by Markus Heitz
“We call each other ubariu,” Sirka explained. “We are both creatures of the god Ubar.”
“A nice family indeed,” said Ortger, a flush of high emotion visible through the beard growth on his cheeks.
“We,” said Flagur civilly but assertively, “are not the creatures that you call orcs and we refer to as phottòr. We may resemble them in looks but we fight them as fiercely as you in Girdlegard once had to do.”
“Your army’s approach can be read as a threat, Flagur,” Isika said to him. She had gone very pale and her black hair emphasized this. “We have heard from the lookouts that you bring at least eighty thousand soldiers.”
“One hundred thousand, Your Majesty. We will never threaten you. We are merely afraid that your own forces are not sufficient in number to retrieve the diamond from the hands of the unslayables. And we are afraid also because you tolerate the broka in your land.” He indicated Rejalin.
“We have heard that you put them to the sword in the Outer Lands,” Ortger exclaimed excitedly. “Don’t try the same thing here!” He pointed to Lot-Ionan and Dergard. “We have powerful wise men that your warriors cannot win against. Magic, does that mean anything to you?”
Flagur, Rodario’s skill and experience told him, was enjoying playing a simple mind; many here were treating him as if he were as backwards as an orc. “Magic? No. Not me.” He shook his head, then pointed to the ubariu in violet-hued clothing next to him. “He will know. He is our top rune master and he can do things that always astonish me.” His companions laughed softly. “We must settle what is to happen about the diamond. Sundalôn told you how important it is for our land and for yours. For this reason I insist we receive the stone after the removal of the älfar.”
“So there is a threat!” Isika exclaimed, smugly. “Your intentions are clear.”
Flagur twisted his lips into a smile. Tungdil had faced a multitude of creatures in his time, yet he had never seen any looking quite so dangerous. “No, I give you my word that my soldiers and I will march out of Girdlegard without attacking a single one of your people.”
A whisper ran through the assembly. They had heard the announcement but did not believe it.
Sirka raised her voice. “But what we will do is leave our own land, Fòn Gàla, and we shall no longer guard the secret pass into Girdlegard as our people have done for so long.”
The lines in Gandogar’s brow were deep channels rather than furrows. “Nonsense. There is no secret way through the mountains…” Then he hesitated, wondering the same thing as all the other rulers there. “How did you get through the ravine and past the two dwarf fortresses?” he demanded, his voice unsteady. “I swear by Vraccas I shall attack you myself, if…”
Flagur turned to Sirka. “You tell them.”
“We led the ubariu into Girdlegard,” she admitted. “We have known about the path for a long time and have protected it from the phottòr, who happened upon it by a grave mischance. We circumvented the fourthling strongholds while the acronta besieged your gates, creating a diversion.”
“And this is the path that will be used by the most ghastly of beings to invade your land,” Flagur predicted. “You can prevent it. If you give us the diamond. With it we can awaken the artifact to life that will close up the Black Abyss.”
“It’s a trick!” Rejalin insisted.
Those were the words Tungdil had been waiting for. He pounced upon the elf-deceit. “A trick? If you speak of trickery, princess, how do you explain to these crowned heads the murder of Liútasil four cycles ago and the farce you stage here?”
Rejalin stared at him. For the space of a moment there was nothing elegant or wonderful about her. Then she recovered and replaced her mask of sheer beauty. “What nonsense are you spouting, Tungdil Goldhand? Is this how you repay my people’s hospitality? You would tell lies about us?” The elves behind their leader conferred nervously. Her bodyguard pierced Tungdil with sharp looks, unable to take further action in the circumstances.
“It is true! I have witnesses, Your Majesties,” he persisted, fending off her attempts to ridicule his evidence. “I need to tell you all something I had wanted to keep secret until the end of my days. The eoîl that Rodario and I destroyed in Porista was in reality an elf. Liútasil told me everything. The eoîl are the oldest and most powerful of the elves and none of the elf folk would dare take up arms against one. This was the reason elves would not help us in our struggle.” And he reported what had really happened on top of the tower. Rodario, aware this was not his big moment, let Tungdil speak, then swore an oath on his own life as to the truth of each word. “Liútasil knew. Now that the eoîl followers have murdered him, it is impossible for me to remain silent.” Rodario gave the signal for Ireheart and Sirka to go and fetch Esdalân.
Ortger turned to the elf-woman seated as still as a porcelain figurine, fists clenched in her lap. “Say it isn’t true, what Tungdil Goldhand is telling us!”
“Wait to hear the witness you tried to have killed,” said Tungdil, as the elf entered with Goda and Ireheart.
Esdalân’s eyes were full of hatred and contempt for Rejalin. Again Tungdil was struck by the resemblance. “I stand here, Your Majesties, and take my oath before the goddess Sitalia that I heard her speak of Liútasil’s murder with my own ears. She arranged it; she prepared the ground for treachery.” As he spoke he indicated the princess with a graceful but accusatory gesture. “My sister and her followers are desperate to further the teachings of the eoîl who caused so much destruction and suffering here in Girdlegard and in the Outer Lands. Do not allow her, whatever happens, to gain possession of the diamond or your fate and that of your subjects will be terrible.”
Siblings! This explained why Tungdil had been struck by the similarity. It also made Rejalin’s attempt on the elf’s life all the more dreadful a crime.
Esdalân reported of his experiences in landur, about the new temples where the eoîl was worshipped, about the white stones that stood for purity and that were to be erected in each of the kingdoms; he told them about the plans to bring death to those who had, in distress and crisis, gone along with the evil, like the people of Toboribor; he spoke of how the elves would take over in Girdlegard, dictating to the citizens and allowing them no voice of their own, as soon as they had the diamond in their hands.
The assembled monarchs listened in horrified silence.
“The atár consider themselves the purest of the pure and as purity’s champions as almost of the same status as the eoîl. They want authority over all these lands, to be moral protectors. But they are no better than vicious blinded creatures, killing so many in their own ranks that all opposition was eradicated.” Esdalân swiveled round. His voice was unsteady now, choked with emotion. “And nobody saw. Not even I, her own brother. Now you all know. I beg you in the name of the dead of landur, executed by the atár: Prevent this. Stop them!” He took a step back and met his sister’s gaze.
Rejalin swallowed hard. His appearance here had thrown her.
Shocked silence reigned. Outside, soldiers’ voices could be heard and the normal sounds of the town: The clink of harness, the noise of hammers and tools, the footsteps of citizens going about their daily business.
“By all the good gods,” whispered Isika, laying her hand on Rejalin’s white one. “Say something! You must answer these accusations!”
Revolted by the touch, the elf-woman haughtily pulled away her hand and wiped it on her cloak. “What is there to say?” she said contemptuously. “It is true. We want to give Girdlegard the purity and morality it deserves. The eoîl left us with this mission and we rejoice in fulfilling her wishes.” She watched the faces that surrounded her. “It will not be long now and our time will come. Then the wheat will be sorted from the chaff. The new seed grain will grow more gloriously than anything that has been seen before. Now it is out in the open I appeal to you all: submit to our test and show that you are free of guilt.”
“By Palandiell!” Queen Wey sprang f
orward. “How you have deceived me! You won my trust with falsehoods and empty promises in order to spy out my land!” She pointed an accusing finger. “Do you think that this confession will bring you a single supporter amongst these monarchs?”
“We knew you would react like this as soon as our good intentions to bring enlightenment and purity to Girdlegard became known. You cannot understand, Queen Wey.” Rejalin smiled forgivingly. “You are not yet ready.”
But Weyurn’s sovereign was too deeply wounded to be calmed by such words. “Do not dare to speak to me as if you were my mother!” she cried indignantly.
“But that is what we are. We are the mothers calling Girdlegard to order. For the good of all,” the elf princess attempted to explain. She stood up as if to go. “As so often with mothers, their actions are not understood by their disobedient children. Not until many cycles have passed and the seed of New Girdlegard has sprouted and grown will our efforts be acknowledged. Then shall we, the atár, and the wise teachings of the eoîl be recognized and praised.”
Gandogar pushed in front of her, growling angrily. “Where are you off to, Rejalin? Face up to your responsibility. You have killed dwarves and humans.”
She looked at him in surprise. “We have eradicated beings that were not pure enough to exist in the new order. They were the chaff.” Her bodyguards fanned out into a protective line to shield her.
“And why the firstlings? What had those dwarves done to hurt you?”
“You poor pitiful high king, with no idea what is happening in your own empire,” she said. “It was a thirdling colony. Dwarf-haters. My spies were watching them and decided to act before they could carry out more evil deeds against you and any dwarves worthy of life.” She smiled. “Only a few of you will remain, I fear. You have many dwarf-haters in your ranks. You do not understand.”
“She is madder than I am,” murmured Ireheart. “We must not let her escape, Scholar. She will destroy Girdlegard instead of vanquishing the unslayables and their bastard freaks.”
Rejalin did not listen but strode off toward the entrance. The human monarchs were too confused by the revelations regarding the elf princess to know what to do.
But Gandogar did not move aside; he laid his hand on his cudgel. “You will stay here and answer for your deeds,” he demanded in a determined voice.
Esdalân came to his side. “It is over, sister. I have warned Girdlegard about your evil plans and intrigues. You can never prevail in open warfare.”
“And now, Highness?” Mallen moved over from the side. “You have brought death to too many. Including Alvaro, whose fears I was foolish to disregard. He was wiser than I.”
“If you had believed him you would have died, too.” She surveyed him from head to toe. “As it seems you are all united with this unpleasant person from the Outer Lands against me, I have no choice but to open your eyes.”
“You surely do not intend to wage war?” Ortger could not take this in, any more than could Isika. “I beg you…”
The elf-woman stared. “It is not your place to beg anything of me, young man. Whoever gets the diamond first will decide what happens in Girdlegard.” She gave a sharp nod.
One of her bodyguards drew his sword as quick as lightning and made to thrust it into Esdalân’s body.
But Gandogar had not missed a thing. His cudgel flew out to deflect the blade. The elf, however, followed through and struck the king in the chest as he tried to protect Esdalân.
The elves and Rejalin hurried out of the assembly. Suddenly, one of her guards turned round with a rapid arm movement and something whirred toward Esdalân.
Ireheart grabbed up a small stool and hurled it to intercept the knife that had been thrown. It fell harmlessly in the corner. In the meantime the princess made her escape.
“Let her go,” said Mallen, seeing Goda setting out after her. “You would stand no chance against them.” He rushed out and they heard him giving hasty orders. Horses whinnied and riders cantered off. The prince returned to the assembly. “My men will cut them off and hold them.” He turned to Flagur. “We may be needing your warriors sooner than we thought. But not to attack the creatures of Tion.”
Isika stood up. “I know when I have made a mistake,” she admitted with humility. Recent events had changed her mind. “I would ask the dwarf people and Tungdil Goldhand to forgive me. The elves’ skill in deception is too perfect. Without you this unthinkable plan would never have come to light. For this my heartfelt thanks.” She looked at all the kings and queens. “I do not exaggerate when I say that once again we are indebted to the dwarves.”
Tungdil was supporting Gandogar, who for some reason was having trouble staying on his feet. Ireheart helped him. “Gandogar, what’s wrong? Did the sword get you in the ribs?” He checked the armor: there was a scratch and slight dent.
“That’s what I call good dwarf armor,” said Boïndil proudly.
Gandogar’s eyes rolled back in his head. He tried to speak but his knees gave way and his arms hung limply by his sides.
“Quick, put him on the table,” instructed Lot-Ionan. “Let me see to him.”
They picked the high king up and stretched him out on the conference table. The dwarves took off his breastplate and the magus inspected where the impact had been.
“Nothing,” he said, “no fractures.” He touched a red mark underneath the ribs. “This area here is very vulnerable. It is possible to render someone unconscious with a single blow with one’s hand. It is possible that the blade had a similar effect through the armor.”
Tungdil saw a dark red spot appear on Gandogar’s neck. “Blood!” he exclaimed, touching the dwarf’s throat. At that moment he stopped breathing. Tungdil’s hands explored the thick beard until he found the wound. Directly under the chin his fingers came across a sharp piece of metal. The broken sword blade had bounced up and pierced his skin there. He parted the king’s jaws, fearing the worst.
“He’s dying!” shouted Ireheart in horror, looking to Lot-Ionan. But when the magus began a spell, Tungdil stopped him.
“It is over,” he said darkly and showed them Gandogar’s mouth where the sword fragment had pierced right up into his skull. The high king’s brain was irrevocably destroyed.
“By Vraccas,” whispered a horrified Ireheart. He hung his head; Goda was doing likewise.
Tungdil shut the dead man’s mouth and closed his eyes. “Put his armor back on,” he ordered. “High King Gandogar Silverbeard, of the clan of the Silver Beards of Goïmdil’s fourthlings, is on his way to the eternal smithy back into the hands of Vraccas, his creator. Take his body to the Brown Range where he shall find a resting place surrounded by his own clan and the majestic mountain peaks.”
“The elves have slain the high king of the dwarves.” Mallen looked at Esdalân. “This will not end well.”
“Not the elves. It was the atár,” said Tungdil, looking at the blood on his fingers. The death of his monarch suddenly made everything much worse.
“It will be hard to explain that difference to the tribes making their way here, and the dwarves already at Toboribor,” predicted Ireheart. “Both have pointy ears.” He looked over at Esdalân. “Saving your presence.”
A soldier entered. He stared open-mouthed at the body of the high king. “Prince Mallen, the elf princess and her escort have escaped. They have vanished into thin air. Her soldiers have gone off to the caves.”
“When was that?”
“Just after the beginning of the meeting. We thought they were following your orders.”
Mallen uttered a curse. “Rejalin guessed she would be unmasked.”
Lot-Ionan raised his arms. “Terrible though the death of Gandogar is, we have no time to mourn. The elves will try to find the unslayables and snatch the diamond.” He glanced at Tungdil. “Go and tell the dwarves what has happened. Anger makes a dwarf invincible. Speed is of the essence. Vital if we are to survive.” Then, to Mallen: “Send all your warriors into the caves and follow the
dwarves. Guard all the entrances. Not a single elf must escape.” Finally he turned to Flagur: “It is your task to defend the caves from without. We are expecting a huge army of atár.”
Flagur nodded. “It will be an honor. We are experienced in stopping the broka and destroying them. Should it be necessary.” He changed into a different language and his companions withdrew. “Shall we have the stone, Lot-Ionan?” he asked.
“Yes,” spoke the magus without hesitating. “It has already caused enough trouble in Girdlegard. Take it and put it where at least it may do some good.”
Flagur gave a sketchy bow and left.
Ireheart, Goda, Sirka and Tungdil took their leave and hurried out to inform the rest of the dwarves about the death of their high king. Tungdil felt a dull ache inside. He sensed this was not a good omen.
When they reached the camp the banners were already at half-mast. The news had spread quickly. And the anger of the warrior dwarves, men and women alike, gathering around to hear him confirm the rumor, was palpable. The commanders of the freelings stood somewhat apart.
Tungdil stepped onto an upended bucket brandishing Keenfire in the air. “High King Gandogar is dead…”
A furious dwarf pushed forward. “Murdered!” he screamed. “By the pointy-ears.” There were shouts from all sides as indignation at the cowardly murder spread.
“Listen to me!” called Tungdil, as loud as he was able, to be heard over the noise of the throng. “The elves are not guilty of the king’s death. Our foes are the atár. You must not make the mistake of treating them and the elves alike.” The angry hubbub dwindled away and Tungdil was able to report what had happened in the tent. Then he pointed Keenfire at the caves of Toboribor. “The atár want to take over our homeland. Let us now fulfill the task Vraccas gave us. Stop them! For the sake of Girdlegard!”
No one spoke.
A dwarf in the first row went down on one knee, removed his helmet and leaned on the upright shaft of his war hammer. His lips moved silently. Warriors to the left and right followed his example. In a wave of clinking armor and clattering helmets the dwarves all knelt on the flattened grass. Only the dwarves of the free towns remained standing.
