by Markus Heitz
He remembered how he had hung imprisoned in suspended animation, remembered the physical paralysis, the work of immense effort on the magic journey and the effect of the eoîl’s interference.
Never before had he applied such a powerful spell or undertaken such a great risk. He and his sister had been protected from destruction in the caves but the price had been high.
He had been hurled into an abyss, separated from his sister and immobilized. His mind, however, had been constantly at work trying to work out where he was.
When evil orc fumes reached his nose he had started to realize that some of these low creatures had survived the unspeakable blast of light.
Captive in the remote tunnels, he remembered the warning lines in the old writings of his kingdom Dsôn, which had spoken of the eoîl.
The eternal eoîl. Apart from immortality and mutual hatred there was nothing to connect him to the age-old elf woman. The writings told only of the incredible power which the eoîl was able to harness. And how to make it your own.
He needed this power urgently and thanks to those writings he knew the formula for acquiring it. When he had first heard of the avatars, he had sought out the verses, and learned them by heart, making them as much a part of himself as was with his love of Nagsar Inàste. The verses meant sovereignty and signified victory over the elves and their allies.
He could not have known what the eoîl was intending to do in Porista. They had almost managed to avert it—but the eoîl was too strong and had nearly annihilated him.
So he lay and waited until his body belonged to him, cycle after cycle he waited. He could do nothing.
Eventually the feeling had returned to his limbs and he had risen up. Furious and mad with concern about Nagsar he had searched all the passages until he found her.
She was lying half covered with a dirty cloth on a shabby table standing away from the wall; someone had placed a second cloth over her face to hide her terrible beauty. Her thighs had been forced wide apart and bruises and bloody marks betrayed the shameful acts wrought upon her.
Eight orcs had been sitting nearby playing cards and did not notice him. The orc with the winning hand had stood up to the jeers and complaints of the other players. His hand was at the buckle of his belt as he made his way to the table where Nagsar Inàste lay…
The unslayable one stopped in his tracks as he recalled the moment. Memories of that sight of his humiliated sister overcame him and forced him to seek support from the wall.
The first eight orcs he had killed more quickly than an arrow singing from the bow to its target. Then he had continued the carnage until the last of the beasts lay destroyed at his feet; dark green blood had flowed like water.
The countless acts of violation committed by the orcs against his sister in past cycles had left five hideous fruits. When he discovered the bastards in a neighboring cave he had nearly beheaded them all, but then a groundling had appeared and suggested a pact. A good pact, which he had agreed to. The creatures could be made use of, though he would not spare them once they had fulfilled their role.
The unslayable one struggled for breath and forced himself to walk on. He entered the chamber where his armor was kept. Piece by piece he took it down off the stand and put it on. His thoughts moved to his son, a pure-bred sintoìt.
In order to show his paralyzed sister that he was with her once more he had made love to her devotedly after he had killed the orcs, giving her the kind of pain and passion that a sintoì desires. To compensate for the five ugly beings that had crawled out of her body, she had then borne him a son. Hundreds of cycles they had waited for such a one, and finally in the midst of all this horror the longed-for event had occurred.
But on returning from the magic wellspring, disappointment had followed. The son had turned against him; he did not understand his task and refused to take it on. I hope I can change his mind. Nagsar Inàste must not be disappointed in him. He tightened the final chain; his armor was ready.
Now he would have to be watchful and guard the entrances. The scout girl that had escaped would bring the army. But until he had completed his preparations, no soldier should enter the depths of Toboribor. Not until the helpless Nagsar Inàste had opened her eyes.
He drew his swords out of their sheaths, studying them in the lamplight. He was pleased to see how immaculate the blades were. In spite of the intense use they had been put to they showed neither scratches nor notches.
It doesn’t matter to them whether they slice through tough flesh or thick iron, he thought, and gave a vicious smile thinking back to the orcs he had slaughtered. He had sprung among them, his swords taking three or four lives with one swipe, while they had writhed and yelled. They are simply too slow; they cannot stand up to risen gods. I have never understood why the humans fear them.
Those three hundred orcs had been the beginning.
He put the swords back again in their sheaths. Only serve me as you have done, my good friends. Let us bring such fear to the humans that they are too dazzled to see our true intentions.
The unslayable one fastened his long black hair back under a black cloth and put his helmet on his head. The beauty of his face, not to be revealed to any other than Nagsar Inàste, disappeared behind the visor.
It would be wasted on others.
Girdlegard,
The North of the Kingdom of Gauragar,
Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Even at the beginning now of the cycle’s best season, Girdlegard was wreathed in a sense of depression. Although Nature was at its most bountiful, the sun warm, the first harvests in and delicious fruits ripening, promising variety for jaded palates, it was not enough to lighten the mood.
In the interim, the human kingdoms had learned of uncanny and terrible events. The rumors did not merely furnish descriptions of the monsters. Each tale spoke of threats and dangers, made greater by a hundredfold every time it was retold.
“Have you heard? Now it’s said they can fly, become invisible or transform themselves into a mountain.” Goda rode along a little ahead and to the side of Ireheart and Tungdil. Behind them there followed a troop of dwarf warriors, male and female; they were escorting the diamond from the Gray Range to Immengau. They had ten small armored wagons with them and in each was a newly made imitation of the diamond they were taking to Paland.
It had been Tungdil’s idea to increase the number of stones in the hope of complicating things for would-be thieves, be they undergroundlings, pink-eyed orcs, monsters or the immortal unslayables. The fourthlings were busy producing yet more copies.
“You forgot to add that one glance is enough to kill a grown man and that they spit fire,” sighed Tungdil. They heard these stories everywhere. The latest rumor of the return of an unslayable sovereign, one of the mightiest of the älfar, had brought deep and widespread fear. “I can understand the long-uns being worried,” he mused. “If one of the immortal alfar has managed to survive the effect of the Star of Judgment, then I would think, if I were a human, that maybe more of them survived.”
“That was rumor number seventy-three,” said Goda flatly. “There’s an army collecting in Toboribor ready to send out raiding parties.”
Ireheart turned to her in surprise. “You’re really keeping score?”
She grinned. “Of course. It’s helpful to see how quickly a handful of enemies can become an undefeatable army. The monsters got bigger, more terrible and impossible to vanquish, as we moved through the villages. We didn’t beat that thing in the vaults but we could have done.”
Tungdil looked back at their troop. All was in order.
“And in the last town there were the first rumors of a powerful artifact in Paland.” Goda looked at Tungdil. “People have noticed that soldiers from all the different kingdoms are gathering in the old fortress.”
“But no dwarves,” muttered Ireheart.
Tungdil knew that this fact, widely known, was fomenting talk about quarrels between dwarves and elves, dwarves and
humans, the high king of the dwarves and the kings of the human realms.
“Have you heard number seventy-four?” Goda loved being able to tease her master with news. “These monsters can steal a maidenhead with a single word.”
“If I have to listen to this nonsense a moment longer I shall put wax in my ears,” said Boïndil bad-temperedly. “You’d almost think people prefer the bad news to the good.”
“You may be right there,” nodded Goda. “It is a thing the humans do, seeing the bad side rather than praising the good.”
“They aren’t all like that.” Tungdil softened the reproof, knowing that what the dwarf-girl was saying was largely true. He found it worrying since she had only recently come into contact much with humans. “We can hardly tell them the truth, can we? We’re lucky the ordinary folk have no idea what the monsters are really after. The secret of the diamond’s power has been kept so far.”
“Yes, you’re right again there.” Boïndil slipped from the saddle, preferring to walk beside his small horse. His buttocks were too sore. “I’ll never really get used to this way of traveling. It may be quicker, but your bottom gets as broad as the pony you ride on.”
Without saying a word Goda also dismounted. She was persevering with Ireheart’s instructions, and was capable now of physical feats that surprised both of the dwarves.
If Tungdil were not mistaken there had been a slight change in his friend’s attitude toward the girl: he looked at her more often than before, and did so not with the eyes of a master observing an apprentice but with the eyes of dwarf attracted to dwarf-woman. Like now.
“Does she please you?” he asked with a smile.
“What?” Boïndil jerked upright and even blushed a little. He immediately turned his gaze to the road.
“In the progress she’s making?” said Tungdil, making the question more objective.
“Oh yes, of course,” answered Boïndil in relief. He looked at his friend. “But that’s not what you meant, is it?”
Tungdil only grinned and pointed to the wood on their left. It had to be the easternmost point of landur, or at least it was composed of the same trees that grew in the elf groves. “It’s time for a break.”
He had the troop stop in the cool shade and rest a while. Even if the children of the Smith regularly did guard duty on the surface, a long march such as this was unusual for most of them.
Ireheart left Goda to keep watch. When they had moved away from her, he took up the thread once more. “You are right, Scholar,” he sighed. “It makes me happy to see her. And I am dreading the day when she leaves.”
“You will have her with you for a long time yet. It will take cycles for a good warrior-girl to be trained.” Tungdil winked, but then he grew serious. “You’ve really fallen for her.”
Boïndil sat down, one hand on his weapon. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? My heart is on fire. It was her that re-awoke my lust for fighting. And I know that it can’t go anywhere. I killed a relative of hers. Goda will never see me any other way. She will hate me. I can sense it, even though she hides her true feelings.”
Tungdil thought back to the conversation with Balyndis. He did not tell his friend that Goda had originally arrived with the intention of killing him. Now would not be a good time to tell him that. Instead he said, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Oh, do you think she likes me? After I murdered her grandma?”
“You’ll have to find out.”
“Do you know how long it’s been since I courted a dwarf-girl, Scholar?” Ireheart gave a helpless sigh.
“Somebody told me that you have to rub them with their favorite cheese and then spin them round four times to win their heart,” laughed Tungdil, citing the not entirely serious advice the twin-dwarf had once given him. “But really—just be yourself.” Those had been Boëndal’s words of wisdom. “She’s a thirdling. She has no clan, no family. That should make it easier for you. You don’t have to impress or convince anybody else.”
He thought back ruefully to when he had first spoken to the father of Balyndis. He had been rejected out of hand, but in the end she had remained resolute and had left husband and clan for his sake and for their love. Now the bond between them was breaking, and the recriminations that he leveled at himself could not be dismissed. He felt he had betrayed her, but knew they could no longer live as man and wife.
“Oh, Vraccas,” said Ireheart despairingly. “It’s all too much. An honest fight and you know where you are. But this love stuff… it’s complicated.”
Tungdil did not envy his friend’s state of mind and hoped that things would work out for him. “Stick with it and wait for the right moment.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “And whatever you do, don’t listen to what others in your clan have to say about it.”
Ireheart grinned. “Oh, I have no reputation left to lose. You forget—I’m a friend of yours, Scholar.”
A rider was approaching them from the south. At first, given the rider’s size, they took it to be a child on horseback but they soon saw they were mistaken. Dark clothing, a scarf round the head, full saddlebags clanking.
“The executioner again?” Boïndil was surprised. “Can’t just be coincidence.”
“It won’t be coincidence.”
“Then send him packing if he tries to join us here. I don’t trust him.”
“Wait and see.”
Bramdal pulled up his horse where Tungdil and Boïndil were resting. “Greetings,” he laughed down at them. “Mind if I join you for a breather?”
“So, have you finished your business in Porista?” To Boïndil’s surprise, Tungdil gestured for him to sit with them. “We’ve got some tea if you want.”
“Great.” Bramdal reached behind and pulled out a kind of rope ladder. He stepped onto it out of the stirrup, and from there down onto the grass. “Neat, eh?” he grinned. “I thought, why should a dwarf go slowly on a pony when he can go fast on a horse? So I came up with this contraption and got the saddle made.”
Ireheart shook his head and looked up. The executioner had chosen a particularly tall mount. “You won’t get me up on one of those.”
“But there’s a very good view.” Bramdal followed Tungdil over to where the tea was brewing. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. What brings you to the north?” asked Tungdil.
“I’m heading back to Hillchester.” Bramdal blew gently on his hot tea. “King Bruron wants me to start a school.”
“For executioners, I assume.”
“Absolutely. He didn’t want it to be in Porista, for fear of tarnishing his new capital city’s reputation,” grinned the dwarf. “Although I only carry out the letter of the law. Odd, isn’t it? The humans set the death penalty and then want nothing to do with it.”
Tungdil smiled. “We didn’t come across each other in Porista.”
“No, I’ll have been too busy.” Bramdal winked. “You don’t believe me. What do you think then? That I’m a spy for the dwarf-haters?”
“Yes,” Ireheart jumped in, his hands on the crow’s beak handle.
Bramdal laughed out loud, sounding genuinely amused. His gaze went past the warrior over to Goda, and his curiosity was aroused. “A fine-looking dwarf-girl. She looks nice and strong. I bet she wields her weapon with a strong hand. Excellent material for an executioner.”
“Leave her alone,” was Boïndil’s immediate response. “She is my pupil,” he added quickly. “If she’s going to be doing any beheading then it’ll be orc heads that roll.” He was getting hot and bothered, the blood surging in his ears. Was it jealousy?
“I understand. Your pupil,” said Bramdal with a grin, leaving his true meaning unspoken. He sipped his tea. “I was talking to Gordislan Hammerfist in Porista. He’s worried about Trovegold: it’s been attacked.”
Tungdil let out his breath. “Thirdling machines?”
“No, it was sabotage.” Bramdal looked serious. “The sluice on the dam was jammed full open and a third of Trovegold left
under water. The townspeople eventually managed to repair the damaged sluice, otherwise even more of the freelings would have drowned.”
“How many were lost?” Ireheart wanted to know.
“Two hundred and eleven. More than thirty houses will have to be rebuilt.” He lowered his eyes despondently. “No, it wasn’t the dwarf-haters’ machines; they can’t reach us through the cave network. They’re using other methods of attack.” He poured himself some more tea. “The worst thing is there’s no one to actually blame. The guards out at the sluice were all killed. Nobody saw the murderers.”
“That’s terrible.” Tungdil was moved.
“The flood means Trovegold is a hotbed of suspicion now. There are accusations it was the clan-dwarves and not the thirdlings at all. They think wealth is causing envy amongst the dwarf folks—they all want our vraccasium and gold. One of the dwarves in the fourthling clan assembly is supposed to have said we were trying to curry favor with Vraccas with all these sacrifices and donations, and that it’s unfair and has got to be stopped. Others suggested the leaders want to force the dwarves back into the dwarf realms again.” Bramdal was silent, waiting for a reaction.
“Rubbish,” thundered Ireheart. “The mountains have enough gold to fill that town’s entire cave. Why would the secondlings or whoever want the outcasts’ gold?”
Tungdil leaned back against a tree, closing his eyes. “Soon the thirdlings will be getting the blame whenever anything happens. Suspicion will be rampant and no one will trust anyone anymore. That’s just what the dwarf-haters wanted, of course.” He looked up. “Bramdal, wherever you hear talk like that, tell them to pay no attention. The more discord there is, the quicker the dwarf-haters will have achieved their goal.”
The executioner nodded. “That’s what Gordislan Hammerfist said. I’m sure you know how hard it is to put such rumors down.” He placed his empty cup on the grass. “I’ll be off. Perhaps we’ll meet again. If we do, you mustn’t think straightaway I’m one of the bad ones,” he said to Ireheart. He got up and climbed onto his horse again. With his boot he fished for the patent ladder, pulling it up behind him. “May Vraccas bless you.” He lifted his hand in farewell and rode off.
