by Markus Heitz
This galvanized Tungdil into action. He jerked his head to one side and thrust the blade away, forcing it into the woman’s unprotected thigh. He reaped a small cut on his hand but she received a deep slash on her leg.
“It’s mine,” he yelled, drawing his knife. He had soon realized that these intruders were not trained assassins or experienced thieves. They were mere beginners and he was eager to find out why they had set their sights on the most important weapon in Girdlegard.
The woman yelped with pain and he whacked her on the forehead with the handle of his dagger so that she collapsed on the floor. He set after the man who had just grabbed the ax, stabbing him from behind in the leg.
The man roared and spun round, swinging Keenfire to attack him. Tungdil ducked and the tip of the ax buried itself in a wooden post.
“Let go,” growled Tungdil threateningly, leaping forward knife in hand to force his adversary to retreat.
The man crashed against a chest of drawers and the blade struck him in the side; he broke off cursing and pressed his hands over the spurting wound.
Tungdil wrenched the ax out of the wooden beam and whirled it in his hands. Watchfully he approached the last of the three masked intruders. “Now tell me who you are and how you got the crazy idea to steal Keenfire from me.”
The man brandished his short sword, the blade quivering. “Get back!”
“On the contrary.” Tungdil feigned an ax-blow, and while the other was trying to dodge it, he kicked him in the groin so he sank groaning to his knees. Tungdil placed the heavy blade at his neck to let him feel its deadly pressure. “Well?”
“Kill us and you will never see Lot-Ionan again,” the woman spoke, pulling herself upright on the post. She let herself fall, groaning, onto a chair and examined the wound in her thigh.
“So you’re the ones who stole him?”
“I said right at the start that it was a stupid idea to steal the dwarf’s ax,” moaned the man who had been stabbed in the side. “Get a medicus. I’m bleeding to death here.”
“No one leaves this room till I know who you are.” Tungdil stood threateningly at the door.
The woman pulled off her face-mask and used the cloth to bind her wound. She was no older than eighteen cycles. A hank of light brown hair had escaped from her headscarf. “I’m Risava of Panok. That’s Dergard, and he’s Lomostin. We were Nod’onn’s famuli and ever since his death when the force fields were lost we’ve been trying to find a way to bring magic back to Girdlegard,” she revealed to the astonished dwarf. She stood up and limped over to where the injured man lay.
“What do you want with Lot-Ionan’s statue if you were followers of Nod’onn?”
Risava looked at the men, who both took off their masks. “We were going to try to free him from the spell. He can help us. Our land needs the skills of magic so that we can stop the creatures who are hunting down the diamond.” Her face darkened. “If you had only listened to Nod’onn this would never have happened.”
Tungdil thought she must be joking. “Andokai said the petrification spell was irreversible.”
“Perhaps for Andokai it was,” Risava spoke with disdain.
“Have a care,” warned Lomostin. “Don’t tell him too much.”
“Wrong.” Tungdil stroked his ax. “Tell him everything. It is better for your health. You can still cast spells if need be without your foot.”
Risava moved back and spoke to her companions. Tungdil did not take his eyes off them and readied himself to prevent them escaping.
At last she turned back to him. “Right, I’ll explain. Andokai did not have the knowledge that we have. We have spent the last few cycles studying Nudin’s secret library and learning magic spells. In theory. But we do not have the magic energy to give life to the formulae.” Risava indicated the ax. “We thought we’d be able to get enough magic force from Keenfire to free Lot-Ionan. He would know what to do.”
“He would never teach you.” Tungdil did not dare to believe what she was saying. He could not tell whether she was speaking the truth or not.
“Nod’onn or Nudin, no matter now. He is dead,” said Dergard, still holding his privates in agony. “We mourned him for long enough to know his views had been corrupted by the daemon within. He had no free will anymore.” He looked at Risava. “She’ll understand. In our hearts we renounced Nod’onn long ago. As she said: we have Nudin’s knowledge and want to continue his works- his works, not Nod’onn the traitor’s. Lot-Ionan would have taken us on, I’m sure of it.”
“Stealing the statue wasn’t a good start.” Tungdil took the ax away from the neck of the famulus. “You should have told me and King Bruron.”
“He’d not have believed us any more than the people of Girdlegard, or you.” Risava stood up carefully leaning on a chair. “We want to bring Lot-Ionan back to life. The humans, the elves, the dwarves-they all have faith in him. He would have found a way to present us as his new initiate pupils without our reputation going before us.”
Tungdil stepped past her to check the injured man’s wounds.
“The wound in the leg isn’t bad and the left side will heal quickly,” he said after a swift inspection. “We’ll clean it up and get you stitched up. Then you should have bed-rest for a few orbits until it has all healed over.” He looked at Risava. “You will take me and my friends to the statue. You may have Keenfire and you can try to revive Lot-Ionan with it.” His eyes took on a threatening glint. “But if you try any treachery, you and your friends will be killed. At the moment you are no use to Girdlegard, so it makes no difference whether you’re around or not.”
“It’s a waste of time,” said Lomostin through clenched teeth. “I was holding the ax in my hands and there’s not enough magic in it. It won’t be any use for our plan. The magic source…”
Risava bent down and touched his wound as if by mistake; the rest of his sentence disappeared in a howl of pain.
For Tungdil the hint was enough. He grabbed her arm and twisted it. “You know about the source?”
Risava stared at him stubbornly and remained silent.
“Tell him,” said Dergard. He took a deep breath to relieve the pain in his side. “Perhaps he knows what we can do. The fate of Girdlegard is at stake now, not just our own futures as famuli.”
“So what are you supposed to tell me?” Tungdil increased the pressure on her arm. Her wrist would soon snap. “It’ll be difficult to do magic without your arm.”
She clenched her teeth, tears streaming down her face. “I’ll turn you to ashes with a single spell,” she grunted.
“But you can’t,” he replied, twisting further. There was a grating sound. “Speak now or watch your bones stick out through the skin.”
Risava moaned. “A new magic source,” she stuttered. He let go of her arm. She curled up in pain, her forearm against her chest. “We have found a new source, but it’s in Weyurn. Under the lake. It’s too deep to get to.”
Tungdil felt enormous relief. He felt elated for the first time. There was going to be an answer to the threat from the unslayables. Lot-Ionan, the submerging island and the famuli-together they gave him the answer to the prayers he had sent up to Vraccas.
But he forced himself to conceal his feelings. If they really had Nudin’s archive and had studied his spells they must not be allowed to learn that it might be possible to get down to the lakebed. Not until Lot-Ionan was restored to life and could decide for himself. “We shall see what we can come up with,” he said calmly. “First take me and my friends to where the statue is. Lot-Ionan shall be in my care from now on.”
“What are you going to come up with that hasn’t already occurred to us?” objected Risava. “The water is many hundred paces deep according to the fishermen we’ve asked. No diver can get near. If you could get down you’d never get back up.”
“My race has achieved many things,” he smiled at her. “Now, let’s get some of my friends and we’ll bring the statue to safety.” Tungdil opened the doo
r, one hand still keeping Keenfast at the ready.
Dergard pointed to Lomostin. “What about him?”
Tungdil gave him an encouraging glance. “A medicus will come and see to him. As soon as we have the statue.” He waved the others out, closed the door and blocked it from the outside using a flagstaff that he’d taken off the wall, jamming it under the door handle.
T he performance was going very well.
The great and the good of Girdlegard were sitting in the Curiosum watching the action on stage with refined smiles. The script was from Tassia’s pen. Those who were not so great and good were splitting their sides with laughter. The combination of Tassia’s acting talent and her undoubted physical charms had enthralled the audience.
Rodario, not needed in this first act, was watching the spectators happily, if slightly enviously, through a hole in the scenery. Tassia was his creation but she was getting all the attention these days. She was overtaking him in the theater hierarchy here-in his own troupe and in front of his own audience.
“Look, Furgas,” he whispered. “The men adore her and the women admire her.”
“You’ve conjured your rival up yourself,” the props man retorted quietly, as he checked the strings that controlled the smoke colors and the flames-anything to do with his special stage effects.
He had spent the preceding orbits sorting out any small hiccoughs in the various contraptions. Time had not left his inventions unscathed. But now everything ran like clockwork. The scenery changed by itself, with the sun rising and sinking automatically. Trees moved in the wind and Furgas had even introduced some artificial forest smells to make the illusion complete.
“Have I said how glad I am to have you back with us?” Rodario said seriously.
“Because I’ve repaired everything?” his friend grinned.
Rodario turned to face him. “Not only that,” he smiled back, clapping him on the shoulder.
“I’m very glad to be out of the clutches of the thirdlings. I’m in your debt.” When the cue came on stage, Furgas tugged the yellow string and the lamp above Tassia went dark. The light faded gradually, the sun set, and the night sky was revealed, to murmured appreciation from the audience.
The actor laughed out loud. “You’re working off your debt to me splendidly.”
A door flew open and Tungdil stepped into their narrow space backstage. “Oh, sorry. I thought it was the side entrance.”
“It is. For the actors,” hissed Rodario. “Quiet. You’re much too late for the performance. We haven’t got any more seats but you can watch from the gangway. I will give permission,” he said graciously.
“There’ll soon be a seat free. I need Ireheart.” He pushed Rodario aside and looked through the spyhole to find his friend in the audience.
“What’s happened?” asked Furgas tensely. “Have the monsters arrived?”
“No. Something good’s happened at long last,” he whispered happily. “Three famuli have turned up-they stole Lot-Ionan’s statue and they tell me there’s a way to bring him back to life. One of them’s injured; up in my room. I’m going off with the other two to collect the statue.”
“By Palandiell! Can it be true?” Rodario bent down. “Shall I stop the performance?”
“No, I want to be absolutely sure they’ve got the statue, and I want it in my hands before we tell anyone else.” Tungdil beamed at him. “And they know where the source is.”
“What source?” Furgas pulled the red string now, letting a cloud of fog rise onto the stage. “ The source?”
“The magic source, exactly. The one the monsters get their power from.” He hurried to the corridor that led to the auditorium. “I’ll tell you more later,” he said excitedly. “I’ve got to get on now.” He nodded to them both. “There’s hope. Great hope.” Then he disappeared.
Watching through the spyhole, Rodario saw Tungdil go up to Ireheart and Goda. The three of them left the marquee at once. “What do you say to that?” he smiled. “It’s just one momentous occasion after another. I’ve got more material than I can ever turn into plays.” He stroked his beard. “I’ll start up another Curiosum,” he decided. “Tassia can run it. What do you think?”
“Smart idea, Rodario,” said Furgas. “That’s the way to sideline your rival-promote her.”
Rodario nodded. “Exactly. And she’ll be eternally grateful to me. Lovemaking right, left and center, nights of passion whenever I knock on her door.” He heard his cue and adjusted his costume before he stepped out through the curtain on stage, winking at Furgas. “I’m terribly pleased with myself.”
The scene was an adaptation of the time Nolik had stormed into his caravan. Here on stage the number of attackers had obviously been increased for the sake of the action; the fight for Tassia’s affections and the struggle for the jewelry were even more dramatic. Soon the ruffians lay senseless on the floor or had taken flight.
“And thus love and a sword triumph over adversity.” Rodario addressed the spectators.
Tassia joined him, holding up the necklace. “And the necklace makes up for everything I had to endure.” The thin gold shimmered and glowed; the rock crystal flashed in the lamplight from the stage and sent sparks dancing over the audience-over humans, dwarves and elves. Tassia threw herself into Rodario’s embrace. “What are you going to give me to make up for what I shall have to endure with you?” she asked, fluttering her lashes.
“The diamond!” came a shout from the audience.
“No, not a diamond,” Rodario picked up the cue. “Not a diamond-I shall give you my heart!”
Gandogar leaped onto the stage, his right hand closing over the pendant. “Lights!” he shouted.
“Your Royal Highness, Noble Majesty, high king of all the dwarf realms, sire. I know your people are awfully keen on gems and jewelry and that you get really passionate about them, but you are ruining my play!” said Rodario, politely but with impatience. He grabbed the necklace. “Go and sit down again, Your Majesty, and watch the final act. I rule here on this stage. You will be good enough to recognize my status.”
Gandogar pulled the jewel out of his hands again. “This is one of the diamonds, you idiot thespian!” insisted the king. “Can’t you understand?”
Rodario laughed. “Your connoisseur’s eye has been deceived here, Your Noble Majesty.” Faster than the dwarf could react, Rodario had taken possession of the necklace. “The pendant is made of polished rock crystal, not diamond.” He swung it from his hands. “It is paste, Your Majesty. I would never use a genuine precious gem as a stage prop.”
“I am the king of the fourthlings; my tribe is descended from the best gemstone cutters amongst the children of the Smith and if anyone knows about jewels then it’s going to be me, not some actor!” he retorted so angrily that his beard quivered. “Give me the diamond! At once!”
Tassia tried to mediate. But just then a huge creature mounted the stage. It was taller than dwarf or human and thick strings of twisting muscle showed under its gray-green skin. Apart from a leather loin cloth and boots it was naked. Round its forearms white chains hung.
Its contorted alfar gaze was focused on the pendant, the eyes glowing green. “Give me the necklace!”
Everyone in the auditorium stared in surprise.
King Bruron was the first to applaud. “What a magnificent performance!” he called. “The creature looks just like the one Tungdil and the soldiers described.”
“Totally lacking in taste,” complained Isika.
Rodario and Tassia stepped back; the actor held up his sword. “Run, Gandogar!” he said hoarsely, horror compressing his larynx. Hastily he thrust the jewel at him. “Save the last of the stones from Tion’s creatures.”
Then mayhem broke out in the theater marquee.
XI
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Porista,
Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Risava stopped outside an anonymous-looking house wedged in between prop
erties that reflected the status of wealthier owners. “Here it is.” She opened the door and went in.
Tungdil, Sirka, Boindil, Goda and two dozen dwarves followed her in, prepared for action; the wagon lined with straw was ready in the street outside.
They saw at once that the building had not been occupied for some time. There was a layer of dust on the furniture. Only the tables and chairs showed frequent use. It all smelled of cold smoke.
“We come here because of the cellar,” said Risava, who had come to a halt in the entrance. She touched a special place on the wall and steps appeared, leading down, when a stone slab moved aside. From the vaulted basement Tungdil caught the familiar smell of paper and parchment. “Is this Nudin’s library?”
“No, it’s mine,” said the woman, lighting a lamp and leading the way.
Soon they were all crowded into the small cellar room with walls full of shelves and books. In the middle stood Lot-Ionan’s petrified statue inside a circle drawn with magic symbols; several runes had been sketched on the surface of the statue itself.
“We’ve got everything ready,” she explained. “All we need to revive him is the magic.”
“How did you get him here?”
Risava indicated the steps. “Carried him down. It took nearly all night.”
Ireheart walked round the statue. “There are a few bad scratches,” he said, running his fingers over the grooves.
Tungdil examined the damage. It was a strange feeling. Was he looking at a statue or a person? Perhaps Lot-Ionan would soon be emerging from the stone, the magus he had lived with for many cycles, his own foster-father. They could not afford to make any mistakes. “Should we fill the marks in with mortar before trying to bring him to life? We can’t have him bleeding.” He saw a hole in the stone robe near the spine. “Or he might fall down dead.”
“What do you think?” he passed his query to the famuli.
Dergard shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that.” He studied the hole, a finger’s width. He seemed surprised. “I didn’t see that before. Could have been rats or something else like that.”
