The Fate of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  It all happened so quickly that the kordrion had not been able to reach a safe distance. As it flapped wildly to get away it was struck by hurtling debris that half buried it. It disappeared with a screech into the collapsing ravine, turning to ash when it came into contact with the glare.

  A third explosion hurled molten rock into the air. It spattered as far as the fleeing armies, creating new victims. Smoke and steam rose up, obscuring the view.

  The battlefield was silent now.

  “No.” Ireheart stared into the veil of steam and dirt. “Coïra, can you get rid of this fog? I have to know what’s happening.” He stood up, groaning, and laid Goda down on her cloak. She was still breathing, so he was less concerned about her than about the welfare of his friend.

  The maga did what he had requested and called up a mild breeze to waft away the curtain, even though clouds of dirt and steam still persisted.

  The Black Abyss had gone; lava bubbled in its place, the black heart-blood of the mountains sealing up the chasm. Evildam had lost a good third of its walls and, as far as he could make out through the smoke, only a few of the human and ubariu warriors were still alive. The dwarf-fighters, men and women alike, had done better than the others because the kordrion had never reached their ranks.

  “He has made the ultimate sacrifice,” he muttered gruffly. “The Scholar knew what would happen and gave his life for us!” Tears filled his eyes. “Vraccas, you have admitted the greatest of your heroes to your eternal forge today.”

  “There!” cried Rodario with a happy laugh. “Can you see what I see?”

  Ireheart glanced to the left—and gave a shout of joy: Through the smoke and ash a dwarf came swaying and stumbling, clad in battered tionium; he was using Bloodthirster as a crutch and limping over toward them.

  “Scholar!” Ireheart rejoiced. “Oh, Vraccas, if I ever strike it rich I’ll offer all my wealth at your shrine! It’ll be worth it! Worth it a thousand times over!”

  The armies on the plain and fortress walls had seen Tungdil. The chorus of voices cheering their hero was louder than any shouts of joy Ireheart had heard before. He wept with emotion.

  Tungdil was badly burned; lava had cooled and hardened on his chest, and blood was pouring from a gaping wound in his side. But still he had walked smiling out of the inferno and was now waving to the humans, the ubariu, the undergroundlings and his own folk.

  “That’s my Scholar,” sobbed Ireheart.

  “I knew we’d do it,” said Slîn, shaking hands with Ireheart. “A good job we trusted him.”

  The dwarves, injured or otherwise, sank to their knees before the high king: Even Ireheart and Slîn, who was putting a new bolt in his bow to be on the safe side, bowed to show respect.

  The wave spread.

  Humans, elves, ubariu and undergroundlings bowed before Tungdil Goldhand as the trumpets blared. Tungdil walked steadily onward until he had nearly reached his friend.

  I knew it! Ireheart was the first to get to his feet, intending to give Tungdil a hearty embrace, high king or no.

  Suddenly Kiras sprang past him and he felt a jerk at his arm as she raced toward the Scholar. He realized too late that the undergroundling had grabbed Keenfire out of his grasp.

  “This is not Tungdil Goldhand! This weapon can’t be fooled like you can.” Kiras shrieked, holding the legendary ax in both hands. “See how the diamonds sparkle! What more proof do we need?” She delivered a strike.

  Slîn uttered a curse and lifted his weapon, aiming and firing in one smooth movement.

  The bolt struck Kiras from behind, finding her heart, but at the same time the ax sliced through the tionium armor, through the ribs and into Tungdil’s heart. They fell dying into each other’s arms, to sink into the swamp.

  The trumpeting stopped abruptly and a mass cry of horror resounded on all sides.

  “No!” Ireheart ran up. He dragged the undergroundling’s body off Tungdil, levered Keenfire out of the wound and surveyed the horrific injury, which was pouring blood. A conventional healer would be unable to do anything at all.

  “Coïra,” he yelled, beside himself. “Come here and save him, maga!”

  She stepped forward slowly and shook her head sorrowfully. With a voice thick with tears she said, “I can’t. I have nothing left. I used it all to produce the wind you asked for…”

  Ireheart lifted his friend’s head and washed away the mud from his face using water from his drinking pouch. “This must not be allowed to happen, ye gods,” he shouted. “You cannot let the hero of Girdlegard and the Outer Lands die!”

  “It… was… not… Tungdil,” breathed Kiras, contorting her body and moaning. “The gems on the ax… I had to do it…” Her eyes dimmed.

  “IT WAS HIM!” cried Ireheart, staring at Keenfire. The diamonds were still glowing but Boïndil knew that the cause was him—a result of the elf curse—not Tungdil. “It was him!” he echoed quietly, weeping at the death of his friend.

  Goda opened her eyes.

  She had heard everything and had only pretended to be in a swoon so that her husband would not be able to demand that she save the creature’s life.

  When she sat up she noticed something sparkling in the cuff of her sleeve.

  She reached and pulled out the last of the lost diamond splinters. It had been with her all along!

  Goda saw Ireheart hunched over the corpse of the dead dwarf. It would have been so easy for her to keep him alive…

  Epilogue

  The Outer Lands,

  The Black Abyss,

  Early Summer, 6492nd Solar Cycle

  Hargorin Deathbringer looked at the sixth of the vraccasium caskets—the one that had the thirdling runes embossed on the side.

  Inside were some of Tungdil Goldhand’s ashes from the extremely moving cremation ceremony. In a departure from normal dwarf-tradition, the tribes and freeling dwarves had each been given a commemorative portion of the ashes of this, the mightiest and most worthy dwarf high king who had ever lived, so that they could conserve and honor his memory in their own land. This was the agreement the kings and queens had reached.

  Ireheart pushed the box over the table to him, then handed the others to Xamtor, to Balyndis, who had now recovered from her fever, to Frandibar, and to Gordislan the Younger from the freeling city. He did not touch the last box, which had the sign of the secondlings on it.

  They had all gathered in the assembly hall of the fortress round a small table to discuss what had happened and what the immediate future might hold for the children of the Smith. All those present were distraught at the recent death of their hero and the atmosphere was distinctly gloomy.

  Hargorin looked at the others, then slid the little casket back to Ireheart. “They have chosen you as their king. It is yours. Take it with you to the Blue Mountains and put up a worthy monument to your friend.”

  Ireheart looked at the box. Part of him was still refusing to accept the idea that the Scholar was now dead. Another part of him embraced the notion that it had not been Tungdil but his doppelganger who had died. And the third and strongest part of him knew who it was they had committed to the fire while the trumpets had sounded, the dwarf-choirs had sung and prayers to Vraccas had been spoken. Balyndis told them all that it had indeed been Tungdil. Ireheart’s inner being had told him the same thing.

  I should have listened to my own feelings right from the beginning. He had allowed himself to be influenced by those like Goda and Kiras who had been led astray. There were still those among the tribes who were secretly waiting for Tungdil’s return. I know better.

  He stretched his hand out slowly and placed his fingers on the reddish golden metal. “I shall do that, Hargorin.” He took a long breath. “I shall leave soon, together with those of my tribe who had fled to the freelings. We will put things to rights and will clear the last of the black-eyes’ corpses from the tunnels.”

  Balyndis gave him an encouraging smile. “You will be more than capable, Boïndil. I know from o
ur previous acquaintance that you always love a challenge.”

  Ireheart gave a faint grin in response. “Let’s hope Vraccas is listening, Queen Balyndis.”

  “We still have to settle the matter of appointing our next high king,” said Frandibar thoughtfully.

  “Let’s leave that question open. For the next twenty cycles,” suggested Xamtor. “I don’t think it would be fitting to choose a replacement for Tungdil Goldhand in a rush. Let the throne remain empty for now. We shall see who proves worthy of the high office of supreme leader of all the dwarf-tribes.”

  “If it were up to me,” Hargorin said, indicating Boïndil, “it would be him.”

  Ireheart raised his hand, rejecting the honor. “I thank you for your nomination but I should not want to accept the title. Xamtor’s suggestion is the best. Let us meet once a cycle and report what occurs in each of our dwarf realms. In twenty cycles’ time we will summon the clan leaders and let them decide.” His speech was greeted with applause.

  Frandibar looked at the model of the Black Abyss, which still showed the rocks and fortress. “Evildam will be left in the care of the ubariu and undergroundlings, Boïndil.”

  “Yes. There is no reason to hold on to the fortress or repair it. They can let the fortress decay or use the materials to build something else. I heard talk about erecting a statue to Tungdil’s memory.” He consulted the lined faces round him. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

  Nobody had any new issues to bring to the table and so the assembly broke up, with the delegates taking leave of each other before making their way back to their own realms. Frandibar would have the shortest journey, Xamtor the longest.

  Ireheart strolled off through Evildam, the casket under his arm. He was deep in thought. Cracks had appeared on all the walls. It was time for the rest of the garrison to leave; other parts of the building were threatening to cave in, despite the engineering supports hurriedly put in place.

  The last Zhadár suddenly stood in front of him with a demonic grin, as if he had been spat out by the darkness. “Are you off home?”

  Ireheart contemplated the dark armor that the dwarf, who called himself Balodil, had never taken off. “Yes, what about you? You are a thirdling…”

  He denied it vehemently. “No, I’m a Zhadár, created by the älfar. And I want to hunt them down until I’ve smoked the last of them out of their hidey holes.”

  “Aiphatòn was going to take that on. If you’re going to do it, at least take a party of the former Black Squadron along under your command.”

  “Aiphatòn would never be able to find them all. I know their secrets but he doesn’t. They tricked their own emperor; he seems keen to forget that. I’ll go alone. The thirdlings are good fighters but they’re not the right ones to hunt down the älfar.” Balodil took his flask off his belt. “This is for you.”

  Ireheart stared at the gift and reached out for it. “But… I thought you need it yourself?” He looked around carefully to see if he could be observed.

  The Zhadár chuckled, then barked like a dog, though he soon seemed quite normal again. “I can make my own stuff.” He leaned forward. “From älfar blood,” he said in a voice as deep as a well. “I squash them like you squeeze fruit to get the juice out.” He ran his tongue over his lips and his eyes glittered.

  Ireheart could not deny that he found Balodil weird. “What will you do after you’ve found them all?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and puffed out the air in his lungs, looking like a dwarf-child being told off by its mother. “This and that. Perhaps I’ll go to the freelings, perhaps I’ll leave Girdlegard, perhaps I’ll jump off a cliff.” He gurgled and rubbed his beard. “Or perhaps I’ll go to the Outer Lands and look for an army to invade Girdlegard with.” He watched Ireheart’s face carefully. “Well?”

  “You wouldn’t do that.” Ireheart studied him. “You know there are too many heroes who can stop you.” Now Ireheart bent forward. “And I know your weak point: Tungdil’s son could never destroy his own father’s inheritance.”

  Balodil jerked back and gave a malicious laugh. “No, I was never his son. I picked up the story and liked the idea of joking around with the name.” He giggled again. “It fooled you, didn’t it?”

  “Nearly,” Boïndil admitted, relieved. “I wish you luck with your plans.”

  The Zhadár saluted. “If you ever need me, call my name to the east wind. The wind is my friend and will send me your message,” he said earnestly, stepping out into the outer corridor, where the torches had suddenly been extinguished. “May your god protect you.” And with that he was gone.

  Almost too late Ireheart remembered. “Where did you hear Balodil’s story?”

  “A friend told me,” came the answer out of the darkness. “The one you called the Growler. He claimed he was Tungdil’s son.”

  The dwarf felt his blood run cold. “What?” He followed the Zhadár into the dark. “Is that true?”

  There was no answer.

  With a head full of thoughts Boïndil went back to his quarters. Some dwarves were leaving, carrying heavy boxes and wooden chests.

  The move was underway. Everything had been packed and was ready to go to its real home.

  It’s really a bit of a shame. Ireheart was beginning to feel nostalgic and passed his hand over the granite of the walls. Evildam had been built according to his plans and had been home to him, his children having grown up here. I shall often come back, even if the journey’s only in my mind.

  He entered the room where his family were sitting with Coïra, Mallenia and Rodario. His wife was talking with the maga and waved him to come in as soon as she noticed him.

  Ireheart knew she had attended the funeral for Kiras: A swift and simple ceremony. He had not gone, himself. The murderess of his best friend could expect neither pity nor respect.

  “Ho! Have the magae been dividing up Girdlegard?” he joked, putting casket and flask on the table.

  “No. We shall live in peace and harmony with one another,” Coïra answered. “We have decided that I shall use and guard the magic source in the former älfar realm. I shall do this together with the two elves. It is regrettable but I shall have to govern Weyurn from a distance. Goda will protect the source in the Blue Mountains.”

  “The new king of Gauragar may not like that idea.”

  “She will,” said Mallenia. “The new king is going to be a queen.”

  “You?” Ireheart bowed in her direction. “You have really earned it after so many cycles fighting for freedom. I offer my hearty congratulations, Queen Mallenia. Is our actor friend going to be taking Idoslane under his wing perhaps?” He winked.

  “No. I’m happy for her to reign in both those lands. I’m applying for Urgon,” Rodario answered calmly. “The assembly there is interviewing candidates; I’ll address it on my way home. What with my heroic deeds and the legendary theater tours I’ve undertaken, the throne should be in my pocket.”

  Mallenia and Coïra both laughed at him. “And he really believes it, the poor thing,” the Ido woman teased.

  “Yes, I do!” Rodario pouted. “You’ll see! I’ll be ruler there!”

  “In your dreams or your next life,” joked Coïra. “You should have enough on your plate, going to and fro between your two women. You wouldn’t have time for such an important office.” She put on a sad face. “Or are you saying that we don’t mean as much to you as a throne?”

  Rodario burst out laughing. “If you ever get fed up with running a country and being a maga you can always get a job in my theater.”

  Mallenia only grinned, one hand on the hilt of her sword. “Let’s go. Goda and Ireheart must have things to talk about.”

  The two women and Rodario shook hands with the others and left.

  “The long-uns are a strange lot,” said Ireheart, kissing Goda on the forehead. “Sometimes just the one of you is too much for me, but the actor wants to take on two women.”

  Goda grinned and sent the chi
ldren out to help with the packing. “You will make a good king. Your children will support you.” She kissed him. “As I do.”

  “Do you?” he blurted out the question.

  She started to reply but instead stroked his silvery black hair. “It is the only issue we disagree on, dear husband. Kiras was right to do what she did.”

  Ireheart looked deep into her eyes. “You know I see things very differently. We won’t mention it again.” He turned away, teeth clenched, so as not to say more, not to hurt her. He loved her too much for that.

  Ireheart heard her sigh and leave the room.

  Relieved to be alone with his thoughts he turned to the table, where two items waited for his attention: The casket and the drinking pouch.

  He strode over, touching first the cool vraccasium and then the leather drinking vessel. He took his own flask out from under his chain mail and was disgusted to hear the black liquid inside swill thickly about.

  It’s this stuff that caused Tungdil’s death. This and the curse that rests on me.

  Ireheart took his crow’s beak, stepped over to the huge fireplace and started to feed the blaze, putting log after log on the pile of burning wood until the flames rose high. He went over the events of recent orbits in his mind. So many of his questions would stay unanswered forever. You and I shall meet again in the eternal forge. Then we shall have time to talk.

  “I don’t need to ask the elf goddess for mercy,” he said quietly, throwing his own drinking pouch into the flames. The heat scorched and blackened the leather and the black liquid seeped out. When it touched the glowing wood it bubbled away to dark smoke. “I am Boïndil Doubleblade of the clan of the Ax Swingers, a child of the Smith and king, from the tribe of secondling dwarves.” He hurled the second vessel into the fire. “Vraccas made us out of stone and gave us life. I will overcome the curse on my own, as true as I stand here!”

  He watched fascinated as the second vessel was devoured by the flames. Resting his hands on top of the crow’s beak, he drew himself up tall and straightened his back, looking every inch the born ruler.