by Markus Heitz
Then the diamond blazed out.
Dazzling beams shone through the armored fingers, illuminating the tunnel wall. The tionium became translucent, showing the bones of the hand holding the stone. The älfar pointed two fingers at Lot-Ionan.
Tungdil had no doubt that his foster-father was about to be hit by a ray from the diamond. “Vraccas! Help us!” He lowered his head and made a mighty leap toward his enemy, the blade of his ax directed at the unslayable’s wrist.
The aim was true!
Tungdil felt the resistance offered by armor and bone, but neither could stop the blade’s advance. The severed limb lay on the dusty ground and the stone’s glare was extinguished.
Shrieking loudly, the injured älfar struck out at Tungdil.
The dwarf managed to lift the ax, but the älfar’s sword sliced through the handle and dealt him a blow on his upper arm. It cut deep into armor plate and dwarf flesh, biting into the bone, where it lodged. If the sword had not first met the ax handle it would surely have cut off Tungdil’s arm.
He gave a shout and staggered; his fingers opened involuntarily and he dropped the ax.
But Sirka did not abandon him. She leaped in front of him and attacked the älfar to drive him away from Tungdil. In the meantime Rodario and Lot-Ionan were scrabbling in the dust for the severed hand and the diamond it had held.
But even Sirka was no match for the unslayable one. He made as if to deliver a diagonal blow but instead pierced her shoulder. Then he pulled the blade sharply upwards and cut through her collarbone. Without a sound she fell to the ground and was swallowed up by the dust.
“No!” Blind with fury Tungdil stormed up to the älfar, who awaited his onslaught with sword raised ready to deliver a fatal blow.
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Rodario had located the amputated hand and slammed it against the side of the wagon to break the grip on the stone, which he neatly caught as it fell. He handed the diamond to the magus, who accepted it with reverence.
Its appearance was no longer immaculate. There were now dark patches and dull places on its previously clear surface. Lot-Ionan even thought he could see cracks. Being touched by the älfar had not helped the stone at all. “Palandiell and Sitalia, I ask you for your aid,” he said, enfolding the diamond in his hand. He searched for and found the power that slumbered deep within the gemstone.
Tungdil had reached the unslayable and had drawn his knife, aiming it at the lower of his opponent’s wounds.
But he could not even get close. The älfar struck and the sword hit the dwarf on the left side, slicing through on a slant under the arm, between the iron rings of the armor, between the ribs, and into the heart.
Tungdil’s blood turned into molten ore of the mountain; his whole body glowed with heat. But his heart was ice cold.
“Your death bears the name Nagsòr Inàste,” the älfar intoned clearly before he moved the blade and pulled it out. Dark red dwarven blood gushed out of the gaping wound, pouring down Tungdil’s clothing and soaking into the dust. “I shall have your life, groundling. There will be no grave for your bones, and your soul will wander, eternally lost. As lost as the whole of Girdlegard will be on my return.”
“I…” Tungdil frowned, took two steps and lifted his knife. “Sirka…” He collapsed at the feet of his älfar murderer and sank up to the neck in the thick dust. The iciness spread into every last corner of his body, robbing him of movement. Everything grew dark. The älfar merged with the shadows and disappeared into the gray.
Rodario had witnessed the death of his friend. “Magus, you must perform a miracle,” he said in lifeless tones, and raised his weapon. “I will ensure a few moments’ grace for you.”
Lot-Ionan could feel the strength of the diamond, but it was refusing to do his bidding.
“It’s not as easy as it looks, is it?” said a familiar voice next to him.
The magus shivered, not daring to turn his head. “Nudin?”
“What is left of him, old friend.”
Lot-Ionan swallowed with apprehension as he saw the älfar approaching again, keen to complete his handiwork and regain the diamond.
Rodario pushed forward in front of the magus and brandished his sword, even if he knew that he was likely to be the first to fall. The other two seemed incredibly slow—as if their limbs were tied down to the heaviest of weights.
“You have to open yourself up to the stone,” said Nudin, speaking from Lot-Ionan’s other side this time. “Let it see inside your soul. If it sees you are worthy, its power will help you against the unslayable.”
“Get away from me! You are a specter!” Lot-Ionan hissed, deep in concentration.
“Only in part, old friend,” he heard the long-dead magus say, now from behind where he stood. “I continue to live in you.”
“How could that be?”
Nudin gave a quiet laugh. “How is your back, Lot-Ionan the Forbearing? Does it still hurt when you make certain movements?”
Lot-Ionan turned round and thought he could see a man by the machine, but he could not make out the features. He blinked and the figure had disappeared. “How do you know that?”
“Shouldn’t you be helping Rodario rather than chasing ghosts?” The friendly admonition echoed from all sides. “The good man will die and then the unslayable will cut you to pieces.”
“How was it possible for him to use the diamond?”
“Later, Lot-Ionan! If you want to save Girdlegard you have to make an effort.” After a short pause the voice added, “Or do you want me to help you, old friend?”
“No,” Lot-Ionan shot back the answer. He closed his eyes tight and pressed the diamond with both hands, trying to force the power out of it like squeezing the juice out of a fruit. Nothing happened. Then came a shout from Rodario and the crash of a body falling.
“Too slow, old friend. Now there is no one between the unslayable and yourself. The bravest heroes of Girdlegard are all vanquished,” said Nudin. “My offer still stands, Long-Sufferer. You won’t get far today with your famous patience, believe you me.”
Lot-Ionan opened his eyes and saw the älfar two paces away. Visions of a devastated Girdlegard flamed up in his mind. Innumerable beasts were streaming in hordes from the north, escaped from the confines of the Black Abyss, and they were joining forces with the monsters from the west. Together they were raging through the defenseless land and inching it toward annihilation. Nothing remained except for enclaves of horror, scorched and violated, all the people reduced to servants of evil.
The älfar pushed up his visor and showed the magus his even-featured face where, instead of eyes, only two dark holes were to be seen.
The beauty of that face was arresting and impossible to resist. Lot-Ionan recognized that he wished only to fulfill every demand the creature might put on him. It would only have to ask him for the stone and…
“No,” he shouted at the älfar, stiffening every sinew against the remorseless attraction—even if he would not be able to sustain the effort. “Help me, Nudin,” he said quietly.
“Gladly, my friend.”
A vicious sharp pain stabbed Lot-Ionan’s spine, traveling up and shooting through the shoulder into the arm, spreading into the fingertips. Suddenly the diamond blazed with green fire.
And at once the magus knew all his powers were returning. He remembered the spells. Many spells. They rushed into his mind of their own accord, and his mouth formed the words as his hands made the magic gestures, to fling at the älfar.
The creature was staggered by this magic onslaught. Enclosed within a sphere of malachite fire there was no escape. A single thought from Lot-Ionan sufficed to make the ball-like structure shrink around the älfar until it touched the tip of his helmet.
He crouched down and tried to strike a hole in his prison, but his efforts were in vain. The globe grew tighter around him, until his skeleton crunched under the pressure. The tionium bent out of shape, bones fractured and pierced the skin and internal organs of th
e unslayable; his blood flowed down onto the dust. His shrill screams reverberated through the tunnels.
By this time the globe’s diameter was that of a small wagon wheel; it shrank and shrank to the size of a crystal divining ball, then to the size of a child’s marble. Magic turned the unslayable into a bloody thing of flesh and metal devoid of any life.
Lot-Ionan made the sphere disappear, and the tiny ball rolled into the dust. With the aid of his new-found powers he raised it up without having to touch the revolting object; he sent it flying into the heart of the machine.
“Are you pleased with me, Forbearing One?” asked Nudin’s voice. “I think we worked very well together.”
The magus paid no heed and instead gave swift attention to his companions. For Tungdil any help was now too late. The älfar sword had cut his heart into pieces. “No,” Lot-Ionan whispered, aghast. Memories of the past, happier cycles, rose in his mind: Tungdil working at the forge, or laughing in the kitchen with the maid Frala and her children, while the dwarf read them stories. What would he not have given to return to those far-off days. With everything he had since lost.
“Try!” whispered Nudin enticingly.
“Try what?”
“To bring him back to life.”
“To make him one of the undead? I cannot do that. And even if I could, no, it’s better he should…”
Nudin laughed, as an adult will laugh at the naiveté of a child. “Lot-Ionan the Forbearing. There is no limit to the power in your hands. The gods will be jealous. Go on, try.”
“No.”
“Try it. You won’t be disappointed.”
Lot-Ionan placed his left hand gingerly on the dwarf’s lifeless body while in his right he grasped the diamond. Healing spells combined with images of a vital Tungdil.
The magic worked!
As the wound closed up and the heart began to beat under his fingertips, the magus could hardly take it in. He had acquired dominion over life and death, the fervent desire of magi and magae for generations. The power was his, so simply, with no need for cycles of research, invention of new spells, and countless experiments. All that was needed he held in his hands.
Tungdil’s eyelids fluttered and opened. He looked at his foster-father. “Revered Lot-Ionan? Am I dead?” Coughing, he sat up, spitting out dust and blood. In disbelief he ran his fingers over the ripped chain mail shirt; he could see exactly where the älfar’s sword had struck. “I must be dead.” His brow furrowed. “He hit me…” He hastily looked around for the älfar, getting to his feet. Then he noticed that even the severe injury to his arm had gone. “Where is the unslayable?”
“Dead.” Lot-Ionan stroked Tungdil’s hair as he used to do when he was young. “The diamond, Tungdil. It is incredibly powerful and it can… heal wounds like nothing else in the whole of Girdlegard.” He did not wish his foster-child to know that of rights he should be in the eternal forge with Vraccas.
“Dead?” Tungdil felt giddy. He had to put a hand on the wagon to steady himself. “Where is the body?”
“I have destroyed it. It is in the machine somewhere.”
“Are you certain that…”
“Yes.” The magus went over to treat Rodario’s injuries. The actor, too, would of rights have been with his ancestors, his belly sliced open by the älfar’s blade so the entrails spilled out. But the diamond and the magic power restored everything to its rightful place and the deadly wound had closed up before Tungdil could see it.
After that, Sirka and Flagur were attended to. The other freed souls Lot-Ionan left in the hands of the god Ubar. He did not want to be profligate with the force of the diamond. It surely would come to an end at some time.
Tungdil searched the wagon the älfar had used to reach the tunnel’s end, hoping he might locate Keenfire. No luck. This time the enemy had ensured the legendary weapon would not be found.
His boot met something sharp, something metal. He bent down and picked up one of the unslayable one’s swords.
“A trophy?” commented Rodario, extremely surprised at his own survival.
Tungdil was admiring the blade’s quality and decided to take it with him. “I’ll make myself an ax from this metal. It will stand me in good stead until I find Keenfire.” He went to Sirka and embraced her. “We’ve done it,” he whispered with relief. “The diamond is safe.”
“Let’s get out of the tunnels,” said Rodario. He indicated his shredded clothing. “I have no idea how I survived all that, but I’m not asking.” He nodded to the magus. “At last I appreciate the wonders of magic, revered magus.” Climbing into the wagon he started to crank. “All aboard, heroes of Girdlegard! I want to see the sun.”
Tungdil saw from their faces that none of them understood what had happened. Nobody had witnessed what had occurred between Lot-Ionan and the unslayable. But joy took over from speculation and laid itself over all the open questions like a fire blanket over flames. It killed his own doubts, too.
Flagur and Rodario cranked the handle, and the journey to the tunnel mouth began.
Lot-Ionan glanced over his shoulder. Again he saw the vague figure of a man standing by the machine, his arm raised in salute, as if he were going to stay there to await their return. The magus quickly turned; as he did so he was aware again of an acute pain in his spine.
They were all tired when they reached the point where this part of their adventure had started. Not a single beam of light fell through the tunnel entrance; it was nighttime. In darkness they climbed the broad steps.
“Imagine: if it weren’t for us, armies of orcs would have been marching up here,” said Rodario when they were halfway up. “It’s so good to know what we have achieved. What a fight! Me, in combat with an unslayable! Who’d have thought it?”
“So why did you come?” Tungdil asked.
Rodario winked at him. “I thought you might need not my sword but my store of knowledge. And my way with words: my best weapon. Closely followed, of course, by what only the prettiest girls get to see.”
“I knew that was coming,” said Tungdil, laughing. In spite of their exhaustion, their spirits rose.
“Isn’t it great?” Rodario was on a high. “The toughest of all missions, to defeat the unslayable—and we’ve done it! Now for the Outer Lands: a long journey, but one with no danger.”
Tungdil grinned. “What makes you say ‘with no danger,’ Fabuloso?”
“What could go wrong with an escort of a hundred thousand warriors and a powerful magus on your side?” He tripped on a step and fell forwards. “Cursed darkness! This is no good.” He searched in his pocket.
“What are you doing, Rodario?” asked Tungdil.
Stone scraped on metal and sparks ignited, catching the wick of a lamp. The warm glow illuminated the actor’s fine features. “Light, Tungdil. I don’t want to have survived combat with the älfar, only to break my neck on some stairs.” He looked round. “What do we do with the tunnel?”
Whoompf! The air was full of flame and a smell of burning.
With a loud whistle the fire shot down into the depths. The tiny flame had brought about the event most dreaded by miners and dwarves everywhere.
“You are so stupid, Rodario!” hissed Tungdil, batting out flames in his hair. Luckily, the explosion had not set their clothes alight. He grabbed Sirka’s hand and ran.
They rushed frantically to escape the inferno that threatened to engulf them. Just as they raced out of the tunnel an enormous vibration shook the ground, hurling them onto the sandbank.
In front of them the whole surface of the lake exploded, with a huge water spout shooting up into the dark night sky. When it had reached its zenith at a height of one hundred paces, a jet of flame illuminated the geyser from within. The hissing steam reminded Tungdil of the hot springs in mountain areas. The magnitude of the detonation caused by the dust igniting had destroyed the shoring, and the lake waters had gushed into the tunnel.
The water ebbed away and then rushed back in waves that swam
ped the sandbank, carrying all of them away with it. They heard loud gurgling as it cascaded down into the tunnel, flooding the whole excavation. With all their strength they clung to the cliff face to avoid being swept off and sucked down into the tunnel to drown.
At last the cave was full and the noise of the water died away. The foaming waves quietened and the last of the eddies on the surface calmed.
Then, to their intense relief the Waveskimmer approached to take them on board and with all sails set they headed east.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Floodland,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
I suggest we join up with the ubariu army in Pendleburg.” It was evening. Tungdil was in the captain’s cabin with his friends, poring over a map of Girdlegard as they discussed strategy.
The Waveskimmer had passed the Gauragar border; now they were in Floodland, the part of the kingdom that had become submerged five cycles previously when Weyurn’s lakes spread. Where the inundation had brought death and destruction, now the water made travel easier. They had crossed directly to the east and were approaching the Brown Mountains.
Flagur nodded. “That will be best. There’s no one in Girdlegard trying to get the stone now, so we can take the risk and go to Urgon without an escort.” He looked at Lot-Ionan, who was holding the diamond in one hand and gazing absent-mindedly through the tiny window. “What is your view, revered magus? Is there still any danger?”
The magus gave no answer.
Instead Tungdil spoke up: “There is still one älfar on the loose. He was on the island the thirdlings used as a base. But he did not join the unslayable one and I’ve heard no rumors about him recently.”
“That’s a good start.” Flagur rested broad forearms on the table and the wood creaked in response to his weight.
“I’m not afraid of him,” the dwarf repeated.
“But I am, my noble fellow hero,” murmured Rodario. “The last älfar slit my belly open and it was not a nice feeling. I don’t think this one will be any more kindly disposed to me. Don’t forget. We murdered its parents. That is reason enough for hostility over and above natural viciousness.”
