The Fate of the Dwarves d-4

by Markus Heitz

  Vot snorted with derision. “Lot-Ionan is powerful enough to turn whole swathes of land to desert. He has learned to take up enormous amounts of magic energy. The alfar will soon be feeling the results.”

  “There’s another magic source there,” Ireheart told Tungdil. “It seems Lot-Ionan wants to spread out his sphere of influence to the other side of Girdlegard.”

  “He will see that neither the kordrion nor the Dragon exist. The alfar have been wiped out-and he can take over as undisputed ruler of Girdlegard,” Tungdil continued the line of thought.

  “So we might just as well have waited in comfort with Aiphaton,” sighed Slin. “He would have come to us.”

  “Then we wouldn’t have found the ax.” Balyndar lifted Keenfire. “It will serve us well.”

  “Off to the north, then.” Rodario studied his worn-out boots. “But this time let’s get some horses so we don’t have to do the whole thing on foot.”

  Troublemaker shouted a warning and drew his weapon.

  The group sprang away from the entrance, abandoning Vot to his pool of blood.

  “Confound it!” Ireheart saw an approaching horde of alfar stumble into the throne room from the side entrance they had been intending to leave by. Congealing black blood dripped out of their mouths and noses and many of them were swaying as they walked; when they raised their weapons to confront the group of humans and dwarves they gave the impression of being extremely weak. The poison had not killed them yet but it was winning.

  Alfar were streaming in through the second door as well, and leading them-was Aiphaton. As he passed he stabbed Vot with his spear, hoisted the corpse up for all to see and made a short speech.

  Mallenia interpreted. “He says the sorcerer that put the curse on them has now been killed and that they will soon recover. To get free of the spell they need to find Lot-Ionan. The…” she searched for the right word “… dwarves-that’s you-aren’t worth expending any time and effort on. The magus must be found; that is the most important thing.”

  One of the alfar stepped forward to speak to Aiphaton.

  “He thinks they ought to kill us first. He recognized Keenfire and is afraid we will make trouble. He thinks we probably know how to activate hidden traps from the old dwarf-times, installed to deter invaders.” Mallenia continued to pay attention. “If I’ve got this right, the alfar we see here are the last of the whole contingent.”

  Hmm, difficult. Ireheart was already doing some rough calculations in his head and arrived at three hundred adversaries in total. In normal circumstances he would hardly have thought they had a chance. But their maga was newly refreshed with magic, Tungdil was a dangerous force to be reckoned with, and Balyndar had Keenfire, so the battle might be more of a competition to see which of them killed the highest number. He was the one with the worst outlook. “I’ll take Aiphaton,” he whispered to Tungdil.

  “You will wait.” Tungdil told Coira to hold a defense spell in readiness in case a shower of arrows came their way.

  Mallenia insisted they let her listen. “The emperor is rejecting the suggestion. He says they can take us on after the gate has been opened. First of all they need to search for the magus.”

  “He’s obviously trying to protect us,” said a relieved Rodario. Like Mallenia, he too had drawn his sword.

  “I don’t think he will succeed. And he doesn’t need to.” Tungdil sprang up the steps to the ruined throne, brandished Bloodthirster and called out.

  “Do I want to know what he’s saying?” Rodario sighed.

  “Well, I do.” Ireheart grinned in joyful anticipation. “He’ll finish off the black-eyes! They’ll be eliminated from the mountains, as is only right. We’ll do it, us dwarves!” He smiled grimly. “Vraccas, what a glorious orbit this will be!”

  “Tungdil’s telling them it was him who brought the curse down on them and that they must take his life if they want to break the spell.”

  A roar went through the alfar and the first of them charged forward to hurl themselves on the one-eyed dwarf.

  He spread his arms and held Bloodthirster out. One rune after the other flared up on the black tionium, and the more runes that joined in, the more dazzling their light.

  “Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to get anywhere this time either,” muttered Ireheart.

  As the wave of alfar crashed up against the steps leading to the stage, Tungdil leaped over their heads into the very midst of his attackers and disappeared from his friends’ sight. But the sounds of metal striking metal, the shrieks of pain and the spraying blood coming over to drench them told more than any direct view could have done.

  “They’re actually not touching any of us!” Rodario was astonished.

  “I’m not letting this happen! I want some of this!” Ireheart began his own attack.

  Balyndar followed suit with Keenfire, whose diamonds and inlaid patterns were blazing out. With each stroke the ax head left a fiery trail in the air and the blade severed everything it touched. They fought their way through the mass of alfar side by side. At first the enemy did not notice them, but soon they turned their attention to the new threat presented by the dwarves.

  Now they had a battle after Ireheart’s own heart! “Bring me your lives, you long-legged land-plagues!” he bellowed enthusiastically, smashing heads indiscriminately “You’ll regret ever having set foot in my native land! Oh and how you will regret it!”

  Ireheart fought one grisly fight after another, taking his share of cuts and stab wounds, but this did not deter him. He was too deeply immersed in battle-rage and saw a red mist over the whole scene. His blood was coursing faster, hotter and more vitally through his veins, and though he had lost sight of Balyndar, this did not worry him. He forgot everything in his merciless killing spree.

  The ranks of the enemy grew ever thinner. Ireheart felled another alf by hooking the spike of the crow’s beak around his foot; then he whacked the flat side of the weapon into the face of the struggling warrior. Looking round, he realized that his latest victim was the last of the enemy. “Ho, are we done already?” he yelled.

  Tungdil was sitting on the steps with Bloodthirster on his knee. He was staring blankly ahead. Rodario, Coira and Mallenia were standing together, looking as if they had not had to use their swords at all; dead alfar all around them had been burned beyond recognition. Such was the power of magic.

  Slin wandered among the dead recovering the bolts he had shot. Balyndar knelt in front of a stone statue, his hands on the shaft of Keenfire, and his eyes closed. He was doubtless praying to Vraccas and offering thanks for the victory.

  The corpses of the alfar surrounded them, blood forming a giant pool like ink on the flagstones. The Blue Mountains were refusing to let the black liquid drain away.

  “Scholar?”

  “He is lost in his memories,” said a soft voice behind him.

  Still half intoxicated by the battle, Ireheart whirled round and struck out. The crow’s beak crashed against a slender spear. It was Aiphaton standing there. “Lucky escape,” he sniffed.

  “Too slow,” the emperor corrected him amicably. “You must be tired. Otherwise I’m sure you would have got me and killed me like all the rest, Boindil Doubleblade.”

  The dwarf narrowed his eyes. “I can tell when I’m being mocked.”

  “That wasn’t my intention.”

  “You didn’t intend to mock me or you didn’t intend I should be able to tell?”

  “I didn’t intend to mock you.” Aiphaton inclined his head to Ireheart. “Forgive me.”

  The dwarf made a dismissive gesture, feeling a bit stupid standing next to an alf whose armor showed no bloodstains. “You weren’t fighting?”

  “These are your mountains. I considered it more appropriate to leave their cleansing to you,” answered Aiphaton. “My contribution was to poison them. That made it possible for you to defeat them. Otherwise I would probably have stepped into the fray on your side.” He surveyed the heaped bodies. “I was n
ever one of them, even if I believed it for a time. It was a mistake that I have now corrected.” He looked at Ireheart. “The southern gate has not been touched and the few who escaped the magic spells of Vot and Bumina have now died in the tunnels.” He pointed to Tungdil. “He ought to take the armor off. Or it will take possession of him more and more.”

  “Possession?”

  “Didn’t you know?”

  Ireheart grabbed his water flask and moistened his dry throat. “I suspected it,” he replied quietly. “How much do you know about it?”

  “Nothing at all. But I can read the symbols. It indicates a pact between the armor and the one who wears it that each will protect the other and that they will never part. Then the day will come when the wearer will never want to take it off at all. Not even to sleep. Not even when he eats. Not even when he defecates. His flesh will be rubbed raw by it, gangrene will set in and Tungdil will die in his own excrement.” Aiphaton saw the horror in the dwarf’s face. “Make him take it off.” He strode past, toward the door. “I am going to Dson Bhara, to finish my mission.”

  “Perhaps it won’t be necessary.” Ireheart explained what Vot had vouchsafed to them.

  The alf considered the implications. “Then I shall see what the magus has left. If he and I encounter each other I shall overpower him and leave him bound and tethered for you to find.” He winked at Ireheart. “Look after your friend if his life is dear to you.” With these words he left the hall.

  The dwarf followed him with his eyes, then looked at Tungdil, who was still seated on the remains of the throne, staring at the wall, one hand stroking his thigh guards, lost in thought.

  XXVIII

  Girdlegard,

  Former Queendom of Sangpur,

  At the border with Gauragar,

  Late Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

  The desert was safely behind them now-their journey had been speeded up by the horses they had acquired at an oasis.

  If they maintained present progress they would soon be in the central region of the alfar realm and thus near Lot-Ionan. Only short rests were accorded, enough to refresh the horses. Dwarves and humans ate while they rode.

  During one of these evening pauses Rodario was sitting opposite the two women, his face indicating that he had an important announcement to make. “I accept,” he stated.

  Coira and Mallenia exchanged glances.

  “The clause about not sharing a bed with the two of you at the same time: I accept,” he repeated. “I don’t want to have to do without either one of you. The last few orbits have brought this home to me. And if two such charming ladies make me an offer of the kind you’ve made, I would be mad to turn it down.”

  Coira leaned forward, beaming, to give him a resounding kiss on the left cheek, while Mallenia did the same on the right. A dutiful little gesture to seal an unusual pre-liaison agreement.

  Ireheart had been watching the three of them and shook his head. “I’ll never understand these long-uns,” he told Tungdil. “Would you take a look at that constellation over there?”

  “If they’re fond of each other and are happy with the relationship, what’s wrong with that?” Tungdil put a large branch on the fire over which their supper was roasting: Slin had shot them four rabbits. “I’d be the last person to criticize their arrangements.” He put his hand on his back to ease it.

  “Shall I help you take the armor off? It must be uncomfortable.” Ireheart stretched out his hand to undo the buckles but his friend evaded him.

  “Our mission is dangerous. Anything could occur. I won’t want to lose vital minutes putting my armor on and I can’t risk being injured through only having my normal leather jerkin on just because it’s more comfortable,” said Tungdil, rejecting his offer of assistance.

  “When was the last time you took it off?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “Indeed it was, Scholar.” Ireheart passed him a rabbit thigh. The meat was piping hot and smelled delicious. “Here, eat this. It’ll make you big and strong so that you can continue doing those great deeds we saw in the Blue Mountains.” He started eating the other thigh. “I don’t know how you do it: All that energy and stamina. Even at my wildest I don’t come near.”

  “I’ve had a deal more practice than you, my friend,” Tungdil replied. He ate his food but displayed little appetite.

  Ireheart pretended to have seen something on the back of the tionium armor. “There you are! There’s dirt on it. And here’s a big dent. How did that happen? We should give it a thorough clean. Or it might get fractious and stop protecting you. It might even go all hard again, like a steel girder, and then I’ll have to bash away at it as though I’m ringing a bell, just to get you out of it!” He attempted levity.

  Tungdil turned to him curiously. “Why on earth do you want me to take it off?”

  “Me?”

  “You’re a rotten actor, Ireheart. You always were.” He chewed and swallowed the meat. “What have you got against it?”

  Ireheart had no idea how he could get out of answering that mercilessly direct question, so he went on the offensive: “I’ve heard some stories about suits of armor like that and they can take over whoever wears them. The poor sods end horribly, stuck in their metal casing, and I wouldn’t want that to happen to you,” he blurted out, gesturing with the rabbit bone. “All I know is, you haven’t taken it off for thirty orbits and I’ve seen you stroking the leg protectors as if they are made of the skin of a virgin dwarf!”

  Tungdil was about to reply but then fell silent. “You’re quite right,” he said quietly, chucking the remains of his rabbit piece in the fire. “It would be very difficult for me to leave it off. Very difficult.”

  “Then take it off now. At least for tonight. I’ll keep watch twice as thoroughly as usual,” Ireheart made an effort to encourage him.

  But straightaway the runes lit up, shining like the eyes of a wild animal. “No,” his friend said, refusing to comply. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  “Then tell me when you do intend to take it off.”

  “When it’s all over,” Tungdil replied tiredly. “Let’s not argue about it, Ireheart. I swear I’ll take it off when the Black Abyss is closed up and we’ve defeated my former master.” He held out his hand. “Will that do?”

  “Yes, Scholar!” Ireheart shook hands, and then the warrior turned back to the rabbits. “Grub up!” he shouted, so loud that the dwarves and humans all jumped. That made him grin. He could not see the Zhadar anywhere; they must be sitting in the shade somewhere keeping a weather eye out.

  “So then, what do you think of me now?” Tungdil took his drinking flask, which he had filled with palm brandy. He took out the stopper and swallowed a deep draft of the strong liquor.

  “Because you won’t take the suit of armor off?”

  “No. What do you think of me?” He wiped some of the strong-smelling fruity liquid out of his beard. “Do you think I am the genuine Tungdil?”

  Ireheart smiled. “I’ve thought that for a long time. Sometimes there’s a little gnome at the back of my mind that makes me notice minor things about you that you never used to have. But we all change, don’t we?” he answered, truthfully. “I’m positive you’re you, Scholar, and not a doppelganger or an illusion or anything evil sent by the powers of the Black Abyss.”

  Tungdil waited until everyone had gathered around the fire, had their food and gone away again. Slin had his toolkit spread out and was working on his crossbow, and Balyndar was looking at Keenfire, which still was refusing to quieten down.

  “Only a minority elected me to the office of high king,” Tungdil started cautiously. “The fourthlings and fifthlings. What if the firstlings and secondlings speak out against me? What then?”

  “You have the thirdlings’ support.”

  “Yes, but the thirdlings don’t count. Not in this.” Tungdil contemplated Balyndar. “He’d be a much better high king. Or his mother could be high queen. The other three tribes would be happ
y with that.”

  Ireheart took the proffered palm brandy and swallowed some, choking and spluttering. “I’m used to a lot of things,” he croaked, “but this is rough enough to eat your eyeballs up! And you’ve only got the one!” Tungdil laughed. “It sounds as if you want to give the title up! And to think I had to use it as bait to get you to join us, Scholar!”

  “I only wanted it to force the dwarves to follow my orders,” he admitted. “The word of a high king has more weight than the word of Tungdil Goldhand, especially if lots of people are saying he’s not even the real one. Do you get me?” He gave a faint smile. “Most of them will be surprised when I hand the title back when our mission is over.”

  “Hand it back?” Ireheart slapped his thigh. “Ho! Only our very own genuine Scholar could come up with something like that! A doppelganger would have been enjoying his power and would abuse it.” He laughed. “Yes, it will take them by surprise.” He nodded over at Balyndar. “Why don’t you tell him now?”

  “Why would I?”

  “So he changes his attitude toward you.”

  Tungdil took another slug of the palm brandy. “I don’t want him to. It’s better if things stay as they are. If he makes it to king of the fifthlings the blemish on his pedigree should not be public knowledge. It’s better if he’s seen to have a different father. He can keep his secret.”

  “Well, he could, but for the resemblance…”

  “Coincidence, no more than that. I shall never refer to him as my son.” He gave Ireheart a steady stare. “And neither will you.”

  “Of course not, Scholar. That’s a matter between yourself, Balyndis and Balyndar.” His throat still felt dry in spite of what he had drunk. He was aware what this signified and did not care for it at all. Shall I ever manage to resist this thirst? He was stubborn enough to be able to, surely. “Do you know who you would suggest as the next high king?”

  “No. I shall keep out of things. I want to retire to somewhere in Girdlegard where I won’t have to deal with any of our tribes. That’s what I’m working toward.” Tungdil’s hard face lost its hostility. “If anyone wants to come visiting, that’s fine. But I won’t live with dwarves anymore.”