by Markus Heitz
The army ran back from the chasm’s edge, overwhelmed by horror…
The kordrion reared up and unfolded its pale wings. The world grew dark, as if a cloud had covered the sun.
“Goda!” yelled Ireheart, as he felled his last opponent by slamming into its ribcage. Ribs broke puncturing heart and innards. The three of them, he, Sirka and Rodario, had managed to prevent the destruction of the artifact. “We’re waiting!” His legs gave way and he collapsed, sinking down onto the body of his victim. His sight was going, colors swimming together confusedly.
Sirka stared at the huge pale mass of the kordrion. “Tungdil,” she whispered in horror, grasping the fact that her companion could not have survived. That white fire melted stone and steel.
“He’ll be OK,” said Ireheart, fighting the effects of the poison and rallying. “The scholar always survives. He is a friend of the gods.” But his face too darkened in concern. A monster like this had never been seen before. It was trampling the ubariu and undergroundlings, sending out another plume of white fire, killing five hundred fighters at one stroke. The last of the armed vehicles was overturned and burnt. Nothing remained but a glowing hulk. The kordrion was growing stronger with every moment it was able to spend outside its prison-gorge.
Goda hit out in despair and fury at the stone that was failing them so. She heard a slight click and it slipped down into place in the setting.
A bright silver light shot along the bars of the artifact, slamming into the mighty rings: the symbols started to glow faintly and then increased in brightness with an opal sheen that made Goda think she was losing her sight.
When her vision cleared she saw a glittering sphere had overlaid the rings of the artifact. A second globe enclosed the opening to the Black Abyss.
She could no longer see the first kordrion, a severed claw and part of a wing being the only evidence that it had ever emerged from its dungeon. A second version raged wildly behind the delicate but impenetrable barrier; as if possessed it hurled itself against the thin membrane, to no avail.
“I’ve done it,” she whispered, hardly daring to believe it. She gazed at the diamond’s matt shimmer. She laughed out loud. “I’ve done it!”
“Yes, you have!” Ireheart returned her joyful words. He tried to stand up, but felt very wobbly. “Come down carefully so I can hug you!”
Rodario placed his hand on Sirka’s shoulder. “Tungdil will have made it, too,” he encouraged.
She let her eyes roam across the sunken battlefield, now filled with the cadavers of beasts and the corpses of her own people. A number of monsters had escaped the axes and swords of their opponents and were fleeing over the edges of the crater to disappear into the distance.
“But the kordrion has got away,” she stammered. “The artifact did not work in time. What now?” She looked at Rodario. “There’s no hope. The books say—”
“Don’t give up, let’s wait and see. The old books aren’t always right, you know.” He leaned on her shoulder for support. “Come, let’s go over to the ravine to find Tungdil.”
She gave him a grateful smile. Together with Goda and an unusually pale Ireheart they made their way over the mountain of bodies.
But neither Tungdil nor Flagur returned from that battle.
XXI
The Outer Lands,
East of Letèfora, At the Black Abyss,
Early Autumn, 6241st Solar Cycle
Sirka was standing by the protective globe, with one hand on its shining surface. She could feel a tingling in her fingers from the energy it contained.
On the other side she could see the kordrion’s head; it had slunk back into the ravine to rest and was observing her with its topmost pair of eyes. Its ugly skull lay on its claws; every so often it selected an ubariu corpse and swallowed it with obvious enjoyment, before taking up its original position. And waiting.
Ireheart joined her. “It’s waiting for the barrier’s strength to let up.”
“That one and a thousand others,” said Sirka sadly. “I know we can’t open the barrier even for a few minutes to go and look for Tungdil. The kordrion would be out like a shot. One of them free is bad enough.”
Ireheart watched her face. “You’ve been keeping watch for three orbits now. You’ve hardly eaten or drunk anything. Come over to the camp,” he begged. “The scholar wouldn’t want you to starve yourself to death on his account.” He wiped a tear from his eye.
She swallowed hard. “I’m coming,” she said and turned round.
The banners of the ubariu fluttered over the crater. Reinforcements had arrived and a temporary camp had been set up where their injured could be cared for and from which any monsters remaining at large could be pursued and hunted down.
“They say the kordrion has taken to the hills,” he told her, to break the silence and to take her thoughts and his own away from their pain.
“Do you think he’s dead?”
“Who do you mean?”
“Tungdil.”
Ireheart took a deep breath but found breathing ever more difficult. He was relying on his dwarven constitution to help him recover from the poison. It had not killed him outright, so it was not going to do so now. “Common sense would say yes. Only four hundred warriors have survived out of twenty thousand.” He fought down his despair. “But I haven’t seen his body with my own eyes. And no one has been able to tell me how he died. So I don’t give an orc’s fart for common sense. I say he’s still alive. He’s cutting a path through the ranks of the beasts and is looking for the way out. He will cleanse the ravine of evil and he won’t stop until they’re all dead. One fine orbit, there he’ll be, all of a sudden. And if it takes five hundred cycles.” A new tear trickled down through his beard.
“I shan’t be able to wait that long, Ireheart,” said Sirka, her voice choked with emotion. “If he comes back and asks you about me, then…” She wept.
Ireheart stood ramrod stiff at first, then he relented and took her in his arms. Her tears mixed with his own: undergroundling and dwarf united in grief.
“Tell him,” she said quietly, “that I never chose another after him. Even if this is not the way of my people. I know I can never have another companion like him at my side.” She freed herself from his brotherly embrace and dried her tears on her sleeve.
“I shall tell him,” he promised gruffly.
In silence they made their way to the mess tent, where Lot-Ionan, Goda and Rodario were waiting, together with the city-king’s consort.
Opposite them sat the acront, dressed in strange raiment, his head hidden under a light veil. The garment he wore was like the apparel of an ubariu rune master.
The monarch’s wife looked at Sirka and said something to her. “They have been waiting for me,” she translated. “The acront wishes to speak to Goda about the future.”
Ireheart regarded the mountain of fabric with more than a degree of suspicion. “What is there to discuss?” A rush of heat overwhelmed him: he was perspiring from every pore. His body was sweating out the poison. That had to be good.
The acront raised his voice and his consort translated the uncanny sounds; in turn, Sirka rendered the words into the language spoken in Girdlegard.
“He says the ubariu have not yet got a new rune master. He says that you, Goda, should remain in Letèfora to guard the artifact until the ubariu have appointed and trained a rune master from among their ranks. He has noted minute cracks in the sphere containing the Black Abyss, because something had affected the diamond’s purity.” She waited until the acront’s partner had interpreted some more words. “Thus it is essential that someone watches and if necessary steps in to strengthen it. It would only be for…” Sirka did some calculations. “… four cycles. After that she could return to her own country.”
“And what if she doesn’t want to?” Ireheart wanted to know.
“You can of course leave. But consider well. A fracture in the protection would mean disaster for Girdlegard,” Sirka translated.
“It would only be for a transitional period. All requests will be met; Goda shall have everything she needs. And she will be rewarded for her services.”
Goda sat next to her master, feeling very unsure of herself. “I am not a maga,” she said.
“Yes, you are,” contradicted Lot-Ionan, who had his injured arm in a sling. “You have not received the training but deep inside you are indeed a maga.”
“You honor me to speak so, venerable sire. But at the moment I am not even a famula.” Goda was unhappy. “What could I achieve without Lot-Ionan’s knowledge store?”
The acront spoke once more.
“He says you are the only one allowed to touch the diamond and the artifact. You are connected to both and you are vital. If anything were to happen to the artifact to make the protection sphere collapse, nobody but you would be capable of erecting it again.” Sirka lent the acront her voice. “He asks you to give him four cycles.”
Goda looked up at Ireheart, but he shook his head so vehemently that his short black braid flipped back and forth. “No, it’s absolutely your decision. But if you want to stay I shall not leave your side,” he vowed. “I shall never leave you alone again. And who knows. Perhaps the scholar will return. Then it’s fitting there should be two familiar faces to greet him,” he grinned.
“Then it is agreed,” Goda confirmed. It was obvious that the decision was not an easy one for her. “I shall stay until the ubariu have a new rune master.”
The acront inclined his head and his eyes glowed purple under the veil. Then he got to his feet and left the tent with his royal consort. He had said all there was to be said.
Rodario watched him depart. “So that means that he is not innocent and pure in spirit, either,” he concluded. He adjusted the bandage on his leg. “As for me, dear friends, don’t be offended, but I’m for heading back to Girdlegard in a few orbits’ time. Someone’s got to report what has been happening here, and that we’re safe now. Safe until the next adventure,” he added, stroking his beard. He was looking forward to taking Tassia in his arms again and to relating his own heroic story. “I tell you, the theater tents will be overflowing with people wanting to see these events on stage.”
Ireheart lifted his eyebrow quizzically. “Tents, impresario? Since when have you owned more than one?”
“Not yet, Boïndil, my friend, not yet. But it’s time I started to expand my little troupe into a theater empire known throughout the lands.” He nodded to Goda. “I shall come back at intervals to get your news, you’ll see.”
“You’ll get lost and end up with the monsters,” the warrior teased, wiping the sweat from his brow.
The hint was enough to unsettle Rodario. “Mm, I’ll have to think of how to get home in one piece. Maybe I should try out that secret path, the invisible mysterious pass that leads to Girdlegard.” He got up. “They’ll be striking camp tomorrow to return to Letèfora, I understand. And I hope very much that there might be the odd conquest on the way. There are pretty women on the streets.” He raised his hand in farewell and left the mess tent.
“I, too, shall be leaving the Outer Lands,” said the magus to the three dwarves. “I have the feeling that I am needed back home. It is time to find new famuli and to spread the high art of magic in Girdlegard.” When he moved, his back gave him a sharp twinge again. He thought he had spied Nudin’s silhouette at the doorway, but the dark shape had disappeared quickly. “It won’t be easy to use the magic wellspring at the bottom of the lake, but it will be possible. Tungdil had some brilliant idea about a metal diving bell.”
Goda smiled. “Girdlegard will be glad to have your support. Will you take me on as your famula when the four cycles have passed?”
He stroked her blond hair. “Who knows what you will have learned in that time?” he hinted. “Perhaps you will discover a style of magic all your own. I know nothing about ubariu magic. You will be way ahead of me in that. Even for one such as myself the ways of magic are unfathomable. It likes to keep something up its sleeve. I can only warn you not to be prodigal with your powers.” He stood up and shook hands with each in turn. “We shall surely meet again. And we shall see Tungdil again. I feel it in the depths of my soul, and so my spirits are high.” He turned his bright blue gaze on Sirka. “You will live to see him again. Don’t despair. Look forward to the dawn when he returns to you from the Abyss.” He nodded and left.
Sirka also bade her friends farewell. Boïndil let her depart, even though he still had not told her the punchline. It was not the right time for jokes at the moment.
The two dwarves were alone.
“Do you know what’s bothering me?” said Ireheart thoughtfully, after the last steps had died away. “Why did the artifact reject Lot-Ionan?”
“Well, if anyone is pure in spirit then it has to be Lot-Ionan,” said Goda springing to the defense of the magus. “And who expects a magus to sacrifice his life to chastity? I’m sure he doesn’t get up to anything like that now, but I’m sure he remembers what he did when he was younger…” She took his hand. “He is good.”
Ireheart was thinking. “Yes, you’re right.” He let himself be persuaded. Then his face took on a worried expression. “You know what this means for our iron band?”
“We shall have to wait another four cycles.”
He sighed. “That will be hard. As hard as any diamond.”
Goda laughed. “In the meantime you can train me up to be the very best warrior maiden there’s ever been in Girdlegard or the Outer Lands. Your efforts and your noble restraint will receive their reward after four cycles.” She gave him a long kiss. “And we’re not forbidden to kiss.” She smiled. For a second it crossed her mind that they still had to fight the duel she had vowed to her dead grandmother. That could wait.
Ireheart touched her cheek, stroking the pale down on her skin. “It will be the best and the worst four cycles of my life,” he joked. “Vraccas hates me for some reason.” He kissed her and then became earnest. “I pray daily to our creator that he may keep Tungdil safe.” He stood up and went to the doorway, opened it and looked over toward the Black Abyss under its shimmering globe. “I wonder where he is? And what he’s doing, alone with the misbegotten offspring of strange gods?” Again he wiped the perspiration from his brow.
Goda took his hand. She could give him no answer and she certainly did not share his optimism about Tungdil’s fate. She presumed him dead. But she was not going to say so.
In silence they both watched the glowing sphere under which lay both hope and horror. You could not have the one without the other.
Girdlegard,
Porista, Royal Capital of Gauragar,
Winter, 6241st Solar Cycle
Once more Girdlegard’s rulers were meeting to confer.
King Bruron escorted his guests into the first completed chamber of his royal residence. Huge stoves ensured a pleasant temperature despite wintry blizzards without.
Bruron had ordered sumptuous decoration of the hall, commissioning furnishings, frescoes, tapestries and sculptures with taste and care. The impression given was that the rest of the palace was already in place. However, only the outlines of the main structure were visible. The elf Esdalân, the monarchs of the human realms, lords of the dwarven kingdoms and heads of the freeling cities were gathered to hear Rodario’s reports from the Outer Lands: eloquently and with compelling and colorful detail he described recent events at the Black Abyss.
“… and so—with the sacrifice brought by Tungdil Goldhand—the battle ended. We have lost a great hero. He gave his life for Girdlegard…” He bowed to his audience. “… for your sake and to enable you to sleep soundly in your beds. May this courageous dwarf forever remain in your thoughts, and let us ensure that it is not only the children of the Smith who mourn him.” With these words he took his seat to deafening applause, in particular from the dwarves, on whose faces many a tear glistened.
Lot-Ionan rose to his feet. Dressed in a light blue robe, he wore white gloves to hid
e the disfiguring burns he had received from touching the artifact. In his left hand he held a long, superbly carved walking stick of birchwood. “I see it as our task to utilize this new peace accorded us by the sacrifice of my foster-son Tungdil and his companions, some of whom remain in the Outer Lands. It is time for reconciliation.” He looked at Esdalân. “The elves have been subjected to horrendous treatment meted out in anger. Are you prepared to let bygones be bygones and excuse the deeds targeted at the atár?”
Esdalân looked at Ginsgar calmly. “I insist on an apology for the cruelties received and for the devastation suffered in landur. The grand palaces and temples were laid waste, and this was fitting. But it was not right that settlements were torched and destroyed when the inhabitants had nothing to do with the blinkered obsessions of some of my people. Sincere words of atonement and some redress are essential here.” His gaze wandered over the faces of the assembled dwarves. “With your help we shall reconstruct our elf realm. When that is done, then there shall be forgiveness for the children of the Smith.”
Ginsgar opened his mouth to let out a hearty laugh. “Sure thing, Esdalân. We can build a few houses for thirty-seven elves, no bother. That forgiveness will be winging its way to us.”
If offended by the words and tone, Esdalân chose not to show it. He was too sensible to allow himself to respond in kind. “And how about the words of apology from you, Ginsgar Unforce? You led your troops through our groves, plundering and killing.”
The laughter ceased abruptly. “And your own apology for the poisoning of the dwarves?”
“That was the atár, not the elves.” Esdalân looked past Ginsgar and appealed to Xamtys. “Atár and elves have nothing in common.”
“Hair-splitting,” said Ginsgar with contempt. “If I don’t hear an apology, then you’ll have to wait, too.”