by Markus Heitz
“I’m trying to work out whether it’s good or bad.” Tungdil stared fixedly ahead and saw the red flash aimed at the creature; the dying monster was tangled in the cables. “Lohasbrand won’t have sent him. Dragons don’t tolerate other monsters in their kingdom. He would have killed this creature himself if it had turned up in the Red Mountains.”
When the cable snapped and the car started to fall to the lake, Ireheart cursed out loud. “Now we’ve lost that maga, too. It’s enough to drive you mad!” The fortress in the lake was shooting tiny black clouds of arrows and spears.
“She should be able to save herself. If she can’t do that she’d be no use to us against Lot-Ionan either.” Tungdil sounded detached.
The flying beast had tugged the cables away on both sides as it flapped its wings helplessly, cutting itself on the ropes. It screamed and reeled after the cabin, as if it wanted to tear it apart.
“Maybe the queen should start doing something?” Ireheart sounded doubtful. “They’re about to crash.”
At that moment the monster completed a final erratic lurch through the air and disappeared head first into the open shaft, streaming with blood and spattering red on the walls.
“Ugh, that’s what I call an unlucky turn of events.” Ireheart could see that the gondola had stopped, mid-fall, and was now swaying like a pendulum, swinging toward then away from the pillar that supported Lakepride island. “Look, one of the ropes has held firm!”
Tungdil grimaced. “I’d also prefer it if the maga actually did something. I’m not convinced of her competence.”
Ireheart was about to say something when a mighty explosion occurred.
A bright green column of fire erupted out of the shaft, blowing the whole construction up to the skies. The dwarves thought they could make out shapes of people, remnants of catapults, parts of the roof, some wooden beams and other bits and pieces hurtling through the air, driven by the force of the blast. The spectacle was accompanied by a whistling screech, the walls of the shaft glowed first red then white from the extreme heat, and then the waters around the area began to boil and steam rose up in clouds.
Another blast. The flames died down, only to be replaced by a ball of light directly over the opening to the shaft.
Below, far down on the bottom of the lake, there was a silvery flash and a circle of shimmering fire spread out. The dwarves could see right down through it as it raced across the lakebed. Ireheart thought he could feel a slight tingling when it went under their boat. The runes on Tungdil’s armor shone out.
Immediately afterwards there was a sound like a volcanic eruption. The lake surface started to shake. Waves swept against the keels of the boats, making them bob erratically.
A third detonation shattered the walls of the shaft as if they had been made of brittle glass and not the toughest of steel.
The lake waters streamed in, creating an undertow that dragged the fishing boats toward the island. The hole filled up, bubbling and raging, and then a column of water shot up as high as the palace itself before sinking again.
“Hold tight,” was all that Tungdil said, as a powerful wave hurtled their way. He grabbed hold of the mast and hunched down, bracing himself.
“I hate Elria,” growled Ireheart, finding a rope to cling to. “She always finds a way to ruin things for me when I go on a journey.”
The rump of the boat rose up, surrounded by spray, and a huge breaker covered the dwarves with ice-cold lake water. Then they pitched down again. Their vessel shook and shuddered, but did not overturn.
Slîn looked back over his shoulder. Not all of their party had fared so well. Two of the boats had foundered. “May Vraccas preserve them from Elria’s wrath,” he prayed briefly, then set his gaze ahead.
Steam still rose where the steel walls had been. A loud rumbling filled the air. The pillar on which the island rested was starting to crumble at one side. The basalt stone was breaking apart and the island’s equilibrium was lost.
As the island toppled slowly to the left-hand side, the supporting column of rock snapped completely and Lakepride hit the water. A second massive wave rolled toward the boats. The fishermen were beside themselves with terror. Their little ship surged upwards once more on the crest of the wave.
Tungdil stood at the mast, a picture of calm, as he scanned the tormented surface of the lake.
“Well, Scholar?” called Ireheart. He steadied himself on the planks and leaned forward to counteract the movement of the boat. “Do you think there’s any hope of survivors?”
This second wave was much stronger than the first, Ireheart noted from the angle the boat took and the length of time it seemed suspended. I’ll never, ever go on a lake again. Never ever! He was dreading the pitching crash when the wave finally sent them plunging down again.
They were briefly horizontal before the bows pitched forward and they hurtled down the back of the wave. They were not far from where the shaft, until very recently, had been, and where the island had stood.
“Dwarf overboard!” came a shout behind him. Balyndar stood at the low railing and pointed to starboard. “Slîn’s been hit by the breaker and dragged under!”
Tungdil did not even turn round. “We have to look for the maga,” he answered. “We’ve enough dwarves. There’s only one maga.”
Ireheart stared at his friend, baffled by this cold-hearted attitude. He’s reverting to the Tungdil who came back to us from the Outer Lands with a reputation for horrific deeds of cruelty. He saw some buoys on deck that the fishermen used to mark the location of their nets. They were made of pigs’ bladders filled with air, cork tree branches or glass balls encased in string.
Ireheart grabbed four of them and ran over to Balyndar. “Where is he?”
Together they stared out at the waves until the fifthling located the missing dwarf. “There! Cast it now!”
Ireheart hurled the floats out, putting all his strength behind the throw so that they carried all the way to him.
A spluttering, paddling Slîn grabbed hold of the rope tied to one of the floats and pulled it over, but he continued to sink due to the weight of his armor. He was fighting for his life, they could see. It was only when he managed to pull the other three floats over that he was able to keep his head above water. It was enough to enable him to breathe.
Ireheart was relieved and went back to join Tungdil in the bows. “We’ve saved him. One of the other boats will pick him up.”
“Good.” He stretched up to see more distinctly something he had caught sight of through the spray.
“You might just as well have said ‘I couldn’t care less,’ Scholar,” Ireheart said reproachfully. “That’s what your tone of voice was saying.”
Tungdil turned round suddenly and, for a blink of an eye, looked as if he were going to hit Boïndil. His face was full of fury. “If I need a crossbowman, I’ll find a new one. If I need a maga, what do I do then?” he countered the rebuke. “It’s good that Slîn is safe. No more than that. Without Coïra our chances of prevailing against Lot-Ionan are diminished. It’ll make no difference not having Slîn with us. He won’t have the kind of weapon that can kill a magus outright.” He looked at the fisherman and directed, “Hard to port.”
Ireheart did not know what to say. This was a real blow.
The boat slipped round and headed for some of the floating rubble.
It was still rocking about and the lake had not yet settled. The fisherman reefed the sails to decrease their speed; he did not want to hole the boat. There were constant bumps and clanks as driftwood and flotsam collided with the hull.
Tungdil had a boathook in his hand, held like a harpoon. “Look out for survivors. If you see a woman tell me at once. The others can pick up the men.”
Ireheart lifted a net and stared out at the water. “A woman!” he called, pointing to a blonde girl in leather armor, motionless, face up, floating next to an empty barrel.
Tungdil used the hook to pull her nearer and the Zhadár heaved he
r up over the side. “Is that the maga?” he asked the fisherman.
“No, sir, the queen has black hair,” was the reply.
Ireheart laid the girl down by the mast and quickly covered her with a blanket before Tungdil could think of chucking her overboard again; her lips were blue and quivering. “That’s good,” he said reassuringly. “You’re alive.” She looked pretty tall and strong for a human. A warrior-girl, then.
One of the Zhadár whistled and pointed to starboard.
They changed course to head for what he had seen. Tungdil fished the next woman out of the lake. She was wearing a black robe and had long dark hair. She, too, was unconscious. And she wasn’t breathing!
“That’s her,” whispered the frightened fisherman. “That’s the queen! Elria, be merciful!”
“Elria? I’ll show Elria!” Ireheart turned her over and trod on her back with his boots till the water gushed out of her mouth and she started to cough. “There! Hurrah! I am a born healer!” He helped the maga to turn over and wrapped her in a new blanket. “You owe your life to Vraccas,” he told her kindly.
“It felt more like the sole of a boot,” she groaned.
Tungdil came over and looked down at her. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Coïra Weytana, queen of Weyurn.”
She coughed again and gave him a grateful nod.
“This is High King Tungdil Goldhand,” said Ireheart, introducing his friend first, then himself and then the others on board. “We arrived just in time.”
There was a splash next to the boat and a man’s hand was seen clamped to the railing; then the second hand appeared and a torso pulled itself up over the side. Brown hair was slapped tight to his head and his aristocratic face was beardless. “I assume I am allowed on board?” He looked at the assembled crowd in astonishment. “Well I never. A sailing barge full of dwarves!”
“By all the spirits of the dead!” Ireheart’s eyebrows were raised in amazement, because he thought he was seeing the ghost of a man who had long since died. The clean-shaven ghost of a man. “Rodario?”
XVIII
Girdlegard,
Former Queendom of Weyurn,
Lakeside,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
Nobody in the quiet hamlet of Lakeside could have dreamed that they might one day have the privilege of offering hospitality not only to their queen, but also to those illustrious dwarf-heroes of cycles long past, Tungdil Goldhand and Boïndil Doubleblade, the celebrated Mallenia of Ido, and a descendant of the fabled Rodario the Incredible. Not even the best storyteller in the village could have imagined such a company in their midst.
The eminent visitors were gathered in the taproom of the harborside inn, drinking hot tea, mulled wine or spiced beer. The villagers had withdrawn out of respect and were pushing and shoving each other at the window and the doorway, trying to get a glimpse of the high personages. They sent in a few of their number to convey their best wishes or make presentations of gifts, but without a specific invitation none of them dared to approach closer than four paces.
“You’re positive the magic source has been destroyed?” Tungdil addressed Coïra, who was now wearing the simple garb of a fisherwoman and had wrapped herself in a blanket.
“I realized straightaway,” she answered despondently. “All the energy was released and I managed to absorb some of it, but… now… it is dead. There is nothing left at all where the source used to be.”
Ireheart thought back to the fizzing sensation and how the runes on Tungdil’s armor had started to glow. That must have been the reason: Magic had been set free into the air! Personally, he could have done without that experience, but the loss of the magic source would be of terrible significance for them all!
Coïra smiled at her subjects even if she found it hard. None of this was their fault and she did not want to disappoint anyone. She gestured to a little girl with a basket of gifts, accepted the presents graciously and stroked the girl’s blond hair. “Thank you very much.” Curtseying prettily, the young girl hurried back to the others waiting outside.
“I simply can’t think what kind of creature was responsible for Lakepride’s collapse and the destruction of the magic source,” said Tungdil.
The maga shook her head and gave her attention to the gifts she had been brought: There was a brooch made of fish bone with an image of the island engraved on it. Sighing, she clasped it in her hand.
“I think it must have been Lot-Ionan.” Rodario the Seventh looked round the circle. “The magus must have created that monster and sent it here, either to kill the maga or to destroy her source of magic. Once it knew that it was dying it threw itself down the shaft to carry out its mission.” He touched his throat. “I saw quite clearly that it was wearing a chain with an onyx pendant. Perhaps that was the cause of the explosion?”
“Possibly.” Coïra nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps he put a spell in the stone. It must have been some very powerful sorcery to have an effect like that.”
“This brings us to a vital issue. Are you prepared to help us fight the magus?” Tungdil looked at her searchingly. “More to the point: Are you capable of helping us?”
“So you want to pursue the Dragon first and then go off to the south,” she summarized. “If we accept Rodario’s idea, Lot-Ionan won’t have attacked me and the source for no reason. Sooner or later he will attempt to conquer Girdlegard, and this act will have been the opening gambit for a takeover of Weyurn. He knows I need the source to be able to put up any lasting resistance.”
“How much magic power were you able to absorb?” Tungdil wanted to know.
“Enough for now.” Coïra sat up straight in her chair. “I’d need more if I were to campaign against Lot-Ionan. That will be what you were asking, Tungdil Goldhand.”
“To be frank, I doubt you would be powerful enough to do anything to stop him.”
Ireheart listened as his friend deliberately provoked the young maga. Any minute now he’ll be needing his armor! But to his surprise she responded with a friendly smile.
“I know what you think of me: A young woman, hardly out of training, and one who’s managed to bungle things so badly as to kill her own mother. But I assure you that I am spurred on by these drawbacks. Perhaps a warrior heart will be bestowed on me yet.” She paused. “I shall accompany you to the Red Mountains.”
“Your Majesty!” objected Rodario. “To wage war on the Dragon is…”
“… is an excellent decision,” interjected Tungdil. “I know why you wish to come with us: I’ve heard the rumors that there may be a further magic source in the firstlings’ realm.”
The same idea had just occurred to Ireheart. Goda had occasionally mentioned that merchants traveling from the west to trade with the fourthlings had spoken of mysterious lights in the Red Mountains. She had deduced the lights might have a connection with magic. However, it had been no more than rumors and vague speculation.
“Exactly. I will come with you and will collect as much magic power as I can; then I can help you against the magus.”
Rodario raised his hand. “Permit me to speak. What assurance do we have that Lot-Ionan hasn’t sent more of these creatures up into the mountains or over to where the älfar are?”
“There’s no guarantee. But Lohasbrand can deal with them as easy as pie. I don’t suppose the älfar would be able to do the same, unless they’ve got Aiphatòn at their side,” Tungdil replied.
Mallenia had kept quiet throughout this exchange, limiting herself to furious glances at Hargorin Deathbringer. But she had held her tongue for the sake of peace. Ireheart could tell she was finding it difficult. In her opinion the Deathbringer had committed too many crimes in the name of the älfar. Ireheart had to admit she had a point. “I don’t like the pact we’ve entered into with the black-eyes. They’ve oppressed my people for so many cycles now and suddenly it’s all sweetness and light with Aiphatòn and he’s planning to lead the älfar to their deaths and to destroy their empires
?” Her mouth narrowed to a very thin line. “I don’t believe it.”
“Who says the thirdlings are going to join us?” Rodario asked them to consider. “Right, one of their number has become high king—but don’t they still despise the other dwarf-tribes?” He glanced at Hargorin and Barskalín. “How can you remove my doubts for me?”
“Your doubts?” asked Hargorin in astonishment. “You’re an actor. You’re only sitting at this same table because you invited yourself. You have no part in decisions concerning the future existence of Girdlegard. You can’t even fight. But I suppose we can take you along as a mascot.” Barskalín laughed in agreement.
Now a smile, dangerous enough to rival Tungdil’s best, crept onto the actor’s visage. “Try to strike me and you’ll have to take back those words.”
Coïra leaned over to speak to Mallenia. “If I’m not mistaken, his face is looking much thinner.”
The Ido girl agreed. “And the lake has torn off a few beard hairs, I see.” Looking more closely she noted a distinct dark shadow round his chin, throat and cheeks. “But they’ll be growing back with a vengeance, stronger than ever, I expect.” The two girls exchanged glances, each reading the other’s suspicions.
In the meantime Hargorin had got up from his seat and had planted himself in front of Rodario. “You don’t know what you’ve taken on.”
“Yes, I do,” he said confidently. “But it is not nice to fight in the presence of ladies. It would not be fitting to smear the place with your blood and guts while they are watching. And at the moment we have a more pressing task.”
“Stop it! Both of you!” Tungdil called impatiently.
“But I’m not being taken seriously merely because I appear on the stage. I can’t accept that. My question was not stupid: I was wondering about the loyalty of the thirdlings,” Rodario returned. “What if they decide to help the älfar? They’ve served them for over two hundred cycles. If there’s a shift in the balance of power they’ll suffer great losses—never mind that, they’ll be exposed to the rage of the humans in Urgon, Idoslane, and Gauragar. They’d be definitely better off if there’s no change at the top.”
