by Markus Heitz
“Sounds like it, though,” whispered Goda to her pony.
Ireheart looked back over his shoulder. “Goda, get down. You’re going to walk.”
“What?” She sounded incensed.
“It’s not your place to question me, girl. Carry your baggage while you’re about it.” He turned his face away quickly to hide his grin. He really enjoyed tormenting her.
Obedient but furious, Goda slipped from the saddle, threw the bags over her shoulder and stomped along next to her pony. “What on earth’s the point? I wanted combat training, not to learn how to be a porter.”
“Listen. A woman fighter needs strong legs to stand firm,” he answered swiftly. “Imagine you’re marching along reckoning any second with a snout-face attack. Have you heard the one about the orc that asks the dwarf the way?”
Goda snorted. Tungdil laughed, hearing a curse in the sound. But his levity was a little forced. His thoughts were with his injured Balyndis, back in Lot-Ionan’s vaults. He had been puzzled by his own mixed feelings on leaving her behind.
On the one side he was extremely worried about his wife, on the other he was pleased to be away from her again. He could not fathom this discontent. It had looked, that first night, as if they had a new chance together, but the longer he played with that idea, imagining a long life with Balyndis, the more frightening it seemed. He could not understand why. He was still fond of her.
Tungdil shifted in the saddle and gazed at Porista’s city walls. The city was a masterpiece designed by Furgas. Perhaps that’s what it was. He was still fond of her, but there was nothing deeper behind it. They were like brother and sister. Like comrades in arms.
“… and then the dwarf laughed and went on his way.” Tungdil caught the closing words of Ireheart’s joke.
Goda was having trouble suppressing a grin. The corners of her mouth would not obey her. Dimples were forming, in spite of her efforts to remain deadly serious. You couldn’t be furious and want to smile at the same time. It was a very good joke.
Boïndil’s attempts to lift the mood were met with merry laughter. All of them joined in. They could not help it.
They rode into the city and as soon as they had announced themselves were taken to the assembly tent. A few smaller tents had been put up, to serve for more private discussions.
“Let’s go to Gandogar and explain what’s happened, then we’ll see Liútasil,” Tungdil suggested. Ireheart nodded his agreement.
Goda’s face was shiny with sweat; she emptied her drinking flask in one go and looked round for a fountain where she could refill it.
“Don’t worry, apprentice. You’ll get something soon enough,” Ireheart grinned at her. “How are the old legs?”
She lifted first the left foot, then the right. “Both still there,” she retorted, wiping the perspiration off her forehead. A dark blond lock of hair clung to her cheek. “And both of them quite keen to kick someone’s backside, master.” She grinned. “An orc backside, of course.”
Perhaps it was the light here in Porista, perhaps it was their surroundings or perhaps it was the dwarf-girl’s sparkling eyes that suddenly made Ireheart quite enjoy looking at her. From one second to the next his feelings changed. He became unsure of himself. “Let’s see what there is,” he stammered and averted his eyes quickly. Something that shouldn’t happen was happening. Not with her.
They made their way over to the tent flying the fourthling banner. The sentries announced their arrival at once. Goda stayed outside, but Tungdil had someone take her a drink.
Gandogar received them, stretching out a hand to each dwarf. “Events are threatening to overwhelm us,” he said, noting with pleasure the change in Tungdil’s appearance. He sensed the new vitality. “I was just about to address the clan leaders about a campaign to the Outer Lands, but now I’ve had to come to Porista with the assembly to deal with the newest outrage.” Tungdil thought the high king’s face was far more deeply lined than before. Worry was taking its toll. “How did you get on with the elves?” Gandogar’s eyes strayed to Ireheart’s shorn head. “Is this a new fashion?”
“A fight. Tungdil can explain.” Boïndil preferred not to have to say much, or he’d find himself confessing the truth to his sovereign.
Tungdil bowed his head. “To be honest, sire, it was quite boring. We didn’t get to see Liútasil. They fed us. They showed us only places of no significance.” He lowered his voice. “I think they were trying to keep something from us. There are new holy objects in the clearing, and we learned by chance of new buildings they kept secret from us. Yet we have let their people see everything. It is not fair. With your permission I should like to address these issues with Prince Liútasil. He is here, isn’t he?”
“No.” Gandogar poured some water and they took the polished gold cups he proffered. “He has sent representatives: Vilanoîl and Tiwalún. They said he’d be coming along later because something important needed discussing first.”
Boïndil frowned. “That’s what they told us, too. It must be something really huge if it’s taking this long to debate.” He glanced at Tungdil. Now life was going to get difficult for him. The last people he wanted to meet here in Porista were their landur elf guides, who were very likely to know all about what he’d done.
Tungdil was silent, looking at the contents of his beaker. “Strange things are happening in landur.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gandogar in concern.
“I mean just that: something strange is happening in landur.” His old gruffness broke out. He pulled himself together. “I hope there will prove to be an innocent explanation.” He emptied his drink, bowed and put down the cup. “When does the session begin, Your Majesty?”
“We should already have reconvened. They will sound a bugle.”
Tungdil looked at Gandogar. “I have bad news. My diamond has been stolen. A new monster invaded Lot-Ionan’s vaults and attacked us. Balyndis was injured.” He summarized the events. “We lost track of the monster; it escaped off through the rocks where it left no prints. Then we got your order to come straight to Porista.”
“So you’ve lost your stone as well? The same as happened to the firstlings. A shape-shifting orc and a handful of beardless undergroundlings robbed the firstling queen.” Gandogar let out a long breath, clenching his fists. “And there’s more bad news. Xamtys suspects the thirdlings have poisoned their wells in the Red Mountains. Countless dwarves had died, men, women and children, before anyone noticed the water was poisoned. The experts have found that the fatal effects don’t develop until you’ve drunk a certain amount. Boiling the water doesn’t help at all. They have to bring their drinking water from a long distance away. In the Red Range no one trusts anyone now.”
“This suspicion will spread when the dwarf realms learn about the poisoned cisterns,” Tungdil reflected. His hope that the thirdlings might ever assimilate peaceably had died.
The age-old deep-seated hatred amongst some of the dwarves was still fermenting. The insidious lust for revenge was hitting the other dwarf folks more cruelly than ever. And those thirdlings loyal to their origins would soon become disaffected. Things would get worse.
“Perhaps it is better to rally the thirdlings who are living dispersed in other communities, and put them all together as a tribe somewhere away from the dwarflands,” Tungdil said thoughtfully.
The bugle sounded, summoning Girdlegard’s great and good back to the conference table. Their discussion must end for now.
“With you, then, as their king?” Gandogar picked up the idea quickly. He put his helmet under his arm. “I was thinking as much. We ought to discuss it with the clans and with the freelings as soon as we’ve dealt with the matter of the diamonds. Maybe there’s a place for the thirdlings amongst the Free Towns.”
“What…” Tungdil bit his tongue, suppressing the words “What rubbish!” He laid his hand on Keenfire’s ax head. “Would it be a good idea to exile them again? I am not sure if the freelings would want so many
thirdlings in their towns. If I were their king I’d be afraid of armed insurrection. Who would stop them?”
“Oh, this is all so ghastly,” cursed Ireheart. “Anyone would think Vraccas had granted us five cycles of peace purely to thrust us straight into the furnace now. The diamonds are being stolen, orcs and monsters stalk our lands, the wells are poisoned and the elves are cooking up Vraccas knows what devilry.”
“Did you say a shape-shifting orc just now?” Tungdil broke in, stepping alongside Gandogar. They walked over to the assembly together.
“Reports were vague,” the high king answered. “But magic was involved.”
“What? The snout-faces and magic now?” murmured Ireheart. “Have Tion and Samusin completely lost their godly senses, sending them after us? They can’t be Girdlegard orcs. Damned sorcery! Never could stand magic.”
Goda tagged along at a discreet distance. She was exhausted by the enforced march, and Ireheart was regretting his instructions to her. He might have overdone it, he thought. But he did not let it show. “Wait outside again,” he said, adding a mumbled “Have a bit of a rest.”
Tungdil entered the tent and watched the sovereign rulers of Girdlegard take their places. He knew most of them; the human faces had aged quicker than the dwarves and elves, of course, in the last five cycles. The thorn of mortality was lodged deep in their flesh.
He observed Ortger with curiosity. Urgon’s young ruler was talking quietly to his neighbor at the council table, Queen Isika, nodding repeatedly. Then he stood up with a respectful bow.
Vilanoîl and Tiwalún did not accord the dwarves a single glance. Their unfriendly demeanor warned Tungdil and Ireheart that the black finger marks must indeed have come to their notice.
King Bruron stood up and tapped his ring against his drinking vessel, the melodic ping cutting short the assorted rulers’ conversations. All their attention was on him. “Let us get back to business, Your Majesties.” He indicated Tungdil. “As you see, we have a trusted guest and old friend among us. One of Girdlegard’s famous heroes—Tungdil Goldhand—has come to be with us in our dark hour. He will help us with our deliberations, I am sure.”
Gandogar leaned over toward Tungdil. “His gold cup is an inferior alloy. The sound it made wasn’t good at all. Either the goldsmith has taken him for a ride or he’s having to cut costs but wants to keep up appearances.”
“And of course we are delighted to welcome Boïndil Doubleblade, whose services to our homeland are no less significant,” continued Bruron with a smile. “We need heroes like these if we are to avert the coming dangers.”
The rulers inclined their heads in acknowledgment. It seemed the elves had neck problems, but only the dwarves noticed that.
The king surveyed the room. “As usual when we meet I have to start with unpleasant news: The statue of Lot-Ionan has been removed from the rubble and stolen. Despite our best efforts there is no trace of it.”
Tungdil swallowed hard. He remembered clearly having seen the statue, which was his very own foster-father, in Andôkai’s palace. Nudin, or rather Nôd’onn, had turned him irrevocably to stone in the course of a battle many cycles ago. Secretly the dwarf had hoped to bring the petrified figure back to the vaults so that at least he could stand where once he had lived.
“What could anyone want with his statue?” Mallen looked at Tungdil.
“How should I know?” he retorted sharply. None of the other famuli were still alive. Otherwise he might have thought them capable of carrying off their mentor’s statue, in order to honor it in some secret location. But the magus had been so revered they could have honored his statue in full public view.
Tungdil felt the robbers had betrayed him somehow. The magus had been a father to him. It was a personal attack.
“I can’t understand it, either,” said Bruron. “But I shall have my soldiers continue the search.” He turned to Ortger. “You have news for us, you said, King Ortger?”
“Yes. A large town near Borwôl has been destroyed. Annihilated. Not a single inhabitant has survived. All the signs point to it having been orcs or some other of Tion’s monsters.” He noted the concern on their faces. “There is no longer any doubt: the beasts are back in Girdlegard.”
Gandogar raised his hand. “I, too, have terrible news to report.” He told them of the theft of the diamond and the poisoning of the dwarves, then handed over to Tungdil, who recounted how yet a further stone had been lost and how a new version of Tion’s creatures had appeared.
Like all the others, Bruron sat thunderstruck. “Undergroundlings? Dwarves from the Outer Lands in alliance with magic orcs to get the diamonds? Am I hearing right?”
“They’re all in it together,” Queen Isika said with conviction. “The orcs, the undergroundlings and these magic hybrids.” She addressed Gandogar. “You will have to face up to the question, high king of the dwarves, of how these beings have been able to enter whenever they want, through the gates and over the passes.” The woman’s voice was sharp enough to cut glass. She made no attempt to hide the fact that she had no faith in the dwarves’ defense provision.
“Against magic we are powerless,” admitted Gandogar. “You are forgetting that the orc we have heard about was able to change its shape. If there are more of them, then they have probably been able to walk right into Girdlegard unimpeded.”
“That would explain the finds in Toboribor.” It was Mallen’s turn. “The search party I sent out after the village was destroyed found evidence of recent habitation in the old orc caves.”
“It’s all coming together. So it was orcs, magic orcs, that stole Lot-Ionan’s statue,” Queen Isika suggested. “They took the last of our magic so we would have nothing to fight them with.” She leaned back. “We need a new magus for Girdlegard.” She faced Tiwalún. “Perhaps one of the elves can weave magic?”
The elf bit his lips. “Even if this were the case, there are no more magic force fields where we could source the powers.” He exchanged glances with Vilanoîl. “I did not want to mention it. Not yet. But in the circumstances we cannot keep the truth from you.” He took a deep breath. “Lord Liútasil is dead. He lost his life trying to defend our diamond.”
“Ye gods, protect us,” whispered Queen Umilante in horror. “If even the elves are not safe from the beasts, who can help us then?”
Total silence reigned.
Nobody moved, no one spoke. They were able to pick up the sounds of the canvas flapping gently in the breeze and the guy-ropes easing or taking the strain as the wind made the tent walls move.
“We can,” Tungdil called out, determination in his voice. He was sick of seeing these powerful rulers behaving like frightened animals herded into a corner by cattle-rustlers. “The children of the Smith! And all of you! We overcame Nôd’onn together, and together we drove out the avatars.” He placed Keenfire on the table before the high king. “This weapon was able to inflict injury on that creature and it will protect me from all magic attacks.”
Wey regarded the impressive ax, and encouraging memories of past victories over evil returned. “He is right. But he can’t be everywhere all at once. As I said before. Let us take all the remaining diamonds to the safest of our fortresses and let us give Tungdil Goldhand our best warriors. In this way we can protect the stones and perhaps recover the ones that have been stolen.”
Mallen applauded. “Let us cease talking up our fears. We sit back waiting for the next onslaught. We need to act!” He stood up and went over to the map of Girdlegard. “I suggest we take the diamonds to Immengau.” He drew his dagger and placed its point at a spot immediately below Porista. “King Bruron suggested the old fortress in Paland from cycles long past, when trolls and ogres battled for possession of Gauragar. It was never taken by the trolls—the walls were too high, too strong. It’s been abandoned for ages. Farmers keep their cattle there. Let’s restore it to its former glory.”
“I’ve already sent a workforce to Paland to start clearing the site,” said Bruron,
turning to Gandogar. “Be good enough to send us your best masons to have a look at the state of the walls.”
“At once,” agreed the dwarf.
“And the rest of you,” Mallen addressed them with authority. “Send your best archers and warriors to Paland to occupy the battlements and to show a determined front to any who would rob us of our diamonds. Meanwhile, let the most knowledgeable scouts be sent through the caves of Toboribor to find those orcs.” He slammed his fist onto the table. “Long enough have we conducted ourselves like mice terrified by a cat. From the present orbit onwards we shall be like wolves!”
Isika rose. “One condition: no dwarves in Paland. Apart from Tungdil Goldhand and Boïndil Doubleblade.”
Gandogar lowered his head “What is the meaning of imposing such a condition, Majesty?”
“You said yourself that you are fighting the thirdlings in your own ranks. If you cannot recognize them, how should we be able to? After everything that has happened, they might see fit to ally themselves with the orcs and the undergroundlings rather than fight on our side.” She did not avoid his stare but answered him with all the sovereign dignity at her disposal. “I do not propose this to diminish you and your people. My only concern is to preserve the security of the fortress. No more, no less.”
“She is right.” Tiwalún rushed to defend her. “The children of the Smith must sort out their own house first. Send an army to the Outer Lands to find the camp of the thirdlings who are pursuing you with death machines. Find them and destroy them. Sift out the traitors from your own ranks and make sure the gates to Girdlegard are protected.” He bowed to Gandogar. “Twice the dwarves have been instrumental in saving our homeland. Now it is the turn of the elves. We shall come to Paland with all the warriors we have. That was Liútasil’s dying wish.”
Isika was the first to start clapping, and the others all joined in. The elves were nurturing that tiny seedling of hope sown by the dwarves, giving it water.