The Fate of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  The magus seemed to shake his fingers, and suddenly a blue flame shimmered over to Balyndar, creeping inside his mouth and nose.

  A warmth overcame him; it felt like being granted shelter, love and joy. His body received new strength and his wounds tickled and fizzed. When these sensations ceased he saw that his skin where the injuries had been was now without blemish, as if he had never been touched by a sword.

  Lot-Ionan passed him by without a further glance.

  Meanwhile Coïra, groaning, struggled to sit up, holding her head. She saw the dead älf, then Balyndar, and followed the magus with her eyes until he had disappeared down the spiral staircase. “What happened?”

  “A lot,” the dwarf replied crisply, getting to his feet. He felt as if he had slept through half an orbit and was awakening refreshed. Lot-Ionan had kept to his side of the bargain and healed him. “And a small miracle, too. Come on, let’s find Goldhand!”

  Together they hurried down the tower steps.

  Tungdil Goldhand lay in his rigid armor next to an exhausted Mallenia by the campfire a mile north of the crater.

  Lot-Ionan had transported the paralyzed dwarf out of Dsôn and up onto the plateau by magic, while Coïra had ministered to the wounded of their party with her remaining powers. She was not able to restore the blood that Mallenia had lost and thus the freedom-fighter was as weak as a little child.

  Rodario looked after her tenderly, but they knew Mallenia could not accompany them any longer. Speed was of the essence on their journey and she could not travel. They planned to leave her to be cared for at the nearest farmstead. She would follow on as soon as she was sufficiently recovered.

  Ireheart pushed Tungdil’s visor up and rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “So this time it was the älf?”

  “Yes. He recited a formula.” Tungdil tried to lift his arm. “Nothing.”

  Balodil stood on the far side and uttered some strange dark words. Not a single rune shone out. He shrugged his shoulders regretfully and stomped back to the fire.

  Ireheart grinned and raised his crow’s beak. “You know what that means?”

  “Yes,” replied his friend roughly. “And I don’t like it.”

  “Wait!” called Coïra. “Do we know what kind of phrase was used?”

  Ireheart explained concisely what had happened the previous time, leaving out any details that the maga did not need to know.

  Her face became thoughtful. “But if the Zhadár could not help this time it won’t have been the same phrase.” She leaned over Tungdil and asked, “Can you give us any hint?”

  Ireheart suspected Tungdil had not told him the whole truth when relating the origins and peculiarities of the suit of armor. Perhaps on purpose, buzzed the lonely doubter inside his head. He didn’t want you to know where he is vulnerable. And look where that has got him.

  “He’d be able to tell me now,” he told the doubting voice. Unfortunately he said it out loud, causing Coïra to look surprised. “Nothing important. I was talking to myself,” said Ireheart, motioning Coïra to step aside. “Right there! Mind out!” he bellowed for everyone’s benefit. “There’ll be lightning flashes, so shield your eyes or look the other way.”

  He positioned himself, legs wide apart, over Tungdil, lifted his weapon and slammed it down using the flat side like he had done before, in the Outer Lands.

  There was a dull thud and Tungdil groaned. Despite its hardness the tionium showed a dent in the breastplate.

  “What is wrong, for Vraccas’s sake?” Ireheart swung the crow’s beak up again and tensed the muscles in his upper body to put all his strength into the next blow. “You’ll start next time I touch you!”

  Another crash and the armor buckled and dented again. But no flash ensued and the armor lost none of its rigidity. Tungdil groaned and gasped.

  “Charming! We’re in trouble here,” remarked Slîn superfluously.

  “I can see that!” snarled Ireheart. “Does it hurt a lot, Scholar?” he asked kindly.

  “Only when I laugh,” coughed the dwarf. “Don’t hit me again, Ireheart. Or if you do, aim somewhere else. Or I’ll suffocate.”

  “I think… the älf has… turned off the magic. Except for the… safety cut-out.” Ireheart ran his fingers over the dents in the metal. “All this hammering is no help at all.”

  “We must get a cart for him,” Rodario suggested. “And that way, since we’ll only be going slowly, we can take Mallenia along, too.”

  “No,” protested Tungdil. “We’ll find a way to force the armor to wake up. And we’ll do it tonight.”

  “Well, charming,” murmured Slîn. “Why doesn’t Balyndar have a go with Keenfire?”

  “Has the sense of all your ancestors completely deserted you? You might as well shoot him in the eye,” said Ireheart. “It could kill him!”

  “How so?” asked Balyndar. “He is not one of our enemies.” He got to his feet at the campfire, chucked away the rabbit bones he’d been gnawing at, and picked up his ax. As always, the inlay pattern and diamonds glowed, giving off a faint sheen. “Let’s see. Or has anybody got any objections?”

  Slîn and Ireheart exchanged glances. Even Tungdil remained silent.

  XXX

  The Outer Lands,

  The Black Abyss,

  Early Summer, 6492nd Solar Cycle

  As they rode up to the Evildam fortress they saw flags and banners wafting proudly in the wind. But the walls had suffered damage.

  Ireheart turned to Tungdil, who, with Lot-Ionan’s help, was now able to move again in his armor, “What can have been happening?”

  He recalled how the magus, recently, had maliciously let them all spend the whole night puzzling over the frozen armor before getting up at dawn, executing two swift gestures and throwing a dark purple veil over the tionium. After that the armor had worked perfectly, even repairing the dents to its own bodywork, whereas previously it had failed to respond even to Keenfire. The magus gave no explanation for what he had done. Not even to his foster-son.

  Afterwards everything had moved fast.

  They had left Mallenia and Rodario back at a farmstead and headed off in a breathless gallop toward the Brown Mountains, crossing directly through to the Outer Lands. They stopped for nothing and were answerable to no one—Tungdil was high king and did not have to justify his actions. His word was law.

  Ireheart glanced at the magus. We’re going to have trouble with him.

  Tungdil had also noted the cracks in the fortress walls. “As long as Evildam is still standing we have not lost,” he said, relief in his voice. “The most important thing is that we aren’t too late.”

  Trumpets heralded their approach. A detachment of ubariu and dwarves marched out to accompany the high king’s troop as behoved their status, leading them to the tower, now newly equipped with additional supports, while the garrison cheered.

  Ireheart saw many more children of the Smith on the battlements than expected. “Are my eyes deceiving me?” he asked Slîn, drawing his attention to the soldiers.

  “No. There are some standards up there I don’t recognize.”

  “Or perhaps these are banners you never wanted to see,” Balyndar added. “Those are the thirdling clans.”

  “By Vraccas!” said Ireheart in astonishment. “So they’ve come to support us!” He turned to Tungdil. “Your own tribe has come to lend arms to the high king.” He laughed in relief.

  “It was a good trick, choosing the one-eyed dwarf as high king,” Balyndar muttered.

  “It wasn’t a trick,” protested Ireheart angrily. “It was…”

  “There’s Goda,” Slîn interrupted. “Are you going to greet your wife, General, or shall I do it for you?”

  Ireheart reined in his pony, jumped off and ran to his spouse, embracing her, even letting go of his crow’s beak for once to do so. “I’m holding all the happiness of the world in my arms,” he whispered in her ear, feeling his throat constrict. “I have missed you so, Goda!”

  She
hid her face in his shoulder and pressed him to her. “At last,” she murmured. “I nearly died of worry and couldn’t let the others see.” She looked at Tungdil, still on his horse, and saw Lot-Ionan beside him. “You’ve done it!”

  “It was easier than we’d thought,” he told her, freeing himself from the embrace. “Let’s talk about it inside. There is a great deal to tell.”

  “Here, too.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “Sadly, none of it good, my husband.”

  Anxiously, Ireheart hurried to reach the conference hall. The dwarves, Coïra and Lot-Ionan followed and Goda gave the order to fetch their guests.

  On all sides dwarves knelt in homage to Tungdil, proffering their weapons to him as a mark of respect and unconditional obedience. Ireheart could tell Goda did not appreciate this gesture. Well, there’s a surprise.

  The rejoicing in Evildam was unstinting. From the other three gates came bugle calls and the clatter of axes on shields. A storm of euphoria broke over them, with everyone involved in the celebration: Dwarves, humans, undergroundlings and ubariu alike.

  Ireheart walked tall and proud as never before. Back straight, crow’s beak shouldered, legs splayed, he waved at the crowds, a smile on his face. It was the same for Slîn and Balyndar. They relished being treated as heroes. And rightly so.

  Only his wife’s stony expression troubled the warrior’s mood. But only slightly.

  The double doors leading to the conference chamber were opened for them by the ubariu sentries.

  Ireheart’s jaw dropped: Dwarves were seated at the table! Dozens of dwarves, all of them clan leaders, and the flags that hung on the walls behind them denoted which delegates had come.

  “By Vraccas!” he exclaimed, his heart racing with joy. “Scholar, do you see that?” He wanted to grab him by the shoulder and shake him wildly in his excitement, but he thought better of it.

  “Stay near me, all of you,” Tungdil told his friends quietly. “I want them to remember the faces of their greatest heroes forever.” He walked in, slow and dignified.

  A clanking and clattering sounded out as the dwarves knelt before their high king, holding up their swords in the age-old oath of allegiance. All the tribes were represented; even the thirdlings and freelings had come to pledge fealty and to follow Tungdil’s command.

  Nobody spoke. It was a weighty moment, the greatest event in the history of the children of the Smith.

  The impressive sight brought tears to Ireheart’s eyes. His Scholar had achieved what no high king before him had ever accomplished. He was not ashamed of the salty drops on his cheeks and he could see the same emotion on the faces of many gathered there.

  “Long live High King Tungdil Goldhand!” he shouted, raising his crow’s beak before falling on one knee. Affected by the spectacle, Slîn and Balyndar followed suit. Goda was the last to bow the knee to the one-eyed dwarf.

  “You have responded to my call.” Tungdil raised his deep voice, covering the audience with the essence of his royal authority. “For this I thank you. The definitive battle for Girdlegard will be fought in the Black Abyss, because the war that started two hundred and fifty cycles ago has not yet ended.” He let his gaze wander over the assembled dwarves. “This is why I have returned: To help my people.”

  “That’s a lie,” hissed Goda, but only Ireheart heard her.

  He flashed his eyes in warning and she bit her lip.

  “You can see that I have changed, but in my heart I am still a child of the Smith. Without my friends,” and he gestured toward the dwarves behind him, “my first task would never have succeeded. It is clearer than ever now that we will meet the second challenge triumphantly.” He indicated to the assembly that all should rise. “I bear the title of high king because the fourthlings and fifthlings elected me. Many may see it as a fault that I was not chosen by all the tribes.” Tungdil raised his arms. “I ask you, each and every one of you, every clan leader and every king, for this very reason, once more: Do you wish me to lead you?”

  The thunder of agreement made the room rock, and Ireheart felt a jolt to his spine. Such unity!

  Tungdil bowed to the dwarves. “I swear that I shall serve my folk and that you shall never regret your choice.” Then he turned his brown eye to the thirdlings. “Step forward, king of the thirdlings, and announce what we have agreed.”

  To Ireheart’s surprise Rognor Mortalblow stepped back and gave way to a familiar figure. “Hargorin Deathbringer!” he exclaimed. He had not expected that.

  The sturdy dwarf placed both hands on his belt. “My name is feared as leader of the Black Squadron, but my deeds served but one goal: To allow my tribe to survive in the hope that an opportunity like today would arrive when we could sit with our brothers and our sisters round one table. And fight evil,” he declared. “Rognor was my chancellor, carrying out my commands. He would have given his life for me if the älfar had attacked, aiming to kill the king of the thirdlings.” He pointed to Balodil. “And it was by my orders that courageous warriors transformed themselves into Zhadár, to learn the secrets of the älfar and deploy their own tricks against them.”

  The first decent thirdling. Apart from the Scholar.

  Ireheart listened agog, like all the others present in the chamber.

  “We have made preparations. And we are sick,” Hargorin went on, “we are sick of fighting our own brothers and sisters. Even though it would have been easy to eradicate the remaining tribes because we are superior in number, and because, thanks to the Invisibles, we knew the secrets of all of the strongholds, we would not have attacked you. It was enough to know we could have defeated you had we so wished.” He took a deep breath. “I, Hargorin Deathbringer of the clan of Death Bringers, now declare the blood-feud ended between us and the other dwarves of Girdlegard, whether they belong to a tribe or designate themselves as free! No dwarf need go in fear of his or her life when entering the Black Mountains or on meeting one of us.” He tapped his weapon. “This shall never taste dwarf blood. I swear by Vraccas! We are a united folk, all children of the Smith!”

  Ireheart stood thunderstruck. He looked at Tungdil, then at Goda and finally at Hargorin. “Peace?” he mumbled. “The thirdlings are making peace with us?”

  Hargorin smiled at him. “Peace,” he affirmed.

  In that moment anyone could have heard the fall of a sparrow’s tail feather.

  The kings and clan leaders stared at Hargorin and his delegation. They had heard the words but as yet did not believe them.

  Ireheart knew how they felt. He, too, was speechless. The prospect of hundreds, no, thousands more cycles of warfare and hatred had been removed with those few sentences, and no endless negotiations had been necessary! All made possible by a single dwarf: Tungdil Goldhand.

  That is his great achievement, he thought. There will be no greater high king to come after him. There will be statues showing him as the bringer of unification. Desperate returnee has become unassailable warrior and high king of all the tribes. Ireheart’s breathing sped up with the excitement and, when nobody in the chamber voiced a response, he cried out: “Smash us with the sacred hammer of Vraccas—is no one going to cheer?”

  A hurricane of voices broke out, assailing the ears and outdoing the thunder of jubilation they had heard on entering the fortress. Dwarves on all sides shouted out in joy and relief, waving weapons in the air and running up to the thirdlings. Not to attack them but to shake hands.

  Tungdil remained where he was, Bloodthirster in one hand, the other on his hip, smiling as he surveyed the scene.

  Ireheart could contain himself no longer: He embraced his friend with a laugh, slapping him on the back over and over. “You were amazing, Scholar!”

  “Without you, old friend, none of this would have been possible,” the one-eyed dwarf replied, holding out his hand. Then he turned to Slîn, Balodil and Balyndar. “Without each and every one of you it would not have been possible. You all shared in our success.” Finally he turned to address the assembly. “
We can celebrate later,” he said, waiting for quiet. “Let us think now of those who have given their lives in this mission and have been welcomed into the eternal forge of Vraccas.”

  To Ireheart’s astonishment Tungdil reeled off every single name of the fallen, from the dwarves to the Zhadár.

  “And now,” he said to Goda, “I want to hear what has happened here since we have been gone.”

  The maga made her report. She told of the attack the monsters had launched, of their own counterattack, the appearance of the enemy magus, the abduction of her daughter, the injury to her son. She told of all the events round the Black Abyss.

  Ireheart’s euphoric mood plummeted and concern for his children made him start to his feet.

  But Goda held him back with her eyes, warning him not to leave the assembly. “They are both safe now. Go and see them when the audience is over,” she told him. “There has been no change since my daughter escaped and returned to us. The monsters have rebuilt their towers taller than before. Their camp has now regained its former size,” she summed up. “But there has been no sighting of their magus.”

  Tungdil nodded. “You have heard now why we need Lot-Ionan to combat the dwarf who calls himself Vraccas. In the cycles I spent in the Black Abyss I made him my mortal enemy, but I assure you he would have broken out some time or other even without my provocation. His thirst for power is insatiable.” He had them bring out the scale model of the ravine, which showed the locations of all the tents and towers. “He is our prime target. Once he is dead the beasts will lose heart. Then it will be an easy fight and we will be in a position to make the rocks collapse on top of them, making sure no evil ever escapes again!”

  “When do we start fighting?” Hargorin asked, puzzling over the model.

  “In two orbits’ time. I need to rest after my journey.” Tungdil tapped the glass dome that represented the barrier. It shattered. “Lot-Ionan will do that for us and he will ride into battle at my side. We’ll finish the monsters off, and as soon as the dwarf-magus notices he’s nearing defeat, he’ll come out.” He gave the assembled kings a piercing warning look and urged them, “No one is to confront him! He belongs to me and Lot-Ionan. No one else could stop him. Goda has already described his power. Nobody would stand a chance.”