by Markus Heitz
Tungdil tried to reply but his senses deserted him. Death was knocking at his door ready to escort him to the eternal smithy.
Before he closed his eyes, giving in to an irresistible compulsion, Tungdil thought he saw a figure in black älfar armor step out of the shadows to approach the elf ranks from behind. In each raised hand a naked blade was clasped.
Warm rain… But was he imagining it? Where would warm rain come from in a cave?
Then his thoughts fragmented…
Why have you done this to me?”
The unslayable one woke up, suddenly confronted by the beautiful face of his son, who was crouched down at his side, a spear in one armored glove, his hand touching the metal plates sewn into his perfect flesh.
“I have not harmed you. I have had you made mightier than all other beings in Girdlegard.” He sat up, rose swiftly from the couch and seized his helmet from the weapon stand. He had only intended to allow himself a moment’s rest before returning to the fray. The battle seemed to be going increasingly against them. The dwarves and undergroundlings were fighting fiercely in the tunnels and for some reason the elves had also arrived in search of the diamond. This rivalry brought no advantage to himself and his sister Nagsar Inàste.
“Mightier than you, creator?”
“Why aren’t you back in the tunnel where I told you to stay?” he censured his son.
“I needed to speak to you, creator father.” His son stood up. “I don’t wish to spill any more elf blood.”
The unslayable froze. “Get back to your post at once,” he said, his voice ice cold. “You are to kill every elf you meet.”
“But they are just like us! We are killing them but they look like us. They must be friends…”
“We are not like them at all! Do friends come to your house and try to kill you? And try to steal your treasure?” He put on his helmet. “Do what you are told, boy. You are responsible for your creator mother.” He turned abruptly toward his son. “Do you want her to die before she has ever clapped eyes on you?”
“Why are my brothers different from me?”
“They are not your brothers.”
“But they said she is their creator mother too.”
“They are lying. Have nothing to do with them.” He made to thrust him out of the chamber into the passageway.
But the young älfar ducked under his arm and would not yield. “Take these plates off me,” he demanded harshly. “They hurt. I can’t take them off by myself.”
“No. You will need them. They will protect you in battle.”
“Your armor goes on top, not right inside you. Why can’t I have armor like that?” the young älfar argued stubbornly, his black gaze unwavering.
The unslayable hated such confrontations. “It is special metal that gets the powers working in you.”
“But I still don’t want it.”
“I am supremely indifferent as to whether you want it or not. You are my son and you will do what I say.”
“I…”
The unslayable one grabbed him by the throat. “Hold your tongue! We don’t have time to argue about this nonsense. The safety of your creator mother is more important than any petty wish of yours. Have you understood?”
The black eye sockets of the young älfar sparked with anger. “But it hurts so much!”
“Deal with it!” The unslayable hurled him brutally out of the chamber. “You know where you’re supposed to be.” He wanted to waste no more time.
The älfar stumbled against the wall, growled and lifted his spear; immediately the runes on it blazed up, giving out a dark green light. “Take the metal out. I’m not asking, I’m telling you.”
The unslayable stopped in his tracks. “Put down your weapon this instant!” he menaced, drawing his own two swords. “You do not threaten your father.”
“You don’t do this to me, either!” the älfar accused in reply, looking down at the black trickles of blood on the armor plating.
The unslayable one narrowed his eyes. “Did you go back to the island?”
“I wanted them to take the plates off, but the human wasn’t there and the groundlings refused to help. All I could do was take some more of the power to make the pain less.” He was watching the other’s movements carefully. “I don’t want to hurt you, creator father. Just let me be like you.”
They stood wordlessly glaring at each other.
From nearby the clank of weapons could be heard. One of the bastards was screaming and bellowing amongst an uproar of dwarf yells.
“The enemy has found Nagsar Inàste’s cavern. Happy now?” shouted the unslayable. “It was your task to guard that passage.” He lifted his foot, but the spear was already leveled at his throat. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I’ve told you. You shall not leave until you have done what I want.”
The creator father considered his handiwork: beauty and perfection on the outside, disappointing failure within. How had his sister borne him progeny such as this? Perhaps the fault could be traced back to the orcish violations she had been subjected to. His offspring’s fine looks were no use to him at all. There was no place for a son who challenged him and made demands instead of obeying. The swords flashed swifter than arrows to find the gaps in the armor plating and pierce the breast and throat of the stupefied young älfar. “You are no longer any son of mine,” declared the unslayable, with a sidestep deftly avoiding the leveled spear, behind which there was little force now. “Better ones will follow: sons who know how to obey their originator. Even if I and the creator mother have to wait another thousand cycles.” He kicked his son in the belly, felling him; the swords slid back out of the torso, black blood spurting out of the wounds. “You wanted me to take the pain away?” He stabbed again with both swords.
The älfar reared up, then shrank down, attempting to ward off the slashing blades with his metal gauntlets. It was hopeless. The runes on his armor flickered and died as the slim body fell slack to the floor.
The unslayable wasted no more time. His beloved sister was in terrible danger and the bastards were not able to protect her.
As he drew nearer to her cavern the sounds of fighting ceased abruptly. It was not a good sign.
He entered at the rear of the cave and suppressed a cry of horror when he saw what had happened.
Elves. Elves in the white armor worn by the eoîl’s followers had taken over the cave. One of their archers was finishing off the last of the groundlings with a shot through the eye as he reached the group. One bastard lay dead, surrounded by the ruins of his machine over by the wall, and the cave floor was littered with dwarf corpses.
No! Don’t let them have taken you, beloved sister! He saw her beheaded torso lying on the altar. Her sacred black blood streamed down the sides, down the steps, and onto the floor of the cave. An elf woman held Nagsar Inàste’s head in her hands and an elf was reverently holding out the diamond to her. The stone had ceased to shine.
Despair overwhelmed the unslayable. My fault! It is my fault! If I had not failed she would be living still. He leaned against the wall, feeling his strength ebb away, his limbs frozen.
The sight burned itself into his brain. He could smell her blood, see it still trickling still from the stump of her neck.
Images of the past rose up in his mind. Wonderful images. The time they had looked out from the highest window in the Dsôn tower to survey their realm in delighted pride; when they had celebrated their victories over the elves of the Golden Plain and Lesenteïl’s followers; when they had made love—the pain and deep devotion—a passion that was never-ending…
Such memories were drowning in his sister’s blood and being washed away. An elf strode up to the altar and prodded the corpse with a spear. It dropped down on the far side of the altar, rolled down the steps and came to rest awkwardly, like so much rubbish.
I shall avenge your death, my beloved Nagsar Inàste, as never a true wife was avenged by a loving spouse. Blind anger forced st
rength back into his muscles. Slowly he raised his swords. The elves by the altar were congratulating themselves on a presumed victory, praising the eoîl. I shall leave Girdlegard. I shall take the diamond with me and decipher its secrets. And when I return nothing shall withstand my fury. He circled slowly toward the elves. Everything will perish in my storm. Like these elves.
The unslayable one came up behind the first of them unobserved, their bloody destruction thus assured.
Those who had stowed their weapons fell first, with nothing to hand to fend off the attacker’s double blades. Those still holding them were quickly overwhelmed. Finally, with less than a third of their number still standing, outright slaughter turned into battle.
“The princess! Guard her!” echoed the cry. The elves put up tough resistance but were no match for the unslayable, powered as he was by his fury. Any injuries he took hardly slowed him. His whirring blades sliced at throats and arms, severing wrists and legs, plunging through skulls and chests. The old orc skeletons underfoot drank up the blood of new victims.
The unslayable lashed out furiously until only three warriors and the elf princess remained.
He fended off the first assault, spinning his assailant round so that the offending blade pierced the belly of the next foe. Swiftly he shattered the elf sword with his own; and with his other weapon he batted a sharp fragment into the third attacker’s face.
He parried a thrust from the last elf coming at him with a jagged blade, severing the elf’s arm below the elbow. Using his swords like scissors, he cut off the soldier’s head, sending it flying through the air. Then he plunged his two blades with massive force right and left of the neck stump straight down into the warrior’s body. Arms, shoulders and upper body parts were sliced off to fall on the heap of orc bones.
The screams and the scent of elf blood were still not enough to cool the raging fury within. “So you are their princess!” With one stride he was close, ducking under the elf woman’s sword lunge and cutting through the tendons at the back of her knees with a swift right-handed swipe. She fell to the ground with a shriek of pain and he stood on her sword hand. “And Liútasil?”
She stared at him, mouthing something.
“Oh no, you’ll put no eoîl curse on me.” His left arm shot forward and he pierced her wrist, causing her to open her fingers so that the diamond rolled away with a clunk to land among the pile of old bones. “You, lady, have caused me more pain than I have ever felt; I shall distribute this pain among all the elves of Girdlegard.” Withdrawing his sword, he rummaged around in the pile of bones until he had located the stone, lifting it up with a triumphant gesture. “It is mine now. As soon as I have learned how to put its powers fully to use I shall bring to your people the annihilation they so narrowly escaped before. Dsôn Balsur may have fallen but you will never be safe from the älfar.”
In the princess’s unwavering turquoise gaze, however, there was no trace of doubt: the blind faith of elves. “The eoîl will protect us. They will return. The symbols in the holy shrines promise…”
“Return? If they do I shall be here to destroy them. But you won’t be around to see it happen, princess.” The unslayable had caught the sounds of approaching footsteps and gruff voices coming from the passage. A second wave of undergroundlings burst in. His wounds smarted badly and his limbs felt weak now. Retreat. They are too many. Pocketing the diamond and sheathing one of his swords, he took the handle of the second in both hands. “And there will be no more elves for the eoîl to find. Not in Girdlegard.”
The blow he dealt Rejalin cut right through her torso, the blade slicing slantwise from shoulder to hip and crunching into the orc skeletons beneath her. He regretted that her end was swift. He would have preferred to torture her until the end of time, using her blood as a constantly renewable source of paint.
Beloved sister. He knelt by Nagsar Inàste’s head and put out his hand gingerly to touch it… then stopped. He could not look at her features for a final time. The heartache would kill him.
Instead he stroked her long black hair and cut off a hank as a reminder. Then, clutching the lock in his blood-smeared hands, he bounded off into the tunnels as fast as his injuries would permit.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Idoslane,
The Caves of Toboribor,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Death was standing right in front of him, in the terrible image of the älfar that had escaped back on the island.
Towering proudly over the recumbent figure, death clasped a slender spear in one gloved fist while the other arm hung loose. The slim torso was partly naked and partly protected by armor.
The black depths of the eye sockets were trained on the dwarf. “You shall not die, Tungdil Goldhand,” spoke death in friendly tones, bending over him. The long black hair framed a narrow face that was at one and the same time cruel and fascinating. Death’s right hand touched Tungdil’s chest. “I still need you.”
The älfar runes on armor and weapon gave off a greenish glow and a sudden warmth suffused the dwarf’s body. As the icy cold was displaced, his grateful heartbeat grew strong and his ears filled with the sound of rushing blood.
“Nagsor Inàste has escaped with the diamond you were seeking,” death explained in a clear voice. “He will return to the island to reach the tunnel Furgas devised. It was nearly completed before you killed the magister. If Nagsor Inàste can finish the work he can get through to the Outer Lands. And the stone will be lost forever.” Death stood up. “Nagsor Inàste will return with a huge army, greater than anything Girdlegard has ever seen. Neither you nor the orcs will be able to halt its progress.”
Tungdil opened his mouth but could not speak.
Death turned away. “Stop him, Tungdil Goldhand. Stop him and his appalling offspring.” Death stepped into the shadows and disappeared.
Tungdil tried to lift his head but a wave of pain enveloped him; he lost consciousness and fell back on the ground…
Once upon a time death came for a dwarf and wanted to carry him off, but the dwarf stood firm on his rock, glowered and refused to go. So death passed him by.”
Tungdil knew this saying from southern Sangpûr and he recognized the voice. He attempted to open his eyes but only the right one responded. The left consisted entirely of pain and refused to obey.
“Do you see? Did you see that?” a different voice rejoiced. “Didn’t I tell you Vraccas would leave us at least one hero to save Girdlegard. Fantastic work, Lot-Ionan. Here’s to your skill!”
Tungdil registered a bright light and blinked; he could see Rodario, Sirka and Lot-Ionan. “Where am I?” he croaked, raising his hand to touch his left eye.
The magus stopped him. “No, Tungdil, don’t.”
“An arrow,” said Rodario, showing the item in question with blood still sticking to it. “We had to pull it out. Lot-Ionan turned up just in time to save your life. May the gods be thanked that they allowed you to live.”
“But I could not save the sight of that eye,” Lot-Ionan added regretfully.
Memory returned and Tungdil struggled up with the help of his friend. He had a bandage over one eye and half of his face.
“Be careful now,” Sirka warned him. “You’ve only just come back from a meeting with your maker.”
Around him in the cavern around a hundred dwarves were seeing to their wounded. “How are Ireheart and Goda?” he asked, leaning on Sirka’s arm.
“We’ve taken them to the nearest camp,” Rodario told him.
“That’s not what I asked! How are they?”
“They are alive. Goda’s injuries are not life-threatening but our hot-blooded friend is in a bad way. Your healers say it will be a few orbits before they know whether or not he’ll make it.” Rodario had lost his jocularity. “I’d never have thought the elves would do this.”
As Tungdil clenched his fists in anger he noticed the dried blood on his hands and clothing. It could not all be his own? “Not the elves,” he
corrected. “It’s the atár. Esdalân has nothing to do with all this.” He caught sight of the remains of the älfar woman lying like garbage at the side of the altar, her head a good two paces off, with the long black hair obscuring her features.
Sirka followed his gaze. “That’s elf handiwork; they did that presumably before they made the acquaintance of the second unslayable.” She pointed to where the elf corpses lay soaking in their own blood.
Amongst the dead, all dispatched by the same murderous sword, lay the body of Rejalin. The diamond had been of no help to her.
“We’ve blocked off all the exits, but…”
Tungdil waved a hand dismissively. “Waste of time. He is on his way to Weyurn with his remaining offspring.”
“The source? What does he need the magic source for if he’s got the diamond?” Rodario wondered. “On the other hand, if he runs away from us he won’t have the right spell to release its power.”
Tungdil looked around for Keenfire: his specially forged ax was missing. The others had no idea what had happened to it. He assumed the unslayable had taken it, because death had left empty-handed. Now he had two reasons for hunting down the unslayable.
“I know why Fur… the thirdlings started to tunnel into the Outer Lands,” he told them, swallowing the name of the magister because he still did not believe Bandilor’s version. It could not be Furgas behind the whole ghastly plan. “They want to make a way through so that Tion’s hordes can overrun Girdlegard. The tunnel must be nearly finished.”
The others stared at him. This was the first they had heard of it. They looked hurt and surprised that he had kept it to himself.
“Bandilor told me during the fight,” he explained. “I didn’t think the tunnel was as important as the diamond.”
“And how do you know the unslayable is heading there?” Rodario stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I don’t want to pour cold water on the notion. I’m just surprised. Did he tell you before he left?”