by Markus Heitz
“Yes,” he lied. “The unslayable told me because he thought I was done for. He wanted me to die in despair.” He looked at them determinedly. “He’s on his way there. We’ve got to catch up with him before the elves find out and arrive in hot pursuit.” Crusted elf blood flaked off his fingers as he moved them. He would have loved to get into a tub of warm water to rid himself of such filth.
“The elves have got other worries.” Lot-Ionan signaled for a pony-drawn wagon. It would save them a long foot-slog underground, meaning they should reach the surface is about half an orbit. “We heard that the two elf missions Rejalin sent to Toboribor were ambushed and killed.”
“Was it the ubariu?”
“No. Your lot,” Rodario said without reproach. “One Ginsgar Unforce of the firstlings felt it incumbent on him to avenge the high king’s death. He’s marching on landur. And apparently volunteers from the dwarf realms are swarming to his banner like flies. The atár will reap the storm they’ve sown.”
They took their seats on the cart and the long journey up to the cave entrance began.
“I’m not joking, Tungdil. If you don’t watch out and old Ginsgar is successful you’ll have a new high king without a by your leave from your noble Xamtys and the other dwarf high and mighties. It won’t come to a vote at all.” Rodario waited for a reply.
Lot-Ionan nodded. “Just what I was thinking. And we don’t want the dwarves led by a high king who’s set on war. Who knows, perhaps he’ll attack the freelings you were telling me about. Or the thirdlings?”
This was all too much for Tungdil. His eye—or what was left of it—was giving him acute pain, his best friend was fighting for his life, the diamond was lost and he had forfeited the magic ax. And now there’s war with landur—
“Be quiet, all of you,” Sirka demanded. She had read his expression. “He needs rest. Let him sleep.” She offered her lap as a pillow.
Exhausted, he laid his head on her knee, wishing fervently that when he woke up everything could be like before.
But Vraccas was not going to do him that favor. The wheel of time could not be halted and reversed.
When he woke up they were in the open and it was late afternoon. Autumn was near but the sun was giving up the last of its warmth as if there were no tomorrow.
Tungdil felt rested enough to visit Ireheart’s sickbed and found Goda there, red-eyed and anxious, at her mentor’s side, fingernails dug into her palms.
Tungdil needed no more evidence of Boïndil’s parlous state of health or the strength of the thirdling’s attachment.
The sight of his seriously injured comrade brought back the memory of the death of Boëndal, the twin brother. “May great Vraccas be magnanimous toward your hero here,” he intoned, putting his hand on Goda’s shoulder. “Goda, excuse all my harsh words and forgive me for not trusting you. I have no doubts now about your sincerity.”
She raised her head and burst into tears. “I’m so afraid he’ll die,” she wept. “Isn’t it crazy? I came to kill him to avenge Sanda’s honor.” She gave a sob and the feelings she had been concealing got the better of her. “Now he is near the death I so often wished on him. And it’s my worst nightmare.” Shyly she took hold of Ireheart’s hand and bowed her head again.
Tungdil quickly wiped away his own tears. “Vraccas will not take him yet.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I saw death itself back there in the caves. He spoke to me and never mentioned summoning Ireheart.”
She gave a faint smile. “Thank you. So you’re not really surprised?”
“No. Balyndis told me what you two had talked about. I never thought you capable of treacherously killing either one of us.” He turned around to go. “I was worried about maintaining secrecy. I was wrong, I can see that now.” He pointed to the injured dwarf. “When he wakes up, Sirka, Rodario, Lot-Ionan and I will all have left. You stay here with him. Mind he stays in bed and tell him I shall be needing him when I go campaigning in the Outer Lands.” He saw the shock in her face, and smiled reassuringly. “Only as an escort and for company on the way. I don’t want to deprive you of him forever. One last journey, that’s all. He more than anyone deserves to be with a loving companion.” He went out quickly.
Goda laid her forehead on Ireheart’s hand, closed her eyes and prayed to Vraccas. She had only ever once before asked her god so fervently for anything: the death of Sanda Flameheart’s killer.
“Tell me, Vraccas, what you want of me in exchange for the life of your hero Boïndil?” she whispered unhappily. “I don’t want him to die. Do you hear me, Creator of all Dwarves? Preserve his life and take mine instead.”
“Vraccas had better not,” grunted Ireheart softly. He pressed her hand. “You make sure you stay alive.”
Goda’s eyes shot open and she suppressed a gasp of delight. “Master!” she whispered ecstatically. The next moment she was wondering how long he had been conscious. She blushed and pulled her hand away, but he would not let go.
“So you came to kill me?” he asked; weakness forced him to speak slowly and carefully. Goda sobbed. “No, don’t cry… I understand why. And believe me, there were times when I toyed with the thought of doing away with myself.” He swallowed hard. “Vraccas knows how many nights I’ve lain awake regretting Sanda’s death. I killed a magnificent dwarf. Like I had done once before.” Ireheart forced himself to describe the painful events. There should be no more secrets from her. “Her name was Smeralda; she was a little younger than you. We were very fond of each other but our love ended harshly. I killed her in the heat of battle at the High Gate. I did not know what I was doing.” Tears flowed. “I mistook her for one of the enemy…” He collected himself and paused. When his voice was steady again he sighed, “I thought I would never find love again after that. Until you came. I know we cannot be together, Goda. Killing your kinswoman is too great a barrier.”
Goda stood up and sat on his bed. “I can see the torture in your eyes, master. The pain is not from your wounds but in your soul. There can be no one in the whole of Girdlegard with more genuine regret than this.” She had not let go of his hand. “I did not want to love you even when you stole into my thoughts. Yet, despite all my complaints about the training, I became fonder and fonder of you. I did not want to admit it. I forbade myself to love the dwarf that had killed Sanda. So I hid behind sarcasm and rejection. Until I thought I had lost you.” Her shoulders shook. “When I saw you fall with all those arrows in you I should have rejoiced.” She looked him in the eyes. “But the opposite happened. I wished I was the one lying there so badly injured.”
Ireheart felt his throat constrict.
“Even if my great-grandmother’s soul spins in fury, I can’t help myself,” she said softly. “With all my heart I long to be more to you than just a pupil, Boïndil Doubleblade of the secondling clan of Ax Swingers.” Her gaze was as steady and honest as her words. “If I have not pushed you too far away with my unkindness, I want to ask you to let me remain close at your side. I don’t care if we are fighting together in battle or sharing a home.”
“The same goes for me,” he croaked. “It would make me so very happy.” A wave of joy shot through his body, washing all the pain away as he looked up at Goda’s sweet face. The pale down on her cheeks reflected the candlelight’s shimmer, and the warmest affection shone in her brown eyes. He hardly dared to believe what was happening. Perhaps it was just a feverish dream. If that was the case, he did not wish to be cured of the fever.
Goda lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it gently. “Yes, Boïndil. But promise me one thing: Let us fight the duel I demanded of you.”
“What do you mean—?”
“Please,” she interrupted him. “I made a vow to Sanda. I cannot break my promise to her. I’ve already broken my word by telling you of my feelings.” Ireheart nodded and she breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll let you sleep now.” And she made as if to leave his side.
Ireheart held her hand tightly. “Stay here,” he begged, str
oking her cheek.
She sat down again, and held his hand until he fell asleep.
She smiled, while a tear of despair escaped from her eye. She had betrayed her great-grandmother and yet felt enormously blessed. She had never felt such happiness.
Sirka was waiting for Tungdil outside the tent. “Do you feel up to another meeting?”
He nodded and she led him to Mallen’s tent, where the blond Idoslane prince was standing in front of a map of Girdlegard. Around the table sat the kings and queens of the human realms; neither dwarves nor elves were present.
Mallen came over and bowed to Tungdil. “I want to show my gratitude and respect,” he said. All the other men and women rose to their feet and followed suit. For Isika, Ortger and Wey it was also by way of an apology for things they had said in the past. Their consciences were not clear.
Tungdil heard the news about the dwarves’ advance under Ginsgar Unforce. It was of no concern to him. “There’s no time to think about landur. The important thing is the diamond. We cannot leave it in älfar hands.” He told them what the unslayable had purportedly said. “I am sure he was not lying. He has made a pact with the thirdlings and presumably he knows very well what is waiting on the far side of the tunnel. When I was fighting the thirdlings Bandilor told me they had been negotiating with the monsters on the other side. In the worst possible scenario there may be an army already waiting for the tunnel into Girdlegard to open.” Tungdil pointed to landur on the map. “I don’t approve of what Ginsgar Unforce has done. But I can understand why he has done it. He is acting like any dwarf would who sees no difference between elves and atàr.”
Mallen looked at him. “I will have Ginsgar told of your disapproval, Tungdil Goldhand. I hope Xamtys will move soon and recall the rebellious warriors. There’s nothing that I can do.”
Bruron’s expression was similarly rueful. “I am in the same situation. My best soldiers are in Toboribor. I won’t be able to stop Ginsgar.”
“It’s regrettable that some of the elves Ginsgar will kill aren’t actually involved in this atár madness. But it can’t be helped.” Tungdil bit his lip. “Don’t get me wrong but you all know what is at stake.”
Flagur entered the pavilion in full armor. “I have heard what is happening.” He did not look happy at all and his light pink eyes reflected his dissatisfaction. “From now on allow us to support you. We shall escort you to the west. Our mounts are better than any of Girdlegard’s horses, so we can get to the island ahead of the älfar. Unless he can fly.”
“No, he can’t do that,” Lot-Ionan confirmed.
“Not yet, anyway,” added Rodario. “As long as he hasn’t accessed the diamond’s power or got to the magic source.”
“Let me have just one night’s rest,” Tungdil requested. “We’ll set off in the morning.”
“How many men should we take?” asked Flagur.
“How many will you need to destroy a creature that did for thirty elves and upwards of a hundred orcs all by itself?” Tungdil would have loved to know exactly what had happened in the caves. And what the diamond had been doing in the hands of that sleeping beauty.
Flagur looked up. “We’ve seen a few of them where I’m from, but none anywhere near as dangerous as this one. Best if we take our rune master along and a dozen of our foremost warriors,” he decided.
“A dozen?” Rodario was surprised. “You don’t think you might be underestimating the opposition? There are still three monsters on the list. He’s bound to have them with him.”
Flagur only smiled, but his smile said more than any flowery assertions.
Isika pursued Tungdil’s train of thought. “Just now you said the stone was lying on the älfar woman’s chest and that she herself looked as if she were dead.” She turned respectfully to the magus. “Do you know what this might signify, Lot-Ionan?”
“I can only hazard a guess.” He thought hard. “The unslayable siblings escaped from Porista to the caves of Toboribor by magic shortly before the Star of Judgment struck. Either their spell didn’t work as planned or else it exacted a physical tribute that she was not equal to. I have read about magi being totally incapacitated if a spell goes wrong. It’s extremely hard to revive them. Maybe by means of this diamond.”
“It would explain her coma. But could she bear children in that state?” Isika looked round the circle. “I mean, these beasts must come from somewhere, even if they only fully turn into monsters after bathing in the magic source.”
“And what if the male älfar had been struck down in the same way but had managed to free himself?” Rodario suggested. His eyes glinted with enthusiasm. “Maybe the two of them were found in the caves and the surviving orcs down there seized on the beautiful älfar and mated with her, overcome with animal lust. They violate her again and again, besotted by her beauty. Then the älfar wakes up, kills the orcs, makes common cause with the thirdlings and sends the misshapen bastards out into Girdlegard to serve his evil ends.” He stopped for air, his eyes fixed on the far distance, actor that he was. An actor planning his next stage appearance. “And then, in order to create a pure being of his own flesh and blood, he takes the älfar beauty himself and impregnates her, creating the young one we saw on the island. A child born of siblings, purer than any other älfar and part of the highest dynasty. What a plot line.”
Mallen smiled. “Your imagination is getting the better of you, my theatrical friend.”
“Call it a variation on a possible truth, because we’ll never find out what really happened. I don’t suppose the unslayable is going to sit down and explain it all to us,” Rodario admitted. “I think it’s a tremendous story though.”
“Well, it fits in with what the älfar are like,” said Tungdil, tired now. “I must get some rest, if you don’t mind. Pray for us all tonight.”
The pavilion door-hanging flew aside and a dwarf came in and bowed to the company. His face was burned by the sun, his armor coated with dust and he smelled of sweat, horse and muck. “For the sake of Girdlegard, help the fourthlings!” he gasped, handing Prince Mallen a leather pouch. “I am Feldolin Whetstone of the Thyst Finders fourthling clan. I bring a message from the Brown Range. We are being besieged by incredible creatures.”
“The size of two dwarves, wearing armor, and their eyes shining purple?” asked Sirka, to everyone’s astonishment. “Voices like the whistle of the wind and the rumble of thunder at one and the same time?”
“By all the gods, you’re describing Djern!” Rodario exclaimed. “Andôkai’s bodyguard: a mountain of steel with many times the strength of a human.”
Mallen took out a written account of the events at the pass and a sketch of the creatures laying siege to Silverfast. “More friends that look like enemies?” he remarked.
“It’s the acronta,” replied Flagur. “We got them to create a diversion so our own army could circumvent the dwarves without being seen. We didn’t want a battle, because it would have meant killing dwarves. But they are Ubar’s children, just as we are.” The ubari grinned at the messenger, who had only just noticed him and was utterly terrified. “They won’t harm you.”
“The acronta,” repeated Tungdil. “How many of them are there?”
“We don’t know. But the army that protects us against some of the larger fiends has about three thousand sword-bearers.”
“Ye gods,” muttered Rodario. “Three thousand of them? What kind of creatures do you have in the Outer Lands if you need so many acronta to deal with them?”
“I never claimed life was easy in Letèfora.” Flagur flexed his muscles in a display of strength that would have made any orc go pale with envy. “But that’s nothing compared with what will issue from the Black Abyss. To vanquish them we would need thousands of acronta.”
Tungdil nodded to the messenger. “You have heard the important part. Bring this good news to the fourthlings and to your…” He had been about to say king but remembered that the king of the fourthlings had been Gandogar. His corpse wa
s on its way to the Brown Range to find its last resting place with the other fourthling rulers of the past. His soul was already with Vraccas at the eternal smithy and would be watching events from there.
“The throne is not empty,” said Feldolin. “Gandogar’s sister, Bylanta Slimfinger of the Silver Beards, administered all the duties of state while he traveled in his capacity as high king. As soon as peace is restored Gandogar’s death can be duly mourned and Bylanta’s regency celebrated.”
“Bring her my homage and the blessings of Vraccas,” said Tungdil. He raised his hand in salutation. “Now I must really go.”
He and Sirka left the tent and crossed the human army base to get to the dwarf encampment. There, pale patches on the grass showed where some had already struck camp and left. Presumably they had gone to join Ginsgar Unforce.
“You will accompany me to the Black Abyss?” asked Sirka as they entered their tent.
“Yes, it’s my duty to ensure the diamond arrives safely where it can do most good. And that is not here.” He lay down carefully on the simple bed. His head hurt and the empty eye socket was throbbing so badly he could not think. He took her hand. “Sirka, I am the most unreliable dwarf in Girdlegard. I feel great affection for you, but…” He fell silent and stroked her bald head; her brown skin shimmered in the lamplight.
“I am not asking for more than that, Tungdil,” she said.
“I cannot swear I will be faithful till the end of my days.” He sighed. “I swore to Balyndis that I would always be true because I never thought my feelings would change, but it turned out to be a lie.” He struck himself on the chest. “This accursed restlessness within me! I can’t settle. I have the urge to keep searching for new horizons; I might do the same to you. I will never promise marriage to a woman again.”
“Your restlessness is what has helped your homeland to survive. Without beings such as you nothing would move forward. Everyone would be frightened to attempt anything new; none would break new ground and abandon the familiar. It is good the way it is.” She looked at him. “Is it true you dwarves live forever?”
