The Revenge of the Dwarves

XIII

Girdlegard,

Queendom of Weyurn,

Windsport Island,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

Esdalan took a deep breath. Relating the murder of his prince had obviously affected him. “They kept it secret and gave us excuse after excuse to cover his disappearance, and by the time we learned the truth they had moved their own people into all the positions of power. Then they took over and wiped out the last of the right-thinking elves.”

Tungdil was left speechless. “ They? ” he croaked. “Who are they?”

“The eoil atar, followers of the eoil. It’s an obsessive cult. They accord the eoil a godlike status just short of Sitalia’s. They had demanded Liutasil join forces with the eoil and set off to war in Girdlegard with her and her army against the creatures of Tion and Samusin. Liutasil refused and ordered them to do nothing.”

“It sounds as if they did it anyway?”

“Yes. They sent messengers to the eoil in secret, asking to speak with her and to find out how they could help. Nobody outside the atar cult knows what she told them. Ever since then they’ve been trying to take over power in Alandur, to restore the elves to the pure race they once were, tolerating no evil, just like the eoil.”

In Tungdil this news broke through the last bastions of his mind like a battering ram. Sounding like an alarm in his head it made clear the significance the new elf buildings, the shrines that he and Ireheart had seen on their recent visit. It all stemmed from the eoil’s commands!

Esdalan lowered his gaze. “We underestimated them. Their views took hold and they soon had more followers than Liutasil thought good-as he told me. When he attempted to thwart them it was too late. Like most, I did not see through their machinations until recently. After that I listened in to several exchanges. I heard them talk about the future of the diamond. They had examined it, they said, and found it was not the genuine one.”

“Examined it? How does that work?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the eoil let them into the secret of the magic. Our people are able to use simple charms, but your magi would not call that proper magic. Maybe the eoil changed all that?”

“Hmm. So it wasn’t a bad thing that the stone fell into the hands of the unslayables.”

Esdalan shook his head. “It never did fall into the monsters’ hands. They made that up to explain the death of Liutasil. And they were planning to steal the rest of the diamonds from the fortress as soon as they had all been brought to Paland. Then they noticed me listening and turned to get me. I escaped in spite of their arrows.” He pressed Tungdil’s hand. “That I am still alive is thanks to you.” He gave a wry smile. “A dwarf.”

“No, not thanks to me alone. The magi have played the most important part in your recovery.”

“But they couldn’t have saved me if you hadn’t taken me with you.” Esdalan’s face grew serious. “Alandur is under the sway of the atar. If I have understood correctly their intention is to carry out the eoil’s plans.”

“They want to expel evil from Girdlegard. But… those few orcs and the unslayables-”

“You’re making a mistake, Tungdil Goldhand,” the elf interrupted. “The eoil gave them the order to destroy all evil, in no matter what form.”

“The envoys!” Tungdil remembered. “The elves sent envoys out to the various realms, apparently to exchange knowledge. But they won’t have done anything except spy on the rulers and their subjects.”

“The selection process has begun. In the end only a few races will survive in Girdlegard unless the atar are stopped. The dwarf folk have already suffered losses. The attacks on the villages and towns in Toboribor or near Borwol are down to the atar as well. I am sure of it.”

“But how can they do it? They are committing evil themselves. Don’t they see that?” Tungdil thought of the children of the Smith whose wells had been poisoned.

“No, in their eyes it is not bad-on the contrary. When others can’t understand they take it as proof that they’re doing the right thing. As long as evil is working undercover it must be combated by those who are able to perceive it.” Esdalan took a deep breath. “They all want the diamond, Tungdil Goldhand. The diamond is the divine power of the eoil made manifest. Even if it hurts me to say this and I must beg Sitalia’s forgiveness, it is true: No one must trust my people any longer. Their offer of friendship is a pretense. In reality they are planning dark deeds.”

Tungdil scratched his chin while his brain worked feverishly. Girdlegard was faced with its most taxing situation. The elves, undergroundlings and unslayables all claimed ownership of the diamond. For now it seemed best for the undergroundlings to have it and take it away, far from Girdlegard’s borders.

“Are there no elves left who aren’t dazzled by the propaganda?” he asked Esdalan. “Is there no resistance movement?”

“No,” he said. “I am afraid there are no clear-thinking elves anymore.”

“And,” Tungdil hesitated, “how many elves are there in Alandur?”

“I don’t know. I can see why you ask. If there is a war I assume all the warriors sent out from the groves of Alandur will obey instructions and carry out the wishes of the atar.”

Tungdil knew how skilled the elvish warriors and archers were. They were far superior in battle to the humans and even the dwarves faced an enormous challenge getting through their deadly hail of arrows in order to engage in close combat. Perhaps the undergroundling army would be fighting not Tion’s creatures but Sitalia’s, however strange the concept. Even stranger for the others.

“How much truth can Girdlegard tolerate?” he said, more to himself than to Esdalan.

“You should be asking how much of it they will believe,” said the elf. “The elves have not done anything wrong in most eyes, and have always had the reputation of being noble, the noblest race in Girdlegard. They stand for beauty, art and goodness.” His blue eyes measured Tungdil. “You believe my words because you have traveled and are wise. But put yourself in the place of the kings and queens whose support we shall be needing. They have only experienced what they see as generosity from my people. They will never believe us. The atar will think up a story that would brand me a traitor.” He gave a sigh of desperation. “None of them will challenge the atar. Not at first. And afterwards it will be too late.”

“You are right, Esdalan. None of the humans will believe it.” Tungdil looked at Sirka. “But the dwarves will, as soon as we’ve got the diamond back from the alfar, and have placed it safely away from the elves. Unless they have it they will not dare reveal their true intentions. In the calm before the storm we shall use your help to rouse the people of Girdlegard and warn them about the atar plans.”

The elf nodded. “I pray that Sitalia and all the ancestors may give their blessing to our endeavor. May the worst be avoided.” Esdalan seemed relieved to have been able to impart this terrible knowledge to another. He let his gaze sweep the room. “Whom will you tell?”

Girdlegard,

Northeastern Part of the Brown Mountains,

Fourthling Kingdom,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T andibur Pitpride of the clan of the Pit Prides raced along the long basalt planks over the series of defense ditches in front of the narrow pass into Girdlegard on the Silverfast side. Each trench was seven paces long and twenty deep and the sides had knife-sharp edges to slice any hapless body that fell in: sharp enough to sever chain mail links.

Tandibur turned his head. Behind the trenches stood the mighty Goldfast fortress ready to resist any invader with its unassailable gold-colored walls. The masons had built them with a finish like upended spears; here and there jewels sparkled, giving the construction an extravagant patina. Curtain walls soared thirty paces high and behind them the watchtower was in the form of a fifty-pace-tall dwarf, its forbidding head fully rotatable, turned by chains and pony-power. On top of the tower’s stone helmet, and in the eye, ear and mouth cavities, guards stood watch, war machines to hand. Until now no monster had appeared at the gates and the catapults had never been needed.

It looked as if today might be different.

“Come on, get a move on!” he encouraged the five-score soldiers at his back. He was bringing reinforcements for the fortifications at Silverfast.

Tandibur had good reason for urgency. Silverfast was in trouble. It had been named after the silver shimmer of the stone it was built from. Gnomes’ silver, the dwarves called it: attractive to look at but worthless apart from its durability. There was a similar rationale for Goldfast’s designation.

The early fourthling builders had given Silverfast five towers pointing to the skies like the fingers of a hand, the tallest fifty paces high. From the gutter-spouts molten lead spewed onto the attackers at the gates and their screams rose up to the battlements.

A strong curtain wall connected the five towers, on which defenders ran about, firing crossbows and throwing missiles over the parapet.

The orcs had been bombarding the iron gates, battering the fourthling front line, desperate to get through. They were applying all their strength, and were repulsed neither by molten lead, arrows or great lumps of rock.

If Tandibur had not known better he would have assumed something was hounding the green-skins that scared them more than fourthling axes. He glanced up at the towers where black smoke wafted. The burners under the smelting cauldrons were being fed constantly, but the troops would soon run out of lead. “We’ll have to use gold to pour down instead,” he said quietly.

The repeated thud of a battering ram echoed back from the surrounding mountains. The metal gates screamed in protest, bending under the onslaught.

“By Vraccas,” shouted one of Tandibor’s warriors. “Just listen to that! What kind of enemy makes all that din? What foe has Tion sent?”

“You’ll see them soon enough,” was Tandibur’s terse reply. “Whatever it is in the ravine at Silverfast, you’ll need courage, a stout heart and a sharp ax. They are the only things that can protect us from the monsters.”

They saw rocks as big as a man hurled at and over the walls. In places the heavy missiles had damaged the battlements, crushing anyone sheltering behind. In other places smoking sacks filled with petroleum and pitch had burst against the walls, stinking terribly and making eyes and airways smart. Waves of blazing fire swallowed the dwarves on the walkways, incinerating them in seconds. And still the castle’s defenders did not yield, but continued hurling stones down and setting off a hail of crossbow bolts.

What the newcomers saw spurred them on to fight. Reaching the broad stairs up to the encircling walkways, Tandibur split them into two groups, right and left. Dark red dwarf blood dripped down the steps as if to warn them not to go on.

A terrible sight awaited.

The walkways behind the thick fortress walls were covered in a grimly woven carpet of fast-cooling corpses: men and women they knew well. The bodies were piled so densely that they had no option but to plant their boots on flesh rather than stone. Most had been killed by arrows, others were victims of the missile showers from the catapults. The metallic reek of warm blood in puddles and streaming down the walls mixed with the stench of burned flesh and with the steaming vapors of the beasts besieging them.

Random objects flew smoking over their heads. Tandibur ducked automatically under his shield.

Silverfast’s commander had been praying for them to arrive. With two arrow wounds in his right arm already, he had now been struck on the leg with a bolt and he could not remove it for fear of severe bleeding. He limped to a standstill some paces away, indicating a heap of stones. “Vraccas be thanked you have come! Take these and send them over the side.” He hurried off. “Target the team on the battering ram.”

Tandibur was motionless from shock. Then he picked up a rough boulder and heaved it on the battlements above the gate. He looked over. Spread out on the plains in front of Silverfast, monster was jostling monster. Thousands of them, mostly orcs, surged forward, yelling and storming the gates. Further back, horrible ogres, tall as giants, and their relations, big ugly hairy trolls, were constantly reloading the huge catapults to give the defenders not a moment’s respite. They were also hurling smaller missiles into the gaps in the battlements. Their aim was depressingly good.

Tandibur froze. Only a few minutes before he had encouraged a fellow dwarf to action but his own spirit now failed him.

Directly underneath, maybe thirty paces down, a hundred ogres were wielding the biggest battering ram he had ever seen. Several trees must have been felled to make it and a huge iron monster head fronted the tip. Only ogres, with their titanic strength, were capable of lifting the dreadful siege weapon.

The gate was yielding inch by inch to the successive blows from the ram. The bolts and hinges were still holding but were so badly deformed that Silverfast would soon fall.

Tandibur shook off his fear and offered a prayer to Vraccas. The fortress must not be taken. He dropped his stone over the edge and pulled his head back in to avoid enemy fire. A shrill scream next to him told him not everyone had been so lucky. He bent over the victim. “Lie still. You’ll be fine,” he said, trying to sound convincing. A missile had shattered the other’s face; the dwarf could scarcely breathe and blood was bubbling out of what was left of his nose.

“We do not give up,” croaked the dwarf, trying to grasp Tandibur’s hand, but as he made the movement his body went limp. The woven carpet of corpses had a new thread for its weft.

“Vraccas, take his soul.” Tandibur brushed aside grief. Now was no time for tears.

He saw four heavy enemy rocks hit home, one after the other, in the center of the second highest tower, leaving a wide hole. Too wide. The building swayed and great fissures appeared in the masonry. Tandibur could see the warriors at the top scampering away from the edge in panic.

The top of the tower was poised over the left flank of the orc army; the tower broke in the middle. An eleven-pace section crashed down onto the foe and sent rubble bouncing back up behind the lines, bombarding orcs further back.

A gray dust cloud stopped Tandibor seeing what damage the hordes had suffered. The falling tower had killed many, and Silverfast’s catapults were having some success against the enemy’s infantry, who were screeching in terror.

“Tandibur!” Sigdal Rubiniam of the clan of the Gem Stones ran over and grabbed his arm. He was a young dwarf, not even fifty cycles, and one who tended to give up rather than see things through. That was when it was a matter of gem polishing. There was blood all over his mail tunic and he had a cut on his face which revealed white bone underneath. Where he had been standing, the battle still raged.

“We have to get back behind the ditches and retreat to Goldfast,” he panted.

“We have orders,” replied Tandibur, not able to wrench his eyes from the smoke-shrouded fallen tower.

“But it’s useless,” protested Sigdal, spreading his arms wide. “Look! The missiles have crushed three of my friends and I am drenched with their blood. It won’t be long before Silverfast falls. Let’s save those who still live. We can combat the next wave from the second fortress, in Goldfast.”

Tandibur turned to find the defenders’ commander. He turned just in time to see that dwarf enveloped in a wall of fire to fall like a burning comet from the castle walls. The next meeting of battering ram and iron gate had the stones under their feet shuddering so that wide cracks opened up. The age-old granite was starting to give way.

The wind brought new low rumbles from the monsters. These deep threatening tones reached Tandibur’s ears for the first time and no instrument he knew of could have produced them.

Sigdal looked over the balustrade. “Look! They have reinforcements!” There was no holding him now. “We’ve got to abandon the stronghold.”

Only a fool would have persisted in the face of what was so obvious. “You are right,” said Tandibur, reaching for his bugle to call the troops. Now their commander was no more, the army would follow his orders.

Then came the strident screeching of orc trombones and the merciless bombardment stopped abruptly. No more arrows or stones or firebombs hit Silverfast. All was as still as the grave.

“What’s going on?” Sigdal chanced a quick glance into the distance. “A trick?”

“It sounds as if they’re turning the catapults round,” Tandibor interpreted, coming to stand next to him, his shield held high as protection from stray arrows.

On the other side of the plain a broad black front was rolling nearer. Compared to the numbers of monsters round Silverfast this was not a whole army of fresh replacement troops. Tandibur calculated it must be about two thousand. But each armor-suited warrior was double the height of a dwarf.

“What are they?” asked Sigdal, fascinated. “See how they run? By Vraccas, it looks like they’ve got bodies of iron but they’re running like ponies!”

Meanwhile some of the catapults had been rotated. Frantic ogres and trolls were loading and firing at the advancing troops, but the missiles did no damage at all, hitting the ground harmlessly behind them. They were traveling too fast for the artillery to reload and adjust the trajectory.

The threatening metallic sound of crashing armor-plating got louder.

The monsters were still staring in disbelief at the approaching foe. Then the front line started to shriek and one of the orcs pushed back through the throng in the direction of Silverfast, where it tried to scale the walls using fingers and toes.

This was the sign the hordes had waited for. Their paralysis was over.

Grunting and screeching, the orcs renewed their onslaught on the stronghold, throwing up siege ladders, but now total confusion reigned. They hurled away whatever they carried: weapons or armor. Some broke their sword blades off to help them clamber up the sheer sides of the fortress. If their progress was impeded orcs wrenched slower colleagues off the walls. Two ogres made a run for it, trampling a band of orcs. They tried to scramble up the rungs of a ladder far too frail to carry their weight and the wood shattered, sending them plunging back down, to lie motionless at the foot of the walls, orc bodies crushed beneath them.

“Hang on! Drive them back!” Tandibur bellowed orders right and left. “It’s easier than swatting flies. Don’t let a single one pass.” He raised his ax and struck an orc between neck and collarbone. Dark green blood spurted skywards and the orc fell back, pulling four of his kind with him to their deaths.

Fighting was easier now that the monsters, in their terror, had stopped using crossbows and covering fire from their catapults. This meant that the dwarves could risk showing themselves between the battlement merlons and use cudgels on the orcs’ broad ugly heads as soon as they appeared.

Then the black-armored attackers arrived.

Shortly before the clash of the ranks they opened their visors and violet light streamed out.

Tandibur heard the bone-marrow-shaking noise of their hissing and growling, like an army of snakes and the thunder of a volcanic eruption. It warned of the danger and merciless bloodlust of these creatures before they tore through the orc mass like a sharp blade slicing rotten wood.

They did not halt but ran straight into the throng of monsters, each wielding two weapons. Crushed and mutilated or split in half, orcs littered the ground at Silverfast.

“By Vraccas! What beasts are these?” The dwarves felt the hairs on their necks rise in horror. Tandibur now shared the orcs’ deadly fear. Instinctively he hid behind the battlements. What reached him was the ineradicable memory of the appalling noises: sharp screeches and bellows, pain stopped abruptly mid-howl. A chorus of dying so terrible that it ate away even at the mind of a dwarf.

Sigdal looked at Tandibur. “I have heard of a creature like this,” he remembered. “It was the bodyguard of Andokai the Tempestuous, the maga. No one knew where it was from but it was said to look like those things down there. They called it Djer n. It was the king of all the monsters that Samusin and Tion ever created.”

“But you can’t see anything inside the armor?”

“No, it’s that dazzling light.” Sigdal pointed to the face.

Tandibur shook himself.

A third dwarf hurried up. “Shall I have the towers shoot at them, Tandibur?” he asked. “They make big targets-we can’t miss.”

Tandibur looked at Sigdal. “Andokai’s bodyguard, you think?”

“If the stories are true,” said the dwarf, leaving a slight trace of doubt in the air.

The noise of battle on the other side surged closer to the walls. Tandibur looked down.

The black-plated beings had traversed the plain, cutting a bloody swathe through the orc army, now in disarray. It looked as if a wild animal had got into a chicken coop. The attackers had only lost a handful.

The orcs were so panic-stricken that their only urge was flight. They stormed away in small groups toward the far edge of the plain. Just before they reached the Outer Lands they were confronted by a new wall of black iron.

Tandibur yelled. “Look at that! They’ve drawn the green-skins into a trap! They’re butchering them!”

“So do we fire or not?” asked the dwarf once more.

Tandibur shook his head. “Wait and see what they do next.”

Until the evening fell they watched the unknown creatures harry and kill the orcs one by one; then ogres and trolls fell to their superior strength.

Night covered the narrow gorge that led to Girdlegard and with the darkness came silence.

There were no screams from the orcs. The dwarves heard no more groaning. Not a breath was left in the heap of bodies at the foot of Silverfast’s high towers. The unknown beings wandered through the carnage, checking cadavers, and if anything twitched in the confusion of tangled limbs and heads, they followed through with a deadly blow from their blood-stained weapons.

The stars hid themselves behind thick clouds, unwilling to view the results of the massacre. Soon the dwarves noticed the sound of scraping and scrabbling.

“Any idea what they are up to?” asked Sigdal as he spied out at the scene. “It is so devilishly dark that even with eyes like mine I can’t see.”

Tandibur took a burning torch and tossed it down from the battlements.

The faint light showed black-armored warriors moving about, dragging two or three orcs by the feet from the field of slaughter.

“What will they do with them?” wondered Sigdal.

Tandibur pointed. To the left more of the strange beings were stripping the flesh from the bones of ogres and trolls. With great blows from their weapons they shattered the bones so that the marrow could be sucked out. Victory was providing its own celebration banquet.

“By Vraccas!” mouthed Sigdal in horror.

“The king of the monsters, eh?” said Tandibur, glad when the torch gave out, veiling these ghastly activities in darkness once more. “Then it seems we have here a whole folk of kings.” He went to the steps. It was time to give Goldfast a full report of the action. “Get the gates repaired and have more rocks brought up here to the walkways. These creatures must be kept under constant observation. They may have freed us from the threat of the orcs’ attack but we don’t want them getting curious about the taste of dwarf flesh.”

Tired and with aching limbs he walked down the stairway. Then, escorting the walking wounded, he moved off along the basalt planking toward the second fortress.

Tandibur was sensing they would have to confront whatever hid behind the black visors of these new warriors. “But with what weapons?” he whispered. “How can they be stopped?” He prayed to Vraccas that this small army of giants at Silverfast would not concern themselves with the dwarves. Not today, not tomorrow, not in ten thousand cycles.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Idoslane,

Ten Miles from the Caves of Toboribor,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

L ot-Ionan sat quietly by the fire warming his hands. The nights had lost their summer mildness and after his six petrified cycles there was permanent cold within him; neither hot tea, nor warm brandy nor thick blankets could drive it out.

Dergard was already asleep. Ireheart cut himself a piece of the rabbit from the spit-roast. He chewed away making unsatisfied noises.

“Magus, are you sure we can’t get you those last few miles? It’s not far now.”

Lot-Ionan raised his white head. “Trust me, Boindil. I would rather sleep in a warm tent than in the open air.” He eased his back with his right hand. “My back is too painful to get back in the saddle.”

Ireheart was calculating what the old man might weigh. “I could carry you.”

Tungdil cut a morsel of meat for Sirka. During the journey he had spent hours thinking about Girdlegard’s precarious situation. He had confided in Lot-Ionan but even with help from the magus no satisfactory course of action had emerged.

Otherwise he observed an iron silence. Not even Ireheart had been taken into their confidence. Since the incident on the farm there was a split in a friendship that had withstood tests in the past. This time it seemed difficult to get over. Not speaking meant an uncomfortable atmosphere between the two of them. “Leave it, Ireheart, let the magus get some rest. It’s no good if he’s thoroughly exhausted when we get there.”

Sirka took the slice of meat and placed it between pieces of bread. She tasted it gingerly. “Now I know what I love about my own land,” she said, fighting down a mouthful. “The meat tastes better.”

“Probably how they feed the animals,” grinned Tungdil.

“Well, I like it,” mumbled Ireheart, making light work of the rest of the rabbit after Rodario had indicated he did not want any more. The playwright was sitting next to Lot-Ionan, scribbling away by candlelight.

“Say, Sirka, could you tell us about where you’re from?” he said suddenly, dipping his pen in the ink. “We can see you, we saw your soldiers and we’ve heard about the adventures in Girdlegard…” The quill made circles in the air. “But what’s it like back in…?” He paused expectantly.

“Letefora,” she completed. “Why do you want to know?”

“To go in this play. And I’m curious.” Rodario laughed. “Exotica goes down well on stage. The punters love a whiff of the Outer Lands.”

Sirka’s close-shaven head shimmered in the light, her dark skin enhancing the whiteness of her teeth. “Letefora is a city where many races live: humans, acronta, ubariu and ourselves. The buildings are finer than any in Girdlegard. Not even the dwarves can match us for our architecture.” She noted the indignation in Ireheart’s face. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t mean the dwarf buildings are not good. They are just…” She shrugged her shoulders. “… smaller.”

“So what’s the deal with monsters and things?” asked Rodario.

“Oh, I expect you’ll find even their monsters are bigger than ours. And they probably fly. Their screams will deafen you and the mere sight of one will strike you dead,” scoffed Boindil. He wiped the meat juices off his over-short beard. “Just like Djer n.”

Sirka nodded, “You’re right, Boindil. Absolutely spot on, even if I don’t know what a Djer n is. Our beasts are very varied. We have phottor… winged orcs, and enough other creatures to make the bravest warriors quail and take flight.”

“Only human soldiers, I’d wager,” Goda joined in, earning a grateful look from her tutor. “Or elves, perhaps. But never the children of the Smith.”

Before the harmless storytelling could develop into a fully fledged row about the dwarves and their courage, Tungdil threw in a question. So far he had listened with great interest, hanging on every word from Sirka’s dark lips. “When we were traveling north through to the Outer Lands we found this rune on the wall.” He sketched a shape in the sand.

Sirka reflected and drew a clearer version next to it. “It must have been this one. It’s an ancient sign that indicates a safe mountain pass. Long ago our people reconnoitered the whole of the northern range.”

“Aha,” said Ireheart, pointing at her with the end of a rabbit bone he had been chewing at. “So you were preparing to attack Girdlegard.”

“Yes,” said Sirka, “but when we learned that dwarves were manning the gates, we gave up. We assumed the land behind the gates would be in your hands.” She said all this in a tone of voice that could have been lies or truth. Nobody could work it out.

“Very enlightening,” said Rodario and went on writing. “In view of the situation I’ll be circumspect on the matter of invading Girdlegard.” He put on a serious face. “The audience might not like it. We can do without upsetting people right now.”

“That’s if it’s true,” said Goda, taking firm hold of her night star to sharpen the blades with a whetstone. “Sounded to me like she was having us on.”

Sirka grinned. “Who knows? Perhaps our scouts are still out there waiting for their opportunity?”

“Ho, a sense of humor. Do you know the one about the orc asking a dwarf the way?” Boindil was starting to warm up.

“Hang on…” Tungdil had just remembered the young dwarf that had never returned. When Sirka mentioned the undergroundling scouts, an explanation occurred to him for the disappearance. He put the subject to her.

“Yes, I met one,” came the reply.

“What?” Ireheart tossed the bone back over his shoulder. “What were you doing with the clan-dwarf? I thought he was a thirdling that had run off.”

“A thirdling? No.” Sirka asked for the water bottle, to rinse the last taste of rabbit away. “He had been following our scouts and got lost. It was too late when we found him. He was thin as a rake, talking rubbish about machines and saying he wanted to protect Girdlegard from them. He died of exhaustion soon after.” Tungdil nodded. They had done the right thing telling Gremdulin Ironbite’s mother her son had died. They had not wanted to awaken false hopes. “What were your scouts looking for at the gateway?”

“Seeing what was new.” Sirka placed a log on the fire. “Seeing if things were all right.”

They heard the sound of approaching hoof beats. A lantern swayed a couple of feet above the ground, illuminating the path for horse and rider.

“A messenger from Prince Mallen?” guessed Rodario, getting up. “Good. He can tell the army we’ll be with them tomorrow.” The dwarves got to their feet as well, ready for a fight.

The rider saw the campfire and came over. “The blessings of Vraccas on you,” came the greeting. “Good things come in threes!”

“Bramdal!” Ireheart cursed under his breath. “Now it’s certain. He’s spying on us,” he whispered to Tungdil. “It’s no coincidence we keep bumping into him.”

The executioner rode up, and dismounted using his patent rope ladder. “There was far too good a smell of meat. I couldn’t simply ride past.”

Ireheart gleefully held up the rabbit carcass he had gnawed clean. “Too late, executioner. Death was way ahead of you this time. On your way.”

Bramdal’s dark clothing made it difficult to see where he ended and the darkness began. It helped that he had light blond beard braids and a pale face. “Looks like there’s not much warmth at this fireside. What’s the matter?”

“You need to ask?” Ireheart took a step forward and Goda did the same. “You turn up out of the blue once too often. Your business is with death and then to cap it all you sell off the dead bodies. What decent dwarf would do that?”

Bramdal wedged his thumbs under his belt. “I don’t work as an executioner now, Boindil Doubleblade. I told you before. And the fact we keep meeting is due to the fact we are both heading the same way. Why should I want to keep bumping into you?”

“My friend thinks you spy for the dwarf-haters.” Tungdil watched the other’s face very carefully.

“Then wouldn’t I have my weapons drawn and be attacking you?” Bramdal sat down on the grass. “I could just stay quiet and pretend I don’t mind being accused like that. Later on when you’re all asleep I could slit your throats and rob Girdlegard of its greatest heroes.” He looked at Lot-Ionan. “Did I forget something?”

“You forgot to mount up and ride off again,” suggested Ireheart. “Be off with you, hangman. We don’t want you here.”

“What if I were bringing Trovegold news to the army?”

Tungdil moved over next to him. “If you like, give us your news and then be on your way. If you don’t want to share it, then mount up and ride off now.” He wanted to be rid of the executioner because he feared Boindil was going to lose his temper.

Bramdal made a regretful face. “So that’s the thanks I get for helping you reach the freelings that time? You drive me away from your fireside?”

“No.” Ireheart drew himself up in front of the executioner, his war hammer in his hands. “It’s me who’s chasing you off.”

Bramdal sighed. “I should have known you wouldn’t be friendly. I got that impression last time we met.” He stood up and went to his horse. “Trovegold is sending Prince Mallen money toward the expense of the siege. In return for that the freelings want to trade in Idoslane and have asked to negotiate with their largest towns.” He climbed up onto his specially adapted saddle. “I would say there is a new alliance on its way there.” From high up on his mount Bramdal nodded down at the others. “Because you never know how long the old ones will hold.”

He cantered off toward the southeast. For a long time they could still see his lantern. Then he crested the brow of a hill and disappeared from view.

“Good riddance.” Ireheart sat down again. He pulled a second rabbit out from behind a rock and skinned it. One puny little rabbit was never going to have been enough for him.

“What does that all mean?” Rodario asked himself and then the rest of them. “Are the freelings afraid the dwarf peoples will change their minds?”

“It looks like it.” Lot-Ionan looked at Tungdil. “Can there be a reason?”

“No. I never saw anything in the talks to indicate a worsening of relationships. I don’t know why they’re looking for support like this.” Tungdil threw himself down on the grass. Sirka joined him. “Do they know more than us?”

“We’ll find out tomorrow.” Lot-Ionan shivered and put more wood on the fire. “Let’s not waste time worrying about it now. There are more important things. Let’s get some sleep.”

Goda was given first watch and the others bedded down by the fire. Tungdil thought for a long time about what the executioner had said.

Girdlegard, Kingdom of Idoslane,

Four Miles from the Toboribor Caves,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T ungdil and his companions halted on a small hill and surveyed the biggest siege ever mounted in Girdlegard.

The scene was impressive.

The joint armies of the Girdlegard kingdoms and the elf realm encircled the entrance to the orcs’ underground domain. Nothing and no one could escape unseen. No less than seventy thousand warriors and volunteers had gathered here to confront the evil in the shape of the unslayables and their ghastly machine hybrids.

The deep green of field and orchard was marred by a black line of trenches; immediately behind lay the army encampments of the various kingdoms. Small portable bridges were available as need arose to cross the trenches.

The dwarves’ numerous tents were pitched well behind the boundary. From there, units would set off to rage through the caves of Toboribor in search of the unslayables, one of the sentries told Tungdil’s group. Nearly all the clans of the dwarf tribes had sent troops. A sea of standards and banners fluttered in the warm breeze and, a little way off, the flags of the freelings were flying.

“Isn’t that splendid? The evil won’t get through that lot.” Ireheart surveyed the scene proudly.

“That’s if the evil is in the caves in the first place.” There was doubt in Lot-Ionan’s voice.

Tungdil nodded. “Let’s find out how successful they’ve been so far in eradicating the unslayable danger for all time.” He spurred his pony on. The freelings had their camp set up too far away from the dwarves for his liking. Bramdal was proving to be correct.

Lot-Ionan rode next to him. “Have you got any further with your cogitations or are you still as much in the dark as I am?”

“I’m lost as well,” he sighed. “It all stands or falls with how the elves behave. I won’t risk a guess.” He forced his gaze away from the banners of the town.

“I don’t want to guess, either. Esdalan didn’t seem the type to be telling lies, though there must be other reasons for elves to fire on elves. At any event it was better that we left him in the village back there. I want to make up my own mind.” The magus indicated the tent bearing Mallen’s standard. “Let’s ride over. I think we should tell him everything. From what you say he is a level-headed ruler. Even if he is an Ido.”

Bramdal must have given warning of their approach. They were received with shouted greetings and much approving pounding of fists on shields from the soldiers. Men bowed respectfully to the magus, delighted to see him returned.

The unusual noise drew Mallen out of his tent. He was attired in the impressive suit of armor his ancestors had worn and his fair hair streamed free. “Welcome to Idoslane, noble Lot-Ionan.” The prince bowed. “And welcome to you all.” He shook hands with Rodario and Ireheart. “Master Bramdal told us you would be joining us soon. The greatest heroes are now assembled. We will meet the unslayables head-on.” Holding the tent flap open, the ruler invited them inside. “If you are not too tired I’d like to explain what we’ve achieved in the past few orbits.” He sent messengers out to summon the dwarf commanders. Then he addressed Lot-Ionan. “You will forgive us for not putting on an adequate celebration in honor of your return, but we have no time to lose.”

The magus nodded. “But of course, Prince Mallen. There are more important matters. Celebrations can wait until our victory.”

Like all the others he noticed the peculiar painting on the inside of the tent walls.

“A map,” Mallen explained. “This is the dwarves’ work. They have surveyed and drawn out all the caves they have penetrated here.” He pointed to the blue-shaded area. “These parts they have taken over already. They have set up small strongholds within the cave complex.”

“But are the unslayables really in the caves?” the magus wanted to know, seating himself at the table; the others followed suit.

“We’re certainly working on that assumption. The dwarves have had sight of all their monsters. I think they are supposed to be diverting our attention from the unslayables themselves. That’s why the dwarves are fighting their way in to the sections where resistance initially was low.” Mallen showed them the part he was referring to, marked in green. “They were right. Suddenly, fierce resistance was encountered and it looks as if the last of the alfar are holed up in this cave area.”

Gandogar strode in and Tungdil and the other Girdlegard dwarves bowed respectfully in greeting. A little way behind came the freeling commanders-and Bramdal. He gave them an inscrutable smile.

“What a pleasure to see all of you safe and well,” Gandogar exclaimed. “And you, magus, I have only known as a stone statue. So you must be Lot-Ionan the Forbearing.”

“Not all escaped with their lives. Far too many were carried off to Vraccas’s Eternal Smithy,” Tungdil interjected, giving a concise report of what had occurred in Weyurn. “We lost Furgas on the island. He burned to death in molten iron. We saw it happen and could do nothing to save him.”

Mallen and the high king both fell silent at this news.

“So Furgas is dead?” Mallen leaned forward on the table. “We shall miss his genius. In the past he wrought good as well as bad. I don’t want to sound heartless, but did he at least say where his machine creatures’ weak points might lie?”

“Yes.” Rodario, eyes glistening at the thought of his dead friend, took out a folder he had carried in his saddlebag and put it on the table. “He left me several drawings to show where each monster will be most vulnerable.” He cleared his throat, choked with emotion. “The points in question are small. Steady hands and a true aim will be needed when they are attacked.”

Passing the folder of drawings to a servant to have copies made, Mallen said, “Trust me: I regret his death, but now is not the time to mourn the passing of friends. It will have to wait until the alfar have been defeated.”

The tent opened again to admit Rejalin; she brought an escort of three guards and two unarmed elves.

“No one told me that a meeting had been arranged,” she said with a gracious smile. “If I hadn’t seen Gandogar entering the tent I would have missed it. Did you not wish to hear the view of the elves?”

Ireheart opened his mouth. “You can be-”

“Boindil was about to say that you can be sure we would have called you,” Tungdil interrupted smartly. “Because we need your warriors as soon as possible in Toboribor and not in the dwarf realms any more.”

“Why is that? Surely you need us to keep the gateways safe while so much of your fighting force is here in Toboribor. The monsters still present an undeniable threat. The monsters and the undercover thirdlings in your own ranks.” However charming and considerate her tone of voice, criticism was clear in Rejalin’s message. It was her opinion that the thirdling traitors should have been assiduously sought out.

Tungdil was not surprised by what she said. Not anymore. She was walking the paths of the eoil. “We have received information that the caves have a connection to the Outer Lands. Under the very feet of the besieging army a new horde is waiting. The dwarves in the caves are good warriors but even they and the army of humans would not be able to withstand this horde without the elves.” He knew that she would fall for this lie. She would not be able to help herself, even if she had seen it coming.

“Where do you get this knowledge from, Tungdil Goldhand?” she asked in surprise.

“The thirdlings we captured told us.” And he related the Weyurn adventures in an adapted version without mentioning the role Furgas had probably played. He left it with the thirdlings and unslayables being the evildoers. “Bandilor had made common cause with the alfar. He told us the unslayables’ plans; they suited his own intentions.”

The elf princess looked at him searchingly. “And you believe the word of a dwarf who allied himself with the evil?”

“I trust words spoken in fear of death,” Tungdil corrected. “He thought that I would spare him. And Lot-Ionan tested the truth of his words with magic.” Tungdil looked at the others with silent pleading in his expression.

He received support from an unexpected quarter. “We shall be needing Alandur’s elf warriors here, Your Highness. Right now, before the enemy hordes spill out and swamp us. Do you want to carry the responsibility if Idoslane and the whole of Girdlegard fall under their sway?” It was more a demand than a request that Prince Mallen was putting to Rejalin. Two issues coincided. It was his own land that was threatened and he was starting to like the elf-woman less and less. And though it might not be wise to speak boldly, he did not hold back.

Tungdil was relieved. It made his own lie sound more credible.

“Now you are demanding my support, Prince Mallen?” Rejalin lifted her cup of water and sipped long and slow. “Did you not recently expel my envoys from your court?”

“There is a difference between a delegation and an army, princess,” he said. “It was not in my mind to hold intellectually sophisticated conversations at a time when I am concerned with protecting our homeland from new and potentially disastrous threats.” He leaned forward. “As soon as we have won, I shall be delighted to receive your delegates for a cultural exchange, but until then please understand that I cannot accept your offers. Instead please send an army. That I shall welcome with open arms.”

Gandogar nodded. “Do not worry, Rejalin. We are aware of the value of your assistance, but we can defend ourselves well enough. And to reassure you further, we have already identified and imprisoned seven dwarf-haters who had been living under cover amongst us. We found them without the use of torture,” he added. “The thirdlings who are intent on becoming assimilated helped us with this.”

There was no way out for the elf princess. “Then let it be so,” she decided, smiling away her defeat. “Messengers shall leave today to bring my warriors to Toboribor.” She studied the cave-map. “The dwarves should move more quickly. The more we know about the tunnels and chambers underground, the better prepared we shall be to meet the hordes from the Outer Lands. It will be useful to be able to lay traps and ambushes.”

“I agree with you.” Gandogar raised his tankard and drank to her health. “The miners shall find the best places to set traps and start work at once.”

“Do we know anything about when this new army might appear?” asked Rejalin. “Perhaps my forces will be too late?”

“No. Bandilor spoke of preparations. We still have time in hand,” he reassured her. “Forgive me, but my friends and I are tired from the journey. We can hold an official meeting tomorrow to inform the other commanders. Now I would like to rest.”

The elf princess concurred and withdrew, followed by the town commanders and Bramdal.

Hardly had they left than Tungdil arranged with Gandogar and Mallen to hold a secret meeting outside the camp at nightfall. “No guards, no retinue. Just you two,” he insisted before he went. “Trust me. It is important, so tell no one.”

Surprised by the urgency of his appeal the leaders agreed.

A s the stars started to appear over Idoslane the three of them met at the appointed place. Mallen and Gandogar were both intrigued, but Tungdil asked them to be patient and he then stayed silent. Lot-Ionan soon joined them and the four of them rode off to the Deichseldorf inn, where they had left Esdalan.

Tungdil thought the elf was looking even more handsome since recovering from his fever. Better, he seemed fresher, more dazzling than any other living being in the vicinity. Just like Rejalin.

Gandogar and Mallen were sitting in the empty parlor of the inn listening to the elf’s story by candlelight, their faces grave.

“Then I was right to distrust them,” said the prince, “even if I would have preferred to be convinced of the goodness of the elves instead of hearing this news.”

“It is appalling that they killed their leader.” Gandogar could not credit it.

“And because I think the elf warriors are capable of anything, I invented a subterfuge to recall them to Toboribor,” said Tungdil. “I prefer to have them all in one place, where we have our armies, rather than strewn throughout Girdlegard where they could do untold damage.”

“You spoke of magic.” Mallen raised his eyes and looked at Lot-Ionan. “Do you know anything about elf-magic, noble magus?”

“Not really. The elves, just like their dark cousins the alfar, are capable of casting minor spells in connection with their way of life. According to my old books these are mostly to do with the realm of flowers and decorative arts. Liutasil never mentioned his folk having the power to use magic in the same way as a magus or maga.”

“That may be only partly so,” Esdalan chimed in. His voice sounded impossibly pure to human ears. “The elves of Alandur were never reputed to be very interested in magic. But others of my people, the elves of the Golden Plain, who were persecuted by the alfar, were more open to such arts. I remember hearing that the small number of Golden Plain elves that survived the alfar ravages fled to us in Alandur.”

Tungdil noticed that the elf’s speech was changing, becoming more flowery and, to his ears, unbearable.

“That makes things different. So we cannot exclude the possibility of there being a descendant of these magically endowed elves in the ranks of the atar. Perhaps the eoil gave him part of the knowledge.” Lot-Ionan was summarizing. “That explains why they want the diamond.”

Gandogar furrowed his brow. “Please don’t think I am being unreasonable, noble magus, but what if you or Dergard had the power of the stone. How powerful would that make you?”

“If it is as Tungdil tells me, then this power would be…” He rubbed his white beard as he searched for the right word. “Immeasurable,” he said finally. “The power would be immeasurable.” He laughed slyly. “Have no fear, High King Gandogar. It does not entice me and for Dergard it is the same. We have the magic source to give us the same power. It would be nothing special for us. And then of course neither Dergard nor I are attracted to evil.”

“Are you so sure?” Gandogar disappeared behind the bar and poured them all some simple country wine. “He was one of Nudin’s pupils. We know what happened to that magus.”

“But don’t forget the particular circumstances, Your Majesty,” Lot-Ionan said, taking young Dergard’s part. “There is no daemon, sending out insidious messages. Our opponents are mighty but they are physical enemies. And thus we can confront them.” He held out his hand to receive the crockery mug, but gasped with pain. His back was troubling him with the movement. His eyes glazed and grew dim… Then he thought he saw a figure by the door. A strangely familiar figure. “Nudin?”

“Noble Lot-Ionan, what is it?” The bearded face of Tungdil appeared suddenly in his field of vision, looking very worried. “Is it your back again?”

The magus shook his head, emptied the mug of wine and asked for more. “There are probably still tiny fragments of stone embedded in my body,” he said slowly. “They affect my mind and make me see things that cannot be there.” He stood up and went over into the dark corner of the room where he had seen his old friend. But however hard he looked, to his great relief he could find no trace.

“What is the matter, noble magus?”

“Nothing. I must stretch my legs. My back. It hurts. I never noticed when I was a statue.” He returned to the group. “So what shall we do with the elves?” He picked up the thread again; he was cold now. “Shall we confront them and hear what they have to say, or shall we deal with the unslayables first?”

“My feeling is we should not postpone the conflict with the princess,” said Mallen. “I’ll tell you why. I don’t like the idea of the elves following their own ends in the middle of a battle with the alfar and their new creatures, snatching the diamond for themselves and then carrying out unimaginable deeds with its power. Of course, they will defeat the evil, I have no doubt.” His gaze took in all of them. “But I don’t think they will let us influence their decisions after that. I want to have Rejalin as a hostage. Before the battle starts.”

“A good plan. If the elves go along with it,” said Lot-Ionan, rubbing his eyes as if to punish his sight for the trick it had played on him.

“Now, Prince Mallen has just said exactly what I was thinking. If they refuse, it will be obvious they’re up to no good,” said Esdalan, raking his fine hair with his fingers. “I would suggest taking no risks at all. Let’s impound all the elf warriors from Alandur-there aren’t many of them here at Toboribor.”

“We’ll take Esdalan with us and he can address the assembly in the morning,” proposed Tungdil. “And then we’ll see what the elves say in response to your story.”

“Don’t forget: We’re all willing to listen to Esdalan because we have already had experience of the atar.” Mallen turned to the elf. “But tomorrow you’ll be addressing a less compliant audience. King Nate from Tabain and Queen Isika are both strong contenders for the elf support camp. You may not win them round.”

Esdalan bent his head graciously as if he were a monarch acceding to a request. “Thank you for your warning, Prince Mallen. But I am sure I shall open the humans’ eyes, though it cost me my life.”

“Your life?” echoed Gandogar in horror. “No, no. We do not wish that. We cannot lose the only right-thinking elf in the whole of Alandur.”

“It can’t be helped.” Esdalan was adamant. “I know Rejalin and can predict how she will react. I shall provoke her and from a certain point in my speech the line will have been crossed.” He laid his hand on Tungdil’s arm. “This I owe to you and to Girdlegard. My life was preserved by Sitalia when she sent a dwarf to me. I understand the will of the goddess. Our two peoples must proceed together against those who could bring about the destruction of the elves.”

“Vraccas looks kindly on what is happening in this room.” Gandogar spoke with emotion. His brown eyes encompassed the small group of conspirators. “Yet we should not forget to pray for the success of our venture. We urgently need the support of the gods.” He planted his hand on the center of the table, and Esdalan laid his own hand on top. Mallen, Tungdil and Lot-Ionan followed suit.

“May we meet with success,” the magus said gravely.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Idoslane,

Four Miles from the Caves of Toboribor,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T ungdil slept badly. He dreamed about Balyndis and Sirka. In the morning he awoke with only confused fragments still in his mind. Had the women been fighting about him or had he been fighting the women? Sirka had plunged her knife in his heart…

He sat up as soon as the first birds were singing. He felt his breast where the pain had brought his dream to life.

“A real nightmare,” he sighed, rubbing the sore place while he got to his feet. He washed and put on his clothes and armor. The face in the polished silver mirror was old and tired. Of course this could all be the effect of the old drinking bouts. Or of the frustration in his soul. It had not left him. “Have I done the right thing?” he asked his reflection, as so often in the past.

“Are you sleep-walking or did you really get up this early?” said Ireheart, propping himself up on one elbow. “What’s the trouble? Birds too loud?”

Tungdil turned round to face him. “Get up, Boindil. I’ve got something to tell you.” And so, while he dressed, the warrior received a summary of the previous night’s events. “The assembly will be deciding today and I want you to keep an eye on Esdalan. Keep him safe from the elves. Protect him, not me.”

Ireheart ran his hands through his black hair. It was still too short to braid. “Why didn’t you take me along to your meeting?” he asked disappointedly. “How have I forfeited your trust?”

Tungdil was surprised. “I didn’t think to, because…” He was searching for a reason and could not find one at first. Well, not one he could actually voice.

Boindil was drawing his own conclusions. “It’s Goda, isn’t it?” He pulled on his boots. “You don’t trust her and you think I’ll tell her everything. You think she’s a spy for the dwarf-haters. Since our quarrel at the farm things haven’t been right. It’s not how we were at the beginning of this adventure, Scholar. I keep wondering which of us has changed. How did it happen?”

“We have both changed, Ireheart.” Tungdil hooked a stool with his foot and sat down by his friend. “You’ve lost your heart to a dwarf we don’t know. She could be up to anything. You don’t see the danger and I’m probably over-reacting.” He smiled sadly. “And my heart is lost to a dwarf you absolutely abhor.”

“Then it’s the fault of the women, not us.” The warrior grinned. “It’s always the women.”

Tungdil laughed quietly. “That’s being too simplistic.” He searched for the right words. “I’m not happy, Boindil. Frustrated. In Girdlegard there’s nowhere I feel at home. I don’t belong with the humans. I don’t belong with the dwarves.”

“You’ll be off to join the undergroundlings, then. I knew it.”

“How…”

“You’re the learned scholar, Tungdil. You sat around on your arse more than five cycles in Lot-Ionan’s vaults trying to be a decent settled dwarf. For the sake of Balyndis. But your heart and soul weren’t in it.”

This took Tungdil by surprise. It was all true. He stared at his friend.

“Now, with the unslayables, there’s a new challenge for you and then you’ll be off, over the hills and far away.” Ireheart smiled. “Whatever kind of dwarf you are, Tungdil, you’re not the type that likes settling down. There are a few more characteristics of the children of the Smith that have passed you by as well. Good thing, too. You got the dwarves and freelings together. You united the dwarf tribes and Gindlegard has you to thank that it still exists in its present form.” He patted Tungdil on the knee and stood up. “An ordinary dwarf like myself would never have managed all that. Vraccas made you like this to bring a bit of life into the race. Stay the way you are, Scholar. I’ll have to get used to it, even if it takes some time. You’ll have to excuse my grumbling. I am and remain your friend.” He held out his hand. “If you want my friendship.”

“How would I cope without a bad-tempered honest dwarf?” Tungdil grasped his hand and they embraced. He was glad they had had this exchange. The black curtains between them were now swept away.

Ireheart beamed with relief. “Now we’ve sorted that out, let’s see how pointy-ears deals with Esdalan’s accusations.” He shouldered the crow’s beak. “I said pointy-ears on purpose, because she’s not one of the elves we have to get on with.” He went over to where a canvas partition shielded Goda’s sleeping quarters. “Ho, it’s great to be able to say pointy-ears again.”

Tungdil got himself a hearty breakfast. He sat quietly eating while Boindil was briefing his trainee for the assembly session. It did not escape her notice that her mentor kept taking a sideways glance over to Tungdil. Finally she came over. “What can I do to convince you I am to be trusted? Give me a task, exact an oath from me-something to reassure you. I have Ireheart’s confidence.”

“It’s not necessary, Goda,” Tungdil replied.

“I want to get rid of these doubts you have about me,” she insisted. “We are both of the thirdling tribe. You know what it is like not to be trusted.”

He stayed silent about his and Gandogar’s vague misgivings about letting the thirdlings reassemble as a tribe in their own right. “Yes, I do.” The memory of the rejection he had met with from Balyndis’s clan flashed through his mind. “And I don’t like having you so near me and Ireheart, Goda, when I have these doubts. But I have a duty to be cautious. If you were a spy for the dwarf-haters you could cause immense damage with what you might learn.”

She glared at him. “So your doubts can’t be removed?”

Looking at Boindil, Tungdil said, “You have convinced my friend, Goda. Give me time. Maybe I can come to the same conclusion.”

“Not everyone is like Myr.” Her words shot out.

Tungdil was shocked. “No, they are not all like her,” he agreed softly, standing up and leaving the tent.

Outside, in the light of the rising sun, he marched sharply off, up and down the hillocks until he found the highest. Here he sat down on the dew-fresh grass, out of breath now.

He surveyed the scene spread out before him: smoke rose from a campfire or two. The army was starting to wake up, like the rest of Girdlegard.

Perhaps Balyndis, back in the Gray Range, was also waking. Was she looking at Glaimbar and thinking of him? Was she cursing his memory? Did she still love him but understand it could lead nowhere? He hoped that she understood.

Tungdil snatched up a few blades of grass. What was going to happen to Sirka and him? Would he only disappoint her, too?

Turning these thoughts over in his mind he remained on the hilltop until the sun climbed above the horizon. A fanfare signaled a meeting. He would arrive late, but no matter. They would not start without him.

“Vraccas, guide me,” he begged, getting to his feet brushing the dew from his leather breeches and relishing the feel of the cool dawn air on his face.

He could not have said why he did so, but he turned toward the north. There he saw, ten miles away, the wide snake heading toward them over the hills of Idoslane. An army of considerable size was marching to Toboribor.

The ubariu: The thought shot through him. Without the fourthlings having noticed, Sundalon had accompanied the army through the mountains to support his claim for the diamond. Tungdil tried to guess how many soldiers were involved. When Sirka had mentioned the number eighty thousand she had not been lying.

Now they had to hurry.

He started back down immediately. The meeting was going to be really interesting now. He wondered how Rejalin would react to the news of the approaching ubariu. Secretly Tungdil felt relieved to see the army. The elves would not dare to set out against such superior numbers.

Gandogar would be shaken to hear that the dwarves were not in sole charge of Girdlegard’s safety. And had not been for several thousand cycles.

“Yes, this is going to be lively,” he said to himself as he got near to the camp.

Sentries from the outposts were dashing in to inform Mallen of the approach of what they took to be an orc army that had appeared out of nowhere.

Tungdil went swiftly in, cutting a messenger off in mid-flow. “Your Highness. The approaching force is not an enemy,” he explained. “These people have kept Girdlegard safe in the past just as my own have done. I shall send Sirka out to them. She will return to us with a delegation of the ubariu.”

Prince Mallen, surrounded by tumult, tried to think. “I have stopped being surprised by anything,” he said flatly. “Let us meet in the conference marquee.”

Tugdil bowed and went off to give Sirka her instructions.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Idoslane,

Four Miles from the Caves of Toboribor,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T he besieging armies were in complete uproar.

Four hundred ubariu standards had appeared on the hills behind the encircling siege. Each of the banners measured five paces in length and one pace in breadth; the bright fabrics with their unfamiliar symbols flapped and swirled in the wind. The poles they were suspended from bent with the weight of the material and each standard needed four bearers. The noise of the flags whipping in the breeze was audible from afar.

This sea of flags was enough to impress the humans, the dwarves and even the elves. For Tungdil there was, thanks to Sirka, the additional knowledge that each standard represented one thousand warriors encamped over the hills out of sight.

Depicted in the arms Tungdil noted stylized weapons, patterns like flowers, and images of animals; still others reminded him of elaborate elf designs. No two were the same. He cast a final admiring glance their way and then entered the tent where all the monarchs had foregathered. Arguments were already underway and it was no surprise to see Rejalin deep in conversation with Isika and Ortger.

Prince Mallen rose to his feet and rapped on the table for silence. “As we have all seen, something very unexpected has occurred,” he said in carrying tones, suppressing the last of Isika’s whispered comments. “Tungdil Goldhand, tell us what this means.”

The dwarf got up. “The ubariu have come to secure the return of their property. Their envoy Sundalon explained at the previous session what vital importance the diamond has for them and for the whole of Girdlegard.”

“It’s a trick,” exclaimed Rejalin, radiant as the morning. “These are creatures of Tion, disguised as lambs but with the nature of beasts.”

“Did we not agree we should not judge purely on appearances, princess?” Tungdil’s retort was still respectful in tone. “Must I remind you of your own relatives? If we followed your line of argument we would have to raise a hand against every elf in Girdlegard on the grounds that we cannot be sure there is no evil lurking in them.” He had chosen these harsh words with care, to enrage and provoke her before Esdalan appeared. The more disturbed her behavior in front of the sovereigns of Girdlegard, the better.

The elf-woman was not going to do him the favor of a wild retort, but her eyes flashed in his direction. She sensed the dwarf was up to something.

Before Tungdil could continue, a commotion at the entrance heralded seven of the unfamiliar ubariu. Sirka followed in their wake.

The ubariu differed in appearance from their close relatives, the orcs: their stature was broader and more muscular. However, their faces were more finely drawn, if hardly more attractive; sharpened tusks protruded from between their lips and their skin was the darkest of greens.

They wore skillfully fashioned iron armor quite unlike the crude harnesses the orcs would sport. Underneath was a layer of padded dark fabric and their feet were protected with boots. Their weapons were heavy curved swords, broad at the tip to enable a more powerful blow. They exuded a smell like lavender.

Ireheart cursed under his breath and took firm hold of his crow’s beak. There was a sharp intake of breath from those present; Queen Wey was heard to groan.

“Our greetings to all the rulers of Girdlegard.” The ubariu spokesman bowed. He surveyed the company with a pink-eyed gaze. The voice recalled that of an orc but his speech, though accented, was clearly enunciated. Like Sirka, of course, he was speaking a foreign language; Tungdil was astonished that the ubariu knew the common tongue the rest of them used. “My name is Flagur and I am here to help the ubariu,” and he pointed to Sirka, “win back their stolen diamond.”

“But I thought the orcs were the ubariu?” said Isika, thoroughly confused.

“We call each other ubariu,” Sirka explained. “We are both creatures of the god Ubar.”

“A nice family indeed,” said Ortger, a flush of high emotion visible through the beard growth on his cheeks.

“We,” said Flagur civilly but assertively, “are not the creatures that you call orcs and we refer to as phottor. We may resemble them in looks but we fight them as fiercely as you in Girdlegard once had to do.”

“Your army’s approach can be read as a threat, Flagur,” Isika said to him. She had gone very pale and her black hair emphasized this. “We have heard from the lookouts that you bring at least eighty thousand soldiers.”

“One hundred thousand, Your Majesty. We will never threaten you. We are merely afraid that your own forces are not sufficient in number to retrieve the diamond from the hands of the unslayables. And we are afraid also because you tolerate the broka in your land.” He indicated Rejalin.

“We have heard that you put them to the sword in the Outer Lands,” Ortger exclaimed excitedly. “Don’t try the same thing here!” He pointed to Lot-Ionan and Dergard. “We have powerful wise men that your warriors cannot win against. Magic, does that mean anything to you?”

Flagur, Rodario’s skill and experience told him, was enjoying playing a simple mind; many here were treating him as if he were as backwards as an orc. “Magic? No. Not me.” He shook his head, then pointed to the ubariu in violet-hued clothing next to him. “He will know. He is our top rune master and he can do things that always astonish me.” His companions laughed softly. “We must settle what is to happen about the diamond. Sundalon told you how important it is for our land and for yours. For this reason I insist we receive the stone after the removal of the alfar.”

“So there is a threat!” Isika exclaimed, smugly. “Your intentions are clear.”

Flagur twisted his lips into a smile. Tungdil had faced a multitude of creatures in his time, yet he had never seen any looking quite so dangerous. “No, I give you my word that my soldiers and I will march out of Girdlegard without attacking a single one of your people.”

A whisper ran through the assembly. They had heard the announcement but did not believe it.

Sirka raised her voice. “But what we will do is leave our own land, Fon Gala, and we shall no longer guard the secret pass into Girdlegard as our people have done for so long.”

The lines in Gandogar’s brow were deep channels rather than furrows. “Nonsense. There is no secret way through the mountains…” Then he hesitated, wondering the same thing as all the other rulers there. “How did you get through the ravine and past the two dwarf fortresses?” he demanded, his voice unsteady. “I swear by Vraccas I shall attack you myself, if…”

Flagur turned to Sirka. “You tell them.”

“We led the ubariu into Girdlegard,” she admitted. “We have known about the path for a long time and have protected it from the phottor, who happened upon it by a grave mischance. We circumvented the fourthling strongholds while the acronta besieged your gates, creating a diversion.”

“And this is the path that will be used by the most ghastly of beings to invade your land,” Flagur predicted. “You can prevent it. If you give us the diamond. With it we can awaken the artifact to life that will close up the Black Abyss.”

“It’s a trick!” Rejalin insisted.

Those were the words Tungdil had been waiting for. He pounced upon the elf-deceit. “A trick? If you speak of trickery, princess, how do you explain to these crowned heads the murder of Liutasil four cycles ago and the farce you stage here?”

Rejalin stared at him. For the space of a moment there was nothing elegant or wonderful about her. Then she recovered and replaced her mask of sheer beauty. “What nonsense are you spouting, Tungdil Goldhand? Is this how you repay my people’s hospitality? You would tell lies about us?” The elves behind their leader conferred nervously. Her bodyguard pierced Tungdil with sharp looks, unable to take further action in the circumstances.

“It is true! I have witnesses, Your Majesties,” he persisted, fending off her attempts to ridicule his evidence. “I need to tell you all something I had wanted to keep secret until the end of my days. The eoil that Rodario and I destroyed in Porista was in reality an elf. Liutasil told me everything. The eoil are the oldest and most powerful of the elves and none of the elf folk would dare take up arms against one. This was the reason elves would not help us in our struggle.” And he reported what had really happened on top of the tower. Rodario, aware this was not his big moment, let Tungdil speak, then swore an oath on his own life as to the truth of each word. “Liutasil knew. Now that the eoil followers have murdered him, it is impossible for me to remain silent.” Rodario gave the signal for Ireheart and Sirka to go and fetch Esdalan.

Ortger turned to the elf-woman seated as still as a porcelain figurine, fists clenched in her lap. “Say it isn’t true, what Tungdil Goldhand is telling us!”

“Wait to hear the witness you tried to have killed,” said Tungdil, as the elf entered with Goda and Ireheart.

Esdalan’s eyes were full of hatred and contempt for Rejalin. Again Tungdil was struck by the resemblance. “I stand here, Your Majesties, and take my oath before the goddess Sitalia that I heard her speak of Liutasil’s murder with my own ears. She arranged it; she prepared the ground for treachery.” As he spoke he indicated the princess with a graceful but accusatory gesture. “My sister and her followers are desperate to further the teachings of the eoil who caused so much destruction and suffering here in Girdlegard and in the Outer Lands. Do not allow her, whatever happens, to gain possession of the diamond or your fate and that of your subjects will be terrible.”

Siblings! This explained why Tungdil had been struck by the similarity. It also made Rejalin’s attempt on the elf’s life all the more dreadful a crime.

Esdalan reported of his experiences in Alandur, about the new temples where the eoil was worshipped, about the white stones that stood for purity and that were to be erected in each of the kingdoms; he told them about the plans to bring death to those who had, in distress and crisis, gone along with the evil, like the people of Toboribor; he spoke of how the elves would take over in Girdlegard, dictating to the citizens and allowing them no voice of their own, as soon as they had the diamond in their hands.

The assembled monarchs listened in horrified silence.

“The atar consider themselves the purest of the pure and as purity’s champions as almost of the same status as the eoil. They want authority over all these lands, to be moral protectors. But they are no better than vicious blinded creatures, killing so many in their own ranks that all opposition was eradicated.” Esdalan swiveled round. His voice was unsteady now, choked with emotion. “And nobody saw. Not even I, her own brother. Now you all know. I beg you in the name of the dead of Alandur, executed by the atar: Prevent this. Stop them!” He took a step back and met his sister’s gaze.

Rejalin swallowed hard. His appearance here had thrown her.

Shocked silence reigned. Outside, soldiers’ voices could be heard and the normal sounds of the town: The clink of harness, the noise of hammers and tools, the footsteps of citizens going about their daily business.

“By all the good gods,” whispered Isika, laying her hand on Rejalin’s white one. “Say something! You must answer these accusations!”

Revolted by the touch, the elf-woman haughtily pulled away her hand and wiped it on her cloak. “What is there to say?” she said contemptuously. “It is true. We want to give Girdlegard the purity and morality it deserves. The eoil left us with this mission and we rejoice in fulfilling her wishes.” She watched the faces that surrounded her. “It will not be long now and our time will come. Then the wheat will be sorted from the chaff. The new seed grain will grow more gloriously than anything that has been seen before. Now it is out in the open I appeal to you all: submit to our test and show that you are free of guilt.”

“By Palandiell!” Queen Wey sprang forward. “How you have deceived me! You won my trust with falsehoods and empty promises in order to spy out my land!” She pointed an accusing finger. “Do you think that this confession will bring you a single supporter amongst these monarchs?”

“We knew you would react like this as soon as our good intentions to bring enlightenment and purity to Girdlegard became known. You cannot understand, Queen Wey.” Rejalin smiled forgivingly. “You are not yet ready.”

But Weyurn’s sovereign was too deeply wounded to be calmed by such words. “Do not dare to speak to me as if you were my mother!” she cried indignantly.

“But that is what we are. We are the mothers calling Girdlegard to order. For the good of all,” the elf princess attempted to explain. She stood up as if to go. “As so often with mothers, their actions are not understood by their disobedient children. Not until many cycles have passed and the seed of New Girdlegard has sprouted and grown will our efforts be acknowledged. Then shall we, the atar, and the wise teachings of the eoil be recognized and praised.”

Gandogar pushed in front of her, growling angrily. “Where are you off to, Rejalin? Face up to your responsibility. You have killed dwarves and humans.”

She looked at him in surprise. “We have eradicated beings that were not pure enough to exist in the new order. They were the chaff.” Her bodyguards fanned out into a protective line to shield her.

“And why the firstlings? What had those dwarves done to hurt you?”

“You poor pitiful high king, with no idea what is happening in your own empire,” she said. “It was a thirdling colony. Dwarf-haters. My spies were watching them and decided to act before they could carry out more evil deeds against you and any dwarves worthy of life.” She smiled. “Only a few of you will remain, I fear. You have many dwarf-haters in your ranks. You do not understand.”

“She is madder than I am,” murmured Ireheart. “We must not let her escape, Scholar. She will destroy Girdlegard instead of vanquishing the unslayables and their bastard freaks.”

Rejalin did not listen but strode off toward the entrance. The human monarchs were too confused by the revelations regarding the elf princess to know what to do.

But Gandogar did not move aside; he laid his hand on his cudgel. “You will stay here and answer for your deeds,” he demanded in a determined voice.

Esdalan came to his side. “It is over, sister. I have warned Girdlegard about your evil plans and intrigues. You can never prevail in open warfare.”

“And now, Highness?” Mallen moved over from the side. “You have brought death to too many. Including Alvaro, whose fears I was foolish to disregard. He was wiser than I.”

“If you had believed him you would have died, too.” She surveyed him from head to toe. “As it seems you are all united with this unpleasant person from the Outer Lands against me, I have no choice but to open your eyes.”

“You surely do not intend to wage war?” Ortger could not take this in, any more than could Isika. “I beg you…”

The elf-woman stared. “It is not your place to beg anything of me, young man. Whoever gets the diamond first will decide what happens in Girdlegard.” She gave a sharp nod.

One of her bodyguards drew his sword as quick as lightning and made to thrust it into Esdalan’s body.

But Gandogar had not missed a thing. His cudgel flew out to deflect the blade. The elf, however, followed through and struck the king in the chest as he tried to protect Esdalan.

The elves and Rejalin hurried out of the assembly. Suddenly, one of her guards turned round with a rapid arm movement and something whirred toward Esdalan.

Ireheart grabbed up a small stool and hurled it to intercept the knife that had been thrown. It fell harmlessly in the corner. In the meantime the princess made her escape.

“Let her go,” said Mallen, seeing Goda setting out after her. “You would stand no chance against them.” He rushed out and they heard him giving hasty orders. Horses whinnied and riders cantered off. The prince returned to the assembly. “My men will cut them off and hold them.” He turned to Flagur. “We may be needing your warriors sooner than we thought. But not to attack the creatures of Tion.”

Isika stood up. “I know when I have made a mistake,” she admitted with humility. Recent events had changed her mind. “I would ask the dwarf people and Tungdil Goldhand to forgive me. The elves’ skill in deception is too perfect. Without you this unthinkable plan would never have come to light. For this my heartfelt thanks.” She looked at all the kings and queens. “I do not exaggerate when I say that once again we are indebted to the dwarves.”

Tungdil was supporting Gandogar, who for some reason was having trouble staying on his feet. Ireheart helped him. “Gandogar, what’s wrong? Did the sword get you in the ribs?” He checked the armor: there was a scratch and slight dent.

“That’s what I call good dwarf armor,” said Boindil proudly.

Gandogar’s eyes rolled back in his head. He tried to speak but his knees gave way and his arms hung limply by his sides.

“Quick, put him on the table,” instructed Lot-Ionan. “Let me see to him.”

They picked the high king up and stretched him out on the conference table. The dwarves took off his breastplate and the magus inspected where the impact had been.

“Nothing,” he said, “no fractures.” He touched a red mark underneath the ribs. “This area here is very vulnerable. It is possible to render someone unconscious with a single blow with one’s hand. It is possible that the blade had a similar effect through the armor.”

Tungdil saw a dark red spot appear on Gandogar’s neck. “Blood!” he exclaimed, touching the dwarf’s throat. At that moment he stopped breathing. Tungdil’s hands explored the thick beard until he found the wound. Directly under the chin his fingers came across a sharp piece of metal. The broken sword blade had bounced up and pierced his skin there. He parted the king’s jaws, fearing the worst.

“He’s dying!” shouted Ireheart in horror, looking to Lot-Ionan. But when the magus began a spell, Tungdil stopped him.

“It is over,” he said darkly and showed them Gandogar’s mouth where the sword fragment had pierced right up into his skull. The high king’s brain was irrevocably destroyed.

“By Vraccas,” whispered a horrified Ireheart. He hung his head; Goda was doing likewise.

Tungdil shut the dead man’s mouth and closed his eyes. “Put his armor back on,” he ordered. “High King Gandogar Silverbeard, of the clan of the Silver Beards of Goimdil’s fourthlings, is on his way to the eternal smithy back into the hands of Vraccas, his creator. Take his body to the Brown Range where he shall find a resting place surrounded by his own clan and the majestic mountain peaks.”

“The elves have slain the high king of the dwarves.” Mallen looked at Esdalan. “This will not end well.”

“Not the elves. It was the atar,” said Tungdil, looking at the blood on his fingers. The death of his monarch suddenly made everything much worse.

“It will be hard to explain that difference to the tribes making their way here, and the dwarves already at Toboribor,” predicted Ireheart. “Both have pointy ears.” He looked over at Esdalan. “Saving your presence.”

A soldier entered. He stared open-mouthed at the body of the high king. “Prince Mallen, the elf princess and her escort have escaped. They have vanished into thin air. Her soldiers have gone off to the caves.”

“When was that?”

“Just after the beginning of the meeting. We thought they were following your orders.”

Mallen uttered a curse. “Rejalin guessed she would be unmasked.”

Lot-Ionan raised his arms. “Terrible though the death of Gandogar is, we have no time to mourn. The elves will try to find the unslayables and snatch the diamond.” He glanced at Tungdil. “Go and tell the dwarves what has happened. Anger makes a dwarf invincible. Speed is of the essence. Vital if we are to survive.” Then, to Mallen: “Send all your warriors into the caves and follow the dwarves. Guard all the entrances. Not a single elf must escape.” Finally he turned to Flagur: “It is your task to defend the caves from without. We are expecting a huge army of atar.”

Flagur nodded. “It will be an honor. We are experienced in stopping the broka and destroying them. Should it be necessary.” He changed into a different language and his companions withdrew. “Shall we have the stone, Lot-Ionan?” he asked.

“Yes,” spoke the magus without hesitating. “It has already caused enough trouble in Girdlegard. Take it and put it where at least it may do some good.”

Flagur gave a sketchy bow and left.

Ireheart, Goda, Sirka and Tungdil took their leave and hurried out to inform the rest of the dwarves about the death of their high king. Tungdil felt a dull ache inside. He sensed this was not a good omen.

When they reached the camp the banners were already at half-mast. The news had spread quickly. And the anger of the warrior dwarves, men and women alike, gathering around to hear him confirm the rumor, was palpable. The commanders of the freelings stood somewhat apart.

Tungdil stepped onto an upended bucket brandishing Keenfire in the air. “High King Gandogar is dead…”

A furious dwarf pushed forward. “Murdered!” he screamed. “By the pointy-ears.” There were shouts from all sides as indignation at the cowardly murder spread.

“Listen to me!” called Tungdil, as loud as he was able, to be heard over the noise of the throng. “The elves are not guilty of the king’s death. Our foes are the atar. You must not make the mistake of treating them and the elves alike.” The angry hubbub dwindled away and Tungdil was able to report what had happened in the tent. Then he pointed Keenfire at the caves of Toboribor. “The atar want to take over our homeland. Let us now fulfill the task Vraccas gave us. Stop them! For the sake of Girdlegard!”

No one spoke.

A dwarf in the first row went down on one knee, removed his helmet and leaned on the upright shaft of his war hammer. His lips moved silently. Warriors to the left and right followed his example. In a wave of clinking armor and clattering helmets the dwarves all knelt on the flattened grass. Only the dwarves of the free towns remained standing.

“What are they doing?” asked Sirka, surveying the sea of bowed bare heads. “Are they calling you their new leader? Or are they praying?”

“No, they are not praying,” answered Tungdil, all too conscious of what was happening. He could read their lips. “It is an oath of vengeance.”