by Markus Heitz
Kartev nodded to him. “Right.” He stood up and ran off, faster than Bendelbar had ever seen a man run before. He could do nothing but wait for help.
It was a long time coming. He heard alarm horns sounding, excited voices, weapons clashing, and now and then the sound of a dwarf in pain and furious. Every fiber in Bendelbar’s being demanded he join the hunt for the intruders, but he was helpless under the iron grating.
At last, steps came near.
Kartev’s coarse face appeared above him. “I’m back,” he said. Many hands helped to move the heavy grid. His shoulder painful and his skull throbbing, Bendelbar slid out from under the metal bars. Someone helped him to his feet. Before him stood the trader and Queen Xamtys. And maybe sixty warriors with blood on their weapons. “What happened?” he asked, bowing to his queen.
“We had to kill most of them, they were so wild,” she said. “They even got as far as the treasure chamber, but I don’t know what the outcome was. Terrible confusion.” Xamtys looked at Kartev. “Two of them fled, but you won’t get them back alive.” She handed him a bag that clinked in the familiar way: gold coins. “Take this as compensation and as my thanks for your attempt to aid us in our fight against the undergroundlings in the treasure chamber.”
The man bowed. “Thank you, noble lady. I am sorry that our commerce should take this form. I would have preferred to hand the captives into your keeping alive.” He pointed to the broken base of the cage. “I would never have thought them capable of breaking it open with a few pieces of iron. And they freed themselves from their chains, too.”
“It is not your fault. My guards should have checked the wagon more thoroughly,” she said, looking at Bendelbar. “From now on I shall expect my gate guards to be three times as watchful.” She spoke the words cuttingly. “Return to your post and let this be a lesson to you. This raid could easily have been successful.” She turned and moved off, followed by her retinue and surrounded by her bodyguards.
Bendelbar grimaced. He was in pain and was in disgrace with the queen. The last piece of news in particular would not be popular with the chief of his clan. He’d get another dressing-down there, for sure. He looked angrily at Kartev, who was loading the first bits of ruined cage on to his cart. “Leave it.” He gave the order for the rest of the guards to take over.
Not long afterwards Kartev was on his way back to the Outer Lands, accompanied by Bendelbar with what remained of his vehicle. It was a long journey for them both: three sun orbits on the broadest of roads in the dwarf realm, past many wonders, large and small, constructed out of stone, steel and iron. The sight of statues, bridges and murals raised the dwarf’s spirits.
Although the tradesman had received adequate recompense for his trouble, he was not happy about the outcome of his journey. It seemed to Bendelbar the man was mourning the loss of the undergroundlings. At any rate, he wasn’t appreciating the wonders they passed.
Seeing as he did not have the slightest wish to communicate, they were both silent when they went back through the gates of Ironhald. More than a mere “Vraccas keep you” did not cross their lips.
Bendelbar stopped. He ordered the outer gate to be closed and the wall gate to be opened for the trader, then he rushed up to the battlements to follow the progress of the ox-cart with his eyes.
Just as he was wondering why Kartev, after all that long waiting period at the gates, had not gone into Girdlegard with his gold to buy goods to sell on his way home, the man was doing something even stranger.
When he had left the last ramparts behind him, Kartev stopped to chat to a new arrival who was heading for West Ironhald: he pressed the reins of his oxen into the man’s hand and continued on his way without his cart or belongings.
“Vraccas, what is it with this fellow?” wondered Bendelbar, coming down from his vantage point. He wanted to find out.
He had just commandeered a pony and ordered five mounted guards to accompany him, when a messenger hurried past, storming into the quarters of Gondagar Bitterfist of the clan of the Bitter Fists, the commander of West Ironhald.
“Wait,” said Bendelbar to his companions, guessing that this agitation had something to do with the trader.
It took just about as long as a dwarf needs to draw an ax, take aim and hurl it at an enemy—that’s if you had a second one on you—before the threatening thunderous voice of the stronghold’s main alarm horn sounded. It was powered by huge bellows and activated from inside the commander’s quarters. It sent out its continuous message along the ramparts, up the slopes of the mountain, and all along the ravine.
The door flew open. Gondagar appeared, pulling his helmet on over his black curls, and gesturing at the dwarf next to Bendelbar. “You there, dismount. Let me on,” he ordered, swinging himself up into the saddle. “Let’s go. Stop that trader!” he yelled, spurring the horse so that it reared up at the pain and galloped off. “In all that confusion he’s replaced the diamond with a false one made of glass.”
Bendelbar ran hot and cold. His guilt was growing by the minute.
The dwarves on their ponies chased along the twists and turns of the ravine, and the gates opened before them in the nick of time.
Every hoofbeat brought them deeper into the Outer Lands. They followed the broad but uneven road; however hard they pushed their mounts they did not catch up with the trader.
Round each corner they expected to see him but were disappointed. There was nowhere he could have hidden. The walls of the chasm either went vertically upwards or there was a precipice down on the other side. The stone was too smooth to give any hand- or foothold.
Not until the sun was sinking over the Red Mountains and darkness was falling over the area like a black cloth, did they come to a halt.
Gondagar cursed roundly. “Where the hell has the bastard got to?” he called out furiously to the echoing mountain walls. “He must be in league with Tion, or how else have we not overtaken him? May Vraccas strike him down with his hammer!”
Bendelbar’s pony snorted in alarm and skidded round a harmless piece of rock on the roadside. The other mounts blew sharply through their nostrils and pricked up their ears, dancing on the spot and only kept from bolting by the riders pulling hard on the reins.
Then Bendelbar smelt it, too: orcs. The smell of their sweat carried on the evening air, polluting it. He slid out of the saddle and took his ax in his hand.
Gondagar followed suit. “I can smell them but I can’t see them,” he growled. “What devilry is this?”
Bendelbar approached the rock the pony had shied from, and held his weapon at the ready. “Perhaps there’s a secret under the stone—”
Suddenly the rock turned into Kartev. The trader threw himself forward with a huge cudgel in his right hand, hitting the dwarf on his injured shoulder.
The blow was hard, too powerful to have come from a normal man, who would not have been strong enough to wield a large club like that with one hand. Equally, it was impossible for a normal man to take on the shape of a rock. Something was not right here.
Bendelbar fell against the pony and under the whirling hooves of the terrified animal. Before he could protect himself from the kicks and get upright again, clenching his teeth against the pain, the fight with Kartev was decided.
But not in the way Bendelbar had expected.
His dwarf friends lay moaning or silent on the path, the man standing over them, taking deep breaths. He looked down at Bendelbar. “Stay where you are. I’ve got what I wanted,” he said, his voice sounding more guttural now, more like—an orc. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“But I want to fight!” yelled Bendelbar, lifting his ax and leaping forward. “Vraccas, come to my aid against the accursed greenskin.”
His ax blow was parried, and the cudgel jabbed him on the cheek and pushed him over.
To the dwarf it felt like being kicked by a pony. Half stunned, but determined not to submit to the enemy, he got to his feet and brandished his ax to keep the attacker at arm’s length. He co
uld see the hazy outline of an orc in front of him. “You won’t get away,” he threatened, his words slurred.
The broad shadow rushed past him and his blade met empty air.
“But I’ve already got away,” the being called from afar. “Go back to West Ironhald and have your wounds treated.” The sound of speeding hooves was heard.
Bendelbar shook his head, trying to clear it. It was no good. He would have to wait until his head stopped spinning and his vision was no longer blurred.
When he stood up, Gondagar was just coming round. The cudgel had made a substantial dent in his helmet and blood was trickling through his black hair, down his chin, his beard and his neck.
“What a ghastly country,” he groaned. “You can’t tell the difference between the orcs and the people. Apart from the smell, that is.” He took in his surroundings. “He’s stolen our pony.”
The dwarves slowly got to their feet. Bruises, one broken arm, painful cuts but no fatalities. Bendelbar was not the only one to express surprise at that. The orc had spared them. This incident would surely give rise to intensive debate at the dwarf folks’ assembly.
They gave up their pursuit and returned to West Ironhald. Halfway there, support troops from the firstling kingdom came out to meet them. A band of about fifty male and female dwarves were approaching on horseback.
As quickly as possible Gondagar related their encounter and spoke of the peculiar abilities displayed by their adversary. “Beware of his magic. It seems he can transform himself into anything he likes. But he still smells of orc,” he told them. “Pay heed to your noses and your ponies. They are less likely to be fooled than your eyes.”
The leader of the troop nodded. “And you be careful, back in the stronghold, what you drink. Several wells have been poisoned. The experts are testing them, one by one.”
“What?” Bendelbar stopped short in the act of opening his own flask.
“A hundred dead have been discovered to the south of the Red Range. They must have died several orbits ago. They all showed signs of bleeding from their mouths, eyes, noses and ears. The clan of the Hard Hammers has been completely wiped out. The queen thinks the thirdlings are behind it.” He nodded at them grimly. “They’ll tell you more back at the fortress. We must push on.” The troop surged forward, leaving the five dwarves behind in a cloud of dust.
Yet more deaths among his kind. But this time Bendelbar was certain that the raid did not stem from the undergroundlings. If it had been the undergroundlings, the weight of his own responsibility would have been incalculable.
VIII
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Porista
Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Do you think the elves are going to cause trouble about the landur thing, Scholar?” Ireheart was growing increasingly uneasy, the nearer they got to Porista. On the horizon now, the city—the future seat of Gauragar’s administration—promised reunions with old friends and probably with old enemies. The dwarf had not forgotten the incriminating finger marks he had left on the elves’ holy stone. Nor had Tungdil.
“We won’t let it get that far,” said his companion, scratching his pony behind the ear. “The good thing about this assembly is that we can tell Liútasil what you did face to face.” He glance at Goda; they had spoken to her about her master’s elf-land mishap. The dwarf-girl kept out of the exchange, but followed every word with silent glee.
“Right.” Ireheart resigned himself to his fate. It was difficult to predict what consequences might result from his having touched the monument. “It didn’t break and it didn’t crack,” he said, eliminating the worst-case scenario. “It left a stain, that’s all. I bet it’ll go away when it’s polished up.” He clapped his thigh. “It’ll be fine. Bit of elbow grease and it’ll be good as new. If there’s still a problem we can send one of our master masons to show the elves how to treat a decent piece of stone so that a perfectly clean hand won’t leave marks.”
“Your words flow like molten gold. Could it be that you are trying to reassure yourself?” grinned Tungdil.
“Me? Am I bothered? Who would I have to be worried about?”
“Liútasil, perhaps?”
“Rubbish! Not scared of elves.” The warrior fell into a sulk and urged his pony on ahead. The sooner he met the lord of the elves and could explain what had happened—he might need his friend’s help there—the sooner the punishment would be over with.
“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 dri
nk.
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?”