by Markus Heitz
“Thanks,” he said, noticing that the youth had a mounted capsule splinter on a leather thong hanging round his neck. “So. You’ve found a use for it?”
Heidor nodded proudly. “I hid the other pieces, Master Dwarf.”
“That’s the way.” Ireheart winked at him. “Have you heard the one about the orc that asked a dwarf for directions? And the dwarf says …”
“Riders!”
“No, not riders,” Ireheart mumbled, following the boy’s glance to the south. “That’s a stupid answer.”
They saw a pony with a squat figure on its back. A cloud of dust thrown up by the galloping hooves showed the direction they had come from.
“And there’s another dwarf!” Heidor said, pointing eastward. “Do you think they’ve arranged to meet?”
“It’ll be the wager I told you about.” Ireheart got up and raised the tankard to his lips. Here we go. “Bring three more beers.”
Heidor hurried off to do his bidding.
Ireheart had invented the story with the wager. A dwarf far from home and making no effort to get back to his homeland was going, sooner or later, to arouse suspicion. The captain of the way-station had plenty of questions. Ireheart spun him a line about a wager he had lost: the task had been to get as many dwarves as possible to turn up in one place at the same time. It was a kind of test.
The captain had pretended to go along with it, because having Ireheart stay was providing a nice little earner. But he was probably curious.
Let him wonder. It would not cause trouble for Ireheart if the commander asked Mallenia what the dwarf was doing, and how he should deal with him. Once they’re all here, we can start and I shan’t have to answer any more silly questions. He remained in the shade, staring at the crossroads.
Ireheart reckoned that the rider from the south was Beligata; she called herself Hardblow or sometimes Deathstrike, whichever took her fancy. She used to live in the Black Mountains but now she belonged to the Freelings. Along with several other dwarves under his command, he had taken her to inspect the crater and to ask the elves how the work was progressing. Ireheart liked her and trusted her implicitly.
The other pony would probably be bringing Rognor Mortalblow. The one-time king of the Thirdlings was a warrior of renown and an experienced strategist who had turned the Black Mountains into an impregnable fortress.
Before long Ireheart could see that it was indeed Beligata. She waved, spurring the pony on. “Welcome! You’re the first.”
“I came as fast as I could,” she said, reining in her pony in front of the porch; she was wearing a blackened chainmail shirt under her grey mantle. Dusty and sweaty from the journey, she stepped into the shade, her double axe in her right hand. She bowed her head before going down on one knee to greet him. “High King Boïndil, I am yours to command.”
“Get up,” he muttered. “Nobody here knows who I am.”
He called out over his shoulder, “Heidor, where’s our beer?”
She got to her feet, light eyes full of questions. “Why is that? They’d be honoured to have you as their guest.”
“Fine by me, but they’ll have to wait until we’re recounting our adventures in a couple of cycles’ time.” As usual, he was fascinated by the fine line of scar on her right cheek. The damaged skin had a greenish sheen. She had never explained the injury. “We’re dwarves with a wager to win, that’s all.”
“I see. A wager. Right.”
Heidor came over with the beers on a tray. He was astonished at how easily the dwarf girl shouldered her heavy double-headed axe. “Here you are.” He held the tray out to them. “The best our ice cellar can supply.”
“Take care, it’s practically frozen solid. That’s how they like it here,” Ireheart warned her.
An imposing red-haired dwarf arrived, almost as tall as a human. He had a long-handled axe tucked into his belt and he wore a knee-length garment covered in metal plates for protection.
“Don’t you start drinking without me!” he called out. “I’ve earned one.” He slid out of the saddle and came over to join them in the shade. “Give my pony a bucket of that water, lad, will you?” He grasped the third tankard and crashed it against the other two in a toast before draining the contents. “My Vraccas, that’s cold. My guts are turning to ice!”
Beligata and Ireheart laughed out loud; they all shook hands.
Heidor stared at the newcomer, whose broad stature was unusual for a dwarf. “But you …” he said, terrified. “You’re … Hargorin Deathbringer!”
How does he know him? Ireheart noted the casual atmosphere change. The boy must have known the Thirdling king from back when he used to collect älfar taxes for the Triplets, at the head of the dreaded Black Squadron. The Desirers, these enforcers were called.
“You know, he only took on the role of collector of dues in order to deceive the älfar,” Ireheart told Heidor, placing his free hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t be frightened of him.”
“Don’t know how I can stop being afraid,” the pale youth stammered, the tray shaking in his hands. “I recall only too well how he came to our village. I remember the beatings. The punishments handed out.”
Hargorin’s face showed his regret. “I did what I did, my boy,” he said gently, “but if I hadn’t acted the part, you would not be standing before me now, a free man. I worked in the name of the black-eyes, but never with an easy heart.”
Heidor said nothing and scurried back into the house.
The initial good humour was poisoned and had died.
The dwarves drained their tankards in silence, as if they could wash down the past with the cooling drink.
After a while Ireheart cleared his throat to break the silence. “Why have you come in person, Hargorin? I asked you to send your best warriors.”
The red-haired dwarf put down his beer and leaned against one of the porch supports. “I am the best warrior my tribe has to offer. And if it’s a case of seeking out the greatest hero of our race, who do you think I’d want to send?” He exchanged glances with Beligata.
“Can you show us the message Tungdil sent you?”
“Indeed I will. I’m just waiting for the others to turn up.” Ireheart wondered if he could call Heidor back or whether it was wiser not to make the boy confront Hargorin again. The dispatch riders would probably be gossiping by now about the former commander of the Black Squadron. There was always the danger they might want to get their revenge. “I think we should be moving on.”
“We? Oh, no. You won’t be going along.” Beligata laughed. “That’d be ridiculous.”
“I am the best warrior of my tribe,” Ireheart protested.
“You are the High King,” she countered sharply. “I told you last time we met that the tribes and their clans need the presence of a strong leader to give them stability and motivation. Your age, your experience and your history made it essential you become the High King and, what’s more, stay High King. You won’t be able to rule from Phondrasôn.”
“And if we didn’t come back and you went to the Eternal Smithy, your loss would be more than Vraccas’ Children could cope with,” Hargorin took over. “And when Tungdil—”
“The false Tungdil,” Ireheart interjected.
“Who can say? The proof won’t be evident until we bring back the true Scholar.” Beligata was in no doubt as to the eventual success of their mission. “The tribes were unanimous, Ireheart. They have confidence in you.”
“And however things turn out in the next few orbits and cycles, they’ll be glad to have you making the decisions.” Hargorin gazed out at the distance. “That foundling child will cause no end of trouble, I’m sure. For us and for the elves.”
“I’ve ordered the gates to be closed. There won’t be any more new elves coming in.” Ireheart felt the need to quench his thirst starting to get out of hand. The more he tried to ignore the craving, the stronger it became.
“These elves we’ve refused entry to—if even one of the
m contacts the Council of Kings, the humans will be in uproar, not to mention the elves already here in Girdlegard.” Hargorin put his right hand on to the head of his axe.
“By then the elves will have had to answer for another deed that’ll cause outrage enough.” Ireheart told the others about the encounter with the fatally-injured Tabaîn warrior and his testimony. “I can’t make out what’s afoot.”
“Nor can I. Which is all the more reason for you to stay here in Girdlegard. Convene the Council of Kings. It’s vital the humans get to hear about this.” Beligata nodded, thoughtfully stroking the scar on her face. “Is it true that Coïra has extended her search for a new magic source?”
Ireheart started to answer, “That’s what it said in the letter that Phenîlas …” but he stopped. How do we know he was telling the truth? The elves could have forged the paper, or altered it. At the same time, he resented how quickly these bad thoughts came rushing into his mind. It seemed the ancient feud between the two races was going to be hard to eradicate.
“We’d best ask one of her trainee famuli.” With a heavy heart he had to admit to himself that he could not go with them. “You’re right. I must see to things here in Girdlegard. There’s too much at stake.”
Beligata pointed northward. “Look! A couple of Fifthlings on ponies. I can see the symbol on their chainmail. This must be Balyndis’ delegation.”
Ireheart came over to Hargorin’s side. They watched the two newcomers ride up.
“I am glad you have found your way here,” he called to them in greeting.
“It is an honour for us to be here,” responded the girl dwarf with peat-coloured hair poking out from under her helmet. “This stalwart Fifthling warrior here at my side is Belogar Strifehammer of the clan of the Boulder Heavers. And I am Gosalyn Landslip of the Fifthling clan of Tunnel Seekers. Our queen sent us to report to you that the gates have been duly closed, as ordered.”
The pair dismounted and were about to kneel in homage until Ireheart stopped them.
“So it was you two who found the abandoned settlement in the Grey Mountains? How do you feel about some more adventures?”
Belogar nodded; his brown beard had caught the dust of the journey. “And this time I shan’t hold back if I see something that seems odd. No matter what it is.” Ireheart knew that this was the Fifthling that had wanted to kill the girl Sha’taï when he first encountered her; he would not break his promise.
“Whatever seems odd to you,” Beligata contradicted him, “is irrelevant. What you will do is what your High King commands. Or the leader of the expedition.”
Belogar flashed a scowl at her. “So who are you to talk like that?”
She gave her credentials.
“Aha. You’ve quite a reputation as a warrior woman.” He took a tight hold on the handle of his club. “But then so have I. So …”
“You’re a warrior woman?” Beligata feigned astonishment. “By Vraccas! One would never have guessed you were female.”
Hargorin burst out laughing. “A sharp weapon and a sharp tongue.”
Belogar’s expression changed from surprised to bad- tempered.
Gosalyn grabbed his arm before he could give vent to his fury. All Hargorin managed was a stifled grunt.
Ireheart was reminded of the time when his brother Boïndal was still alive. His twin had always been able to calm him down when he got angry and was threatening to erupt in a frenzy of rage.
“Let’s wait till the warriors from the other dwarf tribes arrive,” he said, heading for the door to fetch his own beer. Heidor had looked too frightened.
He had taken three strides when he was suddenly blinded. The whole area was swamped in darkness.
It could not have been the beer. Ireheart stretched out his hands to feel his way. The others shouted out, obviously experiencing the same phenomenon.
So that means …
A vulgar chortle rang out. Then the sun reappeared and Ireheart could see his surroundings again.
Right next to him he saw a dwarf he knew very well indeed—unmistakable in his tionium-plated black leather armour with its reinforced skirt of steel discs. He had pushed up the visor of the black leather helmet, and the studs and ornamental silver-thread designs flashed in the sunlight; he was carrying a rucksack.
“Balodil!” Boïndil had gone through many an adventure with this bizarre zhadár. They had fought side by side for Girdlegard’s sake. But this dwarf, who had been transformed by magic älfar potions, had not been invited to join them. “What are you doing here?”
“That old name is now consigned to history. Now I’m known as Carâhnios. In the älfar tongue it means the Exterminator.” He bared his black teeth; his beard was cut close. “And exterminating is what I do. Been doing it for a whole cycle now. Successfully, at that. Haven’t you heard about me? All my heroic deeds?” He giggled. “There’s twenty-three älfar less than there were before. They keep sending them against me and I just take what I need.” His eyes sparkled with madness. A halo of darkness flared around the zhadár as if it emanated from inside him, eager to blot out the sun. “Their blood is a vital ingredient for my new potion. Far superior to the other one,” he murmured. “Can I interest you in a top-up, High King?”
“No.” Ireheart swiftly rejected the offer and moved sharply away from the new arrival, who now looked like a living shadow. The last of the zhadár—or Invisibles, as the elite fighting unit had been known until its destruction—spread a painful sense of unease. Ireheart’s glance fell on the weapon Carâhnios wore at his side and felt a shiver up and down his spine.
“Where did you get that?” he croaked, unable to speak naturally.
“What? This?” the zhadár drew the night-dark weapon, its blade longer than a human’s arm. It bore on one side a row of spikes arrayed like the teeth of a comb, while on the other side the metal was like a conventional sword. “Got it off a blacksmith. Dead cheap.” He gave a braying laugh.
“Don’t pretend to be stupid.” Ireheart had regained his composure. “Who gave you Bloodthirster?”
“Told you. I bought it. Very recently. You’ll like this: it was a Thirdling that sold it to me. After any battle, the commercially-minded trawl through the field looking for loot: weapons and other things the dead have no further use for but the living are happy to buy.” Carâhnios essayed a swipe in the air with the blade. “I liked it. Only the gods will know if it’s the genuine article—Tungdil’s Bloodthirster. But if it is”—he giggled, drooling—“then it’s a bargain.” He stowed the weapon. “Either way, it serves me well. Good for killing älfar.”
Ireheart stared at the weapon. Is he entitled to use it?
He could not remember where Bloodthirster had ended up after the battle at the Black Abyss. On that orbit he had been overwhelmed by the death of his friend.
Bloodthirster was the second most powerful weapon in the whole of Girdlegard. The Scholar had forged it himself from the sword of one of the Inextinguishables. The evil that lodged within the metal suited the zhadár, and now it was being deployed against the älfar.
The thought of the weapon being used against its original owners pleased Ireheart but he was deeply disturbed to know Carâhnios was in charge of it.
“Keep your talents under wraps, or you’ll scare all the humans and provoke an attack,” Hargorin said. “We know what you’re capable of.”
Carâhnios harrumphed with disappointment. “I only wanted to show you”—he lifted his right arm to display the swirls of darkness that floated from his gloved fingertips—“how useful I can be to you. If you’re travelling through elf territory, or if you’re in Phondrasôn clandestinely. Believe me. You will need my arts.”
Ireheart stared at him. “How do you know about that?”
“The last älf I killed told me.” Carâhnios shrugged off his rucksack and extracted a bloodstained letter with the High King’s seal broken. “He was waiting about half an orbit’s ride from here and shot the two dwarves you’re waitin
g for out of the saddle with his arrows.” He pressed the rolled parchment into Ireheart’s hand. “I found him, killed him and saw the message. Thought to myself, I’d be an excellent substitute. And then of course it occurred to me that down there”—he stamped on the ground—“there’ll be a few more black-eyes I can do away with.” His terrible, distorted grin caused shudders of horror in the others.
Ireheart looked at the red-stained letter the zhadár had given him. All the warriors and warrior women we were expecting—they’re all dead.
“Right,” he agreed, reluctantly. “You can go with them. Otherwise it will take too long. Time is of the essence.” He gestured toward the entrance. “Come on. I want to share the Scholar’s message with you. It’s vital you understand why I am convinced the real Tungdil is still alive.”
They followed the High King into the main building, where, apart from Heidor, there were also five despatch riders at table. They were riveted by the sight of the dwarves and when Carâhnios stepped in they froze, spoons halfway to their mouths. Soup dripped back into bowls. The zhadár’s outward appearance and uncanny vibe sent them into a trance.
Ireheart led his group to the table that was farthest away and they sat and put their heads together. Only then did he take out the disc he had recovered from one of the capsules. Placing it where the others could read it, he went over to Heidor to order beers.
Ireheart did not need to read Tungdil’s words again. He knew them by heart.
Dear Ireheart, my cherished friend, much missed,
Tell the Children of the Smith: hold on to hope as I have been doing in this dark place.
I will soon return and I pray Vraccas permits me to see many old friends alive.
The search has begun for a way out of this place and I am sending messengers so you may know that I live and have never forgotten you.
Preserve Girdlegard at all costs, for thoughts of that dear land and of yourself, Ireheart, are what help me to survive.
Warmest greetings,
Your Scholar
Tungdil
Evading the dwarf’s eyes, Heidor did not speak to Boïndil while he filled the tankards.
