The Revenge of the Dwarves d-3

by Markus Heitz

  “What are you doing, Rodario?” asked Tungdil.

  Stone scraped on metal and sparks ignited, catching the wick of a lamp. The warm glow illuminated the actor’s fine features. “Light, Tungdil. I don’t want to have survived combat with the alfar, only to break my neck on some stairs.” He looked round. “What do we do with the tunnel?”

  Whoompf! The air was full of flame and a smell of burning.

  With a loud whistle the fire shot down into the depths. The tiny flame had brought about the event most dreaded by miners and dwarves everywhere.

  “You are so stupid, Rodario!” hissed Tungdil, batting out flames in his hair. Luckily, the explosion had not set their clothes alight. He grabbed Sirka’s hand and ran.

  They rushed frantically to escape the inferno that threatened to engulf them. Just as they raced out of the tunnel an enormous vibration shook the ground, hurling them onto the sandbank.

  In front of them the whole surface of the lake exploded, with a huge water spout shooting up into the dark night sky. When it had reached its zenith at a height of one hundred paces, a jet of flame illuminated the geyser from within. The hissing steam reminded Tungdil of the hot springs in mountain areas. The magnitude of the detonation caused by the dust igniting had destroyed the shoring, and the lake waters had gushed into the tunnel.

  The water ebbed away and then rushed back in waves that swamped the sandbank, carrying all of them away with it. They heard loud gurgling as it cascaded down into the tunnel, flooding the whole excavation. With all their strength they clung to the cliff face to avoid being swept off and sucked down into the tunnel to drown.

  At last the cave was full and the noise of the water died away. The foaming waves quietened and the last of the eddies on the surface calmed.

  Then, to their intense relief the Waveskimmer approached to take them on board and with all sails set they headed east.

  Girdlegard,

  Kingdom of Gauragar,

  Floodland,

  Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

  I suggest we join up with the ubariu army in Pendleburg.” It was evening. Tungdil was in the captain’s cabin with his friends, poring over a map of Girdlegard as they discussed strategy.

  The Waveskimmer had passed the Gauragar border; now they were in Floodland, the part of the kingdom that had become submerged five cycles previously when Weyurn’s lakes spread. Where the inundation had brought death and destruction, now the water made travel easier. They had crossed directly to the east and were approaching the Brown Mountains.

  Flagur nodded. “That will be best. There’s no one in Girdlegard trying to get the stone now, so we can take the risk and go to Urgon without an escort.” He looked at Lot-Ionan, who was holding the diamond in one hand and gazing absent-mindedly through the tiny window. “What is your view, revered magus? Is there still any danger?”

  The magus gave no answer.

  Instead Tungdil spoke up: “There is still one alfar on the loose. He was on the island the thirdlings used as a base. But he did not join the unslayable one and I’ve heard no rumors about him recently.”

  “That’s a good start.” Flagur rested broad forearms on the table and the wood creaked in response to his weight.

  “I’m not afraid of him,” the dwarf repeated.

  “But I am, my noble fellow hero,” murmured Rodario. “The last alfar slit my belly open and it was not a nice feeling. I don’t think this one will be any more kindly disposed to me. Don’t forget. We murdered its parents. That is reason enough for hostility over and above natural viciousness.”

  “I’m for an escort guard,” Sirka chipped in. “King Bruron should send troops. The more swords we have, the better defended we are.”

  “Agreed,”said Tungdil.

  Rodario scribbled it all down. He had been nominated scribe. The messages would be duly sent off as soon as they reached dry land. He sorted through his notes. “One letter for Bylanta, queen of the fourthlings, to say we’re on our way; a message for Ireheart, and one for the ubariu army, and one for all the monarchs to tell them we’re taking the diamond over the border, and…” he said, indicating the last piece of paper “… a message to Bruron asking for an escort.” He dipped the nib into the ink again to write the final sentences.

  Lot-Ionan sighed. “It’s no good trying to hide it any longer.” He placed the stone on the table. “Flagur, what do you see?”

  Rodario said nothing. He glanced at Tungdil and hoped he was remembering what they had talked about the other night. “No, don’t touch it,” he said when the ubari stretched out a hand. “Just look at it, like the magus said.”

  Flagur was hurt. “Why shouldn’t I touch it?”

  “You ate orc flesh, Flagur, and it will have been contaminated with Black Water,” he explained.

  “I understand,” said the ubari without malice. “So he’s afraid-so you’re afraid-the badness might have infected me and that I might have quite different reasons for wanting to hold the stone?” He grinned wickedly. “A nice thought!”

  “Don’t get me wrong. We had another visitor to Girdlegard once, supposed to be on the side of goodness,” Rodario pointed out. He felt it was his duty to explain. “I have great respect for you and for Sirka, but,” he inclined his head, “so far we’ve had to take your word for everything. I mean, how do we know the Black Abyss and its terrible threat even exists? Maybe the diamond isn’t really needed for activating the artifact?” He cleared his throat. “Ever since that night these doubts have been around. Forgive me, Flagur.”

  “Accursed actor!” Swift as lightning Flagur seized the diamond. He stared at his own fist; from deep down, dark laughter sounded and his pink eyes flashed with cruelty. “At last!” he bawled, jumping up. “The trick worked! Ubar be praised!” Sirka went to his side, brandishing her battlestick at the showman. “See what a magnificent rune master I am,” he continued. “Feel my power!” Then his countenance transformed itself. He grinned at Rodario, who had drawn his sword courageously. “What do you think of my acting skills?”

  “What?” The theater man blinked. His breath was labored and he looked as if someone had just yelled in his ear to rouse him from deep sleep.

  “My performance. How was it?”

  “Your… your performance? Very funny! I nearly cut your throat!” Rodario gave a rueful glance in Tungdil’s direction. “Great hero! You’re looking particularly relaxed.” Tungdil grinned, then he laughed out loud and all the others joined in. “Right, I understand! You’ve rehearsed this little scene to get me really scared?” He pulled a face. “I’ll have my own back for that one, I promise. Nobody challenges the Emperor of the Stage with impunity! Nobody.”

  Tungdil patted him on the shoulder. “You’re right. I’d already spoken to him about our worries. Lot-Ionan examined him with magic and couldn’t find anything untoward.”

  “It was good of you to alert us,” said Lot-Ionan, smiling. “But you deserved a fright after your idiocy back there-”

  “Thanks, thanks. Got it now.” Rodario cut him short. Can we get back to what’s important?”

  Sirka and Flagur sat down again, grinning. But Flagur’s mirth quickly disappeared. “The diamond never used to look like that before!” He passed it to Sirka.

  “Cracks, black patches,” she observed. “Where are they from? The unslayable’s touch?” She held it to the light. “It looks as if it could shatter at any moment.”

  “That’s the only explanation I can come up with,” Lot-Ionan stroked his snowy beard-or at least what was left of it after the fireblast in the cave. “I expect the alfar forced it; he must have used the last of his own magic to break its protective shield.”

  “And the glow we saw: was it the power of the stone or the unslayable’s magic?” wondered Tungdil.

  “It was the diamond. It was a pure, clear light. The contamination must have happened shortly after that.” Lot-Ionan looked at Flagur and Sirka. “It’s vital to know whether the artifact will work with the
diamond in this state or not.”

  “Might it not produce the very opposite effect?” Rodario asked to inspect the stone and rubbed it gently with one finger. Even though it seemed uneven, the surface was as smooth as glass. He could not detect the cracks. “If the evil is in there, won’t we just risk waking it up? Or to put it another way,” he said, putting the stone in the middle of the table, “what if the artifact summons up evil instead of repressing it?”

  They fell silent and watched the diamond follow the movement of the waves, tipping this way and that. It looked so harmless; however mighty and significant, it betrayed no sign of the power stored within. No one knew what its effect might be.

  “Did you feel anything when you used the stone, revered magus?” asked Sirka. “You know about magic. You’ve studied it. Was there anything odd?”

  Lot-Ionan recalled Nudin’s voice and mysterious appearance. “No,” he lied calmly. He assumed the events related to himself rather than to the diamond. “No, it allowed me to use it. And I’m a long way from being on the side of evil.” He took a quick gulp of his wine and, as he bent forward, felt a stabbing pain in his back. He nearly dropped the beaker.

  Tungdil took a deep breath. “It’s probably best not to tell the rulers our doubts.”

  Rodario had got over his sulk and was joining in again. “I quite agree. They would rather send an army to the Black Abyss against the monsters rather than risk using an artifact that can’t be trusted.” He flicked the diamond. “I’m for trying it out. It might speed things up. Either it will work and no one will realize we were skeptical about it here tonight on the Waveskimmer, or it won’t work. Then they can still send out their army.”

  “To put it another way: we have no choice,” said Flagur. “It won’t be long before the monsters notice the barrier is down. The diamond must be put back in its place.”

  Lot-Ionan raised his head and gazed out at the sunset-lit waters. “As a last resort there’s still me. The force of the diamond can still provide magic enough to repel the first attack wave.”

  “You are sure you have regained all your previous knowledge?” said Sirka carefully, trying to reduce the half insult to a quarter insult.

  The magus smiled at her. It was a confident smile, and completely convincing. “I feel I have the power of two magi,” he responded. “Blood has reached all parts of my body now and has washed away the last traces of the stone I was turned to.” He touched himself on the temple. “Here, too. I can see the formulae clearly again like in my heyday.” After a short pause he added, “This is my heyday. The fight with the unslayable has shaken me awake.”

  “Then let’s leave it at that,” Tungdil summed up and then stretched. “We’ll go to the Outer Lands and we’ll employ the diamond. After that, may the gods Vraccas and Ubar show what they can do for us, because we will have done everything we can to avert disaster.” He stood up and strode to the door. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  “Dwarf-water offering for Elria?” Rodario joked. “Be kind to the goddess. She has let us off lightly more than once.”

  Tungdil laughed and left the cabin for a pee. He had chosen to do it from the bows of the ship. Elria’s goodwill or not, his own water was determined to leave him now.

  When he had relieved himself he stayed at the railing, experiencing the gentle rise and fall of the vessel and enjoying the cool air.

  For him water was still an uncanny element. Many of his kind would steadfastly refuse to go near a lake or even a stream. Or even to step into a big puddle. They believed Elria had cursed them. The undergroundlings, on the other hand, seemed to relish travel on water. What a difference.

  He gazed over the light swell on the lake’s surface. It looked like liquid night that had dripped down from the sky and collected on the earth.

  “I’d like to congratulate you on defeating my creator,” said a clear quiet voice behind him. Tungdil recognized it at once. Death had returned.

  Swiveling slowly, he saw the alfar seated cross-legged near the chest where the extra canvas was kept. His spear lay at his feet. His armor showed black against skin that was otherwise pale. Long hair hung down over his face. His gauntleted hands were resting on his knees and in one armored fist he held a lock of black hair. “What will you do now?”

  Tungdil knew he himself was only carrying a knife. “What is your name?”

  “My begetter never gave me one. He said my enemies would find a name to suit me.” He did not take his eyes off Tungdil. He seemed alert but not aggressive or nervous, as if aware of his superior strength. “But the names I’ve heard don’t please me. Nobody wants to be known by a curse. And so I have chosen Aiphaton. Like the star.” He raised his right arm and pointed to the sky, where it glittered against the dark. “It is the life-star of the elves. My begetter said the star would grow dim whenever an elf died in Girdlegard. In the last few orbits I could hardly see it at all. Something’s happening with the elves.”

  “Most of them are waging war and are probably being wiped out. Because they are guilty of treason against Girdlegard,” Tungdil explained. “Do you consider yourself an elf?”

  “I look like an elf. Am I not an elf?” came the surprising question.

  “What did your begetter tell you that you were?”

  “He told me nothing. But he and the creating spirit mother looked like elves.” He lowered his head and his face was hidden under the curtain of hair. “I am glad he is dead. He demanded and committed atrocities.” His metal hand scraped over the tionium plates sewn into his flesh.

  “Is that why you told us where your begetter was heading?”

  “Yes. I sensed you would defeat him. I was not able to.” He raised his head once more. “What will you do now?”

  “We…” Tungdil hesitated. The alfar did not know that he had been born as the elves’ deadliest enemy. It might well be that he was playing a low trick and that he was pursuing the same despicable ends as his father before him. But if he wanted the diamond, why was he not attacking?

  “You don’t trust me, although I spared your life in Toboribor? Although I told you where to find my begetter? And you are still alive although I could so easily have killed you and tossed you overboard?” He stood up with a swift and elegant movement that combined strength and agility. “Then I shall tell you what I want. Take me to the elves that are different from my creator father. I know there are elves that are good and peace-loving. I wish to live amongst them.” He stepped out of the shadows toward the dwarf.

  Tungdil saw his dark eyes. “You are not an elf,” he said solemnly. “You are an alfar. They are merciless enemies of the elves, Aiphaton. You cannot live with them. They would kill you outright.”

  “Why? I have not harmed them.”

  “But you belong to the race that persecuted their kind for a very long time and nearly wiped them out. They will never forgive you your lineage.”

  The alfar clicked his tongue. “Let me speak to them and we’ll see.” He folded the black lock of hair into a piece of waxed cloth and slid it inside his glove.

  Tungdil shook his head. “Aiphaton, listen to me. I advise you to hide away from dwarves and humans and elves. No one will see you without feeling fear and hatred. Leave Girdlegard and seek your own kind.”

  “But I don’t want to join those you call alfar,” he hissed, baring his teeth. “If they are like my begetter it’s best I kill them all.” He raised his hand and reached for the spear that was still lying on the deck. The runes on the weapon started to glow. It leaped into his hand. “I don’t want to be like them.”

  Tungdil still did not have the slightest idea whether the alfar could be trusted. Everything pointed to the opposite: both what he knew from stories and what he had personal experience of. Sinthoras, Caphalor and Ondori were the alfar he had met in combat himself. But then there had been Narmora, the half-alfar woman who had been Furgas’s companion. In spite of her ancestry she had fought for the good and had paid a high price: she had surrendered her
happiness and the lives of her children. Her own life, too.

  “What can you tell me about your begetter and the dwarves?” he asked, to turn the conversation in a different direction.

  “They are dead. What is there to say?”

  Tungdil hesitated. “Did you see Furgas? The man who was kept captive by the dwarves?”

  “Yes.” Aiphaton raised his armored hand. “It was he who turned me into what I am. My begetter asked him to. He made me like I am. He was their…” He struggled to find the word. “They did what he said and they followed his orders,” was how he expressed it. “There was a lot that I heard.”

  “He was their leader?”

  “Yes, that’s it. He discovered the island together with the dwarves, and he came with soldiers to take it over. The humans all had to work for him. The magister made machines that he gave to the dwarves and they took them away. He made the constructions he sent through the mountain. They were to locate the monsters. And it was for the monsters that he built the tunnel.” The alfar sat next to Tungdil at the gunwale. “He was in Toboribor, too, looking for orcs to use with his other machines. That’s when he found my creators and the orcs. My creators gave him my siblings and he took them away and made new creatures out of them.”

  “How did he know about the magic source? He’s a magister technicus, not a magus.”

  “I don’t know. I just know that he did.”

  However painful it was, Tungdil had to believe the alfar. He had heard the truth first from the mouth of Bandilor and now Aiphaton was confirming it. Tungdil had wished to hear a different version.

  The alfar looked out over the waves. “I’ve told you what I want, I’ve told you what I know and where I’m from. Now tell me what you are going to do.”

  “We’re going to the Outer Lands-”

  “To the monsters Furgas spoke of?” he interrupted.

  “No, not to the west. To the north.” And before Aiphaton could ask, he said, “You cannot come with us.”

  Aiphaton shrugged his shoulders helplessly. It was difficult to read his state of mind from his face: the black eyes hid all feeling. But his body language spoke of deep distress. “What shall I do here in Girdlegard where nobody will have me?” A red teardrop ran down his cheek, leaving a pink smear. “I have nowhere to go. I only have enemies.”