The Revenge of the Dwarves

VI

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Idoslane,

Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

Galloping ponies were seldom observed in Girdlegard. The thundering of small hooves did not really sound threatening, but, together with the sight of the grim-faced dwarves in the saddles and the clattering of weapons and armor, it ensured that any pedestrian on the roads would rapidly make way.

“Is it far now?” Boindil regretted they weren’t using the tunnels-the easiest and quickest way to travel through Girdlegard. He was not particularly good on horseback and he was feeling stiff; his back hurt with each jolt the pony made. And he seemed to have swallowed several flies.

“You’ll manage.” Tungdil showed mercy neither to himself, nor to the ponies, nor to his friend. It was obvious why he was in such a hurry. Apart from the life of his partner Balyndis being at stake there was a diamond that had to be saved. He knew that the stone was far more valuable than it appeared, rough-cut as it was. “Only half an orbit still to go.”

They heard hoof-beats from behind getting closer. A horse came up level with their mounts-but in the saddle sat not a human but a solidly built dwarf! Ax-handles jutted out of the saddle-bags Tungdil could see bouncing up and down, and he could hear metal clanking.

The dwarf was dressed in black and wore dark brown leather armor and heavy boots. The shape of his beard was eccentric and there was blond hair round his mouth and chin but the rest of his face was shaved. Long light blond braids flew back with the wind; there was a black scarf covering his head.

Tungdil recognized him at once. “Bramdal Masterstroke!”

The other dwarf, considerably older, turned to him. “I know you,” he said loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the hooves. “Hillchester, wasn’t it? They mistook you for me.” He pulled hard on the reins to slow his horse down. “And you were off to the freelings. From what I hear, you made it.” They trotted along, side by side. “Who’d have thought you’d turn out a hero?” He smiled and reached down a broad hand. “Good to meet you again, Tungdil.”

Tungdil wasn’t sure how he felt about seeing him again. It had been thanks to Bramdal that he had found the way to the freelings and the city of Trovegold, Bramdal having given him the tip about the pond and the hidden entrance. But at the same time Tungdil despised his trade.

“Bramdal? The executioner? Selling body parts to the long-uns?” asked Ireheart. He sat up in the saddle. “Revolting. And thanks-it was your fault I ended up in that stinking water.”

“You must be Boindil Doubleblade, then,” Bramdal grinned. “Two heroes off on their next adventure?”

“And you’ll be on your way to the next execution?” replied Tungdil. He did not want to give out any information.

“I’m riding to Porista. King Bruron pays well for my services. I’m training up his executioners.” He shrugged apologetically. “Afraid I can’t stop for a drink and a chat-got to hurry.”

“That means you’ll be doing yourself out of work,” grinned Ireheart.

“Yes. But I don’t care. I’m looking for a new line of work.” Bramdal seemed to have changed his mind about Vraccas’s injunction to protect humans from evil. In Hillchester he had told Tungdil that he was carrying out the dwarf-creator’s wishes by executing human criminals. He considered them malignant, just as other dwarves held orcs to be evil.

“In Trovegold?” Tungdil remembered the freelings’ city, which lay in a high-vaulted mile-long cavern. He heard again how the mighty waterfalls thundered and saw the gardens and the fortress where King Gemmil lived; he saw the dwarf priests praying and heard the hymns they sang echoing away. It had been wonderful, the time he had spent there.

“Going into trade,” said Bramdal. “If anyone knows how to make the equipment an executioner needs, it’s me. Why shouldn’t I use what I know? The kingdoms always need it and we’ve always got the craftsmen.”

“Has anything changed in Trovegold?” asked Tungdil, rather sadly.

“How long since you left?”

“It’ll be quite a few cycles; I’m not quite sure.” But that was a lie. Tungdil knew exactly when he’d last seen Gemmil. It was five cycles ago.

“Oh, a lot has changed. You’d hardly recognize the town. We’ve had to dig up the gardens to build workshops. The cave’s been extended by a mile to make room for everyone.”

“So many children?”

“Not just that: The Five Free Towns have grown in population. Trade with the dwarf realms has made the dwarf folk curious. It’s not just the outcasts who come to us; plenty turn up who want to get away from the clutches of their clans and their families.” Bramdal swiped at a bee that was buzzing around and investigating his jacket. “It’s obvious why the advantages of our community appeal.”

“Not sure about ‘advantages,’ ” grumbled Ireheart. “A dwarf needs stability.” He fell silent.

“May they all achieve happiness: some in the mountains, some below the ground. It’s a good way of life we have. Trade has brought prosperity.” Bramdal saw a crossroads. “Our paths split here. Did you know that Gemmil is dead?”

“No.” The news of the king’s death affected Tungdil, and Boindil shook his head sadly, too. “How?”

“Murdered. We think it was one of the thirdlings. We caught a dwarf sneaking out of Trovegold, his clothes all covered in blood. He fought the guards like a berserker and killed seven of them before they shot him down. We still have no idea why he did it.”

“To make trouble,” Tungdil guessed. “If he was one of the dwarf-haters he’ll only have wanted to cause strife. It’s a terrible shame that the king who made me and my friends so welcome should die in that way. Who succeeded him?”

“Gordislan Hammerfist.”

“Hammerfist?” Ireheart pricked up his ears. “Did he give himself that name or is he an exile from the clan?

“Do you think it could be a relative of Bavragor Hammerfist?” Tungdil conjured up the picture of the secondling’s best stonemason, a barrel of a dwarf, strongly built, with huge, callused hands. He always wore an eye patch and they called him “the singing drunkard.” He had shown his courage in countless battles at Tungdil’s side and had died for the sake of the group fighting off the orcs at the Dragon’s Breath forge. Without his sacrifice they would never have escaped with the ax Keenfire.

Bramdal shook his head. “I don’t know. If members of the Hammer Fist clan tend to have dark brown eyes with a bit of red in them, then it could be he’s related. At any event, he has quite a tolerance for brandy when there’s a party on.”

Ireheart grinned. “No doubt about it. He’s related to Bavragor.” He grew serious. “What could have made him leave his own clan? I’ve not heard anything.”

“He’s been with us in Trovegold for some time.” They’d reached the crossing now and the time for parting was at hand. “A safe onward journey to you both and success in your endeavors,” said the executioner, turning his mount toward Porista. He lifted his hand to urge the horse to a gallop and soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“Strange kind of saddle he was using,” Tungdil said. It was a shame he’d not had time to ask about it.

“I’m glad he was going the other way,” said Ireheart, sounding relieved. “Or he’d have started to try and flog us something from his saddlebags. I can do without a thief’s desiccated finger or an adulterer’s pickled eyeball.” He spat. “It’s disgusting, what he does.”

Tungdil didn’t reply. Those few words with Bramdal had reminded him of a happier time in his life. “Trovegold,” he murmured. “I should go there again.”

“Better not,” was Ireheart’s ambiguous recommendation.

A t last they reached the lush and luxuriantly blossoming land near the vaults where once Lot-Ionan had resided, one of the mightiest magi of Girdlegard.

Tungdil was pleased to be back, even though he had not been away very long. There was much he needed to tell Balyndis. If she saw how much weight he’d lost since leaving the Gray Range she’d know at once that he had changed.

“There we are,” he called out to Ireheart, pointing to a narrow path. “Relief is at hand for those saddle sores.”

They approached the large gate behind which his own small dwarf world lay hidden. Tungdil’s foster-father Lot-Ionan had spent all his time thinking up new spells, studying old rolls of parchment or training up his famuli. Until, that is, he had crossed magic swords with the traitor Nod’onn. And lost.

Since that day the magus was nothing but a statue made of stone, lying somewhere in the ruins of Nudin’s palace in Porista. In these current times there was no one with sufficient magic powers to follow in his footsteps. Nor could any provide a replacement for the magic wellspring that had now dried up. That was what everyone had thought, at least. But now, with the news from Alandur of the mysterious diamond thief and their even more mysterious suit of armor. Someone must be using magic suddenly.

Tungdil stopped, dismounted and stood at the gate, lifting his hand to knock. Then he hesitated.

“Scared, Scholar?” Boindil slipped out of the saddle and stretched, both hands in the small of his back. “I always knew that Elria was trying to drown us but who is the goddess responsible for creating ponies to torment us with?” He tapped his friend on the shoulder. “You can do it. You are coming home to her as the same Tungdil Goldhand she loved far more than the other one, the one I met a few orbits back in the Gray Range.” With the handle of his crow’s beak he gave three hard blows on the wooden gate.

“That’s all your doing.” Tungdil thanked him once more. “If you hadn’t made me face up to things…”

From the other side of the gate there was the sound of a bolt being drawn back. Then the gate was opened to admit them.

A surprise awaited.

On the threshold stood a female dwarf with long dark blond hair jutting out from under her impressive-looking helmet. Over the black leather raiment there hung a chain shirt hung with metal plates. She also had a protective skirt-like armor covering that reached down to her ankles; her shoes were reinforced with metal.

In her right hand she bore a shield, and in her left a studded flail, a type of morning star. Instead of one spiked iron globe there were three smaller metal balls, which had blades arranged in a circle round each of them. Weight, impetus and those blades, combined, would inflict terrible wounds.

And it was not Balyndis who had the weapon in her hand.

Nevertheless, Tungdil thought he recognized her. “Sanda?” The name slipped out, his voice incredulous. “Sanda Flameheart?”

“By Vraccas! The dead are come to life!” mouthed Ireheart, taking hold of his weapon.

The dwarf-woman smiled and hung the morning star back in its harness. “You are Tungdil Goldhand and Boindil Doubleblade. Your words make that clear. It is an honor to greet you both.”

Tungdil stepped forward. “You have the advantage of us.” Then he saw that although she looked like Sanda Flameheart, one-time wife to King Gemmil, she was much younger. The down on her face had not turned silver and he’d be surprised if she were more than forty cycles old. Half a child still, but broad and strong as a warrior. Her thirdling ancestry could not be denied. “But who are you?”

She took off her helmet and showed them a friendly, and not quite so round a face. “I am Goda Flameheart from the Steadfasts clan of the thirdlings.” She gave Boindil a direct, brown-eyed stare. “Sanda Flameheart, who died at your hand, was my great-grandmother.” Ireheart’s face grew pale, in striking contrast to his black beard. “I demand vengeance,” she demanded harshly. “Because you…”

“Where is Balyndis and how did you get in here?” interrupted Tungdil, finding it very strange that his wife had not appeared. He was afraid that Goda in her anger might have harmed her.

“She’s sleeping,” was the answer. “She’s not been well of late.” She stared at Ireheart again. “As I said, I want satisfaction from you, Boindil Doubleblade.”

Ireheart looked her up and down. Now it occurred to him that running into Bramdal had been no accident. He should have known. “I understand what you want. I shall not fight with you, Goda. You are too young and inexperienced to have a chance against me. Let your clan send one of their warriors, or go and study and come back in fifty cycles and we will fight and you shall have your revenge, if Vraccas has no other plans for me and if he lets the fires in my life-forge continue to blaze.”

The dwarf-woman gathered her long hair into a pony-tail, tying it with a leather thong. The muscles twitched as she lifted her arms. She shook her head defiantly. “There are no others in my clan.” She certainly had the air of a warrior. “I insist.”

“No, by Vraccas. I don’t kill children!”

“So you refuse me? I’ll go through the dwarf-realms from land to land and I’ll blacken your name and say that Boindil Doubleblade would not give satisfaction. You’ll bring shame on yourself and on the shade of your brother. You’ll be spat on, you and your clan. And they’ll spit on the memory of your brother, the hero.”

Quick as a flash the old rage flared up in the dwarf. The mad spark was back in his eyes, a light that had died five cycles before. He took two swift steps forward. And grabbed Goda by the leather dress she wore.

“No, Boindil!” warned Tungdil.

“You shall have satisfaction,” he growled furiously to Goda, who stared at him with triumph and fear in her eyes. “Right now?”

“Right now,” she nodded. “Under my conditions?”

“Yes.”

“Swear by Vraccas and on your dead brother.”

Ireheart let go of her, stepped back and took hold of his crow’s beak. “I swear by Vraccas and by Boendal. “He spat out the words before his friend could stop him. “Whatever happens to you now is your own fault.”

Goda nodded. “You took my great-grandmother away from me and she was forced into exile to live with the freelings. You killed my last living relative.” She drew her weapon. “Now it is your duty to train me.” She bowed her head.

Boindil had been expecting an attack. It took a while before he realized what she was demanding of him. “Train you? In what, for Vraccas’s sake? Child, I thought…”

“I demanded recompense and you have promised it.”

“ That is the satisfaction you are asking for?” The words tumbled out. “I can’t do that. How could I…?”

“Because of you a magnificent female warrior was sent to the forge of the eternal smith. You have stolen any possibility I might have had to take over from her and so it is only right that the one who subjugated Sanda should teach me.” Goda stayed resolute: “I take you at your words-at the words of your oath.” She went up to him and held out her weapon. “We call it the night star and I’m pretty good at it. What I need is an experienced teacher to show me the tricks to use in battle.”

Tungdil grinned at Ireheart. “Now see what it was like for me with Bavragor. He tricked me just like that,” he said. “I’ll see you inside.” He disappeared into the vaults to look for Balyndis. He wanted to greet her, take her in his arms and surprise her with how he looked now. There would be plenty of time later on for long talks with Goda.

Boindil stared at the dwarf-woman and felt completely at a loss. It was true, he had sworn an oath. “Right,” he sighed. “I’ll quickly show you a few…”

“No,” said Goda. “You’ll teach me properly and you won’t stop until I’m at least as good as you. Same as my great-granny. And then we’ll fight to decide just how good your training has been.” She raised the night star and the blades grated against each other. “A proper fight, master.”

He rolled his eyes, put the crow’s beak on the ground and leaned his weight on the head of the weapon. “Goda, I may have been a good warrior, but I’m out of practice. And just because I’m a good warrior doesn’t mean I’m any good as a teacher.”

“You can say whatever you want, master; I’m not leaving your side until my training is complete.” The face of the dwarf-woman showed the familiar stubbornness of her people, coupled with the determination of all womankind. “Wherever you go, I’ll be there.”

And she stuck to his heels, as he attempted to enter the vaults, following him at half a pace. “You’re going to leave me in peace some of the time, though?” he asked over his shoulder.

“If you need to relieve yourself, master,” she answered, cockahoop that her trick had worked. “When shall we start the training sessions?”

Boindil stared straight ahead, and a broad grin spread across his weathered face. He would be so tough with her that she’d leave of her own accord. And then he wouldn’t be breaking his oath. “The training starts now without a break.” He found a pile of old beams that Tungdil had placed tidily against a wall. “Carry those out, one by one and pile them up outside by the gate,” he ordered bad-temperedly.

“Yes, master.” Goda did not even ask the reason for the order. She put down her weapon and shield and got ready for the task.

Ireheart picked them both up. “Who said you were to put those down?” he said bitingly. “A dwarf never leaves weapons lying about. And certainly never puts down his weapon if he’s only got the one.” He nodded at her. “Carry the wood, then you can start the search of the vaults.”

She wrinkled her brow. “What search?”

Boindil rattled the metal balls of the night star and started to swing it. “Later. I’m going to hide it and you can’t go to bed till you find it.” He stepped round the corner. He was only just out of sight and chuckled to himself. He heard her give a big sigh as she tried to lift the first of the beams onto her shoulder. He was thrilled to bits with his plan. He’d think up some more good ideas soon. He’d be rid of the child within a few orbits, he was sure.

T ungdil stepped quietly into the bedroom.

Balyndis lay under a thick blanket. Her eyes were closed and her face was half hidden in the pillow. The long dark hair made her face look chalk white in contrast: she really did look weak and sick. Cautiously he sat down next to her, thinking through what he had prepared to say; he stretched out a hand to touch her gently on the shoulder.

“If I didn’t know better, I would think I was dreaming,” she whispered. “A fine-looking dwarf has entered my chamber.” She opened her brown eyes and reached for his left hand with her right. “You’re looking good, Tungdil Goldhand. It’s been a long time since I saw you looking like that. What does this change in appearance signify?”

“It’s not just an outward change.” He kissed her fingers. “I’ve been a fool. Boindil forced me to see the error of my ways. I’ve stopped drinking,” he said quietly, looking her straight in the eyes. “I was making you suffer for the pain and the guilt that I was feeling and I behaved like a…” He swallowed.

“… like a stubborn, blind drunkard, self-obsessed and tortured by his conscience,” she completed for him without mercy. “You mean to say you’ve been off on a trip, had a chat with Ireheart and now you’re completely transformed?” Her surprise was obvious and her voice incredulous. “You’ve changed, just like that, in a few orbits?”

Tungdil nodded.

“How? Tell me everything, so that I can believe you.”

He told her what had happened at the edge of the precipice and how his warrior friend had forced him to choose between life and death. “The wall round my mind broke down and I saw things clearly for the first time in many cycles. I can only beg for forgiveness,” he said quietly. “Will you believe that I have changed?”

When she put her arms around him, Tungdil started to cry. He embraced her in return, pressing her to him; he closed his eyes. He smelt her hair, felt the soft down on her cheeks and her warmth against his skin.

They sat like that for a long time, holding each other tightly, each enjoying the nearness of the other-a closeness shared once more. Shared wholeheartedly.

“It’s not just your fault that we grew apart. I withdrew and left you on your own,” she confessed. “It won’t happen again.”

“Never again.”

She hugged him and took a long look at his face. “Give me time to get used to the new old Tungdil. This seems too good to be true.”

“It is true, Balyndis,” he smiled, but then a shadow fell across his face. “You look ill,” he said, his voice full of concern.

“It’s just the remains of a chill,” she answered. “I’m feeling much better now.” She kissed him on the brow. “You’ve met Goda?”

“She was quite a surprise. Especially for Ireheart.”

She grinned. “It will do him no harm if he has to contend with a dwarf-woman.”

Tungdil looked surprised. “You knew about her plan?”

“It was my idea.”

“What?”

Balyndis chuckled and sat back against the pillows. “When she turned up and asked if she could stay, I had no idea who she was. We talked a lot that first evening and I learned that she had been to the Blue Mountains. She had hoped to find you here to ask you where Boindil was. The secondlings refused to tell her.”

“You have set a young child on him, not a dwarf-woman.”

“She’s four and forty cycles old. You can see by her stature that she’s no longer a child,” Balyndis contradicted with amusement. “Ireheart will soon discover her female charms.”

“She’s related to the dwarf-woman he killed. There’s not likely to be any romance blossoming between those two,” he countered. “What was her original plan before you suggested this approach?”

“She wanted to kill him.”

Tungdil stood up, opened the buckles on his chain shirt and let it fall to the ground. Then he hung it carefully on the stand by the door. “She would never have been able to. But by the time her training is over, things might be different.” He slipped off his leather over-garment and stood before her in his shirt, breeches and boots. “She’s a thirdling, Balyndis. She’ll have picked up all the fighting skills and soon be better at it than him. Do you want her to kill him?”

She folded her hands and laid them on the blanket. “It won’t go that far.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Balyndis shrugged her shoulders and kissed him again, this time on the tip of his nose. “I can’t really say,” she admitted. “Call it intuition.”

“You women and your intuition,” he murmured and gave in. “Let us pray to Vraccas that you’re right about this.” He looked at his armor. “Have you heard what’s happening in Girdlegard?” When she shook her head, he summed up all the recent events he and Ireheart had experienced or heard about. “You’re sure that Goda isn’t after the diamond? What does your intuition say on that score?”

“It was good in the past when you could meet a child of the Smith and not have to worry about whether they were telling the truth,” she groaned. “I can’t be absolutely sure, of course, but in all the orbits she’s been here there hasn’t been anything suspicious about her.” She stroked his bearded chin. “The stone is exactly where we hid it.”

“I’ll go and tell it I’m home.”

“I’ll make us something to eat. If I know you and Boindil, you’ll both be ravenous.” Balyndis got up and quickly threw on a simple woolen dress over her linen nightgown, then put on her boots. “The meal will be ready soon, so don’t spend too long talking to your precious one.”

“My precious,” he hissed, imitating the stance of the greedy rock gnome that grabbed and kept anything that looked valuable. Then he laughed and walked out of the chamber hand in hand with his wife. Soon their ways parted and he took a different corridor, using an oil lamp to light his path into the other gallery where once Lot-Ionan’s apprenticed famuli had had their quarters. Most of the iron doors were still in place. Behind them the student initiates had followed their studies of magic and had dreamed of one day inheriting Lot-Ionan’s enchanted realm.

Now nothing was left. No magic, no enchanted realms. No Lot-Ionan.

Tungdil entered the laboratorium.

It was in this very room that a trick had once been played on him that had resulted in most of the fittings and equipment going up in flames; it had not been his fault. The flasks full of elixirs, the pots of ointments, the glass tubes containing extracts and essences, all that priceless experimentation had melted into one dangerous mass. A powerful explosion had ensued and little had survived of the benches, shelves, tables and apparatus.

And that was still how it looked. He stepped over the splintered glass and the broken pottery, walking over to where a pile of glass was all that remained of what had been complicated distillation equipment. Before the explosion.

The dwarf bent down and rummaged around. He didn’t locate the diamond immediately. There was so much broken glass that it was practically invisible. Nobody would ever find it if they didn’t suspect it was hidden in the rubbish.

Tungdil took delight in the cold fire shining from the stone’s facets. His heart leaped. He turned it this way and that, so that it could blaze at its best, returning the lamplight, and throwing reflections onto the dark and somber walls.

Whenever he took the stone in his hand he waited for the jewel to show him somehow whether it was just a diamond or the most powerful, magic artifact in all Girdlegard.

And, as always, he waited in vain. He put the stone back in its mound of glass fragments and pushed it down to the bottom of the pile.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of the Fourthlings,

Brown Mountains,

Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

A shrill whistle sounded up through the broad shaft and straightaway the bell rang in the winch room. Apart from one alcove, the entire room was filled with a strictly logical system of pulleys, winches, winding gear, cogwheels and levers, weights and counterweights in every conceivable size, all carefully proportioned. The alcove was the lift master’s post.

Ingbar Onyxeye of the clan of the Stone Turners, faithfully carrying out his important duties, had recognized the signal. “Here it comes!” he shouted back down.

His hands worked the various iron levers in turn, each as big as a dwarf; these released the brake blocks from the rollers and the wheels. Machinery whirred loudly into action.

The rotating parts set up a draught that smelled of oil and lubricating grease; the sheer mass of weights on the end of their chains pulled the lift upwards without a single dwarf wasting his muscle power. By this means, forty hundredweight could be heaved up easily.

Ingbar closed his eyes to listen better. Responding to the sounds, he took his oil can and applied lubrication where the machinery needed it to run more smoothly. It was intolerable to know metal was rubbing against metal, causing lasting damage. Oil would prevent unnecessary wear.

Suddenly there was a sound the lift master had never heard before, and the whole winding gear came to a halt.

“What’s wrong?” he muttered, swiftly checking all the most vulnerable parts of the equipment. He couldn’t find anything untoward. The cogwheels were intact, as were the chains, and the pulley belts had not come out of their runners.

Ingbar went over to the shaft. Right at the bottom he could see a pale shimmer of light coming from the lift cage. It had to be at least fifty paces down. “Oi, you down there! Has the pulley jammed?” he yelled.

In reply the little bell rang wildly, somersaulting and ringing fit to bust, so loud that it hurt his ears. Then its cord broke and the bell fell silent. “What are you doing down there?” he called, worried now.

The chain jerked, started and stopped, the metal screeching as the load increased.

“Have you gone mad? What are you doing? Are you dancing down there in the cage?” Ingbar stared at the winding gear. The whole system was running in reverse and the lift was dropping down. He ran back over to the levers and applied the brakes. “You’re overloaded. Unload something quickly, otherwise…”

With a scream of grinding metal the first brake gave way. A high-pitched metallic clang resounded as the other holding devices failed one after another. The bolts shot out like bullets. One of them, sharp-edged, flew through the chains and pierced the lift master’s leg. Slowly the chains unwound, sending lift and cargo down toward the bottom.

“What the hell?” Ingbar clamped a hand over the gaping wound. There was no time to bandage it now. He had to save the workers in the cage and stop them crashing to their deaths.

He limped over to the ramps where the extra counterweights were stored. They used these when particularly heavy loads were being transported; they would be applied to the winches, but nobody had ever tried to do that while the lift was already running.

Ingbar knew the winding gear very well indeed; he knew the ins and outs of the system and its peculiarities and foibles. He fixed new weights to a long chain, attached a huge hook and thrust it into the emergency slot on one of the winches that was still moving.

The hook sat firm. The chain came taut with a clank and pulled the new weights down toward itself. Because of the tons of extra ballast the chain was prevented from unwinding, so the lift came to a standstill.

“Are you all right down there?” he called down the shaft. The cage with the workers must be a hundred paces down, he reckoned, judging by the chain length. They’d stopped by one of the secondary galleries. “Good,” he shouted. “Now unload the shale-tailings or some of you will have to get out. Otherwise it’ll never move.”

He waited a while to be sure they had followed instructions, then removed the counterweights and set the winding-gear into action, to get the lift up at last. For brake power he took a long iron bar and inserted it into one of the smallest cogwheels; as soon as the cage arrived he jammed the bar all the way in to block the cog. The cage had come up.

“That was a near thing.” Ingbar wondered why the lights had gone out. The faint glow given by the lamps in the engine room was not strong enough to show what was inside the cage. The iron door rattled open. “I’ll have to close the shaft down till we’ve renewed the brakes. What were you…?” What he saw robbed him of the power of speech.

Huge figures stepped out of the lift cage. They were armed to the teeth, carrying cudgels and shields with unfamiliar writing. But one glance at the brutal faces with the jutting tusks was enough to tell the dwarf what he had here: Orcs!

“To arms!” he screamed, drawing out his ax. “Greenskins!” Before he knew it, a missile flew toward him and hit him on the brow. It knocked him flying and he collapsed. Half conscious, he imagined he saw a pink-eyed orc bending over him, fingering his skull, then disappearing…

When Ingbar came round later he was still lying in the engine room. He could hear the rattle of chains. Groaning, he struggled upright and felt for the lump on his head. Next to him a stone lay on the ground. The orcs must have thought he was dead, no two ways about it. They would never leave a dwarf alive.

Footsteps were approaching and in the torchlight he could see a band of warriors coming up. “Ingbar! Did the greenskins come this way?” one of them asked him urgently.

“They came up here, but whether…” He looked for the lift cage. It was gone! “No… Look! They’re on their way down.”

The warrior stared grimly and helped him to his feet. “Then bring them up again!”

Ingbar limped over to the machinery, adjusted some of the cogwheels and attached extra weights again. The orcs had collected a lot of booty during their raid on the Brown Mountains, it seemed. The cage was overloaded. “What happened?”

“We hoped you could tell us that,” replied the dwarf. His companions arrayed themselves in a semicircle round the shaft, crossbows at the ready; the enemy would be met with a hail of bolts. “The orcs appeared from nowhere, overcame the guards and stole the diamond.”

“ The diamond?” Ingbar was horrified. “What are the monsters planning to do?”

One of the warriors took a look down the shaft. “Another twenty paces, and they’re up,” he reported, moving into place.

“We don’t know. Notice anything unusual about them?” asked the dwarf.

“No, not…” Ingbar hesitated. “Yes! One of them had pink eyes.” He gave a brief description of events. “And when I came round, you arrived.” He stopped speaking, for the cage had arrived. The door stayed shut. So maybe the orcs were afraid to come out.

“Come out and face us, you cowards!” called the warrior. “You can’t escape!” Nothing happened, so he sent one of his men over to open the iron door.

That was when Ingbar realized what had been bothering him: the cage was too heavy! Whatever was in there it couldn’t be the orcs; because before he’d pulled them up with the conventional forty hundredweight. Now he’d applied the forty plus the extra counterweights. No diamond in the whole of Girdlegard was that heavy!

The soldier who’d been sent forward to the lift freed the catch and pulled the door open a little way.

A steel arm shot out through the narrow gap and forced the doors wide. A cloud of steam hissed from the cage, enveloping the astonished dwarves. They staggered, fighting for air; the scorching fumes hurt their lungs and stung their eyes; water droplets formed on their cold armor.

Clicks, clanks and rattles; a rain of crossbow bolts shot through the air randomly, mowing down several of the soldiers. They fell to the stone floor, dead or injured.

“Get back!” cried Ingbar. He knew what it was that had got itself transported up in the lift. All the dwarf regions had by now received the warnings of the death machines wreaking havoc in the mines of the children of the Smith. There were at least a dozen of these machines now, that was for sure. And he knew there was little chance of combating them.

The mist cleared enough for him to see his immediate surroundings. “I’ll send it back down before it can get out of the cage,” he coughed into the vapor cloud. He unhooked the weights from the winch-pulleys and stretched out his arm for the iron rod blocking the vital cogwheel.

At that point a monstrous shadow appeared out of the fog next to him. An iron vice-grip snapped at him, biting down on his left arm.

Ingbar was lifted up and whirled against the roof as if he were a doll. It felt like being in the mouth of a dragon. From up here he could see the back of the devilish machine, as strongly armored as the front. Dwarf-warriors were courageously attacking, but the machine rolled steadily forwards over the bodies of the dead and wounded.

He could see how the rod was slipping under the cogwheel. It was being forced out of true. The winch gave way under the sheer weight, having no ballast, and the cage shot down to the depths.

Pulleys, cogwheels and rollers worked faster and faster, chains unwound at great speed. But Ingbar’s plan had failed. The devil machine had already left the cage.

The metal grab-hand gave him another mighty shake, a sharp pain shot through his shoulder, then he was thrown to one side.

The death machine had aimed well. Ingbar was hurled straight into the mess of whirring cables and winches. He crashed against a speeding chain, landed under a huge rotating cogwheel and he and his chain mail armor were crushed to pieces.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Porista,

Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

P rince Mallen sat in his room on the top floor of the house he and his companions had been assigned. Through the window he observed the cranes on the site of the new palace, constantly in motion, turning, lifting, lowering. A continuous stream of carts loaded with stone rolled through the streets, and the army of laborers grew from orbit to orbit. The breeze brought the sounds of a new beginning to Mallen’s ears: banging, clattering, sawing, hammering-and there was singing and the workmen’s shouts.

King Bruron was losing no time. The empty space in the middle of Porista was to be filled with a splendid building which promised to outshine Nudin’s palace in opulence. Five towers and three keeps were planned, arranged stepwise and connected by smaller transept buildings. The architects had estimated the work would take five cycles, and the foundation stone was already in place.

Mallen stood up, and now he could see the tips of the tent poles emerging from the top of the huge white canvas marquee erected in the center of the cleared site. This was where the kings and queens were meeting this afternoon. Bruron wanted the great monarchs assembled on the spot whence in former times the mightiest power of Girdlegard had issued. In the place of the magic wellspring they now had unity and harmony among the rulers-this was the sign for all of their peoples.

Mallen chose a light fabric coat to throw over the bright red robe. He strode out of the room. The bodyguard waiting outside fell in beside him. On horseback he moved through the busiest streets of the town, where the crowds drew back respectfully, proud to be providing hospitality to such visiting dignitaries.

In silence the prince rode on, not responding to the occasional cheer. As so often, he was preoccupied with thoughts of the terrible raid on Goldensheaf; he was missing his trusted comrade in arms, Alvaro, whose dead body he had examined in minute detail. It had been the slash to the throat that had robbed him of his lifeblood and he knew it had not been the terrible creature that had inflicted this wound. Of that he was convinced. Since that day he had never turned his back for a second on Rejalin or any other elf. The matter of the elf runes he had kept from the other rulers when he described the events of that day. He could not have said why this was. He wanted to speak to Liutasil in private about it.

His troop reached the marquee. Young pages hastened to take hold of the guests’ horses.

The prince stepped inside the airy enclosure; the tent was lined with colorful silks and decorated with ribbons and painted banners. It must have taken several orbits to bring in all the furnishings-the long table, the heavy chairs and cupboards-so that the meeting hall looked dignified and stately in spite of being under canvas.

Apart from himself only one other was present: a man in dark attire. The frog-like eyes and short black hair identified him as King Ortger of Urgon. Mallen went up and shook hands. “It is good to see you again,” he greeted the young ruler.

“The last time we met it was at the celebrations for the third cycle of my reign,” Ortger nodded. He was obviously pleased to meet the blond-haired Idoslane prince again, having found him from the start to be someone he trusted. “The occasion for our present meeting is far more serious.”

“I heard that you too have suffered under an attack from one of these monstrous beings.” Mallen let go of his hand and sat down opposite Ortger. Servants brought wine and water, and then withdrew discreetly. “I don’t want to jump ahead of the plenary discussion, but can you tell me what happened?”

“It was quite a different type of creature from the one you had warned me about in your letter,” sighed the young king as he took a mouthful of wine to give him courage. “A monster made of tionium, black as evil itself and as strong as ten oxen, but more cunning than a nest full of malicious vipers. And inside it there was something alive, staring out at us from behind a glass window.” He took a drawing out of the bag that lay next to him. “Some say it had wings of iron, others that it flew up to the heavens on flames and transformed itself by magic into a black cloud. Here, that’s what it looked like.”

King Nate entered the tent, dressed in dark green ceremonial robes embroidered with stylized depictions of ears of corn. “My greetings. You are at work already?” He made a perfunctory bow to the two men and joined Ortger to study the picture. “No, it’s not in the slightest like the creature that robbed me of my diamond and of three of my fingers,” he said after a preliminary look. He was about to add something but stopped because all the other kings and queens from the human realms were now entering the tent. The ceremony of welcome took some time. Mallen would have liked to ask them all to get straight to business.

His mood did not improve when two elves simply attired in white joined their circle and introduced themselves as Vilanoil and Tiwalun. They had traveled to Porista from Alandur on the orders of their elf lord to give his excuses and to represent him in the talks.

This gave Mallen a valid reason for his ill-feelings. “Why would Liutasil stay away from this conference?” he enquired, although it would have rightly been the office of their host, King Bruron, to ask this. “We’re not here for fun. There are vital issues to discuss. The presence of the prince of the elves could have been expected.”

The kings and queens threw him looks that ranged between surprise and displeasure. To use such a sharp tone with the elven envoys was not, in their view, justified.

Mallen thought they were acting in their own interests. He considered they were afraid that if he were brusque with the elves their promised knowledge-sharing would be jeopardized.

“And where are the dwarves, then?” asked King Nate, jumping to the defense of the elves.

“I can explain.” Bruron lifted his hand. “High King Gandogar told me that they have themselves called a gathering of their clans to discuss events that have occurred recently in their tunnels. When that meeting is over, he writes, they will come here to Porista. But one of their representatives is on his way to us.”

“It is a similar circumstance that makes it impossible for my own lord to be with you,” said Tiwalun, following this with a smile. “We too are holding an emergency meeting about occurrences in Alandur.” He bowed again, as did Vilanoil. “I offer our apologies once more.”

“You must forgive Prince Mallen’s way,” King Nate requested, taking a sideways glance over to the fair-haired Ido, “but in the attack on my castle he lost a close friend. It will be his grief that overwhelms him and lets him speak out of turn and unfairly.”

“It is kind of you to speak for me, but it has nothing to do with the unfairness you accuse me of,” objected Mallen. “I was speaking about the status of this meeting, the vital importance of our assembly.”

“And since that attack he tends to view the peoples of Alandur with the same mistrust his fallen comrade had harbored,” continued Nate.

“I understand,” said Tiwalun with regret. “My commiserations, prince.”

A messenger entered with a message for King Bruron. He gestured over to the entrance. “How good to see that you, Glaimbli Sparkeye from the clan of the Spark Eyes in the kingdom of the fourthlings, have been able to make the journey so swiftly,” he greeted the dwarf at the door. “You are welcome. Please take your place at our table. We are about to tackle the real reason for calling this assembly,” he added quickly, before Mallen had a chance to challenge the elves on anything.

“My thanks, King Bruron.” The dwarf bowed to Bruron and to all the others gathered there. His plated armor glinted immaculately, as polished as a silver salver; his dark hair and beard were well groomed. He must have changed and washed before appearing.

Mallen, who knew his dwarves, recognized immediately that this was a fourthling. A slighter figure and slimmer build told of his race, and the gemstones worked into his armor gave another indisputable clue.

“I bring you greetings from the high king and his regret that he and the other delegates of the dwarf folks, and also those from the Five Free Towns, will not be arriving in Porista for a few orbits. Until they come I am to represent them.” He took his seat and was acknowledged by all with nods of welcome.

“Let us begin.” Bruron looked at the assembled participants. “The events are extremely worrying. In the meantime five diamonds have either been stolen or have simply disappeared.” In response to Bruron’s gesture, servants brought out and displayed a large map of Girdlegard. “Tabain, Ran Ribastur, Urgon, and the dwarf kingdoms of the thirdlings and fourthlings have all been robbed of their jewels. As far as Tabain and Urgon are concerned, we know that the raids were carried out by creatures, the like of which have never been seen before. Not even when the Perished Land had everything under its influence in our realms. Furthermore I have been brought the news that it was orcs who stole the fourthlings’ diamond.” He hit the map. “ Orcs! These beasts have not appeared for over five cycles, not since the Star of Judgment fell. What is behind this? Does anyone have an idea?”

“The beings Ortger and I were faced with look like a cross between several monsters. They use magic and bear runes on their armor, runes like the ones the alfar are described as having,” said Nate. “It all points to unknown creatures from the Outer Lands suddenly invading our realms.”

“The passes are guarded and defended,” Mallen pointed out. “They could never have got past the axes of the dwarves.” Glaimbli nodded in agreement.

“Perhaps not past them.” Tiwalun smiled him down. “If you can’t get past an obstacle you can sometimes go under it.”

Ortger nodded. “The same thought had occurred to me. There’s none of the evil left in Girdlegard, if we discount the malice of some of the thirdlings that I’ve heard about.” With his protruding eyes, he gazed directly at Glaimbli, awaiting an answer.

The dwarf opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I don’t know if I should speak for my high king on that matter.”

“Oh, then I misunderstood you. I thought you said you were his representative, Glaimbli Sparkeye,” interjected Tiwalun.

“I certainly am. But it is not my place to reveal everything. There are some issues about which only the high king himself should speak.” He crossed his arms over his chest in an unambiguous gesture of refusal; he was like a defensive wall of muscle and bone: the embodiment of the innate stubbornness of dwarves.

Queen Isika, a woman of middle age, pale-faced, with long black hair and with a penchant for luxurious clothing, turned to Mallen. “Prince, be good enough to explain to our friend here how unfortunate the whole situation is. You get on better with dwarves than I do.”

Mallen leaned forward, his arms on the table. “Look, Glaimbli, we’re just trying to explore the connection between the horrific incidents of the last few orbits. If you’ve got something to contribute, please let us know. Then your high king can fill us in later on the details.” He looked the dwarf directly in the eyes. “I’m asking you, please, to tell us what you have learned.”

Glaimbli fidgeted uneasily on his chair. He disliked having so many people staring at him. He dropped his head down between his shoulders-the age-old reaction of a dwarf in trouble. Only when he spotted the haughty smiles of the elves did he let himself be moved to comment. “The thirdlings have declared war on us again. They are making war with machines.”

“Machines?” echoed Nate in surprise. “It’s the first I’ve heard of this. What sort of machines?”

“A device that can travel through our tunnels and attack our people. More I cannot say. You must wait till our high king arrives.” Glaimbli’s head sank even lower and his eyes sparkled defiantly; he’d not tell them anymore now.

“This is news to me as well,” said Queen Isika sharply. “If you put this information together with what we had already heard one could surmise that the thirdlings have formed a united front with these malformed nightmare progeny of Evil.”

Bruron turned to her. “What makes you say that?” Her light blue gaze was directed first to the obstinately silent dwarf, then to Mallen. Receiving no indication from him she went on, “You know the thirdlings well, prince, because you made use of their services against the orcs. How great a thirst for revenge might they be harboring?”

“They always hated the other dwarf folks, but the need to sustain Girdlegard must rank higher for them,” he replied. “You remember, King Lorimbas wanted to eradicate them all and to take on the task of protecting the passes himself?”

“I am not speaking of hatred for other dwarves.” She looked round the circle. “I am speaking of hatred toward us, the humans.” She turned her pale, stern face to Ortger. “The thirdlings were almost completely annihilated in the course of mad king Belletain’s attack on the Black Mountains.” Her gaze fell on Mallen once more. “Do you think them capable of breaking a new tunnel through to the Outer Lands for monsters to come through, bringing disaster and destruction to our homeland, prince?”

“If that were the case there’d be armies of orcs in one of the kingdoms by now,” ventured Mallen.

Tiwalun had not taken his eyes off Glaimbli and had seen the bearded face of the dwarf twitch briefly as Queen Isika spoke these words. “Even if you vowed just now that you would say no more, Glaimbli Sparkeye, I must insist you let out some more of the truth that you are holding back between clamped teeth,” he said quietly, but clearly enough for all to hear. “I ask you to tell us, so that our suspicions, vague as yet, may give us more insight into how we can stave off the threat of Evil and protect Girdlegard.”

“No!” returned the obdurate Glaimbli.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Bruron. “You may be here as the high king’s representative, but you bear responsibility for the fates of humans and elves. I implore you in the names of Vraccas, Palandiell and Sitalia. Speak!”

Again, at first, the dwarf was silent. Not until he had exchanged glances with Prince Mallen did he open his mouth. “After the orc raid there was another attack by a thirdling machine,” he reported reluctantly. “The orcs pushed it into the lift to cover their escape.” Glaimbli’s mouth was distorted. “High King Gandogar thinks the orcs and the thirdlings are working hand in glove. They have set up their encampment on the far side of the Stone Gateway up on the Northern Pass to the Outer Lands. It’s from there that they are launching their attacks. We’ve seen nothing yet of the creatures that bear the alfar runes on their armor.”

“So the thirdlings are against all of us and not just at war with the other dwarf folks.” Tiwalun’s face was full of concern and Vilanoil looked downcast. “What is Gandogar undertaking against the traitors in his midst?”

“They are outside Girdlegard,” reiterated the dwarf, throwing him a hostile glance.

“I beg to differ on that point,” said the elf courteously. “The thirdlings used to have spies in all the dwarf realms and why should these spies no longer exist? Admittedly, in the past five cycles things have been more or less peaceful between the tribes. I agree with Queen Isika. Who is to say that the thirdlings are not plotting to open up all five gateways at once, to flood Girdlegard with Tion’s monsters?”

“The Revenge of the Dwarves,” murmured Ortger.

“If it were revenge, it would be revenge of the misguided thirdlings, not of all the dwarves,” corrected Mallen, turning to the elves. “And you are exaggerating with your fears, Tiwalun,” he warned. “Anyone would think you had persecution mania.”

“Am I exaggerating?” The elf smiled persuasively. “A degree of persecution mania, as you choose to call it, Prince Mallen, would well become us all. Personally, I fear the worst when I hear that the thirdlings have formed a pact with orcs from the Outer Lands in order to steal the diamonds.”

“He is right. Gandogar must sift out and reject the poisoned corn in his peoples.” With a smile, Queen Isika added: “Or, to phrase it better, he must sort the false gold from the genuine article. Only if he roots out the concealed thirdlings in the dwarf tribes can we have any security.”

“And just how is that to be done?” objected Glaimbli.

“Interrogations? Investigations? Torture?” suggested Vilanoil helpfully. “The sooner we find and eradicate the spies, the better it will be for humans, elves and dwarves.”

Mallen held his breath, seeing Isika, Nate and Ortger nodding in approval, and then the face of the dwarf, suffused and dark red with anger.

“You’re seriously suggesting we arrest and torture dwarves who may be completely innocent?” Glaimbli growled at the elves. “It may be that your folk do things like that but it’s certainly not our way-it’s not the way of the children of the Smith.”

“Leave the decision to your high king,” came the reproof from Isika. “You said yourself that you only represent him. Let us deal with the question of what the orcs and the thirdlings can possibly want with the diamonds.” She took a sip of her wine and ignored the vicious looks winging her way from the dwarf.

Mallen was getting the impression more and more that the elves were trying to drive a wedge between the participants, endangering the harmonious community of the different peoples and various dwarf folks. With Nate, Isika and the inexperienced Ortger they had already achieved a measure of success. Alvaro’s distrust of the proud elf race seemed increasingly justified.

“They are aware that one of the stones has particular properties. But there have never been any dwarves with the slightest desire to learn or use the magic arts,” said Tiwalun. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Glaimbli. The thirdlings wouldn’t know what to do with the power latent in that stone. And the stupidity of the orcs is well known.”

“And we have these appalling creatures in their tionium armor,” Nate reminded the assembly. “By Palandiell, if there’s not magic involved there where on earth else do they get their powers?”

“So they’re out looking for the diamonds independently of the thirdlings and the orcs… in order to take over control?” Ortger gestured to the map. “There are no magic force fields any longer, so these beasts must be from the Outer Lands. How did they get in and how did they find out about the stones? Are they capable of sensing magic?”

“No. Otherwise they would not be wasting their time stealing the false stones.” Mallen tasted his wine, hoping that the effects of the alcohol would calm him. “That’s obvious. None of the three groups has yet found the real diamond that the eoil invested power in.”

A servant bearing the insignia of Idoslane entered the council tent, bringing a message, and waiting for the ruler to read its contents.

Mallen’s eyes flew over the page and, when he had finished reading, he drained the wine in his cup. “It seems that evil does not merely have the diamonds in its sights,” he said out loud, laying the letter on the table. “One of my villages, Calmstead, has been razed to the ground. There are no survivors. People were burned to death in their houses. Why the village was singled out I have no idea. The commander of the neighboring castle reports there are signs that orcs were responsible. He has sent scouts into the caves of Toboribor.”

“I thought the caves were empty,” said Nate. “Didn’t you have all the passages searched that time?”

“That was five cycles ago. If orcs have found a new entry into Girdlegard they may have reactivated their old breeding grounds.” Mallen rose. “You must excuse me. I must issue orders for the soldiers.”

“We ought to defer the rest of our talks in the circumstances, until High King Gandogar can be with us,” suggested Bruron. “In the meantime we can ponder further on these issues. If anyone would be interested in inspecting the site for my new palace…?”

“I move that the remaining diamonds be collected together in one place and guarded with the greatest force we can muster between us in Girdlegard.” Queen Wey, a woman around fifty cycles of age, wearing a floor-length dark dress studded with numberless diamonds, raised her voice and surprised everybody with her proposal. She did not belong to the circle of those known for their military prowess. “Apparently the individual races are not in a position to keep their stones safe from these robbers. Why shouldn’t all of us help? Let’s have them behind the walls of the strongest castle, surrounded with all the engines of war at our disposal, and have thousands of soldiers guarding them. Then no one would be able to steal them. Kept separately they are much more vulnerable.”

Nate nodded assent at once. “Excellent idea, Queen Wey.”

“Indeed,” Isika spoke warmly. “We might all have come to that conclusion, dear sister.” This form of words surprised no one. The two queens, so different in appearance, addressed each other as siblings in order to stress their unity of purpose. She raised her hand. “I am in favor.”

All the assembled monarchs followed her example.

Glaimbli and the two elves, however, did not stir. “Wait for Gandogar,” was the only response from the unwilling dwarf.

Tiwalun and Vilanoil promised to inform their prince and to tell the assembly of his decision. “By the time Gandogar arrives we shall have Liutasil’s view on this,” said Tiwalun. “Now, I should be delighted to see the progress on your new building. Were your builders able to make use of the advice we gave you, King Bruron?”

Mallen went past them and hurried over to find his horse, puzzling as he walked. So far no elf delegation had appeared in his own kingdom to negotiate any exchange of skills. Bruron, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the privilege of benefitting from Alandur knowledge already.

He doubted whether Idoslane was still a candidate after the quarrel with Rejalin. So he was more than amazed on returning to his accommodation to find waiting for him a letter from Liutasil announcing the arrival of a deputation.

Mallen was not at all sure he wanted them in his kingdom.