by Markus Heitz
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 th
eir 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.”
“What makes you so sure, Ginsgar?” Malbalor’s question was harsh; he was removing this firstling from his mental list of those who might deputize for him. “What use is a diamond to them if they do not have a magus?”
“The freelings could be envious because they were not given one. They are outcasts—outlaws: criminals. We must not lose sight of that.”
“You never lose sight of anything, Ginsgar. You never forget the past of the thirdlings or that of the freelings,” the king answered sharply.
“As opposed to many others,” he replied determinedly. “Thirdlings steal, to bring us trouble. First they construct these machines, then they rob us to get the better of us: to make us look stupid. They take the most valuable thing in Girdlegard.”
Malbalor strode past him. “The most valuable thing in Girdlegard is the common resolve of those who live here. Our common resolve.” He looked at Ginsgar: “You, Ginsgar Unforce of the Nail Smiths of the firstlings, shall leave the Black Range tomorrow with your clan. You may cause trouble in your own land but not here where I rule.” He left him standing and walked out.
He could not accept the interpretation of events this dwarf had given him, even if it would have been simpler to do just that.
Girdlegard,
Elf Land of landur,
Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle
Looking at the forest they were passing through, Tungdil found it had changed a good deal since his last visit to see Liútasil. Trees in landur obviously flourished and grew faster than anywhere else.
Ireheart, likewise walking along beside his pony, followed his friend’s glance. “I thought I was imagining it,” he said. “These shrubby things have shot up like weeds.” He pulled his crow’s beak out of the pack horse’s saddlebag and weighed it lightly in his left hand. “Same as ever—I always feel naked here,” he explained to Tungdil. “I may have lost my fighting fury but I’m still a warrior through and through. If one of these tendrils tries to grab me, I’ll be ready for it.”
“I trust the elves.”
“So do I, Scholar.” Ireheart shouldered his weapon. “But I don’t trust their vegetation.”
Two elves stepped suddenly out of the shelter of the trees. They wore robes of delicate textiles and had precious silver and gold clips in their long blond hair; the elegant clothing fell loosely about their tall, slim figures.
“Welcome to landur, Tungdil Goldhand and Boïndil Doubleblade.” The right-hand elf sang, rather than spoke, the words. Both elves bowed to the dwarves.
“By Vraccas, their faces look more fragile than ever,” muttered Ireheart. “Or is it their clothes that give that impression?”
Tungdil grinned. “You’re the one leading the mission. You must answer them,” he whispered back.
“Me?”
“Of course, who else?”
“But you’re the scholar.”
“Gandogar entrusted this to you. I’m just here because you kidnapped me.” Tungdil was greatly enjoying the warrior’s discomfiture.
Boïndil sighed and gave a bow in his turn, even if his was not as low and gracious as that with which the elves had greeted him. “May Vraccas be with you,” was his faltering salutation. “We are emissaries of our high king, and come to pay our respects.” He pointed to the bundles on the back of the mule. “That is for Liútasil, and…” He went through his pockets slowly until he had unearthed the note from Eldrur. “And this is our letter from your own delegate.” He held it out to the elves. “We… come in peace.” Then he looked over to Tungdil and rolled his eyes. “I can’t do it,” he whispered helplessly. “Help me out here, or I’ll end up starting a war.”
The elves were studying the letter closely and smiling again. “We are pleased that
the children of the Smith are warming to our culture. We shall be happy to take you through our realm and show you how we live,” said the spokesman, standing aside and indicating the path. “Come. We have prepared quarters for you.”
“I only hope it’s not up in the tree-tops,” Ireheart couldn’t help remarking as he held his hand out for the letter. There was a moment’s hesitation before it was returned. “The nesting places I’d rather leave to the birds.”
“We know what your preferences are,” the elf answered amicably, leading the way.
“Very considerate of you,” Tungdil thanked them, aware that he should do the talking now after the mid-level insults his friend had offered their hosts. Boïndil sighed with relief. “We bring gifts for your Prince Liútasil.”
“Our prince will be delighted about the donkey.” One of the elves laughed, clear as glass; so high and pure a sound was almost painful to dwarf ears.
“No, of course it’s not the donkey that’s the gift,” said Tungdil, joining in with their merriment—anything to drown out those high tinkling tones. “The donkey is carrying the treasures.”
“As I thought. But nobody has ever given him a donkey before. It would be a novelty for him.” He bowed once more, introducing himself. “I am Tiwalún, and this is Vilanoîl. We have been sent to escort you through landur. Please ask us anything you want to know. We will be glad to satisfy your curiosity.”
“My thanks, Tiwalún.” Tungdil recognized the path. It would lead to the clearing where he had first met the elf lord Liútasil and had spoken with him about the eoîl. He enquired courteously about the ruler’s health.
“Our prince is well, but at the moment he is in the southwest of the realm dealing with important matters,” explained Tiwalún, stepping into a clearing where a tent stood. “As soon as he has settled affairs there he will come to speak to you. Now I wish you both a good night.”
Tungdil saw the walls of green velvet. “It is Liútasil’s tent,” he told Ireheart. “Thank you for the honor you show us,” he said to Tiwalún, adding an dwarf-saying in their own elf language: “We know our friends by the hospitality they accord us.”