by Markus Heitz
“Well, well.” Ireheart stroked his beard. “That’s useful to know. So the black-eyes don’t like each other either.”
“The southerners are in the majority and they’ve taken over Dsôn Balsur and the former elf realm of landur. The northern älfar have rebuilt the city of Dsôn in an artificial crater in the former elf realm of Lesinteïl, now renamed Dsôn Bhará—the true Dsôn. Yours, Tungdil Goldhand, is a name they pronounce with hatred. They haven’t forgotten that it was you who sent the city of the Unslayables up in flames.” Barskalín looked round at the others. “They taught us everything and trained us in their arts and skills.”
“How? Dwarves and magic? What’s more, magic originating from our oldest and most terrible foes?” Balyndar cut himself a piece of ham.
“It was a long and painful process involving many gruesome rituals,” Barskalín explained, seeming distressed. “It felt as if they had burned out the very souls that Vraccas endowed us with. What you see is the outer shell, filled with something that would make you shudder with fear if you ever caught sight of it.”
Boïndil glanced at Tungdil and remembered the vicious scars covering his torso. Perhaps he had also undergone that transformation? Is that why his face had the fine black älfar-like lines?
Barskalín cleared his throat. His voice had gone and he needed something to drink before he could continue his story. “After one hundred cycles in their service the Dsôn Aklán considered us to be loyal followers.” He looked at Slîn. “We spied on your strongholds and killed anyone in our path. I could find my way through Goldfast and Silverfast blindfold. There are no secrets. If we wanted to,” he lowered his voice, “we could lead the älfar or the thirdlings straight into the fourthling realm. You wouldn’t be able to stop us.”
The fourthling gulped. “That’s… impossible.”
Barskalín pointed to Tungdil and Boïndil. “Ask them. They came across one of my Zhadár in the Outer Lands. He had been traveling through the Brown Mountains, on a reconnaissance mission through your territory. Then he was going to spy out Evildam and follow up the rumors about the return of the greatest dwarf-hero.” He laughed. “He reported the rumors had been correct. He only just managed to escape from you.”
Ireheart spluttered and spat out his drink. “He survived the White Death?”
“We’re tough.” Barskalín smiled mysteriously.
“And they sent you to steal the cocoons?” Balyndar had not taken his eyes off the sytràp.
“Yes. The älfar… the Dsôn Aklán, want to stir up a war in the west to further their own plans. A diversion only. That’s purely my interpretation, of course.” Barskalín looked at Ireheart. “Emperor Aiphatòn is preparing for a campaign against Lot-Ionan. He intends to march to the south to overthrow the magus and his famuli. Then he will open the High Pass to allow more älfar through.”
“That’s good news!” Slîn filled his pipe. “We don’t need to start any wars! Let the two of them sort things out between them and we’ll hang around and see who wins. Let’s kill the kordrion’s young and bide our time.”
Balyndar placed his fingertips together thoughtfully. “I thought our own plan was… better.” He addressed Barskalín. “I want to know the reason you and I are sitting peaceably next to each other instead of fighting. You are working for our enemies but you’re still ready to help us take the cocoon to Lot-Ionan?”
“Treachery,” Tungdil said calmly. “The Zhadár never obeyed wholeheartedly, but have been waiting for an opportunity to change sides.”
“That’s right.” Barskalín nodded. “Tungdil Goldhand is a thirdling. A lot has changed in the thirdlings’ way of thinking and the dwarf laughed at for many cycles has become our greatest hero. He stood alone to fight against immense odds. And now he is the high king of all the dwarf-tribes—who else could we follow with both our head and our heart? We have been waiting for so many cycles to eliminate the älfar. To destroy them with their own weapons and arts.”
“That was what you planned when you volunteered?” Ireheart stared at the sytràp, finding it hard to grasp the immensity of what they had taken on. “By Vraccas, quite a sacrifice!”
“If what he says is true.” Balyndar sounded less than convinced.
“I believe him.” Slîn nodded and chewed on the stem of his pipe.
Barskalín smiled, a row of white teeth shining in the dark face. “To follow Tungdil Goldhand and help to free Girdlegard. That was always our intention. And now we have the opportunity, we’ll be able to carry out that plan.” He indicated his nine companions. “Altogether there are twenty-three of us…”
Balyndar’s laughter was ironic. “That’s plenty to make the älfar run off, tails between their legs.”
Now, for the first time, the commander of the Zhadár showed impatience. “Each one of us can deal with twenty opponents without exertion. In conventional combat. But if we use our special powers we can confound a small army, let me tell you, Balyndar Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers! If you thought the only thing our älfar skills are good for is to put the lights out you’ve got another think coming.” He scowled. “I’ve walked past you five dozen times during the course of your life and you never knew. I stood at your cradle, I stood at your bed while you slept. The Gray Mountains hold no secrets for me or my Zhadár.” His hand lay on the handle of his curved dagger. “You have me to thank for the fact I didn’t lead the thirdlings into your mother’s kingdom. The strongholds would have fallen as well.” He stood up and came over to the fifthling to speak low into his ear. “I know all your secrets, heir apparent to the fifthling crown,” he whispered, then straightened up. “So you are in the best of hands. It is an honor for us to be able to serve the high king.”
Balyndar sat thunderstruck; he had turned as pale as a linen shirt.
Tungdil shook hands with Barskalín, who returned to his Zhadár troops; the two groups of warriors bedded down for the night in separate corners of the cave.
Ireheart could not understand why Balyndar was suddenly monosyllabic, but he was still mulling over what the sytràp had reported. “Vraccas, now I’m positive that it was your work: Letting us meet the Zhadár warrior in the mountains. I thank you,” he prayed quietly. “Now grant victory to the Invisibles and ourselves. I would give anything to hear dwarves and humans able to laugh again.”
“Would you give your life?” Slîn asked, having overheard. “Would you die for the cause?” He turned over and put his hands behind his head, his pipe clamped in the corner of his mouth. “I would. But only if at least one of us survives to report our heroic deeds. Otherwise even the most glorious of deaths is a waste of time.”
Ireheart wanted to reply but his throat had gone dry. Perhaps it was better not to answer.
He might have said the wrong thing.
Girdlegard,
Protectorate of Gauragar,
Twenty Miles South of the Gray Mountains,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
Ireheart was feeling uneasy.
They had taken off his chain mail and any clothing that had been in contact with the cocoon and had tied it to a horse bought for the purpose, in order to duplicate the scent trails and keep the kordrion busy. As soon as the beast found the horse and consumed it, iron rings, shirt, hose and all, it would know it should have followed the other track; Ireheart was wearing random cast-offs that his companions could spare.
“I feel like some ragged peddler,” he said, down in the dumps.
“And what is wrong with my trousers?” asked their crossbow specialist with a grin. “If you burst the seams with your fat arse, you’ll have to buy me some new ones.”
“It’s not fat, it’s all muscle. You fourthlings don’t have any. Your trousers would just about fit our children.” Ireheart looked back at Balyndar, who was holding the älfar dagger they had taken off the dead archer. He turned the weapon, running his fingers over the blade, and then struck it at a certain angle against his forearm protectors
.
It was not a strong blow—but the blade sang out and snapped in two.
“As I thought,” muttered the fifthling, discarding the useless weapon.
“What did you think?” asked Ireheart, and Balyndar gave a jerk. He had not known he was being observed. “That the dagger was faulty?” “Yes. Something was wrong, but I didn’t know what.” He tried to explain. “We firstlings have a good eye for metalcraft. I knew a dwarf had made it, but something wasn’t right. The smith had included a fine layer of a hard, brittle metal. It hadn’t fused to the steel and I could see that, if subjected to stress—for example in combat—the blade would break off.” Balyndar looked at Ireheart. “It was constructed deliberately as an inferior piece of work. It wasn’t a mistake.”
“So the thirdlings are sabotaging the black-eyes’ plans, too, like the Zhadár,” noted Boïndil with satisfaction.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. It could be a single dwarf with a conscience.” The fifthling dampened Ireheart’s enthusiasm. “If there were a lot of this treachery going on, even the älfar would notice and there’d be consequences for the thirdlings. Fatal consequences.” He looked at Tungdil, who was up front at the Zhadár commander’s side, climbing the next slope. “The thirdlings may be good warriors, better than all of us. But they can’t win against the älfar. The black-eyes have far superior numbers.”
“It’s a bit early to be seeing them as allies on the strength of one faulty dagger,” Ireheart agreed. He looked up, surprised at the swift approach of a cloud.
When Slîn followed his gaze, his arm shot up into the air. “Kordrion! To the north!”
Ireheart was angry with himself that he had not seen it. “I think I must be getting old.”
They dived for cover among the rocks, while Ireheart raced off to tell Tungdil. “What do we do, Scholar?”
The one-eyed dwarf stood straight and unruffled, his right hand shielding his brow as he scanned the sky. “It’s closer than we’d want. Our trick with the false trail isn’t working anymore.”
Boïndil was sulking. “So I lost my clothes and armor for nothing?”
“It’s given us a good head start. But that seems to be over.” Tungdil spotted the kordrion between the clouds. “He’s keeping a lookout. It won’t take him long to spot us.”
“That means we’ll never make it to Lot-Ionan, Scholar?”
“Precisely.” Tungdil looked back over his shoulder. “But we can take our gift to someone else. We’ve got to use the opportunity to cause our enemies maximum damage.”
Ireheart recognized where they were heading. “Dsôn Bahrá.”
“It would be the safest. The path will be downhill most of the way and our sledges will help. And there’ll be caves we can hide in when the kordrion gets too close.” Tungdil looked at Barskalín, who nodded in agreement.
“That sounds like fun: slipping in unnoticed among the black-eyes. What a challenge!” Ireheart signaled to Slîn and Balyndar to come over; the Invisibles left their hiding places and began pushing the sledges uphill.
“I don’t intend to slip in unnoticed,” said Tungdil. “It wouldn’t work, anyway. I’ll introduce myself as a transformed Tungdil whose greatest wish is to wipe out dwarfdom completely. I’ll offer the älfar my assistance. We’ll offload the baby kordrion secretly and wait to see what happens. We’ll have an alternative plan ready.” He looked at his friend. “Ireheart, you, Balyndar and Slîn will have to wear Zhadár armor.”
“Charming,” was the unhappy fourthling’s comment. “Don’t worry. They’ll have something in your size,” joked Ireheart. “One of their women’s outfits.”
Balyndar put his hands on his hips. “I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it. I am your high king so you’ll do what I say.” Tungdil sounded extraordinarily calm and determined. “The kordrion is too fast for us and you can’t argue with me on that score. If there’s a chance to deploy the embryo against the enemy, we’ll do it.” He swung himself onto one of the sledges. “We’ll be in Dsôn Bahrá in a couple of orbits. Follow me!” He pushed off and sailed down the slope.
The Zhadár followed him one by one, racing downhill; Slîn and Ireheart prepared to do likewise.
But Balyndar was standing next to his sledge staring at the others. “I don’t know if we’re doing the right thing here, Boïndil Doubleblade,” he said broodingly.
“The stories they write about us will show whether it was right or not, Balyndar,” Ireheart said in consolation. “I don’t know the answer, and I’m sure the Scholar doesn’t know either yet. Our plan is up the spout and we’ve got to make the best of things. With the help of Vraccas perhaps we will achieve more than we think.” He patted him on the shoulder. “Trust your father.” The words had already left his lips before Ireheart realized what he had said.
Balyndar slowly turned to face him. “What idiocy are you babbling?”
Boïndil gave a forced laugh. “A joke, to cheer you up a bit.”
“Then it didn’t work. Not with that joke.” To Ireheart’s great relief the fifthling went off to his sledge and started to push it. “Don’t you know a better one?” “What about the one where an orc asks a dwarf the way?”
Balyndar made a dismissive gesture. “Boring. Every dwarf knows that one.”
“But not my version,” Ireheart replied proudly and took a deep breath. “An orc comes along and sees a dwarf and he wants to know…”
“Horsemen!” Slîn called excitedly. “Down there, to the right of the sledges in the little valley. They’re heading straight for the Zhadár!”
Why does he always see the danger before I do? Ireheart looked where Slîn had pointed.
Balyndar tried to calculate how many riders there were. “The Black Squadron,” he exclaimed in consternation, launching himself onto his sledge on his stomach. “Quick, we’ve got to catch the others up and warn them!” He raced off.
Slîn did not wait to be told twice. He zoomed down the slope in the same daring pose.
“Hey! Hey! Wait for me!” Ireheart pushed his sledge off, ran alongside it a few paces and then jumped on. “By Vraccas! How am I ever supposed to tell a joke properly?”
XIII
Girdlegard,
Black Abyss,
Fortress Evildam,
Late Winter, 6491st/ 6492nd Solar Cycles
Goda contemplated the pulsating edges of the flickering red dome close to the walls of Evildam. The sight reminded her of waves lapping and she knew that, as with the sea, terrible monsters were lying in wait under the surface. She knew why the dwarf-race feared deep water.
Troubled, the maga pulled her cloak tighter round her shoulders. The energy sphere now reached all the way to their stone walls—but she was powerless to affect its growth.
Kiras, in breastplate and limb protectors over thick clothing, was at her side. Using a telescope she watched the enemy’s newly erected protective barrier. “The walls haven’t been damaged. I can’t see any cracks or bulges. The red glow doesn’t seem to be harming the stone. The warriors feared the force might bring down Evildam, but that’s not happening.”
“But the monsters can come directly up to our fortress walls. That is bad. I’ll need something to shrink the sphere down again.” Goda’s right hand played with the diamond splinters in her pocket. But what?
“He killed them,” said Kiras firmly, addressing the maga.
Goda knew exactly what the undergroundling was referring to. “I know. Ireheart saw the injuries on the ubariu, too,” she replied after a while. When the two women stood side by side it was obvious how different their respective dwarf-races were. Kiras, taller and slimmer in stature, was almost like a small human; Goda, in contrast, was one of Girdlegard’s archetypal thickset dwarves. Kiras did not have the darkish fluff on the cheeks that was noticeable on Goda’s round face.
“But Boïndil said nothing.” Kiras could discern monsters behind the red screen running across the plain round the Black Abyss and
marking certain places out with flags.
“And he never will. Unless the dwarf pretending to be Tungdil Goldhand finally admits that he is an impostor.” Their attempt to force his hand had failed. Goda looked both ways along the battlements. They were manned at all times, the catapult teams at their stations, ready to take immediate action if the fiends attacked.
“That’ll never happen. Those dead soldiers we found are evidence that he’s pursuing his own ends with every conceivable means.” Kiras lowered the telescope to look at Goda. A flash caught her eye and when she turned in its direction she saw that it came from the eastern battlements. One of the guards had polished his shield so well that it was dazzling her. She thought she could even feel the heat of the reflection it sent. “Is it true they’ve made him high king?”
The maga nodded. “And I thank Vraccas that I’m here in Evildam! This way I’m not subject to his commands.”
The undergroundling leaned against the parapet. “I wonder what happened to the real Tungdil: Dead, captive or has he become something even worse than this thing, this fraud calling himself the hero?”
Goda sighed. “There’s no way of knowing.”
Kiras suddenly brightened up and looked across at the red sphere. “What if we captured one of the monsters for interrogation? Can’t you make a hole in the screen big enough for me and a few ubariu?”
Goda found the idea ridiculous at first but, on reflection… “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you’ve got too much to think about. You have to command the fortress and be our maga, constantly on guard against sorcery.” Kiras offered this excuse with a smile, grasping Goda’s hands. “I don’t tell you this often enough: You are like a mother to me. I can never thank you enough for what you have done for me.”
