by Markus Heitz
“Are the soldiers still there?” asked Xamtys, while the high king stared at the letter in shocked disbelief.
Mallen shook his head. “I sent scouts to the Black Range. The gates were open when they got there and the watchtowers were deserted. Inside, the corridors and halls were strewn with the corpses of dwarf women and children. Belletain had ordered his soldiers to show no mercy to Lorimbas’s folk.”
Tungdil didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. “There must have been some survivors,” he said hopelessly.
“Dwarven kingdoms are full of passageways and secret vaults,” said Xamtys with conviction. “The thirdlings are probably in hiding.”
To the dwarves’ dismay, Mallen shook his head. “My scouts reported that most of the passageways have collapsed. The kingdom was all but destroyed in the quake. I’m not saying there weren’t survivors, but their number will be small.”
“A whole folk, all but wiped out,” murmured Tungdil. He had always dreamed of a time when the dwarves could live together without fear or suspicion. But not like this, Vraccas. He turned to Gandogar. “You asked me to be your counselor, Your Majesty. My advice would be to send an army to guard the Black Range. Without Lorimbas and his warriors, the Eastern Pass is open to attack.”
“I’m sure the surviving thirdlings will welcome your help,” said Gemmil. “It could be the beginning of a new era, an era of peace for the dwarves. The most zealous dwarf killers are dead and buried in Porista—the others can’t afford to continue the feud.”
“Belletain’s treachery won’t go unpunished,” said Mallen. “The rulers of Girdlegard shall hear of how he turned his back on the allies for the sake of some gold. The mad king of Urgon must be stopped before he takes it into his addled head to invade another dwarven kingdom.”
The dwarves agreed wholeheartedly.
“There’s something I’d like to tell you,” said Tungdil. “I haven’t mentioned it until now because the fewer who know, the better.” He produced a small leather pouch containing the diamond and placed it on the table. “As kings and queens, you deserve to hear the truth.” He took out the stone. “This is the last remaining source of magic in Girdlegard. The diamond is powerful enough to turn a magus into a deity. The eoîl was in the process of channeling its magic when Rodario and I cut him down.”
“I was merely the sidekick,” demurred Rodario with a smile.
Everyone crowded around to examine the twinkling surface of the beautiful gem.
Gandogar, king of the gem-cutting fourthlings, was an authority on diamonds. “It’s magnificent,” he said admiringly. “The craftsmanship is dwarven in quality, but a gem like this would be mentioned in our chronicles. The technique is different too.” He picked it up carefully and held it in front of the candle. The flame, seemingly enamored by the flawless surface, leaned toward the diamond, which caught and amplified the light.
The awed silence was broken by Tungdil. “The eoîl spoke of undergroundlings. He probably got the diamond from dwarves in the Outer Lands.”
Gandogar set down the stone.
“You say it would give a magus almost limitless power,” said Mallen, frowning. “With luck, none of our enemies will learn of its existence, but it needs to be under constant guard.”
“Exactly,” said Tungdil. He turned to Gandogar. “You’ve had a look at the stone, and I’ve made a few drawings.” He got up, walked to his desk, and picked up a sheet of parchment. “I’ve written down the exact measurements and sketched the cut. I propose we make copies and give them to the rulers of Girdlegard. The seven human monarchs, the dwarven rulers, and Liútasil will each receive a diamond to guard.” He looked at them earnestly. “Build vaults, set traps, employ sentries—do whatever is necessary to ensure the stone is safe.” Tungdil’s plan met with approval.
“How will we know which of us is guarding the original?” asked Xamtys.
“We won’t—that’s the idea. I’ll keep the diamond until Gandogar has made the replicas. Then we’ll put them in a pouch, add the original, and shake them together. After that, we’ll trust to Vraccas and draw the stones at random. You might draw a replica, you might draw the original, but neither you, nor I, nor anyone who chances to learn of the stone’s existence will be able to tell.” He turned away from Xamtys to address the other monarchs. “This is Girdlegard’s biggest secret. Only the members of this council, Lord Liútasil, and the other human rulers must know of the stone.”
Balendilín stroked his beard. “Without the diamond, we’ll never have another magus or maga. The only magic in Girdlegard is hidden in the stone. How long do you propose we hide it?”
“I don’t know, but maybe in time we’ll entrust the diamond to a human, an elf, or a dwarf and start a new line of magi. The right individual would know how to identify the stone.” He returned the diamond to its pouch and stowed it behind his belt. “If you ask me, we’ll be better off without any magic for a while.” No one was inclined to disagree.
Next they made arrangements for sending an allied army to the ruined thirdling kingdom with the dual purpose of rescuing survivors and sealing the Eastern Pass. In future, the dwarves would have to travel between the ranges on foot because the underground network had been destroyed by the quakes.
The meeting ended late that night. Prince Mallen was the first to leave, followed by Queen Xamtys and the dwarven kings. King Glaïmbar stayed behind to talk to Tungdil.
The fifthling monarch held out his hand. “How can I ever repay you, Tungdil Goldhand? First you saved my life in the Gray Range, then you rescued Balyndis from the avatars.”
Tungdil shook hands with him gladly. He couldn’t bring himself to hate Glaïmbar for stealing Balyndis; it seemed wrong to harbor grudges when fortune had treated others more harshly. “I came to the aid of a dear friend. You would have done the same.”
“If I were to ask you what you wished for more than anything, what would you say?” asked Glaïmbar levelly, looking him in the eye.
“I would ask you to give up Balyndis so she could follow her heart,” he answered honestly. “But since it’s not in your power, I won’t.” He gripped the king’s hand. “My greatest wish is that you look after her, honor her, and make her happy.”
“You’re a better dwarf than me, Tungdil Goldhand,” said Glaïmbar, shaking his head in wonder. He turned to leave, then stopped and looked back at Tungdil. “They should have made you king,” he said sincerely. The tent flap closed behind him.
Tungdil gazed after him, deep in thought. “Perhaps,” he murmured, smiling. “But I was the one who turned down the crown.” He poured himself another mug of tea.
He knew it was time for bed. Before he could take the diamond to Gandogar in the fourthling kingdom he had to travel north to landur and east to Dsôn Balsur. A good deal of snow, sludge, and mud would pass beneath his boots before the coming of spring.
He smiled, remembering how Rodario had looked at him in horror when he announced his intention to travel alone to the älfar’s kingdom.
“What in the name of Palandiell do you want in that confounded place? Don’t tell me you want to look for survivors! You saw for yourself that the stone of judgment worked.”
Tungdil had told him that he wasn’t interested in the älfar; he was after his ax.
He carried his tea to his mattress, removed his fur cloak, and slipped beneath the covers.
Before he fell asleep, he got up again to throw a few logs on the camp stove to banish the winter chill. It’s my duty to see this through, he thought sleepily, closing his eyes.
X
Elven Kingdom of landur,
Girdlegard,
Winter/Spring, 6236th Solar Cycle
Tungdil peered up at the lofty branches laden with snow. All winter the boughs had bowed and sagged beneath the extra weight, proudly refusing to break. With the worst of the winter over, the sun was strengthening, freeing the trees from the snow.
Springtime beckoned, and soon Girdlegard would be a
wash with color. His old friend Frala used to love the first orbits of spring.
So many of my friends are dead, he thought gloomily as he made his way between the mighty trunks.
On his previous visit to landur, he and his company had been given a cool reception by the elves, but this time his presence seemed to go unnoticed.
He hadn’t seen a soul since he first set foot in the elven kingdom two orbits ago, following the narrow path deeper and deeper among the trees. He wondered when he was going to be met by Liútasil, the elven lord with claret-colored hair.
The answer came sooner than expected.
On rounding a corner, he came to the end of the path and entered a clearing. In front of him was a vast green tent that seemed to be made of satin. An elven archer was posted at each of the corners, and Liútasil, dressed in ceremonial robes, hailed him from the door. Smiling warmly, he shook the dwarf’s hand.
“Congratulations, Tungdil Goldhand. Everyone in Girdlegard must have heard of your victory.” He gestured for Tungdil to enter the tent. “Come in. We thought you might like somewhere to rest your weary legs.”
Tungdil bowed to the elven lord. “Thank you.” Stepping inside, he was struck by the splendor of the tent.
Dwarves and humans built their tents with canvas and plain wooden poles, but Liútasil’s shelter was made of satin and elegant pillars of aromatic wood, each carved with intricate hunting scenes and embellished with runes. Tungdil wondered how he could bear to dismantle such a beautifully crafted tent.
It was pleasantly warm inside, thanks to a pair of stoves, and decorative lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a pleasant glow. To Tungdil’s surprise, the air smelled neither of soot nor burning tallow.
Two chairs and a table had been placed at the center of the tent, and steam was rising from an array of hot dishes.
“You must be hungry from your journey,” said the elf, signaling for Tungdil to be seated. “I suppose you’re here to scold me for not sending my archers to Porista.”
Tungdil took off his heavy winter coat to reveal the suit of armor that had saved him from the avatars’ firebolts. He took a sip of warm beer. After orbits of cold victuals and water, it was good to thaw his insides. He was ready to bet that the elves had prepared the brew with him in mind: It was spiced with pine needles and tasted stronger and maltier than the smooth ales favored by Liútasil’s kind.
“No one blames you for not sending your archers. It was curiosity that brought me here.” He paused. “If you’d joined the allied army, you would have fought alongside the älfar, and no one could demand that of the elves. At least, that’s what the humans are saying. The dwarves put it down to the trouble in Dsôn Balsur. They didn’t resent your absence—no child of the Smith would willingly act as a buffer between the älfar and the elves.” He piled his plate with victuals, none of which looked familiar. “All things considered, the allied army was better off without you.” He popped a morsel into his mouth, hoping it would taste like meat, which—thankfully—it did.
The elf could tell that Tungdil had a different theory about his motives for staying away. “Well,” he prompted. “Why do you suppose we didn’t come?”
“I don’t suppose,” said Tungdil, looking him in the eye. “I know. You see, the reason you didn’t help us was because of the eoîl. It’s all right,” he reassured him, “Rodario and I won’t tell anyone that the avatar-conjurers were taking orders from an elf. We don’t want any more feuds.” He paused to measure the effect of his words. The guilty expression on Liútasil’s face indicated that his suspicions were correct. “Lord Liútasil, you owe me the truth. Who was the eoîl?”
Liútasil’s fork hovered by his mouth, then he set down his cutlery and left the meat on his plate. “I admit it, Tungdil, you’re right. My archers would sooner die than take up their bows against an eoîl. Her most fervent supporters wanted to ride to Porista to join her army, but thank Sitalia I convinced them not to go. The eoîl and her confederates were wrong to take the lives of innocent humans.”
“She was an elf, then. Did she come from landur?”
Liútasil pushed away his plate and poured himself a goblet of mulled wine. “Eoîls don’t have kingdoms or homes. They’re mythical beings, part of our legends.” He took a long draft of wine and began his tale.
Sitalia, daughter of Palandiell, created my people from light, pure earth, and dew.
She taught my ancestors the art of healing and told them the secrets of nature and life. Her first commandment was respect for life in all its forms, and she frowned on destruction. Music, dance, poetry, painting, sculpture, those were our pastimes, and we knew nothing of hardship or war.
My forefathers’ endeavors met with incomprehension and hostility from the humans and dwarves. Sitalia, realizing that her children were unhappy, gave them a new home where they could live in seclusion among the trees. The eldest of our kind were touched a second time by the hand of their creator, and they became our teachers, the higher elves.
Meanwhile, the dark lord Tion grew weary of the gods’ creations. His fellow divinities had applied themselves to the creation of good, so he rebelled by spreading evil. He buried his creation in the earth like a seed, knowing that it would grow and multiply with weed-like speed. Orcs, ogres, trolls, kobolds, bögnilim, giants, and other dark creatures were born. Cycles later, the evil was brought to the surface by salt miners, gold diggers, and dwarves.
Tion gave wings to the evil and cast it into the air to be carried on the wind.
Worse was to come.
The lord of darkness mixed his evil into lakes and rivers, and those who drank thereof were robbed of their innocence. Envy, greed, hatred, and lust entered the hearts of the elves, dwarves, and men. Next, Tion pierced the flesh of the other gods’ children with a thorn that he called age, and the races of Girdlegard became mortal.
His dark work was noticed by Sitalia, who removed the thorns from the higher elves before the damage was done. And so the eoîls were created.
Liútasil emptied his glass. “So you see why no child of Sitalia could take up arms against an eoîl. They’re as old as time, created by Sitalia herself. The eoîls are the source of our knowledge, Sitalia’s warriors, fighting Tion in all his forms. They’re sacred beings, worshipped and revered.” He paused. “Sitalia would kill us if we dared to challenge an eoîl.”
Tungdil nodded, although the explanation seemed decidedly flawed. He took another mouthful. “Did this particular eoîl deserve to be worshipped? She wasn’t very complimentary about the elves. According to her, you’re lesser beings.”
The elf smiled good-naturedly. “The eoîls think we’re inferior because we’re tarnished by age. They live as long as they like.”
“Or as long as we let them,” said Tungdil, picturing the eoîl’s body at the bottom of the tower. “Are the other eoîls like the one in Porista? It’s odd they’re not mentioned in our chronicles.”
“The eoîls are no business of the men and the dwarves. We rarely speak of our history to outsiders.” He refilled his goblet. “Most eoîls are peaceful beings. I’m personally acquainted with two of their kind—pure souls who devote their time to teaching the arts. Painting and singing are their passions, not destruction.”
Tungdil was surprised and encouraged by Liútasil’s willingness to answer his questions. “The eoîl in Porista was more powerful than any magus,” he began. “She drained the energy from Porista, but I was wondering… Can elves work magic too? There’s no knowing what danger could be heading our way, and perhaps the next magus will be an—”
Liútasil shook his head. “No, Tungdil. You won’t find a magus in landur. Sitalia doesn’t grant us the gift of magic anymore.”
“There’s no chance of an elf being born with magical talents?”
“I’ve waited cycles for such an occurrence,” he confessed. “Four hundred cycles, to be precise. Every baby in landur is tested for magical ability, but to no avail. Thankfully, the älfar have been de
stroyed, so we don’t need a magus to protect us anymore.” He smiled. “No wonder they call you ‘scholar.’ At this rate there won’t be anything you don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t want to know everything—it would make life very dull.” The dwarf sipped his beer and plucked up the courage to try a strange-looking fruit. It tasted of berries and mint. “I wanted to ask you about the älfar, actually. Who are the immortal siblings? I saw them in Porista. I’m not sure what happened to them after they attacked the eoîl.” He leaned over the table. “Do they live forever like eoîls? Are they free from the thorn of age as well?”
Tungdil could tell that Liútasil wasn’t prepared to answer. Elves and älfar had more in common than the proud archers of landur liked to admit. He thought about Narmora, remembering how she had worked magic even before her transformation through the malachite. “The älfar can extinguish flames with their thoughts. They move soundlessly, they don’t leave footprints, and they meld with the dark.” An unpleasant thought occurred to him. “Can the immortal siblings work magic? Real magic?”
“What do you mean?” Liútasil seemed puzzled.
“Could the immortal siblings have used magic to leave the tower and hide from the stone of judgment?”
Liútasil sat up straight and looked him in the eye. “The immortal siblings are as much of a mystery to the elves as to the dwarves or the men. I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He thought for a moment. “In my opinion, they might be able to work real magic—but I doubt they could escape the power of the stone.” He raised his goblet. “I’d like to propose a toast—to the destruction of the älfar!” He clunked his glass against the dwarf’s tankard.
