The Fate of the Dwarves

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Girdlegard,

Protectorate of Gauragar,

Eleven Miles East of the Entrance to the Gray Mountains,

Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Ireheart’s eyes were fixed on the chain of hills rising to the north. They were the foothills of the Gray Range, running across the horizon in a ribbon, and they promised the travelers a place of safety.

“I wish we were there already,” he muttered into his mottled gray and white beard.

Tungdil was riding at his side, still preferring a befun to a pony. This made him taller in the saddle than the rest of the group, which consisted of the two of them and then Balyndar and his deputation of fifthlings. Frandibar had also given them his five best fourthling warriors, one of whom was a crossbow archer. “It never looked for a moment as if we were in any danger.”

“That’s what bothers me,” said Balyndar, scanning the snowy expanse before them. “On the journey we narrowly escaped from a patrol of Duke Amtrin’s men. He’s in the service of the alfar.”

“Escaped! Listen to that,” snorted Ireheart. “I can’t believe it! In the old days we’d have hunted them down instead of running away and hiding.”

Balyndar assumed the words were intended as criticism of himself and his fifthling soldiers. “I don’t blame you for talking like that, Doubleblade. You won’t know that their patrols are always accompanied by two alfar archers with longbows. We can’t compete with them.”

“I know that,” he growled. “My brother was nearly killed by their black arrows.”

Tungdil sat up straight in the befun’s saddle. “We’re going to get a chance to prove the opposite,” he said quietly, pointing to the southwest with Bloodthirster. “They’ve been following us for a while now. If I’m right, there are twenty of them. They could have overtaken us easily with those horses.”

“They’re waiting to see what we’re doing. Which way we’re heading.” Balyndar let his pony drop back between Tungdil and Ireheart. “That’s more than strange. The others always chased us.”

“They’ll be afraid.” Boindil gave a hearty laugh. “If they meet more than forty dwarves they start to sweat, no matter what the temperature is.”

“I think,” Tungdil took up his train of thought, “that they don’t have any alfar with them. I can’t make out any firebulls or night-mares. On snow like this it’d be easy to spot the animals.”

“Or maybe they are circling round us to attack from the front. An ambush,” Balyndar suggested in concern. He gave his fifthlings the order to have their shields at the ready.

Ireheart reckoned the enemy troop were a good two miles away, if not more. It was a miracle that Tungdil had been able to recognize anything at this distance, he thought. When he lost that eye of his, did the vision in the other get sharper? Or what else could it be?

The befun gave a warning snort and turned its head to the right, where several large-up to seven paces high-dark gray boulders jutted out from the snow.

“Take cover!” Tungdil commanded, slipping out of the saddle. Ireheart did not hesitate and even Balyndar quickly followed suit.

The long black arrow aimed at the leader whirred through the air straight past his right ear and buried itself in the snow so deep that not even the fletching was visible above the white.

Immediately there followed a cry and one of the female dwarves fell back off her pony. An arrow had pierced the edge of her shield and gone straight through the protective helmet into her right temple.

Now all the dwarves had grasped that the archers attacking them were hidden behind the rocks. They dismounted quickly and used the bodies of their ponies as shields against the lethal arrows. Nobody panicked and nobody shouted out, as might have happened with humans in the same situation.

Another set of arrows hissed, and three dwarves fell. Hit in the heart or the head, none of them had any chance of surviving.

“Curse the black-eyes,” raged Ireheart, crawling through the snow to Tungdil. “I’ll shove a longbow up their arses and the arrows, too. Sideways!!”

“They’re behind the second boulder from the front,” said his friend calmly, spying out between the legs of his befun. “Can you see them? Their white cloaks make them nearly invisible against the snow.”

Ireheart had to screw up his eyes to make out the figures, which bobbed up occasionally above the rocks they were hiding behind just long enough to fire their arrows before ducking down again. Again Ireheart was amazed by Tungdil’s eyesight. “It’s at least forty paces to that first rock,” he calculated. “Time enough for them to finish us off with forty arrows.” He turned to Balyndar. “Suggestions?”

One of the ponies collapsed with a whinny; an arrow had struck it in the eye. The alfar were changing their tactics and were going for the dwarves’ cover. One small horse after another was killed, kicking out wildly, sometimes injuring their own riders with their hooves.

Ireheart grabbed a handful of snow and pressed it into a ball of ice. “Three shields on top of each other and we storm them? Scholar? We could make our way forwards like that.”

“The patrol is galloping this way,” called someone. “They’re attacking!”

“This’ll be getting crowded,” muttered Ireheart.

A loud scream came from by the boulders.

Ireheart was quick enough turning his head to see one of the alfar swaying behind his rock, falling forward and plunging from his vantage point, his bow and arrows falling with him.

“What happened? Did his bowstring snap and strike him?” Ireheart noticed the snow had turned red where the alf lay.

“Didn’t you hear the crossbow?” asked Tungdil.

A click and a second alf lay dead.

“Huzzah! It seems Frandibar has given us a damn good marksman.” Boindil laughed and jumped up, lifting his crow’s beak and ordering the dwarf-warriors to form a protective wall with their shields to defend themselves against the riders’ attack. “Now I feel better.” He kept an eye out in the fray for the fourthling archer who had protected them from further losses. The marksman lay pressed close to the corpse of his pony and was calmly reloading his crossbow as the patrol came thundering up. The noise of their hooves grew louder and the group of dwarves prepared themselves for the full force of their attack.

The archer rested the stock of his crossbow on the saddle of his dead animal for support, lay down at full length on his stomach and focused his sights on the leader of the fast-approaching troops. From this distance he could easily see their insignia.

Another bolt whirred and the group’s commander jerked backwards from the impact; his feet slipped out of the stirrups and he fell. The riders storming along in his wake were too late to swerve and he was swallowed up under flying hooves and a glistening whirling cloud of snow.

“Attack!” yelled Ireheart with a whoop of delight, rushing forward and circling his crow’s beak overhead. The rage he would have directed against the alfar now needed a new target.

The troop followed him and raced toward the enemy with no thought of their own safety.

The cavalry group’s riders fanned out, their attack formation disintegrating. So loud were the bloodcurdling cries of the dwarves that three of the attackers’ number failed to hear the order to halt, instead continuing forward at full tilt while the rest of the mounted company fell back and prepared to retreat.

“Hey! Get over here so that I can run you through with the spike of my war hammer!” Ireheart ducked under the oncoming spear tip and struck the rider with the flat end of his weapon. The impact tore the man out of his saddle, leaving a large dent in his breastplate and blood pouring out of a gash.

Ireheart employed the remaining impetus to swing round in a circle, delivering a swipe with the spiked end to the next rider’s thigh.

“Gotcha!” He took a strong wide-legged stance in the snow and held the handle of his crow’s beak in both hands. “You’re not going anywhere, long-un!”

At first the dwarf was pulled a few paces forward across the snow, but then he found stone underfoot. Now he could pull the man’s leg sharply backwards, dislocating it at the hip-joint.

Balyndar propelled the third rider out of the saddle with a blow from his morning star. The spike-studded balls hit him on the neck and breast and the man fell gurgling to the snow.

Boindil towered over his fallen prisoner, crow’s beak in one hand as he pushed down on the man with his right foot. “How long have you been following us? What’s your business?” he barked. “If you tell the truth you will live.”

“We followed your tracks,” the man groaned, pain distorting his voice and features alike. “We’ve been coming after you for two orbits. The alfar wanted you drawn into an ambush, so we could interrogate survivors to find out what you’re up to. We were told not to attack you until they had opened fire.”

Balyndar came over to join Ireheart. “Did you drop a messenger off first to send news of having found us?” he asked the captive, dangling the bloodied globe of his morning star above his face.

“No,” he moaned. “We’re the only ones who know about you being here.” Tungdil stomped over through the snow, his eye on the patrol retreating into the distance. “It makes no odds,” he said darkly. “They’ll be off to the nearest garrison to make a report. By that time we’ve got to be in the Gray Mountains. The alfar will be able to work out for themselves that a large dwarf-party will have something serious in mind that’s not going to be good news. Those were the days, when we had the old tunnel system.”

“What we need is the good old tunnel system,” said Ireheart with regret.

“The tunnels are all flooded. I told you,” said Balyndar. “We think that’s where the water from Weyurn’s dried-up lakes has ended up. It can’t all have gone through to the Outer Lands.”

Tungdil gave the order to remount and then placed Bloodthirster’s tip at the nape of the captive’s neck. “Anything else we should know?”

“I’ve told you everything!”

“Then you’re no more use to us.” His arm jerked forward, the blade he held slicing through skin, muscles and sinews; vertebrae cracked apart. “Right. Let’s deal with the black-eyes,” he said calmly to Balyndar and Ireheart.

“I promised I would spare his life!” Boindil blurted out incredulously.

“If he told the truth. That’s what you said,” retorted Tungdil, going over to his befun, climbing into the saddle and heading over to the rocks where the dead alfar lay, sprawled in unnatural postures. “How would you know if he was lying to you?”

Balyndar watched the black-armored dwarf go, then turned his gaze to the corpse on the ground, the blood still welling. “I’m not wasting any sympathy on the long-un,” he said thoughtfully. “But I can’t go along with Goldhand’s action either. We could just have left him. The winter would have finished him off.” He walked away to get his pony.

Ireheart pulled the end of his crow’s beak out of the man’s leg, cleaned it on the fellow’s cloak and marched over to the rocks. The old Tungdil would never have done that. “Yes, he would,” he muttered. “We had to do it. The Scholar was right. It wasn’t nice, but it was necessary.”

“Did you say something, General?” the dwarf with the crossbow turned to ask. “I didn’t catch it.”

Ireheart stopped and looked at the fourthling. Under an open mantle he was wearing light armor composed more of leather than of mail. The resultant lightness made for ease of movement; he wore a broad metal strip over the breast to protect heart and lungs. Shoulder-length brown hair was visible below the helmet; his beard, of the same color, was braided along the jaw line, with silver wire around the individual plaits. It gave him a dandyish air.

At his side hung a quiver with crossbow bolts and a device for anchoring the loading mechanism when he retightened the bow. The thick bowstring of the long-range weapon had to be cranked by hand. The firing force was immense, as the alfar and members of the mounted patrol had learned to their cost.

Boindil examined the stock. “Actually,” he said, “I’ve never liked crossbows and archery. They take all the fun out of fighting. But today I gave thanks to Vraccas that he let us have you by our side.” He proffered his hand. “What is your name?”

“Goimslin Fastdraw of the clan of the Sapphire Finders, fourthling. But they call me Slin,” he said, fastening his crossbow to the saddle so that he was free to shake hands. “I know that all children of the Smith prefer the blade to the bolt. But if, like me, you’re not so quick with the sword, then this is the only option.” He pointed up to the rock formation. “When you go up to check on the alfar, have a look: I should have got both of them through the heart. If not, I owe you two gold coins.”

“That exact?”

Slin nodded. “I always aim for the heart. Whether it’s women or my other victims.” He winked and Ireheart had to laugh.

“I’ll have a good look.” He hurried off to join the others, who were already over by the rocks.

It was quite obvious how excellent Slin’s eye was. Both alfar lay in the snow with skewered hearts. The reinforced bolts had penetrated their armor and Boindil found himself wondering if Tungdil’s special armor would withstand such an impact.

“They’ve tethered their night-mares on the other side,” Tungdil said in greeting.

Ireheart fingered the crow’s beak. “They will follow their masters into death.” He looked at the alfar archers’ bodies and ordered them to be searched. Balyndar and his dwarves got to work.

Under the whitish gray mantles was the typical alfar lamellar armor; their swords lay unused in the scabbards, the two alfar having been given no opportunity to draw them against the dwarves. The dwarf-warriors were not interested in the food supplies the alfar had with them, but there was a fine dagger that one had carried in his belt.

Balyndar noticed it first. “By Vraccas!” he cried angrily, pulling the knife out of its sheath. “That is the work of a dwarf-smith!” He turned the blade, held it to the sunlight, and ran his finger along it. “No question: This dagger was fashioned by a dwarf.” He bent down to study the armor. “Unbelievable!” he exclaimed. “The thirdlings have been co operating more closely with the alfar than I had ever feared.”

Ireheart glanced over at Tungdil and thought of the dwarf-hater they had encountered in the Outer Lands. “The thirdlings made this armor?”

Balyndar looked up. “I’m absolutely sure of it.”

“The thirdlings can expect no mercy from us when we’ve defeated the alfar,” growled Boindil. “Betraying the other tribes like that is unforgivable. They have given away the secrets of the forge.”

“And yet you have a thirdling for your high king.” Tungdil appeared very calm. He pushed the alfar body away from him with his boot. “Did the dwarf-armor help him any? As long as we have the better crossbow bolts the thirdlings can carry on making armor for them.”

Balyndar turned the knife in his hands and ran his fingers over it. “There’s something wrong.” He started to unclothe the alfar bodies.

Tungdil called him back. “What are you doing?”

“I want to take the armor. To investigate it further. I think…”

“No time for that.” The one-eyed dwarf beckoned the band to move off. “Go with Ireheart and help him deal with the night-mares. Then we leave. The patrol will soon reach another garrison belonging to the count and they’ll be reporting what’s happened here.” Balyndar was about to respond but Tungdil raised his hand. “I’m ordering you.” He stared at the fifthling, who shook his head but got up and made off, morning star in hand.

It had not escaped Boindil’s notice that, unseen by Tungdil, Balyndar had pocketed the knife. “Well, I’ll be off,” he said cheerily and followed Balyndar. But when he heard grinding sounds behind him he turned round. Tungdil was striking the bodies again and again, thrusting his weapon through their chests.

“What are you doing, Scholar?” he called in surprise.

“Making sure,” replied Tungdil, wiping Bloodthirster on the snow and then getting back on his befun. “Hurry up. I want to get to the Gray Mountains.” He let his mount move on so that he could take up the lead.

“He was destroying the runes,” Balyndar said from behind. “Did you see them, too, Doubleblade?”

“Rune?” He came up to the fourthling, whose morning star was covered in blood. The night-mares were no longer alive. “I don’t understand.”

Balyndar drew a shape on the snow with the blood dripping from his weapon. “That’s what I mean. If you look at the left side of your friend’s armor, Doubleblade, you’ll find that same symbol.” He left Ireheart standing there and went back to his pony.

Girdlegard,

Dwarf Realm of the Fifthlings,

Gray Mountains,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Access into the realm of the fifthlings had changed dramatically. A new stone building rose twenty paces high in front of the gate itself. There were many small apertures in the tower wall; the actual entrance was a relatively narrow door, just wide enough for a befun to pass through.

Ireheart guessed what the apertures were for. If you tip molten pitch and hot coals down you could see off an army.

The gate opened and a messenger and watchtower guards were waiting to greet them in the queen’s name.

There was no rejoicing when they rode in, no fanfares sounded to announce their arrival in the Gray Mountains. The walls had not been adorned to celebrate their coming and there were no flags flying from the battlements. No dwarves had come to welcome them.

Ireheart was angry, but said nothing.

He knew that Balyndar had dispatched a warrior to announce their approach, but the reception was cool in the extreme. Dislike Tungdil’s conduct and demeanor as one might, he was still the dwarves’ high king. Respect for his high office should have made it automatic to show deference to the troops under his command, who would no doubt soon be expected to carry out heroic deeds.

“We’re entering the realm of the fifthlings as if we are some third-rate undesirable merchants,” said Slin, nudging his pony up next to Boindil’s. His remark was loud enough for Balyndar and the messenger to hear. “Has the queen forgotten who it is she’ll be receiving?”

“She has not,” replied her son at the front of the train. “Unlike the fourthlings, our dwarves have been faced with an overwhelmingly tough task and are having to fight the kordrion as well as this deadly fever. Both adversaries have weakened us. We have better things to do than to stand in rows,” he said disdainfully, “cheering and waving at heroes from the past. You will be given food and drink and, if you want singing and dancing, let me know. But it might be hard to make jolly hosts out of a tribe that’s in mourning.”

“No need to be so thin-skinned, Balyndar.” Slin bared his teeth. “I need hardly remind you that this welcome is not in accordance with the dignity of the high king you helped to elect.”

Ireheart sent him a look that said to hold his tongue. “Let it go,” he bade him quietly. “We don’t need quarrels here. You’ll be going into battle together, remember.”

Slin grinned. “But I shall, of course, be standing behind him,” he said, placing a hand on the stock of his crossbow. “The prerogative of archers.”

They rode through the passages in silence. The corridors were different now. Ireheart did not recognize anything, and they would have been hopelessly lost without their guide.

They were led to a hall, where they left their ponies and the befun and then continued on foot.

Their fifthling contingent peeled off from the troop one by one to return to their own clans, leaving the fourthlings, Tungdil and Ireheart alone with Balyndar.

“Feels a bit like a trap,” whispered Slin to his companions. He had his crossbow hanging on his back, and wore a nifty ax at his belt. “But, of course, we’re among friends.”

A second messenger joined them and said something quietly to Balyndar.

“My mother is looking forward to meeting the brave dwarves under the command of the High King Tungdil Goldhand,” he announced, and gestured them toward a large simple iron gate guarded by two sentries with halberds. “Wasn’t the throne room on the other side?” asked Ireheart in surprise. “I know there’ve been a lot of changes…”

“You’re right. This is not the old throne room we’re coming to,” Balyndar interrupted. “That was in the region of the Gray Mountains where the fever kept recurring. We don’t go there anymore and won’t make an exception to that rule, even for important visitors.” He preceded them. “This is our new throne room.” He signaled to the sentries to open the double doors.

Cool silvery light fell on them. The whole chamber was dressed out in polished steel. All the furniture shone cold in the lamp glow. Even the tall columns supporting the ceiling seemed to be made of burnished steel, so smooth that it reflected the surroundings perfectly.

Elaborate ornaments had been engraved and decorated to give emphasis to them. Confusing to the eye, the colored patterns seemed to move if you stared at them.

In another place the artist had chiseled likenesses of dwarf-rulers, decorating them with jewels or precious metals. It was obvious that the queen who used this room had once belonged to the tribe of the firstlings, talented smiths and metal-workers just as she was herself.

“It seems the mountain itself gave birth to this room,” murmured one of the fourthlings. “Everything fits together so smoothly-no joins or sharp edges.”

Balyndis Steelfinger was seated on the raised throne before them. Her long dark-brown hair was unbound under her sparkling steel helmet and her scaled armor, of the same material, was so bright that the visitors were forced to narrow their eyelids.

“Unthinkable what the effect would be if she were standing in full sunshine,” Slin observed. “She’d dazzle anyone within ten paces.”

Balyndis got to her feet and stepped down from her throne. “Enter and be seated at the fifthlings’ table,” she bade them. “I am glad you have come and was pleased to learn all the good news from your messenger. It seems Girdlegard will soon be freed from evil’s oppression. Vraccas will surely be with us.”

Ireheart did his best to watch Tungdil’s face while the dwarf-queen approached them, hand outstretched. She had previously been Tungdil’s companion for many cycles. They had lived together and she had borne him a son, lost in a terrible accident. This reunion should provide enough tension to set sparks flying. But search as he did for emotion in his friend’s face, he noted none.

There was plenty of emotion, however, to be seen in the queen’s features. “By Vraccas,” Balyndis said with feeling, halting her steps as she came closer to the one-eyed dwarf. “It is true! Really true! You are alive and have come back from the dark!” Tears appeared in the corners of her eyes and trickled down her soft cheeks. The fluff on her face was more pronounced than on the younger females of her race. She stopped in front of Tungdil, visibly moved, her hand still held out toward him.

“Indeed. I have returned from the darkness. But I have brought the shadows with me,” he answered. “I know who you are, Balyndis Steelfinger, queen of the fifthlings, but I do not remember anything of what once bound us together.” In explanation he pointed to the scar on his forehead. “A blow to the head robbed me of much that was precious to me.” Balyndis swallowed and looked at him intently, as if thinking she could wreak a change in him and release those hidden memories. But when she saw that the expression in his brown eye did not alter, she let her arm drop, and knelt before him. “I greet you, High King Tungdil Goldhand,” she said sadly, bowing her head. “May Vraccas bless you and all who follow you in your quest to save Girdlegard.”

“I thank you, Queen Balyndis.” He indicated to her by a touch on the shoulder that she should stand, and then made his way over to the laden table.

Many delicacies had been prepared and were displayed in dishes and on plates; the smell made Ireheart’s mouth water as he realized how hungry he was.

“About time too,” muttered Slin at his side. “I was ready to start licking the furniture, my stomach was rumbling so.”

They took their seats round the table. Dwarves served the food and ensured that neither plates nor jugs were ever empty. During the course of the meal Tungdil elucidated his mission again. Balyndis made no response apart from the occasional nod.

Ireheart got the impression that she was trying to read Tungdil’s mind to fathom his feelings. I wonder if she’ll have any more luck than I’ve had.

“Enough from me,” his friend said eventually. “Tell me, the fever that broke out here: How long have you and the fifthlings been troubled by it?”

“Over a hundred cycles. It started slowly, so our healers didn’t notice it at first,” she explained, raising her tankard of black beer in a toast to the company. “But soon the incidence of illness increased and it reminded us of the plagues that struck the original fifthlings. We abandoned the tunnels and caves and had them sealed up. I could show you on the map which regions were affected.”

“Did the outbreaks come randomly or is there a pattern to it?” asked Tungdil. He had hardly touched his food and Ireheart was sure he seemed much paler than usual. He studied the map they showed him, concentrating hard.

“We couldn’t find any pattern to it,” answered Balyndis. “We got the freelings to search the places where the highest mortality had occurred, to see if maybe the alfar were targeting us, but no traces were found. And those who were part of the freelings’ expedition all fell ill a few orbits later. They died.”

“How?” asked the one-eyed dwarf.

“They suffocated in their own blood. First they grew feverish and then their lungs filled with blood until they could not breathe.” She shuddered. “An appalling death, Tungdil.”

He pushed the map away and emptied his tankard-the seventh, if Ireheart had not lost count: A considerable amount for a dwarf who had not eaten anything much. Heroic achievement. “Did their limbs change color? Perhaps the tips of their fingers? What about their tongues?”

Balyndis and her son exchanged glances.

“I didn’t tell him,” said Balyndar. “Nobody knows.”

Tungdil shot him a dangerous smile. “I don’t need to be told. I worked it out for myself.” He summoned a fresh tankard. “It’s not a curse. It’s an odorless gas.”

Balyndar rolled his eyes. “No, it’s not! We ruled that out.”

“The methods for investigating the conventional humors exuded by the mountain are useless with this problem, Balyndar. It’s the kordrion. In countless ways it’s been responsible for the deaths in the Gray Range. It doesn’t just eat those who confront it. Its excrement is lethal as well, causing the painful death Balyndis has just described as soon as it meets water.” He took the map in his hand. “Ireheart told me that the kordrion is in the northern part of the Gray Mountains, near the Stone Gateway. That’s your explanation: Rainwater washes the excrement down the slopes and it runs into the rivers that feed the canals, being washed down to the parts of the mountain where the so-called fever turns up.”

“Even its shit is murderous?” exclaimed Ireheart in disbelief. “That’s what I call a really devious monster! Good thing we’re going to get rid of him.”

“We aren’t going to. It will be Lot-Ionan.” He put the next full tankard to his lips and took a long draft. “I think it will take a cycle or two until the toxic effect fades away so that you can return to those regions.” He saw that Balyndar did not believe him. “It is something to do with alchemy, Steelfinger,” he explained. “I grew up in the house and laboratories of a magus. The composition of the kordrion’s excrement is unique; if you like, a kind of dried acid. As soon as it comes into contact with water, the substances mix and a lethal gas is released. I used this several times on the other side of the Black Abyss if a siege wasn’t going well.” He finished his drink. “I don’t give your sick dwarves much of a chance. The lungs won’t recover from the acid burns. They’re for the eternal smithy.”

“I believe you,” said Balyndis, pale now. She indicated where the kordrion was thought to have its eyrie. “Vraccas was good to us and we have always been able to destroy the soft eggs before they hatch. Our scouts report, though, that it’s back in the nest and that the kordrion has learned to keep supplies. If we are out of luck it won’t have to leave the clutch of eggs to get food. That was always our opportunity to make a move.”

“We’ll think up a suitable diversion,” Ireheart said confidently. “Right, Scholar: We go to the nest, grab the eggs and run off through the Gray Range all the way to the entrance to Gauragar?”

“No. We must go over the summits, so that it can follow our tracks. I’ve worked out a route.”

Balyndar’s eyes widened. “In winter? Are you out of your mind?” After a pause he added, “High King.”

Without hesitating, Tungdil recited the names of the summits they would have to cross, specifying places they would rest. “Does that still sound like madness to you,” he asked cuttingly, “or more like a demanding but achievable journey?”

Balyndis nodded. “I’m amazed how much you still remember about my homeland, when there are so many other things you have forgotten.” It was a snide remark, but one she couldn’t resist making. “It seems your mind has concentrated on the scholarly side of your nature and eliminated all feeling. Is that how it is, High King?”

Tungdil turned his brown eye toward her. “That may indeed be so, Queen Balyndis. But it will help us and Girdlegard. I shan’t be complaining.”

“Nor me,” announced Ireheart, still digesting the details of his friend’s strategy. Throughout the whole of the journey so far he had not once seen Tungdil consult a map. His knowledge must be vast. “I suggest we set off as soon as possible before the wretched things hatch out.” “Tomorrow. As soon as the sun is up,” said Tungdil, getting to his feet. “I would like to rest. Queen Balyndis, be good enough to have me shown to my chambers. And tomorrow my ponies must be fresh and ready. And we’ll need provisions. Please arrange that.”

She signaled to one of the dwarves to accompany the ruler of all the dwarf-tribes, and Tungdil left the throne room without even bidding farewell.

Slin and the fourthlings withdrew, leaving Balyndis and her son alone with Boindil.

They carried on eating in silence and later avoided any mention of Tungdil while they discussed such topics as the Black Abyss and the dangers facing Girdlegard. Ireheart, however, was well aware they couldn’t skirt round the issue forever and, fed up with having constantly to defend the Scholar to others, he eventually took a quick draft of beer and broached the subject of his friend himself. “It may be that I’m mistaken, Balyndis, but there’s a strong resemblance between Tungdil and your son.”

He realized that the question was out of order, potentially problematic and possibly insulting. He was implying that she had deceived her husband, Glaimbar Sharpax of the clan of the Iron Beaters and king of the fifthlings, passing off another’s child as his son.

But Balyndis took his words with equanimity, relieved almost that it had been mentioned. “It is very obvious, isn’t it?” she said softly. “It was a mistake to send Balyndar to the meeting in the Brown Mountains. All the clan leaders have seen him and his real father together, and will have put two and two together.”

“Will this affect your regency, do you think?” She shook her head. “No one is after my throne, now that Geroin Leadenring is dead from the fever. He was the brother of Syndalis Leadenring, the king’s second wife; she was rejected in favor of me. Geroin and some of his clan never forgave me for that. I rule well though, and if the kordrion can be driven off, the tribe of the fifthlings will flourish.” Balyndis started to cough.

“I had forgotten you are unwell,” said Ireheart, in concern.

“It will get better. Now that we know what the cause of the fever and lung disease is.”

“We have found the guilty party but we haven’t found a cure.” Ireheart tried to shut out from his mind the explanation the Scholar had given, in particular those words concerning the inevitable death of the sufferer. “But we’re sure to find something to make it better,” he hastened to say. He felt gloomy. Pull yourself together. She’s not dead yet.

The queen sighed. “Glaimbar knew.”

“What? That Balyndar was not his son?”

“Yes. He never said so, but I could read his expression. He did not voice his suspicions or reject Balyndar; that was his greatness of heart. I loved him for that generosity.” She gave a pained smile. “Balyndar will succeed to the fifthling throne after me, Ireheart. That’s what Glaimbar wanted, too, because he saw what a splendid ruler he will be one day.”

“But he does not get on with his real father.” Ireheart dusted a few crumbs off his beard, which had somehow trailed in his plate of food. “And he has a fair idea of who it is he’s dealing with? I mean, he’s not blind; he must have noticed the similarity.”

“That could be the reason Balyndar doesn’t like him. He doesn’t want to be the son of Tungdil Goldhand, a complete stranger, rather than of Glaimbar, whom he admired. Glaimbar taught him to fight and I taught him the work of a smith. Tungdil didn’t always come off particularly well when I told stories of him, if you take my meaning. After he ended our relationship in a letter, I was angry and disappointed in him for a long time. Age has made me milder.” She closed her eyes. “But when I saw him standing in front of me again, Ireheart, all the old feelings came back.”

“So you are convinced he really is Tungdil?” He bit his tongue: Too late.

To his surprise Balyndis smiled. “Don’t be confused by the somber exterior. My heart”-here she placed her hand on her breast-“my heart recognized him at once. It has never misled me.”

“It was the same for me,” he replied. He lifted his tankard.

XI

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Weyurn,

Island of Lakepride,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Lakepride was easy to defend against attack, because the island rose high above the lake, meaning its soldiers needed no special equipment for hurling rocks. Simply rolling boulders over the edge would sink a ship. Structural improvements had been made to the shaft around the magic source, with men and materials carried on cables whizzing to and fro above the lake.

Mallenia and Rodario were observing the works from a vantage point on the watchtower battlements. Queen Wey and her daughter Coira had ordered extensive preparations, anticipating an attack by the Dragon or his henchmen, the Lohasbranders.

“What you can see there is not the most powerful weapon against the Dragon,” said Rodario.

“You mean the queen and her daughter.” Mallenia looked down into the courtyard of the palace thirty paces below. The figures looked tiny. “You say they’ve both attained their full magic potency?”

“I’ve been told the queen has bathed in the magic source. The gods only know how she managed to preserve the remnants of her force for her escape, but as a result she’s thought to be stronger than Lot-Ionan. I’m sure Lohasbrand will think twice before he attacks her.” He stepped in front of Mallenia to look into her eyes. “And that’s not to say he actually will attack. I think he’ll swallow the bait about alfar spies in his realm. Dragons are paranoid and always suspicious someone is after their treasure.”

Mallenia laughed. “So you’re not just an actor, you’re a dragon specialist?” She smiled and took his chin in her hand. “A man of many parts, Rodario the Seventh. If you had muscles as well, you’d be a real man.”

He made a face and took his scrawny beard out of harm’s way. But he did enjoy it when she teased him. “I take it as a sign of hidden affection when you insult me. You’re sounding me out,” he replied.

“Oh, so that’s what you think?” She burst out laughing. “Sweet dreamer, dream on. My affection consists of wanting to protect you, like protecting a child. So vulnerable, so clumsy.”

Like lightning he drew one of her own short swords. “You should be proud of yourself, Mallenia. Now you’ve managed to provoke me,” he threatened. “En garde!”

She drew the other sword and went along with the joke. “Then attack me, Number Seven! Why don’t you show this weak woman where her place is!” The muscles in her arm and chest rippled with the exertion; they were certainly stronger than his own.

Rodario made an obvious move to hit her and she caught his wrist to stay his hand. Then she gave him a kiss on the brow. “How funny,” she mocked, pushing him back. “Try again, little man.”

Apparently furious now, he hopped toward her, tripping over his mantle. He stumbled past her, heading for the parapet. When Mallenia grabbed him to stop him plunging over the top-her fingers met thin air.

But her mouth met a kiss.

His lips were soft and pleasing on her own; there was a faint taste of the spiced tea he had drunk to warm him. Then he drew his head back and left her blushing.

“A hit!” he exulted, waving his weapon in the air. “That took you by surprise, didn’t it, brave warrior woman? I won! The kiss is mightier than the sword!”

Mallenia swallowed hard. She was confused, still feeling the audacious embrace and not knowing how to react. It was an incredible invasion of her person, impudence that must be punished.

Rodario saw that she was visibly shaken. “Oh, I… didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he stuttered. “It was a game, and then you’d kissed me on the forehead, so…”

“A game indeed.” She held her hand out, demanding her short sword, which he relinquished at once. “Let’s forget it. You won and you won’t get a second chance.”

He cleared his throat. “Forgive me. I got carried away. I offer my sincere apologies. I should never have done that.” He bowed. “Hit me if you want.”

“So that you can dodge out of the way and kiss me again? No thanks, Rodario the Seventh,” Mallenia said, stowing her weapons. “Let’s leave it at that.” She tried hard to treat the incident lightly but found it all very unsettling. It was a feeling she hated.

She marched off to the edge of the platform and stared out, admiring the beauty of the lake, but with her thoughts in turmoil. It was only a stolen kiss, she told herself. A child’s kiss. How can he make me feel like this?“ Rodario? Mallenia? Are you up there?” Coira’s voice echoed up the stairwell.

“Yes, Princess. We’re admiring the view and keeping watch for Weyurn’s enemies,” the actor answered. “What can we do for you?”

“Come down here,” came a cheerful instruction. “I’ve got important news for Mallenia.”

Rodario and the swordswoman hurried down the steps to join Coira, who was coming up to meet them. “My mother received a message from one of the neighboring villages,” she said. Her eyes fixed onto Mallenia’s injured arm. “Remind me to check that bandage. We can take it off tomorrow. The wound should be healing well by now and will benefit from exposure to air and sunlight.”

“Is it good news or bad?” Rodario urged.

“I don’t know. My mother just sent for me. Let’s go and find out.”

They hastened through the palace, through high, sunlit corridors and anterooms, until they reached the place where they had first seen the monarch.

The window had been repaired and the view-of waves glittering in the sun, birds circling and colorful fishing boats bobbing on the water-had lost none of its fascination.

Queen Wey sat behind her desk. Her turquoise robe suited her splendidly and she looked well. But worry was etched on her features. “Sit down,” she said to her guests. “There are things to report.”

“Has something happened in Idoslane, ma’am?” asked Mallenia, taking her seat.

“No. In Soulham, a village near here. A fisherman tells me he saw two alfar locally,” said the queen. “What troubles me is that he is the only one to have seen them. The other villagers are keeping silent. They are afraid. I’m sure the alfar are hiding there waiting for their chance.” She looked at Mallenia. “The chance to get to Lakepride and kill you.”

“Then let me follow it up, Mother,” Coira suggested at once. “They can’t hurt me.”

“You can’t stop an assassin’s arrow, my child,” replied Wey. “You took them by surprise at the shore but now they know who their opponent is. The alfar will avoid showing themselves in the daytime.” She looked at Mallenia. “I think we should give them an opportunity to find a way in. An opportunity that we control.”

“In other words, a trap,” said Rodario, delighted at the idea. “Your Majesty, that is an absolutely excellent plan.”

“Why, thank you for your support, sir!” she retorted, highly amused. “The fisherman who came to speak to me about the alfar is going to spread a couple of rumors in the village to attract the attention of the black-eyes. They’ll say that our guards are all stricken with the runs and can’t leave their beds…”

“Who else knows you are now free of your chains, Your Majesty?” Mallenia was too alarmed to sit still. She had not yet escaped the shadow of death. “The alfar won’t come if they think they’ll have to contend with two magae in order to kill me.”

“No one knows apart from my most loyal servants.”

“And what will the Dragon say?” objected Rodario. “Is he coming? I thought I noticed a lot of activity on the battlements out by the magic source.”

Wey looked at him steadily. “Do you know what, Rodario the Seventh? Sometimes you seem a bit strange,” she said. “We have an actor here who plays so many roles that he has forgotten where the real Rodario is.”

Rodario went red. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I’ve been watching you. Sometimes you are very bold, my daughter tells me, then you’re awkward, then swift and nimble; sometimes you have a way with words and at other times you stammer and stutter. You have good manners one moment and forget them the next. Like just now when you dared to interrupt a queen.” She rubbed her temple as if she had a headache. “I don’t think there is anything magic about you to explain this away. But your mind is-to put it mildly-confused. Am I right?”

Mallenia thought of the incident on the battlements and secretly felt she had to agree with the queen.

“I apologize, Your Majesty,” he said contritely, making a deep bow in front of the queen. “Of course you are right. I should have waited.”

“To return to your question, Rodario the Impatient,” Queen Wey continued in a gentler tone of voice, “I must tell you that the Dragon has not yet sent an answer. And I am certain that he would be convinced by the night-mare cadaver and the corpses of his people.” She turned to Mallenia. “But your concerns have priority. I don’t like having the alfar near at hand. The Soulham fisherman will be returning to his village to spread those rumors. Then we will have to wait and pretend we are all ill with diarrhea. My guards have been told what’s happening. Coira will explain our plans. I have work to do.” She glanced pointedly at the door.

The three needed no more explicit hint and left the room. The princess took them to her apartments, where they continued their discussion over tea and cake. “It’s simple,” said Coira. The alfar will find one of our guards and ask him about you, Mallenia. You wait in your chamber with me. When the alfar come I’ll show them that it would be better if they left.”

“You sound very confident.” Rodario held a cup and a piece of cake in his hands. “Like your mother said: Don’t you think they expect to find you?”

Coira laughed. “What can they do, faced with a ball of pure magic?”

“Dodge?” he suggested, earning himself Mallenia’s laughter. He was reveling in the proximity of these two young women. Such a shame he would have to split himself in two in order to continue enjoying the company of both. “Alfar are as quick as a bolt of lightning and agile as a cat. Had you thought of that?”

The princess made a sound to indicate her displeasure. “Stop complaining. It’s a simple plan and therefore an excellent one.”

Rodario bit into his cake and made a great show of chewing. “And what’s plan B?” he mumbled through the crumbs. “What if brother and sister alf get past you? Who’s going to save you?” He pointed to Coira with the pastry. “Who’ll save you when it all goes wrong?”

“You will,” teased Mallenia. “At least, it sounds like you’re volunteering.”

“If my kisses have as paralyzing an effect on the alfar as they do on you, why not?” he countered. “But I’d only be dealing with the female alf. You’ll have to tackle the brother.” He slurped his tea noisily.

Coira stared first at him and then at Mallenia, whose blushes showed that Rodario had not been lying. “You can have a try when the time comes,” she said, without asking for further details.

“I would prefer it if we did not kill the alfar outright,” hissed the Ido heroine venomously. “At least one of them should be alive for me to interrogate.”

“That should be possible,” Coira allowed. “May I ask why?”

“I overheard them talking when they thought I was unconscious. I don’t know if I understood aright. It is important for Girdlegard.” Mallenia saw the keen curiosity in the others’ faces. “I don’t want to talk about it until I’m sure,” she said firmly. “I don’t want to make the horses shy unnecessarily, as they say.”

“Well, that’s an incentive to catch them alive!” exclaimed Rodario, stuffing the rest of the cake into his mouth. It was too late to apologize to Mallenia, anyway.

The full moon stood high over Girdlegard and thus over Lakepride.

It was a cloudless night; the lake glinted silver, leaving the few fishing boats out seeking eels and shrimps silhouetted like black shadows.

The boats headed for the island and sailed near the shaft. One of them approached dangerously close to the stone pillar on which the island was based-so close it nearly collided.

The helmsman wrenched the wheel round and skimmed past by a hair’s-breadth.

At first sight there was nothing suspicious in this. The currents by the island could be tricky and even an experienced sailor could get into difficulties. For Rodario, watching from his hiding place, it was proof enough that the alfar siblings, Sisaroth and Firusha, had just set foot on land. He could not make them out yet, but that was hardly surprising.

“This is it,” he murmured, climbing out of the wire observation basket and hurrying up the narrow steps to the top. He raced along the coastal path and ran to the palace entrance.

If Coira and Mallenia had not thought out an emergency fall-back plan, but were relying totally on magic, then Rodario felt it his duty to have an alternative stratagem. His ideal scenario was for him to save both girls’ lives. Heroic deeds always went down well when hearts were to be won. Or when hearts needed calming down.

Rodario was admitted by the sentries and raced through the dark palace as quickly as he could.

No one knew about his function as a secret reserve. Mallenia and Coira were sitting in one room, Queen Wey was in the chamber opposite, ready to spring to her daughter’s aid.

Rodario had to admit that it was impossible to subdue both magae. Even Sisaroth and Firusha-the gods of Dson, whatever that meant-would be overcome. If Mallenia had managed to kill the third sibling with one shot from her little crossbow, what would the combined magic powers of two magae be able to achieve?

But perhaps Tion might be on his creatures’ side that night… and then Rodario really would be needed.

Rodario had reached the curtained wall-niche where he had hidden his homemade contraptions. He quickly fastened the miniature bellows filled with flash powder to his forearms. There was a flint he could activate, causing a spark to ignite the flying lycopodium seeds.

A magic fireball without using magic-or, at least, it would be a fireball good enough to impress theatergoers.

He had purchased the plan for the device for a considerable sum of money in Mifurdania’s marketplace; it was said originally to have been invented by the legendary magister technicus, but Rodario did not believe that. He did not mind who had invented it though, as long as it worked. He had made two dry runs and they had both been successful.

“Let’s see if I need you today.” He pulled his sleeves down to hide the equipment, and then turned round.

Right in front of him Sisaroth appeared, smiling coldly at him.

Rodario had neither heard him approach nor felt any hint of a draft. “Ye gods!” the actor breathed. The alf executed a sudden movement. Something hard hit the actor on the head and a hot flash of lightning shot through his neck.

He collapsed onto the stone floor, while the alf stepped over his heavily bleeding body, making for Mallenia’s chamber.

Mallenia was in full armor as she lay under the blanket, her face turned away from the door; the small mirror on her bedside table showed her what was happening at the entrance.

Pressed up close to the wardrobe, and invisible from the doorway, Coira was waiting, her thoughts focused on her magic spells. She had to be in a position to cast one at a split second’s notice if she was going to prevent the alfar killing Mallenia. The two women were quiet, listening for any sounds coming from the hallway or outside the chamber windows.

They held their breath every time a footstep passed their door. So far there had been no sign of the siblings.

“Just so you understand: I didn’t allow the actor to kiss me,” Mallenia suddenly whispered. “He stole the kiss.”

Coira had to smile. “Of course. Typical,” she replied quietly.

“He took me by surprise,” she went on. “Next time I’ll knock him down.”

Coira’s curiosity about affairs of the heart was awoken. In spite of the circumstances. “I’m amazed he managed to do it. What happened? Were you distracted?”

“He tricked me,” admitted Mallenia. “The weakling made a fool of me.”

A faint squeak interrupted them: The catch on the door was moving slowly. They had put sand and salt in the mechanism.

Mallenia stared at the entrance. She could see no light under the door, so it could not be one of the servants checking that everything was all right. They had strict instructions to carry lamps when they came.

The catch stopped moving, then went slowly back into its original position.

“What shall we do?” asked Coira in a muffled voice.

“We wait,” Mallenia hissed. She thought it could well be Rodario on the other side. Did he want to apologize? Did he want something more of her? She sighed softly. The man was driving her crazy. As if he knew she had a thing about helpless types.

The time passed painfully slowly. Everything was quiet. Whoever had been trying to enter the room must have changed their mind.

Then there was a scream!

“That was in Mother’s room!” Coira peeled herself out of the niche, ran to the door and pulled it open.

Sisaroth stood before her, waiting with two-handed sword raised ready to strike.

The maga did not think twice, but sent a destructive ball of pure energy at the alf-but he dodged the sphere that was shooting toward him, just as Rodario had joked he might.

The hurtling magic ball whizzed across the corridor, hitting the door three paces away on the other side of the passage. At that moment Queen Wey’s door swung open and she stood on the threshold, face to face with her fate.

Coira could see the fear in her mother’s countenance. Horror-struck she watched her lips move in an attempt to form a counter-spell. Wey threw her arms up to protect herself, but Coira felt only utter helplessness. And fear for her mother’s life.

Girdlegard,

Dwarf Realm of the Fifthlings,

In the North of the Gray Mountains,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

“This is where the kordrion was last cycle.” Balyndar studied the steep cliffs intently, searching for signs of a certain distinctive shadow. “It flies around looking for prey. If it turns up, stand tight against the rock face.”

The dwarf-group got into pairs: The narrow ravine only allowed them to go two abreast. The dark gray rock walls were rough as a whetstone and contact with anything metal caused ridges and scratches. Ireheart made use of the chance to sharpen the tip of his spike. The others took care not to scrape along the abrasive walls by accident. It would do no favors to armor, clothing or skin.

Apart from Balyndar, Tungdil, Slin and Boindil, the expedition had the three warriors from the fourthling tribe with them. Balyndis had sent along five of her fifthlings, all of them excellent in combat; they pulled their equipment behind them on the sledges they intended to use for transporting the kordrion’s young.

Tungdil stopped in the middle of the path and lifted his head, breathing in the clear, icy air.

“The nest,” Balyndar went on, “will be on the southern side of the Dragon’s Tongue. It always lays its eggs in the south. The monster digs a hole into the rock; we’ll see it from quite a distance. It’s like a large cave, so huge the entrance can’t be concealed. After leaving the ravine it’ll take us another half-orbit to get to it. We’ll need another full orbit for the ascent.”

“What are you doing, Scholar?” Ireheart wanted to know.

“Smelling,” he said bluntly. “We need to hurry.” He speeded up, making for the end of the ravine.

Balyndar glanced at Ireheart, who shrugged in response. “Can you be a bit more specific?” Ireheart asked his friend. “I don’t object to running but I want to know why I’m having to.”

“The eggs are nearly ready to hatch!” Tungdil called back over his shoulder.

Ireheart’s own deliberately loud sniff echoed back from the walls. “Can’t smell a thing.” He trotted up to his friend.

“That’s because you don’t know what to expect. Did you notice the mossy odor?”

“Yes, of course…” Boindil fell silent. Then, after a moment’s thought, he exclaimed, “By Vraccas! It didn’t mean anything to me. I should have noticed that everything green here is covered in snow and anything containing water frozen solid. The moss should be the same.”

“There you are, you see. If I give you a tiny clue you can work it out for yourself.”

Tungdil emerged out into the light. A veil of mist was slowly rising in the warmth of the sun. “Excellent cover for our climb!” he said, signaling to the group to move faster. “We could be up there by nightfall.”

“Hardly. It’s a difficult climb,” Balyndar contradicted him. “The next stretch is notorious for snowdrifts. And we’ll need to conserve energy. We’ve got an exhausting dash ahead of us with the kordrion breathing down our necks.”

Tungdil had not slackened his pace and was a considerable distance ahead. Ireheart assumed this was his way of showing that he did not intend to discuss his commands with anyone. This mission is definitely going to be loads of fun.

“He’s going to get us all killed,” Balyndar protested, starting to run. The rest followed suit.

“Ah, many’s the time we thought that in the past, but the Scholar always found a way out,” Boindil reassured him. “And anyway, he’s the high king. He’s allowed to.” He showed his teeth in a smile to show it had been a joke.

“And how many never returned?” asked Slin. But when he saw Boindil’s face he did not persist. “Charming,” he murmured, panting a little from the weight of his crossbow. “Vraccas, let me be one of those who make it back home again,” muttered Slin. “In one piece.” As he ran he grabbed a drink of water. “So what does the kordrion do all day in the Gray Mountains? It’s a pretty lonely, dead-end sort of place it rules over here.”

“It doesn’t rule over anywhere,” snarled Balyndar who felt this was addressed to him. “It’s a verminous pest infesting the area.” He pointed south toward Girdlegard. “From what we hear, it flies off to the long-uns. After it’s wiped out a few villages, the humans voluntarily put gifts of food out on the fields to keep it off their backs. The areas it’s been targeting are in the former Gauragar and in Urgon and Tabain. So it affects the Dragon Lohasbrand as much as the alfar and their vassals. But none of them dares brave the mountains to get to the eyrie.”

Slin sniffed contemptuously. “Real heroes, then.”

“It’s easier for everyone to wait and see when the fifthlings will finish it off,” Ireheart added cynically. “I should be angrier, but since their cowardice may be a help to us, my fury has almost faded away. But only almost.”

The fourthling saw no sign of the beast. “Maybe Lohasbrand has made a deal with the kordrion?”

“No,” contradicted Tungdil at the head of the column. “A kordrion wants total dominance; it’s just like a dragon, though with less mental capacity. Its size doesn’t give it any advantage over a dragon because the scaled beasts are cleverer. The kordrion has ordered its realm and feels at ease, otherwise it wouldn’t be nesting. It’s content to eat without having to hunt. Lohasbrand, on the other hand, functions precisely like a typical dragon: Reigns like a king, exacting tribute from his subjects, and so on.”

“Nice. Charming,” said Slin peevishly. “But it’s not right that all the monsters should end up coming to us from all over the shop, just to enjoy an easy life.”

Ireheart laughed. “I would love to see them all killed, and to celebrate I’d sing an old song the drunkard Bavragor taught me.”

“Bavragor?” asked Balyndar. “The name rings a bell…”

“He was one of those who accompanied me and never came back,” said Tungdil darkly, speaking over his shoulder. “Is that enough of an answer?”

The fifthling, caught out, nodded.

Tungdil’s grim expression was enough to spur the group on. He rarely said a word and when he did it was a command.

Under cover of the mist they began their ascent to the kordrion’s cave and by nightfall they had reached it. A hole in the cliff, ten paces wide, yawned at them, an overwhelming smell of fresh, damp moss emanating from within.

Ireheart held his crow’s beak in his right hand and stared at the entrance. “You’re sure it’s not at home, Scholar?”

“I wouldn’t have urged you to hurry if it was. Whatever Balyndar thinks of me, I wouldn’t throw us all to the beast as a sacrifice.” The stars were faintly reflected in the gold of his eye patch.

“Hang on! I’ve seen you fighting a kordrion! And if you’d kept on you’d have had him down!” Ireheart butted in.

Tungdil took another deep breath. “This one’s different; I could tell from the way he’s built his eyrie. Sometimes they just drop their eggs and leave the young to their fate. It’s unusual to have an eyrie and a nest. And as for my little victory over a kordrion: I can’t surprise this one, it doesn’t trust me. And it’s been out of captivity for too long, living in the wild. We’d need a dozen or so of me if we wanted to beat this foe.”

“A dozen Scholars? No wonder Balyndis has had no luck.” Ireheart lowered his weapon and helped the others to haul their equipment up onto the narrow ledge. The sledges, cords, cables and hooks, together with their provisions, were suspended on ropes they had anchored to the rock every few paces of their climb.

“We won’t find a better opponent for Lot-Ionan,” Tungdil agreed. He waited until the other dwarves had heaved up and secured their gear, then he spoke. “Eat now, then sleep till I wake you. After that, prepare to be on the run for orbits at a time. You’ll get no more sleep until we’ve got a long way away from the monster. An enraged kordrion can fly very fast.” He drew Bloodthirster. “I’ll take first watch.”

The dwarves looked at one another and went off to the sledges to shut their eyes for a while; with warm rugs of cat fur over them and bearded faces wrapped in scarves, they lay down to rest. They trusted their high king.

Ireheart was unsure what to do. His legs were painful and as heavy as ten sacks of lead shot, but on the other hand he did not want to leave his friend-who had made the same exhausting climb in his peculiar armor-alone on watch.

His eyes were tired and smarting and he could hear his stomach rumbling. “I need something to eat first, Vraccas, or my insides will be louder than a thunderstorm.” He went over to the sledge that held their food supplies. “Then, perhaps, a little smoke, to aid digestion, and the world will look a whole lot better,” he muttered to himself. When he opened the first layer of leather to get at the bread something caught his eye on the edge of the rock they had pulled themselves up over. He was surprised to see a metal retaining hook, shiny and without rust. There was a dusting of snow on it… Hoar frost would have made sense, but snow?

“What does it mean?” He leaned over and brushed the snow aside. One glimpse was enough to tell him the hook was not one of their own. “Well, I’ll be squashed flat with a hammer…” he cursed, rushing over to tell Tungdil what he had found.

The one-eyed dwarf didn’t want to come and inspect it. Instead he turned on his heel and stormed into the cave. Ireheart followed him.

The smell of moss grew stronger and became overwhelming, making it difficult to breathe.

Ireheart lit a torch, intent on carefully examining what they found. What he saw caused him great concern.

The kordrion’s brood had consisted of pale cocoons each the size of a human-until unidentified intruders had turned up and slashed them to ribbons. Opaque sticky liquid covered the floor ankle deep, almost frozen solid near the mouth of the cave; dead and dismembered embryonic kordrions lay among the mess.

“So that’s put paid to our great plan.” Ireheart squatted down to look at the corpses. They reminded him a little of flying fish, but they had more eyes and were ten times as large. “What can have done it?”

“They were either mad or desperate, the same as us.” Tungdil stomped about the cave, bending over to examine individual body parts. “I should say there were ten of them with very sharp weapons-you can tell from the cuts,” he imparted to his friend. “And the prints say: Dwarves.”

“Balyndis would never have kept it from us if she’d sent people out,” said Ireheart, moving through the carnage. “Despite all this slaughter the overriding smell is still the moss. It could have been worse; anyone who’s been covered head to foot with the stinking guts from an orc’s slit belly will know what I mean.” As he walked across to Tungdil he surveyed the scene.

The one-eyed dwarf yelled a warning at him, “No, don’t!”

“Don’t what?”

“Too late. You’ve trodden in it.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter.” Ireheart gestured dismissively. “It’s only moss. Perhaps Goda will like the smell.”

“It’s not just her that will like it. The thing is, that smell will stick to your clothes. And to you. The kordrion will assume you killed his young,” Tungdil explained.

Ireheart stared open-mouthed in distress. “Just me? What about you, Scholar?”

“I didn’t touch anything and, anyway, nothing sticks to tionium. I can wash off any splashes,” he replied. He examined the cave floor minutely. “There was an extra cocoon just here. They’ve taken it with them.” He rubbed his nose. “I wonder why.”

Ireheart laughed. “Not the same reason as us, surely?”

“We’ll have to find them to stop them doing something stupid.” He pointed to the entrance. “Wake the others and tell them. I’ll check outside for tracks.” He kicked one of the mutilated dead. “When they’re grown they’re ten times the weight of a warrior in full armor. If our thieves haven’t taken to the skies we’ll find them and confront them.” They left the cave together, Tungdil to the right, Ireheart to the left.

Boindil woke the troops and explained. As he was summing up Tungdil came over.

“I’ve found their tracks. They’ve climbed down on the other side of the mountain,” he informed them calmly. “We’ll follow them and get the last of the kordrion’s offspring. They can give it to us voluntarily or we can force them to hand it over. That cocoon is our only chance for a long, long time. The kordrion needs at least three cycles before it’s ready to lay again.” He looked at their faces. “It’s vital nothing injures the outer casing. It would mean death for the young, and the parent would smell that at once. There’d be no more point in its following us.”

Except to pursue and slaughter its offspring’s killers, thought Ireheart.

Slin scowled. “Any idea who’s stolen a march on us? It’s almost as if our plans had been overheard. But who’s behind this? And what’s he planning to do with the cocoon?”

“I hadn’t told them yet that we’ve found dwarf-bootprints,” said Ireheart.

“Children of the Smith?” Balyndar gave a short mirthless laugh. “Or small humans? Or gnomes and cobolds with stolen footwear playing a trick?”

“Courageous cobolds?” Ireheart dismissed the idea. “Cobolds would never put themselves within ten miles of a kordrion.”

“We’ll soon see who we have to thank for this disaster.” Tungdil indicated they should break camp and stow their gear. “Boindil, you stay close to me from now on,” came the quiet instruction. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“You’ll need protection from the kordrion. Even if he’s stronger than I am I can fight him off for long enough to give us a chance to escape. I’m going to need you on this mission.” Tungdil was serious and honestly concerned for his friend’s safety. “It is only the first of many. But all of our plans must work if we are to free Girdlegard and save it from the army gathering in the Black Abyss.”

Ireheart swallowed hard. The inner chorus of doubting voices that had previously troubled him fell silent, not a single one able to protest now against his conviction that his friend could be trusted. He nodded to Tungdil and followed him to the other side of the eyrie, where a broad set of tracks led to the steep slope.

Tungdil surveyed the path the thieves must have taken. “What do you make of that?” he asked.

“I don’t see the marks of any runners. So, have they used their shields to slide the cocoon down the mountain?” Ireheart raised his eyebrows. “Madness. They haven’t abseiled, they’ve just slipped and slithered down!” He thought of the dwarf-hater they had seen careering down the mountainside in the Outer Lands. Could the thirdling skirt-wearers be behind this?

Tungdil looked at the other dwarves, who were catching up with them now: Bearded faces with crystals of ice around noses and mouths, eyes sparkling with determination. “Do you lot think we’re brave enough to do what those thieves have done?” His manner indicated, once more, that his questions were not questions, but commands. He took one of the sledges, pushing it off and jumping on board. Speeding over the edge, it was more a fall than a ride across the snow as he shot down toward the valley. “How many usually die on his little missions?” muttered Slin, taking the leather band of his crossbow firmly in his hand. He shoved his own sledge downhill.

Ireheart was ahead of him, launching himself into the wild ride with a triumphant cry, “Vraccas!”

After a few paces, picking up speed all the time and with the strong icy wind bringing tears to his eyes, every bone in his body juddering and jarring, he knew one thing for certain: A lightning journey by tunnel car through the depths of the mountains was a princesses’ tea-party compared to this.