The Revenge of the Dwarves

XVIII

Girdlegard,

Queendom of Weyurn,

Northern Edge of the Red Mountain Range,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

Let’s see what’s under that helmet,” said Tungdil, reaching out to loosen the chinstrap. Loud crashes warned of trouble and fragments of shattered cogwheels flew past his ears. He swung round in shock to see what was happening. “What on earth have you done, Rodario?”

“I’ve wrecked the machine. Wasn’t that what you wanted?” the Fabulous One retorted indignantly. “It’ll all be over soon.”

But the noise was telling a different story. Chains and drive belts were bursting and ripping apart and in the interior of the engine room havoc reigned. A symphony of destruction echoed from all sides, with projectiles shooting out from exploding machinery. It would have been safer to stand on a battlefield in a hail of arrows from a thousand enemy archers than to be in the iron belly of that machine.

“Everybody out!” yelled Tungdil. He had taken a painful hit on the back. Although the chain mail had stopped the metal bolt he was badly bruised.

They headed back. On the way Sirka spotted another hatch through which they got out onto a narrow iron walkway to a second exit. The unslayable one wasn’t objecting. He had no desire to die inside an exploding machine.

It was not long before they got outside and could leap down into the dust on the tunnel floor and run for the wagons. Only then could they stop for breath.

“Remind me never to ask you to do any sabotage again,” Tungdil said to Rodario, only half joking.

With a deafening screech like the death cry of some primeval creature the drill finally stopped turning and the machine stopped thudding. The last dust floated to the ground and the air grew still.

“We’ve done it!” Rodario gave a triumphant shout. He checked to see if he had been injured. “The old heroes are the new heroes of the day! Girdlegard is safe, my friends!”

“Not quite.” Tungdil stretched out a hand, intending to take off the unslayable’s helmet and interrogate him concerning the diamond, but the alfar’s pointed boot shot out, catching the dwarf full on the forehead.

Either the unslayable one had only been pretending that Lot-Ionan’s spell had worked, or the magus was no longer able to sustain the magic. The alfar grabbed a sword from the nearest ubari and elbowed away the soldier who had been restraining him; as the armored arm struck him in the face he fell senseless to the ground.

“How dare you stop me?” the alfar bellowed from behind his protective headgear, as he wielded his sword against Flagur, who fended off the blow but got punched on the nose instead. Blood spurted out to land glistening on the unslayable’s metal gauntlet. “I’ll slice your sinews and have you kneeling at my feet in your own blood!”

“Come on, wizard!” Rodario shouted to Lot-Ionan, swerving out of reach of the remarkably agile alfar.

Tungdil confronted the foe. “You have something that does not belong to you!”

The alfar did not deign to answer. Instead he launched a terrific blow, the momentum of which nearly had him down as Tungdil parried with his ax. A strike like that would have had even the strongest orc on its knees.

“What miserable creatures you are,” said the alfar hollowly, disgust in his voice. “You deserve the destruction that awaits you all.” Nonchalantly he sidestepped a blow from one of the ubariu whilst easily maintaining the pressure on his sword hand, and thus on Tungdil.

“The machine is useless now,” the dwarf gasped, thrusting his opponent back toward Flagur’s raised weapon.

“I don’t need it anymore.” The alfar was defiant. “The last section of quarrying I shall do with the diamond’s power.”

He swept the sword to one side, catching Tungdil off balance, and used the momentum to sink the blade into the belly of the last guardsman. “As soon as I have killed you.” He sprang up into the air and onto the nearest of the wagons and catapulted off, his sword aimed at Lot-Ionan.

The magus lifted his hand toward the foe and closed his eyes. A single syllable was all that passed his lips-and suddenly the alfar hung suspended in mid-air.

Flagur leaped up with both of the enemy’s own weapons, plunging them through his upper body. The razor-sharp steel pierced the armor and had the unslayable screaming in pain. “That’s what my soldiers suffered, alfar!” Flagur growled, pleasure glinting in his pale pink eyes; he moved the blades from side to side to aggravate the creature’s pain. “Suffer and die, monster! Suffer and die!”

But again the spell lost its effectiveness all too soon, and the unslayable dropped to the floor. With a furious bestial cry he pulled his swords out of his body and attacked Flagur with them.

Exactly what the alfar did next could not be followed with the naked eye. Blades whirled, blood sprayed out and then the ubari sank down into the gray dust that swamped him like water.

“I might have known,” sighed Rodario. “Me up against a madman again. Like in Porista.”

The alfar retreated, grabbing at a bag on his belt and taking the diamond out. His armored fist closed around the stone, grating and crackling.

“Destroy him!” called Tungdil, leaping forward. He had heard the enemy reciting alfar words: he must be attempting a spell. Sirka and Rodario attacked from different sides. The unslayable could not dodge all of their blows.

Then the diamond blazed out.

Dazzling beams shone through the armored fingers, illuminating the tunnel wall. The tionium became translucent, showing the bones of the hand holding the stone. The alfar pointed two fingers at Lot-Ionan.

Tungdil had no doubt that his foster-father was about to be hit by a ray from the diamond. “Vraccas! Help us!” He lowered his head and made a mighty leap toward his enemy, the blade of his ax directed at the unslayable’s wrist.

The aim was true!

Tungdil felt the resistance offered by armor and bone, but neither could stop the blade’s advance. The severed limb lay on the dusty ground and the stone’s glare was extinguished.

Shrieking loudly, the injured alfar struck out at Tungdil.

The dwarf managed to lift the ax, but the alfar’s sword sliced through the handle and dealt him a blow on his upper arm. It cut deep into armor plate and dwarf flesh, biting into the bone, where it lodged. If the sword had not first met the ax handle it would surely have cut off Tungdil’s arm.

He gave a shout and staggered; his fingers opened involuntarily and he dropped the ax.

But Sirka did not abandon him. She leaped in front of him and attacked the alfar to drive him away from Tungdil. In the meantime Rodario and Lot-Ionan were scrabbling in the dust for the severed hand and the diamond it had held.

But even Sirka was no match for the unslayable one. He made as if to deliver a diagonal blow but instead pierced her shoulder. Then he pulled the blade sharply upwards and cut through her collarbone. Without a sound she fell to the ground and was swallowed up by the dust.

“No!” Blind with fury Tungdil stormed up to the alfar, who awaited his onslaught with sword raised ready to deliver a fatal blow.

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Rodario had located the amputated hand and slammed it against the side of the wagon to break the grip on the stone, which he neatly caught as it fell. He handed the diamond to the magus, who accepted it with reverence.

Its appearance was no longer immaculate. There were now dark patches and dull places on its previously clear surface. Lot-Ionan even thought he could see cracks. Being touched by the alfar had not helped the stone at all. “Palandiell and Sitalia, I ask you for your aid,” he said, enfolding the diamond in his hand. He searched for and found the power that slumbered deep within the gemstone.

Tungdil had reached the unslayable and had drawn his knife, aiming it at the lower of his opponent’s wounds.

But he could not even get close. The alfar struck and the sword hit the dwarf on the left side, slicing through on a slant under the arm, between the iron rings of the armor, between the ribs, and into the heart.

Tungdil’s blood turned into molten ore of the mountain; his whole body glowed with heat. But his heart was ice cold.

“Your death bears the name Nagsor Inaste,” the alfar intoned clearly before he moved the blade and pulled it out. Dark red dwarven blood gushed out of the gaping wound, pouring down Tungdil’s clothing and soaking into the dust. “I shall have your life, groundling. There will be no grave for your bones, and your soul will wander, eternally lost. As lost as the whole of Girdlegard will be on my return.”

“I…” Tungdil frowned, took two steps and lifted his knife. “Sirka…” He collapsed at the feet of his alfar murderer and sank up to the neck in the thick dust. The iciness spread into every last corner of his body, robbing him of movement. Everything grew dark. The alfar merged with the shadows and disappeared into the gray.

Rodario had witnessed the death of his friend. “Magus, you must perform a miracle,” he said in lifeless tones, and raised his weapon. “I will ensure a few moments’ grace for you.”

Lot-Ionan could feel the strength of the diamond, but it was refusing to do his bidding.

“It’s not as easy as it looks, is it?” said a familiar voice next to him.

The magus shivered, not daring to turn his head. “Nudin?”

“What is left of him, old friend.”

Lot-Ionan swallowed with apprehension as he saw the alfar approaching again, keen to complete his handiwork and regain the diamond.

Rodario pushed forward in front of the magus and brandished his sword, even if he knew that he was likely to be the first to fall. The other two seemed incredibly slow-as if their limbs were tied down to the heaviest of weights.

“You have to open yourself up to the stone,” said Nudin, speaking from Lot-Ionan’s other side this time. “Let it see inside your soul. If it sees you are worthy, its power will help you against the unslayable.”

“Get away from me! You are a specter!” Lot-Ionan hissed, deep in concentration.

“Only in part, old friend,” he heard the long-dead magus say, now from behind where he stood. “I continue to live in you.”

“How could that be?”

Nudin gave a quiet laugh. “How is your back, Lot-Ionan the Forbearing? Does it still hurt when you make certain movements?”

Lot-Ionan turned round and thought he could see a man by the machine, but he could not make out the features. He blinked and the figure had disappeared. “How do you know that?”

“Shouldn’t you be helping Rodario rather than chasing ghosts?” The friendly admonition echoed from all sides. “The good man will die and then the unslayable will cut you to pieces.”

“How was it possible for him to use the diamond?”

“Later, Lot-Ionan! If you want to save Girdlegard you have to make an effort.” After a short pause the voice added, “Or do you want me to help you, old friend?”

“No,” Lot-Ionan shot back the answer. He closed his eyes tight and pressed the diamond with both hands, trying to force the power out of it like squeezing the juice out of a fruit. Nothing happened. Then came a shout from Rodario and the crash of a body falling.

“Too slow, old friend. Now there is no one between the unslayable and yourself. The bravest heroes of Girdlegard are all vanquished,” said Nudin. “My offer still stands, Long-Sufferer. You won’t get far today with your famous patience, believe you me.”

Lot-Ionan opened his eyes and saw the alfar two paces away. Visions of a devastated Girdlegard flamed up in his mind. Innumerable beasts were streaming in hordes from the north, escaped from the confines of the Black Abyss, and they were joining forces with the monsters from the west. Together they were raging through the defenseless land and inching it toward annihilation. Nothing remained except for enclaves of horror, scorched and violated, all the people reduced to servants of evil.

The alfar pushed up his visor and showed the magus his even-featured face where, instead of eyes, only two dark holes were to be seen.

The beauty of that face was arresting and impossible to resist. Lot-Ionan recognized that he wished only to fulfill every demand the creature might put on him. It would only have to ask him for the stone and…

“No,” he shouted at the alfar, stiffening every sinew against the remorseless attraction-even if he would not be able to sustain the effort. “Help me, Nudin,” he said quietly.

“Gladly, my friend.”

A vicious sharp pain stabbed Lot-Ionan’s spine, traveling up and shooting through the shoulder into the arm, spreading into the fingertips. Suddenly the diamond blazed with green fire.

And at once the magus knew all his powers were returning. He remembered the spells. Many spells. They rushed into his mind of their own accord, and his mouth formed the words as his hands made the magic gestures, to fling at the alfar.

The creature was staggered by this magic onslaught. Enclosed within a sphere of malachite fire there was no escape. A single thought from Lot-Ionan sufficed to make the ball-like structure shrink around the alfar until it touched the tip of his helmet.

He crouched down and tried to strike a hole in his prison, but his efforts were in vain. The globe grew tighter around him, until his skeleton crunched under the pressure. The tionium bent out of shape, bones fractured and pierced the skin and internal organs of the unslayable; his blood flowed down onto the dust. His shrill screams reverberated through the tunnels.

By this time the globe’s diameter was that of a small wagon wheel; it shrank and shrank to the size of a crystal divining ball, then to the size of a child’s marble. Magic turned the unslayable into a bloody thing of flesh and metal devoid of any life.

Lot-Ionan made the sphere disappear, and the tiny ball rolled into the dust. With the aid of his new-found powers he raised it up without having to touch the revolting object; he sent it flying into the heart of the machine.

“Are you pleased with me, Forbearing One?” asked Nudin’s voice. “I think we worked very well together.”

The magus paid no heed and instead gave swift attention to his companions. For Tungdil any help was now too late. The alfar sword had cut his heart into pieces. “No,” Lot-Ionan whispered, aghast. Memories of the past, happier cycles, rose in his mind: Tungdil working at the forge, or laughing in the kitchen with the maid Frala and her children, while the dwarf read them stories. What would he not have given to return to those far-off days. With everything he had since lost.

“Try!” whispered Nudin enticingly.

“Try what?”

“To bring him back to life.”

“To make him one of the undead? I cannot do that. And even if I could, no, it’s better he should…”

Nudin laughed, as an adult will laugh at the naivete of a child. “Lot-Ionan the Forbearing. There is no limit to the power in your hands. The gods will be jealous. Go on, try.”

“No.”

“Try it. You won’t be disappointed.”

Lot-Ionan placed his left hand gingerly on the dwarf’s lifeless body while in his right he grasped the diamond. Healing spells combined with images of a vital Tungdil.

The magic worked!

As the wound closed up and the heart began to beat under his fingertips, the magus could hardly take it in. He had acquired dominion over life and death, the fervent desire of magi and magae for generations. The power was his, so simply, with no need for cycles of research, invention of new spells, and countless experiments. All that was needed he held in his hands.

Tungdil’s eyelids fluttered and opened. He looked at his foster-father. “Revered Lot-Ionan? Am I dead?” Coughing, he sat up, spitting out dust and blood. In disbelief he ran his fingers over the ripped chain mail shirt; he could see exactly where the alfar’s sword had struck. “I must be dead.” His brow furrowed. “He hit me…” He hastily looked around for the alfar, getting to his feet. Then he noticed that even the severe injury to his arm had gone. “Where is the unslayable?”

“Dead.” Lot-Ionan stroked Tungdil’s hair as he used to do when he was young. “The diamond, Tungdil. It is incredibly powerful and it can… heal wounds like nothing else in the whole of Girdlegard.” He did not wish his foster- child to know that of rights he should be in the eternal forge with Vraccas.

“Dead?” Tungdil felt giddy. He had to put a hand on the wagon to steady himself. “Where is the body?”

“I have destroyed it. It is in the machine somewhere.”

“Are you certain that…”

“Yes.” The magus went over to treat Rodario’s injuries. The actor, too, would of rights have been with his ancestors, his belly sliced open by the alfar’s blade so the entrails spilled out. But the diamond and the magic power restored everything to its rightful place and the deadly wound had closed up before Tungdil could see it.

After that, Sirka and Flagur were attended to. The other freed souls Lot-Ionan left in the hands of the god Ubar. He did not want to be profligate with the force of the diamond. It surely would come to an end at some time.

Tungdil searched the wagon the alfar had used to reach the tunnel’s end, hoping he might locate Keenfire. No luck. This time the enemy had ensured the legendary weapon would not be found.

His boot met something sharp, something metal. He bent down and picked up one of the unslayable one’s swords.

“A trophy?” commented Rodario, extremely surprised at his own survival.

Tungdil was admiring the blade’s quality and decided to take it with him. “I’ll make myself an ax from this metal. It will stand me in good stead until I find Keenfire.” He went to Sirka and embraced her. “We’ve done it,” he whispered with relief. “The diamond is safe.”

“Let’s get out of the tunnels,” said Rodario. He indicated his shredded clothing. “I have no idea how I survived all that, but I’m not asking.” He nodded to the magus. “At last I appreciate the wonders of magic, revered magus.” Climbing into the wagon he started to crank. “All aboard, heroes of Girdlegard! I want to see the sun.”

Tungdil saw from their faces that none of them understood what had happened. Nobody had witnessed what had occurred between Lot-Ionan and the unslayable. But joy took over from speculation and laid itself over all the open questions like a fire blanket over flames. It killed his own doubts, too.

Flagur and Rodario cranked the handle, and the journey to the tunnel mouth began.

Lot-Ionan glanced over his shoulder. Again he saw the vague figure of a man standing by the machine, his arm raised in salute, as if he were going to stay there to await their return. The magus quickly turned; as he did so he was aware again of an acute pain in his spine.

They were all tired when they reached the point where this part of their adventure had started. Not a single beam of light fell through the tunnel entrance; it was nighttime. In darkness they climbed the broad steps.

“Imagine: if it weren’t for us, armies of orcs would have been marching up here,” said Rodario when they were halfway up. “It’s so good to know what we have achieved. What a fight! Me, in combat with an unslayable! Who’d have thought it?”

“So why did you come?” Tungdil asked.

Rodario winked at him. “I thought you might need not my sword but my store of knowledge. And my way with words: my best weapon. Closely followed, of course, by what only the prettiest girls get to see.”

“I knew that was coming,” said Tungdil, laughing. In spite of their exhaustion, their spirits rose.

“Isn’t it great?” Rodario was on a high. “The toughest of all missions, to defeat the unslayable-and we’ve done it! Now for the Outer Lands: a long journey, but one with no danger.”

Tungdil grinned. “What makes you say ‘with no danger,’ Fabuloso?”

“What could go wrong with an escort of a hundred thousand warriors and a powerful magus on your side?” He tripped on a step and fell forwards. “Cursed darkness! This is no good.” He searched in his pocket.

“What are you doing, Rodario?” asked Tungdil.

Stone scraped on metal and sparks ignited, catching the wick of a lamp. The warm glow illuminated the actor’s fine features. “Light, Tungdil. I don’t want to have survived combat with the alfar, only to break my neck on some stairs.” He looked round. “What do we do with the tunnel?”

Whoompf! The air was full of flame and a smell of burning.

With a loud whistle the fire shot down into the depths. The tiny flame had brought about the event most dreaded by miners and dwarves everywhere.

“You are so stupid, Rodario!” hissed Tungdil, batting out flames in his hair. Luckily, the explosion had not set their clothes alight. He grabbed Sirka’s hand and ran.

They rushed frantically to escape the inferno that threatened to engulf them. Just as they raced out of the tunnel an enormous vibration shook the ground, hurling them onto the sandbank.

In front of them the whole surface of the lake exploded, with a huge water spout shooting up into the dark night sky. When it had reached its zenith at a height of one hundred paces, a jet of flame illuminated the geyser from within. The hissing steam reminded Tungdil of the hot springs in mountain areas. The magnitude of the detonation caused by the dust igniting had destroyed the shoring, and the lake waters had gushed into the tunnel.

The water ebbed away and then rushed back in waves that swamped the sandbank, carrying all of them away with it. They heard loud gurgling as it cascaded down into the tunnel, flooding the whole excavation. With all their strength they clung to the cliff face to avoid being swept off and sucked down into the tunnel to drown.

At last the cave was full and the noise of the water died away. The foaming waves quietened and the last of the eddies on the surface calmed.

Then, to their intense relief the Waveskimmer approached to take them on board and with all sails set they headed east.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Floodland,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

I suggest we join up with the ubariu army in Pendleburg.” It was evening. Tungdil was in the captain’s cabin with his friends, poring over a map of Girdlegard as they discussed strategy.

The Waveskimmer had passed the Gauragar border; now they were in Floodland, the part of the kingdom that had become submerged five cycles previously when Weyurn’s lakes spread. Where the inundation had brought death and destruction, now the water made travel easier. They had crossed directly to the east and were approaching the Brown Mountains.

Flagur nodded. “That will be best. There’s no one in Girdlegard trying to get the stone now, so we can take the risk and go to Urgon without an escort.” He looked at Lot-Ionan, who was holding the diamond in one hand and gazing absent-mindedly through the tiny window. “What is your view, revered magus? Is there still any danger?”

The magus gave no answer.

Instead Tungdil spoke up: “There is still one alfar on the loose. He was on the island the thirdlings used as a base. But he did not join the unslayable one and I’ve heard no rumors about him recently.”

“That’s a good start.” Flagur rested broad forearms on the table and the wood creaked in response to his weight.

“I’m not afraid of him,” the dwarf repeated.

“But I am, my noble fellow hero,” murmured Rodario. “The last alfar slit my belly open and it was not a nice feeling. I don’t think this one will be any more kindly disposed to me. Don’t forget. We murdered its parents. That is reason enough for hostility over and above natural viciousness.”

“I’m for an escort guard,” Sirka chipped in. “King Bruron should send troops. The more swords we have, the better defended we are.”

“Agreed,”said Tungdil.

Rodario scribbled it all down. He had been nominated scribe. The messages would be duly sent off as soon as they reached dry land. He sorted through his notes. “One letter for Bylanta, queen of the fourthlings, to say we’re on our way; a message for Ireheart, and one for the ubariu army, and one for all the monarchs to tell them we’re taking the diamond over the border, and…” he said, indicating the last piece of paper “… a message to Bruron asking for an escort.” He dipped the nib into the ink again to write the final sentences.

Lot-Ionan sighed. “It’s no good trying to hide it any longer.” He placed the stone on the table. “Flagur, what do you see?”

Rodario said nothing. He glanced at Tungdil and hoped he was remembering what they had talked about the other night. “No, don’t touch it,” he said when the ubari stretched out a hand. “Just look at it, like the magus said.”

Flagur was hurt. “Why shouldn’t I touch it?”

“You ate orc flesh, Flagur, and it will have been contaminated with Black Water,” he explained.

“I understand,” said the ubari without malice. “So he’s afraid-so you’re afraid-the badness might have infected me and that I might have quite different reasons for wanting to hold the stone?” He grinned wickedly. “A nice thought!”

“Don’t get me wrong. We had another visitor to Girdlegard once, supposed to be on the side of goodness,” Rodario pointed out. He felt it was his duty to explain. “I have great respect for you and for Sirka, but,” he inclined his head, “so far we’ve had to take your word for everything. I mean, how do we know the Black Abyss and its terrible threat even exists? Maybe the diamond isn’t really needed for activating the artifact?” He cleared his throat. “Ever since that night these doubts have been around. Forgive me, Flagur.”

“Accursed actor!” Swift as lightning Flagur seized the diamond. He stared at his own fist; from deep down, dark laughter sounded and his pink eyes flashed with cruelty. “At last!” he bawled, jumping up. “The trick worked! Ubar be praised!” Sirka went to his side, brandishing her battlestick at the showman. “See what a magnificent rune master I am,” he continued. “Feel my power!” Then his countenance transformed itself. He grinned at Rodario, who had drawn his sword courageously. “What do you think of my acting skills?”

“What?” The theater man blinked. His breath was labored and he looked as if someone had just yelled in his ear to rouse him from deep sleep.

“My performance. How was it?”

“Your… your performance? Very funny! I nearly cut your throat!” Rodario gave a rueful glance in Tungdil’s direction. “Great hero! You’re looking particularly relaxed.” Tungdil grinned, then he laughed out loud and all the others joined in. “Right, I understand! You’ve rehearsed this little scene to get me really scared?” He pulled a face. “I’ll have my own back for that one, I promise. Nobody challenges the Emperor of the Stage with impunity! Nobody.”

Tungdil patted him on the shoulder. “You’re right. I’d already spoken to him about our worries. Lot-Ionan examined him with magic and couldn’t find anything untoward.”

“It was good of you to alert us,” said Lot-Ionan, smiling. “But you deserved a fright after your idiocy back there-”

“Thanks, thanks. Got it now.” Rodario cut him short. Can we get back to what’s important?”

Sirka and Flagur sat down again, grinning. But Flagur’s mirth quickly disappeared. “The diamond never used to look like that before!” He passed it to Sirka.

“Cracks, black patches,” she observed. “Where are they from? The unslayable’s touch?” She held it to the light. “It looks as if it could shatter at any moment.”

“That’s the only explanation I can come up with,” Lot-Ionan stroked his snowy beard-or at least what was left of it after the fireblast in the cave. “I expect the alfar forced it; he must have used the last of his own magic to break its protective shield.”

“And the glow we saw: was it the power of the stone or the unslayable’s magic?” wondered Tungdil.

“It was the diamond. It was a pure, clear light. The contamination must have happened shortly after that.” Lot-Ionan looked at Flagur and Sirka. “It’s vital to know whether the artifact will work with the diamond in this state or not.”

“Might it not produce the very opposite effect?” Rodario asked to inspect the stone and rubbed it gently with one finger. Even though it seemed uneven, the surface was as smooth as glass. He could not detect the cracks. “If the evil is in there, won’t we just risk waking it up? Or to put it another way,” he said, putting the stone in the middle of the table, “what if the artifact summons up evil instead of repressing it?”

They fell silent and watched the diamond follow the movement of the waves, tipping this way and that. It looked so harmless; however mighty and significant, it betrayed no sign of the power stored within. No one knew what its effect might be.

“Did you feel anything when you used the stone, revered magus?” asked Sirka. “You know about magic. You’ve studied it. Was there anything odd?”

Lot-Ionan recalled Nudin’s voice and mysterious appearance. “No,” he lied calmly. He assumed the events related to himself rather than to the diamond. “No, it allowed me to use it. And I’m a long way from being on the side of evil.” He took a quick gulp of his wine and, as he bent forward, felt a stabbing pain in his back. He nearly dropped the beaker.

Tungdil took a deep breath. “It’s probably best not to tell the rulers our doubts.”

Rodario had got over his sulk and was joining in again. “I quite agree. They would rather send an army to the Black Abyss against the monsters rather than risk using an artifact that can’t be trusted.” He flicked the diamond. “I’m for trying it out. It might speed things up. Either it will work and no one will realize we were skeptical about it here tonight on the Waveskimmer, or it won’t work. Then they can still send out their army.”

“To put it another way: we have no choice,” said Flagur. “It won’t be long before the monsters notice the barrier is down. The diamond must be put back in its place.”

Lot-Ionan raised his head and gazed out at the sunset-lit waters. “As a last resort there’s still me. The force of the diamond can still provide magic enough to repel the first attack wave.”

“You are sure you have regained all your previous knowledge?” said Sirka carefully, trying to reduce the half insult to a quarter insult.

The magus smiled at her. It was a confident smile, and completely convincing. “I feel I have the power of two magi,” he responded. “Blood has reached all parts of my body now and has washed away the last traces of the stone I was turned to.” He touched himself on the temple. “Here, too. I can see the formulae clearly again like in my heyday.” After a short pause he added, “This is my heyday. The fight with the unslayable has shaken me awake.”

“Then let’s leave it at that,” Tungdil summed up and then stretched. “We’ll go to the Outer Lands and we’ll employ the diamond. After that, may the gods Vraccas and Ubar show what they can do for us, because we will have done everything we can to avert disaster.” He stood up and strode to the door. “Excuse me for a moment.”

“Dwarf-water offering for Elria?” Rodario joked. “Be kind to the goddess. She has let us off lightly more than once.”

Tungdil laughed and left the cabin for a pee. He had chosen to do it from the bows of the ship. Elria’s goodwill or not, his own water was determined to leave him now.

When he had relieved himself he stayed at the railing, experiencing the gentle rise and fall of the vessel and enjoying the cool air.

For him water was still an uncanny element. Many of his kind would steadfastly refuse to go near a lake or even a stream. Or even to step into a big puddle. They believed Elria had cursed them. The undergroundlings, on the other hand, seemed to relish travel on water. What a difference.

He gazed over the light swell on the lake’s surface. It looked like liquid night that had dripped down from the sky and collected on the earth.

“I’d like to congratulate you on defeating my creator,” said a clear quiet voice behind him. Tungdil recognized it at once. Death had returned.

Swiveling slowly, he saw the alfar seated cross-legged near the chest where the extra canvas was kept. His spear lay at his feet. His armor showed black against skin that was otherwise pale. Long hair hung down over his face. His gauntleted hands were resting on his knees and in one armored fist he held a lock of black hair. “What will you do now?”

Tungdil knew he himself was only carrying a knife. “What is your name?”

“My begetter never gave me one. He said my enemies would find a name to suit me.” He did not take his eyes off Tungdil. He seemed alert but not aggressive or nervous, as if aware of his superior strength. “But the names I’ve heard don’t please me. Nobody wants to be known by a curse. And so I have chosen Aiphaton. Like the star.” He raised his right arm and pointed to the sky, where it glittered against the dark. “It is the life-star of the elves. My begetter said the star would grow dim whenever an elf died in Girdlegard. In the last few orbits I could hardly see it at all. Something’s happening with the elves.”

“Most of them are waging war and are probably being wiped out. Because they are guilty of treason against Girdlegard,” Tungdil explained. “Do you consider yourself an elf?”

“I look like an elf. Am I not an elf?” came the surprising question.

“What did your begetter tell you that you were?”

“He told me nothing. But he and the creating spirit mother looked like elves.” He lowered his head and his face was hidden under the curtain of hair. “I am glad he is dead. He demanded and committed atrocities.” His metal hand scraped over the tionium plates sewn into his flesh.

“Is that why you told us where your begetter was heading?”

“Yes. I sensed you would defeat him. I was not able to.” He raised his head once more. “What will you do now?”

“We…” Tungdil hesitated. The alfar did not know that he had been born as the elves’ deadliest enemy. It might well be that he was playing a low trick and that he was pursuing the same despicable ends as his father before him. But if he wanted the diamond, why was he not attacking?

“You don’t trust me, although I spared your life in Toboribor? Although I told you where to find my begetter? And you are still alive although I could so easily have killed you and tossed you overboard?” He stood up with a swift and elegant movement that combined strength and agility. “Then I shall tell you what I want. Take me to the elves that are different from my creator father. I know there are elves that are good and peace-loving. I wish to live amongst them.” He stepped out of the shadows toward the dwarf.

Tungdil saw his dark eyes. “You are not an elf,” he said solemnly. “You are an alfar. They are merciless enemies of the elves, Aiphaton. You cannot live with them. They would kill you outright.”

“Why? I have not harmed them.”

“But you belong to the race that persecuted their kind for a very long time and nearly wiped them out. They will never forgive you your lineage.”

The alfar clicked his tongue. “Let me speak to them and we’ll see.” He folded the black lock of hair into a piece of waxed cloth and slid it inside his glove.

Tungdil shook his head. “Aiphaton, listen to me. I advise you to hide away from dwarves and humans and elves. No one will see you without feeling fear and hatred. Leave Girdlegard and seek your own kind.”

“But I don’t want to join those you call alfar,” he hissed, baring his teeth. “If they are like my begetter it’s best I kill them all.” He raised his hand and reached for the spear that was still lying on the deck. The runes on the weapon started to glow. It leaped into his hand. “I don’t want to be like them.”

Tungdil still did not have the slightest idea whether the alfar could be trusted. Everything pointed to the opposite: both what he knew from stories and what he had personal experience of. Sinthoras, Caphalor and Ondori were the alfar he had met in combat himself. But then there had been Narmora, the half-alfar woman who had been Furgas’s companion. In spite of her ancestry she had fought for the good and had paid a high price: she had surrendered her happiness and the lives of her children. Her own life, too.

“What can you tell me about your begetter and the dwarves?” he asked, to turn the conversation in a different direction.

“They are dead. What is there to say?”

Tungdil hesitated. “Did you see Furgas? The man who was kept captive by the dwarves?”

“Yes.” Aiphaton raised his armored hand. “It was he who turned me into what I am. My begetter asked him to. He made me like I am. He was their…” He struggled to find the word. “They did what he said and they followed his orders,” was how he expressed it. “There was a lot that I heard.”

“He was their leader?”

“Yes, that’s it. He discovered the island together with the dwarves, and he came with soldiers to take it over. The humans all had to work for him. The magister made machines that he gave to the dwarves and they took them away. He made the constructions he sent through the mountain. They were to locate the monsters. And it was for the monsters that he built the tunnel.” The alfar sat next to Tungdil at the gunwale. “He was in Toboribor, too, looking for orcs to use with his other machines. That’s when he found my creators and the orcs. My creators gave him my siblings and he took them away and made new creatures out of them.”

“How did he know about the magic source? He’s a magister technicus, not a magus.”

“I don’t know. I just know that he did.”

However painful it was, Tungdil had to believe the alfar. He had heard the truth first from the mouth of Bandilor and now Aiphaton was confirming it. Tungdil had wished to hear a different version.

The alfar looked out over the waves. “I’ve told you what I want, I’ve told you what I know and where I’m from. Now tell me what you are going to do.”

“We’re going to the Outer Lands-”

“To the monsters Furgas spoke of?” he interrupted.

“No, not to the west. To the north.” And before Aiphaton could ask, he said, “You cannot come with us.”

Aiphaton shrugged his shoulders helplessly. It was difficult to read his state of mind from his face: the black eyes hid all feeling. But his body language spoke of deep distress. “What shall I do here in Girdlegard where nobody will have me?” A red teardrop ran down his cheek, leaving a pink smear. “I have nowhere to go. I only have enemies.”

By now Tungdil was convinced that Aiphaton was genuine. “Come with me, I’ll introduce you-”

“No.” Aiphaton’s attitude was determined. He had reached a decision. “If there is no place for me in Girdlegard, then I will make a place for myself.” He smiled kindly. “Whatever you are planning, I wish you success. I am sure we will meet again.” He vaulted over the side of the ship and slipped silently down into the water, the waves closing over his head.

Tungdil leaned over the side. He could not see anything. Aiphaton was gone as if he had never existed.

“Hey, what’s up?” the watch called out, noticing the dwarf. “Man overboard?” The man came nearer.

“No. A fish jumping.” Tungdil turned around and went back to the cabin.

Like the first time, he decided to tell his friends nothing of the encounter.

He would not have been able to explain to them where the alfar had suddenly appeared from. He prayed to Vraccas that he and the alfar would never have to face each other as adversaries.

And yet he was almost certain that sooner or later they would.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Urgon,

Pendleburg,

Early Autumn, 6241st Solar Cycle

From his fortress walls Ortger was watching the black-clad troops of the advance guard approach. “The people here in Urgon all went into hiding when they heard that this allied army was on its way,” he told Prince Mallen. “And I know why. No one wants friends like these.” He surveyed the head of the silent procession. These creatures were taller and broader than orcs; they were terrifying and were heavily armed.

“I can see why they’re afraid. It was the same in Idoslane.” Mallen headed down to the hall for the ceremony. Tungdil and his friends had arrived in Pendleburg in the course of the previous orbit, together with Lot-Ionan and the diamond.

“We’ve had five cycles free of Tion’s monsters and now they come marching through Girdlegard. That’s what the people are saying.” Ortger accompanied him. “The common people have no faith in their professed peaceful intentions. I’m glad the ubariu will be leaving again. Otherwise I’m afraid there’d be incidents. Too many people have suffered at orc hands.”

The generals entered the castle courtyard; undergroundlings and ubariu presented a strange picture marching side by side. By Girdlegard standards it was a case of sworn enemies becoming brothers; it seemed unnatural.

Flagur and Sirka stepped out from an adjacent building to welcome them; Tungdil was with them.

Ortger said nothing, but his face showed what he thought. He was disturbed to see Tungdil showing interest in these mixtures of dwarf and orc. Worse still, rumor said he had even chosen one of them as his new partner.

“Come, let us go into the armory.” He strode off, followed by Mallen.

“You are the host. Aren’t you going to greet them?”

“I don’t want them to feel welcome, Prince Mallen. One hundred thousand mouths won’t be easy to feed; the sooner they go, the better. We will hold the leave-taking ceremony, that is all.”

They entered the chamber where Ireheart, Goda, Lot-Ionan, Rodario, the fourthling queen Bylanta, Ginsgar Unforce, Esdalan and the ambassadors were gathered round a table.

The other kings and queens had not thought it necessary to come to Pendleburg in person. Everything had been said and they had all accepted the decision of the magus. The diamond was to leave Girdlegard. The royal ambassadors were there out of courtesy, because Mallen had requested this final session.

Soon Tungdil, Flagur and Sirka returned to the conference room.

Ortger got up. “Welcome to Pendleburg. We are here to discuss recent events and to honor the heroes.” He sketched a bow in the direction of Flagur and Sirka. “Accept my thanks, Flagur, for your part in protecting Girdlegard; I know that you will continue to work for our benefit in your own land.” He turned to Tungdil and the magus. “And all honor to those who will be crossing the border and embarking on the rigors of a journey into the unknown. And now, Prince Mallen, the floor is yours.”

The Idoslane prince rose. “I want to show our appreciation.” He addressed them with all due form. “A small ceremony to honor your departure. Of course it bears no relation to the celebrations we shall hold on your return.” He smiled at Tungdil. “May Vraccas guide your steps and protect you.”

One by one the ambassadors conveyed their sovereigns’ messages of goodwill, promising praise, recognition and lasting gratitude on their return.

Outwardly noncommittal, Tungdil listened and smiled. But inside he was simmering like boiling mountain blood. So the heroes were of no importance to the rulers; having risked life and limb they were to be greeted by substitutes offering formulaic phrases.

Bylanta stood up and fixed her brown eyes on Tungdil. On the diminutive side, she had the classic stature of a fourthling woman dwarf; compared to Sirka she seemed as small as a gnome. Her long blond hair hung forward over her shoulder in a braid, her light chain mail tunic was decorated extravagantly with jewels and on her head she wore a skillfully worked crown sparkling with diamonds.

“I am Balynta Slimfinger of the Silver Beard clan, queen over the fourthlings and sovereign in the Brown Range of Mountains.” Her voice was steady, clear and confident. “I shall accompany your procession to the gates of Silverfast. It will be an honor, Tungdil Goldhand, to ride with you. I offer you my friendship just as you gave your own to Gandogar.” She sat down.

Ginsgar Unforce got to his feet. No dwarf could be of more impressive appearance; not even Glaimbar, king of the fifthlings, came close. His fine red beard, broad shoulders, resolute attitude and the determination in his eyes, all made of him a rare figure of a dwarf.

“I salute you, Tungdil Goldhand. I am Ginsgar Unforce of the Nail Smith clan of Borengar’s firstlings. As high king I bring you the greetings of the dwarf folks,” he said in a sonorous bass. “May you return safe and sound from the Outer Lands…”

Bylanta turned her head. “How is it that here we apparently have a new high king, when he has not been chosen by myself or my clans? I have not heard of an assembly being called?” she said with surprise in her tone. “I thought a high king would be high king of all the dwarf folks, and not just of some?”

“There was an assembly and an election,” replied Ginsgar, unmoved. “The warriors following me to Alandur to punish the elves for their treachery appointed me their high king. And there were dwarves from your clans, Bylanta, among them. So accordingly it is right that I be high king.”

This came as news to Mallen and Ortger and the ambassadors. Lot-Ionan threw Tungdil a knowing look. Exactly what he and Rodario had feared now seemed to have happened: a war hero had declared himself ruler.

Esdalan regarded Ginsgar with menace. “What have you done to Alandur, dwarf? The atar were your enemies, not my people. Not the green groves and the beautiful buildings. Not the ground on which you marched.”

“We were hunting down the atar and we found them everywhere. They ambushed us from the protection of their temples and attacked us from the shelter of the woods and villages.” Ginsgar met and held the elf’s accusatory gaze. “And so we laid waste the land to destroy any cover.”

“And the cradles of new-born infants? You thought them potential hiding-places?” Esdalan exclaimed furiously.

“We slew the atar offspring. This must have been in your interest too, elf. They would only have created new perdition.” Ginsgar laid his hand on his war hammer. “When we have done with cleaning up Alandur the elves may return. Trees can regrow. So can your people.”

“How many innocent victims have you murdered?”

“We murdered none. We executed those who deserved death,” came Ginsgar’s swift retort. “You should be grateful. On your own you would never have defeated the atar.”

Esdalan leaped up, knocking his chair over with a loud crash. “Support I would have welcomed, but what you have done, Ginsgar Unforce, was senseless slaughter! You are no better than orcs!” Leaning on the table in front of him, he whispered in despair, “Do you know how many of my people are still alive?”

In a bored voice the dwarf answered, “I should think about a hundred.”

“Thirty-seven,” shouted Esdalan. “Thirty-seven! And of those, ten are women and nine are children.”

Ginsgar’s red eyebrows crunched together. “We were thorough. So now at least you present no threat to Girdlegard.”

“It was blind vengeance. No more, no less.” The elf straightened with a jerk, tears streaming down his harmonious features, now a mask of hatred. He pointed at Ginsgar and continued in his own language until he turned and stalked out of the hall without looking right or left.

“By Palandiell,” whispered Lot-Ionan. Rodario grew pale as a white-washed wall. “And we did nothing to stop them.” He put his hand on his belt where the diamond hung in a leather purse. “We let it happen.”

“What else could we have done?” exclaimed Ortger. “It is a crying shame, of course, but tell me what choice we had?”

Tungdil could not grasp it, either. What Ginsgar had done was unforgiveable. It was living proof of the cruelty of this self-appointed high king. “We are all guilty. Our joint armies should have set out from Toboribor to Alandur with all dispatch to prevent this wholesale slaughter.” He bestowed a withering glance on Ginsgar. “Do you know what you have done? You have thrown away our best opportunity of ever winning the elves’ gratitude. Instead of that you have ensured their renewed enmity.”

“I’m really scared.” Ginsgar smiled and gave himself a little shake. “Thirty-seven pointy-ears are a true army to put the wind up the dwarf folks.”

Bylanta spat at his feet. “You are as nothing, Ginsgar Unforce. I shall have you impeached before all the assembled clans of the five dwarf folks, so that you may be properly punished. I pray to Vracrass that the elves may one day become reconciled to us in some future orbit. Whether or not this involves your death.”

“Now there’s a far better candidate for the throne,” Rodario murmured to Tungdil. “How about a high queen for a change? She has charisma, don’t you think?”

Ginsgar regarded the blob of spittle by his boot. “Spit out your poison, Bylanta. It won’t kill me. I was chosen by all of the clans. That’s what counts. It doesn’t matter where or how.” He addressed the conference. “We’re done here. I’ve told you my wishes and I’m off. Perhaps I should go back to Alandur and check under all the bushes. Thoroughness is one of our best qualities.” He nodded, shouldered his war hammer and left the hall with his characteristic rolling gait.

Now Tungdil had his certainty: in this land, where dwarves such as Ginsgar ruled in hatred, he did not wish to stay.

He took hold of Sirka’s hand and pressed it firmly.