The Fate of the Dwarves

I

The Outer Lands,

The Black Abyss,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

Ireheart stared at his friend, so sorely missed and so eagerly awaited, and now there he was at the head of an army of fiendish demons. With his black armor on his back, Bloodthirster in his hand and an icy expression on his face, Tungdil seemed to have found his ideal setting. He belonged.

“But it can’t be,” Ireheart exclaimed, unable to take it in. “That’s not him! May Vraccas be my witness. That isn’t my Tungdil Goldhand!” He looked at Goda helplessly. “It’s not him,” he repeated, as if he were trying to convince himself. “It’s a hallucination—a specter sent to scare us.” As his despair turned to fury he raised his crow’s beak, powerful rage getting the better of him again like in the old days. He was not about to resist the urge. “I’m going to smash it to pieces!”

This time it was Goda’s turn to calm him. “No, Boïndil!” She faced him courageously, taking his face in her hands and staring into the brown eyes that flashed with madness and hot temper. “Hear my words, husband! This is not the time. We must get back to the fortress. Out here we’re…”

Her speech was swallowed by the crashing of the catapults. Stones, arrows and spears were hurtling from fortress platforms and battlements; they flew over the heads of ubariu and dwarves, darkening the winter sunlight and casting shadows on the handful of defenders by the gate, before finding their mark in the ravine.

Metallic clashes rang out as iron spears rained on shields or penetrated helmets and armor; then came the victims’ screams and the thud of missiles landing among the serried ranks of beasts. This was the very essence of battle, overlaid as it was with the intense smell of blood.

Goda knew this was only the beginning. Worse was to come. Soon the defending garrison would be adding their screams to the cacophony of death.

“Come with me,” she begged Ireheart, pressing a kiss on his brow as missiles flew overhead. Smoking firebrands were launched, hissing into the air to burst against the steep walls of the Black Abyss and drench the monsters and the raging kordrion with burning liquid.

Believing Boïndil’s spasm of fury had subsided, Goda slackened her grip, but he pushed her aside and raced over to the enemy lines with a bloodcurdling yell and the crow’s beak raised high.

For the dwarf-woman this was all too fast—she tumbled to the ground. “No!” she shouted in her fright, trying in vain to hold him back. She turned. “Yagur, after him! Keep him safe!” she commanded. Without a moment’s hesitation, the ubariu leader charged after the general to give backup; no easy task given the enemy’s superior numbers.

Goda got to her feet and gathered her magic power so that she could help her husband from a distance.

Ireheart wasn’t thinking anymore.

He was seeing his world through a blood-red mask and the only spot in the whole scene that he could clearly distinguish was the hideous phantom impersonating his best friend, Tungdil. He was not going to allow this vile infamy to persist. You must not be Tungdil! Not on their side!

The ringing in his ears masked the noise of battle. He was so overcome with the need to destroy the phantom and then to hurl himself on the opposing forces that he could no longer think clearly. It was too much for a warrior like himself, whose hot blood surged through his veins like molten rock through underground tunnels. And he did not even want to control himself.

Some of the spears and arrows landed near him, falling short of their intended targets. The soldiers at Evildam were sticking to the letter of their commander’s instructions, even if he himself was acting contrary to his own orders. He was seeking to engage the enemy on open ground instead of running for the fortress to repel the approaching army of beasts from the safety of the stronghold’s mighty walls.

Ireheart found himself less than ten paces away from the enemy. They hadn’t stirred from their positions and were waiting at the exit to the ravine.

Enemy reinforcements clambered out over the bodies of fallen comrades, putting out fires with sand and bone dust. As soon as one creature fell, another ghastly monster took its place. The chasm apparently held an endless number of them. It was a nest of horrors.

As far as Ireheart could see, they were keeping their distance from the false Tungdil figure, as if he were surrounded by an invisible dome of respect and awe. “Whatever you are, I’m going to wipe you out!” he yelled, and with an earsplitting cry of fury he swung the crow’s beak high over his head.

The two blue eyes on the underside of the kordrion’s muzzle focused on Ireheart for a moment and then turned on the black-armored form of Tungdil, who swiveled away from the fighting-mad Ireheart to face the gigantic monster, the runes on his armor glowing.

The kordrion screamed, and it sounded… afraid?

Before Boïndil could reach him, Tungdil had leaped forward onto one of the monsters’ corpses; he jumped onto another close by and used a thick spear jutting out of the body as a springboard to reach a position on top of a huge boulder. From there his path took him to the next boulder and the next until he had passed along to the head of the army as if on stepping stones in a stream. Now he was close to the kordrion’s throat. The cowering beast recoiled, hissing sharply.

Unable to hold back the blow he’d been waiting to deliver, Ireheart released it against one of the monsters racing toward him. This one seemed like a cross between an oversize reptile and a very fat orc, with the arms of a gnome stuck on to its sides. But it was still wielding a sword and shield with aplomb.

The flat head of the crow’s beak shattered both shield and thin arm holding it, then smashed right into the ribcage; the beast fell dead in the dust.

Ireheart held off his next adversaries by whirling his weapon round in circles, liberally dealing out injury and death among them. All the time he ensured that the supposed Tungdil remained in sight. He was steadfastly refusing to assume that it might yet be his battle companion from the past but his confidence was starting to fade. What in the name of Vraccas is he up to?

Suddenly Yagur and the other ubariu were at his side fighting evil’s misbegotten monsters, which in spite of their superior numbers seemed to be holding back, awaiting the order to storm the fortress en masse. Only a few of the creatures were venturing to attack and they paid with their lives. Some arrows, meanwhile, glanced off the huge shields the ubariu carried while others were halted in mid-air, falling ineffectually to the ground. Goda’s magic.

“We’ll have to go back, General,” Yagur insisted, as he sliced his opponent down the middle with a wild sword thrust; Yagur jabbed through the falling body to reach the next oncomer. The second ubariu patrol joined them, strengthening their numbers.

Ireheart looked up at the black-clad dwarf wielding Bloodthirster in both hands to attack the kordrion. The strangely shaped blade cut through the creature’s putrid grayish skin to release a river of blood.

The kordrion emitted a roar that shook Ireheart to the core and almost paralyzed him. The thunder of the creature’s mighty voice all but caused the work of battle to cease and the walls of the ravine shook under its reverberations.

Everything was still…

… apart from the dwarf in the dark tionium armor!

He clanged the visor on his helmet, not caring about the blood streaming over his head.

It is him after all! He was just waiting for the right moment to show us who he is! At the sight of the dwarf’s face Ireheart could no longer doubt this was his best friend returning at last to his side. He had missed him so badly. He wanted nothing more than to believe that this was Tungdil. The heroic and selfless conduct displayed in the assault on the kordrion was typical of the dwarf who had triumphed in the past in so many battles for Girdlegard. And there was probably a very good explanation to account for Tungdil’s completely different set of armor—armor that reminded Ireheart of Djern. Time for all that later. Now for the fight!

But when, next moment, Tungdil was bathed in the kordrion’s white fire and swallowed up by bright flames, Boïndil gave up the hero for lost. He knew exactly what those flames would do, even though his experience of them had been over two hundred and fifty cycles previously. Even if the tionium withstood the fire, the heat inside the armor would roast the wearer alive. He remembered finding the body of his twin brother…

“No!” Ireheart bellowed in despair, hacking through helmet and skull of another enemy with the curved end of the crow’s beak. There was a crack and then the sharp point appeared again through the breastbone under the throat. Boïndil hurled the creature to the ground, placing his right foot on its shoulders to pull the weapon back out through the ugly face. “Vraccas, don’t let me have found him only to lose him again so soon.”

The ball of fire spread and swelled to form a cloud in which a black shape could be seen. Tungdil seemed to have survived!

The black-armored dwarf had sunk onto one knee. He held Bloodthirster protecting his face, his other arm at his back. As the flames ebbed away he sprang up and stabbed at the lower eyes of the kordrion, taking it by surprise.

Tungdil managed to hit one of the eyes. It sounded like a leather wine pouch bursting.

Bluish liquid poured out, swiftly followed by a stream of dark-red blood. Veins and sinews tumbled out as thick as a man’s arm; more liquid fountained out of the wound and the creature convulsed with pain.

Ireheart couldn’t believe his eyes: Spraying blood from a gash in its side and the injury on its head, the kordrion was slinking back into the ravine!

The enormous feet squashed dozens of monsters, pressing them into the ground. Bodily juices squirted out in all directions. Then it was gone, leaving a wet trail on the rocks. A final flurry of arrows and spears accompanied it to its lair, then the stronghold catapults fell silent.

Quiet returned, so that the sound of the wind along the battlements and on the slopes of the Black Abyss—not heard amid the noise of battle—was loud in comparison.

Ireheart commanded the ubariu to watch the murky path down into the chasm while he stepped forward, lowering his blood-smeared crow’s beak.

He gestured to the armored dwarf to come down. “Show yourself, so that I may see if you are an old friend or a new enemy,” he called out. He could not control his excitement, but was yo-yoing between joy and suspicion, his belief that this might be his old companion not quite being enough in itself to convince him.

Trumpets blared from the battlements, the great gate was opened and an army of two hundred dwarves and undergroundlings issued out under Goda’s command. They took up their positions behind Ireheart and the ubariu and waited. Ready to fight.

The dwarf that was possibly Tungdil sprang down with remarkable agility, belying the weight of his armor, then ran along the stepping stones until he reached ground level. As he jumped down, a cloud of white dust rose, covering the black metal knee protectors. He held Bloodthirster in his right hand, with the blade resting up against his shoulder. Step by step he approached the band of warriors. The helmet stayed shut.

Boïndil gulped in apprehension, his throat dry. “Visor up!” he barked, his right hand flexing in readiness around the handle of the crow’s beak. The leather grip creaked. “I want to see your face by daylight.” Behind him the dwarves were raising their weapons, as the armored figure continued on his way, impervious to the command.

Now Ireheart could see the armor clearly. It was covered in runic signs and symbols he had never come across before.

A quick glance at Goda told him that the maga was equally bemused. She shook her head briefly, unable to interpret the meaning of the glimmering silver inlay or engravings any more than he could.

What bothered Boïndil was that there was no hint there of allegiance to Vraccas or of any dwarf origins, even if the suit of armor itself had unquestionably come from the hand of a child of the Smith: The work of a dwarf-master smith indeed.

Would Tungdil do that? Would he deny his own people? “Stand and show yourself!” he ordered resolutely, lifting his weapon. “If you are Tungdil Goldhand, show us your face. Otherwise…” Ireheart whirled his crow’s beak round his head “… otherwise I shall smash your face in still inside the helmet!”

The other dwarf stopped in his tracks. Legs wide apart in a supremely confident stance he faced the gathered force, then—in a movement that was neither hasty nor frightened—his left hand went slowly up to his helmet. Bit by bit the dark grating was soundlessly lifted.

Boïndil was breathless with anticipation, his heart pounding. Vraccas, let the miracle have happened! he begged, closing his eyes to make the prayer to his god more fervent still. It was all he could do to open them again in order to look at the face before him. Hearing Goda’s sharp intake of breath didn’t make things easier.

At last he dared open his eyes.

He saw a short brown beard surrounding the familiar features of a dwarf who had certainly aged. But this was a face he would have known among a thousand.

The left eye was hidden behind an engraved patch of pure gold held in place with gold thread. The remaining brown eye was focused steadily on Boïndil. In that gaze Ireheart saw curiosity, little joy and… something else he could not fathom.

Visible through the beard the lines around the mouth and nose had grown deeper and gave the dwarf’s face an authoritative air that many a dwarf-king would have envied. There was a scar running up the forehead from above the right eye and disappearing under the helmet—healed over, but very dark.

Ireheart gave a deep sigh. It definitely looked like his old friend standing before him once more. He took a step forward, but thought he could sense rejection from Tungdil.

“What sort of evidence do you want to prove I’m Tungdil Goldhand?” he asked, loosening the chin strap and tugging the helmet off the shock of shoulder-length brown hair. The scar on the brow went all the way up to the crown. Tungdil cast the helmet down on the ground and shook off a gauntlet to show the golden mark on his hand. “Touch it, if you like, Boïndil. It’s my everlasting souvenir from the battle for the throne of the high king, although I never really had a claim to it.” He stretched out his hand in challenge.

Ireheart passed his fingers across the yellow-gold spot on the palm, then looked enquiringly into Tungdil’s countenance.

The dwarf smiled and it was the old smile! The familiar smile he had so longed to see once more.

“Perhaps I should tell you how you tried to make me believe that the best way to seduce a dwarf-girl was to rub them from head to toe in stinky cheese?” He leaned forward with a wink. “I never used the method. Did you need it with Goda?”

The maga laughed out loud.

“So it’s really you!” exclaimed Ireheart. He dropped the crow’s beak, and pulled Tungdil into his open arms. “By Vraccas, it’s really you!” he exclaimed, his eyes stinging with tears. Nothing could stop the flood of emotion. Such was his joy as he hugged Tungdil that he failed to notice the embrace was not being returned.

Tearing himself loose from Tungdil, Boïndil turned to the dwarves watching him with bated breath. “See!” he called enthusiastically, raising his head so that his words might carry to the battlements at Evildam. “See, our hero has returned! Girdlegard will soon be free of the yoke of manifold evil!” He tapped the black armor. “Ho, Lohasbrand, Lot-Ionan and all the rest of Tion’s cursed issue; expect no mercy now—there’s no escape for you!”

Goda was radiant and wiped tears of joy and relief from her eyes. The dwarf-warriors behind her stared in deepest respect at the hero most knew only from hearsay. A legendary figure had returned to them and had, moreover, just seen off the most terrifying monster ever to emerge from the Black Abyss.

The garrison at the fortress had heard Boïndil’s announcement. Drums and trumpets filled the air, heralding the news through a special melody composed specifically in anticipation of the long-awaited orbit when Tungdil would return. All should learn that the day had come.

Ireheart grinned: “I can imagine some will be thinking the trumpeters have got the fanfare wrong and were intending to send out quite a different set of orders.” He thumped Tungdil heartily on the shoulder and couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. “Let’s go into the fortress and forget about the Black Abyss for now. It’s time to bid you properly welcome. You’ll have to tell us what you’ve been up to, all these long, long cycles. And we’ll have a lot to fill you in on, too.” He bent down to pick up Tungdil’s helmet and gauntlet. Looking him straight in the eye, he told him, “You’ve no idea how happy I am to see you, Scholar.”

Tungdil took his things and half turned, still watching the Black Abyss. “They’ll be back, you know, Ireheart. I took the kordrion by surprise; as soon as its wounds are healed it’ll come creeping out of its hiding place again. And word will soon get around that the barrier has lost its strength. The monsters will form an army and break out again…”

Boïndil pointed up at the massive walls of the stronghold. “That’s why we’ve got the fortress and why we called it Evildam,” he interrupted. “They won’t escape, not a single ugly one of them. And we’ll spike the kordrion all over with our heaviest spears till it looks like a hedgehog and collapses, dead.” He looked over proudly to Goda. “She is now a maga. Our strongest weapon.”

The dwarf-woman had taken a step forward and Tungdil observed her with a strange look in his eye. “You will need her,” he said quietly, looking back at the cleft in the rocks.

Ireheart smiled. “We are more than confident, Scholar. Now you are with us again, nothing can frighten the children of the Smith.” He set off, and the crowd of ubariu, undergroundlings and dwarf-warriors drew back to form a guard of honor to let them pass.

Goda stared at Tungdil as he passed. She had the impression that he didn’t recognize her. His one brown eye had shown no reaction when he had looked her way. And he never once asked about Sirka, she said to herself, her face clouding over. Even if her husband was a pushover, bathed in joy and nostalgia as he was, she was going to be harder to convince. Suspicion had taken hold in her mind.

Goda followed them and the warriors stood guard while they withdrew into the stronghold behind the mighty doors. In the coming orbits, she decided, she would subject this dwarf, whom everyone seemingly held to be Tungdil Goldhand, to closer examination. Even as they entered the fortress to the accompaniment of triumphant fanfares and the acclaim of the troops, she was busy thinking up questions, because if the evil had sent them a false Tungdil there was unquestionably something terrible in store for them all.

Keeping her eyes on Tungdil’s suit of black armor with the mysterious engravings, the dwarf-maga became more and more sure with every step she took that this was not their old friend they were welcoming here. They were letting evil into their midst and were celebrating its arrival!

She looked right and left and up to the towers, where shouts of wild rejoicing could be heard, loud enough to prevent any conversation.

Goda realized she seemed to be the only one in the fortress worried about this Tungdil figure. All the rest were in ecstasy because—despite his not having spoken a single word to them—they were convinced their long-awaited champion had returned to rid them of the evil.

She sighed, and her gaze drifted over to where Yagur, the ubariu leader, stood—and she recognized a similar concern on his face.

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Weyurn,

Mifurdania,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

“And here, highly esteemed spectators, here at my left at the end, we have another legitimate descendant of the unique, incomparable and, for countless decades, never bettered, Incredible Rodario!” announced the man in opulent white attire standing on the same stage that normally saw service for executions. If you looked carefully you could still see the odd tuft of hair stuck in dried blood in the notches on the block. Nobody minded.

Or rather, nobody was allowed to mind.

There was not an inch of space in the square in front of the theater known as the New Curiosum. The covered tribune for the nobles and rich merchants or other privileged burghers was also filled to capacity.

Only the tribune’s first row, reserved for selected notables, was still empty. Such dignitaries seldom if ever came to lighthearted events like this, preferring public beheadings, and the punishments and humiliation ordeals usually meted out here.

A pretty young woman sat in the second row. She had bright tawny orange eyes and, covered by a flimsy veil, beautiful black hair reaching down to her waist. She wore a mantle of black wolf fur wrapped round her and held a cup of mulled wine.

Round the edges of the square, stalls were selling various comestibles ranging from hot sausages and sliced pork to waffles and sweet chestnuts in cream. If anyone was cold they could grab a warm beer or a hot mug of wine, served with honey or spiced to taste. White clouds of steam rose from the many stoves in the market booths and there was music and song coming from the inn.

The young woman smiled as she inhaled all these smells. At last there was a reason to be cheerful, rare enough in these times of occupation by Lohasbrand and his henchmen.

“Is there anything else you’d like, Princess Coïra?” asked her companion, who was of an age to have been perhaps a brother. Under his open brown fur coat he wore leather armor, and a short sword hung at his side. His hair was hidden by a flat padded woolen cap that gave him a harmless appearance. That was the intention.

“Yes, I’d like you not to use that title,” she hissed, flashing her eyes in reproach. “You know what they’ll do to you if they hear you addressing me like that, Loytan.”

Her companion scanned the empty front bench. “There’s nobody here to take me to task for speaking the truth,” he answered quietly but firmly. “You are the princess and your mother would be queen of Weyurn but for the accursed Dragon…”

Coïra placed her hand over his mouth. “Be quiet! You’re risking your life, talking like that! They have eyes and ears everywhere!”

In her mind she could see her mother, imprisoned in her own palace, the Ring of Shame around her neck. Every hour of the orbit she was watched, humiliated and robbed of her authority. If the Dragon decided she should die, his servants would pull the ring tight to strangle her slowly until she suffocated. The princess sighed. “Look at the stage and enjoy what the Incredible Rodario’s descendants have to offer us this time, when they choose their best competitor.”

Loytan smiled obediently and turned toward the stage.

The master of ceremonies was pointing his cane to the end of the line. There were no less than eleven men and six women this cycle.

They were all dressed in showy and extravagantly tailored garments. The fabrics chosen were, one and all, scintillating and amazingly brightly colored. And yet the clothes had been selected in each case—coats, dresses, hats and boots—expressly to make each competitor stand out from the others.

The only one who didn’t conform to type was the fellow at the end of the line.

He was the only one the tailor had provided with togs that didn’t fit. Or perhaps he was standing so poorly that everything he wore seemed to crease and sag in the wrong places.

As appropriate for a descendant of the Incredible Rodario, he had brown hair, worn to his shoulders, and a good bone structure, but his cheeks were rather plump and this detracted from the promise of aristocratic features. The goatee beard, a distinctive mark of the original Incredible Rodario, founder of whole dynasties of renowned actors in many regions of Girdlegard, was disappointingly wispy and badly groomed.

“He calls himself—and I admit it’s one of the more predictable choices—Rodario the Seventh! Applause, if you will!” The master of ceremonies raised his arms to encourage the audience, but the clapping was sporadic and died away quickly.

“By all the gods,” said Loytan, amused. “What a miserable figure he makes in the midst of all those peacocks! He won’t even get a consolation prize.”

“I think it’s… quite clever,” Coïra said in defense. She felt some sympathy for this particular descendant of Rodario. He bore a certain tragic charm. “He’s… different.”

“He’s definitely different.” Loytan laughed out loud.” In my opinion he’ll be the first of the last again. Shall we have a bet, Princess?” He smiled at her happily, then something caught his eye just past her and his expression lost its merriment.

A broad shadow fell over them; Coïra swirled round in fear.

Behind them, four of the Lohasbrander henchmen had entered the tribune unnoticed and were making their way to the first row. They had heavy armor hung with discs of metal under their cloaks and their helmets were in the form of a dragon with folded wings. Each wore an amulet on a silver chain—a dark-green dragon scale, the sign of undisputed power in Weyurn. Thus they outranked all except for their master.

Coïra leaned forward searching the crowd in the square until she located the orcs. They belonged to the Lohasbranders and were their devoted servants. There they were, hanging out in one of the side streets, stuffing their faces. Because of the cold, the meat they were eating was steaming. Coïra didn’t want to know whether it was freshly stewed or just very fresh.

The man at the front grinned at Loytan. He was fat and muscular at the same time; his broad face sported a light blond beard. “Did I just hear you say something you’d better have left unsaid? You know the law, Count Loytan of Loytansberg. It holds even for nobility like yourself. Or especially for nobility like yourself.” He gathered a mouthful of saliva and spat at the young man. “But I’ll overlook it for now. I don’t want to spoil the atmosphere.” He thumped down the steps to take his place straight in front, so that his helmet spoiled Loytan’s view of the stage. “I recommend that you are no longer there when I get up to go. If you’re still there I shall be implementing the orders of Master Lohasbrand.” His comrades laughed as they took their seats.

“Here comes the first round, ladies and gentlemen. You love this part of the contest,” announced the man in white. “It’s the quick-fire slander session that starts here in Mifurdania, where the Incredible Rodario had his theater for so long.” He surveyed the audience, hands on hips. “I can see from quite a few of your faces that your great-grannies used to enjoy going to the Curiosum, but going backstage, of course, I mean.”

The crowd loved it.

Coïra restrained Loytan’s hand, which had wandered to the sword at his belt. “Don’t,” she whispered urgently.

He was shaking with anger. “But…”

“You might get him, but the orcs will finish off your entire family. The Dragon will punish everyone, not just the individual—have you forgotten that?” Coïra took her handkerchief to remove the globule of green spit from Loytan’s face, but he turned aside and wiped it on his own sleeve.

“One day nothing will save him from me,” Loytan growled.

The woman released her hold. The danger was over for the moment. “Leave rebellion to others,” she said quietly. “To those who don’t have families.”

He turned his eyes to the stage again. “You mean leave it to that cowardly rhymester?”

“He’s a proper poet, not just a ballad writer, and he’s certainly not cowardly. The writings he puts on Weyurn’s doors at night have done more to change things than any sword or arrow.” Coïra had noted the jealousy in Loytan’s voice, but it was quite unfounded. Loytan already had a wife of his own and Coïra regarded him more as a big brother and protector. She had so far not met anyone to whom she could give her heart and her innocence.

“What he writes brings only death to those that read and follow it,” Loytan retorted promptly. “I can see the tufts of hair stuck in the blood. The poor wretches had their heads cut off for demanding freedom for the kingdom and for your mother.”

“One more word from you, Loytansberg,” threatened the Lohasbrander in front of them, “and you’ll be the next candidate for the block. Enough of your stupid nonsense. Keep your mouth shut or I’ll make sure you never open it again.” His comrades laughed.

Loytan snorted and grabbed his cup of wine, drowning his response in it.

The master of ceremonies continued, “So let the proceedings commence and let the insults fly. Sons and daughters of Rodario, let’s hear what you’re capable of.”

A young woman was the first to take the stage. She’d stuck on a large mustache and goatee beard, and stepped to the front with an exaggeratedly masculine gait. Standing there, she stroked her artificial facial hair and tapped herself proudly on the codpiece. Her gestures took a rise out of all the men and the audience roared with laughter.

Abruptly she tore off the false beard. “Oh, trapping of man’s vanity—away with you!” she cried. “I’m Ladenia and I’m a woman, as you can plainly see, but I’ll be more of a man than the rest of you!” With an impudent grin on her face she walked along past the other Rodarios until she reached The Incomparable One. “They told me you wanted the title and had the best chance because you were so good-looking.” She emphasized the word and fluttered her lashes, “Because you are so clever” (here she placed her hand at her own brow) “and because you sleep with most of the women in the town and they’ll all be voting for you.” She laughed. “But I can see more men than women in the audience: I was better than you!”

The crowd yelled out and laughed.

“You all know the joke about the orc asking the dwarf for directions, but I know one that’s much funnier,” Ladenia told them. “How many of these useless Rodarios does it take to lift up an orc?”

The Lohasbrander leaned forward expectantly, his left hand raised.

Coïra looked over to where the greenskins were standing. They’d stopped chewing and had drawn their weapons. There was a catastrophe about to happen. As soon as the Lohasbrander completed the signal he was giving they would come charging across the square and put a stop to the show. Just because of a single joke. Ladenia had no idea what she was doing.

“So, what do you think?” continued the woman on the stage. “What’s the matter? Does nobody dare to say?”

Coïra was trying to think how she could distract the Lohasbranders without putting herself in danger. It would be difficult because the Dragon’s men would be delighted to have an opportunity to arrest the daughter of the rightful sovereign.

She was opening her mouth to say something harmless, when Ladenia supplied the punch line. “I’ll tell you then: five. Four to hold him fast and one to dig a hole, because otherwise you couldn’t get the orc’s feet off the ground. None of the weaklings would be able to take the weight.”

Coïra saw the corner of the Lohasbrander’s mouth twitch. He dropped his arm. It wasn’t an insult that had to be punished. It wasn’t even a good joke.

Ladenia realized this herself when a leaden silence fell over the audience. She hastily executed a few nifty dancing steps, circled round and then sang a song until the announcer came up and pushed her back.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve seen that at least this female descendant of the great man can’t hold out much hope of the title,” he said, laughing at her performance. “She’s shown us there’s not much difference between singing and pain.”

The man earned laughter for his cutting words and he invited the next contestant to step forward.

One after another they took the floor, launching viciously satirical attacks on their fellow contenders for the title of “Worthiest Successor of the Incredible Rodario,” the most scurrilous contributions being greeted with uproarious applause; only three contestants attempted black humor or even wit, and they did not go down so well with the audience.

Coïra followed what was happening on stage, but kept her eye on the orcs and the Lohasbranders at the same time. She would have liked to be able to enjoy the performances, but the presence of the hated occupying forces spoiled any pleasure she might have taken. As long as she could remember, they had always been there in the background, the ones who served the Dragon.

She had never seen the Dragon itself, but she’d noted the fear in the faces of the oldest inhabitants of Weyurn when the subject of the winged monster came up. When it first appeared in Weyurn two hundred and fifty cycles ago, the Dragon had laid waste to the kingdom with his white fire and had forced the queen to leave her throne. Wey the Fifth had subjected herself to the Dragon’s rule, not out of cowardice but in order to protect her people.

After that it had been the orcs, the Dragon’s henchmen, who had come to keep watch on activities in the provinces on his behalf. Humans, too, had turned up, willing to serve the Scaly One. These humans gave rise to the present day Lohasbranders, Weyurn’s nobility, devoid of decency or dignity.

Coïra knew that Lohasbrand was intent on taking over the rest of Girdlegard, in order to fill its legendary hoard in the Red Mountains with yet more treasures, but there were too many rivals. Rumor had it that the four enemies had agreed an armistice, but she didn’t think this would be long-lasting. Lohasbrand had extended his sphere of influence until he came up against Lot-Ionan and the kordrion. He’d be sure to make a further attempt soon. She reckoned that was why the guards holding her mother had seemed particularly nervous recently.

Coïra craned her neck to watch the guy calling himself The Incomparable: A good-looking man of about twenty cycles, and the spitting image of the original Rodario, judging from pictures. “He ought to win,” she told Loytan. “He’s got style.”

“And absolutely no chance of success,” he cut in. “Don’t you hear what the plebs are calling for? They want mockery and spite, not clever words and convoluted sentences where you can never tell where the meaning is going.”

Coïra leaned forward in her seat to have a closer look at the actor of her choice. “Where’s he from?”

Loytan consulted one of the flyers that had been handed out. “Here we are, Rodario the Incomparable. He’s from the next-door kingdom of Tabaîn. He apparently runs a theater there and appears in Gauragar and Idoslane on tour.” He looked at the man. “Good figure of a man. For an actor.”

That was exactly what Coïra was thinking. In her imagination he was taking on the persona of the unknown poet who held the occupying forces up to ridicule and scorn and was encouraging the people of Mifurdania to rebel against the Dragon and the Lohasbranders, reminding them there had been a time when their nation had not been oppressed and forced to pay tribute in this way. And he gave them hope for a future in which they would again be free of fear.

He represented a danger to the Lohasbranders and the orcs. He was held to be responsible for at least thirteen killings. It was not just a sharp tongue he wielded.

The Incomparable One from Tabaîn exactly fitted her idea of the unknown poet, on whose head a price was set—a price large enough to keep a hundred Weyurn citizens in comfort until the end of their days; be that as it may, no one had tried to denounce him to the Dragon yet.

Now it was the turn of Rodario the Seventh to win over the crowd with his ready wit. But the very way he moved when he stepped to the front of the stage was enough to tell the audience this was going to be embarrassing. Horribly embarrassing.

“Oy, lad,” someone called out. “Hope you’ve rehearsed a bit this time, or we’ll have you back in the tar barrel and cover you with sawdust!”

“Or dunk you in the privy,” came a second voice. “Then at least you’ll be the champion when it comes to stinking.”

The people laughed and the hecklers were applauded. The white-clad master of ceremonies called for quiet. “Let him make a fool of himself without being interrupted, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with a smirk. “At least he has shown us every cycle so far that he’s really good at that.” He pointed at the Seventh Rodario with his cane. “We’re waiting!”

Coïra hoped for his sake for some distraction to prevent him starting his performance. A lightning strike, a snowstorm, even maybe a house catching fire. She looked at Loytan, who grinned and stood up in order to hear better and see over the Lohasbrander’s helmet.

“Behold the handsome Uncompared…” he started with a quivering voice, and the audience in the front row were chortling already.

“Excuse me, but the name is The Incomparable,” corrected the man himself. His interruption was friendly but assured. “Start again.”

The Seventh Rodario cleared his throat but sounded more like a woman than a man when he spoke. “Behold the handsome Incomparable,” he said, addressing his rival, who gave him a friendly wave and made a winding-up gesture to indicate he should speed up. However, The Seventh suddenly lost all the color from his cheeks. “But like that it won’t rhyme with the next line,” he said, horrified. He scratched his beard feverishly. “What shall I do?”

The audience were in stitches.

Coïra sighed and pitied his senseless courage. He’d be leaving the competition in humiliation and disgrace—and next cycle he’d be on stage again.

Rodario the Seventh went red. The laughter brought him to his senses and he clenched his fists. “There he stands, all long and tall,” he shouted above the noise of the throng. “But he’ll be feeling ever so small. When he sees my act. And that’s a fact.” He gave a hurried bow to the audience and stepped back to join the other contestants.

Loytan looked at Coïra and laughed. “Was that it? That can’t have been the whole performance?”

“I think maybe it was.” She looked at her hero, The Incomparable One, who was grinning to himself. He was enjoying his victory quietly, not making a triumph out of it. This endeared him to her even more. She was surprised to find her heart beating wildly when she looked at him.

People started chucking rotten vegetables and snowballs at Rodario the Seventh. He put up with it just like he endured the catcalls and abuse.

The Incomparable stepped forward unexpectedly and raised his arms. “Stop that!” he ordered the crowd. “He doesn’t deserve to be treated like that. He may not be a word-acrobat and he may not be the best-looking, but he’s still a descendant of the great man himself. Same as me.”

“Are you sure of that?” yelled a woman.

The Incomparable had made her out straightaway and pointed. “Who are you to poke fun at him?” he rebuked her. He no longer had a genial air about him. “You can’t even read or write, can you?”

“It’s enough if I can see and hear this idiot!” she countered. Her response was greeted with renewed laughter.

Rodario looked at his defender, who was just about to make a barbed retort. “Let it go,” he said, smiling sadly. “She’s right, after all.” He brushed the rotten lettuce leaves from his shoulders onto the floor, and shook the bits of ice out of his hair. “I’m as bad at this as ever.”

“Stand tall, you’re a descendant of the Incredible Rodario!” said The Incomparable. In a dramatic gesture he whirled around, swinging his wide mantle effectively—and as he did so some papers fell out onto the ground.

Most came to rest on the stage, but a couple were caught by a gust of wind and wafted out of reach before the actor could grab them.

The same gust blew one of the papers over the heads and outstretched fingers of the excited mob toward the tribune, where it fell directly into Coïra’s hands.

The first line alone, in its extravagant handwriting, was enough for the young woman to know that her wishes had become reality. The text began: “Citizens of Mifurdania, stand up to the evil that comes from the mountains!”

An armored gauntlet grabbed at the paper; the Lohasbrander had snatched it out of her grasp. “Read it out,” he told his comrade, passing him the leaflet. “I want to know what else The Incomparable has prepared in the way of speechifying.”

Coïra looked at Loytan, who understood immediately that what was written on the paper was not harmless scribble.

It seemed even the second Lohasbrander wasn’t able to decipher the words.

“Perhaps I can help?” Coïra offered her services in a flash of inspiration.

The leader of the Lohasbrander turned to his companion, retrieved the paper and handed it back to the young woman. “What does it say?”

Coïra pretended to be reading out the text, inventing some trivial speech sufficiently poor for the Lohasbrander not to want to hear it again from the actor’s mouth.

Hardly had she finished speaking when the Lohasbrander turned back toward the stage. “Load of rubbish,” he said. “No better than La… what’s her name, that girl, earlier. Stupid competition.”

Coïra looked at The Incomparable Rodario, took the paper and folded it carefully. The actor made a deep bow. He didn’t know exactly what she had done, but as the armored men had not leaped on to the stage to arrest him and cut off his head, he assumed she had lied to save his skin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that was the first part of our entertainment,” announced the master of ceremonies. “A ballot of rotten vegetables and snowballs has decided that Rodario the Seventh will not be taking part in any further competitions. He has withdrawn with dignity. That’s good news for Ladenia, the mistress of Un-wit.” The audience laughed again. The man in white jumped down from the dais and walked over to the Seventh Rodario to congratulate him on withdrawing from the contest. He took out a dried flower from under his coat and handed it to him. “Here, for you, a stink-rose.”

“He’ll have a whole bouquet of those at home!” joked one of the audience. “He can put them in…”

“Am I the master of ceremonies or is it you, Big Mouth? That’s enough now!” The announcer cut the heckler short, waving his cane. “Tomorrow we have performances in the New Curiosum and you can get your tickets at the stall on the square.” He bowed and was applauded for the way he had run the contest. He thanked the audience with a series of theatrical bows.

Rodario the Seventh stood next to the steps looking rather lost with his dried flower. Studying it sadly, he failed to see members of the audience moving bad-temperedly out of the way to make room for a troop of orcs moving over through the market square. Twenty of them surrounded the stage, and four climbed up.

Anyone acquainted with the history of the orcs in Girdlegard would have been surprised to see these particular specimens. The difference in their appearance, it was said, came from the fact that they were from the western part of the Outer Lands and had always been followers of Lohasbrand.

Their height was impressive, and though the ugly shape and greenish-black skin characteristic of orcs showed no change, they certainly didn’t stink the way others did. They looked after their weapons better than in the past and didn’t go about the place yelling and grunting. They were clever and behaved sensibly—all of which made these Dragon-serving monsters much more dangerous.

They clanked and stomped their way over the boards and their captain positioned himself face to face with The Incomparable One. Coïra was horrified to see that he was holding one of the papers in his hand.

“Damnation,” Loytan cursed under his breath. “Your trick nearly worked, Princess.” He placed one hand on the pommel of his sword and with the other took her by the elbow. “Time for us to leave.”

Coïra was about to object. “I…”

“You told lies for the man,” he whispered to her. “What do you think the Lohasbrander will do to you when he realizes? The Dragon has been waiting for an opportunity like this!”

She turned pale and got up cautiously from her seat. Loytan did likewise and followed her to cover her back.

The leader of the Lohasbranders had got up and was looking at the stage. “What’s that, Pashbar?”

The orc held up the paper in his fist. “A scurrilous leaflet in this man’s writing; this criminal who calls himself the Poet of Freedom.” He pulled out his shining jagged-edged sword and placed the blade at The Incomparable One’s throat. “It came from him. Everyone saw it.”

“What?” The Lohasbrander looked over his shoulder for Coïra but saw she had left. “So that’s it!” He drew his sword from its scabbard. “Arrest the actor and throw him in prison. And find the queen’s daughter! She tried to protect him!”

“But…” The comrade on his right was unsure. “She’s a maga, they say, just like her mother, and I…”

“I don’t care what she is,” he shouted furiously. “Find her! And if you can’t catch her, then kill her. The fact that she’s run off is proof enough of her guilt. She and that criminal are in cahoots.” He ran down the steps of the tribune and rushed through the throng with his companions.

The Incomparable Rodario did not dare to move. The sharp blade was too close to his throat, so he had to allow himself to be taken captive. The orcs tied his arms behind his back while their captain stared at him intently.

“So it was you ambushing and killing our soldiers,” growled Pashbar, baring his fearful teeth. “I shall ask Wielgar to let me eat you alive, so I can hear you scream at each bite.”

The Incomparable One wasn’t intimidated. He smiled and allowed the orcs to lead him away.

It had grown eerily quiet in the market square.

As The Incomparable One passed Rodario the Seventh he turned his head and said, “Stand tall, my friend. That’s what’s important, whatever you do. Never forget that. Next competition you’ll make the grade.” Pashbar gave him a shove and he moved on.

Nobody could remember a cycle when two contestants pulled out of the competition within minutes of each other.

And certainly not under circumstances such as these.