Then she started on her way back, counting her steps so that she would be able to locate the statue again. Still gasping for air and sobbing she returned to the building supervisors and told them a terrible accident had happened.
“The cellar walls are soft as wax,” she reported, bursting into tears again. “It would be madness to go back in there.”
Ove and Tamàs conferred briefly, then stopped the works for the day out of respect for the two children who had died. On the next day, they decided, the bodies should be fetched up and then the cellar area filled in.
Lia returned to the building site that night with Franek and ten helpers.
They carried poles, pickaxes, pulleys, rope and cable winches with them. A cart with two horses waited in a side road to transport their prize away. They had placed watchers in strategic places to warn them if anyone should approach. They had to work quickly. And they had to succeed, whatever the cost, whatever lives might be lost.
On the surface Lia paced out the distance she had calculated. Then she placed a marker on the flagstone. “It must be right under here,” she said to her companions. The men set to work.
Franek and Lia helped to shovel the debris to one side while the hole the men were digging grew steadily bigger. They had to take great care that none of the surface material broke off and fell back in.
“And to think I was ready to give up,” said Lia, thrilled that the treasure would soon be salvaged.
Her joy triumphed over her guilty conscience about the murder of the two young boys. She had told Franek what she had done, hoping the confession would make her feel better, but it had not worked. At least he had agreed that she had done the right thing. She would have to leave Porista once and for all. If the bodies were found she would be accused of the murders.
“Samusin is on our side again,” he nodded, watching the men shifting away the loose earth and hacking through the vaulted cellar roof.
“Don’t speak too soon,” said Lia. “Let’s not thank the god of retribution until we’ve got the statue safely out of Porista.”
With a crack, a section of the tunnel roof gave way; two of the men fell though to the cellars, yelling out as they dropped down.
Franek looked round in alarm, checking with their watchers. Nobody seemed to have heard the noise. “Quick! Get them out of there!” Five others jumped down with lanterns in their hands.
“Get the statue first,” called Lia after them anxiously, stepping a couple of paces back from the hole in case another section should cave in. “Then get the injured out.”
The others worked at the entrance to make the opening wider while another group put the pulleys and the hoist together. They tossed ropes down to fasten round the stone figure.
Soon the statue was winched up, rising in the dark to the surface. It was covered in a fine coating of dust and there was a huge red stain—the blood of the young boys who had paid for their find with their lives. It looked as if it were the statue that was bleeding.
“Bring the cart over here,” ordered Franek, lifting a lamp and giving the prearranged signal. Soon the wheels were turning, muffled with cloths to avoid making any sound; the horses’ hooves had been wrapped in hessian as well.
Lia was getting more and more uneasy. “Come on up; hurry!” she called down into the vaults. “Let’s get out of here.”
The rope snagged, the pole bent under the weight, but did not break. The men climbed out of the hole and heaved the heavy statue onto the sacking that had been put on the wagon in readiness.
“The guards!” came a shout from across the site, echoing back to Franek and Lia.
“Stupid idiot!” Franek cursed their watchman, who had meant well with his warning, but had certainly risked alerting Bruron’s soldiers. They saw pinpricks of light—torches coming nearer. “Take the rags off,” he told the others and leaped up onto the wagon. “They’ve seen us now—the noise won’t make it any worse.”
Lia followed him and jumped up to crouch beside the statue. The whip cracked and the wheels rattled along.
“Halt!” They heard the challenge from the guards. “Stop in the name of King Bruron!” There were no more niceties—arrows were already flying in their direction, most of them falling short, but two buried themselves in the wood of the wagon, one hit the statue and broke, and one caught Lia in the leg. She cried out.
By the light of the torches they could see the guards falling on the men who had helped them with the statue. Anyone who put up a defense was killed outright—the rest were taken prisoner. Bruron had issued a strict new law five cycles ago, protecting people’s property and condemning to death anyone suspected of pilfering. The fact that they had emptied the vaults belonging to a man who was dead made no difference.
Out of the darkness of the side streets four mounted guards came galloping up; they had heard the noise and it was simple for them to overtake the wagon.
“Stop!” the first rider shouted to Franek. “I can…”
Her friend turned, whip in hand, and caught the soldier full in the face. His eyeball burst under the force of the slashing leather and he fell from the saddle. The next rider had to swerve to avoid him, and lost ground.
One of the guards made a bold leap straight onto the cart and hit Lia in the face with his balled fist to silence her, then climbed over the statue to get at Franek.
“Look out!” she croaked in warning, swallowing her own blood. Groaning, she drew her dagger and crawled across the swaying cart to reach the guard.
Another rode past them, heading for the gate to get the sentries to stop the unscrupulous thieves escaping with their plunder.
Franek had seen him. He hurled his sword at the man when he was three arms’ lengths away from him, catching him in the side. At full gallop he fell to the ground, rolled over and over, and was crushed under the back wheel of the wagon.
Just as the last of them was attacking Franek from behind, Lia thrust her dagger into his upper arm.
She had been aiming for his neck, but the wagon was rocking so violently it was impossible for her, especially with the injury to her leg, to be more accurate. She swayed, falling on her opponent and dragging him down with her. Together they fell over the statue and tumbled off the speeding wagon.
This time Lia was out of luck.
She landed under the heavily armored man and broke his fall with her own body. As her head crashed against the cobblestones of Porista’s streets, she felt her skull crack and a sharp pain in her breast. Warmth surrounded her head; then she was weightless, outside her body.
“Lia!” she heard her friend calling—she could just hear his voice above the noise of the hooves and the wheels.
“Keep going,” she said, speaking with difficulty, and knowing that he would be unable to hear her. “We have taken the first step, Samusin,” she whispered up to the stars. “For that I gladly surrender my life, O god of retribution.” Lia tried to smile before death turned her face to stone. She could not.
The guard who was lying half conscious a few steps away sat up slowly and reached for his bugle to warn the sentries at the gate. But the bugle was not hanging at his belt. He found it buried in the girl’s breast. As they had fallen from the wagon it had pierced her flesh and bone and shattered. Blood was pouring out of it as if it were an upturned funnel. He would not be placing it to his lips again.
“Curses,” he muttered angrily as he staggered to his feet. The thief had got away with his booty. And if he had seen aright back there on the wagon, the prize that had been stolen was something very special: it was the magus Lot-Ionan, turned to stone.
Girdlegard,
Black Mountain Range,
Realm of the Thirdlings,
Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle
King Malbalor White-Eye from the clan of the Bone Breakers in the thirdling folk of Lorimbur read through the message brought him by the envoy of Queen Xamtys. It spoke of a machine and of dwarf runes promising death. There was to be an assembly, and
the rulers and freeling city kings were to travel to the Gray Range.
“This will open the old rifts,” he said to the representatives of the clans of the four other dwarf tribes sitting round the table with him in the hall.
The realm of the thirdlings had survived in name only. At the demise of Lorimbas Steelheart and the almost complete annihilation of the thirdlings by the army of the now-deposed mad king Belletain, the other dwarves had sent warriors to the east to protect the passage into Girdlegard. There were only a few thirdlings remaining in the Black Range and they were in the minority. People said it was a minority that was tolerated.
“You know that most of the survivors of my race have made peace and now live side by side with you.” Malbalor held the paper aloft. “These lines threaten our new community.”
“If it ever was a new community,” muttered somebody.
The king could not work out who had expressed those words. He rose up in anger, showing his impressive stature. He was a classic thirdling: tall, sturdily built and battle-hardened. Over his mail shirt he was dressed in armor formed of thin metal plates; his legs were protected by chain mail. His brown eyes sent out sparks of fire.
“It is remarks like that which open up the old rifts,” he called out, pounding the table with his fist; his long blue-dyed beard quivered. “Don’t you see it is a contrivance? The runes are intended to incite hatred and sow distrust of the thirdlings who live amongst you in peace. Have we not shown, we the descendants of the dwarf-killer Lorimbur, that we do not desire the death of the other dwarves?”
“What are five cycles?” came another objection.
This time the heckler was betrayed by his neighbor turning to him and asking, “Why don’t you stand up and speak out, instead of hiding away like a coward, Ginsgar Unforce of the clan of the Nail Smiths of the firstling folk of Borengar?”
Thus exposed, the dwarf rose to his feet; he was broad in the chest and wore a fire-red beard and long locks of hair. In his left hand he held raised his war hammer, as befitted a dwarf from the clan of the best smiths. “I have never liked the thirdlings. I despise them for their baseness, their trickery and their lack of honor,” he spoke out fearlessly, looking the king in the face. “That it’s one of your kind, Malbalor, that has invented this devilry of a machine, comes as no surprise to me. I see that thirdlings are at their killing again, and that is even less of a surprise.” He turned to face all those present. “Let us send out an army to destroy the camp in the Outer Lands. Then let’s drive all the thirdlings together and take them captive. Then we will have peace and quiet for once.”
The neighbor who had placed him in the spotlight raised his eyebrows. “There are thirdlings who pretend to belong to another dwarf folk in order to stir up trouble. To hear you talking like that, and to see your physical appearance, one might reach strange conclusions.”
Ginsgar whirled round and brandished his hammer. “You dare to call me a thirdling?” he yelled furiously. “My clan has been living in the Red Range for countless cycles and—”
“Enough!” ordered Malbalor. “Sit down again, Ginsgar. I couldn’t care less who you belong to. I will not tolerate any such inflammatory talk. Not here in this hall and not here in this kingdom. We will all keep cool heads.” He took a deep breath. “I have asked you all here for you to warn your people to keep their eyes open for danger, but to steer clear of making unfounded accusations. From today the mines and tunnels will only be entered by gangs of forty dwarves at a time to continue the repair work. They must take long iron poles, hooks and chains. So equipped I would hope that you will be able to bring down these machines.” He looked at the assembled dwarves intently. “They are machines! If dwarf hand has made them then a dwarf hand can destroy them. May Vraccas help us to withstand this test. In two orbits’ time I shall be setting off for the northwest, to take counsel with Gandogar and the others.” He nodded to them all and dismissed them.
Malbalor waited until he was alone in the hall, then sank back like lead onto his seat. When Gandogar had asked him to become king and he was elected to the role, he had never for a moment thought the task would be so onerous.
Five dwarf folks had united to form an army—Glaïmbar Sharpax had managed it with no trouble at all in the Gray Range. It was a melting pot there, giving rise to a new form of dwarf. But in the Black Range it was not working. Nothing was melting in this pot, nothing integrating. On the contrary, the individual elements were getting harder and more determined than ever not to form new compounds and combinations.
The superstitious amongst their people said it was the curse of Lorimbur, the founding father of the thirdling race, that was invested deep in the stones of mountains here and preventing any chance of peaceful coexistence. Malbalor was starting to believe it.
He took some of the water in the carafe in front of him, and regarded the reflection of his tired countenance. Worry had driven deep furrows in his face, and chiseled out lines around his eyes and on his brow. The rest lay hidden behind his beard; that was best so. He had no wish to appear any older than he already felt.
The cool water ran down his throat; refreshed, he got up and left the hall in order to make preparations for his coming absence. As he strode through the high galleries he made the decision to appoint Ginsgar as his deputy, so the trouble-maker could experience first-hand what responsibility the role of king involved. He thought this would be suitable revenge.
When he turned the corner, a company of dwarves approached: having been hard at work, they looked and smelled as if they had just come out of a quarry after an orbit’s solid laboring. They only wore short breeches and heavy knee-high boots; thighs and upper torsos were naked. To protect their heads from falling stones they also wore helmets, and they carried pickaxes and shovels. Over their mouths and noses they had bound cloths to keep the fine dust out; the ends of their beards peeked out below.
On the face of it the appearance of such a group had nothing strange about it. In any other part of the Black Range Malbalor would quickly have dismissed the memory of meeting a group of twenty dwarves.
But two things seemed wrong. For a start there was no reason for them to be there; there was no dwarf accommodation near and no collapsed tunnels needing repair; and then not a single one of them greeted him as they passed, although he had nodded to them in acknowledgment.
Malbalor was not one of those rulers who absolutely had to see every head bowing in deference but a certain amount of respect he did demand. He stopped and turned. “Hey, you! Wait a moment!”
They went on walking.
Now his suspicions were aroused.
He caught up with the last of the group, grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. Seen from close up the helmets appeared unusual; their shape was different from any he knew. The nose protector was longer and reached down to the chin, while iron wires formed a cage which hid the eyes from view.
“I’m speaking to you!” the king said severely and he pulled down the cloth over the lower parts of the face. Horrified, he took a step back. For the first time in his life he saw an adult dwarf without a beard. The black curls that had showed at the edges of the cloth were just stuck on as a disguise. The deception had worked up to now. “By Vraccas, what the…” His hand fastened tightly on the handle of his club.
Without warning, the dwarf struck him on the head with the flat of his shovel, sending Malbalor flying back against the wall half senseless.
“Treachery!” he shouted as loud as he could, but then his heavy eyelids closed.
When he opened his eyes again soon after he saw Ginsgar’s concerned face with its red beard floating into his field of vision. To his surprise he was no longer lying in the corridor but on his own bed. He must have been unconscious for some time.
“He’s coming round,” Ginsgar called over his shoulder, “So, king. We have news for you that will make you doubt the honor of your own people,” he said, enjoying his words. Then he stood back to make way for another
dwarf.
Malbalor knew this one: Diemo Deathblade from the clan of the Death Blades commanded the troops in charge of protecting the passage to Girdlegard and the way to the treasure house. Seeing this dwarf and being told there was news made the king very uneasy.
“King Malbalor—there’s been an attack,” he admitted reluctantly. “We are the victims of a malicious ambush from within our own forces.”
Malbalor sat up and got to his feet. “You don’t have to tell me: There were about twenty of them—they looked like laborers,” he guessed calmly. “One of them laid me low just now.”
“Yes, the guards at the treasure house saw them and thought they had taken a wrong turning. By the time they noticed it was all a trick it was too late. They were attacked with shovels and overcome…”
“Overcome or killed?”
“Overcome. Slight injuries and cuts and bruises mostly, and hit over the head like yourself, Your Majesty.”
Malbalor was pleased to be alive, of course, but he was surprised at the sudden restraint the thirdlings were showing with dwarves not of their own kind. “They weren’t thirdlings,” he said firmly and directly to Ginsgar. “I pulled the face cloth off one of them. None of us would willingly forgo a beard.”
“A dwarf without a beard?” Ginsgar said incredulously. “Then maybe they are outcasts. We always treated outlaws like that in the firstlings; if you break the law your beard is shaved off and you have to leave until a new one has grown.” He put his hand to his belt. “A malicious thirdling or robbers from the freeling cities?”
“What would the freelings want…?” Malbalor looked over at Diemo. “What did they take?”
The warrior ground his teeth angrily. “Only the diamond, king.”
“What diamond? We…” His voice died away as he understood the significance of the words. “That diamond? Gandogar’s gift?” The furrows on his brow grew deeper; he could feel them cutting right into his flesh.
Ginsgar stepped forward. “What you told us is very useful. I suggest we send a message to the high king. I stick by the view it was the thirdlings or the freelings.”
The Revenge of the Dwarves Page 15