The Revenge of the Dwarves

XII

Girdlegard,

Queendom of Weyurn,

Twelve Miles Northwest of Mifurdania,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

After the initial interruptions their journey now went smoothly. They boarded the two royal ships that had been placed at their disposal and headed for Mifurdania. On the way they put in at Windsport Island and left the sick elf in the care of Queen Wey’s palace archivist.

But then their luck ran out.

The dwarves and their companions learned that even a lake could produce extremely high waves, that evening the goddess Elria started to play with their vessels. The waters were set in turbulent motion, and hurled against the stern of their ships.

Constantly tossed up and down they scudded over Weyurn’s lake, with clouds of spray drenching them all. Apart from Tungdil not a single Girdlegard dwarf wasn’t seasick. But the undergroundlings kept a firm footing on the swaying deck-planks.

Tungdil hurried down below to check on the statue in the hold. He would never forgive himself if any harm came to it now in this gale when they were so close to their destination. His legs set wide to help keep his balance, he walked round the blanket-clad stone figure of his foster-father, testing the support ropes. Then he drew back a corner of the blankets to reveal the face.

“Soon,” he promised, taking a deep breath. First it had been a glimmer of hope, the thought he might one day see the familiar and well-loved magus come alive. Now it was as good as a certainty.

What will he say when he hears what has been happening? he wondered, touching the hem of the petrified robe that peeped out under the padded coverings. He caught himself thinking that Lot-Ionan might reproach him with something he had done during the past cycles.

Tungdil grinned. No, he has no cause. Unless the acts of heroes can be condemned. He tightened one of the ropes holding the statue in place and then climbed back up the companionway to the others.

“Elria’s come up with a new curse for us,” groaned Boindil, leaning over the railing and belching up air. There was nothing in his stomach anymore. It was the first time he had spoken to Tungdil since the row back at the farm. Since then, he had preferred the company of Goda, the actor and the other dwarves.

“This is nothing,” grinned Sirka. “Out on the ocean we’ve seen bigger storms than this.”

“There’s open sea in the Outer Lands?” Tungdil recalled the sketchy drawings he had seen of the land on the other side of the mountains. He did not remember reading about an ocean.

“Of course. We sail it.” Sirka looked at the helmsman. “These ships and crews would be lost on our waters. They wouldn’t survive the gales.”

Furgas stood by, not bothered by the weather. “It must have been somewhere near here,” he conjectured, scanning the landscape. He called Rodario over: “The distance is right and there’s an island over there. Is that the one you sailed round?”

Rodario hung on to the mast, water dripping from his clothes. “Could be. Let’s hope the fisherman was correct when he was telling us about the alfar island.”

“The storm’s on our side,” said Sirka. “We can get close without the thirdlings seeing us.”

Tungdil surveyed his little group of diehards, remembering the nameless undergroundling who had taken them to Sundalon that time. He asked Sirka about him. “What did those tattoos on his forehead signify? And the symbols on his clothing? Why wouldn’t he give his name?”

“I think only seven people know it. I’m not one of them. He’s a confidant of Sundalon’s and serves the acront of Letefora. He was trained by him.”

This information brought more questions than clarity. “But what-?”

“Mountain ahead!” the lookout shouted down. Tungdil had to suppress his curiosity.

Dergard, standing in the cabin doorway, waved Tungdil and Furgas out. “That’s where the source is,” he yelled against the wind. “I can feel it. No doubt about it.”

“If the island has surfaced it means they’re either expecting monsters or disembarking them,” said Furgas.

Tungdil pursed his lips. Four monsters, possibly with a renewed intake of magic, would be impossible odds if they had not brought Lot-Ionan back to life first. “We don’t have a choice,” he said. “We have to storm the island and submerge it. Stand by, Dergard.” He hurried up to the helmsman and captain to give orders. “Find a place we can land.”

“Impossible. See that shoreline? Solid rock. It would slice our hull.”

“There’s no other way. We haven’t got enough dinghies and we wouldn’t be able to launch them in this weather anyway,” insisted Tungdil. “If need be, run the ships aground and wreck them.”

“You’re no sailor, Tungdil Goldhand! Have you any idea what you’re asking us to do? You’re risking all our lives!”

“Just do it, Captain. There’s more at stake than a couple of ships.” And a few lives. He came off the bridge, then down below deck to chase the dwarves and Weyurn soldiers up top to start the onslaught on the island. Lot-Ionan’s draped statue was brought up on deck and made ready for hoisting on the crane. Tungdil watched the preparations closely. There must be no mistakes.

They gathered in the bows. The nightmare alfar island grew in size as they approached.

Their ships ran aground on the basalt ledge, the spars of the keels bursting and splintering. None of the dwarves or undergroundlings made a sound; they clutched at ropes or the vessels’ superstructure. The wooden planks sliced through as if a giant knife had severed them.

“All on shore!” shouted Tungdil, sounding a bugle to alert the dwarves on the second craft. He leaped off the deck and landed on the rock.

Most of the soldiers and dwarves did the same, although a dozen or so ended up in the water after the ship was forced away from the shore by the broiling waves. They sank without trace.

Tungdil cursed under his breath. Their lives must not have been lost in vain. “Let the statue down now!” he called. He could see water flooding into the open forward section of the ship.

The crane swung round as the sailors maneuvered the winch, and the stone magus left the deck.

When it was half over the shore the ship lurched again, splitting open on the rock like a loaf of bread torn apart.

The heavy weight danced and jumped around like a murderer in a hangman’s noose. Then it proved too great a burden. The rope snapped and the statue plunged down.

Dwarves sprang out of the way to avoid being crushed to death. The figure tumbled to the shoreline shelf and started to roll toward the edge.

“Hold it fast!” bellowed Tungdil, running through water that came up to his middle. He pulled and tugged at the statue, together with five companions, but the blankets round it were sodden and it was heavier than ever. A wave threw three of the dwarves off balance. The stone figure of Lot-Ionan slipped over the edge and sank to the depths.

“No!” roared Tungdil, staring in horror at where the statue had disappeared. He stepped forward as if to dive after it.

“Let it be.” Ireheart held him back. “Who knows whether you’d ever have been able to bring him back to life. We still have a magus, Scholar. We just have to get him to his magic.”

The spell which had turned Lot-Ionan to stone was affecting Tungdil too, it seemed. He could not move. He could not speak. The wind howled in his face, and though he heard the cracking ships’ timbers breaking up, his mind was at a standstill, his plans all over the place like liberated mercury, rolling and disappearing. What happens now? The words went round and round in his head. I’ve lost him for all time. It’s my fault. This was no way to defeat the island.

“Tungdil!” bawled Ireheart in his ear, shaking him. “Come on, man. We need you.”

“Damnation!” shouted Tungdil into the storm, spray washing away his tears of despair and disappointment. Then his resolute dwarf spirit took over and he exploded into action. “Let’s get this blasted island conquered!” He raised his head. “Furgas!”

Furgas appeared, waved and jumped down off the remains of the ship. He took command and led them through the cave Rodario had encountered before. They were now faced with a massive wall. “There’s a hidden entrance here,” he explained, fiddling with a black stone let into the wall of the cliff.

Tungdil and the others stood back, checking in all directions.

Looking back through the cave entrance Rodario saw another wave lift the damaged ships and smash them against the rock, breaking them into a thousand pieces in the foaming water. A few sailors crawled onto land, but most went to the bottom with the wreck. There was nothing left but to conquer and prevail. There was no going back.

In front of them the wall moved. “This’ll take us to the corridor on the middle level of the forge,” the actor told them.

“Some of you set the captives free,” commanded Tungdil, “but the rest go on. Follow Furgas and me, straight to the thirdlings.” He nodded at them. “May Vraccas be with us. And make us once more the protectors of Girdlegard.” He glanced at Sirka, smiled and then signaled to Furgas to set off.

Two hundred warriors ran through the narrow corridor toward an iron door fastened with metal bolts and bars. Furgas knew his way through these locks and contraptions and the door opened with ease.

Rodario recognized the place at once. They were near where he had fled to hide in the cave behind the furnaces.

Soldiers and dwarves spread out.

“Hey!” shouted one of the prisoners. “Who are you?”

Those standing near him heard the shout. The Girdlegard advance party had been sighted.

“By all the good gods: the queen’s troops! Praise be to Elria! Will you save us?” the prisoner shouted, rattling his chains at them. Now there were shouts and calls on all sides. The men and women were afraid the soldiers would not free them.

Their cries brought the guards running, thinking there was a mutiny. They soon saw their mistake, but didn’t bother to offer resistance. There were too few of them. Aware they stood no chance, they threw themselves on the mercy of the invading party.

But there were ten of the enemy placed in the galleries above, shooting arrows and throwing down red-hot coals. There were injuries, there were deaths. Their swift progress was halted.

Furgas, Rodario, Tungdil, Sirka, Ireheart and Goda meanwhile were leading a group of warriors to the furnace to attack the thirdlings. The sentries here did not run away or surrender. They fought with great spirit and were not to be subdued with a few random ax blows.

“Look out!” Tungdil noticed the forges on the platform above them were tipping, about to empty their molten contents. “Take cover! Get under the rock ledge, now!”

Liquid iron, glowing red, yellow and gold, poured down on them from above, sending sparks flying. Way below, others were caught by the red-hot splashes and were horribly burned. It was an awesome spectacle. A terrible sight-and a fatal one.

Several soldiers and chained workers sank screaming in the flood of red-hot iron; stinking fumes scorched airways and burned lungs. Hisses and screams filled the air.

“Where’s Furgas?” Rodario saw that his friend was missing. “Furgas!” he yelled like a maniac. Tungdil had to stop him treading in a pool of molten metal. He would have lost his leg.

“There!” Ireheart pointed down to where he could see the magister’s burning mantle smoldering on the liquid fire-death. A blackened arm was uplifted. “Vraccas has punished him for his deeds,” he murmured.

“Aim at those archers hiding in the cliffs,” commanded Tungdil furiously. They had lost yet another vital member of their invading force. Their ranks were thinning by the minute.

“Furgas,” whispered Rodario, horrified at the loss. “My poor friend. The gods have been so cruel to you since the loss of Narmora. I thought they had taken pity on you when they allowed me to find you.”

That blackened arm had been a last gesture of farewell from the man with whom he had traveled the highways and byways for so many cycles, helping to make the Curiosum a magnificent success. He owed his friend so much. Gone, dead, incinerated. “We needed you still, Furgas.” He wiped the tears from his eyes and drew his sword. “The thirdlings shall die to avenge your death.” He stormed back along the gangway.

“Follow him!” Tungdil called to the dwarves. He ordered the last of the captive workers to be freed, telling them to keep the guards occupied. Then the group moved through a gap into a tall narrow cave.

Here was the island’s heart. The room was full of valves, tubing and chains that disappeared up into the roof. There were five huge boilers, fifty paces high, taking up most of the floor room. Underneath the cauldrons enormous furnaces raged, producing the steam that made the island function.

Rodario saw the thirdlings next to the metal casing where narrow glass tubes emerged and led into wider funnels. A clear liquid was bubbling away. “You there!!” He brandished his sword in their direction. “You are going to pay for what you have done to my friend and to Girdlegard!” He flew down the steps to confront Veltaga and Bandilor.

Bandilor uttered an oath and moved the lever behind him. “You’ll never get out of here alive!” Veltaga ran to one of the cauldrons, swung the lever and whirled the valve wheels.

“I hope the Incredible Showman knows there aren’t any stage directions for this bit,” said Ireheart, rushing down in his wake, followed by Goda and Tungdil and the rest of the warriors.

Bandilor lifted his ax and struck the lever to disable it. Then, calmly, he turned to parry Rodario’s attack; he rammed his shoulder into Rodario’s groin and slammed the handle of his ax into the actor’s belly.

Rodario kept going. “Revenge for Furgas!” He kicked Bandilor in the privates and raised his sword to strike home. “Die!”

Distracted by the pain, the thirdling was unable to fend off the weapon. It entered his throat leaving a wound no medicus in Girdlegard would be able to treat. Blood spurted out, drenching levers and controls.

But it was not over yet.

Bandilor hit out at Rodario and struck him on the hip. The ax cut a long red swathe down the pelvis bone; clothing and flesh gaped open and the actor fell to the floor. Faster than a hammer hits iron on the forge the thirdling stood over him, aiming his dying blows at the injured man.

“No, you dwarf-hater!” Boindil suddenly appeared, smashing his crow’s beak against the other’s weapon, striking it aside. It sang out like a bell as it hit the ground. “It’s me you have to fight!” He used the impetus to whirl his weapon above his head before hitting home.

The blunt end collided with the side of Bandilor’s head; his helmet could not protect him against the blow. Bone cracked, his face distorted and blood shot out from his nose. He was thrust against the wall and slid down beside Rodario who was lying there groaning.

“One less of you!” Ireheart spat on the thirdling and looked at Goda. “Nothing against your people. Just these blasted dwarf-haters.”

Meanwhile Tungdil was trying to stop Veltaga’s furious activity. Whatever she was doing at the controls was not good news for them. He felt the pressure in his ears and thought the floor under his feet was moving about less.

“Water!” yelled Dergard, pointing to the entrance. “They’ve let the water in!”

Tungdil guessed what that meant. The two thirdlings, faced with obvious defeat, had opened all the valves and started a dive. “Close up the vents! Close everything,” he called to those behind him, and then he was hard on Veltaga’s heels, chasing her up the iron stairway to the second floor. There were more levers up there she could wreak havoc with.

“You will die with us!” she screamed, grabbing two handles.

He reached her just as she was operating the wheel.

She hurled a dagger at him but he deflected it using Keenfire. Then she pulled out a sharp-edged cudgel for close-range combat-in her left hand a drawn sword.

From where he stood Tungdil could see a huge wave heading for the forge, and clouds of white steam swirled up, hissing wildly. The hot furnaces exploded in the cold water and metal fragments shot through the air.

“Get those blasted vents shut!” Tungdil commanded as he swerved to avoid a sweeping blow from her cudgel. It missed him and struck a valve instead.

At last the dwarves had managed to do what Tungdil had ordered. Some of the injured Weyurn soldiers crawled through and they got the iron doors closed. For the others there was no hope. Water still shot through tiny gaps in a fine spray.

“How did you find us?” hissed Veltaga, raising her weapon for the next blow.

“You dwarf-haters can’t hide from us,” he answered, blocking the attack aimed at his left shoulder. Then he sprang to the side to avoid her sword. “Furgas escaped. He helped us.”

“The magister? He’s here?” The dwarf-woman laughed. “Oh, he’ll have thought up a special trap for you, if he’s brought you here.” She followed through with the blade of her sword and swiped at his arm, but his chain mail protected him. “You must be Tungdil Goldhand. The magister always said he wanted to kill you.”

Tungdil could not understand what she was talking about. “A trap?” He aimed Keenfire at her middle.

Just in time she moved her cudgel to take the blow, but it bounced back and she was hurt as she swung it. Gasping, she fell backwards against a wall of valves. “He always said everything that befell him was your fault. That’s why the magister helped us with our plan.”

“These are the lies of a dwarf-hater.” Tungdil laughed at her. “You won’t catch me out like that.”

“Why should I lie to you?” Veltaga launched herself against him, attacking with both weapons at once. “You are here and you are going to die. What more proof do you want?”

Tungdil took the sword thrust on his chest. It was painful and broke one of his ribs, but it didn’t kill him. The blade of Keenfire struck the metal head off the cudgel, rendering it useless.

As quick as lightning he hit Veltaga on the head with the haft, forcing her down to the iron floor-plate. “A fine plan to sow discord between Furgas and myself. But it won’t work.” He placed his boot on her breast and exerted pressure. “Do you surrender?”

The dwarf-woman was bleeding from her mouth and nose. The sigurdacia wood handle of the haft was hard as steel. “I don’t have to invent anything, Goldhand. All this is the work of the magister. He thought it all up and built it. He created the monsters for the unslayables. They promised to use the power of the diamond against the dwarves.”

She jerked her arm up and slashed at him with the sword she still held, but Tungdil swung the broad side of the ax, forcing its barbed hook into her forearm, holding her fast. “Will your lies never cease?”

Veltaga screamed with pain. “I’m not lying. The magister planned everything. He planned for you to be here. He wanted vengeance for his family.”

A terrible metallic grinding noise filled the space.

“The doors!” yelled Goda. They’re giving way!”

Ireheart stood facing the damaged levers and, with the other dwarves’ assistance, tried to operate them; one broke off, another bent and moved the opposite way.

Tungdil turned the ax round and pushed down harder onto Veltaga’s arm. “How deep are we going?”

“One thousand seven hundred paces. That’s what the magister said. It’s the deepest part of the lake,” she howled. “You are going to your deaths. We’ve flooded all the chambers. You will die.” She gave a tortured laugh. “Girdlegard’s greatest hero and the only weapon that can hold back the unslayables and they’ll both be lying at the bottom of the lake. That is a fine revenge.” She spat bloody saliva at his face. “That’s exactly what the magister wanted. He never needed the tunnel into the Outer Lands at all.”

Tungdil gave a jerk on the barbed hook, jolting it free of her arm. Her lifeblood ran out onto the floor-plates. “You thirdlings are beneath contempt,” he growled.

“You still don’t believe me, do you?” Veltaga looked at her shattered arm. “Ask the actor. The magister sent Bandilor to pay him a visit in Mifurdania and threatened him so he wouldn’t pursue him any further. He was too good-hearted. I would have killed the man straightaway, but the magister spared his life.” Her eyelids were fluttering now, she was about to lose consciousness. “Girdlegard will perish, that’s what he wanted. And you won’t be able to stop it.” She lowered her head, breathing only faintly. It would not be long before she died.

“What tunnel?” he asked, leaning over her, grabbing her by the collar of her leather jerkin and yanking her up. If there was a tunnel maybe it could be their escape from a watery grave. “Where is it?”

The mountain shuddered. They had arrived on the bed of the lake and the groaning of the iron watertight doors was getting louder.

“You can’t reach the tunnel,” she laughed through bloodied teeth. “You will…” Her gaze went straight through him and her eyes glazed over. She was dead.

Tungdil let go and her body fell back.

“Did she tell us anything?” asked Rodario. “Is there a way out?”

He shook his head. “We’ll have to come up with something ourselves.”

“Over here!” They heard the excitement in Sirka’s voice. “Take a look at this!”

Six pillars ten paces high soared up from the floor, leading to a hexagonal platform, with chains and belts hanging from it. Next to it was a cage-like machine-lift operated by a pulley.

“What’s the meaning of that?” murmured Goda, unconsciously copying her master’s way of speaking. She touched one of the pillars. “Cold. Nothing special.”

Dergard stepped forward. “That’s it,” he whispered in a voice full of awe. “That is the new source. I can feel the energy flowing through the iron.”

“But it’s not iron.” Tungdil inspected the metal. “It’s an alloy. It can conduct magic. Of course! Probably these pillars go down through the floor and stick out of the bottom of the island. They conduct energy from the new source up to that platform.” He looked up. “Up there. That’s where the unslayables’ monsters were created.”

“Now it’s our turn,” said Ireheart, pulling at Dergard’s sleeve and pointing to the lift. “This will turn you into a proper magus. Have you thought up a nice wizard name?”

Dergard cleared his throat. “I shall call myself Knowledge-Lusty in honor of Nudin.”

Tungdil tutted. “That’s not a good idea, Dergard. It has bad connotations for us. Think of something else.” He went over to the lift and went in. “Come on. The sooner you get the force inside you the sooner we get out of this prison of ours.”

“You will be able to get us out of here, won’t you?” Ireheart glowered at Dergard. “You magi can always do stuff like that. You have to!”

“I shall try,” promised Dergard and he climbed up to join Tungdil. The others operated the pulley hoist and heaved the two of them into the air.

“The Lonely,” the man said when they were halfway up. “I shall call myself Dergard the Lonely. There’s no one left except me. No other famulus to use the magic. Only me.”

“Sad but true,” Tungdil agreed. He was watching the platform. Suddenly he perceived a slight glimmering.

Then they saw it clearly. Faint sparks were dancing along the edges, licking at the iron walls of the cauldrons.

“Magic!” said Dergard softly, with a trace of fear in his voice. “What will it be like, to be suffused with magic?”

Tungdil smiled at him encouragingly as the lift drew close to the platform. “Hundreds of magi in the past survived to live longer than any soul in Girdlegard.” They slid up past the edge and looked down on its surface. “We…” He stopped abruptly. “By Vraccas!” he exclaimed. Dergard retreated to the back of the lift.

One pace above the platform an alf floated, supported on a cloud of vapor and lightning bolts that flashed between his torso and the metal. For the most part his breast, belly, lower torso, shoulders and upper arms were covered with armor fused to his flesh. His hands were in armored gloves. The rest of him was naked. A slim narrow-bladed spear rotated next to him; runes on the blade were glowing green.

“Not a monster, but an alf,” said Tungdil, trying to open the lift door. “Let us send him to his death before he wakes up.” The door bolts were jammed. “Curses!” He raised Keenfire and whacked it down on the lock. The fastenings shattered and the door swung open.

At the same moment the creature opened its eyes, showing nothing but black sockets under the lids. It hissed at them and showed its teeth, grabbed hold of the spear and sank down onto the platform. As soon as its naked feet touched the metal numerous symbols shone out on the armor.

“Come here!” Tungdil stormed out, his ax raised to strike.

The alf sprang up onto the nearest boiler, pushing off from there like a cat leaping. It catapulted itself up to a gap in the rock. It had gone for now. Sparks and lightning faded away.

“What’s going on up there?” came Ireheart’s worried voice.

Tungdil stepped over to the edge of the platform and looked down at his friends. “Watch out. There’s an alf in the cave. It was on the platform bathing in magic. It was meant to be our enemies’ little surprise.” He turned cautiously to the walls again. “Dergard, come here.”

“Where has it gone?” asked the famulus, feeling safer back in the cage.

“I don’t know. We’ll see it soon enough.” Tungdil went round in a circle, searching; his eyesight was good in the half light. No trace of the enemy anywhere. Unusually for him he didn’t mind. Apart from Keenfire they had nothing to match the power of a magic-empowered alf.

Dergard left the cage. He stepped onto the platform and walked into the center. He closed his eyes and raised his hands. Neither he nor Tungdil said a word.

There was a loud crash and a metallic grating sound destroyed the air of reverence. “The water’s coming in!” Goda screamed. “The doors have burst! We’re all going to drown!”

“Use the lift. Get up here to the platform.” The cage clattered down to the ground. Tungdil called Dergard’s name, but there was no response. “Wake up! You have to do something!” he demanded, giving him a push. “Dergard! Act now or we’ll die!”

The magus staggered. Then he gasped for air and held his breast. “What power!” he breathed, overcome. “I can feel it! Tungdil, I can feel it in me!”

The dwarf grabbed him by the shoulders. “Then use it to save us from the flood here. Bring the island up to the surface!”

The cage appeared with the survivors from down below and they jumped one by one onto the platform. Foaming masses of water surged around the massive pillars, extinguishing the fires under the boilers in vast clouds of steam. The change in temperature put the hot metal under incredible stress and rivets burst, flying out in all directions.

The danger they were in grew by the moment, but all they could do was watch out for the alf and hope Dergard could save them.

The magus was acting as if in a trance. With a grin on his face and hands raised he mumbled something until his fingers started to write glowing symbols in the air. These jumbled about and came to rest on the inner walls of the mountain.

Again there was a shudder; they felt pressure in their ears. It could only mean one thing.

“He’s doing it!” Rodario whooped, still holding his injured side. “He’s actually doing it! That’s what I call a proper test for a new magus!” He sat down again. “And when he’s finished saving our lives, can he please sort out this wound for me if I’ve passed out,” he added through clenched teeth.

“Keep watching the walls,” Tungdil shouted, reminding them of the presence of the alf.

“Why are we doing it the favor of saving its life, too?” grumbled Ireheart. “Don’t let it get away when we get up top!” He was deliberately sounding certain of success.

But the water had reached their thighs and had filled their boots. They could only hope that Dergard was going to pass his test and save them all. And as the water level started to sink there seemed no doubt that he was succeeding.

“Let’s get down. And out! Who knows how long Dergard can hold the island?” exclaimed Tungdil. “Look for something we can use as a boat.”

They hurried off the platform and ran back all the way to the cave-past ruined forges and the corpses of dwarves, soldiers and workers, over great lumps of rubble still radiating incredible heat. In the grotto they found some long boats tied up in a niche. Rodario remembered seeing guards rowing them, disguised as alfar.

Outside it was dark. Night had fallen. Elria spared them the trial of a new storm and let the stars shine down. They ran out onto the foreshore and launched the boats.

“Anyone seen that alf?” asked Tungdil, looking round.

“No idea where it’s got to. But it’ll go down with the island, I hope,” said Ireheart. “Though I’d have preferred to split it down the middle.”

Dergard, sitting in Tungdil’s boat, suddenly collapsed wordlessly. The strain had been too much for him to bear. For a magus with absolutely no experience, he had achieved miracles.

But the island did not submerge. So long as the chambers were not flooded it would float on the waves like a cork refusing to sink.

“We must repair the mechanism,” said Tungdil. “We’ll need it again. Dergard will have to recharge.”

“Without Furgas?” Rodario’s boat came alongside. “How can we do that?”

Tungdil struggled with himself. Should he tell them what Veltaga had said? It was all lies, wasn’t it?

On the other hand, even if some of it were true it made no difference now. Furgas and the thirdlings were dead; there was no danger of new machines. Thus far everyone thought Bandilor and Veltaga were the evil master-minds. He decided that was the way it should stay.

“We’ll manage somehow,” he told Rodario. “We don’t have to do it all quite as perfectly as he did. We just have to be able to get down to the magic source and back up again. Perhaps force fields will form, extending as far as dry land. But until then Dergard will have to go diving from time to time.” On his left he saw some lights and a dark silhouette. “There’s an island with people on it. We’ll row over there and then return with one of Queen Wey’s ships. The soldiers can guard our conquest. We’ve got to get to Toboribor, or wherever the unslayables are now.”

There were no objections. They rowed over to the island, found a little fishing harbor and asked their way to the village leader, who they hoped might be able to provide them with soldiers.

A fisherman took them to the brightly lit house of the village elder. “Come in!” He greeted them still in his nightshirt, his brown hair tousled. “It’s quite a night, it seems.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ireheart.

“You’re not the first to visit me.” He invited them into his official chamber and showed them the other visitor, wrapped in blankets in front of the stove, drying his wet hair and warming himself.

Tungdil knew the figure immediately from his gray beard, white hair and the light blue eyes, staring straight at him. Faced by the familiar friendly smile of one he thought he’d lost forever, he was completely overcome. He ran and embraced him. “Lot-Ionan,” he sobbed with joy.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Idoslane,

Former Orc Realm of Toboribor,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T he unslayable one stood in the shadows at the mouth of the cave. In his left hand he held a curved longbow. In front of him ten wire-reinforced arrows stuck upright in the rotting corpse of an overbold soldier, killed eleven orbits previously.

So far no further warriors had shown themselves.

I can smell you. Thirty soldiers: twenty-four men, six women. They were crouching behind a rock trying to work out how they could make it into the cave without incurring loss of life. These were scouts, sent out while the army was limiting its action to throwing a cordon around the hill. As if you could fence me in.

Every now and again small units would try to get inside Toboribor. In vain. No one was getting past him and the bastards.

The unslayable one was angry. Getting the diamond had taken much longer than he had thought. He was becoming uneasy. It was delaying their departure and prolonging the danger for his beloved sister. He was not stupid enough to think the human army would hang around forever. And if what the bastards on their travels had told him was true, strange things were happening involving the petrified statue of the old magus Lot-Ionan. He had not reckoned with that.

Three intrepid scouts were making their way up the hill, dodging from rock to rock, their paths intersecting.

“You shall die together,” he mouthed. Pulling a black arrow out of the cadaver he notched it and drew back the string. Just before the paths of the three scouts crossed again he sent the arrow to its target.

It hit the first through the throat, killing the man behind and piercing the right eye of the smaller female soldier bringing up the rear.

Her shrill scream brought a smile to his lips. She fell backwards and crawled to the shelter of the nearest rock.

None of the support troop dared come to her aid. It was clear death was waiting in ambush. The unslayable one lowered his longbow and waited, watching the banners on the tents in the distance. To think so many humans are needed to vanquish a handful of enemies, he thought contemptuously. How weak they are. They’ve always needed the help of others. He saw two soldiers trying to reach the injured female. They will all be destroyed sooner or later. He picked out the next arrow, blew on the damp tip to dry off the decaying moist flesh from the corpse and prepared his next shot. What a shame I shan’t see it. I’ll come back in a hundred cycles to see what has happened to the land.

The two warriors were trying hard not to be observed. They nearly managed it but when the unslayable one took a step to the side he saw them. They were supporting the injured girl between them and helping her along. Exactly the right configuration to ensure they all died at once.

He ran out of the cave mouth, leaping onto a rock to achieve the height needed for a diagonal aim. He spanned the bow and loosed the feathered end of the arrow. Fly and take their souls.

The arrow hummed through the air like black lightning, pinning the legs of all three soldiers. They fell, stapled together by the arrow’s shaft and screaming in pain: music to the ears of the unslayable one.

This masterful shot wakened the courage of the others.

“There he is!” He heard the angry shout of a woman and glimpsed the top of her helmet over the rock she was sheltering behind. “Quick! He’s on his own and he can’t get all of us! Or do we let him go on killing?” She stormed out toward him, her shield held high and sword drawn. The other twenty-four warriors followed her with war-whoops to give themselves courage.

He dropped the bow, unhurriedly drew out both swords and waited for them to attack. This was just what he needed. Fresh blood to finish the next part of the ceremonial painting he had undertaken in order to welcome Nagsar Inaste back to life. He did not have the herbs from Dson Balsur that kept the tints fluid, so he had to keep getting new paint.

He did not move until their first wave was less than three paces away. Then, swiveling elegantly to avoid two arrows flying at him from a distance, he launched himself into his attackers’ midst.

Humans moved more swiftly and flexibly in battle than dull orcs, but it still did not make them opponents to fear. Not these ones, anyway.

The unslayable one strode through them, distributing precise death-dealing blows left and right, so the men floundered and obstructed each other.

His two swords admirably delivered their fatal blows. Blood coated the blades and flew off, spattering the rocks, making patterns and lines on the black and gray.

The incidental art-work delighted him. Swinging his arms faster still, he savored the creation of this spontaneous fresco.

He dealt with the human attackers as if it were a routine execution. So superior was his strength that this slaughter could not be described as a battle. Mangled corpses and severed limbs lay all around and death cries provided a chorus audible to the waiting army. Back at base there was uproar as a cavalry unit rode off to the aid of the scouts.

The drumming of approaching hoofbeats did not disturb the unslayable one.

He faced the lone swordswoman who had egged the others on. The tip of his sword was directed at her quivering body as she lowered her own weapon. He read the horror in her green eyes.

“The name of your death is Nagsor Inaste,” he addressed her, knowing she would not understand. The sound of his voice was enough to make her drop the shield and sword she bore. “I shall kill your body and soul so that nothing can remain of you.” He stabbed her through the throat and she convulsed, clutching at the blade as if to postpone her end. “Expire, mortal.” Drawing the blade downwards he sliced through her breast and belly. She fell with a sigh.

He grasped her helmet and, bending swiftly, used it to catch the dark blood spurting warm out of her neck. It would enable him to finish another swathe of the painting.

As he stood up he saw the riders approaching. There was no time for another fight now. Or his paint would clot.

Down in his quarters a blood-encrusted diamond lay on the table and next to it the decomposing severed forearm of a groundling. The golden bracelet on it showed the high status of its owner. He must have been holding the diamond when one of the bastards caught up with him.

By Samusin and Tion! The unslayable put the helmet on the table, picked up the diamond and rubbed the crumbling bits of dried blood off. He’s done it! He’s brought me the diamond!

It was of no consequence to him who had found the stone. There would be no words of praise. The bastards did not recognize any emotions other than contempt and hatred; they felt no pity in the face of pain caused by the machines. The existed for one purpose only: to obtain the diamond for Nagsar Inaste. He had even forbidden them to speak to him; the sound of their voices made him mad.

His right fist closed round the stone. As soon as she opens her eyes the bastards shall die. Either I shall pitch them against the machines to cover our flight or I will finish them off with my own hands.

The unslayable one hastened out, traversing the corridors until he came to the cavern where he had placed his sister. He ran up the steps to where she lay, pulling his helmet off from his black hair. “Look what I’ve brought you,” he said lovingly as he knelt at her side. “This will make you better.” Expectantly he placed the diamond between her folded hands and intoned the formula he had rehearsed in his mind all through the battle. Every syllable was enunciated with care. The rise and fall of the incantation followed exactly the instructions he had found in the old books.

Nothing happened.

“Blasted eoil! What has she done to it?” He took the diamond in the tips of his fingers. “Obey me!” he told it. “I know the spell that makes your light subject to me. The parchment rolls in Dson revealed your secret to me. You cannot resist!” He brought the stone up to eye level and repeated the dark incantation.

Inside the artifact a reluctant glimmer appeared; the facets refracted the cavern’s dull light and threw a pattern onto the walls, the ceiling, his own features and those of Nagsar Inaste.

“My God,” he whispered, bending over her. “How beautiful you are, my beloved sister!” He laid the stone back in her hands and touched her on the shoulder. “Awake from your sleep.”

She did not move.

“Nagsar Inaste, rise up,” he beseeched, placing his face close to hers. Her breast rose and fell imperceptibly. Warm air streamed gently out of her nostrils-but she remained as if dead.

The unslayable one stared at the stone. “You need more time? Is that it?” A spark of light ran over his sister’s body, played on the altar and zoomed back into the diamond. “Then time you shall have,” he promised darkly, standing up and replacing the helmet over his head cloth.

He walked backwards down the steps, turned away from his sibling and returned to the cave where he had killed the soldiers. This delay would give him time to complete the painting.

The diamond would carry out its healing work, he hoped. Somehow he would unlock its power for himself. Out of light I shall create darkness. There would soon be no more elves in Girdlegard. If need be the battle of Toboribor can run for another hundred cycles. This is just the blink of an eye for me.

Back at the cave entrance he saw that ten of the cavalry riders were busy loading the dead onto a wagon not forty paces away. Their horses waited impatiently, tethered to a rock.

How thoughtful of the humans. The unslayable one took his bow and moved over to the rotting cadaver which still held eight arrows ready for him. The woman fighter’s blood would have coagulated by now. Time to collect fresh supplies.

His black gaze fastened on two men lifting a fallen comrade by the arms and legs. As soon as they straightened up they were in line, one behind the other. Two at one shot.

He pulled an arrow from the corpse and notched it slowly.

Girdlegard,

Queendom of Weyurn,

Twelve Miles Northwest of Mifurdania,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T ungdil’s delight at being able to embrace his long-lost foster-father-something he would never have dared to do as his young apprentice-was difficult to express in words. “You are come alive again, resurrected from the stones, venerable Lot-Ionan! The gods were with us all!” he rejoiced.

Lot-Ionan smiled at him, the wrinkled face transformed. “Tungdil Bolofar! A familiar face amongst the strangers in Weyurn. You have grown strong. Strong and earnest. Like a warrior now, not my young smith and errand-boy.” He looked round at the others by the door: he knew none of them. “I assume there’s lots to tell? I have heard that Nudin was destroyed. More than six or seven cycles past.”

“Aren’t you too tired?”

“Not in the slightest. It’s as if I’ve bathed in the fountain of eternal youth.”

“What is the last thing you remember?”

The magus reflected. “It was the dispute with Nudin. I thought sand was running through my veins and my heart was turning to stone and dying. The next moment I awoke on the bottom of a lake and drowning. My magic saved me.”

“We know there is a new magic source there, honored sir,” said Tungdil. “But the other source has dried up forever.” Before continuing, he turned to his companions. “It’s best you go and rest now. Get your wounds attended to. On the morrow we shall all leave for Toboribor. I have a lot to talk about with my foster-father here, Lot-Ionan; I need to tell him what has been happening in Girdlegard.” Then he looked at the village spokesman. “Be good enough to see we have somewhere to sleep. Queen Wey will reimburse you for the expense. Please bring us refreshment.”

“Of course,” replied the man, getting up to give the relevant instructions. A little later they were brought cheese, dried fish, bread and wine.

Tungdil smelled the wine but resisted the temptation. He shook Lot-Ionan’s hand once more. “I am so glad to see you,” he repeated, drawing up a chair next to him.

The magus noticed the golden mark on Tungdil’s hand as it shimmered in the firelight. “What’s this, then?” The eyes observed him sharply. “What is happening in Girdlegard?” Running his hands over Tungdil’s short brown hair, he said, “And most of all I want to know how things have been for you.”

Tungdil suppressed his weariness and related stories from the old times: battles with Nudin, and against the eoil and her avatars. He told the magus she was an elf who had brought disaster to the land.

He kept it short, telling only the bare facts. But time sped by and when dawn showed rosy-red on the horizon, he was just coming to the most recent events. He told his foster-father about the diamonds, the thirdlings and the unslayable siblings. “Now they have got the diamond, they will try to use its power for evil. At the same time a huge army threatens the fourthlings’ gates. It is made up of undergroundlings, orcs and others. They are the original owners of the diamond, and have the right to demand its return.” He finished his report. “You have come back at the very best moment.” He yawned, not able to resist the urge any longer.

Lot-Ionan was silent and stared at the flames in the fireplace. His hair and his beard were dry by now and he looked as if he had never been turned to stone. “The friends of yore are all dead, nothing is as I knew it.” His light blue eyes looked out of the window. “Hardly am I free from Nod’onn’s curse, still trying to take in all the news, and already I must prepare to meet the next mighty foe.” He sighed. “And my Tungdil Bolofar is now Tungdil Goldhand. A proper dwarf. A hero.” He shook his white head. “Ye gods! What have you done to my world?”

“Your vaults are still there,” smiled Tungdil. “The orcs did not destroy everything when they raged through.”

“A little stability in these new times.” Lot-Ionan turned and put his hand on Tungdil’s shoulder. “But if Palandiell, and apparently Samusin as well, want me and the young magus to save Girdlegard from the unslayables, then so be it. You made your real father more than proud. And I am so proud of you, too.”

Tungdil’s eyes were swimming with emotion. “What shall we do, venerable sir?”

“What you suggested. I will see the elf waiting on Windsport Island and hear what he has to say. It is hard to believe that the elves have left the path of light and been dazzled by the forces of evil.” He reached for some of the cheese. As he did so, he took a sharp intake of breath and stood up, clutching his back.

“Revered Lot-Ionan, what…?”

He raised his hand. “It is nothing, Tungdil. It seems not all of me is yet free of the petrifying curse.” He made another attempt to reach out for the cheese and this time managed it. “It might be old age,” he smiled. “I like to forget how many cycles I have lived so far. I’m not counting my statue-time.” He ate the cheese and drank some wine. “Then we’ll be off to Toboribor to see about the unslayables. On the way I’ll test Dergard a bit so that I can evaluate his talent. We should be able to vanquish the alfar leaders. Unless they are able to employ the stone’s power.”

“Should we give the diamond back to the undergroundlings?” asked Tungdil.

“I think so. It will save loss of life. If they really have their own rune master and an army of that size-whatever the acronta might be-then Girdlegard has nothing to oppose them with.” He studied Tungdil’s face. “On the contrary. If they have preserved us in the past and never tried to conquer our land despite their military superiority, it speaks in their favor. I am happy to explain this to the kings and queens.” He noted how tired-looking Tungdil’s eyes had become. “Get some rest, Tungdil.”

“No, I can sleep on the boat over to Windsport. At last we have all the vital people together-now is not the time to sleep. Time is on the side of the unslayables, not ours.” He stood up and left the room with the magus.

The village spokesman awaited them with the message that two ships of the royal fleet had made harbor, enquiring about a shipwrecked party.

Impatiently Tungdil woke his companions and sent them off to the ship without their breakfast. Lot-Ionan summoned Dergard to his cabin and the two magi disappeared to talk away from prying eyes and ears.

One of the ships headed off to guard the alfar island. A contingent of soldiers was to land and hunt down the alf still at large. The second ship took Tungdil and his companions to Windsport Island to pick up the elf they had left at a shrine dedicated to Palandiell. They would cure his fever with Lot-Ionan’s magic.

Now the summer showed itself from its best side. The fresh breeze filled the sails and drove the ship onwards.

Tungdil had closed his eyes as soon as they cast off. He spent the crossing asleep in a hammock until Sirka woke him in the evening.

“Are we there?” He rubbed his eyes, pleased to see her; the sight of her was still unfamiliar and exciting. He was astonished that he still felt shy about responding to her advances. Balyndis had agreed to set him free. Was he still bothered perhaps by the way he had gone about asking for his freedom? It seemed that not all the ties binding him and Balyndis had really been cut.

“Not yet. But soon.” She held out her hand to help him up.

He looked at the end of the cliff where an imposing building stood. It now served less as a shrine and more as a house for Weyurn’s royal archives. Palandiell was no longer the favorite deity here, as she was in the realms of Ran Ribastur or Tabain. Ever since the enormous increase in lake size in the country, the water goddess Elria had become more popular. But innumerable records were available in the shape of parchment rolls which held the memories of the old kingdom, its towns and villages.

The ship slid past while the waves pounded against the cliff fifty paces away. Veils of spray rose up and blew over to their vessel covering everything with a thin damp film. Tungdil was wide awake now.

“I’ll tell Lot-Ionan,” he said to Sirka and hurried off. It felt like running away almost. But deep inside he was burning to know more about her and her culture, before committing himself. Too many open questions had to be answered.

He knocked at the cabin door. “We have arrived, Lot-Ionan.”

The magus could read the unspoken question about how Dergard was shaping up. “Come in,” he invited, closing the door behind him.

Dergard was sitting on a bench, not looking very happy.

“My young friend here knows a few good formulae to make magic with, but he understandably lacks experience,” Lot-Ionan began. “I, on the other hand, have plenty of experience but the time I spent turned to stone has left gaps in my memory.” He touched himself on the temple. “Sometimes there’s a syllable missing, or my hands make the wrong movement. That can ruin any spell.”

“What does that mean for our project, magus?”

“That Dergard and I need each other’s help to confront the unslayables. One of us without the other won’t be much use.”

“You are more than one hundred cycles ahead of me, honored Lot-Ionan,” said Dergard.

“It would be strange if that were not the case, but it does not alter the fact that my tongue or my hands may let me down. We don’t have the time I would need to rectify the gaps in my memory.” Lot-Ionan looked at Tungdil and the ax. “It will lie as ever in your hands to do all the fighting. Dergard and I will offer support, but probably no more than that.” He was about to touch Tungdil’s head but halted suddenly, caught by a flash of pain in his back. “Damned old age,” he muttered. “Why have I got no spells for that?”

Tungdil considered the matter. “Let’s not tell anyone about your state of health,” he suggested. “The unslayables have to believe that you two are the ones to fear. Otherwise I shan’t be able to get near enough to use Keenfire. Do you agree?”

Lot-Ionan smiled. “You are a good general, I see. We’ll let friends and foe alike think that Dergard and I are the only ones up to taking on the alfar leaders.”

The ship’s progress slowed; shouts and trampling feet up on deck showed they were docking.

“Now let us see about the elf,” said Lot-Ionan, stepping out of the cabin in the lead. The group left the ship, passed the little town and climbed up to the shrine, where its custodian was waiting: a man of about sixty cycles, slightly bald and with a red nose from too much wine. His clothing was in disarray as if flung on hastily.

“Welcome back.” He bowed and led them past walls lined with bookshelves. Here were kept the ancient records of Weyurn’s subjects: births, marriages and deaths. Queen Wey wanted to be able to trace the history of her land. “Your elf has not yet come round, but he still lives.” The man put on an important air. “That is due to my care, of course, as well as to his own stamina.” They stopped three paces short of tall double doors. “I am no medicus but I would say that a human would have died long since.” His dull, drunkard’s eyes swiveled to Lot-Ionan. “Is he your medicus?”

“Indeed,” said the magus, to avoid further discussion. He opened the right-hand door and went in, accompanied by Dergard, Tungdil, Ireheart, Sirka, Goda and Rodario. The rest stayed in the halls of the shrine waiting to hear what the two magi might achieve.

The room was flooded with evening light and smelt of the lake and summer. Open windows let in the sound of the waves, fresh air and fine droplets of spray from the spume as the waters hit the cliffs below the building.

The elf lay, eyes closed, hands on blanket and torso wrapped in bandages.

“Thanks,” said Lot-Ionan, closing the door firmly to leave the keeper outside. “What have you tried, Dergard?” asked the magus.

“I don’t have much in the way of healing spells,” he admitted ruefully.

The older magus undid the bandage and inspected the puncture wounds in the elf’s body. At the blackened edges the flesh was rotting. “You tried the formulae you found in Nudin’s works?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me which ones.” Dergard reeled them off and the magus nodded. “These are good charms. Don’t reproach yourself for anything. But the elf needs different magic.”

He held his hands over the wounds, his eyes hazy. He intoned a spell until a bluish glow emerged from his fingertips. The light dripped slowly like thick honey onto the damaged flesh, pooling on the elf’s chest.

Lot-Ionan completed the charm, stepped back and gave a sign to Dergard, who carried on the procedure. The blue turned pale yellow now.

The magic caused the rotten flesh to be rejected. It shriveled up and fell off as dried skin onto the sheet. The holes left by the arrows closed up and healed over. Only lighter skin betrayed where the injuries had been.

“It is finished,” breathed Dergard with relief, nodding at Lot-Ionan.

“Neither of us could have done this on our own,” said the older of the two, smiling. “This is a good omen for our continued cooperation.” He stepped over to the bed. “Let us wake him up.”

Ireheart took a bowl of water and threw it on the elf’s face. “Ho, wake up, there! You’ve been asleep long enough!”

The elf jerked his eyes open. Catching sight of the grinning dwarf he instinctively slid back, hitting his head on the bedstead. His hand flew to the side where he would normally have carried his weapon.

“Don’t worry, friend,” said Tungdil in elf language. “We found you in the groves of Alandur with three arrows in you. Your own people had attacked you. We brought you with us here to Weyurn to look after you.” He indicated his foster-father. “This is Lot-Ionan the Forbearing and next to him is Dergard the Lonely. These magi have saved your life. I am Tungdil Goldhand. Can you tell us what happened to you?”

“Tungdil Goldhand?” exclaimed the elf with relief. “Then I am in good company! I am Esdalan, Keeper of the Groves of Revenge.”

“What’s he saying?” grumbled Ireheart. “Scholar, tell him to speak so we can all understand.”

“Are they all to be trusted?” asked Esdalan in his own language. He had understood the dwarf.

“Speak in elvish for now. I’ll decide later who needs to know what.”

The elf began his story. “I am Esdalan, baron of Jilsborn, and a good friend of Liutasil.” He took a deep breath. “My prince is dead.”

“We know. He died trying to defend the diamond, in battle with one of the monsters.”

Esdalan’s visage darkened in fury. “So that’s the lie they’re tricking you with? They’re saying he fell fighting one of the unslayables’ creatures?” He lowered his voice. “Liutasil was murdered. Four cycles ago.”