by Markus Heitz
“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.”
“It’s worth considering,” Mallenia agreed. In gratitude Rodario sent her a long, warm look.
Rodario placed his hands on the table. “Can you understand why I’m hesitating here? What if the dwarf-haters were to attack the fourthlings and fifthlings while they’re marching south? We’d never manage a campaign against Lot-Ionan after that.”
“We follow Tungdil Goldhand,” smoldered Hargorin.
“We—do you mean all the thirdlings or a substantial majority?” Rodario tried to pin him down to specifics. “It would be interesting to learn what the minority might get up to? And what about the freelings? Where are they?”
Barskalín broke in: “They’ve dug themselves in in the last of their cities and are fighting off the thirdlings…”
“Aha!” said Rodario. “There you are, you see! The thirdlings are still attacking the other tribes.” He folded his arms belligerently. “I don’t see, with all due respect, any change in their attitude.”
“That will be because I haven’t issued any commands to them to stop what they are doing.” All heads swiveled round to Tungdil. “If the thirdlings suddenly changed their tune the älfar would smell a rat. Then Aiphatòn’s plan would be jeopardized and the northern älfar would be suspicious, too. That’s why I haven’t told them to stop their attacks. I can’t do that before Aiphatòn has set out with his army. The freelings will just have to bide their time and hold them off.”
Nobody dared to respond.
Finally, Ireheart cleared his throat. “So, tomorrow we’ll set off to Lohasbrand’s hideout. We’ll pinch his best bits of treasure and then hie ourselves off to the magus. As soon as we hear from the emperor of the black-eyes, we’ll send off some riders to order the thirdlings and the other dwarf-tribes to get to the south to capture a weakened Lot-Ionan.” He looked at the queen. “With your help.”
“Neatly summed up,” commented Rodario. “I’m with you.”
“Me too,” said Mallenia. “Idoslane will do its bit to free Girdlegard just as it did under my ancestor. We can’t provide an army, but I can fight for you. The rest of my resistance fighters will deal with any älfar still at large. I’ll write to them straightaway. They will watch for a suitable opportunity.”
“Good.” Tungdil seemed satisfied.
Rodario put up his hand again. “How would it be if we were to announce to the people, and not just to the resistance, that Girdlegard is about to be liberated? If we have supporters who have sniffed the wind of freedom and want to rise up against the Lohasbrander and the last vassals of the älfar, they’ll be unstoppable.”
“Girdlegard’s too big for that,” Tungdil contradicted him.
“Somebody shove something in that actor’s mouth. Preferably something sharp,” murmured Hargorin.
Rodario pointed to his throat. “If I had an ugly beard like yours I’d be more careful who I insulted.”
Ireheart grimaced. Dwarves normally enjoyed a joke, even quite earthy ones, but you could not ridicule a dwarf’s beard with impunity. Mockery and fire were the worst enemies of a beard. “Stop that now if you want to get out of here with your life and fine features intact,” he called to him quietly. “Apologize to him…”
Hargorin had sprung up to confront the actor. “You’re just desperate for a beating, aren’t you?” he yelled, waving his fists.
“Forgive me,” said Rodario nicely to the two ladies, then he shot out his foot, fished out the tip of the long beard in question, grabbed it with his right hand and yanked. His left arm flew up and his elbow crashed against the dwarf’s forehead, making him gasp.
Rodario slipped out of his seat without letting go of the beard, pulling Hargorin after him. He pushed his feet against the dwarf’s stomach and overturned him so that he landed on his back on the wooden floor.
The actor did a backwards somersault and ended up sitting on the dwarf’s barrel chest, still holding the beard, which he pulled sharply to one side. Once he had anchored it under his foot the dwarf was completely helpless.
Ireheart had been taken as much by surprise as all the others in the room.
From somewhere or other Rodario had pulled out a knife and was holding it at the dwarf’s exposed neck. “I think it’s a real shame that one is considered a true man only if one can either fight or go round grabbing all the women in sight,” he breathed, but his eyes were hard and were watching for any movement his opponent might attempt. “I’ve convinced you now, haven’t I, Hargorin Deathbringer?”
Mallenia’s picture of the helpless failed actor disappeared in a puff of smoke and Coïra saw him in a totally new light. The women stared at him wondering how this change could have been so sudden. It could only have been that the previous incarnation had been a deceit.
Cool as a cucumber, Rodario let go of the beard, stood up and offered Hargorin his hand.
The thirdling got up without accepting any help. The shame had been too deeply felt and his beard had suffered, too.
Ireheart knew that the leader of the Black Squadron was never likely to forgive Rodario for this. Blood will be spilt.
“A charming interlude indeed,” commented Slîn happily.
“Tell us how an actor learns to fight like that,” Tungdil challenged Rodario.
“And why you took so much trouble not to look like your forefather,” added Coïra. “If I think of you with a beard and mustache you’re the spitting image of him.”
“That’s just what I said,” mumbled Ireheart. “As soon as I saw him clamber on board.”
Rodario returned to his seat and bowed to the ladies. “I must apologize to both of you, because I have been playing a part up till now. But now it is time to remove the veil from the secret of the unknown poet.”
“You? You say that was you?” Coïra exclaimed, laughing in disbelief. She looked at him full of curiosity. “You’re having us on.”
“Impossible,” said Mallenia at
once. “You…” She stopped, in confusion.
Rodario bowed as if facing an adoring audience of theatergoers. “But, yes, indeed, I am the unknown poet,” he answered. “Who would ever have suspected me—me who resembled fabulous forefather Rodario so little—of being the freedom-fighter and rabble-rouser, slayer of Lohasbranders and their orcs? Deception provides the best protection, as always.”
Ireheart could not stop himself looking across at Tungdil when he heard these words—and he noted a sly smile playing round his friend’s lips. Only coincidence, he fervently hoped.
Rodario stroked his prominent chin. “I noticed very soon how similar my looks were to those of my famous ancestor. On stage in Idoslane, Tabaîn and Gauragar I never wore make-up, but when the performances were over I would put on my disguise,” he laughed, sitting down. “I made myself act the fool and lost the competitions on purpose, wanting to make sure nobody credited me with any intelligence.”
Coïra pictured him that night when they had met in the tower in Mifurdania. “I really did have you down as a clumsy loser and clown,” she said in surprise. “And I bet you do know how to ride?”
“Well, yes, I do, Your Majesty,” he replied. “It was a role I was playing. And of course I do know how to swim or I would never have survived the fall from the walls of the shaft.”
“A real hero,” said Mallenia with a grin. “There we were, thinking the poor man was needing help, when all along he’s a trained fighter. And a good one, at that, as I’ve just seen.”
Rodario winked at her. “Thank you… must I say ‘Your Highness’ to you?” She dismissed the thought with a gesture. “But that is only part of the truth. Because there is not just the one unknown poet.”
“What are you going on about?” Ireheart frowned. “You just told us…”
“There isn’t just the one.” Rodario raised his forefinger, smiling as he did so. “The competition in Mifurdania is a brilliant front for us all. The descendants of the Incredible Rodario have been working for freedom ever since the Dragon took over. Whether male or female, we have dedicated ourselves to the fight for liberty and have been working against the occupying powers wherever we go with our traveling theaters. We hang our poems on doors and walls and keep the thought of freedom alive in people’s hearts. We can travel everywhere in Lohasbrand’s conquered lands and we fight the Dragon with our own means.” He took a gulp of wine. “The competition serves the purpose of letting us exchange news, write new lines, make new plans. We are always ready to support the people against the vassals of the Scaly One as soon as the gods grant us an opportunity. We know their weaknesses, their habits, their secret camps—everything!” He lifted his glass in salute and toasted Tungdil. “Thanks to you, Tungdil Goldhand, the opportunity has now arrived. The gods have sent you to us.” He drank to Tungdil’s health and the assembled company joined in the toast.
Coïra looked hard at him, eager questions on her lips. “Tell me: What really happened that evening at the tower?”
Rodario laughed. “We freed The Incomparable but we forgot to take his valuables with us. There were a few very rare pieces and I dared to return for them. When you found me I had already collected them. And I handed them back to The Incomparable Rodario in the alleyway without your seeing what I was up to.” He beamed at her and struck a pose.
“Just like the Incredible Rodario,” Ireheart acknowledged. “Add a little beard and I’d be convinced he had survived the last two hundred and fifty cycles, just like me.”
The queen nodded.
“The death of this friend pained me very much, but luckily it escaped your notice,” he went on. “I knew the cause would continue to exist. Today I can see the fight was worth it.”
“And why did you accompany Coïra when she escaped?” Mallenia wanted to know. “Did I get that bit right?”
“Well, there was a sudden opportunity to get to know the maga slightly better and to find out whether or not she could be won over to our cause, namely to prepare for a rebellion. If I had got the impression that she was a devout little woman, I would have pushed off, sharpish.” Rodario bowed again. “But I quickly realized that you were anything but submissive. So I stayed and observed you and how you acted. Increasingly I realized that things would work out.” He looked at the Ido girl. “When you and the älf turned up, Mallenia, the scales fell from my eyes: Girdlegard was heading for freedom. Or for ruin. The first option I wanted to support; the second to prevent.”
“I see freedom coming,” replied Coïra warmly. “Who would be able to resist this alliance of determined groups?”
He smiled at her.
Ireheart rubbed his hands in glee. “Excellent! We’ve got everything we need. If Rodario contacts his friends and Mallenia gets in touch with hers, the storm can break. So we can concentrate entirely on the south, now, Scholar, can’t we?”
Tungdil rubbed his forehead and touched the scar. His brown eye stared rigidly into space; he did not seem to have been listening.
“What about Sisaroth?” Barskalín wanted to know. “I know him. Among other things he trained the Zhadár, and he won’t give up until he has avenged the death of his sister. If he realizes the queen and Mallenia are still alive, we’ll have a dangerous älf on our tails, ready to pick us off one by one.”
“Hmm. I’m sure he’s more likely to hold back and wait for the Dragon to attack,” Hargorin said, disagreeing with him. “I’ve known the Dsôn Aklán for a very long time. They would do anything to preserve their city in Dsôn Bhará from harm. We understand they intend to found a new älfar empire there. Sisaroth must think that Lohasbrand will be sending at least a scouting party out into the älfar regions to investigate what has been happening on his own territory.”
Barskalín thought about it. “That could be so.”
“And if Elria’s having a good day, the black-eyes could just have drowned in the tidal wave,” Ireheart chipped in cheerfully. “That’s if he was anywhere near just now.”
Suddenly, Tungdil’s body convulsed. He sank with a moan onto the table, holding his head. Blood oozed out between his fingers.
The dwarves sprang up and pulled out their weapons, thinking there had been an attack, but Ireheart saw that the old scar on his friend’s forehead had opened up. “Come on, give me a hand, let’s get him up to his room,” he told Hargorin and Barskalín.
“Shall I?” Coïra had risen. “A healing spell…”
“No, no magic!” Boïndil was emphatic on that score, not knowing how the armor would react. “It’s an old wound. He must have hit his head back there on the ship and the scar has come open. I’ll put in some stitches. We leave at sun-up.” He left the company and he and Hargorin and Barskalín carried Tungdil to bed through the taproom and up to the guestroom at the back, where they laid him on the bed.
“Thanks.” Ireheart sent the dwarves away and waited until they had left the room.
The door closed just in time.
Tungdil opened his eye suddenly and Ireheart saw once more the mysterious vortex of colors round the black of the pupil.
The open wound closed itself with a slight plop, and the facial bones moved gratingly, giving the dwarf a thinner countenance that reminded the horrified Ireheart much more of the way an älf would look.
“By Vraccas!” he groaned, staggering back two paces and grabbing the handle of his crow’s beak. It looked as if his friend were changing shape.
Fine black lines appeared from under the golden eye patch, seeming to cut the face into segments. Drops of blood dripped out—then all the runes on the armor glowed, forcing Boïndil to shut his eyes.
When he could see again, his friend looked as he had done before he had swooned. There were no more wounds on his face, the scar had healed and the black lines had gone; the familiar visage of old.
Ireheart approached the bed carefully. “What shall I do with you, Scholar?” he whispered, swallowing hard. “Whenever I think I can trust you something happens to feed my suspicions.�
�� He pulled a stool over and decided it would be better if he kept watch in the room that night.
And he could not even say for sure whether it was to protect Tungdil, or to protect their group from his influence.
Girdlegard,
Former Queendom of Weyurn,
Entrance to the Red Mountains,
Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle
Ireheart rode behind Tungdil with his eyes on the slopes of the Red Mountains. Even though he gave the impression of studying the landscape, he was thinking about that night when Tungdil had, for a time, undergone a short-lived change. A frightening change…
They had never spoken about it and their company believed the fairy story about his having fainted. What is wrong with him? Is it a demon inside him? Is it a curse he’s under? The chorus of doubters in Ireheart’s head was singing fit to bust.
On Tungdil’s orders they had taken the old path leading to a narrow valley that wound its way to a dark-red mountain.
Older memories rose up in Ireheart’s mind as they approached the entrance.
There were five bends in the valley and in the old days the firstlings had erected strongholds here, thick defensive ramparts with gates secured by dwarf-runes to keep their enemies out. The two of them had once fled here to escape from the älfar Sinthoras and Caphalor when they were looking for a firstling smith, and had found one in the shape of a dwarf-woman: Balyndis Steelfinger, now the fifthlings’ queen.
The old buildings had gone. Today there were wooden palisades instead of walls. Behind the pointed stakes he could see the glint of helmets and spears; judging by their size, these would be orcs.
“Up there,” Tungdil pointed at the Red Mountains, “is where the entrance used to be.”
“Not anymore. It disappeared when the stronghold went. The Dragon demolished everything that smacked of the firstlings.” Rodario pointed to one side. “Behind that heap of stones there’s said to be a huge cavern. It’s a passage the Scaly One made for himself and the Lohasbranders use it to get into the dwarves’ cave system.”
