by Markus Heitz
“And we have these appalling creatures in their tionium armor,” Nate reminded the assembly. “By Palandiell, if there’s not magic involved there where on earth else do they get their powers?”
“So they’re out looking for the diamonds independently of the thirdlings and the orcs… in order to take over control?” Ortger gestured to the map. “There are no magic force fields any longer, so these beasts must be from the Outer Lands. How did they get in and how did they find out about the stones? Are they capable of sensing magic?”
“No. Otherwise they would not be wasting their time stealing the false stones.” Mallen tasted his wine, hoping that the effects of the alcohol would calm him. “That’s obvious. None of the three groups has yet found the real diamond that the eoîl invested power in.”
A servant bearing the insignia of Idoslane entered the council tent, bringing a message, and waiting for the ruler to read its contents.
Mallen’s eyes flew over the page and, when he had finished reading, he drained the wine in his cup. “It seems that evil does not merely have the diamonds in its sights,” he said out loud, laying the letter on the table. “One of my villages, Calmstead, has been razed to the ground. There are no survivors. People were burned to death in their houses. Why the village was singled out I have no idea. The commander of the neighboring castle reports there are signs that orcs were responsible. He has sent scouts into the caves of Toboribor.”
“I thought the caves were empty,” said Nate. “Didn’t you have all the passages searched that time?”
“That was five cycles ago. If orcs have found a new entry into Girdlegard they may have reactivated their old breeding grounds.” Mallen rose. “You must excuse me. I must issue orders for the soldiers.”
“We ought to defer the rest of our talks in the circumstances, until High King Gandogar can be with us,” suggested Bruron. “In the meantime we can ponder further on these issues. If anyone would be interested in inspecting the site for my new palace…?”
“I move that the remaining diamonds be collected together in one place and guarded with the greatest force we can muster between us in Girdlegard.” Queen Wey, a woman around fifty cycles of age, wearing a floor-length dark dress studded with numberless diamonds, raised her voice and surprised everybody with her proposal. She did not belong to the circle of those known for their military prowess. “Apparently the individual races are not in a position to keep their stones safe from these robbers. Why shouldn’t all of us help? Let’s have them behind the walls of the strongest castle, surrounded with all the engines of war at our disposal, and have thousands of soldiers guarding them. Then no one would be able to steal them. Kept separately they are much more vulnerable.”
Nate nodded assent at once. “Excellent idea, Queen Wey.”
“Indeed,” Isika spoke warmly. “We might all have come to that conclusion, dear sister.” This form of words surprised no one. The two queens, so different in appearance, addressed each other as siblings in order to stress their unity of purpose. She raised her hand. “I am in favor.”
All the assembled monarchs followed her example.
Glaïmbli and the two elves, however, did not stir. “Wait for Gandogar,” was the only response from the unwilling dwarf.
Tiwalún and Vilanoîl promised to inform their prince and to tell the assembly of his decision. “By the time Gandogar arrives we shall have Liútasil’s view on this,” said Tiwalún. “Now, I should be delighted to see the progress on your new building. Were your builders able to make use of the advice we gave you, King Bruron?”
Mallen went past them and hurried over to find his horse, puzzling as he walked. So far no elf delegation had appeared in his own kingdom to negotiate any exchange of skills. Bruron, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the privilege of benefitting from landur knowledge already.
He doubted whether Idoslane was still a candidate after the quarrel with Rejalin. So he was more than amazed on returning to his accommodation to find waiting for him a letter from Liútasil announcing the arrival of a deputation.
Mallen was not at all sure he wanted them in his kingdom.
VII
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Idoslane,
Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tungdil lay next to Balyndis staring at the ceiling. Then he stared into the darkness just underneath the ceiling. It didn’t make a whole lot of difference. He might just as well have stared into the fire, at the sun or into the abyss.
He thought hard. He thought so hard and so long that in spite of physical exhaustion he was unable to sleep.
Something was wrong.
The joy at being back again with Balyndis had not ebbed; in the same way, their mutual avowals of affection, and the tender gestures which they had exchanged for the first time in ages—it all felt genuine.
But still, everything he did and said had a touch of emptiness. It was like spring with no blossom. Things were growing, but colors and fragrance were missing.
And because he felt so absurdly discontented and unfulfilled, he hated himself. He was starting to destroy their newfound happiness—and totally without reason. In past cycles he had attributed this feeling to his guilt about the death of their son. But that wasn’t it.
Carefully, so as not to risk waking the dwarf-woman by his side, he got up, put on his nightshirt and left the bedroom.
He strolled through the vaults but even there he didn’t have the feeling that he was at home.
Tungdil went into the kitchen, prepared some herbal tea with yarrow, hellebore and fennel, sipped it slowly and waited for the calming effect that would stop his brain spinning.
Just when his eyelids were growing heavy and his head was sinking slowly onto the table he heard a dull thud somewhere near the front of the vaults. A rotten beam giving way would have sounded different. Someone was busying themselves at the entrance door, trying to break in. Tungdil feared the worst.
Calm was out of the window; all his senses were on alert. He ran back into the bedroom, threw on his chain mail shirt, thrust his feet into his boots, and grabbed Keenfire.
“What’s happening?” Balyndis sat up.
“We’ve got visitors,” he replied swiftly. “Ireheart!” he bellowed. “Get up! There’s work for your crow’s beak.” He buckled his weapon belt on and turned to her. “Do you think you can help us?”
She grinned. “What impression did I make on you just now in bed?” Balyndis was on her feet, already putting on a chain mail shirt. After a second’s hesitation she made her choice and picked up a hatchet and a shield from the weapon-rack.
“Where’s the fight?” Boïndil had not bothered to put on armor. He stood bare-chested, his hair unbraided, his beard flowing free. At least he had on his leather breeches and boots, and his crow’s beak weapon shone in his fists. Next to him Goda appeared, having taken a little longer to get armed. “What do you mean…”
Another crash came from the entrance and they heard the splintering of wood.
“Right, I get it,” Boïndil said grimly. “Someone’s hoping to pick up a stone that doesn’t belong to him.”
Either that or the elves had taken the dirty fingerprints on the monolith more seriously than they could have dreamed. But Tungdil had not wanted to tell the womenfolk anything about their less-than-heroic adventures in landur. “Let’s take a look,” he commanded, and crept along the passageway.
The evening air reached them and the flames of the oil lamps flickered in the breeze. There was a smell of dew-laden grass and damp warm earth…
That shouldn’t be so! It would mean the gate was open and their uninvited guest already inside the vaults!
They turned round a corner and saw that the double gate had been destroyed; it lay in pieces on the ground.
“Has he got a battering ram?” whispered Boïndil, looking around. There were any number of openings in the tunnel they were in. The enemy might jump out at them from any of these.
“
If it’s one of those monsters, it won’t need a battering ram,” replied Tungdil. He listened intently. There was another sound. It came from the back of the section where Lot-Ionan’s old magic school had been. “Quick!” he called out, sprinting along to the laboratorium. “It’s looking for the diamond in exactly the right place.”
Balyndis dropped back behind the others. She was still grappling with the after-effects of her illness. The others mustn’t be held back because of her. They hurried on, even though now their numbers were reduced.
“I wonder which of the beasts we’re fighting this time,” said Ireheart as they ran. “The one in armor or the device that rolled into the throne room?” His eyes sparkled with life and fighting spirit. Goda and the new tasks had rekindled the warrior’s vital life-forge. “Ha! We’ll thrash it out of its metal and hack it into tiny pieces, if…”
In a flash the fiend stood before them.
It seemed to emerge from the shadows, with no warning and no sound. The sight was enough for the dwarves to know that it was neither of the beings they had already heard described. They had a third variety of monster facing them.
It was twice their size in height and breadth. Its body was covered in gray and green blotches, like an orc’s; it consisted entirely of muscles without a hint of fat. Long black hair hung in strands from its head, where two pointed ears stuck up.
The face reminded them in a terrible way of an elf, but instead of their refined beauty, there were dead eyes and sharp incisors, which the creature was baring viciously.
It wore only a leather loin cloth and carried a rucksack. No iron in its body, no tionium here, no machine this time. Round its forearms were slung white chains and under them iron bands to which the last link in the chain was fastened.
“Out of the way, groundlings,” it said in an elf-high voice, its dark eyes flashing green.
“You won’t get past us, monster,” said Ireheart, full of confidence, crashing the blunt end of his crow’s beak weapon against the passage wall. “What shall I call you? You don’t look like one of the snout-faces.”
Goda watched her master in confusion; why in the face of this terrible being was he quibbling about nomenclature? She had heard strange tales about Boïndil and she was starting to fear they were all true.
“Do you have the stone?” Tungdil demanded, as he brandished his famous Keenfire ax in the creature’s direction. “Give it back. You know how things will end for you otherwise.”
“But it’ll end badly whatever happens, won’t it?” Worried now, Ireheart mouthed at his friend.
The monster shook its dreadful head. “Get away,” it repeated, taking a step forward.
Boïndil bared his teeth and lowered his head; his hair fell down over his forehead. “The old way, Scholar?”
“The old way, Ireheart.” Tungdil attacked the right hip, giving no warning, and turned in toward the enemy, his friend following through at his back.
A split second before Tungdil’s blow hit home Boïndil crouched down and sliced at the creature’s right shin. It wouldn’t be able to parry both strikes at the same time, and, more importantly, what could it defend itself with?
The movement with which their opponent evaded their blades came too fast and too unexpectedly for the dwarves.
The creature launched itself off the ground, sprang diagonally against the passage wall and ricocheted over Goda’s head. Her attempt to hit at it failed, and the robber escaped into one of the side tunnels.
“Hey! It can hop like a frog!” Boïndil was furious. “Come back here, froggy!” He raced past Goda, reproving her for her badly aimed blow. “You’ll be dragging beams again for that.” She hurried after him, her eyes downcast in shame.
They took on the pursuit together.
The monster had lost its sense of direction in the maze of tunnels, as Tungdil soon realized, because it was running off toward the kitchen. There was no way out from there.
They stormed into the room and confronted it just as it was trying to force its way up into the flue. Its shoulders were too broad for it to escape up through the chimney.
When it heard its enemies approach it came back out of the fireplace and stared at them. A brief shake of the arms was enough to free up the chains it bore; the runes glowed on the wrist bands. Its fists closed in a grip at the ends of the chains.
“Look out. It will use the chains like a whip,” guessed Tungdil, speaking tensely. “Boïndil and I will attack simultaneously. Goda, watch the door.”
The dwarves went for the monster from both sides, but saw that in spite of its huge size they had a cunning and damnably agile adversary.
Ireheart ducked under the flying chains, but was kicked in the chest and crashed back against the place where the pots and pans were stored. The wooden door gave way under the impact, shelves fell out and buried Boïndil under the contents of the cupboard.
At first Tungdil had better luck. He too lowered his head, avoided the whirling chain, and heaved Keenfire up with both hands in an attempt to whack it into the belly of the monster; but the creature’s other claw shot forward and grabbed the haft.
Something extraordinary happened.
The ax head started glowing, the inlay flamed up and the diamonds blazed like tiny suns, so that Tungdil closed his eyes against the glare.
The monster shrieked in anger and shock. It had let go of Keenfire and was stumbling backwards, as the dwarf could hear. There was the smell of burning flesh.
Hardly had Tungdil caught sight of his opponent as a shadowy form than he hacked at it. The ax Keenfire, dragging a comet-like fire behind it, stopped short at the monster’s hip and was jerked aside. Tungdil nearly lost hold of it.
Glowing chain links wrapped themselves around the head of the ax, stopping its impetus. With a great hiss the magical power of both weapons collided and red and green sparks flew through the kitchen, scorching wood and stone alike. And what was worse: the sparks fizzled in Tungdil’s beard, burning holes. Slowly but surely the handle was growing hot.
“What the hell is happening here?” yelled Boïndil, struggling out of the mound of frying pans. He’d lost his crow’s beak in the heap of broken pots. “Magic?” He picked up a particularly sturdy casserole dish and hurled it at the creature. “Stop that now, frog! Fight like a proper monster!”
The casserole smashed into its broad chest.
With a grunt the creature spun round and looked at the warrior, who had just found the handle of his weapon and was extracting it from the debris, ready to use. It swung its left arm, allowing the second chain to surge forward suddenly with a snake-like movement. This time the chain glowed dark green and made no bones about concealing its magic powers.
Boïndil swerved to avoid it, but the creature knew full well how to use its unusual weapons to best advantage. A short jerk and the chain changed direction in mid-flight, wrapping itself around the dwarf’s neck.
Ireheart gave a sharp, strangled cry, dropped his crow’s beak and fell to the ground.
Tungdil pulled the ax free with a shout, and the chain rattled to the floor.
“Get back or the groundling dies,” commanded the fiendish creature. As if to back up his claims the älfar engravings on the left wrist band lit up, and the chain tethering Ireheart glowed more intensively. He began to make convulsive movements and gurgling noises escaped his throat as he collapsed.
Suddenly Goda was standing at Tungdil’s side. “What shall we do?”
“Let it go!” he hissed through clenched teeth as he stepped to one side. He did not want to lose Boïndil. “We can get the diamond back when it thinks it is safe and has let Ireheart go.”
The green glow faded. The monster pulled the captive dwarf over toward it, winding the chain back round its wrist until it showed only half an arm’s length. Ireheart was being forced to his feet. He stood swaying on his tiptoes so as not to throttle himself. The chain was hot and had scorched his lovely black beard and long hair. “Don’t follow!” the creat
ure ordered as it went past Goda and Tungdil.
It went backwards through the tunnel, keeping one eye on the dwarves. It sniffed loudly, getting its bearings from the smells to locate an exit from the vaults; its nostrils were flared wide. It continued on its way, dragging Ireheart in its tracks, panting and choking.
“When do we free him?” asked Goda in a hostile whisper. “He can’t breathe!”
“As long as he’s still making some kind of noise he’s all right,” answered Tungdil, racking his brains for some ploy to use against the enemy. It seemed Goda was completely ignoring the intruder’s magic, which probably had not yet been used to its full potential. Keenfire would protect him from sorcery, as it had done at the Blacksaddle when he fought the Mist Demons. But a well-aimed strike on the head with the heavy chains would certainly cause a very serious injury.
The creature had found the passageway leading to the gate and was increasing its pace. With a swift movement it loosened the throttle-hold on Ireheart’s neck and he collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. Horrified, he groped the singed beard and hair ends: “I’m crippled! For that I’m going to strip the skin off you and slice it into pieces, frog,” he grated, as he pushed himself up onto his feet. “Your weapon, Goda!”
“No, master. You said yourself a warrior never lets his weapon out of his hand.”
“Goda, this is not another silly test! Give me your weapon.” It was an indistinct cough rather than speech. A quiet but horrified exclamation from Tungdil made him look. Balyndis was standing directly in front of the creature, blocking its way to the exit.
“Get out of the way,” yelled Tungdil, “Otherwise…”
The warning came too late. Boldly Balyndis was attacking with her hatchet, fending off the spiraling chains with her shield. She was in range for a hit.
The monster used its chain-wrapped left forearm as a decoy. Hardly had the blade touched the links of the chain before magic was released.
A green lightning bolt struck the weapon, which burst into pieces, showering the dwarf-woman with a hail of shrapnel. The shield was penetrated in several places. Balyndis staggered and fell first against the tunnel wall, then slowly to the ground.