The Fate of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  Four dwarf-sentries stood guard. It was obvious from their relatively slight stature that they were fourthlings; they saluted the new arrivals.

  Tungdil and Ireheart stepped into the room one after the other. There was a hexagonal table in the middle, made of a bluish-gray ogre-eye stone. Each of the tribes had a place accorded them, and the freelings had also been included. The bitter enmity of the thirdlings had led to someone shattering the part of the table originally intended for them. Between the secondlings and thirdlings was a gaping hole.

  This was not the only thing that struck the eye; only the representatives of the fifthlings and fourthlings were sitting at their places; there was food and drink arrayed on the table in front of them. The delegates of the various clans sat some distance off on stone benches.

  Ireheart saw at once how few were gathered there. His courage started to ebb.

  As the two of them entered the room, dwarves stood up and bowed their heads.

  “Welcome,” said one dwarf, wearing an ornamental silver cuirass with polished gold inlay. He made no secret of his wealth. It would have been difficult to conceal the brilliance of the dazzling jewels on his armor. He had long blond hair, his sideburns reached to his chest, while the beard on his chin curled down all the way to his belt; the remaining facial hair was smartly trimmed to a finger’s length. “I am Frandibar Gemholder of the clan of the Gold Beaters and I am king of the fourthlings. I bid you both welcome, Tungdil Goldhand and Boïndil Doubleblade, and am glad to be the first in Girdlegard to receive the heroes of our race. It is truly a great honor!” He approached them, stretching out his hand to Tungdil.

  The one-eyed dwarf studied the king as if he were dealing with some leprous supplicant. He had to force himself to hold out his own hand, doing so slowly and reluctantly. Ireheart sighed, showing himself eager to greet the king in contrast, and giving a strong handshake.

  Then a second dwarf came over from the table. His wavy dark-brown hair was worn in a plait, his beard was short and, in contrast to the ruler of the fourthlings, he wore combat dress that seemed to be a cross between chain mail and lamellar armor. On his weapons belt hung a two-headed morning star studded with spikes, and at his left side there was short-handled throwing ax.

  His figure was impressively muscular. The fifthlings were a mixture of different dwarf-tribes and had accepted the heritage of the Gray Range. The original fifthlings, the defenders of the Stone Gate, had all died out, so Ireheart hazarded a guess that this dwarf’s ancestors had been firstlings or secondlings.

  “I am Balyndar Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers, son of Balyndis Steelfinger the First, queen of the tribe of the fifthlings,” he said by way of introduction. “My mother sends her regrets, but she is needed at the Stone Gateway. We are not only dealing with Tion’s monsters but are also having to cope with the ravages of a mysterious fever that has struck down many of the tribe. Her own health is fragile and she is not up to making the long and dangerous journey to the Brown Mountains.” He bowed again. “I have come at her behest to find out what the hero of Girdlegard has to tell us. I must say straight off that my mother has her doubts: She does not believe Lot-Ionan can ever be defeated.”

  Ireheart looked at Tungdil, struck by the resemblance between his old friend and this young dwarf. The chin, mouth and nose were almost identical and their voices were so similar in intonation. By Vraccas! If I didn’t know better I’d take them for father and son. A swift glance to Gemholder showed that the same thing had occurred to the king.

  Tungdil watched the queen’s son, opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, sounding as if he had really intended to say something quite different. “We thought the sickness curse on the northern realm was banished for all time.”

  “Tion’s power has grown. No surprise, considering what’s been going on in Girdlegard,” replied Balyndar. “But thank you for your sympathy.” He nodded to the older dwarf.

  Ireheart’s eyes whizzed to and fro; he compared the dwarves as unobtrusively as possible and found his first impression confirmed.

  Balyndis had been Tungdil’s companion, but he had rejected her and selected an undergroundling as his mate: Sirka. Balyndis had gone to the fifthlings and been welcomed again by the king; soon she shared his throne and bore a son.

  What an awful thought. The warrior screwed up his eyes. The boy’s age would be about right.

  “You will want to refresh yourselves…” Frandibar began.

  But Tungdil shook his head. “We need to get down to business first,” he interrupted, looking at the clan delegates. “You may find yourselves amazed by what I say but don’t laugh at my words or interrupt me. What I’m going to put to you is the only way to free Girdlegard from the repeated plagues and assaults it now suffers. From what our whole race now suffers.” He walked round the table and reached the place where the table edge had been hacked away. “I am a thirdling and so I shall sit here,” he announced. He held himself very upright, with neither fear nor awe in his expression. It was clear to all that he was accustomed to commanding and being instantly obeyed.

  Boïndil was surprised to note that there was no resistance among the clans to what Tungdil had said. The hero was indeed an impressive presence. Or does his appearance make them afraid, and that is why they are submitting?

  Gemholder got a servant to bring a chair for Tungdil and the dwarf took his place as if he were the king. As if he were still ruler over a realm and commander-in-chief of an army. “What about the office of high king?” he asked.

  “After Ginsgar died and all the things that happened in Girdlegard there was no time to elect a high king to govern all the tribes,” replied Balyndar. “We were all too busy fighting the attackers. And it’s been like that right up until the present orbit, Tungdil.”

  “The secondlings have been wiped out, the thirdlings don’t count. What about the firstlings? Have they crawled so deep into their tunnels for fear of the Dragon that they can’t find the way out?” Tungdil looked first at Balyndar, then at Frandibar. “What’s the last you heard from them?”

  “There was a letter sent to my mother,” said the fifthling. “A certain Xamtor Boldface was asking for support against the Dragon, but we had to tell him that we don’t have enough soldiers to man an expedition. They would have had to fight their way past the kordrion and across Dragon-land to get to the Red Mountains.” Balyndar’s face went dark. “The Lohasbranders, it is said, kill any dwarf they set eyes on. Our deputation would never have reached the west alive.”

  “We thought the same,” agreed the king of the fourthlings. “Queen Balyndis passed on the request to us, but we are having to defend ourselves against the thirdlings and the älfar. We need every weapon and warrior available.”

  Tungdil glanced over at the second unoccupied place at the table. “Where are the freelings?” Shoulders were shrugged. “Well, you’ve still got to put a coalition force together to fight for Girdlegard.” Tungdil ran his gauntleted fingers over the broken edge of the table. “A fighting group composed of the best of the fourthlings and fifthlings. Like in the past when we were looking to forge Keenfire.” He stopped. “Did Keenfire ever turn up again?” The dwarves shook their heads. Tungdil reached for his tankard and downed the contents in one; then he slammed it down and appeared to stare into the void.

  Ireheart felt the unrest that was spreading through the gathering. The clan chiefs had been expecting more than this.

  “Lot-Ionan,” said Tungdil suddenly, and a jolt ran through the assembled company. His voice was deeper now and the sound of it struck fear in their hearts. “He is the last magus, and so, for our race, he is undefeatable. The tribes are in no position to be able to deal with our other adversaries; or, if they could, then only one at a time and with terrible losses. That would only give an advantage to remaining foes.” He banged the table. “If you are mad enough to attack first. But if you let someone else do the spadework and wait with your attack
until the enemy has been weakened, then victory is a possibility.”

  “What do you mean?” Balyndar wanted to know. He was drinking water, Ireheart noticed, and not touching any food that was heavy or greasy.

  “We get the kordrion, the älfar, Lot-Ionan and the Dragon to wage war on each other,” he explained, smiling darkly. “Whoever emerges as the victor will be annihilated by the children of the Smith.”

  Balyndar uttered a peculiar sound that turned into mocking laughter. “Simple as that? The four of them have split up our homeland among themselves for cycles now, but they’ll attack each other at the drop of a hat just because the great Tungdil Goldhand turns up and asks them to?” He got up, looking furious. “My mother was right. You won’t change anything. It’s like being in a battle waiting for the veteran fighters to arrive, only for a feeble old man to turn up instead.”

  Hardly had he said that last word when he was hit so hard on the back that he fell forward onto the table. A shadow had grabbed him by the nape of the neck and was rubbing his face against the rune that stood for the realm of the fifthlings.

  Ireheart blinked and then saw it was his friend. How did he manage to move so quickly?

  “Balyndar Steelfinger! You may have inherited much from your mother, but not her iron will,” said Tungdil angrily. “Take a look at the symbol for your tribe!” He increased the pressure. Balyndar tried to resist and turned to grab his attacker, but he could not. “Look at it, I said,” shouted Tungdil. “The name Balyndis will be the last name of a sovereign in a whole line of queens and kings if we all follow your way of thinking. There’ll be no one at all who can read about the exploits of the dwarves.” He let Balyndar go and went back to his own seat.

  Balyndar pushed himself upright and stared at the one-eyed dwarf in fury. On his right cheek and on his temple the rune had left an imprint that was gradually fading. “You dare to…”

  “I dare, yes, I do dare!” Tungdil’s voice drowned out the words of the younger dwarf. “I dare to tell you and the others what must be done. It is simple; all it takes is skill, courage and sharp blades. But not an army. Not at first.” He pointed north. “Steal the kordrion’s young and take them to Lot-Ionan. The beast will follow, looking for its offspring. You have to be ready with a small force to overthrow the victor. And the victor will definitely be Lot-Ionan. You need the magus to put a stop to what is being prepared in the Black Abyss.”

  Frandibar folded his arms. “What if the kordrion defeats the long-un? Then, according to you, we’d be helpless.”

  “He won’t. A kordrion can’t defend itself against magic. It might be able to destroy the wizard’s famuli but it will be powerless faced with Lot-Ionan himself.” Tungdil’s fingers ran along the line of the Red Mountains on the map on the central table. “After that you take the best treasures from the Dragon’s hoard and plant them on the älfar. Lohasbrand will set his humans and his orcs on the älfar in Dsôn Balsur, and because they won’t be able to overrun the black-eyes on their own, he’ll have to get over there himself.” Tungdil’s gaze swept over the assembled dwarves. “Again it will be the task of the children of the Smith to watch and wait. And then to attack the victor, who will be weakened by then, of course, from the battle. You should manage that. And there you are: Girdlegard is free of all tribulation.”

  “He’s gone mad,” came the voice of one of the clan leaders. “What kind of expedition would be able to do all that?”

  “So do you not have any fresh heroes? Was it just a cheap excuse—let’s do nothing at all until Tungdil comes back?” Tungdil whirled round. “I can see some strong arms and watchful eyes here in this room. Take Balyndar with you. He’s an obvious choice.” He pointed at Ireheart. “Don’t forget my old comrade. He and his crow’s beak will sort out enemy skulls and armor, no problem. Get yourself a skillful cross-bowman and send a handful of brave hearts along with them. When you’ve found them, offer prayers to your god, and send them on their way.”

  “And you won’t be with them?” The king of the fourthlings was aghast.

  “No.” Tungdil sat down heavily in his chair. “After over two hundred cycles of constant war, battle and combat, enough is enough. I shall find myself a nice little place and shall watch from the sidelines as you eliminate evil. It’s enough for me to know that I have given you the plan.”

  Balyndar had swallowed his anger and looked extremely disappointed. “So this is the great hero, whose deeds are so far out of our league. He looks like one of Tion’s warriors and the speeches he makes demand the impossible of us. Then he sits down and takes his ease to watch us fail.” He laughed joylessly. “Thank you, Tungdil Goldhand.”

  Ireheart heard the clan leaders talking quietly among themselves and observed that they were not following what was going on at the hexagonal table anymore. As for himself, he was still trying to think through the strategy his friend had outlined. This meeting mustn’t end in discord! He took a deep breath, raised his voice and announced “The Scholar is right!”

  Silence fell in the hall. All of them stared at him.

  “He’s right,” Ireheart repeated, laying his hand on the map of Girdlegard. “We don’t have massive armies to march in with. Our strongholds have been destroyed for the most part, and in those fortresses that still exist we sit waiting for death to take us. Either with älfar arrow, kordrion attack, fever, or dragon fire.” He stood up. “Our only hope is to employ the tactics Tungdil has described.” He placed his hand on his crow’s beak. “I shall be of the party riding out to save our race. The fate of the dwarves must be decided by the dwarves themselves.”

  Frandibar studied him carefully, then looked at Tungdil. “There’s certainly some truth in what we’ve heard,” he said, speaking gravely. “And it will have an impact if we can say that Boïndil Doubleblade rides at the head of a band of daring warriors. But the one we really need is the most famous of us all.” His eyes fixed on Tungdil. “I beseech you. Go with him. The time for rest is when Girdlegard is at peace once more.”

  Balyndar cast a contemptuous glance at Tungdil. “Otherwise we will have witnessed the most pointless return of a hero there has ever been in Girdlegard.”

  The one-eyed dwarf smiled maliciously. “Neither threat nor entreaty can move me. I have been through too much for that. I have lived through too much.”

  A thought flashed into Boïndil’s mind that seemed perverse and monstrous enough to make some sort of sense. His friend could not be motivated by the offer of treasure or by appeals to altruism. He had been heaped with glory and wealth on the other side of the Black Abyss. But there is one honor he is missing… “And what if you were to lead us as high king of the dwarves, Scholar?” Ireheart spoke his thoughts out loud.

  At once a clamor of voices broke out.

  “Quiet!” demanded Frandibar, raising his arms. “Be quiet and let him finish.”

  Unruffled, Ireheart elucidated his idea. “This is not just a random suggestion. Think about it: With one of their own tribe at our head we have a chance to negotiate with the thirdlings. Imagine if we could do that… if Tungdil could do that—if he could convince them they’d be better off holding back while we fight the älfar, and waiting to see what happens. Or even supporting us in our fight.”

  No outcry ensued. The dwarf folk discussed the matter quietly among themselves, gesticulating and nodding or shaking their heads.

  Ireheart and Tungdil exchanged glances. The smile had altered and now showed a mixture of amusement, disbelief and satisfaction.

  Balyndar was frowning, his hand gripping his morning star. “I would have to vote in favor, even if he is not my first choice,” he announced, turning to the assembly. “Boïndil Doubleblade’s suggestion is not to be dismissed out of hand. We are in a position to elect Tungdil Goldhand as our high king. The generations coming after us can decide if we have acted sensibly in this crisis. We must not forget the effect it will have on Lot-Ionan when Tungdil appears. He was once his foster-father, after all.” Baly
ndar turned to Tungdil. “But I have my doubts. I say this openly.” “Let it be a further reason to take part in the campaign yourself,” said Ireheart, not able to quell his own growing misgivings when he saw Tungdil’s smile. Vraccas help us.

  Frandibar stayed silent for a time before getting to his feet. “Our race has never had to make a decision like this. Not until this orbit. It is important that every clan leader, man or woman, be asked his or her opinion.” He pointed to the first dwarf of the fifthling tribe and recorded his approval of the plan.

  It took a long time to ask each member of the assembly for their view.

  But finally the decision was unanimous. All eyes rested on Tungdil when Frandibar opened his mouth to address the hero.

  Ireheart came to Tungdil’s chamber. A single candle still burned; tiny flames flickered in the fireplace, casting a dark-red glow over the room.

  His friend was sitting by the fireplace in full armor, his back to the door. Although his chair was large, he only just fitted. His right hand lay on the pommel of Bloodthirster, while the tip of the weapon rested on the floor. The golden eye patch shimmered blood-red in the firelight and the inlaid patterns on the black tionium armor glowed as if they had come alive, warmed by the flames.

  Ireheart saw that food on a plate next to Tungdil was untouched, but the beer jug lay empty on its side. “You’re not happy with how the vote went, Scholar,” he stated.

  Tungdil did not answer.

  “Scholar?” Ireheart came around the armchair to look at his friend’s face. He was horrified. The remaining brown eye had changed its color, taken over by green whirling patterns. Then dark-yellow spots appeared from the depths and suppressed the green. The black pupil looked glassy and dead.

  Ireheart bent forward. “What’s happening…?”

  Tungdil’s gaze grew sharp again and once more his eye was brown. “I’m sorry, I was asleep,” he said in greeting, rubbing his face as if he wanted to make sure everything was back in place. “What can I do for you?”