by Markus Heitz
Sirka took a deep breath and clasped his hands. “He will prepare my homeland to avert the worst,” she answered vaguely.
“That could mean anything.”
She gazed into his eyes. “I will tell you a secret. Before we left to come to Girdlegard, Sûndalon called the ubar people and the acrontas together,” she said slowly. “They will have gathered on the northern border by the gates.”
So that was why the orcs were desperately attempting to break through the fourthlings’ Brown Mountains. They had an army of orc-haters at their backs, driving them on. “An invasion? You want to conquer Girdlegard?”
“No. We want the stone back. We want to crush the seed of danger that threatens our land. Stone and seed—both are here in Girdlegard.”
Tungdil swallowed. “Sirka, how big is the army?”
“They will be eighty thousand ubariu, four thousand acrontas and fifty thousand of my own people.”
“Oh Vraccas,” he groaned, seeing Girdlegard submerged in blood. “The fourthlings will fight you because they think you threaten them. They will launch everything they have against you to keep you away from the diamond.”
“And fail. For the acrontas it will be easy to blast the gates open. We have reconnoitered and found your weak spots.” Sirka seemed relieved to be able to tell him everything at last. “But they won’t have to. Our scouts have found a way through the Brown Mountains.”
“Never!”
“Yes. Ubar showed them a broad path that an army can use without being seen; they can go straight past the fourthling bastions.”
“It’s impossible,” Tungdil contradicted her. “It can’t be done! The peaks can’t be climbed.”
“You will soon see it is true.”
“The monsters from the Outer Lands could have found it just as well!”
“They did find it, Tungdil. Several times. We stopped them ever carrying the discovery back to their own kind.” Sirka paused for breath. “Sûndalon did not want us to tell you before we had recovered the diamond. But I think you need to know.” She stroked the back of his hand. “Take it as a proof of my trustworthiness.”
“So the peace we have had in Girdlegard is due not only to harmony between the dwarf folks, but to you,” he mouthed, shocked to the core.
He was imagining the extent of the destruction if armies of ogres, trolls, älfar, bögnilim and other Tion-bred horrors marched in via Urgon with no warning, streaming out over the rest of Girdlegard. Nothing would remain.
So those cycles of deceptive calm they owed to the protection the undergroundlings had given them. And the undergroundlings were now at risk themselves. “Why did you do it? Why did you never show yourselves?”
“What for? None of your kind came over. We assumed you did not like us. And we knew that our brotherhood pact with the ubariu would cause trouble between us.” She stood up and went to the door. “Now it’s clear we were right to stay hidden. I must tell them that we’re leaving for Weyurn,” she said in the doorway. “You won’t tell anyone what I’ve said?”
A thousand questions were burning on Tungdil’s tongue but he controlled himself. “No one,” he promised, touching his ax to strengthen the vow. “By Keenfire, I swear it.” He smiled at her and she slipped out.
His thoughts raged in tumult. Unslayables, undergroundlings. It all sounded like unmitigated disaster.
It lay in his hands to prevent the catastrophe. Again. He did not feel particularly strong and was pleased to know there would soon be support. Soon he would be able to call on the help of his foster-father Lot-Ionan. A wise magus, older than any other soul in Girdlegard, he possessed a strong intellect with a wealth of experience. He had always stood Tungdil in good stead with his sound counsel. His assistance would be needed again. Or better still, Lot-Ionan should decide what to do. Tungdil did not want to be making decisions.
He caught sight of the last of the sealed letters.
He had refrained from reading this one out. It was from Glaïmbar Sharpax. Tungdil was afraid of what it would say. But read it he must.
He stood up, tearing it open.
Highly esteemed Tungdil Goldhand,
You were correct in thinking that I still am very attached to Balyndis. I summoned her to me as soon as I received your letter.
To my great joy she accepted the invitation and to my even greater delight she promised to return to my side. As my first wife she has every right to be there.
I am to tell you that she had been aware of your coldness toward her. For this reason she is prepared to give you up, on the understanding that she will never have to see you again. She says she would not be able to bear it.
I am sure that I shall be able to smooth things between Balyndis and her clan so that relations are as she deserves. I shall be a good husband to her and she will be the best royal consort the fifthling realm has ever seen.
I thank you for the openness you have shown. I respond in kind: true feelings do not admit of change. Balyndis has learned painfully that there is no stable commitment on your part. But we, children of the Smith…
Tungdil tore the letter through.
He did not need to go on reading. The important points had been made and he had no taste for a lecture on fidelity from Glaïmbar Sharpax. He knew full well what it entailed. Balyndis had read and understood his letter. He would always be grateful to her, and he was aware how much pain he had caused her. He could not rejoice over the parting.
He looked out into the courtyard to watch Sirka. He met his own reflection on the window glass. “You coward,” he said.
His reflection seemed to nod in agreement.
XII
Girdlegard,
Queendom of Weyurn,
Twelve Miles Northwest of Mifurdania,
Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
After the initial interruptions their journey now went smoothly. They boarded the two royal ships that had been placed at their disposal and headed for Mifurdania. On the way they put in at Windsport Island and left the sick elf in the care of Queen Wey’s palace archivist.
But then their luck ran out.
The dwarves and their companions learned that even a lake could produce extremely high waves, that evening the goddess Elria started to play with their vessels. The waters were set in turbulent motion, and hurled against the stern of their ships.
Constantly tossed up and down they scudded over Weyurn’s lake, with clouds of spray drenching them all. Apart from Tungdil not a single Girdlegard dwarf wasn’t seasick. But the undergroundlings kept a firm footing on the swaying deck-planks.
Tungdil hurried down below to check on the statue in the hold. He would never forgive himself if any harm came to it now in this gale when they were so close to their destination. His legs set wide to help keep his balance, he walked round the blanket-clad stone figure of his foster-father, testing the support ropes. Then he drew back a corner of the blankets to reveal the face.
“Soon,” he promised, taking a deep breath. First it had been a glimmer of hope, the thought he might one day see the familiar and well-loved magus come alive. Now it was as good as a certainty.
What will he say when he hears what has been happening? he wondered, touching the hem of the petrified robe that peeped out under the padded coverings. He caught himself thinking that Lot-Ionan might reproach him with something he had done during the past cycles.
Tungdil grinned. No, he has no cause. Unless the acts of heroes can be condemned. He tightened one of the ropes holding the statue in place and then climbed back up the companionway to the others.
“Elria’s come up with a new curse for us,” groaned Boïndil, leaning over the railing and belching up air. There was nothing in his stomach anymore. It was the first time he had spoken to Tungdil since the row back at the farm. Since then, he had preferred the company of Goda, the actor and the other dwarves.
“This is nothing,” grinned Sirka. “Out on the ocean we’ve seen bigger storms than this.”
�
��There’s open sea in the Outer Lands?” Tungdil recalled the sketchy drawings he had seen of the land on the other side of the mountains. He did not remember reading about an ocean.
“Of course. We sail it.” Sirka looked at the helmsman. “These ships and crews would be lost on our waters. They wouldn’t survive the gales.”
Furgas stood by, not bothered by the weather. “It must have been somewhere near here,” he conjectured, scanning the landscape. He called Rodario over: “The distance is right and there’s an island over there. Is that the one you sailed round?”
Rodario hung on to the mast, water dripping from his clothes. “Could be. Let’s hope the fisherman was correct when he was telling us about the älfar island.”
“The storm’s on our side,” said Sirka. “We can get close without the thirdlings seeing us.”
Tungdil surveyed his little group of diehards, remembering the nameless undergroundling who had taken them to Sûndalon that time. He asked Sirka about him. “What did those tattoos on his forehead signify? And the symbols on his clothing? Why wouldn’t he give his name?”
“I think only seven people know it. I’m not one of them. He’s a confidant of Sûndalon’s and serves the acront of Letèfora. He was trained by him.”
This information brought more questions than clarity. “But what—?”
“Mountain ahead!” the lookout shouted down. Tungdil had to suppress his curiosity.
Dergard, standing in the cabin doorway, waved Tungdil and Furgas out. “That’s where the source is,” he yelled against the wind. “I can feel it. No doubt about it.”
“If the island has surfaced it means they’re either expecting monsters or disembarking them,” said Furgas.
Tungdil pursed his lips. Four monsters, possibly with a renewed intake of magic, would be impossible odds if they had not brought Lot-Ionan back to life first. “We don’t have a choice,” he said. “We have to storm the island and submerge it. Stand by, Dergard.” He hurried up to the helmsman and captain to give orders. “Find a place we can land.”
“Impossible. See that shoreline? Solid rock. It would slice our hull.”
“There’s no other way. We haven’t got enough dinghies and we wouldn’t be able to launch them in this weather anyway,” insisted Tungdil. “If need be, run the ships aground and wreck them.”
“You’re no sailor, Tungdil Goldhand! Have you any idea what you’re asking us to do? You’re risking all our lives!”
“Just do it, Captain. There’s more at stake than a couple of ships.” And a few lives. He came off the bridge, then down below deck to chase the dwarves and Weyurn soldiers up top to start the onslaught on the island. Lot-Ionan’s draped statue was brought up on deck and made ready for hoisting on the crane. Tungdil watched the preparations closely. There must be no mistakes.
They gathered in the bows. The nightmare älfar island grew in size as they approached.
Their ships ran aground on the basalt ledge, the spars of the keels bursting and splintering. None of the dwarves or undergroundlings made a sound; they clutched at ropes or the vessels’ superstructure. The wooden planks sliced through as if a giant knife had severed them.
“All on shore!” shouted Tungdil, sounding a bugle to alert the dwarves on the second craft. He leaped off the deck and landed on the rock.
Most of the soldiers and dwarves did the same, although a dozen or so ended up in the water after the ship was forced away from the shore by the broiling waves. They sank without trace.
Tungdil cursed under his breath. Their lives must not have been lost in vain. “Let the statue down now!” he called. He could see water flooding into the open forward section of the ship.
The crane swung round as the sailors maneuvered the winch, and the stone magus left the deck.
When it was half over the shore the ship lurched again, splitting open on the rock like a loaf of bread torn apart.
The heavy weight danced and jumped around like a murderer in a hangman’s noose. Then it proved too great a burden. The rope snapped and the statue plunged down.
Dwarves sprang out of the way to avoid being crushed to death. The figure tumbled to the shoreline shelf and started to roll toward the edge.
“Hold it fast!” bellowed Tungdil, running through water that came up to his middle. He pulled and tugged at the statue, together with five companions, but the blankets round it were sodden and it was heavier than ever. A wave threw three of the dwarves off balance. The stone figure of Lot-Ionan slipped over the edge and sank to the depths.
“No!” roared Tungdil, staring in horror at where the statue had disappeared. He stepped forward as if to dive after it.
“Let it be.” Ireheart held him back. “Who knows whether you’d ever have been able to bring him back to life. We still have a magus, Scholar. We just have to get him to his magic.”
The spell which had turned Lot-Ionan to stone was affecting Tungdil too, it seemed. He could not move. He could not speak. The wind howled in his face, and though he heard the cracking ships’ timbers breaking up, his mind was at a standstill, his plans all over the place like liberated mercury, rolling and disappearing. What happens now? The words went round and round in his head. I’ve lost him for all time. It’s my fault. This was no way to defeat the island.
“Tungdil!” bawled Ireheart in his ear, shaking him. “Come on, man. We need you.”
“Damnation!” shouted Tungdil into the storm, spray washing away his tears of despair and disappointment. Then his resolute dwarf spirit took over and he exploded into action. “Let’s get this blasted island conquered!” He raised his head. “Furgas!”
Furgas appeared, waved and jumped down off the remains of the ship. He took command and led them through the cave Rodario had encountered before. They were now faced with a massive wall. “There’s a hidden entrance here,” he explained, fiddling with a black stone let into the wall of the cliff.
Tungdil and the others stood back, checking in all directions.
Looking back through the cave entrance Rodario saw another wave lift the damaged ships and smash them against the rock, breaking them into a thousand pieces in the foaming water. A few sailors crawled onto land, but most went to the bottom with the wreck. There was nothing left but to conquer and prevail. There was no going back.
In front of them the wall moved. “This’ll take us to the corridor on the middle level of the forge,” the actor told them.
“Some of you set the captives free,” commanded Tungdil, “but the rest go on. Follow Furgas and me, straight to the thirdlings.” He nodded at them. “May Vraccas be with us. And make us once more the protectors of Girdlegard.” He glanced at Sirka, smiled and then signaled to Furgas to set off.
Two hundred warriors ran through the narrow corridor toward an iron door fastened with metal bolts and bars. Furgas knew his way through these locks and contraptions and the door opened with ease.
Rodario recognized the place at once. They were near where he had fled to hide in the cave behind the furnaces.
Soldiers and dwarves spread out.
“Hey!” shouted one of the prisoners. “Who are you?”
Those standing near him heard the shout. The Girdlegard advance party had been sighted.
“By all the good gods: the queen’s troops! Praise be to Elria! Will you save us?” the prisoner shouted, rattling his chains at them. Now there were shouts and calls on all sides. The men and women were afraid the soldiers would not free them.
Their cries brought the guards running, thinking there was a mutiny. They soon saw their mistake, but didn’t bother to offer resistance. There were too few of them. Aware they stood no chance, they threw themselves on the mercy of the invading party.
But there were ten of the enemy placed in the galleries above, shooting arrows and throwing down red-hot coals. There were injuries, there were deaths. Their swift progress was halted.
Furgas, Rodario, Tungdil, Sirka, Ireheart and Goda meanwhile were leading a group of warr
iors to the furnace to attack the thirdlings. The sentries here did not run away or surrender. They fought with great spirit and were not to be subdued with a few random ax blows.
“Look out!” Tungdil noticed the forges on the platform above them were tipping, about to empty their molten contents. “Take cover! Get under the rock ledge, now!”
Liquid iron, glowing red, yellow and gold, poured down on them from above, sending sparks flying. Way below, others were caught by the red-hot splashes and were horribly burned. It was an awesome spectacle. A terrible sight—and a fatal one.
Several soldiers and chained workers sank screaming in the flood of red-hot iron; stinking fumes scorched airways and burned lungs. Hisses and screams filled the air.
“Where’s Furgas?” Rodario saw that his friend was missing. “Furgas!” he yelled like a maniac. Tungdil had to stop him treading in a pool of molten metal. He would have lost his leg.
“There!” Ireheart pointed down to where he could see the magister’s burning mantle smoldering on the liquid fire-death. A blackened arm was uplifted. “Vraccas has punished him for his deeds,” he murmured.
“Aim at those archers hiding in the cliffs,” commanded Tungdil furiously. They had lost yet another vital member of their invading force. Their ranks were thinning by the minute.
“Furgas,” whispered Rodario, horrified at the loss. “My poor friend. The gods have been so cruel to you since the loss of Narmora. I thought they had taken pity on you when they allowed me to find you.”
That blackened arm had been a last gesture of farewell from the man with whom he had traveled the highways and byways for so many cycles, helping to make the Curiosum a magnificent success. He owed his friend so much. Gone, dead, incinerated. “We needed you still, Furgas.” He wiped the tears from his eyes and drew his sword. “The thirdlings shall die to avenge your death.” He stormed back along the gangway.
“Follow him!” Tungdil called to the dwarves. He ordered the last of the captive workers to be freed, telling them to keep the guards occupied. Then the group moved through a gap into a tall narrow cave.
