by Markus Heitz
“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 nothi
ng 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.
Gandogar agreed.
Then the wholescale planning began: when and how to take the diamonds to the fortress Immengau, along which secret routes and under what security measures. Not until late that night had they managed to settle all the open questions.
“Let’s lose no more time.” King Bruron gave the signal to dissolve the assembly. “Is there anything more to discuss?”
“In all our concern about protecting the diamonds there’s something we mustn’t forget. I extend my sympathies to you both, Tiwalún and Vilanoîl, on the death of your sovereign lord.” Mallen’s voice was heard. “His death, and that of all who have died in defense of the diamonds, shall not have been in vain. But before we part, to meet again in Paland, tell us: Who is to succeed Liútasil?”
Vilanoîl smiled. “My thanks to you and all who mourn with us in our loss. In ten orbits I shall be able to answer your question, Prince Mallen of Idoslane. We are presently deliberating. Liútasil named no successor. We shall inform the realms of humans and the kingdoms of dwarves when joy replaces sorrow in our hearts.”
The elves left the tent and the leaders made their way back to their quarters.
Mallen and the dwarves remained there under the canvas roof, drinking up and thinking back on what had happened and on the plans that had been forged.
Tungdil went over to the map to look at the locations of the village that had been destroyed and the town that had been wiped out. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered. “They are much too far apart to have been attacked by the same group of orcs in such a short space of time. And why attack them but leave villages and farmsteads round about untouched? Orcs will always destroy everything in their path.”
“Maybe these orcs are different?” interjected Mallen. “Gandogar, didn’t you say that there wasn’t a single death amongst the dwarves when the orcs stole the fourthlings’ stone? Odd, isn’t it?”
The very moment the blond prince spoke, Tungdil remembered what had struck him as strange in the descriptions of the attacks. Neither the undergroundlings nor the mysterious orcs with the pink eyes had done any killing. The indiscriminate slaughter had only begun when the machine arrived in the lift-hoist before retreating into the galleries and disappearing.
“Cudgels,” he breathed. “The orcs attacked with cudgels. And the undergroundlings creating that diversion in the Red Range—they injured people but killed no one.” And that was in spite of none of them surviving the battle. Two had previously evaded the queen’s guard and gone off through the body of the mountain. They had all sacrificed themselves for the sake of this robbery. He put his suspicions into words. “Gandogar, we have to find those undergroundlings, alive, to interrogate them.”
Ireheart saw it the same way. “They are giving their lives to recover their property.”
“Their property?” chorused Gandogar and Mallen.
“My word, Ireheart!” Tungdil ran to his friend and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Of course! How could I miss that?” He hit himself on the forehead. “And they call me the Scholar!” he cried. “It should be your name!”
“You never know!” Ireheart was immensely proud and felt the need to stroke his long black beard but his hand met empty air. He had managed for a time to forget about that loss.
“They’re after the diamond, because it’s theirs!” Tungdil turned to the prince and to the high king. “Do you remember how we always thought a diamond with all those wonderful facets could only have been cut by dwarf craftsmen?”
“By Vraccas, we must have been blind!” exclaimed Gandogar, conjuring up the exact image of the diamond in his imagination. His tribe had fashioned the imitation stones and they had needed to apply every ounce of skill to come near to the original.
“The eoîl had stolen it from the undergroundlings!”
“And when they found out how powerful an artifact it has become, they wasted no time in trying to get it back. They know very well we’re not likely to surrender it voluntarily,” Tungdil deduced.
“But what have the orcs got to do with the diamond? Why are they helping the undergroundlings to recover it?”
“That’s what I was wondering,” grunted Boïndil. “There can’t be a pact of any kind between our kind and these beasts.”
“The undergroundlings must think differently on that score,” Tungdil reminded him. The word pact gave him an idea. “This town and the other place that have been destroyed—do they have anything in common?”
“Apart from being located near the realms of monsters?” Mallen studied the map. “King Ortger didn’t mention any alliance. I think that many cycles ago, when the trolls ruled Borwôl, the town wanted to send out a troop to negotiate with the monsters. It was about mining rights.”
Tungdil looked at the lines delineating Toboribor. “This village will have paid tribute to the orcs in the old days, surely?”
“I expect so.” Mallen suppressed a yawn. “Excuse me. I’m really tired and would like to go to bed.”
“Just one more question,” said Tungdil. “When you faced the monster in Goldensheaf, did you see any elf runes on its armor?”
“So I’m not the only one with sharp eyes,” said Mallen. He nodded. “I didn’t want to tell anyone before I’d had a chance to speak to Liútasil about it.”
“Describe them.” Mallen sketched them out for Tungdil on a piece of paper. “I think it means YOUR,” Tungdil said, considering. “Our attackers had HAVE on their wrist protectors.”
“Perhaps it’s a message that won’t make sense until all the monsters have appeared?” the Idoslane prince mused.
“… to the elves.” Tungdil was more specific. “The monsters are carrying a message to the elves. Whatever the purpose might be, they want the elves to piece it together bit by bit.”