Tungdil was not surprised by what she said. Not anymore. She was walking the paths of the eoïl. “We have received information that the caves have a connection to the Outer Lands. Under the very feet of the besieging army a new horde is waiting. The dwarves in the caves are good warriors but even they and the army of humans would not be able to withstand this horde without the elves.” He knew that she would fall for this lie. She would not be able to help herself, even if she had seen it coming.
“Where do you get this knowledge from, Tungdil Goldhand?” she asked in surprise.
“The thirdlings we captured told us.” And he related the Weyurn adventures in an adapted version without mentioning the role Furgas had probably played. He left it with the thirdlings and unslayables being the evildoers. “Bandilor had made common cause with the älfar. He told us the unslayables’ plans; they suited his own intentions.”
The elf princess looked at him searchingly. “And you believe the word of a dwarf who allied himself with the evil?”
“I trust words spoken in fear of death,” Tungdil corrected. “He thought that I would spare him. And Lot-Ionan tested the truth of his words with magic.” Tungdil looked at the others with silent pleading in his expression.
He received support from an unexpected quarter. “We shall be needing landur’s elf warriors here, Your Highness. Right now, before the enemy hordes spill out and swamp us. Do you want to carry the responsibility if Idoslane and the whole of Girdlegard fall under their sway?” It was more a demand than a request that Prince Mallen was putting to Rejalin. Two issues coincided. It was his own land that was threatened and he was starting to like the elf-woman less and less. And though it might not be wise to speak boldly, he did not hold back.
Tungdil was relieved. It made his own lie sound more credible.
“Now you are demanding my support, Prince Mallen?” Rejalin lifted her cup of water and sipped long and slow. “Did you not recently expel my envoys from your court?”
“There is a difference between a delegation and an army, princess,” he said. “It was not in my mind to hold intellectually sophisticated conversations at a time when I am concerned with protecting our homeland from new and potentially disastrous threats.” He leaned forward. “As soon as we have won, I shall be delighted to receive your delegates for a cultural exchange, but until then please understand that I cannot accept your offers. Instead please send an army. That I shall welcome with open arms.”
Gandogar nodded. “Do not worry, Rejalin. We are aware of the value of your assistance, but we can defend ourselves well enough. And to reassure you further, we have already identified and imprisoned seven dwarf-haters who had been living under cover amongst us. We found them without the use of torture,” he added. “The thirdlings who are intent on becoming assimilated helped us with this.”
There was no way out for the elf princess. “Then let it be so,” she decided, smiling away her defeat. “Messengers shall leave today to bring my warriors to Toboribor.” She studied the cave-map. “The dwarves should move more quickly. The more we know about the tunnels and chambers underground, the better prepared we shall be to meet the hordes from the Outer Lands. It will be useful to be able to lay traps and ambushes.”
“I agree with you.” Gandogar raised his tankard and drank to her health. “The miners shall find the best places to set traps and start work at once.”
“Do we know anything about when this new army might appear?” asked Rejalin. “Perhaps my forces will be too late?”
“No. Bandilor spoke of preparations. We still have time in hand,” he reassured her. “Forgive me, but my friends and I are tired from the journey. We can hold an official meeting tomorrow to inform the other commanders. Now I would like to rest.”
The elf princess concurred and withdrew, followed by the town commanders and Bramdal.
Hardly had they left than Tungdil arranged with Gandogar and Mallen to hold a secret meeting outside the camp at nightfall. “No guards, no retinue. Just you two,” he insisted before he went. “Trust me. It is important, so tell no one.”
Surprised by the urgency of his appeal the leaders agreed.
As the stars started to appear over Idoslane the three of them met at the appointed place. Mallen and Gandogar were both intrigued, but Tungdil asked them to be patient and he then stayed silent. Lot-Ionan soon joined them and the four of them rode off to the Deichseldorf inn, where they had left Esdalân.
Tungdil thought the elf was looking even more handsome since recovering from his fever. Better, he seemed fresher, more dazzling than any other living being in the vicinity. Just like Rejalin.
Gandogar and Mallen were sitting in the empty parlor of the inn listening to the elf’s story by candlelight, their faces grave.
“Then I was right to distrust them,” said the prince, “even if I would have preferred to be convinced of the goodness of the elves instead of hearing this news.”
“It is appalling that they killed their leader.” Gandogar could not credit it.
“And because I think the elf warriors are capable of anything, I invented a subterfuge to recall them to Toboribor,” said Tungdil. “I prefer to have them all in one place, where we have our armies, rather than strewn throughout Girdlegard where they could do untold damage.”
“You spoke of magic.” Mallen raised his eyes and looked at Lot-Ionan. “Do you know anything about elf-magic, noble magus?”
“Not really. The elves, just like their dark cousins the älfar, are capable of casting minor spells in connection with their way of life. According to my old books these are mostly to do with the realm of flowers and decorative arts. Liútasil never mentioned his folk having the power to use magic in the same way as a magus or maga.”
“That may be only partly so,” Esdalân chimed in. His voice sounded impossibly pure to human ears. “The elves of landur were never reputed to be very interested in magic. But others of my people, the elves of the Golden Plain, who were persecuted by the älfar, were more open to such arts. I remember hearing that the small number of Golden Plain elves that survived the älfar ravages fled to us in landur.”
Tungdil noticed that the elf’s speech was changing, becoming more flowery and, to his ears, unbearable.
“That makes things different. So we cannot exclude the possibility of there being a descendant of these magically endowed elves in the ranks of the atár. Perhaps the eoîl gave him part of the knowledge.” Lot-Ionan was summarizing. “That explains why they want the diamond.”
Gandogar furrowed his brow. “Please don’t think I am being unreasonable, noble magus, but what if you or Dergard had the power of the stone. How powerful would that make you?”
“If it is as Tungdil tells me, then this power would be…” He rubbed his white beard as he searched for the right word. “Immeasurable,” he said finally. “The power would be immeasurable.” He laughed slyly. “Have no fear, High King Gandogar. It does not entice me and for Dergard it is the same. We have the magic source to give us the same power. It would be nothing special for us. And then of course neither Dergard nor I are attracted to evil.”
“Are you so sure?” Gandogar disappeared behind the bar and poured them all some simple country wine. “He was one of Nudin’s pupils. We know what happened to that magus.”
“But don’t forget the particular circumstances, Your Majesty,” Lot-Ionan said, taking young Dergard’s part. “There is no daemon, sending out insidious messages. Our opponents are mighty but they are physical enemies. And thus we can confront them.” He held out his hand to receive the crockery mug, but gasped with pain. His back was troubling him with the movement. His eyes glazed and grew dim… Then he thought he saw a figure by the door. A strangely familiar figure. “Nudin?”
“Noble Lot-Ionan, what is it?” The bearded face of Tungdil appeared suddenly in his field of vision, looking very worried. “Is it your back again?”
The magus shook his head, emptied the mug of wine and asked for more. “T
here are probably still tiny fragments of stone embedded in my body,” he said slowly. “They affect my mind and make me see things that cannot be there.” He stood up and went over into the dark corner of the room where he had seen his old friend. But however hard he looked, to his great relief he could find no trace.
“What is the matter, noble magus?”
“Nothing. I must stretch my legs. My back. It hurts. I never noticed when I was a statue.” He returned to the group. “So what shall we do with the elves?” He picked up the thread again; he was cold now. “Shall we confront them and hear what they have to say, or shall we deal with the unslayables first?”
“My feeling is we should not postpone the conflict with the princess,” said Mallen. “I’ll tell you why. I don’t like the idea of the elves following their own ends in the middle of a battle with the älfar and their new creatures, snatching the diamond for themselves and then carrying out unimaginable deeds with its power. Of course, they will defeat the evil, I have no doubt.” His gaze took in all of them. “But I don’t think they will let us influence their decisions after that. I want to have Rejalin as a hostage. Before the battle starts.”
“A good plan. If the elves go along with it,” said Lot-Ionan, rubbing his eyes as if to punish his sight for the trick it had played on him.
“Now, Prince Mallen has just said exactly what I was thinking. If they refuse, it will be obvious they’re up to no good,” said Esdalân, raking his fine hair with his fingers. “I would suggest taking no risks at all. Let’s impound all the elf warriors from landur—there aren’t many of them here at Toboribor.”
“We’ll take Esdalân with us and he can address the assembly in the morning,” proposed Tungdil. “And then we’ll see what the elves say in response to your story.”
“Don’t forget: We’re all willing to listen to Esdalân because we have already had experience of the atár.” Mallen turned to the elf. “But tomorrow you’ll be addressing a less compliant audience. King Nate from Tabaîn and Queen Isika are both strong contenders for the elf support camp. You may not win them round.”
Esdalân bent his head graciously as if he were a monarch acceding to a request. “Thank you for your warning, Prince Mallen. But I am sure I shall open the humans’ eyes, though it cost me my life.”
“Your life?” echoed Gandogar in horror. “No, no. We do not wish that. We cannot lose the only right-thinking elf in the whole of landur.”
“It can’t be helped.” Esdalân was adamant. “I know Rejalin and can predict how she will react. I shall provoke her and from a certain point in my speech the line will have been crossed.” He laid his hand on Tungdil’s arm. “This I owe to you and to Girdlegard. My life was preserved by Sitalia when she sent a dwarf to me. I understand the will of the goddess. Our two peoples must proceed together against those who could bring about the destruction of the elves.”
“Vraccas looks kindly on what is happening in this room.” Gandogar spoke with emotion. His brown eyes encompassed the small group of conspirators. “Yet we should not forget to pray for the success of our venture. We urgently need the support of the gods.” He planted his hand on the center of the table, and Esdalân laid his own hand on top. Mallen, Tungdil and Lot-Ionan followed suit.
“May we meet with success,” the magus said gravely.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Idoslane,
Four Miles from the Caves of Toboribor,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tungdil slept badly. He dreamed about Balyndis and Sirka. In the morning he awoke with only confused fragments still in his mind. Had the women been fighting about him or had he been fighting the women? Sirka had plunged her knife in his heart…
He sat up as soon as the first birds were singing. He felt his breast where the pain had brought his dream to life.
“A real nightmare,” he sighed, rubbing the sore place while he got to his feet. He washed and put on his clothes and armor. The face in the polished silver mirror was old and tired. Of course this could all be the effect of the old drinking bouts. Or of the frustration in his soul. It had not left him. “Have I done the right thing?” he asked his reflection, as so often in the past.
“Are you sleep-walking or did you really get up this early?” said Ireheart, propping himself up on one elbow. “What’s the trouble? Birds too loud?”
Tungdil turned round to face him. “Get up, Boïndil. I’ve got something to tell you.” And so, while he dressed, the warrior received a summary of the previous night’s events. “The assembly will be deciding today and I want you to keep an eye on Esdalân. Keep him safe from the elves. Protect him, not me.”
Ireheart ran his hands through his black hair. It was still too short to braid. “Why didn’t you take me along to your meeting?” he asked disappointedly. “How have I forfeited your trust?”
Tungdil was surprised. “I didn’t think to, because…” He was searching for a reason and could not find one at first. Well, not one he could actually voice.
Boïndil was drawing his own conclusions. “It’s Goda, isn’t it?” He pulled on his boots. “You don’t trust her and you think I’ll tell her everything. You think she’s a spy for the dwarf-haters. Since our quarrel at the farm things haven’t been right. It’s not how we were at the beginning of this adventure, Scholar. I keep wondering which of us has changed. How did it happen?”
“We have both changed, Ireheart.” Tungdil hooked a stool with his foot and sat down by his friend. “You’ve lost your heart to a dwarf we don’t know. She could be up to anything. You don’t see the danger and I’m probably over-reacting.” He smiled sadly. “And my heart is lost to a dwarf you absolutely abhor.”
“Then it’s the fault of the women, not us.” The warrior grinned. “It’s always the women.”
Tungdil laughed quietly. “That’s being too simplistic.” He searched for the right words. “I’m not happy, Boïndil. Frustrated. In Girdlegard there’s nowhere I feel at home. I don’t belong with the humans. I don’t belong with the dwarves.”
“You’ll be off to join the undergroundlings, then. I knew it.”
“How…”
“You’re the learned scholar, Tungdil. You sat around on your arse more than five cycles in Lot-Ionan’s vaults trying to be a decent settled dwarf. For the sake of Balyndis. But your heart and soul weren’t in it.”
This took Tungdil by surprise. It was all true. He stared at his friend.
“Now, with the unslayables, there’s a new challenge for you and then you’ll be off, over the hills and far away.” Ireheart smiled. “Whatever kind of dwarf you are, Tungdil, you’re not the type that likes settling down. There are a few more characteristics of the children of the Smith that have passed you by as well. Good thing, too. You got the dwarves and freelings together. You united the dwarf tribes and Gindlegard has you to thank that it still exists in its present form.” He patted Tungdil on the knee and stood up. “An ordinary dwarf like myself would never have managed all that. Vraccas made you like this to bring a bit of life into the race. Stay the way you are, Scholar. I’ll have to get used to it, even if it takes some time. You’ll have to excuse my grumbling. I am and remain your friend.” He held out his hand. “If you want my friendship.”
“How would I cope without a bad-tempered honest dwarf?” Tungdil grasped his hand and they embraced. He was glad they had had this exchange. The black curtains between them were now swept away.
Ireheart beamed with relief. “Now we’ve sorted that out, let’s see how pointy-ears deals with Esdalân’s accusations.” He shouldered the crow’s beak. “I said pointy-ears on purpose, because she’s not one of the elves we have to get on with.” He went over to where a canvas partition shielded Goda’s sleeping quarters. “Ho, it’s great to be able to say pointy-ears again.”
Tungdil got himself a hearty breakfast. He sat quietly eating while Boïndil was briefing his trainee for the assembly session. It did not escape her notice that her mentor kept
taking a sideways glance over to Tungdil. Finally she came over. “What can I do to convince you I am to be trusted? Give me a task, exact an oath from me—something to reassure you. I have Ireheart’s confidence.”
“It’s not necessary, Goda,” Tungdil replied.
“I want to get rid of these doubts you have about me,” she insisted. “We are both of the thirdling tribe. You know what it is like not to be trusted.”
He stayed silent about his and Gandogar’s vague misgivings about letting the thirdlings reassemble as a tribe in their own right. “Yes, I do.” The memory of the rejection he had met with from Balyndis’s clan flashed through his mind. “And I don’t like having you so near me and Ireheart, Goda, when I have these doubts. But I have a duty to be cautious. If you were a spy for the dwarf-haters you could cause immense damage with what you might learn.”
She glared at him. “So your doubts can’t be removed?”
Looking at Boïndil, Tungdil said, “You have convinced my friend, Goda. Give me time. Maybe I can come to the same conclusion.”
“Not everyone is like Myr.” Her words shot out.
Tungdil was shocked. “No, they are not all like her,” he agreed softly, standing up and leaving the tent.
Outside, in the light of the rising sun, he marched sharply off, up and down the hillocks until he found the highest. Here he sat down on the dew-fresh grass, out of breath now.
He surveyed the scene spread out before him: smoke rose from a campfire or two. The army was starting to wake up, like the rest of Girdlegard.
Perhaps Balyndis, back in the Gray Range, was also waking. Was she looking at Glaïmbar and thinking of him? Was she cursing his memory? Did she still love him but understand it could lead nowhere? He hoped that she understood.
Tungdil snatched up a few blades of grass. What was going to happen to Sirka and him? Would he only disappoint her, too?
Turning these thoughts over in his mind he remained on the hilltop until the sun climbed above the horizon. A fanfare signaled a meeting. He would arrive late, but no matter. They would not start without him.
The Revenge of the Dwarves Page 45
