The Revenge of the Dwarves

XIX

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Urgon,

Pendleburg,

Early Autumn, 6241st Solar Cycle

Resounding hammer blows and complaining screams of metal on anvil could be heard all over the cloud-hung stronghold. Squadrons of gray rain clouds were driving across the land and not stopping at the castle walls. The cloud contents poured onto the stones as if wanting to wash out all the mortar and bring down the defenses.

Tungdil, in breeches, boots and leather apron, was spending most of his time in the forge turning the unslayable’s sword into a new weapon. With all his strength he was beating out the last trace of evil. He had written off the possibility of finding Keenfire, just as he had dismissed the possibility of a future in Girdlegard. The dwarf folks he had discarded from his mind as well.

There was nothing to keep him here. Twice he had averted the impending downfall and destruction of Girdlegard, and this was his third and last mission. After that the dwarves could see how they coped without him. No matter what he did and how many lives were lost along the way, reason would not prevail. Not here and not with any of the peoples of Girdlegard.

Anger strengthened his arm and sent his hammer blows off true. He interrupted his labors to wipe the sweat from his remaining eye; he no longer wore a bandage over the left where a simple white patch now covered the empty socket.

He brandished the fruits of his toil toward the entrance. As yet he was not sure what was emerging from his handiwork. It was neither ax nor sword, nor club. He left it up to the fire, the hammer and the skill of his hands to form something completely new without a specific design.

The metal must be an alloy he had not met before. He could hear as much from the sound it made; it sang in response to his forging. It had incredible stability, long refusing to give up its original shape to take on another. It was an age since he had been given such a challenge at the anvil.

Hasty footsteps came splashing through puddles and over the wet flagstones. Sirka stumbled in at the threshold. Her sight was not as good as his own in this smoky twilight. “Tungdil?”

He tapped the vice with his hammer to indicate where he stood. “Over here. By the furnace.”

“We won’t be able to leave yet,” she said, feeling her way. “This rain has turned Urgon’s mountain streams to raging torrents. The king’s scouts report some of the roads have been washed away.” She had located him now and when she kissed him rainwater dripped from her nose down onto his. “We won’t be leaving for another seven orbits.”

Tungdil nodded. Ortger would have to feed the hundred thousand for longer than he had bargained; provisions would have to be brought in from all over the kingdom. It was an enormous task. Gauragar and Idoslane were helping out with grain supplies. “I’m not ready, either.” He showed her what he had done so far.

“Strange,” she said. “I’ve never seen a weapon like that.”

“It will be worthy of a hero like myself,” he said, mockingly. “What are Goda and Ireheart up to?”

“Now that they are committed to each other they are never apart,” grinned Sirka. “Dwarves, rain, a warm bed-you can work it out, can’t you? No better excuse than the weather for staying in. The master and his apprentice will be in training, I presume.”

“Good, so no one will notice that I’ve been in the forge all this time.”

Sirka watched the flames. “I shan’t ever really understand the fascination with forging like this.” She wiped her hand across her brow to remove the sweat now blended with raindrops. “I wonder what you’ll think of the way we make our metal goods.”

Tungdil put the unfinished weapon back in the fire and laid his hammer down on the anvil before taking the dwarf-woman in his arms. She was wearing only a thin leather garment and her bodice lacing allowed him a good view of her brown skin. He stroked her shorn head tenderly and kissed her slowly as desire flamed up within him.

He threw the hammer at the door to close it. The catch slipped down into place. She grinned and opened the fastenings of his leather apron.

They made love for a long time on a blanket spread on the floor next to the furnace. Tungdil could never get enough of Sirka. He loved to stroke her dark skin and to feel the heat of her inner fire in the course of their love-play increasing until the sweat poured off her. The undergroundling woman had once spoken of belonging to a passionate folk. This did not merely apply to fighting.

Afterwards they rested by the fire, watching the flickering tongues of flame.

“It will be hard for you to leave your kinsfolk, Tungdil.”

“I have no kinsfolk,” he countered. “I have been thinking a lot and have arrived at the conclusion that my heart only belongs to one other.” He kissed her throat. “That’s you. Otherwise, I’m like…” He had nearly betrayed his secret and spoken the name of the young alf. “… otherwise there’s no one. Do I go to the dwarves who are fighting under Ginsgar Unforce, making old enemies into new ones? Or do I go the humans? I wouldn’t feel at home with the elves, either.”

“I’ll give you a new home for as long as you want. It’ll be up to you. You can always go away again, Tungdil. I know how you are-restless. You did warn me.” Sirka smiled and slipped her clothes on. Tungdil admired her sinewy body; it was tough and flexible enough for combat or for this kind of gymnastics. “And I in my turn warned you. There’s no forever for us. No eternally yours. Not usually, anyway.”

“Your eternity, Sirka, would only be one or two cycles for me,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m likely to live up to ten times longer than you.”

She threaded the laces back through the leather, fastening her bodice tight and depriving him of the last glimpse of her naked flesh. “That’s weird. If we have children you could outlive nine generations!”

When he heard the word children he gave a start. Then he remembered that undergroundlings brought up their offspring quite differently from the traditions of his own kind. He relaxed again. If he were tempted to roam again he would not have to worry about the care of his own children. He was rather taken by the thought of leaving descendants in the land of the undergroundlings: a line of offspring that would live longer than all their neighbors.

He got to his feet and started to dress. “Yes, it’s a weird thought,” he said, echoing her words. He kissed her again on the nape of her neck. “I can’t tell you how I’m looking forward to all the new things.”

“Yes, as soon as we have restored the artifact,” she agreed, opening the door to let dull light into the workshop. It was still raining. “Afterwards it will all be very exciting,” she promised enticingly. “Not just because of me.” Then she hurried out and ran through the cloudburst to her quarters.

Tungdil’s mood had improved and his fury had gone. “Oh, shit!” He had forgotten to take the metal out of the fire. If it had gone molten he would have wasted all his efforts.

Swiftly he pulled it out with tongs, drawing it carefully from its burial place in the red-hot coals. Sparks whizzed and flew through the air until they cooled and fell to the ground as ash.

The metal was now as soft as sun-warmed wax. It shone golden yellow like honey and there were long threads that cooled in the air and turned gray.

“So, that’s what you want to look like?” he said to his new weapon, dousing it in a tub of water. The liquid bubbled and boiled and quickly reduced to half its volume while the metal cooled. Tungdil had never seen such an effect.

He took the weapon out and turned it from side to side in wonder: it was black as the night and longer than the arm of a full-grown man. It was thicker on one side and had long drawn-out needle-thin points so that it looked like fish bones or a comb. On the other side it slimmed down like a blade and its center of gravity lay high up on the haft, which gave each swipe added momentum without detracting from its ease of wielding.

“Right, so let’s give you your final form, shall we?” Tungdil pushed it into the furnace, heating it through once more. He worked to finesse the weapon until evening, giving it a rounded handle that he could clasp in both hands. It seemed to him that the metal had surrendered its resistance to him now.

Night had long fallen and still he sat at work, sharpening the blade with a small grindstone. Bright sparks flew off in a sizzling arc, bouncing against the door. Tungdil tested the edge by taking a lump of coal and stroking the metal across it gently without applying any pressure. It sliced through the black stone as easily as if it had been air. He was satisfied for now.

Tired and hungry he stomped across the site through the rain, his new weapon at his side. He needed food and drink.

“Is it too late to bring you greetings from the towns of the freelings?”

Tungdil stopped short and raised his weapon. A dwarf stood by the smithy in the pouring rain. His cape and hood were soaked and he must have been waiting by the window a long while. For a messenger this behavior was unusual. “Show me your face!”

The dwarf approached, pulling back his hood. “I thought you would recognize my voice.”

Tungdil found himself face to face with Bramdal Masterstroke. “You again?” Suspicion made him keep the blade raised diagonally before him. “What is it you want?”

“I am to bring greetings from King Gordislan and the other town rulers and to wish you well for the journey to the Outer Lands.” Bramdal pointed to a roof overhang. “Can we go somewhere dry?”

Tungdil did not believe the one-time executioner. “You’ve waited all this time outside the forge watching me and you grab me out here in the rain, just to say bon voyage?” Tungdil did not move. The rain did not bother him. “You’ll allow that’s a trifle odd?”

“Nobody must know I’m speaking to you. My mission isn’t over when I’ve given you the good wishes.”

“Have you got anything to back your story up, Bramdal?”

Carefully Bramdal put a hand under his cape and pulled out a roll of leather. Then he handed Tungdil a signet ring. “This authenticates what I’m about to tell you. And this is Gordislan’s signet ring.” Water dripped from his yellow beard. “Come on, can we go inside?”

Tungdil indicated the forge door with the tip of his weapon. In its dark warmth they refrained from lighting a lamp. Tungdil read the missive by the glow from the furnace and examined the ring minutely. Bramdal was in truth a trusted adviser to the king of Trovegold. “Perhaps you were always more than an executioner?”

Bramdal nodded. “Gemmil and others before him used to send me out on missions to observe the humans and report what they said about the dwarves. We were waiting for the right moment for the towns to start trading with them.” He installed himself on the anvil, drawing his cape off and hanging it up to dry. “We knew the dwarves would resent it and that we would have to think carefully about this move. Your visit helped. But the future isn’t going to be easy.”

“It seems to me that recently the free towns have chosen to align themselves with the humans.”

“Your impression is correct. We are very concerned about developments up in the mountains. I heard the exchange between Ginsgar and Balyndis. What Ginsgar thinks of the towns is an open secret. That’s the reason we’ll soon be making open advances to the humans. The death of Gandogar was the last straw.”

“You’re here to tell me that?”

Bramdal nodded slowly. “Yes. The town kings think you are a sensible smith-child and they’re placing their hopes on you. They expect you will be the facilitator between the dwarf folks in the coming dispute about the high kingship. There is no hero greater than yourself, so they want you to be the first to learn their plans. It’s pretty certain that the dwarf folks won’t understand our motives.”

“The freelings are afraid of their own kinsmen? And so they are looking to the humans for allies? Is that how far it’s come?”

“If Ginsgar is the new high king, yes.” Bramdal picked up his cape and reversed it to dry the other side. “We heard Ginsgar wants to annex the free towns and get his hands on their wealth.”

“And you want to increase trade with the humans so they’ll come to your aid if you’re in trouble. I can see what you’re driving at. But why must no one know we’re talking?”

“Gordislan is afraid Ginsgar already has a plan up his sleeve and will implement it at once if he hears the towns are preparing for an attack. We’d have no time to arrange an alliance with the humans.”

Tungdil fed the furnace, stirring the glowing coals and using the bellows to encourage the flames. There was a crackling response and the temperature started to rise. “Tell the monarchs that I’m honored by their trust. But I don’t intend to come back to Girdlegard any time soon.” Tungdil saw the fire’s glow reflected in Bramdal’s pale brown eyes. “And that’s a secret, too. The free kings must know I won’t be there for them if there is a clash. They will have to sort things out by themselves.”

“You’re going to abandon your responsibilities?” Bramdal was astonished.

“I have no more responsibilities here. It is enough. I have saved Girdlegard twice and together with my friends I’m about to do it for a third time. Others must take over. I am for distant horizons.”

The executioner returned his gaze. “How would you feel if you came back and saw war had broken out? War amongst the children of the Smith? That the gates were broken and hordes of monsters had overrun Girdlegard?”

He strode nearer. “And knowing you could have prevented it?”

Tungdil smiled, unmoved by his words. “I would say that others had failed to think and act. I have been Girdlegard’s protector for so long now and I am not the only dwarf with a head on his shoulders. Tell the kings that they may rely on Bylanta’s wisdom. They should appeal to her for support.”

“But your word is weightier with the clans.”

“I am a thirdling, Bramdal, and have never sought to conceal my lineage. Ginsgar would use that to undermine my reputation.” He went to the door and stepped across the threshold. “Give Gordislan my message. I shall not change my mind.” He nodded goodbye. “So it was never just coincidence that we kept meeting?”

“Nothing in life is pure coincidence, Tungdil Goldhand.” Bramdal moved closer to the fire. “I shall take them your message. And I shall pray to Vraccas that he will change your mind.”

“You’re welcome to try. It’s not going to work.” Tungdil closed the door behind him and marched through the puddles to cross the yard. He knew this exchange was going to trouble him but he was determined to leave Girdlegard to its fate. Deep in thought he entered the room where his meal had been waiting for him. He still avoided beer and wine and took only water.

“There he is, our scholar!” Ireheart entered, for a change not wearing his mail shirt but only the leather undertunic. And it had not been properly fastened. It looked as if he had put it on in a hurry. Tungdil showed him the weapon he had been forging. “So is that the unslayable’s sword?”

Wordlessly chewing his food, Tungdil pushed the blade over to his friend, handle first.

“It’s sharp. I’ve never seen anything like it. What are you calling it?”

Tungdil shrugged his shoulders.

The warrior lifted it up, weighing it in his hands, attempted a few swipes and looked round for something to try it out on. A footstool fell victim to the blade.

The cutting edge had sliced through the finger-thick wood without a splinter.

“By Vraccas!” Ireheart laid the blade on the table. “Extraordinary. Light as a dagger, cuts like the sharpest of swords and behaves like an ax.” He contemplated his own hand and saw a drop of blood on the ball of his thumb. “And it’s thirsty for my blood,” he laughed. “There are sharp metal bits still to be filed off.”

Tungdil’s brow furrowed. He knew it had been smooth as marble to hold just now. That was why rough-textured leather was used to wrap the grip. He took a deep breath. “I’ll have to give it another going-over.”

“Why not Bloodthirster?” Ireheart joked. “It would be a good name.” He took some of the water and grabbed a large slice of ham.

“What particular exercise are you and Goda working on at the moment?” Tungdil liked the name Ireheart had suggested. “Wrestling moves?”

Boindil felt himself go red. “Very observant, scholar.”

“You’re practicing enough to make the walls shake.” Behind them they heard the scornful voice of Rodario, who was joining them at table.

“I shan’t be taking instruction from you,” said the twin, sinking his teeth into the ham. “You are a master of a different sort of wrestling.”

“There hasn’t been any wrestling with anyone for some time, Master Hot Blood.” Rodario sat down at his side. “I’m staying true to my Tassia.”

“Of course you are.” Ireheart waved aside the protest. “If that’s the truth then this piece of meat will fly.” He picked it up and let go. It dropped straight onto the table. “Not looking good, sir actor.”

Tungdil laughed and Rodario joined in. “I’m happy for you, Ireheart,” he said. “A lady at last to soften your warrior soul and to harden other parts.”

Boindil grinned broadly. “It’s all ended well. I would never have thought it possible.”

“There can’t only be bad things in life, otherwise the world would cease,” said Tungdil. “Enjoy what you have.”

“They’re doing that all the time,” said Rodario, poking fun again. His well-meant mockery revealed the friends’ joy at the young love of these two dwarves.

“We’re wrestling. That’s all. We want to keep fit for the adventures that await us in the Outer Lands. I shall be going with you,” Ireheart told Tungdil. “This adventure will be my greatest yet.”

Rodario clapped. “Before either of you asks: I too would deem it an honor to accompany you. In those far-off lands there are scenes and stories with which I shall delight my valued audiences.”

“You too?” Ireheart exclaimed. “Vraccas help us! He’ll talk us to death. Or make something explode at the wrong time.”

“Huh, very funny.”

“Word gets round. Like what you did in the belly of the machine. Could all have been done differently, you know.”

“Yes, mock away, you destroyer of bedsteads. But I tell you I shall be of supreme use on the trip.” He stood up, pretending to be offended. “Just so’s you know: Ortger has chosen a different route. The roads are narrower but they’re passable. We can leave in the morning, Lot-Ionan says. Chop chop, off to bed now, my heroes. And no more wrestling, Ireheart. Not tonight. Or at least pull the bed away from the wall.” Rodario disappeared with a grin on his face.

Tungdil was pleased. The delay had been long enough to finish making the weapon. Excellent.

“If it’s true what the Emperor of Boasters and Big Mouths has just said,” Ireheart said, “I’ll get some rest.” He laid his hand on Tungdil’s shoulder. “Are you sure you want to leave Girdlegard forever?” he asked, his voice earnest now.

“Yes, Ireheart. I don’t want to see them slip into the next catastrophe, and this time one they’ve made for themselves.”

“You mean Ginsgar’s work?”

“What else? In the worst case it’ll mean dispute amongst the dwarf folks. Some will join Ginsgar the Self-Appointed and the others will insist on their traditions, call an assembly and choose a different high king.” He took a drink of water and thought of what Bramdal had said. “Where will it end, Boindil? Can you tell me?”

Ireheart lowered his head. “Ginsgar asked me to take command of his bodyguard,” he admitted quietly. “I told him I’d think about it.”

“That you’d think about it?” Tungdil was about to reproach his friend but stopped. “Yes, you are right. You must work it out for yourself. I have no right to tell you what you should do. I’m leaving here.”

Ireheart sat down again. “It’s not easy, Scholar. Some of Ginsgar’s views are sensible but on the other hand he is a warmonger. He will prove a high king devoid of any mercy.” Ireheart ran a hand over his short black plait.

“Think on my words: the freelings and the thirdlings will be his new foes.” Tungdil cut off a slice of cheese. “If you take command you’ll be fighting all the time. I know it’s what you love to do but shouldn’t you be happier fighting orcs and monsters, not your own kind?” He put the food in his mouth and got up. “Think about that while you’re deciding. Ginsgar Unforce will be going down in the chronicles as a notorious figure. Not as a good high king.” He patted him on the shoulder. “Good night, Ireheart. Speak to Goda and make up your mind. You’ve time enough before you return to Girdlegard.” He picked up his weapon and walked out past his friend.

On the way he ran his hands over the blade and tested the sharpness, but now it felt rough on his hands. He had not been careful enough and it had cut him-not deep but enough to draw blood.

“That name is the right one for you,” he said to his weapon. “From now on you shall be known as Bloodthirster. You will drink the blood of many monsters, I promise. And you shall serve me well.” He studied the red drops on the blade. “But you shall never taste dwarven blood. If you do, I shall shatter you into a thousand pieces.”

A soft shimmer was visible down the length of the blade. It may have been a reflection of the lamplight but Tungdil chose to read it as acceptance. The pact had been made.

Girdlegard,

Fourthling Realm,

Brown Mountains, Fortress Silverfast,

Early Autumn, 6241st Solar Cycle

B ylanta held out her hand to Tungdil. “May Vraccas protect you from all the dangers of the Outer Lands and bring you safely back to us.”

“He will indeed,” he replied courteously as he shook the queen’s slender hand. He was not about to let her know that he didn’t intend to return.

They were standing beneath the four intact towers on the stronghold walls at Silverfast. This was where the acronta had long maintained the illusion of an enemy siege. There was no trace of their presence now. All you could see were piles of orc bones with the flesh chewed off them. The fourthlings had decided to leave them as a deterrent.

“I hope that Ginsgar Unforce may soon meet his death.” He expressed his thoughts openly. “If not, there will be grim times ahead for the dwarves.”

“Honestly spoken.” Balyanta looked at him appraisingly. “Then let us be frank, Tungdil Goldhand: the dwarf folks need someone who can stand up to Ginsgar. Not easy after his victories in Alandur. He has so many followers and much clandestine support in the dwarf realms.”

“Glaimbar…”

“No, it’s you who are needed, I think. Balendilin the Second is not strong enough anymore; with one arm he doesn’t stand a chance. No one will listen to Malbalor because he’s from the thirdlings and Ginsgar has spread poison about them.”

“I’m a thirdling, too…”

Bylanta remained as resolute as toughened gold. “You are a hero, Tungdil. Nobody doubts you. You have done great deeds. And Glaimbar makes no secret of his admiration of Ginsgar, so I can’t rely on him.” She smiled. “That leaves Xamtys and myself. Two dwarf queens against unreason a hundred times stronger than we are. We could use a hero at our side.” She pressed his hand and laid her other hand on his arm. “So come back quickly, Tungdil.”

He bowed to her and mounted his pony to catch up with the head of the march. Tungdil wished he had been spared her softly spoken words; they had touched him more than he wanted. They went on working where Bramdal’s from the evening before had left off. Bylanta had appealed to his sense of responsibility, calling on him to accept the duties in Girdlegard that could be expected of a dwarf of his heroic stature.

“Damn,” he cursed out loud and dug his heels so fiercely into his pony’s sides that the animal gave a startled leap, galloping off as if a pack of wolves were at their heels. The heavy scent of the ubariu and their steeds had already spooked it.

“Someone’s in a hurry to see new lands,” Rodario commented as Tungdil rushed up to join his friends. He wrapped the cape Ortger had given him tighter round himself. “My goodness, it was cold enough in Urgon’s mountains, but here it feels like winter.”

Flagur sat up tall in the saddle and gave the trumpeter a sign. The bugle call echoed back from the mountainside and the army set off at once, with the stamp of nailed boots, the sounds of the horses, the bumping and jangling of the baggage train.

“They may fight monsters, but…” said Ireheart, turning back to look at the long column, “but they’re enough to put the wind up anyone.” When he caught Tungdil’s and Sirka’s disapproving looks he quickly added, “But I know they’re all right, of course.”

Goda rolled her eyes. She insisted on riding behind him and to one side, out of respect, as in her view he was still her weapons master, whatever love she bore him and whatever they now shared. She said, “You are hopeless.”

“That’s right, you lot. Have a go at me. I might as well be a snout-faced orc.” He rode off, grumbling. “I do try. Vraccas and Ubar are my witnesses.”

Rodario laughed. “Progress indeed. He actually got the name of the foreigners’ god right!”

“But it took second place to Vraccas, of course. That’ll never change.”

“I’m off to check on my troops. See you later!” Sirka rode back to join the undergroundling ranks.

Tungdil followed her with his eyes then looked ahead. The tension was mounting. Soon he would be seeing things no dwarf had seen before.

Every twist in the mountain roads made him hope for some revelation but it was several orbits before they had left the tortuous chasms behind.

By now he was riding out to reconnoiter with the ubariu scouts, so keen was he to catch a first glance of Sirka’s land.

He was so obsessed by the need to explore that he forgot everything else. He only wanted to get out of Girdlegard, away from a responsibility he now totally rejected.

T hey traveled through the maze of rocks and somber gorges, along giddying precipices, with dank fog swirling round them so that each step was a deadly risk.

The route for their return would have to be located anew, because the mountains refused to accept any guiding marks they tried to set, whether a painted or a chiseled sign. Some of the scouts claimed the rock walls even moved.

Tungdil caught himself wondering about turning back, but without a real reason. It was not that he was afraid. But there was something round him and the scouts that made him nervous. Impatience was getting the better of him. It demanded that he either arrive in Letefora immediately or else that they return to Girdlegard. If he turned round he could clearly see the path inviting him. Turning forward again, there was only fog and vague outlines of cloud and rocks. He must pull himself together.

From time to time the scouts pointed out dark side paths from where perhaps the monsters might have emerged to march off to the pass and toward Silverfast. Probably one of these paths led to the Black Abyss.

Tungdil sensed that he would have got hopelessly lost without their guidance. So it was with enormous relief that after fifteen orbits he noticed the landscape gradually changing.

The mountains became hills and grew broader and greener while bare rock was replaced by verdant slopes studded with windswept trees. A final twist in their road revealed a new world.

They were standing on a plateau, maybe two miles high, and the view took Tungdil’s breath away.

A broad plain spread at their feet and in the center lay a city of gigantic size. He had never seen so many buildings in one place. It was far bigger than any of the human cities in Girdlegard and was threaded through with wide straight streets bustling with activity; concentric rings of thick walls provided defensive ramparts. The highest buildings were in the middle; round, oval, or rectangular. The tallest must have been at least three hundred paces high. You could see the birds circling overhead and diving in great flocks down into the artificial canyons.

“How is that possible?” Tungdil was amazed. “Who lives there? Giants?”

A scout pointed out particular areas in the cityscape. “That is Letefora directly in front of us. There are some humans there, a few of my own kin, but mostly ubariu and a handful of acronta. All in all I’d say there were about two hundred thousand.” His hand was raised toward the west where, close to the horizon, they could see another city. “That one is the largest city this side of the ocean. It’s called Hophoca and it offers shelter to ten times a hundred thousand.” He turned to the east. “Over there is the region of the monsters. They’ve taken over the ruins of old settlements where humans used to live; they were abandoned when Letefora was built. The monsters defend the area stubbornly. We let them live there because the acronta enjoy hunting them.”

Tungdil surveyed the harvested fields, roads and streets running between the cities. There did not appear to be any villages to speak of, but a few extensive farmsteads here and there. Small forest areas ensured a green panorama.

“Where is the acronta army?” asked one of the guides.

“I don’t know. Perhaps they’re taking the mountain route and looking out for more monsters.”

In the far distance Tungdil could make out a silvery shimmer. That must be the sea. Sirka had told him about it: an endless expanse of water with storm winds and waves high enough to make ships and whole islands disappear without trace.

“Our first destination is Letefora,” said the ubari. “From there the road leads straight through monster territory toward the Black Abyss.”

“Why not use the paths you showed me back there? If we march up with all these troops the monsters might be alerted to the fact the artifact is not working.”

The ubari shook his head and patted the neck of his mount. “The paths are dangerous. You can easily get lost-worse than the roads we took-and then you won’t ever find the way out. The ubariu once lost a complete army. So did we. The ones who survived somehow were lucky enough to find their way back with tales of rocks that came alive, evil vapors and the most ghastly creatures that lay in wait for them. That’s why we took the other route. Nobody but the acronta dare go that way.” He grinned. “The monsters whose land we’ll go through are much too cowardly to stand up to us. Nobody challenges an army of one hundred thousand.” He dismounted. “We’ll wait here.” He sent two of his men back to inform Flagur and to guide them through the labyrinth.

“Where is the hidden road to Girdlegard?” Tungdil asked, sitting down on the ground, while the scout started laying a fire. He could not take his eyes off the city. He had noticed high masts with ropes spanned between them carrying cages above the streets. The wind, he fancied, was bringing him new sounds and smells.

“You’d have to go back half a star course toward the west, just short of the monsters’ land. The entrance is easy to miss in spite of the bastion we and the ubariu have erected. We don’t want it looking too obvious, otherwise there’d be even more of the beasts turning up.”

Tungdil was as excited as a small child, looking forward to the orbits he would be spending here with Sirka. Not for a moment did he regret having turned his back on Girdlegard. Forever, it seemed.

“What are those cages?” he asked.

The scout blew into the fire again to bring the flames to life. Blue and green flickered up. “Must be the wood,” he surmised, seeing the dwarf’s surprise. “I’ve seen yellow and red fire too.” Then he nodded over at the masts. “That’s how we get around. We’ve got these platforms in Letefora and the transport’s really easy going in straight lines. Saves a lot of time you’d waste going on foot, specially when the roads are crowded. You can get about fifty humans in one of those cages-less if it’s us, of course. And acronta prefer to walk.”

Tungdil had spotted a bridge of titanic proportions running directly to Letefora from the mountains in the southwest. “That connects with the mines, does it?”

The scout grinned. “Only a dwarf would ask about mines. No, it’s a water channel supplying the city. There are distribution points in the city itself taking the water in pipes to the various districts.”

“And how…?”

The ubari lifted a hand. “Tungdil, let me see to my mount. Then we can talk some more. But I’m sure Flagur and Sirka will want to explain the delights of Letefora to you.” He stood up to see to the wants of his befun.

Tungdil went over to his pony, lifted off its saddle and led it to where it could graze. Then he took out paper, inkwell and a quill pen and began to make a drawing of the strange town.

The Outer Lands,

City of Letefora,

Early Autumn, 6241st Solar Cycle

T ungdil was only to have this one short fascinating insight into life in Letefora for now.

Flagur took him and his friends into town to introduce him to the ruler, who watched over the fate of his subjects from his residence in the most impressive of the buildings.

As the group rode along the broad street the gates were opened for them promptly when the sentries recognized Flagur’s standard.

The inhabitants bowed, clapped spontaneously or called out. Not understanding the words, Tungdil nevertheless assumed they were being congratulated and welcomed.

The exterior walls of the local houses were covered with a clay layer bearing ornate decorations executed by skillful artisans. Some of the houses were colorfully painted while others were duller in hue but striking because of the use of tiles and ceramic ware; there seemed to be a liking for rounded archways and window frames.

Buildings here were on a par with the standard set by his own kin, but differed from the type of houses favored by humans. Oval and round shapes were popular: many took the form of globes set half in the earth, a style not seen in Girdlegard.

Details were picked out in colored glass; mosaics showed ornamental shapes or hunting and battle scenes. On some facades there were candid depictions of the physical act of union, such as would have made Girdlegarders blush.

“Very nice indeed,” Rodario commented, trying to get a better view.

“So you still have something to learn, Fabuloso?” Ireheart laughed. He pretended not to mind this civic lack of prudishness, but he avoided looking too closely. It was not fitting.

“Of course. There are always new ideas.” Rodario smiled in greeting at some of the women passing by and when they inclined their heads in response he had a generous view into their decollete. “It’s even better to learn from a mistress of the art, of course.” He smiled at the warrior. “You know what I mean, don’t you? You favor a swift stroke, I believe.”

“Keep your smutty ideas well away from my relationship,” Ireheart warned him without a trace of humor. “I won’t have you dragging things down to your level.” His fists were clenched.

“We’ll discuss it another time, then,” Rodario conceded defeat, but winked at a passing maiden, who immediately averted her eyes.

They approached a square building that tapered off toward the top with wide staircases on each side. Above, the construction had a flattened oval shape which supported four towers.

“I’m used to great buildings, Scholar,” said Ireheart, “but this is more impressive than anything I’ve ever seen.” His eyes wandered over the stone walls. “I can’t decide whether this used to be a mountain or whether they’ve formed it out of enormous blocks of stone. There are no joins to be seen.”

They rode into a hall which was a good hundred paces square. Servants hurried over, humans and ubariu, to take care of the animals, while an undergroundling in a light blue silken dress appeared and bowed before them. Her dark brown hair was long and wavy and her skin nearly black; around her waist she wore a decorative bejeweled chain, fashioned from some unfamiliar metal.

Tungdil and Goda were astonished but tactful, while Ireheart voiced his surprise without inhibition. “By Vraccas, has she burned herself?” he asked, with much sympathy and no volume control.

Flagur laughed outright and Sirka grinned. “No, Boindil. She will have had black skin from birth. Our people come in all kinds of different colors. Not like you.”

He made a face. “What on earth for? So their enemies can’t see them in the tunnels, perhaps?”

“I can’t tell you what Ubar intended. It’s just the way it is.” Sirka answered.

“You are being rude,” Goda mouthed to her mentor. “Don’t stare.”

“Jolly good thing they don’t understand our language,” said Rodario. “Otherwise you’d have to be apologizing all the time.”

“Why? Just because I’m curious?” Ireheart shouldered his crow’s beak. “It’s difficult to imagine a dwarf wearing that pale blue. Or a deep red.”

“That’s not what I meant when I said different colors.” Sirka looked to Tungdil for help.

“So what colors did you mean?”

“Wait and see.” Flagur put an end to the conversation. “They’re expecting us.” He exchanged a few words with the undergroundling, then they followed her.

The party strode through rectangular galleries five paces high, climbed steps to a floor where the corridors were semicircular, then moved on to the next level where the walls and ceilings of the walkways had a lozenge shape. Tungdil had to ask Sirka about this.

“The building depicts our belief system, which encompasses underworlds and overworlds. Each of these worlds has a different symbol. We climb up through each of the worlds up to where the ruler of the city is; he was chosen by Ubar and is his representative.”

“So is he a god as well?”

“He is the voice and the hand of Ubar. To ignore or challenge what he says would invite punishment from the hand of the god.”

The undergroundling in the blue silk approached a gate that was five paces by three, fashioned out of polished silver and guarded by two heavily armed acronta. Tungdil, Rodario and Ireheart immediately thought of Djer n.

Round the gate was a garland of chiseled runes, and paintings of warriors and fabulous beasts. Tungdil assumed they must be the gods of the upper and lower worlds.

Above them all, larger than life, was the picture of a being that he knew well: broad jaws with rows of protruding needle-sharp incisors and an oversize bony head a bit like a human skull, and covered with a thin layer of unhealthy-looking skin with veins painted in yellow. Instead of a nose there were three large holes.

“ Djer n! By… the gods,” stammered Tungdil quietly.

Lot-Ionan took the diamond out of the pouch on his belt but even he could not take his eyes off the portrait. “What sort of creature did Andokai have at her side?”

“We’re there now,” said Flagur, taking a deep breath. “Are you ready to meet the ruler of Letefora?” He pointed to the picture. “To your eyes he may look like a monster but don’t forget he is the image of our god Ubar. Show respect.” He nodded to the undergroundling and she gave a signal to the acronta guards.

The sentries sprang to life, took hold of the gate’s iron handles placed two paces above floor level, and flung wide the double doors.

Light streamed through the tall room; countless windows, each as high and wide as one of the tall armed guards, permitted the ruler a view over the eastern part of Letefora in the early morning sunshine.

The chamber walls bore enchanting painted friezes, with inlays of gold, silver and other precious metals adding opulence.

On the regal stool on the throne dais there sat the mightiest acront they had ever seen. Now they knew why the corridors all needed such high ceilings; the monarch must have been a good four paces tall.

He wore neither armor nor helmet but instead a flowing garment of white fabric embroidered in gold and black. The similarity to the details of his portrait in the entrance hall was striking: according to Girdlegard standards a long way from a beauty.

His large violet-colored eyes appraised the visitors. With a deafening crack the wings on his back unfolded, blocking out some of the light. It had been with that very noise that Djer n had so terrified the orcs and all other creatures of Tion.

The undergroundling in blue went to stand at the acront’s side. She addressed Flagur.

“He says you are welcome here in Letefora and he is delighted our mission has had a positive outcome.” Sirka translated for Tungdil and his friends.

“So she can understand him?” Ireheart stroked his black beard, puzzled. “I thought it was supposed to be impossible.”

“She is his consort. She needs to be able to understand him,” Sirka answered simply. “In each generation there is one of us born able to understand an acront and she has been chosen to be his wife and to rule at his side.”

Rodario bent over to the warrior. “How does it feel when you’ve just insulted the mightiest woman in the land, Master Foot in Mouth?”

“I did not insult her, Big Mouth,” Ireheart insisted, quietly, but he was furious. Goda placed her hand restrainingly on his arm. This was not the moment for an argument.

The acront was speaking again and, as his spouse transmitted his words, Sirka translated for the others. “It seems the news of the army’s destruction was false?”

“Who brought that news, Celestial Acront?” asked Flagur.

“It was a stranger, a woman who knew magic. She came to Letefora some time ago and told us how badly things were going in Girdlegard. She said she had managed to get here with the last of her strength. With the diamond.”

“She showed it to you, Celestial Acront?”

“She did. I gave her an escort to go to the Black Abyss.”

“But that cannot be,” exclaimed Lot-Ionan in agitation, opening his palm and displaying the true diamond. “You have been tricked by a forgery. We have the real stone!”

Rodario took a deep breath. “I have absolutely no idea what is happening but it’s not going to be good.”

Tungdil stepped forward. “Did she give her name, Celestial Acront?”

The acront’s uncanny eyes focused on the dwarf and the creature spoke once more, its voice transfixing Tungdil; the import was transmitted to the consort and then translated by Sirka.

“Yes. She called herself Narmora. Narmora the Forgotten.”