by Markus Heitz
A fisherman took them to the brightly lit house of the village elder. “Come in!” He greeted them still in his nightshirt, his brown hair tousled. “It’s quite a night, it seems.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ireheart.
“You’re not the first to visit me.” He invited them into his official chamber and showed them the other visitor, wrapped in blankets in front of the stove, drying his wet hair and warming himself.
Tungdil knew the figure immediately from his gray beard, white hair and the light blue eyes, staring straight at him. Faced by the familiar friendly smile of one he thought he’d lost forever, he was completely overcome. He ran and embraced him. “Lot-Ionan,” he sobbed with joy.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Idoslane,
Former Orc Realm of Toboribor,
Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
The unslayable one stood in the shadows at the mouth of the cave. In his left hand he held a curved longbow. In front of him ten wire-reinforced arrows stuck upright in the rotting corpse of an overbold soldier, killed eleven orbits previously.
So far no further warriors had shown themselves.
I can smell you. Thirty soldiers: twenty-four men, six women. They were crouching behind a rock trying to work out how they could make it into the cave without incurring loss of life. These were scouts, sent out while the army was limiting its action to throwing a cordon around the hill. As if you could fence me in.
Every now and again small units would try to get inside Toboribor. In vain. No one was getting past him and the bastards.
The unslayable one was angry. Getting the diamond had taken much longer than he had thought. He was becoming uneasy. It was delaying their departure and prolonging the danger for his beloved sister. He was not stupid enough to think the human army would hang around forever. And if what the bastards on their travels had told him was true, strange things were happening involving the petrified statue of the old magus Lot-Ionan. He had not reckoned with that.
Three intrepid scouts were making their way up the hill, dodging from rock to rock, their paths intersecting.
“You shall die together,” he mouthed. Pulling a black arrow out of the cadaver he notched it and drew back the string. Just before the paths of the three scouts crossed again he sent the arrow to its target.
It hit the first through the throat, killing the man behind and piercing the right eye of the smaller female soldier bringing up the rear.
Her shrill scream brought a smile to his lips. She fell backwards and crawled to the shelter of the nearest rock.
None of the support troop dared come to her aid. It was clear death was waiting in ambush. The unslayable one lowered his longbow and waited, watching the banners on the tents in the distance. To think so many humans are needed to vanquish a handful of enemies, he thought contemptuously. How weak they are. They’ve always needed the help of others. He saw two soldiers trying to reach the injured female. They will all be destroyed sooner or later. He picked out the next arrow, blew on the damp tip to dry off the decaying moist flesh from the corpse and prepared his next shot. What a shame I shan’t see it. I’ll come back in a hundred cycles to see what has happened to the land.
The two warriors were trying hard not to be observed. They nearly managed it but when the unslayable one took a step to the side he saw them. They were supporting the injured girl between them and helping her along. Exactly the right configuration to ensure they all died at once.
He ran out of the cave mouth, leaping onto a rock to achieve the height needed for a diagonal aim. He spanned the bow and loosed the feathered end of the arrow. Fly and take their souls.
The arrow hummed through the air like black lightning, pinning the legs of all three soldiers. They fell, stapled together by the arrow’s shaft and screaming in pain: music to the ears of the unslayable one.
This masterful shot wakened the courage of the others.
“There he is!” He heard the angry shout of a woman and glimpsed the top of her helmet over the rock she was sheltering behind. “Quick! He’s on his own and he can’t get all of us! Or do we let him go on killing?” She stormed out toward him, her shield held high and sword drawn. The other twenty-four warriors followed her with war-whoops to give themselves courage.
He dropped the bow, unhurriedly drew out both swords and waited for them to attack. This was just what he needed. Fresh blood to finish the next part of the ceremonial painting he had undertaken in order to welcome Nagsar Inàste back to life. He did not have the herbs from Dsôn Balsur that kept the tints fluid, so he had to keep getting new paint.
He did not move until their first wave was less than three paces away. Then, swiveling elegantly to avoid two arrows flying at him from a distance, he launched himself into his attackers’ midst.
Humans moved more swiftly and flexibly in battle than dull orcs, but it still did not make them opponents to fear. Not these ones, anyway.
The unslayable one strode through them, distributing precise death-dealing blows left and right, so the men floundered and obstructed each other.
His two swords admirably delivered their fatal blows. Blood coated the blades and flew off, spattering the rocks, making patterns and lines on the black and gray.
The incidental art-work delighted him. Swinging his arms faster still, he savored the creation of this spontaneous fresco.
He dealt with the human attackers as if it were a routine execution. So superior was his strength that this slaughter could not be described as a battle. Mangled corpses and severed limbs lay all around and death cries provided a chorus audible to the waiting army. Back at base there was uproar as a cavalry unit rode off to the aid of the scouts.
The drumming of approaching hoofbeats did not disturb the unslayable one.
He faced the lone swordswoman who had egged the others on. The tip of his sword was directed at her quivering body as she lowered her own weapon. He read the horror in her green eyes.
“The name of your death is Nagsor Inàste,” he addressed her, knowing she would not understand. The sound of his voice was enough to make her drop the shield and sword she bore. “I shall kill your body and soul so that nothing can remain of you.” He stabbed her through the throat and she convulsed, clutching at the blade as if to postpone her end. “Expire, mortal.” Drawing the blade downwards he sliced through her breast and belly. She fell with a sigh.
He grasped her helmet and, bending swiftly, used it to catch the dark blood spurting warm out of her neck. It would enable him to finish another swathe of the painting.
As he stood up he saw the riders approaching. There was no time for another fight now. Or his paint would clot.
Down in his quarters a blood-encrusted diamond lay on the table and next to it the decomposing severed forearm of a groundling. The golden bracelet on it showed the high status of its owner. He must have been holding the diamond when one of the bastards caught up with him.
By Samusin and Tion! The unslayable put the helmet on the table, picked up the diamond and rubbed the crumbling bits of dried blood off. He’s done it! He’s brought me the diamond!
It was of no consequence to him who had found the stone. There would be no words of praise. The bastards did not recognize any emotions other than contempt and hatred; they felt no pity in the face of pain caused by the machines. The existed for one purpose only: to obtain the diamond for Nagsar Inàste. He had even forbidden them to speak to him; the sound of their voices made him mad.
His right fist closed round the stone. As soon as she opens her eyes the bastards shall die. Either I shall pitch them against the machines to cover our flight or I will finish them off with my own hands.
The unslayable one hastened out, traversing the corridors until he came to the cavern where he had placed his sister. He ran up the steps to where she lay, pulling his helmet off from his black hair. “Look what I’ve brought you,” he said lovingly as he knelt at her side. “This will make you better.” Expectantly he placed
the diamond between her folded hands and intoned the formula he had rehearsed in his mind all through the battle. Every syllable was enunciated with care. The rise and fall of the incantation followed exactly the instructions he had found in the old books.
Nothing happened.
“Blasted eoîl! What has she done to it?” He took the diamond in the tips of his fingers. “Obey me!” he told it. “I know the spell that makes your light subject to me. The parchment rolls in Dsôn revealed your secret to me. You cannot resist!” He brought the stone up to eye level and repeated the dark incantation.
Inside the artifact a reluctant glimmer appeared; the facets refracted the cavern’s dull light and threw a pattern onto the walls, the ceiling, his own features and those of Nagsar Inàste.
“My God,” he whispered, bending over her. “How beautiful you are, my beloved sister!” He laid the stone back in her hands and touched her on the shoulder. “Awake from your sleep.”
She did not move.
“Nagsar Inàste, rise up,” he beseeched, placing his face close to hers. Her breast rose and fell imperceptibly. Warm air streamed gently out of her nostrils—but she remained as if dead.
The unslayable one stared at the stone. “You need more time? Is that it?” A spark of light ran over his sister’s body, played on the altar and zoomed back into the diamond. “Then time you shall have,” he promised darkly, standing up and replacing the helmet over his head cloth.
He walked backwards down the steps, turned away from his sibling and returned to the cave where he had killed the soldiers. This delay would give him time to complete the painting.
The diamond would carry out its healing work, he hoped. Somehow he would unlock its power for himself. Out of light I shall create darkness. There would soon be no more elves in Girdlegard. If need be the battle of Toboribor can run for another hundred cycles. This is just the blink of an eye for me.
Back at the cave entrance he saw that ten of the cavalry riders were busy loading the dead onto a wagon not forty paces away. Their horses waited impatiently, tethered to a rock.
How thoughtful of the humans. The unslayable one took his bow and moved over to the rotting cadaver which still held eight arrows ready for him. The woman fighter’s blood would have coagulated by now. Time to collect fresh supplies.
His black gaze fastened on two men lifting a fallen comrade by the arms and legs. As soon as they straightened up they were in line, one behind the other. Two at one shot.
He pulled an arrow from the corpse and notched it slowly.
Girdlegard,
Queendom of Weyurn,
Twelve Miles Northwest of Mifurdania,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tungdil’s delight at being able to embrace his long-lost foster-father—something he would never have dared to do as his young apprentice—was difficult to express in words. “You are come alive again, resurrected from the stones, venerable Lot-Ionan! The gods were with us all!” he rejoiced.
Lot-Ionan smiled at him, the wrinkled face transformed. “Tungdil Bolofar! A familiar face amongst the strangers in Weyurn. You have grown strong. Strong and earnest. Like a warrior now, not my young smith and errand-boy.” He looked round at the others by the door: he knew none of them. “I assume there’s lots to tell? I have heard that Nudin was destroyed. More than six or seven cycles past.”
“Aren’t you too tired?”
“Not in the slightest. It’s as if I’ve bathed in the fountain of eternal youth.”
“What is the last thing you remember?”
The magus reflected. “It was the dispute with Nudin. I thought sand was running through my veins and my heart was turning to stone and dying. The next moment I awoke on the bottom of a lake and drowning. My magic saved me.”
“We know there is a new magic source there, honored sir,” said Tungdil. “But the other source has dried up forever.” Before continuing, he turned to his companions. “It’s best you go and rest now. Get your wounds attended to. On the morrow we shall all leave for Toboribor. I have a lot to talk about with my foster-father here, Lot-Ionan; I need to tell him what has been happening in Girdlegard.” Then he looked at the village spokesman. “Be good enough to see we have somewhere to sleep. Queen Wey will reimburse you for the expense. Please bring us refreshment.”
“Of course,” replied the man, getting up to give the relevant instructions. A little later they were brought cheese, dried fish, bread and wine.
Tungdil smelled the wine but resisted the temptation. He shook Lot-Ionan’s hand once more. “I am so glad to see you,” he repeated, drawing up a chair next to him.
The magus noticed the golden mark on Tungdil’s hand as it shimmered in the firelight. “What’s this, then?” The eyes observed him sharply. “What is happening in Girdlegard?” Running his hands over Tungdil’s short brown hair, he said, “And most of all I want to know how things have been for you.”
Tungdil suppressed his weariness and related stories from the old times: battles with Nudin, and against the eoîl and her avatars. He told the magus she was an elf who had brought disaster to the land.
He kept it short, telling only the bare facts. But time sped by and when dawn showed rosy-red on the horizon, he was just coming to the most recent events. He told his foster-father about the diamonds, the thirdlings and the unslayable siblings. “Now they have got the diamond, they will try to use its power for evil. At the same time a huge army threatens the fourthlings’ gates. It is made up of undergroundlings, orcs and others. They are the original owners of the diamond, and have the right to demand its return.” He finished his report. “You have come back at the very best moment.” He yawned, not able to resist the urge any longer.
Lot-Ionan was silent and stared at the flames in the fireplace. His hair and his beard were dry by now and he looked as if he had never been turned to stone. “The friends of yore are all dead, nothing is as I knew it.” His light blue eyes looked out of the window. “Hardly am I free from Nôd’onn’s curse, still trying to take in all the news, and already I must prepare to meet the next mighty foe.” He sighed. “And my Tungdil Bolofar is now Tungdil Goldhand. A proper dwarf. A hero.” He shook his white head. “Ye gods! What have you done to my world?”
“Your vaults are still there,” smiled Tungdil. “The orcs did not destroy everything when they raged through.”
“A little stability in these new times.” Lot-Ionan turned and put his hand on Tungdil’s shoulder. “But if Palandiell, and apparently Samusin as well, want me and the young magus to save Girdlegard from the unslayables, then so be it. You made your real father more than proud. And I am so proud of you, too.”
Tungdil’s eyes were swimming with emotion. “What shall we do, venerable sir?”
“What you suggested. I will see the elf waiting on Windsport Island and hear what he has to say. It is hard to believe that the elves have left the path of light and been dazzled by the forces of evil.” He reached for some of the cheese. As he did so, he took a sharp intake of breath and stood up, clutching his back.
“Revered Lot-Ionan, what…?”
He raised his hand. “It is nothing, Tungdil. It seems not all of me is yet free of the petrifying curse.” He made another attempt to reach out for the cheese and this time managed it. “It might be old age,” he smiled. “I like to forget how many cycles I have lived so far. I’m not counting my statue-time.” He ate the cheese and drank some wine. “Then we’ll be off to Toboribor to see about the unslayables. On the way I’ll test Dergard a bit so that I can evaluate his talent. We should be able to vanquish the älfar leaders. Unless they are able to employ the stone’s power.”
“Should we give the diamond back to the undergroundlings?” asked Tungdil.
“I think so. It will save loss of life. If they really have their own rune master and an army of that size—whatever the acronta might be—then Girdlegard has nothing to oppose them with.” He studied Tungdil’s face. “On the contrary. If they have pre
served us in the past and never tried to conquer our land despite their military superiority, it speaks in their favor. I am happy to explain this to the kings and queens.” He noted how tired-looking Tungdil’s eyes had become. “Get some rest, Tungdil.”
“No, I can sleep on the boat over to Windsport. At last we have all the vital people together—now is not the time to sleep. Time is on the side of the unslayables, not ours.” He stood up and left the room with the magus.
The village spokesman awaited them with the message that two ships of the royal fleet had made harbor, enquiring about a shipwrecked party.
Impatiently Tungdil woke his companions and sent them off to the ship without their breakfast. Lot-Ionan summoned Dergard to his cabin and the two magi disappeared to talk away from prying eyes and ears.
One of the ships headed off to guard the älfar island. A contingent of soldiers was to land and hunt down the älf still at large. The second ship took Tungdil and his companions to Windsport Island to pick up the elf they had left at a shrine dedicated to Palandiell. They would cure his fever with Lot-Ionan’s magic.
Now the summer showed itself from its best side. The fresh breeze filled the sails and drove the ship onwards.
Tungdil had closed his eyes as soon as they cast off. He spent the crossing asleep in a hammock until Sirka woke him in the evening.
“Are we there?” He rubbed his eyes, pleased to see her; the sight of her was still unfamiliar and exciting. He was astonished that he still felt shy about responding to her advances. Balyndis had agreed to set him free. Was he still bothered perhaps by the way he had gone about asking for his freedom? It seemed that not all the ties binding him and Balyndis had really been cut.
“Not yet. But soon.” She held out her hand to help him up.
He looked at the end of the cliff where an imposing building stood. It now served less as a shrine and more as a house for Weyurn’s royal archives. Palandiell was no longer the favorite deity here, as she was in the realms of Rân Ribastur or Tabaîn. Ever since the enormous increase in lake size in the country, the water goddess Elria had become more popular. But innumerable records were available in the shape of parchment rolls which held the memories of the old kingdom, its towns and villages.
