by Markus Heitz
And I thought I would spend my days safely in the tower. Carmondai dodged a sword thrust and a stabbing dagger, kicked the second guard in the groin, and punched the third in the face, hurling the soldier at his captain so that both fell to the floor.
The älf jumped over them and made for the door.
“Help!” Sha’taï shouted out of the window. “By all the gods! We’re being attacked by the älf! He’s trying to kill us all!”
How gladly I would wring her neck. Carmondai saw the soldiers struggling to their feet to set after him.
If he didn’t get down the stairs and out through the town swiftly enough, he would end his long life on an improvised gallows. An attack against the child and then violence against the queen’s soldiers? His powers of producing darkness and instilling fear would not protect him from a furious mob.
“Stay here and face your punishment!” The captain was at his heels.
Carmondai turned and delivered a sharp uppercut to the captain’s chin, lifting the man off his feet before he crumpled to the ground. Carmondai rushed down the spiral staircase.
He could hear the shouts of his pursuers and, each time he passed a window, Sha’taï’s accusations as she begged and cried out to the townspeople for help.
Inàste, if I survive this, I’ll sacrifice whatever you desire. Carmondai did not waste time looking round to see what was happening but ran as fast as he could away from the council building, taking a left turn down an alley.
People were pointing and starting to run after him. The queen’s brand on his face would not protect him now.
And if you’d like that scheming child as a sacrificial offering, I’ll be happy to oblige! Carmondai was now panting with effort, dodging down alleyways and side streets wherever he could. Having studied the layout of Oakenburgh from his overhead vantage point for some time now, he knew exactly which direction offered the best chance of escape.
Inquisitive eyes followed his progress and busy mouths passed the news along, keeping the hunt on his trail. The curious, and those too cowardly to join the pursuit, popped their heads out of their windows to watch from above, throwing objects and excrement down at his head.
He reached the river and dived in, his heart beating wildly.
The water of the Hulmen was cold; the shock of it took his breath. The current carried him off and he was able to use some of the free-floating logs for cover. He feared it would not be long before he was shot at. Several people appeared on the bank, among them soldiers with crossbows. He ducked his head down between the timbers floating downstream. He picked up a few splinters when the bolts were loosed, but nothing significant.
Carmondai knew Mallenia would not be able to protect him any longer, even if she wanted to. There will be so many different versions by now of what actually occurred. And I’m sure there are such awful stories about my alleged cruelty that as a story-teller myself, I’d have to bow in admiration. He drank some of the river water as he pondered what to do. All that running had made him thirsty.
Even if the blonde queen of Idoslane issued the command, she could not realistically expect the älf to be delivered to her alive.
Sha’taï is clever and has no scruples. Carmondai was carried along by the current and left Oakenburgh behind. He planned to leave the river as soon as possible given that the town had plenty of small boats in which to pursue him. He would make his way on foot. He would have to abandon his treasures: all his work had been stored in the tower. All his records about the past and the present.
I’ll get them back somehow. It would be unforgivable to leave them in barbarian hands. Carmondai registered the smell of damp bark and timber resin.
His heart rate had settled. The flight had awoken the old fire inside him. For a whole cycle he had been a humiliated figure—the broken älf, the captive, a predator whose teeth had been forcibly removed. Tamed. Subordinate. The animal had shaken off its chains, albeit not of its own volition. Now he had to rely on his own instincts to stay alive. He had his natural powers and the skills life had taught him.
Presumably neither Mallenia nor Sha’taï had any idea that there was more to him than being a mere story-teller, record-keeper and artist, able to entertain his audience. The barbarians knew that Carmondai had assisted in the construction, planning and design of Dsôn Bhará, from whence the Inextinguishables had once ruled the whole of Girdlegard.
But nobody knew he was an experienced warrior and tactician and that he used to be one of the few lance-bearers who was privileged to ride a night-mare. And it was unlikely anyone would ever learn about this side of him.
I’m taking up the gauntlet, Sha’taï.
He had to think of somewhere to go that no one would expect.
Think it through, make a plan and execute it.
He could only think of one place that would do. But the words insane and deadly dangerous came to mind.
He heard dogs barking in the distance. They had been set on his trail.
They’re going to a lot of trouble. The älf left his cover where the bank was less steep, keen to reach land before the river took him past the sawmills.
Their efforts will get them nowhere.
Avalanches are the winter tears of the mountains.
Dwarf saying
X
Girdlegard
United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane
6492nd solar cycle, early autumn
Ireheart made quickly for the courier station from whence he had sent out the search party to find his friend. The drumming of his mount’s hooves merged with the sounds of the other animals.
This time the High King was accompanied by thirty soldiers, male and female. It was possible that powers were at work in Girdlegard that would not welcome the return of the homeland’s greatest hero and he was taking no chances. After the mysterious way the proceedings at the Council of Kings had ended, he was prepared for more surprises. Only this time he preferred to rely on the weapons and shields of his dwarves.
Ireheart had been astonished to get the message about the search party’s return. He had only just arrived in the Blue Mountains when the news reached him. He barely had time to let to his wife, Goda, bring him up to date with a report on defence improvements before saddling a fresh pony and heading north once more. As the rapid tunnel connections were not in operation, there was nothing for it but to ride, no matter how little he liked the idea.
He passed the oak where he had buried Tenkil and he said a brief prayer to Vraccas for the brave warrior’s sake. If it hadn’t been for him, we’d never have heard about the Scholar. His destination appeared on the horizon and he could see only two horses in the paddock. There must be a great deal of news making the rounds if all the despatch riders were out. This worried him, although he had no specific reason for his concern.
The group of riders headed for the courier station, signalling their approach with a rolling cloud of dust from their cavalcade, together with the sounds of clinking weapons and armour. The station captain appeared at the threshold to check out the unexpected visitors. He held his sword drawn until he recognised the High King.
“Well, well,” he called out above the noise of their arrival. The group came to a halt and their cloud of dust swept over the man. “Here you are again. I don’t know if our cellar can cope with the likes of you for long.”
Ireheart laughed and dismounted. “We shan’t be staying long. You ice-cold brew is safe.” He gestured for ten of his soldiers to dismount and follow him. The others kept watch. He went up to the captain. “It is time to introduce myself properly: my name is Boïndil Doubleblade from the Secondling tribe clan of the Axe Swingers, High King of the dwarf tribes.”
“I knew who you were. I could tell from your stature, your weapon, the emblems and insignia. You are well known throughout Girdlegard. I’d have to have been blind not to see it was you.” The captain inclined his head respectfully. “Your friends await you within. We have looked after them well.”
&nbs
p; Ireheart could not contain his excitement. I wonder what he looks like. Will he look different from that other Tungdil? His thoughts were tumbling over each other as he approached the door to the inn, mouth dry, blood pounding in his ears.
Beligata, Gosalyn and Hargorin were seated round one of the tables, still looking the worse for wear after their exhausting ordeal. The red-haired dwarf was missing a lower leg; the stump was padded, ready for a wooden limb. His crutches were propped against the edge of the table. They were all wearing their chainmail as if about to plunge into a new adventure.
The three stood when the High King entered the room, Beligata assisting Deathbringer to his feet. “No. Don’t get up,” he said, going over to them. “And Belogar’s body?” he asked, as he shook each of them by the hand, all the while glancing round.
“We had to … there wasn’t much …” Gosalyn started to explain and then stopped. She put the ring on the table. “This is what we are bringing home for his clan.” Her voice broke.
Ireheart laid a comforting hand on her shoulder and she gave a brave smile. “He will always be remembered and celebrated for his deeds.” Looking at Hargorin’s leg, he promised, “You shall have the best artificial limb that can be produced.”
“Someone’s already at work on that.” Deathbringer pointed behind him. “He’s out in the smithy. I don’t think he’ll have seen you arrive.”
“Is he alone?”
“Yes.”
“And the zhadár? Is he still roaming the land hunting down black-eyes?”
“Tungdil killed him and left his body back in the tunnels,” Beligata answered. “Together with one of the black-eyes disguised as an elf.” She stepped forward to hand him the phial on which the älfar runes read Elf eyes. “The elves were out to get us, High King. They may have disguised themselves as älfar but we saw through their trickery.”
An älf pretending to be an elf, and elves pretending to be älfar? What the blazes is happening out there in the forest? “We’ll talk more very soon.” Ireheart straightened up. “You will all be receiving generous rewards for your courage. You shall never have to worry about earning your bread.”
He went past them and over to the side door that led to the stables and the smithy. He told his guards to remain in the main room. He did not want witnesses when he met his friend. This time it must be him. Vraccas, let it be him. No more disappointments.
He could hear the bellows working and the coals hissing as they were made red hot. Ireheart opened the intervening door and felt a blast of heat from the forge. Then there came a rhythmic clanging as hammer blows fell repeatedly on iron. Sparks flew up.
There he is!
A sturdy dwarf in a dark red, knee-length tunic stood with his back turned, a leather apron knotted firmly. He had rolled his sleeves all the way up to his muscular shoulders.
Numerous old cuts and incisions showed as scars in the red glow from the fire, and there were dwarf runes tattooed on his skin. The long brown hair was tied back in a braid.
Or perhaps it isn’t him after all? Ireheart stole round to see the profile while the other dwarf worked away at the anvil.
No question: the face was that of his Scholar. But a good deal of it was badly burned and the scar that ran in a straight line from his right temple to under his tunic must have received bad treatment. The left eye was hidden by a white leather patch.
The hammer at the anvil was getting faster, dancing around on a hinge he was fixing bolts to and welding to the fitting. He was working on a metal leg.
“Scholar,” Ireheart murmured, not really intending to speak so low.
The raised hammer paused in mid-air.
Tungdil turned his head slowly and he lowered his arm. “Isn’t it odd?” he said, his voice thick with emotion as he laid the hammer down. “I’ve been longing for this moment for two hundred and fifty cycles, but now it’s arrived, I’m afraid.”
“Afraid? How?” Ireheart’s throat was constricted and his mouth dry. So dry he would even have downed the beer they served ice-cold from their cellars here.
“Because you might not believe me when I say I am the real Tungdil Goldhand. I understand another one turned up from Phondrasôn and did heroic deeds.” He took off his leather apron. “I have nothing in the way of proof. Only my memories of every orbit I was lucky enough to spend in Girdlegard. Every detail. Every word you and I spoke to each other. Balyndis. Sirka. I remember everything.” He displayed his scarred and calloused hands. “Test me. Put any question you like. Keep interrogating me until you are positive it’s really Tungdil Goldhand you’ve got standing before you. Then send me to Balyndis and any of the dwarves who’ll still remember me. Get them to test me, too.” A long exhalation. He rubbed the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “But let’s do it over some good black beer.”
He is quite different from the Scholar who emerged from the abyss a cycle ago. Ireheart’s mouth was already opening with the first question.
“But for pity’s sake, not the wretched orc-meets-dwarf joke. And if you try to tease me with mention of dwarf girls and smelly cheese, I shall consider it an insult.”
Ireheart burst out laughing. “So it really hurt your feelings, that time?”
“It was intolerably inappropriate, given that I was the heir apparent to the High King.” He grinned. “And now you rule over all the dwarf tribes. How times change. Did they make you do ordeals? Did you have to copy a page of writing? Or lead an expedition?”
“They voted. Simple as that.” Ireheart smiled at Tungdil. “Forgive me for not seizing you in my embrace and rejoicing as the moment demands. But the last time I met a Tungdil I was …” He had to swallow. “I thought he was the real one. I believed it so strongly, with my heart and with my head. You … he performed heroic deeds, he saved us, as the Scholar … as you would have done, and then he was killed, and …” Ireheart took a lungful of the smoky air and fell silent, to compose himself. “It was not easy for me or the dwarves or indeed Girdlegard as a whole. And after your … after the first Tungdil’s death, I was convinced I had lost you for ever. It was only gradually that certain doubts crept in. Then more doubts. Then a flicker of hope. And suspicion.”
“I understand. I truly do.” Tungdil nodded. “Beligata, Gosalyn and Hargorin have spent from sunup to sundown filling me in on all the events of the cycles while I was away. All the tragedies that happened in my absence. And after the false Tungdil died. You have all gone through so much.” He picked up the artificial limb formed from metal sheets. “And hardly do I emerge from the shadows when one dwarf dies and another loses a leg. Far from a glorious return.”
“We have much to speak of. Like why you killed the zhadár.”
Ireheart listened to his own inner feelings, which yearned to believe. But his head insisted he hold back and not commit. As this Tungdil had just said himself: no proof. Except for the memories of their shared adventures.
“But let’s start by finding out if you’re just another doppelgänger—or whether I can nurture a hope that my Scholar has come back to me.”
Tungdil smiled and then became serious. “Since you ask: the zhadár embodied and dispensed cruelty, treachery, and danger. Down in Phondrasôn, only demons and the deadliest of evil creatures emit an aura of the kind he had. Something of that order must not be allowed to live.” He checked the metal leg for smoothness. “He would soon have noticed that I had seen through him and he would have attacked me. I had to get in first.”
Ireheart had been told about the change that Carâhnios had undergone in the last cycle. He remembered finding him deeply repugnant the last time they had met.
“Hmm,” Ireheart grunted. “I’ll need to know more.”
“Of course. And I can tell you how my doppelgänger came to be formed.” He pointed to the public room of the tavern. “Let’s talk back there. I’m thirsty from working at the forge and Hargorin’ll be keen to see his new leg. He’s desperate to try it out, though he ought to wait for the
wound to heal over completely first.”
“Let me warn you. The beer is appalling. The long’uns can’t brew for toffee.” He stood back to let Tungdil pass.
When they were eye to eye, Tungdil searched Ireheart’s face.
“What are you looking for, Scholar?”
“There’s something I recognise. And it surprises me.”
Ireheart felt himself freeze. “What do you mean?”
“Your rages. Your pupils have the red flecks in them again. But that’s not all.”
“Ho, you must be imagining it.”
Tungdil gave a faint smile. “I acquired new skills I would gladly have eschewed because they were from the älfar. But I cannot unlearn what I know. And that’s what makes what you call ‘imagining’ so difficult.”
He can tell I drank some of the zhadár’s elixir! “Let’s talk about that some other time,” Ireheart said quickly. “Hargorin needs his new leg.”
They walked over to the bar together.
Ireheart observed him closely and saw that he did not hesitate when approaching the armed soldiers. He greeted them warmly and wished them Vraccas’ blessing, which they muttered in return. They’re the same as me. They don’t know what to believe. They don’t want to open their hearts to a counterfeit version.
“Tell the others to dismount and find quarters in the barn,” Ireheart told one of his retinue. “We’re staying overnight.” He called over to the bar where the captain of the way-station was still scratching his head about the new arrivals. “I’ll pay for everything.”
“Make yourselves at home if you can,” the man replied.
Tungdil was kneeling in front of Hargorin fixing the new leg into the special harness. “It fits.” He looked up at the red-haired dwarf. “This is only for now. Till I get you the silver one we talked about.”
Supported by Beligata, Deathbringer got up, putting one hand on Tungdil’s shoulder, too. Gingerly he tried putting weight on the tin leg. “Bit uncomfortable, but it’ll be alright.”
