The Revenge of the Dwarves

IX

Girdlegard,

Queendom of Weyurn,

Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

Rodario ran for all he was worth. The cave was long and narrow, and at the far end a path led steeply upwards to an iron gateway. The water was already lapping round his ankles, so he raced to reach the opening.

Realizing it was unlikely to open for him he rushed past and tried to find somewhere further up where he might get inside the mountain without being seen.

As the water mounted so did the fear that he might not survive this unexpected adventure. Finally, well hidden between the rocks he found an iron grating emitting foul gases. Before common sense could prevent him, he had opened the grating and forced himself inside, climbing up the chimney-like shaft.

Up and up, as if the flue would open at the very top of the mountain. The all-pervasive smell of rotten eggs made Rodario gag, cough and splutter, but, using hands and feet, he continued to work his way upwards, until finally he slipped through an opening into a large chamber.

Water was bubbling into a huge pool below him, filling more and more of the hollow space. If the iron door ten paces in front of him stayed shut he would be done for.

Rodario hurried to the door and prayed that no sentry would be standing guard. Pushing on the bolt, which miraculously moved in his hands, he found and turned a small wheel above it. It clicked several times in succession as he continued to turn it; then the door opened and he was able to escape to safety.

No one was expecting him, spear at the ready.

He found himself at the end of a twisting passage with rounded walls polished like marble. Moss glimmered and spread a faint brownish light.

Carefully he moved forwards, listening out for suspicious noises that might warn of a possible encounter with an alf. He remembered how silently Narmora, the partner of his friend Furgas, had moved. She was part alf. Presumably, then, he wouldn’t notice an alf coming until after it had cut his throat.

Soon he found himself in front of a door similar to the last; this one was secured with several bolts and a wheel-lock. Rodario opened it a little way, halting when he felt heat from the other side, and heard noises-dull thuds at regular intervals: the stamp and hiss of machinery, the clunk of forge hammers, the sounds of workmen calling to each other. The air smelled of hot metal, of slack, of coal fire and of oil. Going by his ears and nostrils alone he would have said he was in a forge in the fifthling realm.

To avoid immediate discovery, he crouched down on all fours, pulled the door open and crawled inside. Underneath him was an iron platform attached to a metal ladder.

Rodario’s heart stood still. On the ladder were two alfar! They wore black armor, held spears in their hands and were looking down.

“That was worth the wait,” said the blond one. “A nice fat sailing boat with lots of crew and passengers to set to work for the master.”

“Then we can stop work at last,” laughed his friend, scratching his ear; the tip had come away in his hand. “Oh, damn, the resin’s gone soft again. Wretched heat!”

Rodario had already started to wonder why the alfar were talking in human language. Now he understood. They were acting. These “alfar” were just men, dressed up as alfar; they gained their height from special shoes they were wearing. The disguise might have deceived a simple peasant or a fisherman, but not him.

“It’s a shame we had to kill so many of the injured,” said the blond one, helping the other to mend his ear.

“Looking after them just takes too much time.” He laughed. “And the prisoners enjoyed the goulash.”

Rodario peered over the edge of the platform. Below was a workshop two hundred paces in size, with machine floors on several levels. Forges had been set up in niches in the rock face, and platforms like the one he was on had been fastened together and fixed into the stone with strengthening beams. These too served as smithies.

Humans, chained hand and foot, were working to produce various metal shapes, including wheels and iron rods. Each worker had a set number of repeated movements to carry out, and finished items were thrown into the wire cages that traveled up and down at speed on a chain. At the bottom of the workstation these were unloaded and carried out by yet more prisoners.

Several machines were as big as a house, moving by means of cog wheels, pulleys and pistons, with belts and chains traveling over the cogs toward other devices that they powered. In places, some of the belts passed through the walls to other chambers.

The machines emitted hissing clouds of steam. People ran around, shoveling coal or pouring water into huge containers for the boilers. The noise close to them must have been unbearable.

Rodario had no idea what was going on. But this island had nothing to do with alfar, that much was clear. It was what the inhabitants of Weyurn were expected to believe, however, meaning that they would stay away at all costs and never talk about it. The best form of concealment.

Feet came stomping up the stairway. “Hey, you two! You’re supposed to be standing guard, not playing with your ears!” Next to the men there appeared a dark-haired dwarf in leather breeches, boots and a leather apron. His naked torso, decorated with tattoos, shone with sweat. In his hand he swung a smith’s hammer as if it were made of tin and balsa wood.

From his voice Rodario recognized him as the man who had attacked him outside his caravan. He was sure now that the barge he’d been following had not broken up on the island, but it had disappeared inside it. The island must have sunk down again causing Rodario’s nutshell-boat to capsize.

“It’s the heat, Master Bandilor,” protested the one who’d been told off. “It makes the resin go soft.”

“Then sew it on properly,” growled the dwarf. “I don’t want to see this sort of thing again, you fingering each other’s ears, right? If one of the prisoners sees it, the masquerade is over.” He turned his head and Rodario saw the thick beard, dyed blood red. “Did either of you leave that bulkhead open?”

“No,” said the blond one. “I’ve no desire to burn up.”

Bandilor’s eyebrows crinkled. “Did Mistress Veltaga come past you on her way to check the second chamber?” He walked past them, his hammer held at the ready.

“No, Master Bandilor. Nobody.”

From what he had heard and seen Rodario worked out that he had found a secret headquarters of the thirdlings. No one would ever think of dwarves voluntarily living on an island, let alone one that could sink down to the bottom of Weyurn’s lake. And their captives had no chance to escape.

To Rodario’s horror, Bandilor started up the steps. No matter where he looked, he could see no way to avoid being seen. He got half upright, ready to crawl back into the passage, but Bandilor spotted him.

“Unbelievable! It’s that crummy actor, isn’t it?” The dwarf took a step forward and made to grab him by the leg.

Rodario launched himself off the platform, holding fast to its edge so that he could do a forward roll. His lower body swung freely over the abyss, but he landed with his feet on the solid iron steps, quite near to the two false alfar. He opened his fingers, his heart beating wildly.

“More respect, please, for my art,” he called up to the dwarf, who had flung his hammer at him in fury, but missed. The metal tool clunked down the stairs into the depths.

The guards lowered their spears and attacked.

“Forgive me, I don’t feel like fighting you.” Rodario certainly was not going to involve himself in combat. Without a second’s hesitation he leaped into a passing wire basket and let himself be carried down in it. “I’m looking for a happy ending!” he called, waving up. “We’ll meet again, Master Bandilor. And I’ll be back with an armada of Weyurn’s warships.”

He went past the astonished prisoners, who were not daring to move a muscle. They didn’t help him, or join him. Their fear of the alfar and the punishment they could expect should they do so held them back. He couldn’t hold it against them. After all, he had no idea whether it was possible to escape.

A spear missed him narrowly and got stuck in the grating. “Thank you for the weapon, alf,” he called, only to see a second missile on its way. This missed him, too, the angle for the throw being a difficult one, but now archers were dispersing round the upper galleries; they would have no trouble hitting him.

Rodario jumped up out of the cage at an intersecting passage and ran through the corridor bent double. Somewhere in the middle of the mountain he suspected he would find his friend Furgas, held in chains. Tungdil and all the rulers had underestimated the malice of the thirdlings. Perhaps he could find out what their intentions were. They had to be doing more than simply forging strange devices. They would surely have a grand plan.

He arrived in a second cavern, which was somewhat smaller than the first but similar in its arrangement. Here it was hotter still, because of the many furnaces at work on the platforms, with molten metal streaming out of them.

There was a dwarf-woman standing among the workers on the cavern floor. She was issuing instructions while sparks flew about her. Close by, white-hot metal was just being released; molten streams of alloy ran along the sand channels to the molds, where they would cool into shape.

That was all Rodario could see. He reached a door and found himself in one of the twisting polished stone corridors again, worming its way through the center of the mountain.

He met another guard keeping watch at one of the side doors, a false alf who attacked him with a ridiculous hiss.

“No grasp of character or motivation, but you want to be center stage,” laughed Rodario critically. He wasn’t afraid of a human in disguise. If it had been a real alf his reaction would have been different, no doubt. As it was, he could rely on considerable experience in fighting, even if he were a trifle rusty.

He walloped the guard’s spear aside and thrust the blunt end of his own weapon into his assailant’s groin, making him fall back in agony, “The alfar, you know, don’t hiss when they attack. Get it right next time. They are as silent as the night and as deadly as…” He searched for an appropriate simile. “… as… Oh what the hell.” He hit the man on the forehead with the blade of his spear and sent him unconscious to the floor of the passage.

“If you were standing guard in front of a door, there’s probably something valuable on the other side,” he addressed the man lying on the ground. He put one hand on the handle. “Let’s have a look.”

He pushed the handle down and rammed his shoulder against the wood, whirling into the room.

Clothes were strewn all over the place, the air was stuffy, smelling of stale food and there were papers everywhere, covering any flat surface and stuck up on the walls, each bearing sketches of eccentric-looking machines and strange apparatus.

Furgas was sitting on the bed, his legs crossed. His gray-green eyes stared straight through his old friend. He looked neglected, with a long beard, filthy clothes, and badly matted hair that reached down to his chest.

“Furgas! My dear Furgas!” called Rodario, hurrying over to him. “It’s me, the Incredible One.” He shook him by the shoulder, keeping on eye out for any more alfar approaching. “Get up. On your feet. This is the dramatic escape scene where the hero gets away and finally vanquishes evil forever. Well, that would be neat, anyway.” He dragged the lethargic figure of his friend to his feet. “Come on, we’re getting out of here.”

Furgas followed him like a reluctant child. “Rodario? What are you doing here? How did you find the island?” he murmured in a daze.

“It’s a long story,” Rodario answered as they stepped out into the corridor. “Prologue, then three or four acts, I reckon. It’s got the makings of a terrific series. Any idea how we get out of here?”

Furgas started to come round. “Depends whether we’ve dived yet.”

“Yes, we have.” The smell from Furgas took Rodario’s breath away. Sixty orbits without a bath was the minimum he must have had to produce body odor like that.

“Then there is no way out.”

“Furgas! Pull yourself together.” Rodario stared intently into his friend’s eyes. “If I managed to get onto this damned island, we will find a way to get off it.”

“But there are guards everywhere…”

“Nod’onn had orcs everywhere, the avatars had soldiers,” he retorted, playing down the dangers. “We beat them. It is our duty to return to Tungdil and the others to tell them about the thirdlings. Come along, for goodness’ sake!”

Now Furgas looked at him properly. “Rodario,” he smiled. “The Incredible Rodario. You’ve earned your name again.” He pointed to the left. “And you’re right. There’s a shaft that the hover-gas goes out through. We could escape through there and swim up to the surface. If we survive.”

“Are you sure?”

Furgas grinned at him, showing corn-yellow teeth that had not received any attention from a cleaning-root for a very long time. “I built the island. I should know its weaknesses.”

The door on their right flew open and five alfar stormed in; two of them carried bows. Bandilor pushed his way to the front with a two-handed ax at the ready.

“There he is, the play-actor,” he roared.

“Threaten me,” whispered Furgas to his friend, standing in front of him. “I’m too valuable to them-they won’t hurt me.”

Rodario couldn’t come up with a better solution, so he broke a spear from the wall in half and pushed the blade against his friend’s throat. “Get back, you rejects from a third-rate theater,” he called with disdain. “If you try and follow us I’ll kill him and you’ll have no one who can work your accursed island.”

And Bandilor actually stopped in his tracks. “Halt,” he ordered the guards. “We’ll get them later.”

“Get the island back up to the surface,” demanded Rodario.

But the thirdling shook his head. “We can’t do that. We’d have to collect enough hover-gas again. The ballast chambers are full.” He grinned maliciously. “You’ll have to give up.”

“We’ll do it the way I said,” Furgas mouthed to Rodario and started to walk backwards. “Through the bulkhead door, then we’ll bolt it from inside and disappear.”

It seemed like a mile to Rodario before they reached the opening. At last they got through to the next passage, closing the heavy iron door behind them and wedging the catch shut.

Furgas took the lead and steered them through the narrow tubes, climbing natural and artificial ladders until he forced himself through an opening. There he waited and held out his hand to Rodario. “Thank you for never giving up on me,” he said, emotion in his voice. “Without you I’d never have had the courage to escape. I’d lost the spirit ages ago.”

“What are friends for?” beamed Rodario. “And between ourselves, you’re the best props man any theater could have. The Curiosum can’t function without you.” He stepped into the shaft. “After you.”

Furgas moved aside. “No, you first. I’ve forgotten to release the flood-hatch safety mechanism.”

He crawled out again while Rodario started the ascent. It was quite a while before Furgas followed-but it was less of an effort for him to do so. Rodario was horrified to see how water rushed up in the tube, with Furgas on top, bobbing like a cork.

“There we are, that’s the easy way,” he said, spluttering proudly.

“Do you want to drown us?” Rodario exclaimed.

“No.” Furgas pointed up. “I can’t open the hatch until the passage is flooded. Otherwise the body of water surging in would hurl us back down again.” He smiled at the actor. “You still have no idea about technical matters, do you?”

“I always had you for the technical stuff,” laughed the showman, high on excitement. He was about to do the impossible: he had found his friend and was going to rescue him. “What are the thirdlings up to here?”

“They’re making machines. Death machines.” Furgas’s countenance grew dark. “Tell you later, Rodario. We need to save our breath.”

They reached the hatch, and as soon as the rest of the cavity was full of water, Furgas opened it to make the connection between the shaft and the waters of the lake.

Far above them the sunlight glittered with promise. They struggled to the surface with vigorous arm movements, but it was a tortuously slow process.

Rodario was running out of air. He took a breath against his will and swallowed water, but at that moment broke through above the waves and paddled around, coughing his lungs free. Furgas was also coughing up water. When they had got their breath back they looked around.

They were drifting in the middle of Weyurn’s lake and there was no sight of land.

“Some great escape that was,” Rodario said, blinking at the sun. He reckoned the island would shoot up next to them at any moment. But then to his relief he remembered what Bandilor had said: even if they wanted to, they couldn’t surface. Not yet.

“Well, we won’t die of thirst. There’s plenty to drink.”

“The gods are with us.” Furgas pointed over to the horizon. “There’s a boat!” He lifted his arms to wave, shouting and calling to get their attention. Rodario helped out to the best of his ability and soon the barge was heading over their way.

They were heaved on board and after Rodario told the mariners the story of Nightmare Island and how the sloop had foundered, the terrified captain steered an urgent course to Mifurdania, all sails set.

The two friends sat on deck exhausted, wrapped in the blankets the sailors had supplied.

“There’s a lot to tell,” said Furgas, his face serious. “I pray to Vraccas that the dwarf tribes can forgive me for my part in what has happened to them.”

“You? What do you mean…?”

He lowered his head. “Bandilor forced me to make vehicles. Vehicles to be run on the tunnel rails to bring death and destruction to the dwarf realms.” He wiped the water from his face and Rodario wasn’t sure whether there were tears there, too. “He’s planning something worse than that. The apparatus is ready,” he said quietly. “It will cost the lives of hundreds of dwarves.”

Rodario slapped him on the shoulder. “Only if we can’t prevent it, my friend. And we shall prevent it.” He smiled. “This diving, by the way, has one big advantage-apart from freedom, of course. Do you know what?” His smile became a wide grin. “You don’t stink anymore.”

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Idoslane,

Former Orc Territory of Toboribor

Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

D o you know what torture it is to live without your voice?”

This quiet sentence, spoken in the deepest mourning and despair, floated up to the roof of the cave, shattered against the rock and drifted back down again to the sintoit. He was wearing close-fitting clothing in black silk embroidered in dark green and was kneeling in front of a simple bed on which a sleeping female sintoi rested. A cloak the color of night lay over his shoulders; he held her pale left hand in his own, gloved in black velvet. The sintoi herself was similarly dressed.

“I see your wonderful face, I can touch your black hair and I cannot believe what has happened to us. Not even after five long cycles.” His graceful features, which would have entranced any human, grew dark. None was more beautiful than he. Apart, that is, from his sister, his beloved sister Nagsar Inaste.

“Inaste and Samusin have deserted us, dear sister. We are our own gods.” The deep-shadowed eye sockets turned disdainfully toward the rough-hewn ceiling of their meager accommodation. Nothing was properly finished, not even the walls. Those wretched orcs were good for nothing.

“This was never a place for us. Forgive me for having brought you here. It was not what I intended, but I had been too unwell.” He touched her forehead with his right hand and adjusted her hair. Even in this condition her beauty was greater than that of any elf. Weak creatures might expire at the mere sight of her, strong ones lose their wits. “When you wake, we will go to the Outer Lands and seek ourselves a new realm. Dson Balsur will be small and insignificant in comparison.” He smiled at her, and even the rock face seemed to admire the creature.

“Do you remember? I promised you I would find you a new home. It is now ready.” Carefully he lifted her up and carried her through the dark passageways of the empty orc realm. He was slim but anything but weak. A thousand opponents had lost their lives through that misconception. “I will show you.”

The unslayable one did not make the slightest of sounds as he walked; only his mantle rustled quietly as it brushed the stone. “You will like it, my sister. It is the only room in this plagued earth that I can ask you to endure in the coming orbits while you lie thus unwaking.” He walked past countless gallery openings but knew exactly where he was heading.

His path ended at the transept of a vaulted cave that he had prepared for her. The air was cool and pure and no longer heavy with heat and the foul smell of orcs. “We are here,” he said, softly.

The cavern measured fifty by fifty paces, and its highest point was forty paces up. From there a mighty dark stalactite hung, as if it were the tip of a titanic sword that some giant had rammed into the mountain. Its sharp end pointed to an altar of black basalt at the top of four steps. Alfar runes decorated it, and they told of the immortal beauty of Nagsar Inaste.

“I have polished the walls so that the paint holds better,” he said to the sleeper, as he studied the elaborate paintings rising all the way up to the stalactite. They showed Dson as it had been before the fire, in all its glory and crowned with a tower made of ivory. The capital of their realm might have been lost, but it lived on in pictorial form on these walls.

The unslayable one went up to the altar and strode over the countless crushed skeletons of orcs covering the floor. The bones hardly moved under the soles of his feet, but gave off wooden-sounding clicks.

“Do you hear, sister? I killed them all. Their inferior blood I used to paint the walls. They have paid for what they did to you,” he said to her. “I wish I had awakened earlier from my sleep to prevent the outrage they perpetrated on you.” He mounted the steps to the altar, and laid her carefully on it. With loving gestures he folded her hands in her lap, adjusted her dress and moved to her feet. “I will never forgive myself that they touched you and defiled your body,” he whispered, making a deep bow before her, and planting a kiss on the tips of her boots.

As always, not the slightest reaction showed on her countenance. There was not even a hint that she might be able to hear his words.

“It won’t be long now, beloved sister,” promised the unslayable. “I have shown myself to the humans. They will send their warriors here as I have planned. That gives us at last the opportunity to regain the diamond with which I can bring you back to life. For I know where they are going to take the remaining stones.” He laid his hands on her ankles. “Patience, Nagsar Inaste. What are a few more orbits for such as us, who have seen a thousand cycles come and go?”

Her face remained still.

“You want to know what has happened to the dregs of deformity that crawled out of your body?” He withdrew his hands and placed them on the hilts of his swords. “They serve us well. But I shall kill them so that nothing remains to remind us of your shame. Only our own true son may live.” His features produced a smile. “He is perfect, beloved sister. The purest blood and, thanks to the magic source, he has greater strength than any previous sintoit before him. Your eyes will find pleasure in him. You may be proud of what issued at last from our union. He appeared at the right time.” Again he kissed her feet, bowed and moved next to her to stroke her hand. “I shall leave you now. But do not worry. I shall return soon. With the diamond.”

The unslayable one went down the altar steps backwards, then turned and left the cool cave.

He had not wanted to say that he had doubts, that their true son had turned against him… and that he was still very weak.

I need that accursed stone. What took away my power shall restore it. He clenched his fists. Eternal damnation to the eoil.

It was the eoil who had thwarted the magic charm that was intended to save him and his sister from destruction.

He remembered.

He remembered everything.

He remembered how he had hung imprisoned in suspended animation, remembered the physical paralysis, the work of immense effort on the magic journey and the effect of the eoil’s interference.

Never before had he applied such a powerful spell or undertaken such a great risk. He and his sister had been protected from destruction in the caves but the price had been high.

He had been hurled into an abyss, separated from his sister and immobilized. His mind, however, had been constantly at work trying to work out where he was.

When evil orc fumes reached his nose he had started to realize that some of these low creatures had survived the unspeakable blast of light.

Captive in the remote tunnels, he remembered the warning lines in the old writings of his kingdom Dson, which had spoken of the eoil.

The eternal eoil. Apart from immortality and mutual hatred there was nothing to connect him to the age-old elf woman. The writings told only of the incredible power which the eoil was able to harness. And how to make it your own.

He needed this power urgently and thanks to those writings he knew the formula for acquiring it. When he had first heard of the avatars, he had sought out the verses, and learned them by heart, making them as much a part of himself as was with his love of Nagsar Inaste. The verses meant sovereignty and signified victory over the elves and their allies.

He could not have known what the eoil was intending to do in Porista. They had almost managed to avert it-but the eoil was too strong and had nearly annihilated him.

So he lay and waited until his body belonged to him, cycle after cycle he waited. He could do nothing.

Eventually the feeling had returned to his limbs and he had risen up. Furious and mad with concern about Nagsar he had searched all the passages until he found her.

She was lying half covered with a dirty cloth on a shabby table standing away from the wall; someone had placed a second cloth over her face to hide her terrible beauty. Her thighs had been forced wide apart and bruises and bloody marks betrayed the shameful acts wrought upon her.

Eight orcs had been sitting nearby playing cards and did not notice him. The orc with the winning hand had stood up to the jeers and complaints of the other players. His hand was at the buckle of his belt as he made his way to the table where Nagsar Inaste lay…

The unslayable one stopped in his tracks as he recalled the moment. Memories of that sight of his humiliated sister overcame him and forced him to seek support from the wall.

The first eight orcs he had killed more quickly than an arrow singing from the bow to its target. Then he had continued the carnage until the last of the beasts lay destroyed at his feet; dark green blood had flowed like water.

The countless acts of violation committed by the orcs against his sister in past cycles had left five hideous fruits. When he discovered the bastards in a neighboring cave he had nearly beheaded them all, but then a groundling had appeared and suggested a pact. A good pact, which he had agreed to. The creatures could be made use of, though he would not spare them once they had fulfilled their role.

The unslayable one struggled for breath and forced himself to walk on. He entered the chamber where his armor was kept. Piece by piece he took it down off the stand and put it on. His thoughts moved to his son, a pure-bred sintoit.

In order to show his paralyzed sister that he was with her once more he had made love to her devotedly after he had killed the orcs, giving her the kind of pain and passion that a sintoi desires. To compensate for the five ugly beings that had crawled out of her body, she had then borne him a son. Hundreds of cycles they had waited for such a one, and finally in the midst of all this horror the longed-for event had occurred.

But on returning from the magic wellspring, disappointment had followed. The son had turned against him; he did not understand his task and refused to take it on. I hope I can change his mind. Nagsar Inaste must not be disappointed in him. He tightened the final chain; his armor was ready.

Now he would have to be watchful and guard the entrances. The scout girl that had escaped would bring the army. But until he had completed his preparations, no soldier should enter the depths of Toboribor. Not until the helpless Nagsar Inaste had opened her eyes.

He drew his swords out of their sheaths, studying them in the lamplight. He was pleased to see how immaculate the blades were. In spite of the intense use they had been put to they showed neither scratches nor notches.

It doesn’t matter to them whether they slice through tough flesh or thick iron, he thought, and gave a vicious smile thinking back to the orcs he had slaughtered. He had sprung among them, his swords taking three or four lives with one swipe, while they had writhed and yelled. They are simply too slow; they cannot stand up to risen gods. I have never understood why the humans fear them.

Those three hundred orcs had been the beginning.

He put the swords back again in their sheaths. Only serve me as you have done, my good friends. Let us bring such fear to the humans that they are too dazzled to see our true intentions.

The unslayable one fastened his long black hair back under a black cloth and put his helmet on his head. The beauty of his face, not to be revealed to any other than Nagsar Inaste, disappeared behind the visor.

It would be wasted on others.

Girdlegard,

The North of the Kingdom of Gauragar,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

E ven at the beginning now of the cycle’s best season, Girdlegard was wreathed in a sense of depression. Although Nature was at its most bountiful, the sun warm, the first harvests in and delicious fruits ripening, promising variety for jaded palates, it was not enough to lighten the mood.

In the interim, the human kingdoms had learned of uncanny and terrible events. The rumors did not merely furnish descriptions of the monsters. Each tale spoke of threats and dangers, made greater by a hundredfold every time it was retold.

“Have you heard? Now it’s said they can fly, become invisible or transform themselves into a mountain.” Goda rode along a little ahead and to the side of Ireheart and Tungdil. Behind them there followed a troop of dwarf warriors, male and female; they were escorting the diamond from the Gray Range to Immengau. They had ten small armored wagons with them and in each was a newly made imitation of the diamond they were taking to Paland.

It had been Tungdil’s idea to increase the number of stones in the hope of complicating things for would-be thieves, be they undergroundlings, pink-eyed orcs, monsters or the immortal unslayables. The fourthlings were busy producing yet more copies.

“You forgot to add that one glance is enough to kill a grown man and that they spit fire,” sighed Tungdil. They heard these stories everywhere. The latest rumor of the return of an unslayable sovereign, one of the mightiest of the alfar, had brought deep and widespread fear. “I can understand the long-uns being worried,” he mused. “If one of the immortal alfar has managed to survive the effect of the Star of Judgment, then I would think, if I were a human, that maybe more of them survived.”

“That was rumor number seventy-three,” said Goda flatly. “There’s an army collecting in Toboribor ready to send out raiding parties.”

Ireheart turned to her in surprise. “You’re really keeping score?”

She grinned. “Of course. It’s helpful to see how quickly a handful of enemies can become an undefeatable army. The monsters got bigger, more terrible and impossible to vanquish, as we moved through the villages. We didn’t beat that thing in the vaults but we could have done.”

Tungdil looked back at their troop. All was in order.

“And in the last town there were the first rumors of a powerful artifact in Paland.” Goda looked at Tungdil. “People have noticed that soldiers from all the different kingdoms are gathering in the old fortress.”

“But no dwarves,” muttered Ireheart.

Tungdil knew that this fact, widely known, was fomenting talk about quarrels between dwarves and elves, dwarves and humans, the high king of the dwarves and the kings of the human realms.

“Have you heard number seventy-four?” Goda loved being able to tease her master with news. “These monsters can steal a maidenhead with a single word.”

“If I have to listen to this nonsense a moment longer I shall put wax in my ears,” said Boindil bad-temperedly. “You’d almost think people prefer the bad news to the good.”

“You may be right there,” nodded Goda. “It is a thing the humans do, seeing the bad side rather than praising the good.”

“They aren’t all like that.” Tungdil softened the reproof, knowing that what the dwarf-girl was saying was largely true. He found it worrying since she had only recently come into contact much with humans. “We can hardly tell them the truth, can we? We’re lucky the ordinary folk have no idea what the monsters are really after. The secret of the diamond’s power has been kept so far.”

“Yes, you’re right again there.” Boindil slipped from the saddle, preferring to walk beside his small horse. His buttocks were too sore. “I’ll never really get used to this way of traveling. It may be quicker, but your bottom gets as broad as the pony you ride on.”

Without saying a word Goda also dismounted. She was persevering with Ireheart’s instructions, and was capable now of physical feats that surprised both of the dwarves.

If Tungdil were not mistaken there had been a slight change in his friend’s attitude toward the girl: he looked at her more often than before, and did so not with the eyes of a master observing an apprentice but with the eyes of dwarf attracted to dwarf-woman. Like now.

“Does she please you?” he asked with a smile.

“What?” Boindil jerked upright and even blushed a little. He immediately turned his gaze to the road.

“In the progress she’s making?” said Tungdil, making the question more objective.

“Oh yes, of course,” answered Boindil in relief. He looked at his friend. “But that’s not what you meant, is it?”

Tungdil only grinned and pointed to the wood on their left. It had to be the easternmost point of Alandur, or at least it was composed of the same trees that grew in the elf groves. “It’s time for a break.”

He had the troop stop in the cool shade and rest a while. Even if the children of the Smith regularly did guard duty on the surface, a long march such as this was unusual for most of them.

Ireheart left Goda to keep watch. When they had moved away from her, he took up the thread once more. “You are right, Scholar,” he sighed. “It makes me happy to see her. And I am dreading the day when she leaves.”

“You will have her with you for a long time yet. It will take cycles for a good warrior-girl to be trained.” Tungdil winked, but then he grew serious. “You’ve really fallen for her.”

Boindil sat down, one hand on his weapon. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? My heart is on fire. It was her that re-awoke my lust for fighting. And I know that it can’t go anywhere. I killed a relative of hers. Goda will never see me any other way. She will hate me. I can sense it, even though she hides her true feelings.”

Tungdil thought back to the conversation with Balyndis. He did not tell his friend that Goda had originally arrived with the intention of killing him. Now would not be a good time to tell him that. Instead he said, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Oh, do you think she likes me? After I murdered her grandma?”

“You’ll have to find out.”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I courted a dwarf-girl, Scholar?” Ireheart gave a helpless sigh.

“Somebody told me that you have to rub them with their favorite cheese and then spin them round four times to win their heart,” laughed Tungdil, citing the not entirely serious advice the twin-dwarf had once given him. “But really-just be yourself.” Those had been Boendal’s words of wisdom. “She’s a thirdling. She has no clan, no family. That should make it easier for you. You don’t have to impress or convince anybody else.”

He thought back ruefully to when he had first spoken to the father of Balyndis. He had been rejected out of hand, but in the end she had remained resolute and had left husband and clan for his sake and for their love. Now the bond between them was breaking, and the recriminations that he leveled at himself could not be dismissed. He felt he had betrayed her, but knew they could no longer live as man and wife.

“Oh, Vraccas,” said Ireheart despairingly. “It’s all too much. An honest fight and you know where you are. But this love stuff… it’s complicated.”

Tungdil did not envy his friend’s state of mind and hoped that things would work out for him. “Stick with it and wait for the right moment.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “And whatever you do, don’t listen to what others in your clan have to say about it.”

Ireheart grinned. “Oh, I have no reputation left to lose. You forget-I’m a friend of yours, Scholar.”

A rider was approaching them from the south. At first, given the rider’s size, they took it to be a child on horseback but they soon saw they were mistaken. Dark clothing, a scarf round the head, full saddlebags clanking.

“The executioner again?” Boindil was surprised. “Can’t just be coincidence.”

“It won’t be coincidence.”

“Then send him packing if he tries to join us here. I don’t trust him.”

“Wait and see.”

Bramdal pulled up his horse where Tungdil and Boindil were resting. “Greetings,” he laughed down at them. “Mind if I join you for a breather?”

“So, have you finished your business in Porista?” To Boindil’s surprise, Tungdil gestured for him to sit with them. “We’ve got some tea if you want.”

“Great.” Bramdal reached behind and pulled out a kind of rope ladder. He stepped onto it out of the stirrup, and from there down onto the grass. “Neat, eh?” he grinned. “I thought, why should a dwarf go slowly on a pony when he can go fast on a horse? So I came up with this contraption and got the saddle made.”

Ireheart shook his head and looked up. The executioner had chosen a particularly tall mount. “You won’t get me up on one of those.”

“But there’s a very good view.” Bramdal followed Tungdil over to where the tea was brewing. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. What brings you to the north?” asked Tungdil.

“I’m heading back to Hillchester.” Bramdal blew gently on his hot tea. “King Bruron wants me to start a school.”

“For executioners, I assume.”

“Absolutely. He didn’t want it to be in Porista, for fear of tarnishing his new capital city’s reputation,” grinned the dwarf. “Although I only carry out the letter of the law. Odd, isn’t it? The humans set the death penalty and then want nothing to do with it.”

Tungdil smiled. “We didn’t come across each other in Porista.”

“No, I’ll have been too busy.” Bramdal winked. “You don’t believe me. What do you think then? That I’m a spy for the dwarf-haters?”

“Yes,” Ireheart jumped in, his hands on the crow’s beak handle.

Bramdal laughed out loud, sounding genuinely amused. His gaze went past the warrior over to Goda, and his curiosity was aroused. “A fine-looking dwarf-girl. She looks nice and strong. I bet she wields her weapon with a strong hand. Excellent material for an executioner.”

“Leave her alone,” was Boindil’s immediate response. “She is my pupil,” he added quickly. “If she’s going to be doing any beheading then it’ll be orc heads that roll.” He was getting hot and bothered, the blood surging in his ears. Was it jealousy?

“I understand. Your pupil,” said Bramdal with a grin, leaving his true meaning unspoken. He sipped his tea. “I was talking to Gordislan Hammerfist in Porista. He’s worried about Trovegold: it’s been attacked.”

Tungdil let out his breath. “Thirdling machines?”

“No, it was sabotage.” Bramdal looked serious. “The sluice on the dam was jammed full open and a third of Trovegold left under water. The townspeople eventually managed to repair the damaged sluice, otherwise even more of the freelings would have drowned.”

“How many were lost?” Ireheart wanted to know.

“Two hundred and eleven. More than thirty houses will have to be rebuilt.” He lowered his eyes despondently. “No, it wasn’t the dwarf-haters’ machines; they can’t reach us through the cave network. They’re using other methods of attack.” He poured himself some more tea. “The worst thing is there’s no one to actually blame. The guards out at the sluice were all killed. Nobody saw the murderers.”

“That’s terrible.” Tungdil was moved.

“The flood means Trovegold is a hotbed of suspicion now. There are accusations it was the clan-dwarves and not the thirdlings at all. They think wealth is causing envy amongst the dwarf folks-they all want our vraccasium and gold. One of the dwarves in the fourthling clan assembly is supposed to have said we were trying to curry favor with Vraccas with all these sacrifices and donations, and that it’s unfair and has got to be stopped. Others suggested the leaders want to force the dwarves back into the dwarf realms again.” Bramdal was silent, waiting for a reaction.

“Rubbish,” thundered Ireheart. “The mountains have enough gold to fill that town’s entire cave. Why would the secondlings or whoever want the outcasts’ gold?”

Tungdil leaned back against a tree, closing his eyes. “Soon the thirdlings will be getting the blame whenever anything happens. Suspicion will be rampant and no one will trust anyone anymore. That’s just what the dwarf-haters wanted, of course.” He looked up. “Bramdal, wherever you hear talk like that, tell them to pay no attention. The more discord there is, the quicker the dwarf-haters will have achieved their goal.”

The executioner nodded. “That’s what Gordislan Hammerfist said. I’m sure you know how hard it is to put such rumors down.” He placed his empty cup on the grass. “I’ll be off. Perhaps we’ll meet again. If we do, you mustn’t think straightaway I’m one of the bad ones,” he said to Ireheart. He got up and climbed onto his horse again. With his boot he fished for the patent ladder, pulling it up behind him. “May Vraccas bless you.” He lifted his hand in farewell and rode off.

Tungdil and Boindil watched him go. “Do you know what gets me?” Tungdil asked his friend. “He never wanted to know what we’ve got in the wagons.”

“I was right. He’s definitely a spy.” Boindil stood determined, hands on his hips.

Tungdil smiled. “Because he fancied Goda?”

“No,” said the twin. “Well, yes, because of that, too.” He sighed.

“Master! Tungdil!” called Goda. “Over here! I’ve found something!”

“Perhaps it’s your heart?” Tungdil teased Ireheart, who jabbed him in the ribs.

“Let’s hear no more of this sentimental nonsense,” he growled, getting up and running over. Tungdil followed him. It was still strange to see his friend without his long black braided plait.

Goda was kneeling by a bush, and she pushed the branches apart when the two dwarves came over. “Look!”

Amongst the foliage and purple flowers elf features were visible. The elf lay as if dead, with eyes closed and a few withered leaves on his face.

There were three arrows sticking out from the elf’s chest. The arrows had penetrated the leather armor and earth-colored clothing under it. Judging by the splendor of the finely embroidered garments this must be a high-status elf. The fact he wore only a limited amount of armor suggested he had been hunting. His camp was probably not be far away.

“He’s breathing!” said Ireheart, astonished, as he saw the chest move almost imperceptibly. “Well, these pointy… I mean, these elves, are tougher than they look!”

“Give me a hand.” Tungdil was sitting the injured elf up carefully so he could inspect the arrows. Two broke off, the third was still in the body. “By Vraccas! Those are elf arrows!”

“If it were one arrow, I’d think it was an accident,” said Ireheart. He studied the elf’s bloodstained back. “But with three I’d say it’s out of the question. Unless they choose to hunt their own kind.”

“Why would elves be killing each other?” Tungdil looked at the face. “Or perhaps we should be asking, why did they want to kill him ?”

“The arrows could be a trick-forgeries,” suggested Goda. “The thirdlings, perhaps?”

“No. They’d have used crossbows to put the blame on us. And they’d have dragged the body somewhere more public. And they wouldn’t have left the poor devil alive,” replied Tungdil. “No. This elf has been shot by his own kind. Either they’ve left him for dead, or he ran away and they lost him.”

Boindil regarded their unusual find. “What shall we do with him? Those wounds are deep. He’s not going to last long.”

Tungdil glanced at the wagons. “We’ll take him with us. If the elves wanted him dead, I want to know the reason.” He couldn’t remember reading about any internal strife in Alandur, but the strange conduct of the elf delegates, their secret message in invisible ink, the stone, those new buildings that had been kept hidden-they could all have some connection to this injured elf.

Perhaps it was a question of a personal vendetta or a high-ranking criminal who’d been challenged and pursued. No one knew how the elf folk managed their own affairs in the forests and groves. Anything was possible.

“Let’s make sure he stays alive and can open his eyes soon.” Tungdil called some of the other soldiers over so they could help carry the elf. They put him in one of the wagons, cushioning him on furs and skins. One of their healers saw to his wounds.

Tungdil gave the troop the order to move on. He wanted to make good use of the rest of the orbit’s sunlight to get as far as possible away from Alandur’s borders. It was not forbidden to transport injured elves in wagons, but it wasn’t the normal thing for a dwarf to be doing. If the worst came to the worst the dwarves might be accused of kidnapping.

So the troop trundled off toward the south with what now was a doubly sensitive cargo.

Whether he wanted to or not, Ireheart had to get back in the saddle again. Otherwise he’d be slowing everyone down. And as Goda did not seem to mind riding, he kept quiet himself. It would not make a good impression for the master to be making a fuss if the pupil was not complaining.

“Who was the dwarf you were talking to?” she enquired.

“No one you need to know about,” Ireheart replied rudely.

Goda raised her eyebrows. “A child of the Smith, riding on a full-size horse-unusual.”

“He’s not unusual. He’s an executioner.” Boindil was unsettled by her curiosity. “He kills criminals for the long-uns. For money.”

“Is his name Bramdal Masterstroke?” she asked excitedly.

Ireheart growled, “Yes. Why?”

“I’ve heard a lot about him. He fought at Blacksaddle and in Porista, they say. He killed ninety orcs all by himself. And a hundred avatars,” she enthused. “I’d love to meet him.”

“Pah, that’s nothing compared to what Tungdil and I have done. Or compared with the number of snout-faced orcs we two’ve split down the middle.” He turned round in the saddle to face her. “Forget about Bramdal. He may be a legend in his time but not in my eyes. Don’t trust him. Now, no more talk of him.”

She stared at him in surprise. “Yes, master.” She looked helplessly over to Tungdil, who shrugged his shoulders to say it was none of his business.

When the sun gave way to the night, Tungdil led his troop to the bank of a swift-flowing river, so that they could not be attacked from all sides at once. He wasn’t happy near water, because it brought back too many disturbing personal memories, but the security of their mission was paramount.

The team were lifting down the injured elf and starting to release the ponies from their traces. That’s when it happened.

The ponies whinnied and one after another reared up, kicking, and pulling away. With nothing to restrain them now, they made off along the river bank as if pursued by invisible spirits.

Tungdil knew why they had suddenly panicked and bolted. He had seen tiny bunches of feathers in the animals’ flanks. Blow-pipe arrows. And arrows did not just happen. Enemies had been following unseen hard on their heels, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

“To arms!” he called. “Undergroundlings!”

Ireheart and Goda hurried over while the other dwarves raced after the runaway wagons. “Why d’you say undergroundlings?” Boindil asked his friend. He looked around but saw nothing. Thirty dwarves were at their side now, axes and shields at the ready, but there was nobody to fight yet. “It might have been Bramdal.”

“No. The ponies were shot at with blow-pipes to make them bolt,” he said. “We didn’t see the attackers. That means they could just as easily have killed the lot of us. But they didn’t.”

Shouts and frenzied whinnying caught their attention. The entire mounted unit had crashed to the ground, ponies struggling in the dust. A rope had been spanned across their path at knee height, abruptly stopping their pursuit. Some were stunned, or unable to rise, but the others jumped bravely back into the saddle despite their cuts and bruises and took off after the wagons.

“It was a trap,” growled Ireheart, his head down between his shoulders. “Come out here, you bare-faced cowards!” he yelled, stepping forward in challenge. “That’s not how a dwarf fights! If you’ve a proper dwarf amongst you, come out, instead of skulking in the undergrowth like some scurvy gnome!”

There was a rustling and cracking in the reeds twenty paces off.

Ireheart’s eyes flashed. “We’re off to mow a meadow, Goda!” He stormed off, the dwarf-girl following boldly.

In Tungdil’s imagination there rose the image of the dead twin Boendal at his friend’s side in the place of the young thirdling girl. With Goda trained to the peak of perfection, these two would make as good a fighting partnership as the brothers had always done. “After them!” he commanded. “Try not to kill any undergroundlings. They have spared us harm where they could.”

A posse fanned out into the mass of thin grasses that stood four times as high as their heads.

Tungdil hoped they would find one of the strange dwarves. Otherwise there was no chance of regaining the diamonds they had already lost to the undergroundlings.

The further they moved in amongst the tall grasses the paler that hope became. They had reached the far side of the reeds without coming across a soul.

“Over there!” called Goda, pointing to a figure heading for an incline to the side of the grass stalks. Taller than a dwarf, but too small to be a human.

Tungdil swung round and chased after the undergroundling, Goda and Ireheart at his side. The other dwarves were too far away to overtake their quarry.

The fugitive disappeared over the brow of the hill, the three dwarves in hot pursuit, not losing or gaining any ground all the while.

“This isn’t working,” muttered Boindil, raising his crow’s beak hammer and hurling it as he ran. “Fly, hammer, and stop him!” he called after it.

Whirling round in circles during flight, the heavy weapon covered the intervening distance with ease. The blunt end hit the undergroundling on the thigh, bringing him to the ground. He slid downhill on the slippery wet grass, and lay there groaning.

“A masterly throw,” Tungdil complimented him. He had been afraid the weapon’s mighty spur, as long as a forearm, would bury itself in the undergroundling’s back and kill him stone dead. Ever since Ireheart had regained his love of fighting there was no holding him back.

“Never throw your weapon unless you have a spare one with you,” Goda mocked. “Master, you-”

“Ho, not so fast.” Boindil raised his broad fist. “I’ve still got these two weapons, pupil mine. They’re quite sufficient for an opponent like this one. If it was orcs I’d have had to think of something else.”

“You’re making excuses,” she complained. “If I’d done that you’d have made me drag heavy beams about or do some other useless task.”

“Yes,” he admitted with a laugh. “But that’s because I’m the master.”

They reached the injured undergroundling, who was trying to sit up. Tungdil knelt by him and laid him back down. “Take it easy,” he said reassuringly. “We don’t mean you any harm.”

It was a dwarf, definitely, even if there was no beard, even if the facial features were much harder, the stature somewhat taller and the skin darker than usual. The hair was braided and dyed dark green, dark blue and black. It grew back from the middle of the skull, with the hairless brow displaying tattooed designs.

He wore no armor. The only protection against weather and weapons alike was thick leather clothing. On his feet were thin-soled leather boots. And one of those very boots delivered a sharp kick to Tungdil’s chin, sending him flying.

As he fell backwards he heard Ireheart shout out, then his friend landed in a heap on top of him, his nose streaming blood.

“He kicked me!” said Ireheart, amazed, wiping the blood away. “The scoundrel kicked me like a dog!” He sprang up in a fury. “I’ll tear him apart with my bare hands, the baldy-patch!”

Tungdil stood up and saw the undergroundling was escaping with practiced ease from the wrestling holds Goda was attempting. In a swift counter-move he gripped her forearm and shoulder and used her own body weight to throw her. She crashed to the ground.

“Don’t kill him, Boindil!” he shouted.

Ireheart’s wild attack would not go well, at least not for the warrior twin.

In fact the undergroundling moved neatly and fast as if dancing with his opponent. As soon as an opportunity presented itself he would grab a handhold on a belt or the mail shirt and use the leverage it gave him.

This time it was the weapon belt. Ireheart was lifted up again, crashing down onto his front, cursing so viciously that the setting sun had to seek the shelter of the nearby clouds.

“He’s cracked my bones!” he shouted, pounding the grass with his fist. “By Vraccas, what a bastard! That’s not fighting! That’s cobold tricks!”

The undergroundling limped off at a run.

Tungdil chased him, glad he had got back his old stamina. Forty orbits ago he would not have been able to run like this and would have collapsed in a gasping heap. “Stop! We need to talk about the diamonds!” he called. “They’re important for us.”

The undergroundling certainly wasn’t paying any attention to his words but Boindil’s hammer-throw had taken its toll.

After two hundred paces on the open plain Tungdil got close enough to launch himself on his opponent, bringing him down, but even as they fell the undergroundling, with remarkable agility and slippery as an eel, turned and twisted under him and would have escaped if Goda had not whacked him over the head with the handle of her night star flail. He sank down unconscious.

“Thanks, Goda,” gasped Tungdil, sitting on top of their captive to tie him up, hand and foot, using their belts. He wouldn’t get away now.

When he searched the undergroundling’s pockets he found a number of the red-feathered blow-pipe arrows. And a little bottle with an evil-smelling liquid, which he assumed was a poison for the arrow tips.

Ireheart lumbered up. “Next time he’ll have to use a proper weapon for a proper dwarf,” he said crossly, holding his left hand pressed against his chest. He examined the captive with his eyes. “What? Only a dagger?”

The undergroundling’s eyelids fluttered and opened. He did not struggle anymore, knowing that escape was impossible now. He studied the faces of his captors. “Let me go,” he said in a striking low voice with a harsh accent. It sounded aristocratic-like the tones Rodario sometimes adopted to make fun of people. “I’ve done nothing to you.”

“Done nothing?” Ireheart pointed to his right shoulder. “You’ve dislocated my shoulder with your damned wrestling throws.”

“You tried to kill me. If I had wanted to kill you I would have done so,” was the reply. “So don’t complain.”

Ireheart laughed in disbelief. “Hark at that! By Vraccas, have you been chewing on the old hulto-herb?”

Tungdil signaled to him not to go overboard. Goda stepped up to her master’s side and was granted a look of grateful praise, because it was down to her that they even had a captive to interrogate. Her proud smile calmed him in a trice.

“I am Tungdil Goldhand. This is Boindil Doubleblade and this, Goda Flameheart. Many of our people have lost friends and family in trying to protect the diamond that you want to steal from us. What is it about?”

Some of the other dwarves had come up to join them now. Someone told Tungdil in a whisper that the wagons had been found. The chests containing the stones had all been broken open and the stones had gone.

“We don’t steal. We take back what is rightfully ours,” said the undergroundling. “It was a broka that took them and carried them off. We had been searching for many star-courses before the ubariu told us where they were.”

“What’s a broka?”

He thought for a while before replying. “You’d say elf-woman.”

Tungdil nodded to Ireheart. “As I thought. We called her eoil and she brought terror to Girdlegard. But she gave the stone amazing power.”

“It always was a powerful artifact,” the undergroundling responded. “And it doesn’t alter the fact that the diamond’s ours.”

“Can you take us to your leader?” Tungdil untied the belt on the captive’s hands, and then the bonds round his feet and stood back up. “Your attacks must stop. We all need a solution.” He held out his hand to help him up.

“Scholar, they’re in league with the orcs,” Ireheart warned. “I don’t think we can trust them.”

The undergroundling pretended not to hear the objection, and stood up without taking the proffered hand. “I’ll take you where you can wait for Sundalon. That’s all.” He brushed the grass off his clothing.

“The three of us will come with you. You take the lead.” Tungdil gave orders for the other dwarves to wait back at camp. “Do you have a name?”

“Yes. I do.” He nodded and limped off. Boindil was pleased about the limp. It made up for the appalling pain in his arm.

Suddenly he felt Goda’s hand on his right shoulder. Her other hand grasped his arm, forcing it backwards. He gritted his teeth as the bone slotted back into its socket. For one moment their faces were very close. He could feel her breath on his skin.

“Forgive me, master. The less time you have to tense up, the easier it is to deal with the dislocation.”

“It’s fine,” he said and smiled at her. Not as her master, but as a dwarf. A dwarf in love. Then he cleared his throat, moved swiftly to the side and stepped past her. “Come on, let’s catch up. We don’t want to abandon the scholar.”

Goda had noticed the difference in the smile. That would explain his over-reaction when she had gone on about Bramdal. “Oh, Vraccas.” She gave a deep sigh and followed.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Thirty-eight Miles West of Porista,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T he wagons hurtled through the landscape. The Curiosum had seldom been in such a tearing hurry to get to the next venue.

The reason was obvious. Furgas must inform the rulers what had happened on the thirdling island. But there was going to be a real problem with that.

“And he still hasn’t spoken a word?” Tassia asked again as she sat next to her lover on the driving seat of the first wagon, tossed about as the vehicle rattled along. “So he’s just sitting around mending props and his theater gadgets from the old days?”

“Yup. His mind is busy trying to forget what he’s gone through these past five cycles.” Rodario slowed the wagon; he had seen a place off the road where they could camp for the night. It was important none of the vehicles damaged an axle now when the end of the journey was practically in sight.

They made a circle with the caravans. Rodario helped Tassia down and tried-though not very hard-to avoid looking down her cleavage. “Oh, now I know what I’ve been missing.” He grinned and then kissed her.

She laughed and tapped him with a pile of papers she had been sitting on. “And how many women did you gladden in Mifurdania while I was busy taking my troupe north?”

“Your troupe, eh?” he said with emphasis, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m back now, my girl, and I’ll have you know that I am in charge of the Curiosum again. Or have you been inciting the troupe to revolution with your pretty eyes and your charming mouth?”

She placed a forefinger under his chin. “That is the way of it, my love. I’ve slept with every man in the theater company and made them all my slaves. The women never liked me in the first place. You may be the emperor of the acting fraternity, but there’s a new queen in the realm.” Tassia was only half speaking in jest.

Rodario had certainly noticed that his instructions were only carried out when Tassia gave the nod. He thought it was a joke at first. “No, you don’t mean it,” he said uncertainly.

“Have another look at your play. I’ve changed it a bit. It’s better now.” She spoke confidently and pressed the papers into his hand, grinning at him. She planted a passionate kiss on his lips, then hurried off to help Gesa with the meal.

Rodario watched her go and scratched his head. “That woman has a demon in her blood,” he muttered. “If I’d known that before, I’d never have agreed to the deal back in Storm Valley.” He went round to the back door of the caravan and let down the ladder to sit on, while the crew took the horses out of the shafts and led them off to be fed and watered.

In the light of the setting sun he skimmed through what Tassia had changed on his playscript.

He was annoyed to find himself laughing out loud at several of the new ideas she had added. She had certainly shown her talents here. Rodario had come across many works by experienced playwrights that were nowhere as good as this.

He surfaced eventually as thirst and concern for Furgas made themselves felt. He got up and went up the narrow steps. “Furgas?”

While he waited for an answer he turned his head to watch Tassia. She was laughing with Gesa. The women were having a potato-peeling race. Anyone in the troupe who was not busy with other work had gathered at the fireside to be near the warmth of this delightful girl. Rodario realized that she had been telling the truth. The Curiosum was now securely in Tassia’s strong and capable hands. He had trained her. She had been his muse.

“By Palandiell, I can’t have that!” murmured the dethroned emperor. “I must have a quiet word with the young lady.”

He was starting back down the steps when he heard a moan coming from the caravan.

“Furgas?” He opened the door without further ado. His friend was lying on the floor covered in blood. Furgas had slashed his own wrists with deep lengthwise cuts and had fainted from the blood loss.

“What the…?” Rodario rushed in, grabbed a sheet and tore it into strips to bind the gashes. “What were you thinking of?” he yelled at Furgas, pulling him upright. “I didn’t rescue you just so’s you could kill yourself.”

“It’s the guilt,” whispered Furgas. “I built machines designed to bring death to the dwarves.” He was struggling to regain control. He swayed again, but Rodario had him fast.

“Go easy on yourself, my friend. They forced you to do it…”

“I could have killed myself instead of doing what they demanded, but…” He looked the actor in the eyes. “First they sent drilling rigs through the old blocked mine galleries trying to get through. Then the death machines followed.” He wiped his eyes. “The machines…”

Rodario gave him a cup of water. “Take it easy.”

“I can’t take it easy. Have you heard what the people are saying? Those monsters of flesh and steel?” He swallowed, his hands gripping the cup convulsively. “They are all my work. The thirdlings are in league with the immortal siblings,” he said, trying to keep his voice level.

Rodario felt icy fingers up and down his spine. “No.” He saw Tassia’s face at the door, not moving lest she intrude. She stood in the doorway listening.

“Yes.” Furgas gave a bitter laugh. “Bandilor came to me and showed me some weird sketches of disgusting hybrid creatures to be made partly of iron. He had the formula for the alloy that can conduct magic, and had stolen some of the embers from the fifthlings’ dragon-forge. He used that to make the alloy and I made the machines from it following his instructions. I built them, not knowing what he wanted to do with them.” He turned pale.

“Then they came. I remember exactly… We came to the surface and they were brought to us. Ugly little bastard-hybrids of orc and alf-the biggest no older than four cycles. Bandilor took the island to a secret location somewhere in the lake and sank it to the bottom. Then we put the bastards in the machines, screwed and hammered them all up tight, cut off their limbs and attached in their place the things Bandilor brought. Glass or crystals, I don’t know which. He pushed the rods of magic-conducting metal through the small bodies and threw the little bastards into a hole he had dug. They screamed. Oh, how they screamed.”

He shuddered with the horror of the images he was bringing to mind. “Green lightning shot up out of the hole and into the iron. Alfar runes flamed and flared and these hybrids… they grew and they screeched. Their bodies became fused with the contraptions. With my contraptions.” He emptied the cup. “I don’t know how long it took. Then Bandilor had the island brought up to the surface and I never saw the creatures again. Till we heard about them on the journey.”

He fell silent. All about them was quiet for some time.

Tassia had goosebumps all over as her imagination conjured up these horrific beings, filling her with terror. “Ye gods!” she breathed. “How awful!”

Rodario, too, needed some time to recover from what he had heard. His own technical theater-genius had created his masterpieces. Masterpieces of destruction and cruelty, driven by evil and suffused with the will to wreak havoc and death. “You are not the guilty one,” he breathed finally, helping Furgas over to the bed to sit down. He poured out wine, which his friend gulped down.

Furgas was shaking all over. “I don’t deserve to live, Rodario,” he said, despairingly. “Of course the thirdlings forced me to do these things but I carried out my tasks with precision. I did my work only too well.” He clenched his fists. “All the time I was thinking about Narmora and my children. I served the thirdlings well in order to avenge myself on the dwarves and on Girdlegard for what happened when they took my family. Only toward the end did I realize what harm I was causing to humans, elves and dwarves.” He emptied the wineglass and closed his eyes. “I… feel giddy,” he whispered and fell sideways onto the pillows. Wine and blood loss were taking their toll.

“Sleep as long as you can,” Rodario told his friend kindly. He covered him with a blanket and wiped the blood from the floor. He would scrub the floorboards later. “And don’t touch the knives.” He left the caravan, pulling the door to behind him.

He sat himself on the steps with the bottle of wine and watched the last rays of the setting sun. He took a swig of wine and passed the bottle to Tassia.

“What did he mean about his family being taken?” she asked hesitatingly. “I thought it had happened at the battle of Porista?”

He put his arm around her and pulled her to him, looking her deep in the eyes; imagining all of a sudden what it would be like to lose her forever, he felt a wave of fear surge through his being. He kissed her tenderly.

Tassia was aware of the difference between this and his usual passionate embraces: a kiss now not of desire but of such deep emotion that not even a poet would have been able to describe it. She smiled at him and put a hand to his face. “What was that for?”

Rodario sighed. “His life’s companion, Narmora, was a half-alf. She fought with us on the side of good against Nod’onn and then was apprenticed to the last of the magae, Andokai the Tempestuous. She took the maga’s place and protected Girdlegard from avatars and the eoil. But in return for her efforts, the alf part of her was burnt to ashes. The Star of Judgment knew no mercy. Not for her…”

“… or her children?” Tassia continued, shocked and saddened. “How terrible. Poor Furgas.”

“After the battle he blamed dwarves and humans alike for their deaths. If they had let the avatars have their way, he used to say in his utter despair, there would have been fewer victims in Girdlegard. They would have destroyed the evil in the form of the alfar and then they would have withdrawn. Without letting the Star of Judgment rise. And he could have been a contented father.” He looked past her to the red of the dying sun. “Sometimes I wonder if perhaps he was right.”

She was silent, took a mouthful of wine and passed the bottle back to him.

“I’d be lying if I said I’d understood him at the time. Now I’m able to imagine what it must have been like for him.” He stretched out a hand to stroke her hair. “I pray to the gods I’ll never be put in that situation. Like him I should hate-hate and hunt down-to the end of my days, anyone who caused me such pain.”

She took his hand and laid it on her cheek.

So they sat until darkness fell. Rodario looked in on the patient, now sleeping soundly, then he and Tassia moved over to the campfire to join the rest of the troupe, where they sat, arms around each other, listening to Gesa sing.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Fortress Cowburg,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

B alba Chiselstrike from the secondling clan of the Stone Teasers was feeling a little out of place amongst all these humans.

Queen Isaka’s direction that no dwarf be allowed inside the walls of the castle she found ridiculous. She could not understand the ruler’s fear. The humans, it was clear to Balba, would be completely lost without the fighting power of the dwarf peoples.

In spite of her resentment she intended to carry out her task conscientiously. Supervising the completion of defense works with the foreman, she was checking every stone in Paland’s bastion walls.

“It’s a wonderful fort, isn’t it?” the man said admiringly.

“No, it isn’t,” Balba smashed his complacency. “It’s ugly. The whole construction lacks grace and has been thrown uncaringly at the landscape. The old builders always planned meticulously but they never considered aesthetics.”

Her condemnation wiped the foreman’s good mood straight off his face. As a descendant of Paland’s original builders he felt this was a personal attack. “You dwarves all think you can do everything better.”

“I never said we would have done it better.” Balba knew her people would indeed have done it better but refrained from saying so. “I miss here the soul that every dwarf building has. The humans who built Paland hewed the stones into shape without paying attention to the strata and structure of the rock. Instead of listening to the grain and fitting the stones so that they last forever, an artificial mountain, the builders have forced the stone, violated it. That is why our buildings last longer than yours.” Balba and all dwarf masons knew the characteristics of every type of rock, from granite to slate, from basalt to marble or sandstone.

By the light of the setting sun she promptly discovered a damaged stone. “Hey, you there!” She called over one of the workmen the king had supplied her with. She pointed out a finial on the passageway arch to the main building. “I told you to take that one out and replace it.”

“We haven’t had time, Balba. We had to-”

“Right, I’ll explain to King Bruron when that stone starts to shake and the arch falls around his ears at the first fanfare.”

She put her hands on her hips-she was not going to be changing her mind.

The foreman sprang to the defense of his worker. “I’ll get a couple of people over and start work at once, Balba,” he said, lowering his head so she would not see the scowl. He hurried off, glad to escape her harsh tongue.

The dwarf-woman shook her brown hair back and adjusted her leather apron. “Humans,” she muttered and walked off.

When she thought how many cycles the fortress had stood, and the neglect it had been subject to-the dilapidated condition she and King Bruron had found it in-then she could really be quite pleased with the work they had done here. The outer walls, laid out in a star shape, were twenty paces high and had been repaired and topped out with sturdy new battlements. It had been a masterwork to replace the crumbling stones without any walls collapsing. The humans had not thought it would be possible. She, the dwarf, had shown them what was what.

She had decided to pull down the ruined towers, with the weathered stone broken up for use as missiles, piled now on the top walkways and in heaps next to the catapults. The walls were high enough to serve without towers, but she had put up ramps to use for the spear-throwers.

She was surprised how easily the humans were satisfied with the work. The critical eye of a dwarf would have been much more demanding about standards. She was determined to get Paland into a state that made even the elves praise the speed at which the work had been completed. Not its beauty but the speed and thoroughness of the work.

So far only one of the remaining diamonds had arrived safely in the fortress. Queen Wey and her soldiers were already here. The messengers sent out from the other groups heading for the fortress were keeping the commanders informed of their progress.

It looked as if Sangpur’s jewel would be the next to arrive. It would be placed in a room with walls many paces thick. Balba had had the roof reinforced and had put in extra supporting pillars.

Even the comet that had once hit the Outer Lands would not destroy this granite armor.

The dwarf directed her steps to the walkway that faced south. She wanted to see the size of Queen Umilante’s force approaching from the hot desert lands, the army protecting her diamond.

As she stood on the battlement walkway taking a drink of water from her flask, an armored elf came up to her. “Greetings,” he said.

“Greetings.” She knew that he had arrived with the two-hundred-strong contingent sent as an advance party from Alandur; other soldiers would follow.

Apart from them there were a thousand fighting men from Weyurn in the fortress. The rest, a further fifteen thousand infantry and two thousand mounted troops led by Prince Mallen, were advancing swiftly toward Idoslane to storm Toboribor and to destroy the unslayables and the monsters in those caves. Now that they had shown themselves, there was finally something to attack.

“Sitalia has sent us a fine day,” the elf addressed the air as he looked down toward the wall beneath them. “The goddess looks after her own.” He took off his helmet, letting his pale gold hair shine on his shoulders.

Balba took another gulp of water and put the flask down. “Sitalia looks after the elves, so she’ll only send the fine day for you guys. The humans are giving thanks to Palandiell and we praise Vraccas. That’s the way of it,” she said amicably. She pointed over to the right where the sun was going down. “The day’s not over yet.” She looked at the white metal armor. She had never seen it before. The elves were all in new clothing, all two hundred of them, in white and pale colors, a dazzling sight in the sunshine. Their new appearance reminded her of something, but she couldn’t think what.

“You are right there, Balba Chiselstrike of the Stone Teasers,” responded the elf apologetically. “I wanted to praise the work you have done here. It is excellent. The diamonds will be safe here.”

She nodded in acknowledgment and gave a shy smile. “Would you like some?” She offered her flask.

The elf stretched out his armored hand and took the bottle. “Thank you.” He sniffed at the contents first to find out what he would be drinking, then placed the opening to his lips-and froze. “By Sitalia!” he whispered, pointing south. “Do you see what I see?”

Balba looked where he was pointing.

The escort force for the diamond had appeared between two hills and was passing a wood whence an attack was being launched. The girl saw a huge black monster capering around amongst the tiny forms of the soldiers, swinging a scythe-like weapon; from time to time green lightning bolts shot out, and where they hit home men fizzled to steam where they lay.

“The unslayables have tricked us! They aren’t in Toboribor. They have sent their evil misshapen devils here to steal the diamonds before we can place them in safety.” The elf dropped the flask, ran down the steps and put on his helmet as he went, calling out in a language Balba did not understand.

The elf troops rushed to their white horses and thundered out through the southern gate to support Umilante’s soldiers. A handful of their messengers were setting off in other directions to warn approaching groups of dwarves and humans of the acute danger.

The fortress commander had the gates shut and called everyone to arms.

“I said the day wasn’t over yet.” Balba was faced with the prospect of a battle. She was not bad with a cudgel, but didn’t really consider herself a fighting champion. Now, under cover of the uproar, she left the battlements and went off to hurry her workforce through the remaining tasks while there was still light.

Unexpectedly there was a commotion at the eastern side of the fortress but Balba remained at the construction site until the humans had completed their work to her satisfaction. Any faulty workmanship would reflect badly on her family and her clan. When all was done she hurried back up to the battlements, shield in hand.

A cloud of dust was making for the eastern gate.

And whatever was creating the dust was moving extremely fast. Too fast to be a human, an elf, a dwarf, a beast or an animal.

“What happened to Umilante’s troops?” she asked a soldier nearby.

The man had gone pale and was clinging to the shaft of his spear. “They’re all lying out there by the hills and they’re not moving.”

“And the elves?”

“Gone. Swallowed by the monster,” he whispered and gulped with horror.

The sun had gone down and Gauragar was plunged into the half light preceding the dark of true night with its stars.

Torches blazed all round the fortress, chasing away the frightening shadows. Men ran out to bring up the wooden drawbridges and to set alight tar and brushwood piled in the moats. The first line of defense was in place.

Balba heaved one of the rocks onto the battlement wall, ready to cast it down on the attacker. She quickly scratched her initials into the stone, grinning with excitement.

Fifty paces in front of the gates the thing halted in the middle of the roadway, having advanced with such speed. It showed itself to the defenders of the castle. The surrounding veil of dust was carried off by the heat rising from the blazing moat. The image that appeared was a mixture of monster and machine.

From the hips up it was like the other monsters, a bastard hybrid of orc and alf or worse, and covered with a solid armor plating of tionium. There was not a single glimpse of bare skin to be had. Everything was protected by the plates of resistant material from any attack with arrow or missile. Only the face within the open visor showed the armor contained life.

But where legs would normally be there was a large black block, two paces high, two paces wide, and three paces long.

The sides of the block were rounded and the shiny black surface was sloped so that liquids-blood, water or whatever-would run off quickly. Balba saw the surface had openings and flaps hiding any manner of deathly surprises. Round about there were sharp spikes of tionium as long as your forearm. On the bottom of the block were the large wheels used to propel the hybrid along so swiftly using some invisible power-source inside the block.

“A fighting chariot without any horses,” judged one of the soldiers. “What the hell have they thought up here?”

“Nothing good,” replied Balba. The sight of the thing was making the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

“Give me the diamond and you shall live,” it called out in a clear voice. “My brothers and sisters will soon be here. These walls will not hold us back.”

“You shall have your answer,” the commander called down, lifting his hand and dropping it sharply as a signal.

Four spear-throwing war-machines hurled their death-bringing loads toward the creature; clouds of black weaponry swished through the evening air.

The missiles would certainly have hit their target, had the creature not suddenly rolled backwards. The thick covering on the front opened up to form a shield against the spears that reached it. The wooden shafts broke and the tips splintered, bent out of shape on the rigid tionium. They made not the slightest indentation in the armor. The archers hurriedly reloaded.

“Aim for the wheels. We’ll get it this time round.” The commander turned to the stone catapults. “Ready to fire!” he called. “When I…”

Then all the lights in Paland went out. Candles, torches, the fire in the moat-it was all extinguished in a trice. Blackness swallowed the twilight. Everything lay in total darkness, with not even a star daring to show its face.

“Fire!” called the commander. The sounds of the mechanism being released and the ropes unwinding could be heard. And soon there was the rumble of the missiles hitting home.

Balba was not convinced she would ever hear this creature’s death cry.

Bright green runes blazed out in front of the gate, then there was a powerful bolt of lightning and the gates themselves were blown open, blasted off their hinges with such force that shards cascaded against the far wall of the fortress.

At least now the torches were not refusing their light. So the defenders in the courtyard could see exactly what death looked like, just before it struck.

The huge block had traveled over the moat and now raced through the courtyard. To the right and the left blades of tionium shot out, two paces long, slicing the armored soldiers in half. The sight of these truncated soldiers so appalled their comrades that they stood rooted to the spot.

At the front an iron protective apron had opened up and anyone standing in the way of the machine was forced into the blades or was caught under the jagged edges of the wheels. None survived. Conventional arrows raining down on the vehicle and on the creature itself had no effect.

Balba shook off the paralyzing fear. “Your commander is right: the wheels are the weak point,” she called, racing down the steps. “Do you hear me? Shove iron rods in through the wheels and it’ll be forced to stop. Get chains. We can overturn it.”

In all the noise and shouting only a few of the soldiers could hear the brave dwarf-woman’s advice, but they tried their best to follow her commands.

Just before the entrance to the diamond vault, they overtook the vehicle, which was emitting strange noises. It was clicking and ticking, hissing and steaming behind its tionium plating.

“Bring the chains,” called Balba to the men. The soldiers did not hesitate to obey her orders. They had grasped her meaning. Balba grabbed hold as well, dragging a hook and getting ready to sling it. “Hook it in the…”

A loud rumbling sound made her turn her head to look back at the blasted gateway.

A second monster was forcing its way through. Its creator had placed a huge armor contraption round it. Fists of tionium were battering against the walls, tearing out great parts of the fabric and hurling the rocks at the castle’s defenders. The brave soldiers from Weyurn were losing their lives in scores against the superior power of this attacker that was kicking at them as if they were vermin. A cage-like globe rolled through their open ranks, coming to the aid of the monster at the entrance to the vault.

Balba stopped, her heart in her mouth and her courage melting like lead in a furnace. A third of Tion’s creatures, this time with forearms of metal and glass, was climbing up the southern battlements. It swung its hands round and sent bolts of green lightning toward the soldiers. Their protective iron armor glowed and the men vaporized to nothing in the deadly light-beams. The commander himself was among the fallen. The rest gave up and ran off screaming. From one thousand maybe four hundred men were still alive.

Balba understood that without a magus there was no hope of combating these hybrid monsters. The combination of superior machinery, the strength of the creatures and the unrestrained power of magic could not be matched by any force they could offer.

She let the hook fall and ran off, in contrast to the fleeing humans, out through the northern gate. Later she was to learn that all Weyurn’s soldiers had been annihilated.