The Revenge of the Dwarves

XI

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Porista,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

Risava stopped outside an anonymous-looking house wedged in between properties that reflected the status of wealthier owners. “Here it is.” She opened the door and went in.

Tungdil, Sirka, Boindil, Goda and two dozen dwarves followed her in, prepared for action; the wagon lined with straw was ready in the street outside.

They saw at once that the building had not been occupied for some time. There was a layer of dust on the furniture. Only the tables and chairs showed frequent use. It all smelled of cold smoke.

“We come here because of the cellar,” said Risava, who had come to a halt in the entrance. She touched a special place on the wall and steps appeared, leading down, when a stone slab moved aside. From the vaulted basement Tungdil caught the familiar smell of paper and parchment. “Is this Nudin’s library?”

“No, it’s mine,” said the woman, lighting a lamp and leading the way.

Soon they were all crowded into the small cellar room with walls full of shelves and books. In the middle stood Lot-Ionan’s petrified statue inside a circle drawn with magic symbols; several runes had been sketched on the surface of the statue itself.

“We’ve got everything ready,” she explained. “All we need to revive him is the magic.”

“How did you get him here?”

Risava indicated the steps. “Carried him down. It took nearly all night.”

Ireheart walked round the statue. “There are a few bad scratches,” he said, running his fingers over the grooves.

Tungdil examined the damage. It was a strange feeling. Was he looking at a statue or a person? Perhaps Lot-Ionan would soon be emerging from the stone, the magus he had lived with for many cycles, his own foster-father. They could not afford to make any mistakes. “Should we fill the marks in with mortar before trying to bring him to life? We can’t have him bleeding.” He saw a hole in the stone robe near the spine. “Or he might fall down dead.”

“What do you think?” he passed his query to the famuli.

Dergard shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that.” He studied the hole, a finger’s width. He seemed surprised. “I didn’t see that before. Could have been rats or something else like that.”

“I agree.” Tungdil ordered the dwarves to get the carrying belts from the wagon. “It would be like a foreign body to introduce mortar into his flesh. If it wasn’t part of him when he was turned to stone then it won’t be changed back when he is restored to life.”

Ireheart bent down, picking up some of the powder he saw on the floor. “Stone dust.” He scratched around the opening. “It all fits. This hole has been drilled on purpose.” He turned to Risava and Dergard. “I don’t know of any animal outside of the mountains that eats stone.”

The two humans looked at each other helplessly. “I swear by Samusin it wasn’t us,” said Risava.

“Perhaps a fourth famulus, still loyal to Nod’onn and who wants to see Lot-Ionan dead?” suggested Goda. “The hole was concealed. It was probably to serve as a fallback in case we managed to bring him back to life.”

“Then they would have knocked his head off, apprentice,” Ireheart said, looking at her crossly. “That should cost you fifty push-ups, but I’ll be generous.”

Tungdil tore an empty page out of a book, rolled the paper into a spill and pushed it into the hole to see how deep it went. “As deep as my little finger. A person should be able to survive that.” He ran his hands over the statue. “And anyway, he’d be able to heal himself at once. We must just risk it.”

The dwarves came back with the leather harness. With a combined effort they managed to load the stone figure of the magus onto the wagon, bedding it down on the straw.

T he diamond!” The monster’s dark eyes shone green as it shook the chains free from its forearms. The alfar symbols glowed and transferred their light to the iron links. Then it swung the chains at Rodario and Gandogar; both were caught within the coils.

At the next moment and before any of the spectators could move, the creature launched itself into the air, catapulting straight through the stage scenery, dragging its captives after it as if they weighed nothing at all. Pieces of the stage flats broke off and fell down, one of them hitting Tassia and trapping her while dwarves and soldiers rushed off in pursuit. “Help!” she sobbed. Planks collapsed, bringing down sections of canvas from the tent. Smoke started to rise. Tassia could hear people stampeding past her to escape from the monster. There was no time to come to the aid of some actress.

At last Furgas came over to free her from her distress. She wept and threw herself at him, grabbing hold of his shoulder. He froze. Finally he put his arms hesitatingly around her and consoled her.

“Come along, let’s get you out of here.” He yelled orders to the theater group, most of whom were standing rooted to the spot in terror: they must put out the fires. He carried Tassia out and sat her on a makeshift bed. “You’ll be safe here,” he said. “I must go and save Rodario.”

She nodded and calmed down but the pain, coupled with the shock of the monster’s appearance, had hit her hard.

Furgas ran off, following the sounds of commotion. He could see from Porista’s lighted windows that the townspeople had been aroused. It wasn’t long before he found a crowd of soldiers and dwarves surrounding Rodario and Gandogar.

Whereas the actor had got away comparatively lightly, the monster had torn off Gandogar’s forearm. The dwarf king lay unconscious on the cobbles, being attended to by a healer who was binding up the stump.

Rodario was bleeding from numerous cuts and grazes. Both he and the high king had burn marks on their clothing from the red-hot chains. He was holding his head. “Awful,” he said indistinctly. “I was nearly dragged to my death. It has the strength of twenty horses.” He looked over at Gandogar. “This courageous dwarf refused to give up the diamond and actually attacked the monster. It simply wrapped the chain around his arm and yanked…” He turned pale and covered his mouth with his hand. “I mustn’t think of it.”

“Where did it go?” one of the soldiers asked.

“I don’t know.” Rodario pointed up to the roofs. “It made one great leap and disappeared. It had no trouble getting right up to the rooftop and then jumped to the next one. You won’t catch it now. It’ll be over the city walls.”

Bruron appeared, surrounded by his bodyguards. He saw he had arrived too late. “Summon the assembly,” he commanded one of his servants. “And get Tungdil Goldhand. We need to make a new plan and must hurry if we are to save Girdlegard. There’s no doubt now that the unslayables possess all the diamonds.” Cursing, he turned and walked back to the tent.

Furgas gave Rodario a helping arm.

“How is Tassia?”

“She has a scratch on her shoulder,” Furgas told the actor calmly. “Nothing serious.”

“Amazing.” Rodario looked up at the rooftops as if he could still see the monster. “I had the most powerful of the gems and had not noticed.” He gave a wry laugh. “I am stupid enough not to be able to tell a crystal from a diamond.”

Furgas patted his shoulder. “Don’t fret. You didn’t know what the stone looked like. It wouldn’t have helped if you had known-it wouldn’t have stopped this catastrophe.”

Rodario nodded and fell silent.

H ey! Take care, you clumsy idiots, or you’ll have his nose off!” Ireheart called with a grin. “He’d turn you into a gnome for that.”

The dwarves sweating with the effort of heaving up Lot-Ionan’s statue laughed and renewed their endeavors to lower the magus gently down.

Then they heard the alarm boom out through the night. There was no more peace and quiet in Porista now.

“What does that mean?” growled Ireheart. “Are they hunting down the impresario?”

There was a clink and a green glowing iron chain shot down from the sky, coiling itself around Risava’s neck.

She grabbed at it, gasping for breath, but at once skin, muscles and vertebrae were ripped apart as if made of paper and rotten wood. The torso remained upright for a moment then collapsed convulsing to the ground. Blood pumped out of the neck stump. The famula’s head fell to the cobbles with a dull thud.

“Stand against the wall!” Tungdil ran to the side and pressed himself against the side of the house, to give the whipping chains no chance. He raised Keenfire and looked up.

“The damned froggy,” growled Boindil. “This time you won’t get away. I’m going to pull off your fine legs and I’ll have you crawling. You will pay for ruining my beard!”

The creature scurried over the roofs to right and left, covering huge distances effortlessly. Every so often it would show itself to the dwarves to mock them.

“What does it want here?” Goda wondered, not taking her eyes off the roof-line.

Tungdil looked at Risava’s corpse. “It must have felt that hope was emerging for Girdlegard.” He turned to Dergard and signaled ten dwarves over to protect him. “Ireheart and Goda, you lead them. The rest go with me,” he ordered, running off to the wagon on which Lot-Ionan lay. “Let’s get him away from here.”

The chains hissed close and tore both the dwarves nearest to Tungdil screaming into the air; they crashed down, ripped in two halves, as if a giant child had broken and dropped them.

Then the creature leaped on to the street to face Tungdil, bared its teeth triumphantly and let the chains sway and dance.

“I shall kill you all,” it promised in a clear voice. A jerk with one arm was sufficient and the chain killed one of the undergroundlings as the tip smashed the dwarf’s head.

Sirka appeared at Tungdil’s side. “Let’s get going. I’ll distract it and you strike,” she said earnestly, attacking the monster without waiting for Tungdil’s reply.

While she was moving in on the creature the second chain came whipping out and wrapped itself around her weapon, making the iron glow red hot.

With a scream the undergroundling released her hold but she was not giving up. She drew a dagger and stabbed at the monster.

Tungdil swung Keenfire, swiveled on his heel and slashed at the thigh of his huge opponent. The ax flamed up, diamonds blazing out a cold light and the weapon-head drawing a fiery circle after itself.

The creature saw the danger and swerved to the side, taking the relatively harmless dagger-blow to its belly and avoiding the swipe from Keenfire. The ax had missed by a hair’s breadth.

But the long spur of a crow’s beak smote it on the kneecap. “Ha, how do you like my brother’s ax, froggy?” came Ireheart’s malicious laugh, as he jerked the haft of his weapon to bring the monster down. “You didn’t think that I would hold back when I can kill this beast, did you, Scholar?”

The creature yelled out. In the high elf-like tones the animal sounds of an orc-voice could be heard. Then it thrust its hand out and grabbed Ireheart by the shoulder. The alfar runes on its forearms started to glow.

The dwarf cried out, held stubbornly fast to the handle of his crow’s beak and kept pulling.

“Mind out!” Tungdil swung Keenfire again. This time the blade bit home and the monster’s forearm sheared off, together with the wrist guards and the chains.

The enemy stared at the severed arm and at its own gushing black blood, staggered backwards and launched itself howling from the floor. In spite of its injury and the crow’s beak in its knee it managed to jump onto the next roof. Thatch and shingles tumbled down to the street. The monster had gone.

Goda ran off after it.

“Stop! Come back!” Ireheart crouched on the floor. A cloud of steam rose from his shoulder and there was a smell of burnt flesh, hot iron and scorched leather. “Look at that! Froggy’s got me!” he spoke through clenched teeth. “We nearly did for it, though?”

Tungdil saved his remonstrations; the pain was punishment enough for his friend. The mail tunic had heated up with the effect of the magic and had burnt through all the layers of clothing, stencilling a black pattern. “You are mad, Boindil,” he said, helping him to his feet. “Let’s find Goda.”

The dwarf-girl was back already. In her hands she bore the bloodied crow’s beak, its spur missing. “I heard it break and went off to see,” she explained, handing the weapon to her master.

“That fine spur,” he grumbled, examining the damage and running his hands over the jagged edge. “I’ll have to get it repaired.”

Goda slipped under his arm to support him and he used the remains of the crow’s beak as a stick. “You must rest now and get that wound looked at.”

“Oh that’s nothing,” he said, playing it down. “I’ve had worse than that, great gaping wounds with blood and guts spilling out. A bit of burnt skin is not tragic.”

Tungdil looked at the group of dwarves round Dergard, then at Risava’s body, already starting to grow cold. “So now we have only two magi,” he murmured. “We’ll have to protect them well. This won’t be the last attack.” He gave the signal to return to their quarters and was just about to send a messenger to call in the assembly when a soldier came running up.

“There you are, Tungdil Goldhand! King Bruron is looking for you everywhere. The monster has stolen the final diamond,” gasped the man. “It happened during the performance. It surprised us all. We had no chance to stop it. We need you there so they can decide what to do next.”

“Damn! The froggy had the stone. And we’ve let it escape,” groaned Ireheart. “Oh Vraccas! How did that happen?”

Tungdil exhaled sharply and looked at Sirka. “The dwarves and the undergroundlings have one thing in common at least.” He wanted to clap her on the shoulder in acknowledgment, but put his hand on her back instead and to his own surprise left it there. She held a strong attraction for him. He watched her face, thought about that kiss and would have gladly repeated it. Now, right now.

“Courage?” she said, laughing.

“Exactly,” he agreed swiftly, because he had left far too long a pause and had been staring at her. His behavior had been noted by Ireheart and Goda. He swiftly took his hand away from Sirka’s back. First he had to talk to Balyndis.

They hurried through Porista’s lanes and narrow streets, now full of guards.

“One more thing, Tungdil Goldhand,” the messenger addressed him. “We found a dead body in your room. It looks as if he had been stabbed and died as a result of his injuries.”

“That can’t be so,” Tungdil replied at once, as they approached the assembly marquee. “He was an intruder I confronted. I wounded him on the leg and on his side. The injuries weren’t dangerous.”

“Very strange. I saw the dead man myself and I assure you, the body had been carefully slit right up the middle.”

“The froggy! The monster got to him as well!” Ireheart exclaimed, looking at Dergard and the dwarf-guards who surrounded him. “Don’t leave him for a second, even if he needs to have a shit, right?”

Tungdil and Sirka exchanged glances and he could read her thoughts: The monster might have ripped the man to pieces, chucked him off a roof, torn his throat out, but it would never have sliced him through with a clean sharp blade. He would know more when he had seen the body.

The undergroundling came to his side, her hand this time on his back. She put her face down to his ear. “I think you have a traitor in your midst, Tungdil,” she whispered.

He shared her assumption. The thirdlings had a long arm and it reached all the way to Porista.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Porista,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

U nder the circumstances I don’t think it would be advisable to split our forces,” said Ortger. “Tungdil Goldhand must protect the magus with Keenfire until he is able to defend himself against the attacks from the unslayables and the monsters.” He regarded the men and women in the assembly. “Besieging Toboribor seems pointless now. Soldiers cannot combat these powers. Not now the enemy holds the genuine diamond.” He indicated Dergard, who was sitting between Gandogar and Tungdil. “Let us send him and the dwarves to Weyurn to seek out the island.”

Tungdil rose. “Indeed. The sooner we take Dergard and Lot-Ionan to the source, the better.” He moved over to the map of Girdlegard. “The unslayables will need to find a way to use the stone. The eoil stole it from evil but transformed it into a power for good. I don’t think the alfar will immediately work out how to use it.” He circled Toboribor with his finger on the map. “And we should keep the siege going. We ought to send raiding parties into the caves to harass the unslayables. Have you considered why they never set out themselves to find the diamonds?” Tungdil paused. “I think they are too weak and so they sent out their creatures instead. We must not give them a moment’s rest. Even if it means risking the lives of more of our troops. If they acquire the stone’s power before we revive Lot-Ionan and before Dergard can cast any spells, we are lost.” He sat down.

“Are any better suited to combat in caves than the children of the Smith?” Rejalin’s question was friendly. “It would be madness to send such experienced fighters out to storm an island when they’re invaluable underground, because they can see in the dark better than a human or an elf.” She looked at Gandogar. “I trust the dwarves, Your Majesty. You should send your warriors to Toboribor, every man you can spare from duty on the gates.”

Tungdil grew hot under the collar. He cursed the fact there had been no opportunity to give the high king Sundalon’s report about the broka. He sensed a trap in the elf princess’s suggestion. He could not pin it down; her words had seemed eminently sensible. Dwarves were indeed excellent at fighting in tunnels.

Sirka, standing behind Tungdil, now leaned forward. “That broka is up to something,” she warned, reinforcing his unease.

Gandogar, however, was flattered by Rejalin’s words and was ready to accept the proposal. “You are right, Your Highness. But I must insist it should be our people who take the thirdlings’ island. If the other sovereigns are in agreement I shall send our warriors to Toboribor.” Pain was audible in his voice; the sedative herbs were only a slight help in stilling the agony from his injured shoulder and mutilated arm. All those present in the assembly admired his stamina.

“It will take too long,” Tungdil objected. “At least sixty orbits. We would be wasting precious time. The cave attacks must start much sooner than that.”

Queen Isika had not yet-luckily for Tungdil-accepted Rejalin’s idea. “We mustn’t forget that there may still be traitors in the dwarf tribes looking to make common cause with our enemies.”

“And if this were so, Queen Isika, we should be the ones exposed to them in the tunnels of Toboribor-not your people,” Gandogar interjected. “Let that be our concern. If there are ten traitors among my five thousand warriors, what harm can they do?”

“I agree with Rejalin,” said Ortger, smiling at the elf princess. “The dwarves know what they’re doing and we can keep this area safe. My soldiers are used to moving in the mountains and can secure the peaks.”

While the rulers gave their assent one by one, Tungdil hurried to Gandogar’s side. “The elves are not to be trusted,” he whispered. He gave a quick summary of Sundalon’s story.

“If you ask me it looks as if the same thing is happening here as the undergroundlings suffered.”

Gandogar had listened carefully, his eyes closed. Then he looked at Sirka. “How long have you known these undergroundlings?” he asked Tungdil.

“You know how long.”

“And you think you can trust what they say?”

“Your Majesty, I…”

He raised his hand. “No, Tungdil. Our peoples have been living in harmony for many cycles now. Now they have sent envoys to impart their knowledge to us.” His eyes sought Tungdil’s. “Apart from the word of the undergroundling dwarves, whose origins are questionable, have you…?”

“Gandogar, you…”

“Enough,” came the unusually sharp command. Sweat was collecting on the king’s brow; the effort of controlling the pain was too much. “Everyone knows their origins are in doubt. And until I’ve seen one of these supposedly harmless orcs they call ubariu and been given proof of their good intentions I shall stick to my opinion.” His brown eyes were resolute. “Even if I believed you, the others here would not. Not without evidence.” He lowered his head. “Do you have evidence?”

Tungdil clamped his jaws so tightly shut that they hurt.

“Do you have this proof, Tungdil Goldhand?” repeated Gandogar.

“No, I don’t,” he admitted reluctantly. He was near to despair. If only the injured elf back at the inn would regain consciousness and could speak! “No.”

“Then I must keep silent on this matter.”

“Promise me at least that you’ll warn our warriors about the elves,” begged Tungdil.

“I shall.” Gandogar turned his attention again to the assembly. The great and the good of Girdlegard were unanimous now; even Queen Isika had accepted Princess Rejalin’s suggestion. “It is decided. The united fighting force of dwarves will set off for Toboribor. The thirdlings and secondlings will form the vanguard,” he announced, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

His words were greeted with applause.

Sundalon could stand it no longer. His request had not been considered. He raised his hand and waited until the clapping ceased. “Do we get the stone back when you have defeated the unslayables?”

“No,” answered the elf princess at once.

“I think we should let Lot-Ionan decide,” said Tungdil, in an effort to avoid a dispute. “He will know best what the diamond’s power is.”

“In my opinion it would be too dangerous to give the diamond away before it has been minutely examined.” Rejalin gave the undergroundling a gracious smile. “Don’t misunderstand me. I trust you but I don’t trust the Outer Lands. And you tell us that these supposedly mild-natured orcs have a… was it a rune master?” Sundalon nodded. “… they have a rune master who is versed in magic. The last thing we want is an orc with limitless magic powers. Not even in the Outer Lands.”

“Then you are condemning our land to destruction, broka,” snarled Sundalon. “And if creatures from the Black Abyss find their way to Girdlegard, then think on this day and on these words of the broka.”

“We have the children of the Smith guarding our gateways,” she replied calmly. “So far they have failed only the once to defend us. It will not happen again. Is there an alliance stronger than this?”

Sundalon grabbed hold of his weapons with both hands, as if needing them for support. Or perhaps it was the princess’s throat he imagined in his grasp. “It is typical of your people to spread insults or poison. It is not for nothing we have eradicated them in our realm.”

Rejalin raised her eyebrows smiling still. She had achieved her goal; she had the undergroundling breaking through the thin ice she had led him onto.

“You have done what?” whispered Queen Wey, grown suddenly pale.

“Then broka means elf and not alfar,” said Isika, her voice toneless. “We are sharing a conference table with creatures from the same creator as the orcs who have wiped out all the elves in their land?”

“You misunderstand,” Tungdil objected, trying to salvage what he could. “They had to do this! The eoil stole their diamond and incited the elves to violence against them. They could not see clearly.” He was gathering all his courage to speak his suspicions out loud, but Rejalin was ahead of him.

“Then there is no question of giving you the diamond, Sundalon. My people will never let that happen.” Her beautiful features displayed arrogance and ice-cold determination. “If you should ever get possession of the stone you will lose it again through our doing. Whether it be in Girdlegard or in the Outer Lands.” Her bodyguard behind her put their hands on the pommels of their swords.

“It is better if you leave,” said Gandogar to Sundalon. “And you, Princess Rejalin, watch your words before they launch something that cannot be stopped.”

The undergroundlings left the assembly tent.

After a brief hesitation Tungdil followed them out. When he was halfway through the lobby he turned on his heel. “We shall meet in Toboribor,” he told the gathering. He made no bow to them. “May your gods stand by you and may they open your eyes, Your Majesties all, before it is too late.” He left, Ireheart and Goda in his wake, together with Furgas and Rodario.

What remained was an uncomfortable oppressive silence.

Nobody spoke; Bruron closed the meeting. There were tasks enough before them and issues in the air that neither elves nor humans nor dwarves wished to discuss.

Girdlegard,

Queendom of Weyurn,

A Hundred Miles West of Gastinga,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T hey were taking far too long to get from Porista to the shores of the lake where their ship was waiting.

There were many reasons for the delay: unexpected rainfall meant the cart with Lot-Ionan’s heavy statue was getting bogged down, then Dergard fell sick and they had to stop over at a farm until the fever passed. They could not take risks with his life, and at the same time they must not deplete their force by splitting into two groups. The ax Keenfire could not be wielded in two places at once.

Tungdil sat with Rodario and Furgas in the farmer’s parlor studying a map. This was a rare document that actually showed the Weyurn territory now under floodwater. They were trying to guess the location of the disappearing island.

Ireheart and Goda were doing sentry rounds with the guards. They had a hundred secondling dwarves and a dozen undergroundlings led by Sirka, even if Boindil did not approve. He was also far from approving of the apparent flirtation between Tungdil and Sirka. He had made his views clear to his friend after Sirka made no attempt to conceal her affections.

Rodario raised his head. “Is our esteemed Boindil in a bad mood?” he asked Tungdil. “I just heard him yelling at the guards again.”

“It’s the weather. Dwarves can’t stand rain. And he’s hot-blooded and spoiling for a fight.” Tungdil went on poring over the chart. They’d got a shortlist of five locations. “Can the island travel along underwater?” he asked Furgas.

“So, it’s his hot blood, is it?” Rodario stepped over to the window. “Or is it his pupil?” He watched them practicing in the barn. At first glance it all seemed straightforward, but his dramatic training had sharpened his senses to signs of physical attraction. “I get the feeling there are sparks flying there.” He turned to Tungdil. “Yes, definite sparks.”

“Best stay well out of that,” said Tungdil with a wry smile. He was keen to avoid discussion of feelings and attraction, for fear he and Sirka might be the actor’s next target.

Furgas drank the tea the farmer’s wife had brought them. Still underweight and pale, he would sometimes sit in the corner all day saying nothing. Other times he’d be completely normal. The effects of whole cycles in captivity would not be easy to get over.

“Yes, it can,” he said, in answer to Tungdil’s question. “I made a system of tubes and chambers that fill with water or steam. If the valves are opened, and the contents expelled, it propels itself slowly forward.”

“Not good.” Tungdil leaned back in his seat. “Then it could be absolutely anywhere.”

“No. It can’t move fast. It’s a mountain we’re talking about, creeping along under the water.” He drew a ring round the place they presumed was its last sighting. “It would be roughly in this area. It has to come up every so often to take on air and to get food for the workforce.”

“They can see it but nobody will talk because it’s the nightmare alfar-island and everyone’s terrified,” Rodario added. “Ingenious, these thirdlings. The front-story of alfar was a neat idea to keep people quiet.”

“We can only hope the queen’s ships come across the island by chance and word gets round they’re not really alfar and that there’s a considerable reward for information about the island’s whereabouts.” Tungdil helped himself to tea and let his thoughts wander a little.

In his mind’s eye he saw Balyndis and Sirka. Dwarves as different as it was possible to be.

He had been hoping his fascination with Sirka would be a passing infatuation, intrigued though he was by her appearance and behavior. She was the opposite of Girdlegard dwarves. But he still couldn’t keep his eyes off her or his thoughts away. He recalled another time his loyalty to Balyndis had been tested. Myr.

She had been a thirdling spy, a scholar like him, and Balyndis, under pressure from the elders of her clan, had been advised to leave him. It was no wonder that Myr and he had got together-until her treachery was revealed. Then it had been easier not to be troubled by conscience.

“For a magus in training, Dergard’s a bit on the vulnerable side, don’t you think?” Rodario had discovered the cake the farmer’s wife had left on the side. And then he spotted the daughter of the house running past the window in the rain to the barn to milk the cows. “What a delight,” he murmured dreamily, cutting himself a slice.

“What would Tassia say?” Furgas said crossly. “You’re the same as five cycles ago. It’s not clever, just selfish.”

“I’ve no idea what she’d say. She didn’t ask me my opinion when she slept with other men,” he retorted, taking a bite. “We’re both grown up and have a taste for life. So what’s the problem?” He would never admit to the jealousy he felt. “Don’t you have eyes for womenfolk anymore?”

“There aren’t any women in my life now. I swore to be faithful to Narmora. Just because her body no longer exists doesn’t mean I don’t stay true,” he said, his voice unsteady. “I dream of her each night and she gave me the strength to survive the time on the island. I would never betray her by desiring another.”

“An admirable attitude, Furgas. Keep away from women and you won’t get hurt.” He chewed the mouthful of cake, his eyes still on the farmer’s daughter. “Imagine if you had fallen for Tassia. Oh Palandiell, what a disaster! She’s my female equivalent.”

Tungdil noticed Furgas was getting jumpy.

“The girl certainly understands the art of seduction, I can tell you. She’s as faithful as a leaf in the breeze, blowing this way and that.” Rodario rattled on, stuffing his face with cake. “It has cost me dear, finding that out. I can only warn everyone about her.” He laughed quietly. “Little slut. But I can’t stay away.” Then he turned to face the dwarves. “Do you still need me? I’d like to help the farmer’s girl with her churns.”

“Leave her be,” said Tungdil. “I don’t want a row with her father. They’ve been so good to us.”

“Don’t you worry your head, hero. I’ll be as discreet as anything.” He winked at them and left the room.

T he barn where Goda and Boindil were working out was huge.

The farmer had put fleeces down in the old hay loft and new washed wool waiting to be spun. Two weaving looms behind had been clattering away the last couple of orbits.

Boindil took a couple of ropes from the wall and was snaking them in turn toward Goda. “Imagine these are lots of opponents attacking you.” The first one, with an iron ring at the end, was coming at her fast. She turned and avoided it.

“Excellent,” he said, aiming the second at her left thigh.

Goda managed to swerve out of the way several times but the fifth rope hit home. The iron ring hit her on the breast.

Ireheart tutted impatiently. “That’s you dead, Goda. That was a sword-thrust in the chest.” He pointed to the floor. “Forty!”

“I’m not doing press-ups,” she protested. “I would have warded off the blow.”

“You wouldn’t.” He looked her full in the eyes and regretted it at once. His warrior heart was working overtime. “Fifty.”

Goda picked up her flail. “Try it again, master. I’ll show you what the night star can do.”

“No, you won’t. You’re supposed to be taking avoiding action.” He was angry that she was questioning his authority. “Sixty.” Now he made a threatening move toward her.

She raised her weapon. “First you’ll have to get me on the floor.” She pulled in her head, and her eyes blazed. “I have had enough of being ordered about, master.”

Previously Boindil would have rejoiced at the prospect of being free of his young pupil. But now it was his worst nightmare. “You’re confusing persistence with bullying. It’s for your own good,” he said to cover his embarrassment. “You asked me to teach you how to fight.”

“Or else? Seventy?” she laughed with malice.

Ireheart grabbed the handle of the night star and rammed the top of it against her head. Goda started to topple and he placed his foot behind hers, pulling it from under her so that she fell. “One hundred,” he said, twirling her weapon in his hands. “You let go of the night star. You know only to do that if you have a second weapon on you.”

She propped herself up on her elbows, ignoring a trickle of blood from her forehead.

Boindil sighed and went over to crouch down beside her. “Goda, I’m trying to keep you safe and alive.”

“With push-ups? Is it to impress the orcs? Perhaps I can challenge an opponent to a contest?” she hissed, sitting up.

Again their faces were very close.

Ireheart swallowed hard and swung back as if a Vanga had bitten him. “No. It’s to motivate you to make more effort,” he muttered. “If you don’t make the mistakes you don’t have to do the press-ups.” He took a handful of the wool and tried to wipe the blood from her face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Goda thrust his hand away roughly.

“I wanted…”

“I know what you wanted, master.” She flashed at him. “And I know what you want. Don’t forget you killed Sanda. I feel nothing for you. I’d rather have Bramdal than you. Make me a warrior and then let’s fight to see how good your teaching was. You can keep everything else. I don’t care.” Boindil was thunderstruck. Her harsh tone had hit him to the quick; she had known exactly what he was thinking. “It…” He swallowed, searching for words. His spark of hope was dying. Then he pulled himself together. “It’s not what you think. I am your instructor and I am concerned for you. That is all.”

“So I should hope.” Goda turned and pushed herself up from the floor. She began her press-ups. One hundred of them. Blood dripped from her forehead but that did not bother her.

Ireheart watched, vowing to himself that he would not give up.

W hen Rodario opened the door he found a soldier whose armor bore the insignia of King Bruron.

“A message for Tungdil Goldhand,” he announced, looking past Rodario. “That’ll be you?”

“Eyes as keen as an eagle’s,” joked the showman. “How many dwarves do you see sitting here?” The soldier went over to Tungdil, handing him several rolls and folded papers.

“I am to bring your answer straight back to His Majesty,” he said, retreating. “I’ll wait outside.”

“Get yourself something to eat and have a rest,” invited Tungdil. “It will take some time. Send Boindil and Sirka in.”

He waited silently until the messenger had left the room and the others had joined him, then he unrolled the parchment.

Goda came in as well. She seemed to have her mentor’s complete confidence. Tungdil noticed she had dried blood on her face. Weapons practice must have been rougher than usual today.

“It’s from Prince Mallen,” Tungdil read out. “The initial attacks on the caves at Toboribor have been successful. The monster whose arm I severed has been killed.” His face showed regret. “So far Mallen reports he has lost seven hundred and eleven men in the caves; most of them died through sorcery. There is no indication that the unslayables are using the diamond’s power. Furthermore, the first contingents of thirdlings and firstlings have arrived. They will be taking over from his soldiers.”

“May Vraccas keep them safe,” murmured Ireheart.

Tungdil started to read Gandogar’s missive. “In exchange the elves have sent warriors to the realms of the secondlings and thirdlings to undertake guard duties on the walls and gates. Everything is running smoothly, he writes.”

“The broka will kick up soon.” This was Sirka’s dark interpretation of events. “They’re just taking up their positions. They have all the monarchs in Porista at their mercy, and they’re creeping into the mountains to get close to the dwarf rulers. It’s like what they did to us.” She clenched her fists. “The difference is that no one in Girdlegard is prepared to stop them.”

“Not without proof.” Tungdil repeated the words of the high king. “I tried my best in the assembly but Gandogar would not let me speak.”

Ireheart looked at the undergroundling. “That is the way of it. No one would have believed you or Sundalon. Not after he’d said that about exterminating elves.”

“There’s no reason to lie. They were the danger, not us,” objected Sirka.

“You carry orc blood. I bet most of them see you and your kind as a threat,” he grumbled, resting his hands on the head of his crow’s beak. Since learning of their origins his attitude to the strangers had changed. He rejected them out of hand. He despised them.

“Ubar formed us out of mountain blood. We have the strength of the mountains within us.” Sirka had had enough of being insulted in this way. She stood up and approached Ireheart, her eyes blazing with anger. “Ubar created the ubariu from that same blood, made them taller and stronger still and instilled in them a hatred of evil. That is what binds us and the ubariu, dwarf. They have never betrayed their land or the people who live there.” She pointed to Goda with her weapon. “Look. She’s a thirdling. Can she make that same claim? Which of us two is more trustworthy?”

“Your status is far below that of my pupil, undergroundling.” The warrior twin was not impressed by her anger and was not going to tolerate her attack on Goda. “Hold your tongue.”

Now it was Tungdil’s task to settle this. Sirka was being attacked. “She is right, Ireheart. Goda could easily be a traitor. You know nothing about her except what she tells you. Has she given you any proof of where she’s from or of the story she tells? Is there a thirdling who can back up her story? You know just how clever Myr was. I don’t like you bringing her to a meeting where secrets are being discussed.”

Ireheart looked up in amazement. He would never have expected his friend to criticize him in this way.

Goda stepped forward. “I will not take your insults, undergroundling.”

Sirka smiled at her. “I have told no lies about your people. Not all of you enjoy the same good reputation as Tungdil Goldhand or Sanda Flameheart. We are on our way to seek out and bring two evil thirdlings to justice. They are thirdlings, Goda. Not undergroundlings. We have no malicious intent on Girdlegard. We wouldn’t have spared dwarf lives as we did in our pursuit of the missing diamond.”

Rodario insinuated himself between the warring parties and offered round the plate of cake. “Perhaps it’s time we all calmed down and remembered who we are really here to fight, before you two scratch each other’s eyes out. Have some cake. It’s delicious.”

Goda sat down and rested her hand on the night star, mirroring Ireheart’s gesture with his crow’s beak. Sirka went round the table to stare at the map. Nobody ate any cake.

“Well, it’s all for me, then,” mumbled Rodario between mouthfuls and he went back to the window to watch the farm-girl again.

“Rodario is right,” Tungdil looked at Ireheart and his pupil, but there was no apology forthcoming. Instead he held up the letter. “Gandogar says that the secondlings have halted and destroyed a machine that was killing dwarves with gas. Inside it they found containers made of stone with substances in glass tubes which combined to make a poison that did for thirteen dwarves before the machine was tipped into a mineshaft and buried under rubble. They assume it was a similar machine that poisoned the firstling wells.”

“So much for the elves being the guilty parties,” Goda said to Sirka, who waved her hand dismissively.

Ireheart watched Furgas, who was weeping softly, his hands in front of his face. Once more it was an invention of his that was causing death and destruction.

They sensed it could have been much worse. Poison gas in a densely populated part of the Blue Mountain Range would have meant the number of victims would have been higher still. Hundreds, Furgas thought.

“We have to find the island quickly and capture it,” he said, his tone subdued. He took his hands from his face, wiping away his tears and running his fingers through his hair. “The monsters will soon have to visit the source to recharge with magic. They need the island for that. It will be soon. There must be no more victims.”

Tungdil agreed. “I’ll ask Dergard if he thinks he can travel. Then we’ll set off for the shore to embark in search of the island. We’ll leave the injured elf on Windsport Island-it’ll be the safest place for him.” He tried not to look at Ireheart while he was dispensing further orders. “Prepare to move off. The meeting is over.”

Boindil and Goda left the room. Rodario went too, wanting to escape the uncomfortable atmosphere. Furgas finished drinking his tea and left Tungdil alone with Sirka.

“Your friends will blame me that you spoke up on my behalf,” she said, coming over and stroking his beard.

He caught hold of her hand and pushed it gently away. “No, Sirka,” he smiled. “Don’t make it harder for me than it already is.” He still had received no answer to his letter to Balyndis. “I’m finding it too hard to resist.”

“Then give in,” she whispered, raising her arm again to touch him. “There’s no harm, Tungdil. We like each other and we will love each other. It is only a question of time. We can postpone it or go ahead and feel much better. Who knows what the morrow may bring?” She moved forward and kissed him.

This time he did not try to stop her. He relished the tenderness; his body was eager for more. He placed his arms round her. She was slim and wiry and at the same time immensely strong under his hands.

And yet he pushed her away. “Wait. I have to ask you something,” he said breathlessly, blood surging through him like a river of fire. “What is Sundalon going to do?”

“You want to know that right now?”

“I couldn’t ask you when the others were here,” he smiled. “I didn’t know you wanted to kiss me. I just wanted to talk.”

Sirka took a deep breath and clasped his hands. “He will prepare my homeland to avert the worst,” she answered vaguely.

“That could mean anything.”

She gazed into his eyes. “I will tell you a secret. Before we left to come to Girdlegard, Sundalon called the ubar people and the acrontas together,” she said slowly. “They will have gathered on the northern border by the gates.”

So that was why the orcs were desperately attempting to break through the fourthlings’ Brown Mountains. They had an army of orc-haters at their backs, driving them on. “An invasion? You want to conquer Girdlegard?”

“No. We want the stone back. We want to crush the seed of danger that threatens our land. Stone and seed-both are here in Girdlegard.”

Tungdil swallowed. “Sirka, how big is the army?”

“They will be eighty thousand ubariu, four thousand acrontas and fifty thousand of my own people.”

“Oh Vraccas,” he groaned, seeing Girdlegard submerged in blood. “The fourthlings will fight you because they think you threaten them. They will launch everything they have against you to keep you away from the diamond.”

“And fail. For the acrontas it will be easy to blast the gates open. We have reconnoitered and found your weak spots.” Sirka seemed relieved to be able to tell him everything at last. “But they won’t have to. Our scouts have found a way through the Brown Mountains.”

“Never!”

“Yes. Ubar showed them a broad path that an army can use without being seen; they can go straight past the fourthling bastions.”

“It’s impossible,” Tungdil contradicted her. “It can’t be done! The peaks can’t be climbed.”

“You will soon see it is true.”

“The monsters from the Outer Lands could have found it just as well!”

“They did find it, Tungdil. Several times. We stopped them ever carrying the discovery back to their own kind.” Sirka paused for breath. “Sundalon did not want us to tell you before we had recovered the diamond. But I think you need to know.” She stroked the back of his hand. “Take it as a proof of my trustworthiness.”

“So the peace we have had in Girdlegard is due not only to harmony between the dwarf folks, but to you,” he mouthed, shocked to the core.

He was imagining the extent of the destruction if armies of ogres, trolls, alfar, bognilim and other Tion-bred horrors marched in via Urgon with no warning, streaming out over the rest of Girdlegard. Nothing would remain.

So those cycles of deceptive calm they owed to the protection the undergroundlings had given them. And the undergroundlings were now at risk themselves. “Why did you do it? Why did you never show yourselves?”

“What for? None of your kind came over. We assumed you did not like us. And we knew that our brotherhood pact with the ubariu would cause trouble between us.” She stood up and went to the door. “Now it’s clear we were right to stay hidden. I must tell them that we’re leaving for Weyurn,” she said in the doorway. “You won’t tell anyone what I’ve said?”

A thousand questions were burning on Tungdil’s tongue but he controlled himself. “No one,” he promised, touching his ax to strengthen the vow. “By Keenfire, I swear it.” He smiled at her and she slipped out.

His thoughts raged in tumult. Unslayables, undergroundlings. It all sounded like unmitigated disaster.

It lay in his hands to prevent the catastrophe. Again. He did not feel particularly strong and was pleased to know there would soon be support. Soon he would be able to call on the help of his foster-father Lot-Ionan. A wise magus, older than any other soul in Girdlegard, he possessed a strong intellect with a wealth of experience. He had always stood Tungdil in good stead with his sound counsel. His assistance would be needed again. Or better still, Lot-Ionan should decide what to do. Tungdil did not want to be making decisions.

He caught sight of the last of the sealed letters.

He had refrained from reading this one out. It was from Glaimbar Sharpax. Tungdil was afraid of what it would say. But read it he must.

He stood up, tearing it open.

Highly esteemed Tungdil Goldhand,

You were correct in thinking that I still am very attached to Balyndis. I summoned her to me as soon as I received your letter.

To my great joy she accepted the invitation and to my even greater delight she promised to return to my side. As my first wife she has every right to be there.

I am to tell you that she had been aware of your coldness toward her. For this reason she is prepared to give you up, on the understanding that she will never have to see you again. She says she would not be able to bear it.

I am sure that I shall be able to smooth things between Balyndis and her clan so that relations are as she deserves. I shall be a good husband to her and she will be the best royal consort the fifthling realm has ever seen.

I thank you for the openness you have shown. I respond in kind: true feelings do not admit of change. Balyndis has learned painfully that there is no stable commitment on your part. But we, children of the Smith…

Tungdil tore the letter through.

He did not need to go on reading. The important points had been made and he had no taste for a lecture on fidelity from Glaimbar Sharpax. He knew full well what it entailed. Balyndis had read and understood his letter. He would always be grateful to her, and he was aware how much pain he had caused her. He could not rejoice over the parting.

He looked out into the courtyard to watch Sirka. He met his own reflection on the window glass. “You coward,” he said.

His reflection seemed to nod in agreement.