The Revenge of the Dwarves

VII

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Idoslane,

Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

Tungdil lay next to Balyndis staring at the ceiling. Then he stared into the darkness just underneath the ceiling. It didn’t make a whole lot of difference. He might just as well have stared into the fire, at the sun or into the abyss.

He thought hard. He thought so hard and so long that in spite of physical exhaustion he was unable to sleep.

Something was wrong.

The joy at being back again with Balyndis had not ebbed; in the same way, their mutual avowals of affection, and the tender gestures which they had exchanged for the first time in ages-it all felt genuine.

But still, everything he did and said had a touch of emptiness. It was like spring with no blossom. Things were growing, but colors and fragrance were missing.

And because he felt so absurdly discontented and unfulfilled, he hated himself. He was starting to destroy their newfound happiness-and totally without reason. In past cycles he had attributed this feeling to his guilt about the death of their son. But that wasn’t it.

Carefully, so as not to risk waking the dwarf-woman by his side, he got up, put on his nightshirt and left the bedroom.

He strolled through the vaults but even there he didn’t have the feeling that he was at home.

Tungdil went into the kitchen, prepared some herbal tea with yarrow, hellebore and fennel, sipped it slowly and waited for the calming effect that would stop his brain spinning.

Just when his eyelids were growing heavy and his head was sinking slowly onto the table he heard a dull thud somewhere near the front of the vaults. A rotten beam giving way would have sounded different. Someone was busying themselves at the entrance door, trying to break in. Tungdil feared the worst.

Calm was out of the window; all his senses were on alert. He ran back into the bedroom, threw on his chain mail shirt, thrust his feet into his boots, and grabbed Keenfire.

“What’s happening?” Balyndis sat up.

“We’ve got visitors,” he replied swiftly. “Ireheart!” he bellowed. “Get up! There’s work for your crow’s beak.” He buckled his weapon belt on and turned to her. “Do you think you can help us?”

She grinned. “What impression did I make on you just now in bed?” Balyndis was on her feet, already putting on a chain mail shirt. After a second’s hesitation she made her choice and picked up a hatchet and a shield from the weapon-rack.

“Where’s the fight?” Boindil had not bothered to put on armor. He stood bare-chested, his hair unbraided, his beard flowing free. At least he had on his leather breeches and boots, and his crow’s beak weapon shone in his fists. Next to him Goda appeared, having taken a little longer to get armed. “What do you mean…”

Another crash came from the entrance and they heard the splintering of wood.

“Right, I get it,” Boindil said grimly. “Someone’s hoping to pick up a stone that doesn’t belong to him.”

Either that or the elves had taken the dirty fingerprints on the monolith more seriously than they could have dreamed. But Tungdil had not wanted to tell the womenfolk anything about their less-than-heroic adventures in Alandur. “Let’s take a look,” he commanded, and crept along the passageway.

The evening air reached them and the flames of the oil lamps flickered in the breeze. There was a smell of dew-laden grass and damp warm earth…

That shouldn’t be so! It would mean the gate was open and their uninvited guest already inside the vaults!

They turned round a corner and saw that the double gate had been destroyed; it lay in pieces on the ground.

“Has he got a battering ram?” whispered Boindil, looking around. There were any number of openings in the tunnel they were in. The enemy might jump out at them from any of these.

“If it’s one of those monsters, it won’t need a battering ram,” replied Tungdil. He listened intently. There was another sound. It came from the back of the section where Lot-Ionan’s old magic school had been. “Quick!” he called out, sprinting along to the laboratorium. “It’s looking for the diamond in exactly the right place.”

Balyndis dropped back behind the others. She was still grappling with the after-effects of her illness. The others mustn’t be held back because of her. They hurried on, even though now their numbers were reduced.

“I wonder which of the beasts we’re fighting this time,” said Ireheart as they ran. “The one in armor or the device that rolled into the throne room?” His eyes sparkled with life and fighting spirit. Goda and the new tasks had rekindled the warrior’s vital life-forge. “Ha! We’ll thrash it out of its metal and hack it into tiny pieces, if…”

In a flash the fiend stood before them.

It seemed to emerge from the shadows, with no warning and no sound. The sight was enough for the dwarves to know that it was neither of the beings they had already heard described. They had a third variety of monster facing them.

It was twice their size in height and breadth. Its body was covered in gray and green blotches, like an orc’s; it consisted entirely of muscles without a hint of fat. Long black hair hung in strands from its head, where two pointed ears stuck up.

The face reminded them in a terrible way of an elf, but instead of their refined beauty, there were dead eyes and sharp incisors, which the creature was baring viciously.

It wore only a leather loin cloth and carried a rucksack. No iron in its body, no tionium here, no machine this time. Round its forearms were slung white chains and under them iron bands to which the last link in the chain was fastened.

“Out of the way, groundlings,” it said in an elf-high voice, its dark eyes flashing green.

“You won’t get past us, monster,” said Ireheart, full of confidence, crashing the blunt end of his crow’s beak weapon against the passage wall. “What shall I call you? You don’t look like one of the snout-faces.”

Goda watched her master in confusion; why in the face of this terrible being was he quibbling about nomenclature? She had heard strange tales about Boindil and she was starting to fear they were all true.

“Do you have the stone?” Tungdil demanded, as he brandished his famous Keenfire ax in the creature’s direction. “Give it back. You know how things will end for you otherwise.”

“But it’ll end badly whatever happens, won’t it?” Worried now, Ireheart mouthed at his friend.

The monster shook its dreadful head. “Get away,” it repeated, taking a step forward.

Boindil bared his teeth and lowered his head; his hair fell down over his forehead. “The old way, Scholar?”

“The old way, Ireheart.” Tungdil attacked the right hip, giving no warning, and turned in toward the enemy, his friend following through at his back.

A split second before Tungdil’s blow hit home Boindil crouched down and sliced at the creature’s right shin. It wouldn’t be able to parry both strikes at the same time, and, more importantly, what could it defend itself with?

The movement with which their opponent evaded their blades came too fast and too unexpectedly for the dwarves.

The creature launched itself off the ground, sprang diagonally against the passage wall and ricocheted over Goda’s head. Her attempt to hit at it failed, and the robber escaped into one of the side tunnels.

“Hey! It can hop like a frog!” Boindil was furious. “Come back here, froggy!” He raced past Goda, reproving her for her badly aimed blow. “You’ll be dragging beams again for that.” She hurried after him, her eyes downcast in shame.

They took on the pursuit together.

The monster had lost its sense of direction in the maze of tunnels, as Tungdil soon realized, because it was running off toward the kitchen. There was no way out from there.

They stormed into the room and confronted it just as it was trying to force its way up into the flue. Its shoulders were too broad for it to escape up through the chimney.

When it heard its enemies approach it came back out of the fireplace and stared at them. A brief shake of the arms was enough to free up the chains it bore; the runes glowed on the wrist bands. Its fists closed in a grip at the ends of the chains.

“Look out. It will use the chains like a whip,” guessed Tungdil, speaking tensely. “Boindil and I will attack simultaneously. Goda, watch the door.”

The dwarves went for the monster from both sides, but saw that in spite of its huge size they had a cunning and damnably agile adversary.

Ireheart ducked under the flying chains, but was kicked in the chest and crashed back against the place where the pots and pans were stored. The wooden door gave way under the impact, shelves fell out and buried Boindil under the contents of the cupboard.

At first Tungdil had better luck. He too lowered his head, avoided the whirling chain, and heaved Keenfire up with both hands in an attempt to whack it into the belly of the monster; but the creature’s other claw shot forward and grabbed the haft.

Something extraordinary happened.

The ax head started glowing, the inlay flamed up and the diamonds blazed like tiny suns, so that Tungdil closed his eyes against the glare.

The monster shrieked in anger and shock. It had let go of Keenfire and was stumbling backwards, as the dwarf could hear. There was the smell of burning flesh.

Hardly had Tungdil caught sight of his opponent as a shadowy form than he hacked at it. The ax Keenfire, dragging a comet-like fire behind it, stopped short at the monster’s hip and was jerked aside. Tungdil nearly lost hold of it.

Glowing chain links wrapped themselves around the head of the ax, stopping its impetus. With a great hiss the magical power of both weapons collided and red and green sparks flew through the kitchen, scorching wood and stone alike. And what was worse: the sparks fizzled in Tungdil’s beard, burning holes. Slowly but surely the handle was growing hot.

“What the hell is happening here?” yelled Boindil, struggling out of the mound of frying pans. He’d lost his crow’s beak in the heap of broken pots. “Magic?” He picked up a particularly sturdy casserole dish and hurled it at the creature. “Stop that now, frog! Fight like a proper monster!”

The casserole smashed into its broad chest.

With a grunt the creature spun round and looked at the warrior, who had just found the handle of his weapon and was extracting it from the debris, ready to use. It swung its left arm, allowing the second chain to surge forward suddenly with a snake-like movement. This time the chain glowed dark green and made no bones about concealing its magic powers.

Boindil swerved to avoid it, but the creature knew full well how to use its unusual weapons to best advantage. A short jerk and the chain changed direction in mid-flight, wrapping itself around the dwarf’s neck.

Ireheart gave a sharp, strangled cry, dropped his crow’s beak and fell to the ground.

Tungdil pulled the ax free with a shout, and the chain rattled to the floor.

“Get back or the groundling dies,” commanded the fiendish creature. As if to back up his claims the alfar engravings on the left wrist band lit up, and the chain tethering Ireheart glowed more intensively. He began to make convulsive movements and gurgling noises escaped his throat as he collapsed.

Suddenly Goda was standing at Tungdil’s side. “What shall we do?”

“Let it go!” he hissed through clenched teeth as he stepped to one side. He did not want to lose Boindil. “We can get the diamond back when it thinks it is safe and has let Ireheart go.”

The green glow faded. The monster pulled the captive dwarf over toward it, winding the chain back round its wrist until it showed only half an arm’s length. Ireheart was being forced to his feet. He stood swaying on his tiptoes so as not to throttle himself. The chain was hot and had scorched his lovely black beard and long hair. “Don’t follow!” the creature ordered as it went past Goda and Tungdil.

It went backwards through the tunnel, keeping one eye on the dwarves. It sniffed loudly, getting its bearings from the smells to locate an exit from the vaults; its nostrils were flared wide. It continued on its way, dragging Ireheart in its tracks, panting and choking.

“When do we free him?” asked Goda in a hostile whisper. “He can’t breathe!”

“As long as he’s still making some kind of noise he’s all right,” answered Tungdil, racking his brains for some ploy to use against the enemy. It seemed Goda was completely ignoring the intruder’s magic, which probably had not yet been used to its full potential. Keenfire would protect him from sorcery, as it had done at the Blacksaddle when he fought the Mist Demons. But a well-aimed strike on the head with the heavy chains would certainly cause a very serious injury.

The creature had found the passageway leading to the gate and was increasing its pace. With a swift movement it loosened the throttle-hold on Ireheart’s neck and he collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. Horrified, he groped the singed beard and hair ends: “I’m crippled! For that I’m going to strip the skin off you and slice it into pieces, frog,” he grated, as he pushed himself up onto his feet. “Your weapon, Goda!”

“No, master. You said yourself a warrior never lets his weapon out of his hand.”

“Goda, this is not another silly test! Give me your weapon.” It was an indistinct cough rather than speech. A quiet but horrified exclamation from Tungdil made him look. Balyndis was standing directly in front of the creature, blocking its way to the exit.

“Get out of the way,” yelled Tungdil, “Otherwise…”

The warning came too late. Boldly Balyndis was attacking with her hatchet, fending off the spiraling chains with her shield. She was in range for a hit.

The monster used its chain-wrapped left forearm as a decoy. Hardly had the blade touched the links of the chain before magic was released.

A green lightning bolt struck the weapon, which burst into pieces, showering the dwarf-woman with a hail of shrapnel. The shield was penetrated in several places. Balyndis staggered and fell first against the tunnel wall, then slowly to the ground.

“Balyndis!” Tungdil rushed to her aid. Ireheart and Goda followed him.

The creature turned around with a roar, lifted up a wooden spar from the broken gate and hurled it in their direction.

The aim was true and swept all three of them to the ground; they were helpless against the force of the blow. By the time they were on their feet again, the monster had disappeared.

“After him!” Tungdil commanded Boindil and looked at Goda. “You, see to Balyndis.” She nodded, wordlessly passing her night star flail to her master.

The dwarves ran out of the vaults and pricked up their ears. Moon and stars were shining brightly down on Idoslane. The excellent night vision they both possessed showed them a still and sleeping silver landscape, peaceful and calm.

“Where did it go?” whispered Ireheart, observing the ground for tracks. “It ought to have left some marks big enough for a child to hide in. There’s nothing here. Froggy must have hopped away.”

Tungdil could make out a movement in the distance. “It has indeed.” He sighed, pointing toward the west. “There it goes.”

Where he was indicating a figure crossed the rough terrain by leaps and bounds, eschewing the roads and pathways. It jumped over bushes and small fruit trees as if on an athletics training run.

“It’s taking the shortest route home,” Tungdil ventured.

“Wretched devil-creature!” Boindil stamped on the earth in anger. “Why the west?”

“Why not the west?” countered Tungdil. “We know nothing about it or its two siblings. West is as good as east.”

“Yes. But I thought it would head for Toboribor. The caves of the old realm of the snout-faced orcs would make an excellent hiding place.”

“Maybe it’s trying to trick us.” He couldn’t make the figure out anymore. The dark edge of the forest had swallowed it up and was providing all the cover it might want.

Ireheart shouldered the weapon he had taken from Goda. “Shall we get after it?”

“There’s no point. Did you see how fast it was traveling? No rider could overtake it.” They returned to the vaults. “We’ll look for tracks in the morning. Perhaps they’ll lead us somewhere we can find out more about these monsters. I will let Prince Mallen know what has happened, so that he can send us a squad of soldiers.”

Goda had levered Balyndis up into a sitting position. There was blood streaming down from her many wounds. One long thin metal fragment had narrowly missed her right eye, and now jutted out of her skull. She was biting her lips so as not to scream with the pain. She grabbed Tungdil’s hand, desperate for his help.

“You’ll be fine,” he said to her cheerily.

Ireheart pointed out a large red stain under the chain mail. “That looks bad. We need a healer right away to look at these wounds and remove all the splinters.” He spoke in a hushed voice so that Balyndis wouldn’t hear.

She pulled her husband nearer. “I’m going to pass out, Tungdil,” she managed to say. “Only Vraccas knows whether I shall wake again, so you must listen to me.” The grip of her hand was so tight that it hurt him. She was racked with a wave of pain and then her eyelids fluttered. “Djer n…” she groaned, then her body went limp.

Horrified, Tungdil listened for her heartbeat. “It’s still beating,” he said in relief. “Quick, Ireheart. We’ll carry her to her bed. Goda, run to the settlement and fetch a healer. No matter what he’s in the middle of. Just bring him here.”

“Yes.” She nodded eagerly, but smiled when she saw Boindil’s mistake. To pick up Balyndis by the feet he had leaned the night star against the passage wall. She grabbed her weapon. “Now, master, it’ll be your turn to drag the beam today. You know where I’ve left it,” she called out cheekily and raced away.

He watched her go. “What a…” He spared himself the rest.

With Balyndis resting on her bed, and with most of the sharp-edged iron splinters removed carefully by Tungdil, the healer arrived to look after her and calm was restored.

Tungdil made use of the time to search the laboratorium to ascertain the unwelcome truth. Like many of the rooms he passed, it had been totally ransacked. Not a shelf was left in place.

He soon came to the conclusion that the creature had found the diamond by chance. There was a huge bloodied footprint by the pile of glass. It must have stepped on the shards, injuring its foot, and then must have noticed the diamond amongst the shattered fragments.

“Damnation!” he shouted in anger. He went into Lot-Ionan’s old study, where there was an immense collection of books. He sat at the desk and started a letter to Prince Mallen, telling him what had happened. He found himself occasionally picking his nose with the end of the quill pen-a bad habit from the old days, the not-so-very-old days. He rapped himself on the knuckles, took a new nib and started again.

There was a knock on the door and the healer stepped into the room. He was wearing a dark gray robe over his white nightshirt; his boots were still undone. Goda really had dragged him from his bed. “Excuse me, Master Goldhand.” He ran his hands through his medium-length gray hair, which was standing up around his head. “I’m done here. I’ve stitched the wounds and treated them with salves. She will recover. The tincture I have given her will let her sleep for two orbits.”

Tungdil nodded to him, reached into the drawer of the desk and took out a gold coin. “This is for your trouble,” he said. “In the morning, please bring me anything else she may need.”

“Thank you, Master Goldhand.” The healer took the money, then looked at the dwarf. “What happened? If I may ask? It looks as if a horde of orcs had broken in.”

“You may ask,” replied Tungdil shortly. But he preferred to keep the truth to himself. There were already too many rumors circulating in Girdlegard. “Thieves. We chased them off. I’d prefer it if you’d keep this to yourself. If anyone asks, say it was an accident.” He threw him a second coin.

“Of course, Master Goldhand. You may rest assured on that count. I wish your lady wife a speedy recovery.” The healer bowed, and as he did so the sides of his robe swung gently under him. “Make sure she has bed-rest for at least forty orbits.”

“Why?”

He indicated his right side. “One of the largest fragments has damaged an internal organ, as far as I can see, but I specialize in healing humans and not dwarves. It looks all right, but as I said…”

“She will remain in bed,” Tungdil nodded for him to go. “Thank you.” The man turned and left the room.

Tungdil was finishing his letter to Mallen when Ireheart came in. He had put on his leather jacket and chain mail now. “Balyndis is fast asleep,” he reported, settling into the armchair by the fireside. With his short hair and ruined beard he looked very odd. “What next?”

“We’ll see at sun-up,” Tungdil replied as he signed the letter and placed his seal on it. He did not hold out much hope that they would find the creature, but said nothing.

“Look what froggy has done to me. I’m like a plucked chicken,” Ireheart complained, tugging at the remains of his beard. He had trimmed its ragged edges so that, although very short, it still looked reasonably tidy; it would be many cycles before it was back in all its long glory. And his hair was only shoulder length now. “I’ll be laughed at. If for nothing else it deserves to die for doing that.” He put his feet up. “Do you think it’s maybe always the same creature but appearing in a different guise each time?”

“Hard to say. I don’t think so.” Tungdil was chewing over his wife’s last word before she fell unconscious. He told his friend about it.

“Djer n? Old Tin Man?” Ireheart thought back to Andokai’s huge bodyguard. “Did she mean froggy was one of those? It was the right size. And that was from the Outer Lands, too.”

“No, I don’t think they’re related. This creature bled like an orc. Djer n’s blood was bright yellow.”

“Mm,” said the warrior, at a loss. “Then I’ve no idea what she could have meant…”

“Of course!” Tungdil clapped himself on the forehead with the flat of his hand. “Djer n’s armor!”

“But it wasn’t wearing any armor,” retorted Ireheart.

“No, but those wrist bands, and the chains.” Tungdil frowned into the flames. “I think Balyndis was trying to tell me that they were made of the same metal as Djer n’s armor. Do you remember? It carried the magic.” He stood up and came over to join his friend at the fireside.

“That must mean that others have got the formula?”

“More than that, Boindil. It means they’ve found a way to store magic power to use when they need it. It is more than protection. It is a reservoir that they can have recourse to for stocking up on magic now that Girdlegard has lost its magic source.” In a frenzy he racked his brain.

“And what if it’s the other way around?”

Tungdil stared at Ireheart’s wrinkled face in irritation. “What do you mean?”

“Perhaps froggy itself is magic?” He stroked the remains of his beard ruefully. “Like the wire the eoil put leading up to the roof of the building from the magic source. That siphoned the energy up so it could be used at will.”

“An upside-down storm-milker?”

“A what?”

“A storm-milker. In one of the ancient alchemy tomes I read that you can do certain experiments when there’s a thunderstorm. Copper and iron attract the lightning bolts, it said.” Tungdil hurried over to the bookshelves and climbed the ladder to look for the book in question. “Here it is!” He opened the pages. “ ‘Place the ingredients in an iron bath when a thunderstorm is nigh. Let the bath be carried to the top of a mountain and stick a lance upright in the tub. Lightning will enter the tub and the energy released will effect the transformation.’ ” He slammed the book shut again. “With these creatures it’s the other way about: they are the thunderstorm and the energy shoots out through the metal.”

“There you are,” joked Ireheart. “That’s a scholar for you.”

“Yes,” sighed Tungdil, his enthusiasm failing. “Of course it’s only a theory,” he said with regret. “We don’t have anyone who knows enough about magic to advise us.”

“Makes sense all right to me,” Boindil consoled him. “Why not tell Mallen what you think?”

Tungdil hesitated. “No.”

“Why not?”

He returned to his seat by the fire. “Who knows the formula, Ireheart?”

“The special metal? Well, Balyndis and Andokai. And the eoil, I think, but it’s dead.” Boindil studied Tungdil, not knowing what he was getting at.

“I wonder how likely it is that one of the Outer Land races knows magic and is in possession of the formula for this alloy.”

Now Boindil was following. “You think the beasts don’t come from the Outer Land?”

“There are lots of possibilities, I admit,” nodded Tungdil. “But where have the indestructible siblings got to? Rodario and I couldn’t find a trace of the unslayables on the tower. Of course, that was after the Star of Judgment fell. There was neither armor nor ash like with the alfar and the orcs that were wiped out by the Star’s force.” He leaned back. “Balyndis told some of our people the details of the special alloy before she left the Gray Range. And thirdlings have spies all over the place.”

“You’re not saying the embittered thirdlings and the unslayables have made common cause?”

“I don’t know.” Tungdil lowered his head, massaging his temples. “Damn it all. We’re completely in the dark here, Ireheart. We’ll have to step carefully through the pitch blackness, throwing light on the individual secrets as we go.”

Ireheart stood up. “Then let’s make a start in the morning, as we’d planned. We’ll find froggy.” He made for the door. “I’ll send Goda to the gate to take first watch.”

“Have you dragged your beam yet?” Tungdil baited him about his mistake.

“No,” Boindil growled.

“But you’ll be wanting to set a good example, won’t you?”

Ireheart turned round and stepped out into the passage. “Fine friend you are,” he said, quite offended. “Go on, take my pupil’s side. You thirdlings are bound to stick together.” His footsteps died away.

“Mmm. The thirdlings stick together,” repeated Tungdil to himself, and he cast an eye on the bottle of mead that stood next to the desk, calling to him with its sweet dark contents.

But alcohol didn’t attract him. Not tonight. Tonight he needed a clear head.

A symbol on the wrist protectors worn by the creature had caught Tungdil’s eye. To be sure he’d understood carefully, he looked for the small book he had in the past spent long evenings poring over, so as not to have to spend time near Balyndis. He turned the pages. It turned out he was not mistaken. It was the sign for the elf word meaning to have.

He closed the small volume and replaced it on the shelf. So what did that signify? He would have to ask Mallen and Ortger whether the other monsters had borne elf runes on their armor.

He got up and went back into the bed chamber. Dressed as he was he lay down next to Balyndis as she rested on the sheet. He laid his head on his hand and watched her face, examining the feelings that were going through him.

He stayed like that until dawn.

When Goda knocked to tell him a messenger had arrived with a letter from Gandogar, he was still debating with himself, and wrestling with his emotions. The night had made him no wiser.

Girdlegard,

Queendom of Weyurn,

Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T he Curiosum had struck camp overnight. The brightly colored wagons had left Mifurdania at dawn without having put on a single performance. Now they were making their way westwards.

A ragged hunchbacked beggar in a big floppy hat on his greasy hair was searching for something to eat amongst the remains of the cooking fire and the rubbish left behind.

Not finding anything to his taste, he headed toward the town and the fish market. He sat himself on a barrel with a good view of the newly laid-out port and stretched out a hopeful hand whenever anyone passed by. “Please can you spare a coin for a starving man,” he coughed plaintively.

Nobody knowing Rodario would have suspected that the impresario’s refined features were concealed under the filth covering the beggar’s face. The actor had delved deep into his stage make-up box for the wherewithal of disfigurement. This included putting an ugly scar on the left cheek, applying stains to his teeth and giving himself a full shave. His beard had gone, much admired though it had always been: a painful sacrifice for the sake of his mission.

Tassia and the others had been taken aback when he summoned them in the middle of the night to tell them what he intended to do: there was a sensitive and dangerous task to be carried out, investigating the recent occurrences in Mifurdania. He placed the running of the Curiosum into the hands of his blond muse, not knowing how long he would need to fathom out the Furgas mystery. Tassia had accepted the promotion with a charming smile and had gone on in the intervening hours to make it almost impossible for him to leave.

“Give me a little something,” Rodario begged a rich merchant, who spat at him and went on his way. “No, that’s not what I meant. Your snot will buy me nothing. Give me a coin,” he called out after the man, earning a few laughs in the process.

The morning passed by. The sun rose high overhead and then sank toward the horizon.

Rodario stuck it out bravely in his chosen place of duty. He warded off importunate flies, annoying urchins and a tradesman who disputed his right to the barrel. Altogether his modest takings for the day were enough to get him a piece of bread and a cup of plonk. You could put up with poverty better like that.

The waiting continued.

Twilight arrived. Then he noticed the barge the archer-woman had used. The load line on its hull was now well above the surface of the water. So it was traveling to town empty.

Rodario made for the port and lay down between a couple of heaps of coiled rope opposite the freight quay. He looked like a beggar who had found a corner for the night. Nobody would be suspicious.

It wasn’t until darkness fell that the brown-haired woman appeared, wearing a black mantle over her shoulders. Beneath it Rodario espied a dark, tight-laced dress and a dagger as long as a man’s forearm hanging from her belt She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her.

She walked over the deck, jumped elegantly onto the quayside, put finger and thumb into her mouth and issued a deafeningly shrill whistle.

Near to where Rodario lay a warehouse gate opened; light cascaded onto the cobblestones and a man dressed in a brownish robe came out. He wore a hat, and the chain around his neck marked him out as a member of the merchant’s guild. “Kea! Back so soon?” He was about to go over to her when he caught sight of the apparently sleeping form of the beggar. “Oi! Scum!”

Rodario did not move, hoping to be left in peace, but he was kicked in the side, and cowered in a heap, groaning.

“Up with you, you tramp. Sleep it off somewhere else.” The man leaned down and punched him on the back of the neck. “Can’t you hear? I’ll get a knife to help you.”

Rodario could hardly not react to that threat. He struggled up, drunkenly protesting and slouched off along the warehouse wall to turn into the narrow space between this building and its neighbor. He had to force himself into the gap.

“You may have driven me off but you haven’t got rid of me,” he murmured. Making use of the slits between the wooden boards he climbed up onto the roof, hoping to overhear their exchange from above.

He worked his way forward to a ventilation cover, which he managed to open and then slip quietly inside.

He landed in the dark on something soft that gave a bit under his weight. The smell and slight crunch told him it must be sacks of corn. The store was stuffed up to the roof with it, as if Mifurdania were planning for a famine or a siege.

Rodario wormed his way across and stopped where he could see a shimmer of light, pressing his face to the slight gap to see what was happening. He had missed the beginning of their conversation.

“And how much would that be, Deifrich?” the woman called Kea was asking, as she leaned against one of the roof posts.

The man pointed round the warehouse, which was bare except for a few loose grains of corn and some dirt. “One hundred sacks? Look around you, Kea. There’s hardly any grain in the whole town.”

She gave a false smile-gain Rodario felt he knew her from somewhere. “Only because you have bought it all up, Deifrich. To force the price up.”

“Me?” he said indignantly. Even a fool would have seen through the exaggeration.

Kea looked up, taking out her dagger and holding it point upwards. “Suppose I were to go up there, what do you think I would find?”

“Not much,” Deifrich lied with a grin, not attempting to look particularly convincing. “Let’s say ten Weyurn coins. For each sack.”

Kea gave an ugly laugh. “You despicable cut-throat,” she said with a threatening undertone, lifting her index finger. “I’ll give you one coin.”

Deifrich wiped his chin with his sleeve. “No, Kea. I know you have enough. So you will pay.” To be on the safe side he put his hand on the handle of the short sword that he carried at his back on a belt.

Perhaps this was an agreed signal. Rodario heard footsteps. Two men approached Deifrich from left and right wearing leather armor and carrying long swords. They had the air of mercenaries or at least former soldiers. Kea did not even look at them.

“All right. Let’s say nine coins per sack,” said Deifrich haughtily. “I can get you the grain by daybreak.” He held his hand out. “But only if I get the gold now. And I won’t mention the other things you buy from me.”

Kea put down her finger. “You have become greedy,” she said quietly. “You are abusing my trust.”

Deifrich shrugged his shoulders. “I am a trader. Where there is a business opportunity I take advantage of it. Nobody gives me anything for free.”

“I understand you all too well. You would never get anything from me, either, without paying for it.” She gave a cautious movement, so as not to give the soldiers cause to step in, fetching a small bag out from under her mantle. She opened the cord tie, put her hand in, fished around and pulled out a coin to give to Deifrich. “One of fifty gold pieces. I do not have any more on me.”

He took the bag, then the proffered coin. “So you will receive five… let’s say six sacks,” he said, biting on the gold to test its worth. A splintering noise was audible. Deifrich yelled out in surprise, spat and collapsed to the ground. He lay convulsed, throwing himself from one side to the other, then finally remained still.

One of his hired soldiers bent over him. “Nothing to be done,” he said calmly and regarded the imitation coin. It had a thin center of lead, surrounded by glass and covered in gold leaf. A clear liquid dripped out of the remains. At first glance it was no different from any real coin. “What sort of poison is that?”

She lifted the bag. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she answered, pointing her dagger at the soldier. “The same poison is on the blade of this knife. Be off with you and keep quiet about what you’ve seen. You’ve been paid by Deifrich and didn’t have to work for it. Be content with that.”

The men looked at each other. Rodario thought they might try to jump Kea and take the rest of the gold.

The woman’s cold-blooded attitude warned them off taking any such rash action. Hesitatingly and being careful not to turn their backs on her they inched out of the warehouse.

She laughed quietly and gave a second whistle. Five men hurried up to her. “Get up there and see how much corn the bastard was hiding. Get the sacks onto the barge as quickly as you can. And then let’s get out of Mifurdania.” She prodded the dead body with her foot. “Find something heavy to weigh him down with, then chuck him in the water.”

Her people nodded and swarmed out while Kea disappeared to the left out of Rodario’s line of sight. The noise of boots on the steps announced the arrival upstairs of at least two of the men.

Now things were getting uncomfortable for Rodario.

He was just crawling in deeper between the sacks when there was a crackling and a rattling in the dark above him with a winch being set to work. The floor he was lying on descended rapidly. Somehow he’d got himself onto the loading base, while the mechanism was activated, taking himself and ten sacks down to the ground floor.

Though he tried to hide between the sacks it was a lost cause. At the other end of the building he saw four long boxes. Kea was standing in front of one of them. She had opened the lid and was looking at some blocks of iron. To Rodario’s eyes it looked like a mass of casting molds.

“Hey, watch it. There’s a tramp,” yelled one of the men up at the hoist.

“I’m on my way, don’t worry. Just needed a place to sleep.” Rodario coughed and crawled over toward the door. He didn’t want to give up his disguise. Perhaps he would need the element of surprise more urgently.

Kea closed the boxes and stood herself calmly in his path, keeping the dead body of the tradesman from his view. “Not so fast, old man,” she addressed him, not harshly.

Rodario read it as a good sign that she wasn’t brandishing her dagger and that no one was manhandling him. His masquerade seemed to be holding up. “Oh mistress, forgive me. Don’t call the Watch, please don’t,” he begged, dribbling and slobbering to make himself even more unsavory. He didn’t want her to expend any time on him. “They hate me.”

She measured him with a glance. “You know Deifrich?”

Rodario gave it some thought. “No. Does he belong to the Watch?”

One of Kea’s people came over and grabbed him by the arm. “Kea, you know what has to be done! He’s seen us now.”

“I see a lot of people in Mifurdania,” said Rodario in an old man’s falsetto. He laid his hand on the man’s arm. “It’s not a crime, young man,” he announced argumentatively.

“No.” Kea fingered the handle of her dagger. “Seeing us, old fellow, is certainly not a crime. But it is bad luck.” She drew her weapon and stabbed quick as lightning.

Rodario had been expecting the blow, so moved quickly to the side, grabbing the other man and using him as a shield. He hadn’t counted on the old tramp being so strong. He it was that received the stab in his ribs. The dagger did not go through to the internal organs-it did not need to. The poison brought the man down. “Surprised, huh?” Rodario walloped Kea on the nose and she fell back with a scream. He ran off to the nearby door, pursued by shouts from the men and curses from the woman.

Even if it had been a long time since he had been in Mifurdania, he still knew his way about. He shook off his two pursuers in the confusion of the port. But then he made a bee-line for the warehouse again, after first making a wide circle to throw them off the scent. He wanted to see what had been happening following his bold escape. He watched from behind a fishing boat on the other side of the quay.

Swiftly the men loaded the sacks onto the barge, even Kea helping with the task. They must have needed the corn so badly they could not leave it behind despite the incidents with the tradesman and the mercenaries.

One hundred sacks was a lot of corn. You could feed a small army with that. But where could an army be encamped in a land like Weyurn that was mostly water? And what would be the point? Soldiers who had deserted and were trying their hand at piracy and making sure of provisions before setting off? Where did they get so much gold? What was Furgas up to with them?

Questions on top of questions and nobody to give him any answers, of course.

Once the boxes with the iron molds were loaded the barge pushed off, not using any lights. Rodario decided to carry on following them. Water; the goddess Elria’s element, was not going to deter him.

He found a little dinghy tied up at the quayside. Borrowing it, he hopped in and found to his delight it obeyed even his landlubber efforts. Luckily the barge was not moving fast, so it was easy to keep up.

It was heading for the center of the huge body of water that now made up Weyurn. The waves glittered in the light of the stars as if enchanted. Rodario kept his distance and tried to hoist the sail on the small mast. It was difficult but he managed it. Not having a seaman’s training, he was not doing very well about holding to a course.

The barge disappeared behind the cliffs of an island and it took him some time to get his borrowed boat to go in the same direction.

Before rounding the rocks he heard a splashing, hissing, gurgling noise, as if a red-hot shooting-star had fallen from heaven into the waters. The surface of the lake was very rough; small waves rolled over the bow of the boat, threatening to swamp the dinghy.

Rodario rounded the cliffs. He did not have long to wait.

“For heaven’s sake! What in the name of all the bad actors in Girdlegard… where the hell is it?” Rodario stood up, his hands on his hips and stared at the lake before him. Stared at the empty lake.

There was nothing to see and nothing to pursue. The barge had disappeared from one moment to the next.

“How can that be, Palandiell?” he said, trying to keep his balance in the rocking boat. The moonlight showed him that there was nothing but the islands, and they lay over a mile away to his left. “Has Elria drawn them down to the depths because of their dreadful deeds?”

A new shuddering movement disturbed the surface and a mighty wave rolled toward him in the form of a foaming black wall, blotting out the moon and stars.

“O merciful Elria! What have I done to enrage you?” he murmured, motionless with terror, clinging to the mast of his small boat before the craft was seized by several tons of water and he was dragged under.

Girdlegard,

Red Mountain Range,

Kingdom of the Firstlings,

Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

I n these times, when the children of the Smith had to be more watchful than ever as they stood guard at the entrances to Girdlegard, it was harder for wanderers and merchants alike to overcome the suspicion that met them at any of the five gates. That was if anyone dared to turn up at the gates at all. It was not always going to be the evil that wished to come in.

And so it was in the Red Range.

The nine imposing towers and the two mighty ramparts of West Ironhald presented an almost insuperable obstacle even for peaceful visitors. In the area between the defending walls in the chasm that led to the Ironhald gateway and thus to the kingdom of the firstlings, around two hundred people were encamped, waiting for the dwarves to admit them.

For the most part they were traders, but there were also refugees from regions that had been devastated five cycles beforehand by the so-called avatars and their army. Their homelands were still not habitable.

Queen Xamtys had instructed the guards to let the groups progress forward one section at a time every two orbits. In the whole ten orbits they were waiting, the guards had them under observation and could examine the people, their baggage and wagons and animals, in minute detail, watching out for unusual behavior. Only the ones who conducted themselves well and passed the final interrogation examination at West Ironhald were allowed to enter. They were let into the halls and allowed over the pass.

The guards became increasingly restless. Sometimes there would be the faintest trace of orc in the air, as if maybe a small band of them were in hiding away off in the distance, waiting for the chance to storm the fortress. Maybe one of their spies was inspecting the fortifications.

Amongst the applicants who had got as far as the first gate was a strapping, rough-hewn tradesman who made a great thing of secrecy about his cargo. On his big four-spanned cart he had square blocks, it seemed, that were covered in leather and canvas to shield them from prying eyes and to protect them from the weather.

The wagon jolted its way toward the sentry post, and the man, dressed in light leather from head to foot, halted his oxen. He came over to Bendelbar Ironglow of the clan of the Glowing Irons, superintendent of the guards, and bowed. “My greetings. My name is Kartev and I’ve come all the way from Ajula to speak to your ruler.”

“Why would Queen Xamtys want you to?” responded Bendelbar, a sturdy dwarf sporting long blond hair, a colorful plaited beard and a military abruptness of manner that combined unfriendliness with surprise. Some self-important merchant. That was all they needed.

Kartev walked back, loosened a few of the ropes securing the tarpaulin, then lifted the cover, behind which cage bars were visible. Then he motioned to the dwarf to come over. “See for yourself.”

Bendelbar approached and took a look. Inside there were three small figures, chained by the ankles and in a miserable state. They were beardless, one and all, and looked, apart from that strange feature, exactly like Girdlegard dwarves. The guard knew at once who it was he had here. The news from the Black Mountains had traveled swiftly: the diamond thieves. “By Vraccas!”

“I call them Ancient Children. I thought your people would be interested. They must be related to you, don’t you think?”

“And why did you take them prisoner?”

“I didn’t capture them, I bought them. I bought them off a judge in Ajula. He had them arrested for robbery,” he explained hastily, so that no one would start to reproach him. “They were very expensive,” he added.

Bendelbar watched the wrinkled naked faces; the sight was new to him. He saw that two of the captives were women, but there wasn’t a single hair on their cheeks. “Let me guess. They were looking for diamonds?”

Kartev looked surprised. “Yes. You’re absolutely right.” His eyes narrowed. “So they’ve already tried it here, too?” He stood up straight. “Pleased to be able to help you. I’ll hand them over to you. Just need my expenses met.” He dropped the heavy canvas again and the strange dwarflings were back in the dark. “Take me and my captives to your queen, so we can sort out a price.”

Bendelbar wrapped one beard strand round his index finger thoughtfully. He finally agreed. He couldn’t let slip this opportunity to cross-examine the thieves. History would show him no mercy if through his fault a chance to avert disaster were to be missed. He gave the order to open the gate for the man and his laden cart.

Escorted by ten guards they started on their long way, taking several breaks, through the long passageways and halls of the eastern part of the Red Mountains, until the troop finally stopped in a cavern used by the firstlings as a quarry.

“Wait here,” ordered Bendelbar. “I’ll have Xamtys sent for.” He called one of the guards over and gave the instruction. The dwarf-guard trotted off. Bendelbar thought he could sniff orc-ness in the air again, but that was impossible. Not in here. He dismissed it as imagination.

“So, what’s new in Girdlegard?” Kartev was feeling chatty. He undid the buckles to pull the tarpaulins and the leather covers off the cages. “I haven’t been back here for ages. Are the orcs still hanging out in Toboribor?”

Bendelbar got the other soldiers to help. The crates containing these strange dwarves, known in Girdlegard only as undergroundlings, were revealed bit by bit. The trader had two dozen of them. They were huddled together in the middle of their prisons and were staring at their distant relations mistrustfully and in silence.

“In Toboribor? Nothing happening there anymore.” Bendelbar shook his head, unable to take his eyes off the captives. “After the Star of Judgment struck, all the evil went away.”

“That’s not what I hear,” replied Kartev, jumping up to the front of the wagon, where there were five barrels. He opened the left-hand one, took out a few hardened loaves and chucked them into the cages. The undergroundlings grabbed the bread greedily. “There are said to be strange creatures about the place, murdering and pillaging.”

Now Bendelbar did turn his attention to the man. “Rumors spread quickly in the Outer Lands.”

The tradesman smiled at the dwarf. “Don’t forget I’m a merchant. Merchants are quick to panic when their wares might be in danger.” With a powerful leap that Bendelbar wouldn’t have thought him capable of, the trader landed at his feet. “Do these creatures exist or not?”

“They do exist,” he sighed. “But we’re close to catching them.” He placed his hand on the handle of the ax he carried stuck in his belt. “You can set your mind at ease…”

There was a loud crash behind them.

The base of the cage had broken and a dozen of the undergroundlings dropped through onto the stone floor. Initially Bendelbar thought the cart must have given way under the weight, having suffered damage on the long journey, but when he saw the undergroundlings were making off, left and right, unrestrained, he realized they had unchained themselves.

“Stop them,” yelled Kartev, catching the arm of a guard who was about to fell one with a spear-thrust. “Don’t hurt them! They’re my property, got it? I want them back safe and sound. There’ll be hell to pay if you kill one.”

Bendelbar pushed him to one side. “After them!” he commanded, reaching for his long horn.

Then a whole side fell out on the second cage; loose bolts clattered and rolled away. The dwarf was caught on the head and shoulders by the iron bars of the cage as the remaining dozen undergroundlings made a bid for freedom, rushing the guards. Grabbing the sentries’ weapons and armor they raced to the exits.

Bendelbar could not move. The heavy iron grating kept him pinned to the ground; he couldn’t even move his arms, let alone sound the alarm with a blast on his horn.

“I’ll get help,” said Kartev, taking the dwarf’s ax. “Just in case they attack me on the way,” he explained. “You’ll get it back. Which way do I go?”

“My bugle,” groaned Bendelbar. “Blow the alarm.” But however hard the tradesman tried to sound the horn he couldn’t produce anything more convincing than a damp fart. “They’ll be after our diamond,” grunted the dwarf, nodding to the left-hand passageway. “Run and warn the queen!”

Kartev nodded to him. “Right.” He stood up and ran off, faster than Bendelbar had ever seen a man run before. He could do nothing but wait for help.

It was a long time coming. He heard alarm horns sounding, excited voices, weapons clashing, and now and then the sound of a dwarf in pain and furious. Every fiber in Bendelbar’s being demanded he join the hunt for the intruders, but he was helpless under the iron grating.

At last, steps came near.

Kartev’s coarse face appeared above him. “I’m back,” he said. Many hands helped to move the heavy grid. His shoulder painful and his skull throbbing, Bendelbar slid out from under the metal bars. Someone helped him to his feet. Before him stood the trader and Queen Xamtys. And maybe sixty warriors with blood on their weapons. “What happened?” he asked, bowing to his queen.

“We had to kill most of them, they were so wild,” she said. “They even got as far as the treasure chamber, but I don’t know what the outcome was. Terrible confusion.” Xamtys looked at Kartev. “Two of them fled, but you won’t get them back alive.” She handed him a bag that clinked in the familiar way: gold coins. “Take this as compensation and as my thanks for your attempt to aid us in our fight against the undergroundlings in the treasure chamber.”

The man bowed. “Thank you, noble lady. I am sorry that our commerce should take this form. I would have preferred to hand the captives into your keeping alive.” He pointed to the broken base of the cage. “I would never have thought them capable of breaking it open with a few pieces of iron. And they freed themselves from their chains, too.”

“It is not your fault. My guards should have checked the wagon more thoroughly,” she said, looking at Bendelbar. “From now on I shall expect my gate guards to be three times as watchful.” She spoke the words cuttingly. “Return to your post and let this be a lesson to you. This raid could easily have been successful.” She turned and moved off, followed by her retinue and surrounded by her bodyguards.

Bendelbar grimaced. He was in pain and was in disgrace with the queen. The last piece of news in particular would not be popular with the chief of his clan. He’d get another dressing-down there, for sure. He looked angrily at Kartev, who was loading the first bits of ruined cage on to his cart. “Leave it.” He gave the order for the rest of the guards to take over.

Not long afterwards Kartev was on his way back to the Outer Lands, accompanied by Bendelbar with what remained of his vehicle. It was a long journey for them both: three sun orbits on the broadest of roads in the dwarf realm, past many wonders, large and small, constructed out of stone, steel and iron. The sight of statues, bridges and murals raised the dwarf’s spirits.

Although the tradesman had received adequate recompense for his trouble, he was not happy about the outcome of his journey. It seemed to Bendelbar the man was mourning the loss of the undergroundlings. At any rate, he wasn’t appreciating the wonders they passed.

Seeing as he did not have the slightest wish to communicate, they were both silent when they went back through the gates of Ironhald. More than a mere “Vraccas keep you” did not cross their lips.

Bendelbar stopped. He ordered the outer gate to be closed and the wall gate to be opened for the trader, then he rushed up to the battlements to follow the progress of the ox-cart with his eyes.

Just as he was wondering why Kartev, after all that long waiting period at the gates, had not gone into Girdlegard with his gold to buy goods to sell on his way home, the man was doing something even stranger.

When he had left the last ramparts behind him, Kartev stopped to chat to a new arrival who was heading for West Ironhald: he pressed the reins of his oxen into the man’s hand and continued on his way without his cart or belongings.

“Vraccas, what is it with this fellow?” wondered Bendelbar, coming down from his vantage point. He wanted to find out.

He had just commandeered a pony and ordered five mounted guards to accompany him, when a messenger hurried past, storming into the quarters of Gondagar Bitterfist of the clan of the Bitter Fists, the commander of West Ironhald.

“Wait,” said Bendelbar to his companions, guessing that this agitation had something to do with the trader.

It took just about as long as a dwarf needs to draw an ax, take aim and hurl it at an enemy-that’s if you had a second one on you-before the threatening thunderous voice of the stronghold’s main alarm horn sounded. It was powered by huge bellows and activated from inside the commander’s quarters. It sent out its continuous message along the ramparts, up the slopes of the mountain, and all along the ravine.

The door flew open. Gondagar appeared, pulling his helmet on over his black curls, and gesturing at the dwarf next to Bendelbar. “You there, dismount. Let me on,” he ordered, swinging himself up into the saddle. “Let’s go. Stop that trader!” he yelled, spurring the horse so that it reared up at the pain and galloped off. “In all that confusion he’s replaced the diamond with a false one made of glass.”

Bendelbar ran hot and cold. His guilt was growing by the minute.

The dwarves on their ponies chased along the twists and turns of the ravine, and the gates opened before them in the nick of time.

Every hoofbeat brought them deeper into the Outer Lands. They followed the broad but uneven road; however hard they pushed their mounts they did not catch up with the trader.

Round each corner they expected to see him but were disappointed. There was nowhere he could have hidden. The walls of the chasm either went vertically upwards or there was a precipice down on the other side. The stone was too smooth to give any hand- or foothold.

Not until the sun was sinking over the Red Mountains and darkness was falling over the area like a black cloth, did they come to a halt.

Gondagar cursed roundly. “Where the hell has the bastard got to?” he called out furiously to the echoing mountain walls. “He must be in league with Tion, or how else have we not overtaken him? May Vraccas strike him down with his hammer!”

Bendelbar’s pony snorted in alarm and skidded round a harmless piece of rock on the roadside. The other mounts blew sharply through their nostrils and pricked up their ears, dancing on the spot and only kept from bolting by the riders pulling hard on the reins.

Then Bendelbar smelt it, too: orcs. The smell of their sweat carried on the evening air, polluting it. He slid out of the saddle and took his ax in his hand.

Gondagar followed suit. “I can smell them but I can’t see them,” he growled. “What devilry is this?”

Bendelbar approached the rock the pony had shied from, and held his weapon at the ready. “Perhaps there’s a secret under the stone-”

Suddenly the rock turned into Kartev. The trader threw himself forward with a huge cudgel in his right hand, hitting the dwarf on his injured shoulder.

The blow was hard, too powerful to have come from a normal man, who would not have been strong enough to wield a large club like that with one hand. Equally, it was impossible for a normal man to take on the shape of a rock. Something was not right here.

Bendelbar fell against the pony and under the whirling hooves of the terrified animal. Before he could protect himself from the kicks and get upright again, clenching his teeth against the pain, the fight with Kartev was decided.

But not in the way Bendelbar had expected.

His dwarf friends lay moaning or silent on the path, the man standing over them, taking deep breaths. He looked down at Bendelbar. “Stay where you are. I’ve got what I wanted,” he said, his voice sounding more guttural now, more like-an orc. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“But I want to fight!” yelled Bendelbar, lifting his ax and leaping forward. “Vraccas, come to my aid against the accursed greenskin.”

His ax blow was parried, and the cudgel jabbed him on the cheek and pushed him over.

To the dwarf it felt like being kicked by a pony. Half stunned, but determined not to submit to the enemy, he got to his feet and brandished his ax to keep the attacker at arm’s length. He could see the hazy outline of an orc in front of him. “You won’t get away,” he threatened, his words slurred.

The broad shadow rushed past him and his blade met empty air.

“But I’ve already got away,” the being called from afar. “Go back to West Ironhald and have your wounds treated.” The sound of speeding hooves was heard.

Bendelbar shook his head, trying to clear it. It was no good. He would have to wait until his head stopped spinning and his vision was no longer blurred.

When he stood up, Gondagar was just coming round. The cudgel had made a substantial dent in his helmet and blood was trickling through his black hair, down his chin, his beard and his neck.

“What a ghastly country,” he groaned. “You can’t tell the difference between the orcs and the people. Apart from the smell, that is.” He took in his surroundings. “He’s stolen our pony.”

The dwarves slowly got to their feet. Bruises, one broken arm, painful cuts but no fatalities. Bendelbar was not the only one to express surprise at that. The orc had spared them. This incident would surely give rise to intensive debate at the dwarf folks’ assembly.

They gave up their pursuit and returned to West Ironhald. Halfway there, support troops from the firstling kingdom came out to meet them. A band of about fifty male and female dwarves were approaching on horseback.

As quickly as possible Gondagar related their encounter and spoke of the peculiar abilities displayed by their adversary. “Beware of his magic. It seems he can transform himself into anything he likes. But he still smells of orc,” he told them. “Pay heed to your noses and your ponies. They are less likely to be fooled than your eyes.”

The leader of the troop nodded. “And you be careful, back in the stronghold, what you drink. Several wells have been poisoned. The experts are testing them, one by one.”

“What?” Bendelbar stopped short in the act of opening his own flask.

“A hundred dead have been discovered to the south of the Red Range. They must have died several orbits ago. They all showed signs of bleeding from their mouths, eyes, noses and ears. The clan of the Hard Hammers has been completely wiped out. The queen thinks the thirdlings are behind it.” He nodded at them grimly. “They’ll tell you more back at the fortress. We must push on.” The troop surged forward, leaving the five dwarves behind in a cloud of dust.

Yet more deaths among his kind. But this time Bendelbar was certain that the raid did not stem from the undergroundlings. If it had been the undergroundlings, the weight of his own responsibility would have been incalculable.