was blessed with an
exceptionally bushy beard. In his left hand he was clutching a sack. The sight of Djerůn stopped him in his tracks. Andôkai
gave the command.

The giant shot forward to seize the intruder, but his phenomenal speed was not enough. Ducking away, the little fellow surprised
them all by darting in instead of out.

“Stop right there!” Tungdil sprang out of bed and barred his path. He made to grab him, but the dwarf proved astonishingly
agile, leaving the startled Tungdil with a clump of whiskers in his hand.

The intruder leaped nimbly onto the windowsill, hurled his sack at his pursuers, and fled across the roof. The bag smacked
Tungdil in the chest, spilling its contents across the roughly hewn tiles.

The clattering and jangling woke the others. Boïndil was up like a shot, running around the room, brandishing his axes and
bellowing for the orcs to fight him if they dared. The rest of the company reached for their weapons.

Balyndis, dressed only in her undergarments, had taken up position on her bed and was gripping her ax with both hands. A shaft
of moonlight slanted through the curtains, exposing her curves. It occurred to Tungdil that she probably didn’t realize how
much she was revealing, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

“Where did they go?” demanded Boïndil, spoiling for a fight.

“We had an uninvited guest,” said Andôkai, leaning out of the window to see where the fellow had got to. “A dwarf. There must
have been something funny about him because he didn’t respond to my spell. And now he’s gone.”

“Gold,” exclaimed Tungdil in surprise, finally noticing the shiny coins on the floor. He bent down and scooped them up. Some
of them were stuck together and left damp traces on his hands.

“And a dagger,” observed Goïmgar, who was cowering in a corner.

Boïndil picked it up and eyed it carefully. “Forged on a dwarven anvil,” he said slowly, handing it to Balyndis. “You’re the
expert. What do you reckon?”

Booted feet thundered up the stairs and across the landing to their room. The next moment, armored guards burst inside, halberds
pointing menacingly toward them.

“Light, I need more light!” shouted someone, and in an instant lamps were passed forward and more guards thronged inside.

The coins and the knife!
Tungdil was about to throw the gold out of the window and tell Boïndil to put away the dagger, but already the room was bathed
in light, revealing telltale red smudges on his fingers: The coins and the dagger were covered in blood.

“By Palandiell,” exclaimed the captain of the guards, a strong man of some forty cycles with a small scar on the left side
of his face. “I’ve never seen such brazen criminals. Just look at the ruffians! Sitting here calmly, dividing their loot.”
His eyes shifted to the dagger in Boïndil’s hand. “He’s even holding the murder weapon!” He waved his men forward. “Arrest
the lot of them, the men as well as the little fellows. We’ll soon find out which of them were embroiled in this dastardly
business.”

“What business would that be, oh worthy guardian of our municipal safety?” inquired Rodario in his most amiable and gracious
tone. He could easily have been inquiring about the weather. He adjusted his undergarments with aristocratic elegance. “Perhaps
you would care to enlighten us?”

“Sir Darolan was murdered at knifepoint not three streets from here.” He glared at Boïndil. “The game’s up. You were seen
and followed.” He turned to one of his men. “There’s a whole band of them. Professionals, I’ll warrant.”

“I’m afraid there’s been a terrible misunderstanding,” chimed in Tungdil. He outlined what had happened before the arrival
of the guards, holding up the lock of beard as evidence. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a snippet of fleece.

The captain laughed in his face. “A likely story, groundling. I’ve never heard such nonsense.”

“I know it sounds strange, but —”

“Strange? It’s preposterous! I’m arresting you and your accomplices in the name of King Nate. One of you will sign a confession
soon enough. We’ve solved every murder in this city by putting the suspects on the rack.”

“As I was saying,” Rodario resumed smoothly, “the dwarves are nothing to do with us.” He winked furtively at Tungdil. “In
fact, my companions and I were accompanying the lady when —”

“Save your stories for the interrogator,” the captain interrupted him harshly. Just then his dour face brightened and he looked
at them with sudden kindness. “Although, I must say, the evidence in your favor is quite compelling…” He took the strand of
fake beard from Tungdil and gestured to the door. “We’ve been wasting our time,” he told his guards. “The real murderer led
us here on false pretenses. We need to get after him before the trail goes cold.”

“But, Captain!” one of his subordinates protested vigorously. “We saw the dwarf run into the tavern —”

“Get a move on,” the captain ordered. “Outside on the double! We’ll never find him at this rate.” Realizing that he was not
to be dissuaded, the baffled guardsmen followed his instructions and exited the room. Soon afterward their clunking armor
could be heard through the open window.

“That was close. Thank goodness he changed his mind.” Rodario breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Can we go to bed now?”

Andôkai was already packing her things. “He’ll come to his senses before too long. The sooner we leave, the better. The spell
won’t last forever.”

“What do you mean,
come to his senses?
He’s always like that,” objected Boïndil, scratching his beard in confusion.

“She means the captain, not Rodario,” explained Tungdil with a grin. It dawned on him why no one ever challenged Djerůn; the
maga could obviously control people’s thoughts. “She put a spell on him. Why else would he let us go?” He stared pensively
at a tuft of fleece that had stuck to his fingers.
The whole thing was a setup and it almost succeeded.
“Someone was trying to get us into trouble.”

“And it nearly worked! The villain disguised himself as a dwarf,” said Boïndil, scandalized. He started to pack. “Just wait
until I get my hands on him. He’ll wish he’d never been born.”

“Children can’t move that fast,” mused Balyndis, gathering her things. “It must have been a gnome or a kobold or…”

Tungdil raised his hands to his head in sudden understanding. “Of course! Bislipur’s gnome!” They hurried out of the room
and down the stairs. “Sverd must have followed us and waited for the opportunity to land us in real trouble. Bislipur’s behind
it all!”

“You can’t fault the gnome’s persistence,” said Bavragor admiringly, tugging on the straps of his pack. “To think he followed
us all this way.”

“It would have been easy enough to track us,” argued Boïndil. He peered into the front room of the tavern before waving the
others on.

“Not necessarily,” countered Balyndis, impressed by Sverd’s tenacity. “He must have snuck into the firstling kingdom and found
his way into the tunnels. That takes some doing.”

“Remember the buckle we found in the runaway wagon?” Tungdil tiptoed to the door and scanned the street. “I knew I recognized
it from somewhere.” He slipped out of the tavern with Boïndil at his side. “We’re safe,” he said. “They’re searching another
street.”

“You mustn’t run,” Boïndil told Goïmgar. “Running in the middle of the night only attracts attention. They’ll assume you’re
a criminal.”

The travelers proceeded at a leisurely pace, chatting and smiling as if they were out for a nighttime stroll. Nothing in their
behavior suggested they were engaged in illicit activity or fleeing a murder scene. Djerůn stayed in the shadows, trying to
keep a low profile.

Before they could reach the gates, a group of guards approached on a routine patrol.

“Remember, Goïmgar: Just stay calm,” whispered Boïndil.

“Shush,” hissed Balyndis with one eye on the trembling artisan. “You’re only making things worse!”

The guards were getting closer and had almost drawn level when a thin voice piped up. “Arrest the villains! Those are the
culprits! Arrest them, guards! They’re getting away!”

“That blasted gnome. I’ll wring his scrawny neck,” growled Ireheart, whipping out his axes to defend himself. The bewildered
guardsmen looked to their leader for direction.

Just then the captain of the first patrol burst onto the street, shouting orders for their arrest. Candles blazed in the windows,
shutters were opened, and the city awoke from its slumber.

“We don’t have time for explanations,” said Andôkai, drawing her sword. “They won’t believe us and we’ll rot in their dungeons.”

“So what do we do?” demanded Bavragor, gripping the haft of his hammer, ready to fight his way out of the gates.

“It’s probably best if I slip away now,” said Rodario, shouldering his precious bag of costumes and hastily taking his leave.
“I’ll see you outside the city. I don’t want to get in your way.” He hurried into a side street before the guards could surround
them.

“Never trust an actor.” Narmora grinned and pulled out her weapons.

Tungdil held up his ax, poll first. “Don’t kill unless you have to,” he instructed them. “We’re leaving Roodacre — whether
they like it or not.”

T
ungdil couldn’t help noticing that their opponents were woefully underprepared. More accustomed to chasing purse snatchers
and incarcerating drunks, the guards had little experience with combat and stood no chance of restraining four staunch dwarves,
a maga, a half älf, and a giant.

Furgas wasn’t much of a warrior, but he held his ground valiantly and cleared enough space for Narmora to swing her weapons
unimpeded. Goïmgar was tasked with guarding the rest of the ingots.

After the shortest of skirmishes, they hurried to the gates, where Rodario was conversing with a guard. The whole company
descended on the distracted sentry before he could sound the alarm. When he eventually noticed the maga, it was already too
late.

“You will let us through,” she intoned. “You will let us through and tell no one that we passed this way.” Even as she spoke,
the sentry’s eyes glazed over and he raised the portcullis without a word.

“Didn’t I do well?” the impresario said to Andôkai. “I bewitched his senses with my silvery speech, thus enabling the Estimable
Maga to cast her spell. Magic certainly has its uses. I don’t suppose you’d consider a spot of backstage conjuring? Together
we could put on a spectacle of such —”

Furgas shook his head despairingly. “For pity’s sake, Rodario!”

“There’s no harm in asking. We need to earn a living somehow when our amazing adventure is at an end.”

Bavragor laughed. “Assuming you survive that long.”

Buffeted by the wind, the rising portcullis made enough of a racket to wake the other sentries, whom Boïndil attacked with
enthusiasm. He stuck to using his poll as instructed, but Tungdil detected the sound of splintering bone.

He’s desperate to finish them off.
He looked in consternation at the bloodied and oddly misshapen face of a sentry. The man keeled over as Ireheart landed a
follow-up blow. With at least one dead, the company would be wanted for multiple murder as well as theft.

Meanwhile, the portcullis was still rising slowly, but Sverd had followed them and was hiding in an alleyway, preparing to
alert the guards a second time. “They’re escaping! The murderers are escaping through the gates!”