The Revenge of the Dwarves

VIII

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Porista

Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

Do you think the elves are going to cause trouble about the Alandur thing, Scholar?” Ireheart was growing increasingly uneasy, the nearer they got to Porista. On the horizon now, the city-the future seat of Gauragar’s administration-promised reunions with old friends and probably with old enemies. The dwarf had not forgotten the incriminating finger marks he had left on the elves’ holy stone. Nor had Tungdil.

“We won’t let it get that far,” said his companion, scratching his pony behind the ear. “The good thing about this assembly is that we can tell Liutasil what you did face to face.” He glance at Goda; they had spoken to her about her master’s elf-land mishap. The dwarf-girl kept out of the exchange, but followed every word with silent glee.

“Right.” Ireheart resigned himself to his fate. It was difficult to predict what consequences might result from his having touched the monument. “It didn’t break and it didn’t crack,” he said, eliminating the worst-case scenario. “It left a stain, that’s all. I bet it’ll go away when it’s polished up.” He clapped his thigh. “It’ll be fine. Bit of elbow grease and it’ll be good as new. If there’s still a problem we can send one of our master masons to show the elves how to treat a decent piece of stone so that a perfectly clean hand won’t leave marks.”

“Your words flow like molten gold. Could it be that you are trying to reassure yourself?” grinned Tungdil.

“Me? Am I bothered? Who would I have to be worried about?”

“Liutasil, perhaps?”

“Rubbish! Not scared of elves.” The warrior fell into a sulk and urged his pony on ahead. The sooner he met the lord of the elves and could explain what had happened-he might need his friend’s help there-the sooner the punishment would be over with.

“Sounds like it, though,” whispered Goda to her pony.

Ireheart looked back over his shoulder. “Goda, get down. You’re going to walk.”

“What?” She sounded incensed.

“It’s not your place to question me, girl. Carry your baggage while you’re about it.” He turned his face away quickly to hide his grin. He really enjoyed tormenting her.

Obedient but furious, Goda slipped from the saddle, threw the bags over her shoulder and stomped along next to her pony. “What on earth’s the point? I wanted combat training, not to learn how to be a porter.”

“Listen. A woman fighter needs strong legs to stand firm,” he answered swiftly. “Imagine you’re marching along reckoning any second with a snout-face attack. Have you heard the one about the orc that asks the dwarf the way?”

Goda snorted. Tungdil laughed, hearing a curse in the sound. But his levity was a little forced. His thoughts were with his injured Balyndis, back in Lot-Ionan’s vaults. He had been puzzled by his own mixed feelings on leaving her behind.

On the one side he was extremely worried about his wife, on the other he was pleased to be away from her again. He could not fathom this discontent. It had looked, that first night, as if they had a new chance together, but the longer he played with that idea, imagining a long life with Balyndis, the more frightening it seemed. He could not understand why. He was still fond of her.

Tungdil shifted in the saddle and gazed at Porista’s city walls. The city was a masterpiece designed by Furgas. Perhaps that’s what it was. He was still fond of her, but there was nothing deeper behind it. They were like brother and sister. Like comrades in arms.

“… and then the dwarf laughed and went on his way.” Tungdil caught the closing words of Ireheart’s joke.

Goda was having trouble suppressing a grin. The corners of her mouth would not obey her. Dimples were forming, in spite of her efforts to remain deadly serious. You couldn’t be furious and want to smile at the same time. It was a very good joke.

Boindil’s attempts to lift the mood were met with merry laughter. All of them joined in. They could not help it.

They rode into the city and as soon as they had announced themselves were taken to the assembly tent. A few smaller tents had been put up, to serve for more private discussions.

“Let’s go to Gandogar and explain what’s happened, then we’ll see Liutasil,” Tungdil suggested. Ireheart nodded his agreement.

Goda’s face was shiny with sweat; she emptied her drinking flask in one go and looked round for a fountain where she could refill it.

“Don’t worry, apprentice. You’ll get something soon enough,” Ireheart grinned at her. “How are the old legs?”

She lifted first the left foot, then the right. “Both still there,” she retorted, wiping the perspiration off her forehead. A dark blond lock of hair clung to her cheek. “And both of them quite keen to kick someone’s backside, master.” She grinned. “An orc backside, of course.”

Perhaps it was the light here in Porista, perhaps it was their surroundings or perhaps it was the dwarf-girl’s sparkling eyes that suddenly made Ireheart quite enjoy looking at her. From one second to the next his feelings changed. He became unsure of himself. “Let’s see what there is,” he stammered and averted his eyes quickly. Something that shouldn’t happen was happening. Not with her.

They made their way over to the tent flying the fourthling banner. The sentries announced their arrival at once. Goda stayed outside, but Tungdil had someone take her a drink.

Gandogar received them, stretching out a hand to each dwarf. “Events are threatening to overwhelm us,” he said, noting with pleasure the change in Tungdil’s appearance. He sensed the new vitality. “I was just about to address the clan leaders about a campaign to the Outer Lands, but now I’ve had to come to Porista with the assembly to deal with the newest outrage.” Tungdil thought the high king’s face was far more deeply lined than before. Worry was taking its toll. “How did you get on with the elves?” Gandogar’s eyes strayed to Ireheart’s shorn head. “Is this a new fashion?”

“A fight. Tungdil can explain.” Boindil preferred not to have to say much, or he’d find himself confessing the truth to his sovereign.

Tungdil bowed his head. “To be honest, sire, it was quite boring. We didn’t get to see Liutasil. They fed us. They showed us only places of no significance.” He lowered his voice. “I think they were trying to keep something from us. There are new holy objects in the clearing, and we learned by chance of new buildings they kept secret from us. Yet we have let their people see everything. It is not fair. With your permission I should like to address these issues with Prince Liutasil. He is here, isn’t he?”

“No.” Gandogar poured some water and they took the polished gold cups he proffered. “He has sent representatives: Vilanoil and Tiwalun. They said he’d be coming along later because something important needed discussing first.”

Boindil frowned. “That’s what they told us, too. It must be something really huge if it’s taking this long to debate.” He glanced at Tungdil. Now life was going to get difficult for him. The last people he wanted to meet here in Porista were their Alandur elf guides, who were very likely to know all about what he’d done.

Tungdil was silent, looking at the contents of his beaker. “Strange things are happening in Alandur.”

“What do you mean?” asked Gandogar in concern.

“I mean just that: something strange is happening in Alandur.” His old gruffness broke out. He pulled himself together. “I hope there will prove to be an innocent explanation.” He emptied his drink, bowed and put down the cup. “When does the session begin, Your Majesty?”

“We should already have reconvened. They will sound a bugle.”

Tungdil looked at Gandogar. “I have bad news. My diamond has been stolen. A new monster invaded Lot-Ionan’s vaults and attacked us. Balyndis was injured.” He summarized the events. “We lost track of the monster; it escaped off through the rocks where it left no prints. Then we got your order to come straight to Porista.”

“So you’ve lost your stone as well? The same as happened to the firstlings. A shape-shifting orc and a handful of beardless undergroundlings robbed the firstling queen.” Gandogar let out a long breath, clenching his fists. “And there’s more bad news. Xamtys suspects the thirdlings have poisoned their wells in the Red Mountains. Countless dwarves had died, men, women and children, before anyone noticed the water was poisoned. The experts have found that the fatal effects don’t develop until you’ve drunk a certain amount. Boiling the water doesn’t help at all. They have to bring their drinking water from a long distance away. In the Red Range no one trusts anyone now.”

“This suspicion will spread when the dwarf realms learn about the poisoned cisterns,” Tungdil reflected. His hope that the thirdlings might ever assimilate peaceably had died.

The age-old deep-seated hatred amongst some of the dwarves was still fermenting. The insidious lust for revenge was hitting the other dwarf folks more cruelly than ever. And those thirdlings loyal to their origins would soon become disaffected. Things would get worse.

“Perhaps it is better to rally the thirdlings who are living dispersed in other communities, and put them all together as a tribe somewhere away from the dwarflands,” Tungdil said thoughtfully.

The bugle sounded, summoning Girdlegard’s great and good back to the conference table. Their discussion must end for now.

“With you, then, as their king?” Gandogar picked up the idea quickly. He put his helmet under his arm. “I was thinking as much. We ought to discuss it with the clans and with the freelings as soon as we’ve dealt with the matter of the diamonds. Maybe there’s a place for the thirdlings amongst the Free Towns.”

“What…” Tungdil bit his tongue, suppressing the words “What rubbish!” He laid his hand on Keenfire’s ax head. “Would it be a good idea to exile them again? I am not sure if the freelings would want so many thirdlings in their towns. If I were their king I’d be afraid of armed insurrection. Who would stop them?”

“Oh, this is all so ghastly,” cursed Ireheart. “Anyone would think Vraccas had granted us five cycles of peace purely to thrust us straight into the furnace now. The diamonds are being stolen, orcs and monsters stalk our lands, the wells are poisoned and the elves are cooking up Vraccas knows what devilry.”

“Did you say a shape-shifting orc just now?” Tungdil broke in, stepping alongside Gandogar. They walked over to the assembly together.

“Reports were vague,” the high king answered. “But magic was involved.”

“What? The snout-faces and magic now?” murmured Ireheart. “Have Tion and Samusin completely lost their godly senses, sending them after us? They can’t be Girdlegard orcs. Damned sorcery! Never could stand magic.”

Goda tagged along at a discreet distance. She was exhausted by the enforced march, and Ireheart was regretting his instructions to her. He might have overdone it, he thought. But he did not let it show. “Wait outside again,” he said, adding a mumbled “Have a bit of a rest.”

Tungdil entered the tent and watched the sovereign rulers of Girdlegard take their places. He knew most of them; the human faces had aged quicker than the dwarves and elves, of course, in the last five cycles. The thorn of mortality was lodged deep in their flesh.

He observed Ortger with curiosity. Urgon’s young ruler was talking quietly to his neighbor at the council table, Queen Isika, nodding repeatedly. Then he stood up with a respectful bow.

Vilanoil and Tiwalun did not accord the dwarves a single glance. Their unfriendly demeanor warned Tungdil and Ireheart that the black finger marks must indeed have come to their notice.

King Bruron stood up and tapped his ring against his drinking vessel, the melodic ping cutting short the assorted rulers’ conversations. All their attention was on him. “Let us get back to business, Your Majesties.” He indicated Tungdil. “As you see, we have a trusted guest and old friend among us. One of Girdlegard’s famous heroes-Tungdil Goldhand-has come to be with us in our dark hour. He will help us with our deliberations, I am sure.”

Gandogar leaned over toward Tungdil. “His gold cup is an inferior alloy. The sound it made wasn’t good at all. Either the goldsmith has taken him for a ride or he’s having to cut costs but wants to keep up appearances.”

“And of course we are delighted to welcome Boindil Doubleblade, whose services to our homeland are no less significant,” continued Bruron with a smile. “We need heroes like these if we are to avert the coming dangers.”

The rulers inclined their heads in acknowledgment. It seemed the elves had neck problems, but only the dwarves noticed that.

The king surveyed the room. “As usual when we meet I have to start with unpleasant news: The statue of Lot-Ionan has been removed from the rubble and stolen. Despite our best efforts there is no trace of it.”

Tungdil swallowed hard. He remembered clearly having seen the statue, which was his very own foster-father, in Andokai’s palace. Nudin, or rather Nod’onn, had turned him irrevocably to stone in the course of a battle many cycles ago. Secretly the dwarf had hoped to bring the petrified figure back to the vaults so that at least he could stand where once he had lived.

“What could anyone want with his statue?” Mallen looked at Tungdil.

“How should I know?” he retorted sharply. None of the other famuli were still alive. Otherwise he might have thought them capable of carrying off their mentor’s statue, in order to honor it in some secret location. But the magus had been so revered they could have honored his statue in full public view.

Tungdil felt the robbers had betrayed him somehow. The magus had been a father to him. It was a personal attack.

“I can’t understand it, either,” said Bruron. “But I shall have my soldiers continue the search.” He turned to Ortger. “You have news for us, you said, King Ortger?”

“Yes. A large town near Borwol has been destroyed. Annihilated. Not a single inhabitant has survived. All the signs point to it having been orcs or some other of Tion’s monsters.” He noted the concern on their faces. “There is no longer any doubt: the beasts are back in Girdlegard.”

Gandogar raised his hand. “I, too, have terrible news to report.” He told them of the theft of the diamond and the poisoning of the dwarves, then handed over to Tungdil, who recounted how yet a further stone had been lost and how a new version of Tion’s creatures had appeared.

Like all the others, Bruron sat thunderstruck. “Undergroundlings? Dwarves from the Outer Lands in alliance with magic orcs to get the diamonds? Am I hearing right?”

“They’re all in it together,” Queen Isika said with conviction. “The orcs, the undergroundlings and these magic hybrids.” She addressed Gandogar. “You will have to face up to the question, high king of the dwarves, of how these beings have been able to enter whenever they want, through the gates and over the passes.” The woman’s voice was sharp enough to cut glass. She made no attempt to hide the fact that she had no faith in the dwarves’ defense provision.

“Against magic we are powerless,” admitted Gandogar. “You are forgetting that the orc we have heard about was able to change its shape. If there are more of them, then they have probably been able to walk right into Girdlegard unimpeded.”

“That would explain the finds in Toboribor.” It was Mallen’s turn. “The search party I sent out after the village was destroyed found evidence of recent habitation in the old orc caves.”

“It’s all coming together. So it was orcs, magic orcs, that stole Lot-Ionan’s statue,” Queen Isika suggested. “They took the last of our magic so we would have nothing to fight them with.” She leaned back. “We need a new magus for Girdlegard.” She faced Tiwalun. “Perhaps one of the elves can weave magic?”

The elf bit his lips. “Even if this were the case, there are no more magic force fields where we could source the powers.” He exchanged glances with Vilanoil. “I did not want to mention it. Not yet. But in the circumstances we cannot keep the truth from you.” He took a deep breath. “Lord Liutasil is dead. He lost his life trying to defend our diamond.”

“Ye gods, protect us,” whispered Queen Umilante in horror. “If even the elves are not safe from the beasts, who can help us then?”

Total silence reigned.

Nobody moved, no one spoke. They were able to pick up the sounds of the canvas flapping gently in the breeze and the guy-ropes easing or taking the strain as the wind made the tent walls move.

“We can,” Tungdil called out, determination in his voice. He was sick of seeing these powerful rulers behaving like frightened animals herded into a corner by cattle-rustlers. “The children of the Smith! And all of you! We overcame Nod’onn together, and together we drove out the avatars.” He placed Keenfire on the table before the high king. “This weapon was able to inflict injury on that creature and it will protect me from all magic attacks.”

Wey regarded the impressive ax, and encouraging memories of past victories over evil returned. “He is right. But he can’t be everywhere all at once. As I said before. Let us take all the remaining diamonds to the safest of our fortresses and let us give Tungdil Goldhand our best warriors. In this way we can protect the stones and perhaps recover the ones that have been stolen.”

Mallen applauded. “Let us cease talking up our fears. We sit back waiting for the next onslaught. We need to act!” He stood up and went over to the map of Girdlegard. “I suggest we take the diamonds to Immengau.” He drew his dagger and placed its point at a spot immediately below Porista. “King Bruron suggested the old fortress in Paland from cycles long past, when trolls and ogres battled for possession of Gauragar. It was never taken by the trolls-the walls were too high, too strong. It’s been abandoned for ages. Farmers keep their cattle there. Let’s restore it to its former glory.”

“I’ve already sent a workforce to Paland to start clearing the site,” said Bruron, turning to Gandogar. “Be good enough to send us your best masons to have a look at the state of the walls.”

“At once,” agreed the dwarf.

“And the rest of you,” Mallen addressed them with authority. “Send your best archers and warriors to Paland to occupy the battlements and to show a determined front to any who would rob us of our diamonds. Meanwhile, let the most knowledgeable scouts be sent through the caves of Toboribor to find those orcs.” He slammed his fist onto the table. “Long enough have we conducted ourselves like mice terrified by a cat. From the present orbit onwards we shall be like wolves!”

Isika rose. “One condition: no dwarves in Paland. Apart from Tungdil Goldhand and Boindil Doubleblade.”

Gandogar lowered his head “What is the meaning of imposing such a condition, Majesty?”

“You said yourself that you are fighting the thirdlings in your own ranks. If you cannot recognize them, how should we be able to? After everything that has happened, they might see fit to ally themselves with the orcs and the undergroundlings rather than fight on our side.” She did not avoid his stare but answered him with all the sovereign dignity at her disposal. “I do not propose this to diminish you and your people. My only concern is to preserve the security of the fortress. No more, no less.”

“She is right.” Tiwalun rushed to defend her. “The children of the Smith must sort out their own house first. Send an army to the Outer Lands to find the camp of the thirdlings who are pursuing you with death machines. Find them and destroy them. Sift out the traitors from your own ranks and make sure the gates to Girdlegard are protected.” He bowed to Gandogar. “Twice the dwarves have been instrumental in saving our homeland. Now it is the turn of the elves. We shall come to Paland with all the warriors we have. That was Liutasil’s dying wish.”

Isika was the first to start clapping, and the others all joined in. The elves were nurturing that tiny seedling of hope sown by the dwarves, giving it water.

Gandogar agreed.

Then the wholescale planning began: when and how to take the diamonds to the fortress Immengau, along which secret routes and under what security measures. Not until late that night had they managed to settle all the open questions.

“Let’s lose no more time.” King Bruron gave the signal to dissolve the assembly. “Is there anything more to discuss?”

“In all our concern about protecting the diamonds there’s something we mustn’t forget. I extend my sympathies to you both, Tiwalun and Vilanoil, on the death of your sovereign lord.” Mallen’s voice was heard. “His death, and that of all who have died in defense of the diamonds, shall not have been in vain. But before we part, to meet again in Paland, tell us: Who is to succeed Liutasil?”

Vilanoil smiled. “My thanks to you and all who mourn with us in our loss. In ten orbits I shall be able to answer your question, Prince Mallen of Idoslane. We are presently deliberating. Liutasil named no successor. We shall inform the realms of humans and the kingdoms of dwarves when joy replaces sorrow in our hearts.”

The elves left the tent and the leaders made their way back to their quarters.

Mallen and the dwarves remained there under the canvas roof, drinking up and thinking back on what had happened and on the plans that had been forged.

Tungdil went over to the map to look at the locations of the village that had been destroyed and the town that had been wiped out. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered. “They are much too far apart to have been attacked by the same group of orcs in such a short space of time. And why attack them but leave villages and farmsteads round about untouched? Orcs will always destroy everything in their path.”

“Maybe these orcs are different?” interjected Mallen. “Gandogar, didn’t you say that there wasn’t a single death amongst the dwarves when the orcs stole the fourthlings’ stone? Odd, isn’t it?”

The very moment the blond prince spoke, Tungdil remembered what had struck him as strange in the descriptions of the attacks. Neither the undergroundlings nor the mysterious orcs with the pink eyes had done any killing. The indiscriminate slaughter had only begun when the machine arrived in the lift-hoist before retreating into the galleries and disappearing.

“Cudgels,” he breathed. “The orcs attacked with cudgels. And the undergroundlings creating that diversion in the Red Range-they injured people but killed no one.” And that was in spite of none of them surviving the battle. Two had previously evaded the queen’s guard and gone off through the body of the mountain. They had all sacrificed themselves for the sake of this robbery. He put his suspicions into words. “Gandogar, we have to find those undergroundlings, alive, to interrogate them.”

Ireheart saw it the same way. “They are giving their lives to recover their property.”

“Their property?” chorused Gandogar and Mallen.

“My word, Ireheart!” Tungdil ran to his friend and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Of course! How could I miss that?” He hit himself on the forehead. “And they call me the Scholar!” he cried. “It should be your name!”

“You never know!” Ireheart was immensely proud and felt the need to stroke his long black beard but his hand met empty air. He had managed for a time to forget about that loss.

“They’re after the diamond, because it’s theirs!” Tungdil turned to the prince and to the high king. “Do you remember how we always thought a diamond with all those wonderful facets could only have been cut by dwarf craftsmen?”

“By Vraccas, we must have been blind!” exclaimed Gandogar, conjuring up the exact image of the diamond in his imagination. His tribe had fashioned the imitation stones and they had needed to apply every ounce of skill to come near to the original. “The eoil had stolen it from the undergroundlings!”

“And when they found out how powerful an artifact it has become, they wasted no time in trying to get it back. They know very well we’re not likely to surrender it voluntarily,” Tungdil deduced.

“But what have the orcs got to do with the diamond? Why are they helping the undergroundlings to recover it?”

“That’s what I was wondering,” grunted Boindil. “There can’t be a pact of any kind between our kind and these beasts.”

“The undergroundlings must think differently on that score,” Tungdil reminded him. The word pact gave him an idea. “This town and the other place that have been destroyed-do they have anything in common?”

“Apart from being located near the realms of monsters?” Mallen studied the map. “King Ortger didn’t mention any alliance. I think that many cycles ago, when the trolls ruled Borwol, the town wanted to send out a troop to negotiate with the monsters. It was about mining rights.”

Tungdil looked at the lines delineating Toboribor. “This village will have paid tribute to the orcs in the old days, surely?”

“I expect so.” Mallen suppressed a yawn. “Excuse me. I’m really tired and would like to go to bed.”

“Just one more question,” said Tungdil. “When you faced the monster in Goldensheaf, did you see any elf runes on its armor?”

“So I’m not the only one with sharp eyes,” said Mallen. He nodded. “I didn’t want to tell anyone before I’d had a chance to speak to Liutasil about it.”

“Describe them.” Mallen sketched them out for Tungdil on a piece of paper. “I think it means YOUR,” Tungdil said, considering. “Our attackers had HAVE on their wrist protectors.”

“Perhaps it’s a message that won’t make sense until all the monsters have appeared?” the Idoslane prince mused.

“… to the elves.” Tungdil was more specific. “The monsters are carrying a message to the elves. Whatever the purpose might be, they want the elves to piece it together bit by bit.”

“So they see themselves as unstoppable.” Mallen pointed to the doorway. “I’ll ask Ortger if he saw anything. Perhaps we can solve the puzzle, even if it’s not intended for us.” He shook hands with the dwarves, wishing them goodnight, then left the tent.

“It’s time for me as well,” said Gandogar. “Tungdil, I want you to guard the fifthlings’ stone on its way to the Gray Mountains and Paland. I don’t want to take any more risks. Keenfire will be up to contending with any threats. There’s none better than yourself to be entrusted with the task.”

Goda and the two male dwarves walked away from the square and were shown to their quarters by one of Bruron’s servants. Ireheart told Goda briefly about what had happened, and instructed her to take the first watch.

“Master, I am tired…”

“Yes, I know. You walked, in the sun, carrying baggage.” He dismissed her complaints. “But a warrior girl such as yourself must be ready to ward off an attack after a long march. Your enemies won’t care whether you’ve had a rest or not. They’ll be waiting, come what may.” With a sigh he slipped off his boots and his chain mail shirt, opened the fastenings on his leather jerkin and collapsed on his bed. “That’s your next lesson.”

“Thank you, master.” She sat down on a chair by the entrance to be able to watch the door and the window at the same time.

Tungdil lay down under his blanket and thought about the evening’s long discussions. A thousand things went through his head as he searched for explanations more convincing than Isika’s.

The undergroundlings and the orcs held one key to the events in Girdlegard and the new beasts held the second one. Those keys would shed light on the secrets. Probably they would reveal even greater challenges in store for the homeland.

“Why did Tiwalun not say anything?” Boindil asked.

“About the stone?” Tungdil turned to his friend, who was sitting on his own bed and also seemed to be thinking hard; he was watching Goda. “Would it have been better if he had?”

“Why am I having to keep watch if neither of you is even asleep?” asked Goda in a resentful huff.

“Don’t worry, Goda. We’ll be quiet soon,” grinned Tungdil. “And as for you, Ireheart, I expect the new elf lord will summon you soon enough.” He turned to face the wall and closed his eyes.

And then, just before he nodded off, he realized what the connection was between the two ravaged settlements. But by the next morning the recollection had gone.

Girdlegard,

Queendom of Weyurn,

Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

R odario was woken by a strange noise and was astonished to realize that it was him making the clicking sound himself-faster than a rabbit mating, his teeth were clattering against each other. They could have shredded his tongue to ribbons.

He opened his eyes. Shaking all over, he threw himself onto his back and struggled up. There was thick fog all around, but bright, as if the sun were about to come up over the horizon.

He found himself lying on a shingle beach, with waves lapping around his legs and hips, pulling and sucking at him on the gravel, coaxing him back into their waters.

“Elria, I give you thanks for sparing my life. So you decided you didn’t want an actor in your realm,” Rodario stammered. He got to his feet to walk along the beach and look for help. He assumed he must be on one of the islands he had sailed past the previous night.

Soon he came across a fisherman’s hut with nets hung out to dry.

“Anyone awake?” he called out, knocking at the door. “Please let me in. I’m catching my death.”

The door opened a little way. Two sets of curious young eyes peered out at him from the dark interior. Then the smaller girl disappeared. The older sister, maybe eleven cycles, studied him. She was wearing a worn old dress and two aprons. She had greasy short brown hair sticking to her head. “Who are you?”

“My name is Rodario. My boat capsized.” He could not stop shivering. He was shaking like aspen leaves. “Please, let me come in and dry my clothes by the fire.”

“Father is out fishing and Mother said we mustn’t let anyone in when she’s off looking for herbs.” The girl considered him. “You’re not a pirate. You’re much too thin.” She opened the door and let him in. “Over there,” she said, pointing to the open fire they cooked on. “I’ll put some more blocks on, but you’ll have to pay-they’re expensive.”

“Thank you… What’s your name, little one?” he walked past her, striding to the fire in the middle of the hut, relishing its warmth. There was a smell of fish, of smoke and of fat from a cauldron bubbling gently further along. Either they were rendering blubber or making soap. It was a miracle, he thought, wrinkling his sensitive nose, that they could put up with the smell.

“Flira.” She introduced five siblings and then clambered up a ladder to get blocks of compressed seaweed for the fire. She threw them down to him. “One coin each.”

Rodario felt on his belt for his day’s takings. He unfastened the purse and threw it over to the girl. “Keep it. You need it more than me.” He piled the seaweed blocks on and enjoyed the heat they gave.

With a suspicious look she opened the purse and counted. “That’s seven! Thank you. May Elria bless you.”

“She already has,” he grinned, stretching out his hands to the flames. “I survived that huge damn wave. But my boat didn’t.”

Flira’s eyes widened. “Another one? When?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Some time ago.” Then he understood why she was asking: she would be scared for her father. “Do these waves happen often?” He pulled off his shirt and flapped the legs of his breeches about to dry better. He did not want to take them off in front of the children.

“Father says they never used to. Not till the earthquake and the flood, that’s when he says the lake got so treacherous-as dangerous as any monster in Tion’s dreams, he calls it.” Flira sat down and passed him a cup of hot tea. “They keep coming, and out of nowhere. Seven fishing boats have been lost just from here. He says other islands have fared even worse.”

Her brother, called Ormardin, came over. The light in his eyes told the impresario that the young boy was fascinated by the occurrences on the lake. “Tell him about the alfar Nightmare Island.”

Flira cuffed the back of his head. “Who said you could come and talk with the grown-ups? Tell him yourself.”

“A nightmare island? Sounds intriguing!” laughed Rodario. “I’m all ears, Ormardin.” He sipped his tea and waited to hear what fairy story the boy would serve up.

Ormardin grinned and began.

“Five cycles ago, just before the Judgment Star rose in the sky, a band of alfar was abroad in Girdlegard, sent out by the unslayable siblings to look for a new and safer base.

They came to Weyurn and traveled through our homeland on a ship they’d made out of the skeletons and skins of humans and elves.

They looked at island after island-solid ones and floating ones. Nobody saw what they were up to and any unfortunate fishermen they met on the high seas got killed. And eaten.

One night the alfar landed on a wonderful island that awoke their curiosity. They saw it had mountains and caves where they could hide.

They slaughtered all the inhabitants and took the island over, dragging the corpses to the caves, where they skinned them and removed the bones.

They were about to set up a spit to roast their kill, when one of them stuck his lance in the ground. It penetrated the island’s crust. Water shot up and flooded the caves.

The island sank down into the depths, together with the alfar. That’s how it escaped the effect of the Star of Judgment, whose power could not reach the bottom of Weyurn’s lakes.

But Elria did not let them die. They were to do penance for the evil they had wreaked on the people of Weyurn. She granted the alfar everlasting life and condemned them to eternal exile on the island.

Sometimes, when the stars are favorable, the alfar are allowed up to the surface with their island, so that they may see the night. It’s said they will not die until they have covered the walls of every cave and grotto with paintings.

Anyone surviving the huge wave they bring and unwise enough to set foot on their island, gets eaten by the starving alfar, their skin is torn off and their blood used for cave-paintings.”

Ormardin fell silent and looked at Rodario, his cheeks scarlet. “Did you like my story?”

The showman applauded. “Young friend, I bow to your talent. If your parents don’t have another trade in mind, you’ll be the best storyteller in Weyurn one day. I would bet my daily theater takings on that.”

“You’re an actor?” The boy couldn’t believe his luck.

“Oh yes, I’m the Incredible Rodario, the Emperor of Actors and Showmen in all of Girdlegard,” he boasted in his normal patter. “I have the good fortune to lead my own company, the Curiosum, the best in the world. If it were nearer, I would invite you to see it, young man.” He ruffled the boy’s short brown hair.

Ormardin stood tall. Praise from the mouth of such a master meant a great deal to him.

The door opened and, silhouetted against the light, Rodario saw the figure of a long-haired woman carrying a basket. “Who are you?” she asked, in obvious agitation. “Get away from the children!”

Rodario took her point. “Don’t be afraid, good woman.”

“It’s the Incredible Rodario. He’s an actor. And he’s washed up,” said Ormardin at once, jumping up and embracing his mother, full of delight. “I told him the Nightmare Island story and he said I’ve got talent!”

“Has he been giving you big ideas?” She came in, shutting the door behind her.

Rodario saw a woman slightly older than himself, in simple linen clothing. Fishermen, it seemed, weren’t doing too well in Weyurn. “My greetings,” he said, then remembered he was not wearing a shirt. “Forgive my appearance, but my clothes were wet.”

She soon calmed down, realizing he presented no danger to the children, herself, or what they owned. A nearly naked body couldn’t conceal anything, neither a weapon, nor stolen goods.

“I am Talena.” She placed her basket on the table. “I’m sorry I was unfriendly.”

He waved away her apology. “But of course. I quite understand.”

“He gave me money!” said Flira, handing the purse to her mother.

“That was for the fuel for the fire.” Rodario smiled at her. “Can you tell me how I get off this island? I have to go to Mifurdania.”

“If you go over the dunes and follow the path to the right you’ll get to Stillwater, a little fishing village. You’ll find someone there to take you.” Talena took the herbs out of her basket and rinsed them in a bowl of water. “Did you really enjoy my son’s story?”

“Very much,” Rodario confirmed, giving Ormardin a wink. “And I was quite serious about his talent. I know a few storytellers who might be glad to have a gifted pupil like him.”

“Oh please, mother. Flira will do the fishing when she grows up,” begged the boy.

“No, I shan’t,” came the answer, quick as a flash.

Talena turned round. “Quiet, you two. See what your father says.” She looked at Rodario. “You’d better get on your way now. Mendar will be taking his sloop over to Mifurdania around midday. He takes seliti-oysters over to the market. Tell Mendar I sent you and he won’t charge.”

“Talena, thank you.” He pulled his shirt down from the rack and put it on. “Perhaps we will meet again,” he said to Ormardin, crouching down in front of the young boy. “Have you got something to write with? I’ll give you the names of some famous storytellers.”

The boy nodded and went off to find a piece of slate and some chalk. Rodario wrote the names of two celebrated narrators and the kingdoms they lived in. “But you’ll have to ask around because they’re usually touring. You’ll find them all right.”

He ruffled the boy’s hair again. “Palandiell will help you, Ormardin.”

Talena gave him some bread and dried fish. “For the journey,” she said. In her eyes he could read that her son would never have the opportunity to leave the island. It was his lot in life to become a fisherman like his father, and his father and grandfather before him. “Elria be with you.”

She went with him to the door and pointed to the fog-bound dunes. He had only gone three paces before he heard the door close again.

The white veils of mist that enveloped him tasted sweetly of salt and sand. Rodario strode up the sand dunes and found the path Talena had described. On the way he ate some of the food she had given him; the fish had a fine aroma of smoke and salty herbs.

As the mist lifted, Rodario saw a flat, bare island with scarcely any trees, but plenty of small shrubs and grassland where sheep were grazing. The summer sun began to dry even his shoes.

He was taken with that saga of the island. What if it were true? Had that been how his barge had capsized? Or had the vessel run aground and then been dragged down, her back broken from the rocks?

At least, thanks to Ormardin, he had a possible explanation for the loss of the barge, even if the idea was worrying. A lost colony of alfar that could not be pursued. It could become a breeding ground for terrible dangers for Girdlegard.

Rodario found the village easily and the fisherman was soon located. He was told to squat in the bow with the extra sails, where a sailor sat mending holes in the canvas.

The craft set sail, cutting swiftly through the water toward the port.

Rodario dozed a little, then sat watching the sailors at work. His thoughts were wandering, and instead of the men on deck he saw Ormardin in his mind’s eye. How sad that this talented child would not enjoy a better life.

“What are you staring at me for?”

The unfriendly question dragged Rodario out of his reverie. “Forgive me. I was lost in thought.” He smiled. Maybe this man could tell him more about the mysterious island. “I was wondering if you had any ideas as to what caused the giant wave? Last night I…”

The sailor put down his needle and stared at him. “Are you mad?” He spat over the side of the boat and called Elria’s name quickly, three times. “You’ll call up Nightmare Island and kill us all.”

Rodario was astonished to find a grown man so in thrall to a myth. “So it’s true?”

“As true as the sun overhead,” the sailor spoke quietly in reply, his eyes on the waters that shone mirror-like in the light. “Keep quiet about it, right?”

Rodario did not think for a moment of keeping quiet. An idea occurred. “I’ve got to know whether anyone has ever stepped onto the island and survived.”

The sailor grabbed him by the collar and shook him hard. “If you don’t stop at once…”

The lake began to seethe around them. Bubbles rose to the surface and a bestial stink reached their noses, making Rodario cough and retch.

A bell clanged on deck, the crew scuttled to and fro to hoist full rig. They had to get out of the danger zone as fast as possible.

“You damned idiot,” screamed the sailor, hitting Rodario on the chin. “It’s your fault!” He clambered up, dragging the actor to his feet. “He did it!” he yelled, drawing back his arm to hit out again. “He talked it up!”

“What do you mean?” demanded Rodario, ducking the next blow and tripping over a folded sail; he stumbled against the railing and lost his balance.

Instead of helping him the sailor gave him a shove backwards, overboard. “Take him, Elria! Take him, you alfar!” he shouted after him. “Spare us. Only spare us!”

Rodario was submerged anew in Weyurn’s predominating element. The water was as cold as ever; he swallowed mouthfuls that this time tasted unpalatably bitter and smelt strongly of sulphur. Bubbles of varying shapes and sized floated up past him. Some were filled with greenish gas, some were bluish or yellow. Refracted sunlight piercing the water gave them a strange beauty and diverted attention from the peril they implied.

He bobbed round the gas bubbles and struggled back up to the surface. Spluttering, he gasped for air, but the fumes made him choke. Bursting bubbles made the lake look as if it were boiling, though luckily for him this was not the case.

The boat slipped past him; he had no chance of catching up. “You can’t do that!” he called out in horror. “I’m really not a good swimmer! Help me back on board!”

At that moment a rocky formation broke through the frothing surface and continued to rise inexorably, sharp rock following rock, as the waters heaved and sloshed.

The higher the rocks grew the broader they became until they had formed a massive unscaleable cliff. Water poured back off in great torrents.

The lapping of small waves had turned into the heaving mass of great rollers that rose and fell in a terrifying fashion.

The sloop provided a welcome victim. She spun round and round as her planks creaked and loosened, some falling on deck and some in the lake. She lost her mast, then listed badly to one side.

The mountain continued to rise from the depths, exuding hissing clouds of air and gas through cracks and crannies in the rock.

Rodario grabbed one of the wooden beams that had crashed down into the water from the stricken vessel; then, holding fast with all his might, he gave his attention once more to the horrifying spectacle before him. The sloop collided with the cliff face, shattering as the sharp rocks sliced through her wooden hull, splintering the planks. Her sails and rigging caught fast and were heaved upwards as the island rose. The boat broke up and her crew fell or jumped overboard.

The mountain was still surging up out of the water. Rodario reckoned its peak was about two hundred paces high, and still it was rising.

With a final horrific gurgle the process finished. Lake water cascaded off the rock, streaming and splattering down, with the sunlight setting magnificent rainbows in the spray. The sight was unforgettable.

“Ormardin was not making it up,” he whispered in awe, staring at the impossible cliffs towering in front of him. “Nightmare Island really does exist.” The island by now must have been about one hundred paces wide and four hundred high. It consisted of dark blue, nearly black stone glittering with minerals. It seemed to resemble a piece of the night sky that had broken off and fallen to earth.

A petrified sheet of cooled lava had formed a flat beach on the side of the island nearest to him. Tall, thin figures emerged from caves, to launch boats. The alfar were about to bring in their harvest.

Rodario concealed himself under a floating scrap of canvas. The current was bringing him closer inland than he wanted to be. It was not his intention to explore the island, but Samusin seemed to like the idea of feeding him to the alfar.

Peering out from under the canvas he observed how the alfar went about picking up the dead and any survivors clinging to the pieces of the wrecked vessel. The injured they left. They only wanted the dead or the whole.

It reminded Rodario of a seal hunt he had once watched. As soon as one of the sailors surfaced to grab some air and they sensed he was injured, the iron point of a spear or whirr of an arrow brought instant death.

The alfar took their time and went about their task assiduously. The rowed past Rodario’s hiding place, piercing it several times with their spears without touching him. The random piece of canvas was then ignored as it drifted nearer the shore.

A gong sounded and the boats returned to the shore. The alfar pulled them up to the caves and the island emitted more clouds of stinking gas. Then the shoreline dipped under the surface and the island started to dive.

“Ye gods, protect me,” prayed Rodario fervently, before emerging from his hiding place, struggling out of the water and running for the dark entrance into which the alfar had just disappeared.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Idoslane,

One-time Orc Realm of Toboribor,

Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T he spear-leader Hakulana observed the sparsely vegetated hillside in the midst of Idoslane’s green landscape. It marked one of the many entrances to Toboribor’s underground caves. She recognized the ruins of the old orc fortifications standing like ancient gravestones uneven against the sky.

“It looks quiet,” she said to her companion Torant, an aspiring young equerry who rode at her side. She liked his calm nature and the care he took over any task assigned to him. “Did you find any tracks?”

“No, spear-leader. Nothing.”

Hakulana watched the sky, where a summer storm was brewing. Dark clouds were gathering in front of the blue; her lance-pennant fluttered in the growing breeze.

Together with the twenty mounted scouts she led, they were now half a mile from the area to be traversed to reach the realm of the orc prince once known as Ushnotz.

Hakulana was too young to be able to remember the monster, but some of the veterans in Prince Mallen’s army told tales of the creature and its voracious cruelty. It had attempted to move north to found a new kingdom after the lost battle of the Blacksaddle. It was thanks to the dwarves that this terrible plan had been thwarted.

Torant glanced up at the movement of the clouds. “Should we put up the tents, spear-leader?”

Hakulana shook her head. “No.” She pointed to the hill with the tip of her lance. “We’ll camp over there at the cave entrance; that will save us the trouble.”

“As you command, spear-leader.” Torant called out the order and the troop of riders made off at a smart pace.

Hakulana followed them at a slight distance, never taking her eyes off the hill whose defenses had been demolished by Prince Mallen’s soldiers shortly after the battle of the Blacksaddle. There was no sign now of the orcs’ reign or the ugly constructions of rough-hewn stone blocks that they’d forced their human serfs to build for them.

She was here with her scouts to make sure that it stayed that way. The slightest hint of any orc activity in the area they would report immediately and the army would march in. She had a feeling that there was something hiding in that hill.

As the first raindrops started to fall they rode through the broken walls, past the ruined gates, and into the darkness of the cave.

Her people, including the women, lit torches and set up camp. Each had a specific task to carry out, be it caring for the horses, preparing a meal or keeping guard.

“Spear-leader,” Torant’s voice echoed through the cave. “I found orc bones at the back there.” He handed her an orc thigh bone. “It’s not been there more than one cycle.”

“You’re sure about that?” Hakulana got out of the saddle and looked over at the cave mouth. The clouds were racing past low over the landscape, bellies against the hillsides; vast amounts of water cascaded down in front of the entrance in great streams, splattering onto the ground and carrying off the loose earth.

“Absolutely sure. There are lots of them.”

A first lightning bolt hit the hill opposite; almost immediately the rolling peal of thunder sounded. The horses whinnied in fear. Hakulana heard their panicky steps as they pawed the ground.

“So we’ve got proof. I’d rather we hadn’t.” She turned to her troop. “It’s a good thing we didn’t put the tents up,” she said to Torant. “Go and help the others calm the horses down, or they’ll break away and trample everything. I’ll go and inspect the place straightaway.”

But then, in the dazzle of a second lightning bolt she saw the monster approaching the camp. Fleeting though the glimpse was, Hakulana was able to take in every terrible detail of its appearance.

It was huge, at least three and a half paces high and extremely broad. On its head a solid tionium helmet in the shape of a skull bore polished silver insignia arranged to increase the intimidating impression. The helmet had an opening for the mouth. The creature’s lips had been removed so its fangs and incisors were visible in a permanent grin. The helmet itself had long spikes bolting metal and skull together.

Hakulana drew back and in her fear did not even realize she had left her shelter and was being soaked to the skin by the downpour. She could neither speak nor tear her eyes away.

The creature’s body was covered with scale-like plates of tionium, nailed or wired through its flesh. The forearms had been removed between elbow and wrist and replaced by a metal pole that enclosed a core of shimmering glass. The hands were in the right place and wielded two axes decorated with runes.

Another thunderclap sounded and the creature disappeared back into the dark, except for its huge eyes which had been lit up dark green. But for those, Hakaluna might have thought she had imagined it all.

“Palandiell, be with us,” she mouthed, slowly regaining the power of movement. “Retreat!” she screamed, drawing her sword, “Everyone out of the cave, now!”

At once all the torches went out.

The unexpected pitch blackness, together with their leader’s surprise command, resulted in total confusion. The horses were terrified by now and pulled themselves free, racing out past Hakulana to her right and left.

Immediately there came the sound of dull impacts and tearing metal, and the ugly noise of twisting limbs and breaking bones. A shrill cry, hardly to be recognized as issuing from a grown man, indicated the first death amongst the soldier-scouts.

But for Hakulana this was only the beginning.

The lightning bolts came thick and fast as the thunderstorm reached its peak, allowing her a clear view of the ghastly events in the cave. It was a vision of horrific brutality. The monster was hacking men to pieces with its axes; then it bit through the neck of one of her young lieutenants and crushed another man’s skull with a blow from its foot. The resulting noise made Hakulana gag.

Her legs refused to let her re-enter the cave, however her brain might command it, to stand by her troops. She remained in the rain, shaking all over, and watched her people die.

A shadow raced up to her out of the blackness. With a scream she stepped aside and dealt a wild blow. Too late she saw her mistake. She had slain Torant.

A deep slash in his throat, he fell at her feet in the mud. He turned his unbelieving gaze to his leader as he breathed his last.

“No,” she whispered, taking two strides backwards, away from the accursed caves which housed evil. The dying breaths of the young man would haunt her for the rest of her days.

Two more soldiers stumbled out into the air; one was missing an arm and his comrade was bleeding profusely from a wound on the chest, though it looked possible he could survive it.

Now at last Hakulana shook off the paralyzing fear. She supported the less severely wounded man and left the amputee to his fate. The loss of blood would do for him and nothing could alter that.

“We must get away from here!” she shouted above the noise of the storm. “We have to report to the prince. There’s nothing we can do against the monster.”

“What was that thing?” whimpered the man, his legs collapsing under him.

She grabbed him under the arm and dragged him back down the hillside to where some of their horses still stood, having found shelter under a tree. “A new misbegotten monster of Tion’s.” She gasped. The man was heavy and she was bearing most of his weight and that of his armor.

Something hit him on the chest. Hakulana felt the force of the blow. At once he went limp. She stared at the long black shaft of an alfar arrow sticking out of his body.

When she looked up she saw the monster at the entrance to the cave. Right next to it there was a tall slim figure wearing fantastical black tionium armor in the style favored by the alfar. The head was concealed behind an elaborate helmet; two swords hung from its belt. It seemed almost like a monument, erected to remind people of the danger presented by the cruel race from Dson Balsur.

The figure notched a second arrow to its curved bow and aimed straight at Hakulana.

Dropping the corpse in her arms, the girl vaulted swiftly to one side, but felt a burning sensation in her left shoulder. She had been hit.

With a curse she broke the arrow’s shaft, leaving the tip embedded in her arm for now. Keeping in the shelter of the ruins and rubble, she slid down to the nervous horses and tried to mount one.

Just as she managed to grab the mane to swing herself up onto its saddleless back, it collapsed in a heap, struck in the right eye by an arrow.

Showing great presence of mind, she quickly transferred herself to the next animal, clambering on it just before it raced off in terror. The next missile missed her by the breadth of a hand, but buried itself in the horse’s neck, spurring it to double its speed.

Lightning struck all around. The troop leader had never experienced a worse storm. But in spite of the thunder she could hear something else. Rhythmical pounding. She looked back over her shoulder.

The monster was pursuing her! Pursuing her with huge strides and in all its terrifying ugliness, its lipless mouth gaping wide, and issuing loud snorts. Its boots left dents in the soft earth, from which water spurted up as it bounded along.

“Faster, faster,” she urged her horse, forcing the arrow deeper into its flesh to spur it on.

The monster took aim with one of its axes and was about to hurl it at the fleeing girl when Hakulana received truly divine help.

The next lightning bolt shot down from the black clouds to meet the tip of the raised ax blade. All the rune signs on the armor and weapons flashed bright green. The eyes, too, behind the helmet mask, sent out a light brighter than that of any lantern.

The power of the lightning was too much even for a creature of Tion’s. It crashed down at speed, dropping its weapons, to lie motionless on the ground, steam rising from it.

Hakulana did not fall into the error of stopping. She rode on through the storm to find the nearest garrison. If she did not reach the safety of its walls alive there would be no one to carry the news to Girdlegard of the unslayable she had seen.