by Markus Heitz
“Balyndis!” Tungdil rushed to her aid. Ireheart and Goda followed him.
The creature turned around with a roar, lifted up a wooden spar from the broken gate and hurled it in their direction.
The aim was true and swept all three of them to the ground; they were helpless against the force of the blow. By the time they were on their feet again, the monster had disappeared.
“After him!” Tungdil commanded Boïndil and looked at Goda. “You, see to Balyndis.” She nodded, wordlessly passing her night star flail to her master.
The dwarves ran out of the vaults and pricked up their ears. Moon and stars were shining brightly down on Idoslane. The excellent night vision they both possessed showed them a still and sleeping silver landscape, peaceful and calm.
“Where did it go?” whispered Ireheart, observing the ground for tracks. “It ought to have left some marks big enough for a child to hide in. There’s nothing here. Froggy must have hopped away.”
Tungdil could make out a movement in the distance. “It has indeed.” He sighed, pointing toward the west. “There it goes.”
Where he was indicating a figure crossed the rough terrain by leaps and bounds, eschewing the roads and pathways. It jumped over bushes and small fruit trees as if on an athletics training run.
“It’s taking the shortest route home,” Tungdil ventured.
“Wretched devil-creature!” Boïndil stamped on the earth in anger. “Why the west?”
“Why not the west?” countered Tungdil. “We know nothing about it or its two siblings. West is as good as east.”
“Yes. But I thought it would head for Toboribor. The caves of the old realm of the snout-faced orcs would make an excellent hiding place.”
“Maybe it’s trying to trick us.” He couldn’t make the figure out anymore. The dark edge of the forest had swallowed it up and was providing all the cover it might want.
Ireheart shouldered the weapon he had taken from Goda. “Shall we get after it?”
“There’s no point. Did you see how fast it was traveling? No rider could overtake it.” They returned to the vaults. “We’ll look for tracks in the morning. Perhaps they’ll lead us somewhere we can find out more about these monsters. I will let Prince Mallen know what has happened, so that he can send us a squad of soldiers.”
Goda had levered Balyndis up into a sitting position. There was blood streaming down from her many wounds. One long thin metal fragment had narrowly missed her right eye, and now jutted out of her skull. She was biting her lips so as not to scream with the pain. She grabbed Tungdil’s hand, desperate for his help.
“You’ll be fine,” he said to her cheerily.
Ireheart pointed out a large red stain under the chain mail. “That looks bad. We need a healer right away to look at these wounds and remove all the splinters.” He spoke in a hushed voice so that Balyndis wouldn’t hear.
She pulled her husband nearer. “I’m going to pass out, Tungdil,” she managed to say. “Only Vraccas knows whether I shall wake again, so you must listen to me.” The grip of her hand was so tight that it hurt him. She was racked with a wave of pain and then her eyelids fluttered. “Djern…” she groaned, then her body went limp.
Horrified, Tungdil listened for her heartbeat. “It’s still beating,” he said in relief. “Quick, Ireheart. We’ll carry her to her bed. Goda, run to the settlement and fetch a healer. No matter what he’s in the middle of. Just bring him here.”
“Yes.” She nodded eagerly, but smiled when she saw Boïndil’s mistake. To pick up Balyndis by the feet he had leaned the night star against the passage wall. She grabbed her weapon. “Now, master, it’ll be your turn to drag the beam today. You know where I’ve left it,” she called out cheekily and raced away.
He watched her go. “What a…” He spared himself the rest.
With Balyndis resting on her bed, and with most of the sharp-edged iron splinters removed carefully by Tungdil, the healer arrived to look after her and calm was restored.
Tungdil made use of the time to search the laboratorium to ascertain the unwelcome truth. Like many of the rooms he passed, it had been totally ransacked. Not a shelf was left in place.
He soon came to the conclusion that the creature had found the diamond by chance. There was a huge bloodied footprint by the pile of glass. It must have stepped on the shards, injuring its foot, and then must have noticed the diamond amongst the shattered fragments.
“Damnation!” he shouted in anger. He went into Lot-Ionan’s old study, where there was an immense collection of books. He sat at the desk and started a letter to Prince Mallen, telling him what had happened. He found himself occasionally picking his nose with the end of the quill pen—a bad habit from the old days, the not-so-very-old days. He rapped himself on the knuckles, took a new nib and started again.
There was a knock on the door and the healer stepped into the room. He was wearing a dark gray robe over his white nightshirt; his boots were still undone. Goda really had dragged him from his bed. “Excuse me, Master Goldhand.” He ran his hands through his medium-length gray hair, which was standing up around his head. “I’m done here. I’ve stitched the wounds and treated them with salves. She will recover. The tincture I have given her will let her sleep for two orbits.”
Tungdil nodded to him, reached into the drawer of the desk and took out a gold coin. “This is for your trouble,” he said. “In the morning, please bring me anything else she may need.”
“Thank you, Master Goldhand.” The healer took the money, then looked at the dwarf. “What happened? If I may ask? It looks as if a horde of orcs had broken in.”
“You may ask,” replied Tungdil shortly. But he preferred to keep the truth to himself. There were already too many rumors circulating in Girdlegard. “Thieves. We chased them off. I’d prefer it if you’d keep this to yourself. If anyone asks, say it was an accident.” He threw him a second coin.
“Of course, Master Goldhand. You may rest assured on that count. I wish your lady wife a speedy recovery.” The healer bowed, and as he did so the sides of his robe swung gently under him. “Make sure she has bed-rest for at least forty orbits.”
“Why?”
He indicated his right side. “One of the largest fragments has damaged an internal organ, as far as I can see, but I specialize in healing humans and not dwarves. It looks all right, but as I said…”
“She will remain in bed,” Tungdil nodded for him to go. “Thank you.” The man turned and left the room.
Tungdil was finishing his letter to Mallen when Ireheart came in. He had put on his leather jacket and chain mail now. “Balyndis is fast asleep,” he reported, settling into the armchair by the fireside. With his short hair and ruined beard he looked very odd. “What next?”
“We’ll see at sun-up,” Tungdil replied as he signed the letter and placed his seal on it. He did not hold out much hope that they would find the creature, but said nothing.
“Look what froggy has done to me. I’m like a plucked chicken,” Ireheart complained, tugging at the remains of his beard. He had trimmed its ragged edges so that, although very short, it still looked reasonably tidy; it would be many cycles before it was back in all its long glory. And his hair was only shoulder length now. “I’ll be laughed at. If for nothing else it deserves to die for doing that.” He put his feet up. “Do you think it’s maybe always the same creature but appearing in a different guise each time?”
“Hard to say. I don’t think so.” Tungdil was chewing over his wife’s last word before she fell unconscious. He told his friend about it.
“Djern? Old Tin Man?” Ireheart thought back to Andôkai’s huge bodyguard. “Did she mean froggy was one of those? It was the right size. And that was from the Outer Lands, too.”
“No, I don’t think they’re related. This creature bled like an orc. Djern’s blood was bright yellow.”
“Mm,” said the warrior, at a loss. “Then I’ve no idea what she could have meant…”
“Of course!” Tungdil clapped himself on the forehead with the flat of his hand. “Djern’s armor!”
“But it wasn’t wearing any armor,” retorted Ireheart.
“No, but those wrist bands, and the chains.” Tungdil frowned into the flames. “I think Balyndis was trying to tell me that they were made of the same metal as Djern’s armor. Do you remember? It carried the magic.” He stood up and came over to join his friend at the fireside.
“That must mean that others have got the formula?”
“More than that, Boïndil. It means they’ve found a way to store magic power to use when they need it. It is more than protection. It is a reservoir that they can have recourse to for stocking up on magic now that Girdlegard has lost its magic source.” In a frenzy he racked his brain.
“And what if it’s the other way around?”
Tungdil stared at Ireheart’s wrinkled face in irritation. “What do you mean?”
“Perhaps froggy itself is magic?” He stroked the remains of his beard ruefully. “Like the wire the eoîl put leading up to the roof of the building from the magic source. That siphoned the energy up so it could be used at will.”
“An upside-down storm-milker?”
“A what?”
“A storm-milker. In one of the ancient alchemy tomes I read that you can do certain experiments when there’s a thunderstorm. Copper and iron attract the lightning bolts, it said.” Tungdil hurried over to the bookshelves and climbed the ladder to look for the book in question. “Here it is!” He opened the pages. “ ‘Place the ingredients in an iron bath when a thunderstorm is nigh. Let the bath be carried to the top of a mountain and stick a lance upright in the tub. Lightning will enter the tub and the energy released will effect the transformation.’ ” He slammed the book shut again. “With these creatures it’s the other way about: they are the thunderstorm and the energy shoots out through the metal.”
“There you are,” joked Ireheart. “That’s a scholar for you.”
“Yes,” sighed Tungdil, his enthusiasm failing. “Of course it’s only a theory,” he said with regret. “We don’t have anyone who knows enough about magic to advise us.”
“Makes sense all right to me,” Boïndil consoled him. “Why not tell Mallen what you think?”
Tungdil hesitated. “No.”
“Why not?”
He returned to his seat by the fire. “Who knows the formula, Ireheart?”
“The special metal? Well, Balyndis and Andôkai. And the eoîl, I think, but it’s dead.” Boïndil studied Tungdil, not knowing what he was getting at.
“I wonder how likely it is that one of the Outer Land races knows magic and is in possession of the formula for this alloy.”
Now Boïndil was following. “You think the beasts don’t come from the Outer Land?”
“There are lots of possibilities, I admit,” nodded Tungdil. “But where have the indestructible siblings got to? Rodario and I couldn’t find a trace of the unslayables on the tower. Of course, that was after the Star of Judgment fell. There was neither armor nor ash like with the älfar and the orcs that were wiped out by the Star’s force.” He leaned back. “Balyndis told some of our people the details of the special alloy before she left the Gray Range. And thirdlings have spies all over the place.”
“You’re not saying the embittered thirdlings and the unslayables have made common cause?”
“I don’t know.” Tungdil lowered his head, massaging his temples. “Damn it all. We’re completely in the dark here, Ireheart. We’ll have to step carefully through the pitch blackness, throwing light on the individual secrets as we go.”
Ireheart stood up. “Then let’s make a start in the morning, as we’d planned. We’ll find froggy.” He made for the door. “I’ll send Goda to the gate to take first watch.”
“Have you dragged your beam yet?” Tungdil baited him about his mistake.
“No,” Boïndil growled.
“But you’ll be wanting to set a good example, won’t you?”
Ireheart turned round and stepped out into the passage. “Fine friend you are,” he said, quite offended. “Go on, take my pupil’s side. You thirdlings are bound to stick together.” His footsteps died away.
“Mmm. The thirdlings stick together,” repeated Tungdil to himself, and he cast an eye on the bottle of mead that stood next to the desk, calling to him with its sweet dark contents.
But alcohol didn’t attract him. Not tonight. Tonight he needed a clear head.
A symbol on the wrist protectors worn by the creature had caught Tungdil’s eye. To be sure he’d understood carefully, he looked for the small book he had in the past spent long evenings poring over, so as not to have to spend time near Balyndis. He turned the pages. It turned out he was not mistaken. It was the sign for the elf word meaning to have.
He closed the small volume and replaced it on the shelf. So what did that signify? He would have to ask Mallen and Ortger whether the other monsters had borne elf runes on their armor.
He got up and went back into the bed chamber. Dressed as he was he lay down next to Balyndis as she rested on the sheet. He laid his head on his hand and watched her face, examining the feelings that were going through him.
He stayed like that until dawn.
When Goda knocked to tell him a messenger had arrived with a letter from Gandogar, he was still debating with himself, and wrestling with his emotions. The night had made him no wiser.
Girdlegard,
Queendom of Weyurn,
Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
The Curiosum had struck camp overnight. The brightly colored wagons had left Mifurdania at dawn without having put on a single performance. Now they were making their way westwards.
A ragged hunchbacked beggar in a big floppy hat on his greasy hair was searching for something to eat amongst the remains of the cooking fire and the rubbish left behind.
Not finding anything to his taste, he headed toward the town and the fish market. He sat himself on a barrel with a good view of the newly laid-out port and stretched out a hopeful hand whenever anyone passed by. “Please can you spare a coin for a starving man,” he coughed plaintively.
Nobody knowing Rodario would have suspected that the impresario’s refined features were concealed under the filth covering the beggar’s face. The actor had delved deep into his stage make-up box for the wherewithal of disfigurement. This included putting an ugly scar on the left cheek, applying stains to his teeth and giving himself a full shave. His beard had gone, much admired though it had always been: a painful sacrifice for the sake of his mission.
Tassia and the others had been taken aback when he summoned them in the middle of the night to tell them what he intended to do: there was a sensitive and dangerous task to be carried out, investigating the recent occurrences in Mifurdania. He placed the running of the Curiosum into the hands of his blond muse, not knowing how long he would need to fathom out the Furgas mystery. Tassia had accepted the promotion with a charming smile and had gone on in the intervening hours to make it almost impossible for him to leave.
“Give me a little something,” Rodario begged a rich merchant, who spat at him and went on his way. “No, that’s not what I meant. Your snot will buy me nothing. Give me a coin,” he called out after the man, earning a few laughs in the process.
The morning passed by. The sun rose high overhead and then sank toward the horizon.
Rodario stuck it out bravely in his chosen place of duty. He warded off importunate flies, annoying urchins and a tradesman who disputed his right to the barrel. Altogether his modest takings for the day were enough to get him a piece of bread and a cup of plonk. You could put up with poverty better like that.
The waiting continued.
Twilight arrived. Then he noticed the barge the archer-woman had used. The load line on its hull was now well above the surface of the water. So it was traveling to town empty.
Rodario made for the port and lay down between a couple of heaps
of coiled rope opposite the freight quay. He looked like a beggar who had found a corner for the night. Nobody would be suspicious.
It wasn’t until darkness fell that the brown-haired woman appeared, wearing a black mantle over her shoulders. Beneath it Rodario espied a dark, tight-laced dress and a dagger as long as a man’s forearm hanging from her belt She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her.
She walked over the deck, jumped elegantly onto the quayside, put finger and thumb into her mouth and issued a deafeningly shrill whistle.
Near to where Rodario lay a warehouse gate opened; light cascaded onto the cobblestones and a man dressed in a brownish robe came out. He wore a hat, and the chain around his neck marked him out as a member of the merchant’s guild. “Kea! Back so soon?” He was about to go over to her when he caught sight of the apparently sleeping form of the beggar. “Oi! Scum!”
Rodario did not move, hoping to be left in peace, but he was kicked in the side, and cowered in a heap, groaning.
“Up with you, you tramp. Sleep it off somewhere else.” The man leaned down and punched him on the back of the neck. “Can’t you hear? I’ll get a knife to help you.”
Rodario could hardly not react to that threat. He struggled up, drunkenly protesting and slouched off along the warehouse wall to turn into the narrow space between this building and its neighbor. He had to force himself into the gap.
“You may have driven me off but you haven’t got rid of me,” he murmured. Making use of the slits between the wooden boards he climbed up onto the roof, hoping to overhear their exchange from above.
He worked his way forward to a ventilation cover, which he managed to open and then slip quietly inside.
He landed in the dark on something soft that gave a bit under his weight. The smell and slight crunch told him it must be sacks of corn. The store was stuffed up to the roof with it, as if Mifurdania were planning for a famine or a siege.
