by Markus Heitz
“Hang on…” Tungdil had just remembered the young dwarf that had never returned. When Sirka mentioned the undergroundling scouts, an explanation occurred to him for the disappearance. He put the subject to her.
“Yes, I met one,” came the reply.
“What?” Ireheart tossed the bone back over his shoulder. “What were you doing with the clan-dwarf? I thought he was a thirdling that had run off.”
“A thirdling? No.” Sirka asked for the water bottle, to rinse the last taste of rabbit away. “He had been following our scouts and got lost. It was too late when we found him. He was thin as a rake, talking rubbish about machines and saying he wanted to protect Girdlegard from them. He died of exhaustion soon after.” Tungdil nodded. They had done the right thing telling Gremdulin Ironbite’s mother her son had died. They had not wanted to awaken false hopes. “What were your scouts looking for at the gateway?”
“Seeing what was new.” Sirka placed a log on the fire. “Seeing if things were all right.”
They heard the sound of approaching hoof beats. A lantern swayed a couple of feet above the ground, illuminating the path for horse and rider.
“A messenger from Prince Mallen?” guessed Rodario, getting up. “Good. He can tell the army we’ll be with them tomorrow.” The dwarves got to their feet as well, ready for a fight.
The rider saw the campfire and came over. “The blessings of Vraccas on you,” came the greeting. “Good things come in threes!”
“Bramdal!” Ireheart cursed under his breath. “Now it’s certain. He’s spying on us,” he whispered to Tungdil. “It’s no coincidence we keep bumping into him.”
The executioner rode up, and dismounted using his patent rope ladder. “There was far too good a smell of meat. I couldn’t simply ride past.”
Ireheart gleefully held up the rabbit carcass he had gnawed clean. “Too late, executioner. Death was way ahead of you this time. On your way.”
Bramdal’s dark clothing made it difficult to see where he ended and the darkness began. It helped that he had light blond beard braids and a pale face. “Looks like there’s not much warmth at this fireside. What’s the matter?”
“You need to ask?” Ireheart took a step forward and Goda did the same. “You turn up out of the blue once too often. Your business is with death and then to cap it all you sell off the dead bodies. What decent dwarf would do that?”
Bramdal wedged his thumbs under his belt. “I don’t work as an executioner now, Boïndil Doubleblade. I told you before. And the fact we keep meeting is due to the fact we are both heading the same way. Why should I want to keep bumping into you?”
“My friend thinks you spy for the dwarf-haters.” Tungdil watched the other’s face very carefully.
“Then wouldn’t I have my weapons drawn and be attacking you?” Bramdal sat down on the grass. “I could just stay quiet and pretend I don’t mind being accused like that. Later on when you’re all asleep I could slit your throats and rob Girdlegard of its greatest heroes.” He looked at Lot-Ionan. “Did I forget something?”
“You forgot to mount up and ride off again,” suggested Ireheart. “Be off with you, hangman. We don’t want you here.”
“What if I were bringing Trovegold news to the army?”
Tungdil moved over next to him. “If you like, give us your news and then be on your way. If you don’t want to share it, then mount up and ride off now.” He wanted to be rid of the executioner because he feared Boïndil was going to lose his temper.
Bramdal made a regretful face. “So that’s the thanks I get for helping you reach the freelings that time? You drive me away from your fireside?”
“No.” Ireheart drew himself up in front of the executioner, his war hammer in his hands. “It’s me who’s chasing you off.”
Bramdal sighed. “I should have known you wouldn’t be friendly. I got that impression last time we met.” He stood up and went to his horse. “Trovegold is sending Prince Mallen money toward the expense of the siege. In return for that the freelings want to trade in Idoslane and have asked to negotiate with their largest towns.” He climbed up onto his specially adapted saddle. “I would say there is a new alliance on its way there.” From high up on his mount Bramdal nodded down at the others. “Because you never know how long the old ones will hold.”
He cantered off toward the southeast. For a long time they could still see his lantern. Then he crested the brow of a hill and disappeared from view.
“Good riddance.” Ireheart sat down again. He pulled a second rabbit out from behind a rock and skinned it. One puny little rabbit was never going to have been enough for him.
“What does that all mean?” Rodario asked himself and then the rest of them. “Are the freelings afraid the dwarf peoples will change their minds?”
“It looks like it.” Lot-Ionan looked at Tungdil. “Can there be a reason?”
“No. I never saw anything in the talks to indicate a worsening of relationships. I don’t know why they’re looking for support like this.” Tungdil threw himself down on the grass. Sirka joined him. “Do they know more than us?”
“We’ll find out tomorrow.” Lot-Ionan shivered and put more wood on the fire. “Let’s not waste time worrying about it now. There are more important things. Let’s get some sleep.”
Goda was given first watch and the others bedded down by the fire. Tungdil thought for a long time about what the executioner had said.
Girdlegard, Kingdom of Idoslane,
Four Miles from the Toboribor Caves,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tungdil and his companions halted on a small hill and surveyed the biggest siege ever mounted in Girdlegard.
The scene was impressive.
The joint armies of the Girdlegard kingdoms and the elf realm encircled the entrance to the orcs’ underground domain. Nothing and no one could escape unseen. No less than seventy thousand warriors and volunteers had gathered here to confront the evil in the shape of the unslayables and their ghastly machine hybrids.
The deep green of field and orchard was marred by a black line of trenches; immediately behind lay the army encampments of the various kingdoms. Small portable bridges were available as need arose to cross the trenches.
The dwarves’ numerous tents were pitched well behind the boundary. From there, units would set off to rage through the caves of Toboribor in search of the unslayables, one of the sentries told Tungdil’s group. Nearly all the clans of the dwarf tribes had sent troops. A sea of standards and banners fluttered in the warm breeze and, a little way off, the flags of the freelings were flying.
“Isn’t that splendid? The evil won’t get through that lot.” Ireheart surveyed the scene proudly.
“That’s if the evil is in the caves in the first place.” There was doubt in Lot-Ionan’s voice.
Tungdil nodded. “Let’s find out how successful they’ve been so far in eradicating the unslayable danger for all time.” He spurred his pony on. The freelings had their camp set up too far away from the dwarves for his liking. Bramdal was proving to be correct.
Lot-Ionan rode next to him. “Have you got any further with your cogitations or are you still as much in the dark as I am?”
“I’m lost as well,” he sighed. “It all stands or falls with how the elves behave. I won’t risk a guess.” He forced his gaze away from the banners of the town.
“I don’t want to guess, either. Esdalân didn’t seem the type to be telling lies, though there must be other reasons for elves to fire on elves. At any event it was better that we left him in the village back there. I want to make up my own mind.” The magus indicated the tent bearing Mallen’s standard. “Let’s ride over. I think we should tell him everything. From what you say he is a level-headed ruler. Even if he is an Ido.”
Bramdal must have given warning of their approach. They were received with shouted greetings and much approving pounding of fists on shields from the soldiers. Men bowed respectfully to the magus, delighte
d to see him returned.
The unusual noise drew Mallen out of his tent. He was attired in the impressive suit of armor his ancestors had worn and his fair hair streamed free. “Welcome to Idoslane, noble Lot-Ionan.” The prince bowed. “And welcome to you all.” He shook hands with Rodario and Ireheart. “Master Bramdal told us you would be joining us soon. The greatest heroes are now assembled. We will meet the unslayables head-on.” Holding the tent flap open, the ruler invited them inside. “If you are not too tired I’d like to explain what we’ve achieved in the past few orbits.” He sent messengers out to summon the dwarf commanders. Then he addressed Lot-Ionan. “You will forgive us for not putting on an adequate celebration in honor of your return, but we have no time to lose.”
The magus nodded. “But of course, Prince Mallen. There are more important matters. Celebrations can wait until our victory.”
Like all the others he noticed the peculiar painting on the inside of the tent walls.
“A map,” Mallen explained. “This is the dwarves’ work. They have surveyed and drawn out all the caves they have penetrated here.” He pointed to the blue-shaded area. “These parts they have taken over already. They have set up small strongholds within the cave complex.”
“But are the unslayables really in the caves?” the magus wanted to know, seating himself at the table; the others followed suit.
“We’re certainly working on that assumption. The dwarves have had sight of all their monsters. I think they are supposed to be diverting our attention from the unslayables themselves. That’s why the dwarves are fighting their way in to the sections where resistance initially was low.” Mallen showed them the part he was referring to, marked in green. “They were right. Suddenly, fierce resistance was encountered and it looks as if the last of the älfar are holed up in this cave area.”
Gandogar strode in and Tungdil and the other Girdlegard dwarves bowed respectfully in greeting. A little way behind came the freeling commanders—and Bramdal. He gave them an inscrutable smile.
“What a pleasure to see all of you safe and well,” Gandogar exclaimed. “And you, magus, I have only known as a stone statue. So you must be Lot-Ionan the Forbearing.”
“Not all escaped with their lives. Far too many were carried off to Vraccas’s Eternal Smithy,” Tungdil interjected, giving a concise report of what had occurred in Weyurn. “We lost Furgas on the island. He burned to death in molten iron. We saw it happen and could do nothing to save him.”
Mallen and the high king both fell silent at this news.
“So Furgas is dead?” Mallen leaned forward on the table. “We shall miss his genius. In the past he wrought good as well as bad. I don’t want to sound heartless, but did he at least say where his machine creatures’ weak points might lie?”
“Yes.” Rodario, eyes glistening at the thought of his dead friend, took out a folder he had carried in his saddlebag and put it on the table. “He left me several drawings to show where each monster will be most vulnerable.” He cleared his throat, choked with emotion. “The points in question are small. Steady hands and a true aim will be needed when they are attacked.”
Passing the folder of drawings to a servant to have copies made, Mallen said, “Trust me: I regret his death, but now is not the time to mourn the passing of friends. It will have to wait until the älfar have been defeated.”
The tent opened again to admit Rejalin; she brought an escort of three guards and two unarmed elves.
“No one told me that a meeting had been arranged,” she said with a gracious smile. “If I hadn’t seen Gandogar entering the tent I would have missed it. Did you not wish to hear the view of the elves?”
Ireheart opened his mouth. “You can be—”
“Boïndil was about to say that you can be sure we would have called you,” Tungdil interrupted smartly. “Because we need your warriors as soon as possible in Toboribor and not in the dwarf realms any more.”
“Why is that? Surely you need us to keep the gateways safe while so much of your fighting force is here in Toboribor. The monsters still present an undeniable threat. The monsters and the undercover thirdlings in your own ranks.” However charming and considerate her tone of voice, criticism was clear in Rejalin’s message. It was her opinion that the thirdling traitors should have been assiduously sought out.
Tungdil was not surprised by what she said. Not anymore. She was walking the paths of the eoïl. “We have received information that the caves have a connection to the Outer Lands. Under the very feet of the besieging army a new horde is waiting. The dwarves in the caves are good warriors but even they and the army of humans would not be able to withstand this horde without the elves.” He knew that she would fall for this lie. She would not be able to help herself, even if she had seen it coming.
“Where do you get this knowledge from, Tungdil Goldhand?” she asked in surprise.
“The thirdlings we captured told us.” And he related the Weyurn adventures in an adapted version without mentioning the role Furgas had probably played. He left it with the thirdlings and unslayables being the evildoers. “Bandilor had made common cause with the älfar. He told us the unslayables’ plans; they suited his own intentions.”
The elf princess looked at him searchingly. “And you believe the word of a dwarf who allied himself with the evil?”
“I trust words spoken in fear of death,” Tungdil corrected. “He thought that I would spare him. And Lot-Ionan tested the truth of his words with magic.” Tungdil looked at the others with silent pleading in his expression.
He received support from an unexpected quarter. “We shall be needing landur’s elf warriors here, Your Highness. Right now, before the enemy hordes spill out and swamp us. Do you want to carry the responsibility if Idoslane and the whole of Girdlegard fall under their sway?” It was more a demand than a request that Prince Mallen was putting to Rejalin. Two issues coincided. It was his own land that was threatened and he was starting to like the elf-woman less and less. And though it might not be wise to speak boldly, he did not hold back.
Tungdil was relieved. It made his own lie sound more credible.
“Now you are demanding my support, Prince Mallen?” Rejalin lifted her cup of water and sipped long and slow. “Did you not recently expel my envoys from your court?”
“There is a difference between a delegation and an army, princess,” he said. “It was not in my mind to hold intellectually sophisticated conversations at a time when I am concerned with protecting our homeland from new and potentially disastrous threats.” He leaned forward. “As soon as we have won, I shall be delighted to receive your delegates for a cultural exchange, but until then please understand that I cannot accept your offers. Instead please send an army. That I shall welcome with open arms.”
Gandogar nodded. “Do not worry, Rejalin. We are aware of the value of your assistance, but we can defend ourselves well enough. And to reassure you further, we have already identified and imprisoned seven dwarf-haters who had been living under cover amongst us. We found them without the use of torture,” he added. “The thirdlings who are intent on becoming assimilated helped us with this.”
There was no way out for the elf princess. “Then let it be so,” she decided, smiling away her defeat. “Messengers shall leave today to bring my warriors to Toboribor.” She studied the cave-map. “The dwarves should move more quickly. The more we know about the tunnels and chambers underground, the better prepared we shall be to meet the hordes from the Outer Lands. It will be useful to be able to lay traps and ambushes.”
“I agree with you.” Gandogar raised his tankard and drank to her health. “The miners shall find the best places to set traps and start work at once.”
“Do we know anything about when this new army might appear?” asked Rejalin. “Perhaps my forces will be too late?”
“No. Bandilor spoke of preparations. We still have time in hand,” he reassured her. “Forgive me, but my friends and I are tired from the journey. We can hold
an official meeting tomorrow to inform the other commanders. Now I would like to rest.”
The elf princess concurred and withdrew, followed by the town commanders and Bramdal.
Hardly had they left than Tungdil arranged with Gandogar and Mallen to hold a secret meeting outside the camp at nightfall. “No guards, no retinue. Just you two,” he insisted before he went. “Trust me. It is important, so tell no one.”
Surprised by the urgency of his appeal the leaders agreed.
As the stars started to appear over Idoslane the three of them met at the appointed place. Mallen and Gandogar were both intrigued, but Tungdil asked them to be patient and he then stayed silent. Lot-Ionan soon joined them and the four of them rode off to the Deichseldorf inn, where they had left Esdalân.
Tungdil thought the elf was looking even more handsome since recovering from his fever. Better, he seemed fresher, more dazzling than any other living being in the vicinity. Just like Rejalin.
Gandogar and Mallen were sitting in the empty parlor of the inn listening to the elf’s story by candlelight, their faces grave.
“Then I was right to distrust them,” said the prince, “even if I would have preferred to be convinced of the goodness of the elves instead of hearing this news.”
“It is appalling that they killed their leader.” Gandogar could not credit it.
“And because I think the elf warriors are capable of anything, I invented a subterfuge to recall them to Toboribor,” said Tungdil. “I prefer to have them all in one place, where we have our armies, rather than strewn throughout Girdlegard where they could do untold damage.”
“You spoke of magic.” Mallen raised his eyes and looked at Lot-Ionan. “Do you know anything about elf-magic, noble magus?”
“Not really. The elves, just like their dark cousins the älfar, are capable of casting minor spells in connection with their way of life. According to my old books these are mostly to do with the realm of flowers and decorative arts. Liútasil never mentioned his folk having the power to use magic in the same way as a magus or maga.”