The Triumph of the Dwarves

  Craftspeople—even a hundred carpenters working together—would take an eighth of a cycle to accomplish anywhere near what had been achieved here in a very short time. They would never have been able to complete three buildings, quite apart from the time needed to source and transport the materials.

  “Is that all part of the original tunnel?” Boïndil strode into the courtyard with the rest of the band. Doors opened and servants emerged to see to their mounts.

  “When I left here, it was nothing more than a hole in the ground with brick walls and a stone roof above her head.” Tungdil sensed that the magic field had it in itself to do more than simply provide the maga with the energy she needed. He doubted that any spell was able to conjure up a whole farm and outhouses from nothing. Maybe Lot-Ionan had more reason than he let on for isolating this area?

  Mallenia and her soldiers had arrived some time before them. For the sake of the badly injured young girl, the company had split up to let those go first who could make swifter progress. The one hundred dwarves came along last because the terrain had done no favours to their short-legged ponies.

  Tungdil and Boïndil dismounted and went over to the mansion by themselves. They walked up the flight of steps to the double doors where servants were waiting to receive them. The two dwarves were given water to drink and then taken straight through to the palatial interior of the building. Each room was different in style to the last. There was no hint of cosy half-timbered tradition in here. In one area there were domed glass ceilings, in another everything was marble; elsewhere there was even a little beach with real water lapping at it.

  “Oh dear, bad sign: Elria’s element inside a house.” Boïndil moved to the other end of the room, edging along the wall and eyeing the wavelets with deep suspicion. “How do they do that, Scholar?”

  “If I knew that, I’d be a magus, wouldn’t I?”

  They reached a room decorated like a small temple where the powerful human leaders of Girdlegard were assembled on benches, armchairs and sofas. There were chandeliers above their heads, paintings on the walls, thick carpets on the floor. In the corner a fountain gurgled and there was a scent of summertime and cornfields.

  Dirisa and Astirma were seated side by side. Mallenia and Rodario were chatting quietly while Coïra spoke to Ataimînas. Isikor, goblet in hand, was admiring the décor.

  In the centre of the room Tungdil could see Sha’taï floating in mid-air dressed in white, her eyes closed. “That’s just how Coïra was floating when I brought her to the source,” he told Boïndil.

  “So the child is a maga, too?”

  Tungdil could not rule out that possibility. “Or maybe she was born with magic powers. As are the älfar, of course.” He had heard from his friend about how the child had been able to captivate everyone. Only the dwarves had been able to resist her charm. Our skulls are made of sterner stuff: steel and stone, that’s us. Otherwise I’d never have made it out of Phondrasôn alive.

  “There you are,” Coïra called, coming over to them. Even though she was smiling there was a shadow on her face. She was inclined forward slightly as she walked, as if she was pulling against ropes that restrained her.

  The source’s own little doll. The magic field allows her no freedom to move.

  “How is the child doing?” Tungdil nodded to everyone and was acknowledged, a good sign. He had been treated with caginess and even open suspicion since his return. But he could not blame them for that.

  “She is in a death coma. Her mind cannot find the way out, it seems,” Mallenia told them, obviously extremely concerned.

  “My spells have mended her broken bones and dealt with the fever. All the cuts and grazes have healed without leaving a single scar,” Coïra was reporting. “But as to her spirit, I am powerless.” Rodario came over and embraced her. “We shall have to wait and see. I shall continue to flood her with magic energy and I hope this will help.”

  “I am sure it will,” her lover comforted her. He was delighted at their reunion but he controlled himself and did not over-indulge in kisses. “Without you, Sha’taï would certainly have died.”

  “But this is no life at all,” Mallenia objected. “We’ll do anything it takes to get her to wake up.”

  “Why don’t we just put her outside the fortress at the Stone Gateway?” growled Boïndil, leaning on his crow’s beak.

  Everyone’s eyes swivelled round to focus on the High King of the dwarves. It was only Tungdil who did not have murderous accusation in his visage.

  “Stop staring at me like that,” Boïndil snapped, tossing his braid back over his shoulder and pointing at the child. “It’s well known what was written in the message we were sent: she is a demon, it said. And I know she spoke the älfar tongue, nothing but älfar, before she was given lessons.” Tungdil tried in vain to restrain him. He had said enough. But his friend was on a roll. “Don’t pretend to yourselves this is a mad theory. We could well have taken a demon from the Outer Lands into our midst and you’ve all fallen under its spell. Because it’s cute.”

  “Boïndil, you’re talking nonsense,” Mallenia cut him short. “My young ward is definitely not a creature of evil.”

  “I would never allow her to be left in the clutches of an unknown figure who wants nothing more than to know her dead.” Coïra’s blue eyes sparked with passionate fury. “How can you possibly suggest that, High King? Or is that supposed to be one of the famous dwarf jokes?”

  “No, it’s not that,” Rodario leaped in to the debate. “Ireheart was not thinking when he said that.”

  Tungdil followed the exchange and observed the assembled throng closely. They were all displaying violent, protective behaviour, as if Sha’taï had been their very own child. Taken into everyone’s hearts so soon? In only one cycle? Either she is incredibly charming and delightful or … He studied the sleeping girl’s features as she floated there, bathed in magic.

  Tungdil had been speaking with Beligata, Gosalyn and Hargorin these past few orbits. They were all convinced the girl had influenced the minds of elves and humans. She came from the sorcerer families in the Outer Lands that used ghaists as scouts and messengers. They had learned this from Carmondai when they had met up en route.

  A demon, a cunning sorceress or a pure soul who is only trying to stay alive. Who knows?

  “The ghaist creatures were sent by someone who knows Girdlegard,” Coïra summed up.

  “There are plenty of those. The gates were open long enough, and not only in the Grey Mountains,” Mallenia contributed. “And in the south, too, it was possible to get in unnoticed and then disappear.”

  “We must not underestimate the gravity of the situation. Anyone capable of creating creatures that are composed of magic and souls, and who can muster an army of the size reported, will not give up easily.” Astirma folded her arms across her chest. “What do we do if a hundred ghaists turn up and more are catapulted over the defences? They can only be stopped with extreme difficulty.”

  “I don’t know,” Boïndil grunted crossly. “Thousands of enemies turning up with siege towers and storming engines, well, we can get rid of them simply enough, by Vraccas. We simply beat them back, cut them to pieces and burn them. But these copper-helmets are a mystery. Keenfire is effective but Balyndar was nearly killed when he used it.” He ran his hand over his black and silver beard, then across the sides of his head. “That’s why I thought it might be better to surrender the child at the gates. Or maybe just pretend to, and then wait and see what happens.”

  Tungdil watched Ataimînas, who had so far not said anything. It’s his turn. He certainly knows something. “Your prophecies might help us understand, Naishïon,” he said, addressing the lord of the elves in a friendly tone. “Have I understood you correctly, that events so far have all been predicted?”

  “I did promise to make the secret public.” Ataimînas stepped up and called a servant over to bring him a bag from which he extracted a book as thick as a fist, wrapped in waxed paper. It
measured two by three human hands in size and the binding was in gold leaf with elf runes engraved on it. The pages appeared to have been dusted with black powder. “I’ll explain.”

  Ataimînas carried the book to a table and pronounced certain formulae to open it up.

  The pages, as thin as breath, glowed silver and released ruby red symbols that Tungdil understood. “An unusual type of dialect. Your people do not use it anymore,” he told the Naishïon. “It is very old.”

  The elf ruler could not disguise his astonishment. “It is not for nothing that you are called the Scholar.”

  Tungdil sketched a bow in acknowledgement. “But it should be you reading out what we can all see.”

  Ataimînas agreed to this. “First let me explain why we have come to Girdlegard in such numbers.” He smiled at the dwarves. “In the old days there was always trouble between our races. Our creator Sitalia recognised that it would be better for our homeland if we went and remained in hiding as far away as possible. War between elves and dwarves would have meant the end of Girdlegard.”

  “We’d have won,” Boïndil mouthed to Tungdil.

  “But the goddess also foresaw that one orbit there would be a possibility for true peace amongst all the inhabitants and said we should return,” Ataimînas went on, ignoring the whisper. “She wrote down her instructions and presented them to those who sought their fortunes outside the homeland. Only when the life-star of the elves was shining brightly could she guide our steps into Girdlegard. Not until then.” He looked solemnly at everyone. “This all happened a cycle ago. The wave of elves arriving will continue to increase until the very last elf returns from abroad.”

  “I presume that means the first prophecy is fulfilled,” Tungdil guessed.

  “That’s correct.” Ataimînas turned the page. This time the symbols shone out in emerald green to make themselves legible. “Here it says:

  A child will be sent to you

  charming all with its delightful nature

  and who has greater value than salt or water.

  The child’s arrival will change everything.

  Let my people form their own united realm

  and focus their powers

  since dark forces will seek to harm the child and  take it away.

  Heed this warning: they will send their vanguard:

  in their thousands in rags and tatters

  and twice in copper.”

  Boïndil banged his crow’s beak down. “That does indeed cover events in the Grey Mountains,” he said crossly. “But with …”

  “These are Sitalia’s prophecies,” Ataimînas interrupted. “There is no room for interpretation.” He turned more pages. “Even Tungdil’s return was foreseen by the goddess, though I originally thought she meant the first one.”

  “Did he fit better?” Tungdil enquired with a considerate smile.

  “Doubt is not appropriate when it comes to the writings of the goddess. They told me about the turmoil in Tabaîn and the attack on Sha’taï made by the ghaist.” Ataimînas pointed to the book. “And her writings tell us what to do next. What we all have to do next.”

  Boïndil laughed incredulously. “If you knew she was going to be abducted, why didn’t you prevent it?”

  “It did not say when it would take place.” The elf remained friendly. He wanted to see what the effect on Tungdil would be. “The wording is as follows:

  The childlike jewel may get lost

  through the copper hands of the bad ones.

  If it dies

  then so will the new home

  together with every living thing

  and every stone

  and every drop of water.

  If the jewel is kept safe,

  answer must be given to the bad one

  with hammer and anvil.

  These are the only things

  that cannot be bent out of shape.

  Only these things are rigid and powerful, destructive  enough and will resist storm, fire and steel.

  Only hammer and anvil.”

  Ataimînas looked at the dwarves. “Hammer and anvil. That means your people.”

  Tungdil found the words not unsuited but it was equally possible to include a different meaning.

  “The Children of the Smith are flattered that Sitalia gives them this new role,” he replied before Boïndil could say anything untoward that might sound like an insult. “What is the significance of the word answer?”

  The elf turned the page. “The goddess writes:

  Send hammer and anvil out

  to the north, always to the north

  so they may find the bad thing, and break it up.

  None but they

  Stand a chance.”

  Boïndil laughed out loud. “To the north?”

  “Translated, it means that all the dwarves, male and female, must leave their mountain fortresses and go on a journey together.” Ataimînas focused his intense gaze on the High King. “And before you ask: we will keep the gates while you are gone.”

  Tungdil grabbed Boïndil’s shoulder to prevent him from storming forward. “The dwarf rulers have been informed and will soon arrive. Your suggestion and your predictions can be discussed then.”

  Ataimînas looked surprised. “What is there to discuss?” He pointed at Boïndil. “He is your High King. He will command them and we shall fulfil the prophecy.”

  Rodario, Mallenia, Dirisa and Isikor stared at the dwarves in silence. The powerful monarchs made no effort to hide their expectations. Coïra’s glance even held something of a threat.

  “You see, we …” Tungdil began.

  “Vraccas has not sent us any wise words demanding we do anything nonsensical like that,” Boïndil burst out, unable to restrain himself any longer. “In past cycles we often went wandering. We wandered as far as the Black Abyss, leaving the gates vulnerable. We also marched against Toboribor. But then we lost the mountains.”

  “But it ended in an eventual victory,” Rodario cut in, calmly.

  “Because there were so many of us, Moustache-Man!” Boïndil drew himself up to his full height. “It cost us many of our good people to liberate Girdlegard.”

  “The same goes for us,” Mallenia said bitterly. “We paid in blood as well.”

  “Except there’re more humans than there are dwarves,” Boïndil responded. “By Vraccas, there are even more elves than there are dwarves, now. And that is why I know the kings and queens of the dwarf realms will never agree to this.”

  Tungdil saw horror on many faces. Anger and disbelief were mixed in their features. “We will put it to them and we will discuss it,” he stressed, so as not to stoke the fires of disagreement. “We shall prepare for their arrival and we shall let you know how the talks proceed.” He led Boïndil out of the chamber.

  Send hammer and anvil out

  to the north, always to the north

  so they may find the bad thing, and break it up.

  None but they

  stand a chance.

  Ataimînas’ words echoed behind them as they left. “It all lies in your hands. Neither the humans nor the elves. The dwarves will make it possible to preserve Girdlegard.”

  Boïndil made as if to halt, but Tungdil insisted he leave the huge hall, pushing him gently towards the exit. “There is no point,” he whispered. “They all think the same in there.” He cast a glance over his shoulder.

  The humans and the elf were standing together like a solid wall, staring at the departing dwarves with malice. Behind them the sleeping girl floated like a haunting spirit. The distance made it look as if she were flying over their heads.

  “They can talk prophecies till the cows come home,” Boïndil muttered, leaving the ornate council chamber. “Who’s to say who wrote all that?”

  A good point. Tungdil was keen to take a closer look at the elf’s book. “Where is the älf?”

  “The one I found in the elf’s palace?”

  “No, the one who was travelling wit
h Hargorin and his band. Carmondai.”

  “What do you want him for?” Ireheart wondered.

  “He’s old. Extremely old. And he will have heard many stories in his time.” Boïndil and Tungdil strode through the stately mansion side by side.

  “He’s written a lot of stories, but I don’t know how much he actually knows,” said Ireheart doubtfully.

  “Let’s ask him. We’ve got a little time before our monarchs arrive.” Tungdil slapped his friend on the back. “Well, how does it feel, being High King?”

  “Terribly thirsty,” Boïndil growled into his beard. “It’s only bearable if you have limitless amounts of beer.”

  “Let me buy you one.” The two of them made their way out into the courtyard. “Then go and fetch the älf for me.” He may provide the answer to many things.

  “Quite the old Scholar, aren’t you?” Ireheart replied with a grin. “Not a bit like the version that turned up in the tionium armour.”

  Tungdil’s eyes flashed and a shadow passed over his features, taking the High King by surprise. “Who knows?” He took a bottle out of his red robes and pressed it in to Boïndil’s hand. “Anyway, take this.”

  “What’s is it?”

  “Don’t drop it. It’s the antidote to your thirst. You should down it in one.”

  At first, Boïndil stared at the flask then he looked at Tungdil. “You’re having a laugh.”

  “You mentioned where I might find the zhadár’s laboratory and I paid the place a visit. I had a little time on my hands while I was away.” Tungdil smiled. “You got your Scholar back and I want my Ireheart returned to me.”

  Boïndil thanked him and stowed the offering away.

  Girdlegard

  United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane

  Idoslane

  6492nd solar cycle, winter

  Carmondai observed the farmhouse from a safe distance. More and more humans were arriving each passing orbit. The maga seemed to exert a special attraction on the surrounding villages; people were giving up their homes and farmsteads in order to seek a new abode near her. It was expected that a whole town would soon arise.