Kartev walked back, loosened a few of the ropes securing the tarpaulin, then lifted the cover, behind which cage bars were visible. Then he motioned to the dwarf to come over. “See for yourself.”
Bendelbar approached and took a look. Inside there were three small figures, chained by the ankles and in a miserable state. They were beardless, one and all, and looked, apart from that strange feature, exactly like Girdlegard dwarves. The guard knew at once who it was he had here. The news from the Black Mountains had traveled swiftly: the diamond thieves. “By Vraccas!”
“I call them Ancient Children. I thought your people would be interested. They must be related to you, don’t you think?”
“And why did you take them prisoner?”
“I didn’t capture them, I bought them. I bought them off a judge in Ajula. He had them arrested for robbery,” he explained hastily, so that no one would start to reproach him. “They were very expensive,” he added.
Bendelbar watched the wrinkled naked faces; the sight was new to him. He saw that two of the captives were women, but there wasn’t a single hair on their cheeks. “Let me guess. They were looking for diamonds?”
Kartev looked surprised. “Yes. You’re absolutely right.” His eyes narrowed. “So they’ve already tried it here, too?” He stood up straight. “Pleased to be able to help you. I’ll hand them over to you. Just need my expenses met.” He dropped the heavy canvas again and the strange dwarflings were back in the dark. “Take me and my captives to your queen, so we can sort out a price.”
Bendelbar wrapped one beard strand round his index finger thoughtfully. He finally agreed. He couldn’t let slip this opportunity to cross-examine the thieves. History would show him no mercy if through his fault a chance to avert disaster were to be missed. He gave the order to open the gate for the man and his laden cart.
Escorted by ten guards they started on their long way, taking several breaks, through the long passageways and halls of the eastern part of the Red Mountains, until the troop finally stopped in a cavern used by the firstlings as a quarry.
“Wait here,” ordered Bendelbar. “I’ll have Xamtys sent for.” He called one of the guards over and gave the instruction. The dwarf-guard trotted off. Bendelbar thought he could sniff orc-ness in the air again, but that was impossible. Not in here. He dismissed it as imagination.
“So, what’s new in Girdlegard?” Kartev was feeling chatty. He undid the buckles to pull the tarpaulins and the leather covers off the cages. “I haven’t been back here for ages. Are the orcs still hanging out in Toboribor?”
Bendelbar got the other soldiers to help. The crates containing these strange dwarves, known in Girdlegard only as undergroundlings, were revealed bit by bit. The trader had two dozen of them. They were huddled together in the middle of their prisons and were staring at their distant relations mistrustfully and in silence.
“In Toboribor? Nothing happening there anymore.” Bendelbar shook his head, unable to take his eyes off the captives. “After the Star of Judgment struck, all the evil went away.”
“That’s not what I hear,” replied Kartev, jumping up to the front of the wagon, where there were five barrels. He opened the left-hand one, took out a few hardened loaves and chucked them into the cages. The undergroundlings grabbed the bread greedily. “There are said to be strange creatures about the place, murdering and pillaging.”
Now Bendelbar did turn his attention to the man. “Rumors spread quickly in the Outer Lands.”
The tradesman smiled at the dwarf. “Don’t forget I’m a merchant. Merchants are quick to panic when their wares might be in danger.” With a powerful leap that Bendelbar wouldn’t have thought him capable of, the trader landed at his feet. “Do these creatures exist or not?”
“They do exist,” he sighed. “But we’re close to catching them.” He placed his hand on the handle of the ax he carried stuck in his belt. “You can set your mind at ease…”
There was a loud crash behind them.
The base of the cage had broken and a dozen of the undergroundlings dropped through onto the stone floor. Initially Bendelbar thought the cart must have given way under the weight, having suffered damage on the long journey, but when he saw the undergroundlings were making off, left and right, unrestrained, he realized they had unchained themselves.
“Stop them,” yelled Kartev, catching the arm of a guard who was about to fell one with a spear-thrust. “Don’t hurt them! They’re my property, got it? I want them back safe and sound. There’ll be hell to pay if you kill one.”
Bendelbar pushed him to one side. “After them!” he commanded, reaching for his long horn.
Then a whole side fell out on the second cage; loose bolts clattered and rolled away. The dwarf was caught on the head and shoulders by the iron bars of the cage as the remaining dozen undergroundlings made a bid for freedom, rushing the guards. Grabbing the sentries’ weapons and armor they raced to the exits.
Bendelbar could not move. The heavy iron grating kept him pinned to the ground; he couldn’t even move his arms, let alone sound the alarm with a blast on his horn.
“I’ll get help,” said Kartev, taking the dwarf’s ax. “Just in case they attack me on the way,” he explained. “You’ll get it back. Which way do I go?”
“My bugle,” groaned Bendelbar. “Blow the alarm.” But however hard the tradesman tried to sound the horn he couldn’t produce anything more convincing than a damp fart. “They’ll be after our diamond,” grunted the dwarf, nodding to the left-hand passageway. “Run and warn the queen!”
Kartev nodded to him. “Right.” He stood up and ran off, faster than Bendelbar had ever seen a man run before. He could do nothing but wait for help.
It was a long time coming. He heard alarm horns sounding, excited voices, weapons clashing, and now and then the sound of a dwarf in pain and furious. Every fiber in Bendelbar’s being demanded he join the hunt for the intruders, but he was helpless under the iron grating.
At last, steps came near.
Kartev’s coarse face appeared above him. “I’m back,” he said. Many hands helped to move the heavy grid. His shoulder painful and his skull throbbing, Bendelbar slid out from under the metal bars. Someone helped him to his feet. Before him stood the trader and Queen Xamtys. And maybe sixty warriors with blood on their weapons. “What happened?” he asked, bowing to his queen.
“We had to kill most of them, they were so wild,” she said. “They even got as far as the treasure chamber, but I don’t know what the outcome was. Terrible confusion.” Xamtys looked at Kartev. “Two of them fled, but you won’t get them back alive.” She handed him a bag that clinked in the familiar way: gold coins. “Take this as compensation and as my thanks for your attempt to aid us in our fight against the undergroundlings in the treasure chamber.”
The man bowed. “Thank you, noble lady. I am sorry that our commerce should take this form. I would have preferred to hand the captives into your keeping alive.” He pointed to the broken base of the cage. “I would never have thought them capable of breaking it open with a few pieces of iron. And they freed themselves from their chains, too.”
“It is not your fault. My guards should have checked the wagon more thoroughly,” she said, looking at Bendelbar. “From now on I shall expect my gate guards to be three times as watchful.” She spoke the words cuttingly. “Return to your post and let this be a lesson to you. This raid could easily have been successful.” She turned and moved off, followed by her retinue and surrounded by her bodyguards.
Bendelbar grimaced. He was in pain and was in disgrace with the queen. The last piece of news in particular would not be popular with the chief of his clan. He’d get another dressing-down there, for sure. He looked angrily at Kartev, who was loading the first bits of ruined cage on to his cart. “Leave it.” He gave the order for the rest of the guards to take over.
Not long afterwards Kartev was on his way back to the Outer Lands, accompanied by Bendelbar with what remained of his vehi
cle. It was a long journey for them both: three sun orbits on the broadest of roads in the dwarf realm, past many wonders, large and small, constructed out of stone, steel and iron. The sight of statues, bridges and murals raised the dwarf’s spirits.
Although the tradesman had received adequate recompense for his trouble, he was not happy about the outcome of his journey. It seemed to Bendelbar the man was mourning the loss of the undergroundlings. At any rate, he wasn’t appreciating the wonders they passed.
Seeing as he did not have the slightest wish to communicate, they were both silent when they went back through the gates of Ironhald. More than a mere “Vraccas keep you” did not cross their lips.
Bendelbar stopped. He ordered the outer gate to be closed and the wall gate to be opened for the trader, then he rushed up to the battlements to follow the progress of the ox-cart with his eyes.
Just as he was wondering why Kartev, after all that long waiting period at the gates, had not gone into Girdlegard with his gold to buy goods to sell on his way home, the man was doing something even stranger.
When he had left the last ramparts behind him, Kartev stopped to chat to a new arrival who was heading for West Ironhald: he pressed the reins of his oxen into the man’s hand and continued on his way without his cart or belongings.
“Vraccas, what is it with this fellow?” wondered Bendelbar, coming down from his vantage point. He wanted to find out.
He had just commandeered a pony and ordered five mounted guards to accompany him, when a messenger hurried past, storming into the quarters of Gondagar Bitterfist of the clan of the Bitter Fists, the commander of West Ironhald.
“Wait,” said Bendelbar to his companions, guessing that this agitation had something to do with the trader.
It took just about as long as a dwarf needs to draw an ax, take aim and hurl it at an enemy—that’s if you had a second one on you—before the threatening thunderous voice of the stronghold’s main alarm horn sounded. It was powered by huge bellows and activated from inside the commander’s quarters. It sent out its continuous message along the ramparts, up the slopes of the mountain, and all along the ravine.
The door flew open. Gondagar appeared, pulling his helmet on over his black curls, and gesturing at the dwarf next to Bendelbar. “You there, dismount. Let me on,” he ordered, swinging himself up into the saddle. “Let’s go. Stop that trader!” he yelled, spurring the horse so that it reared up at the pain and galloped off. “In all that confusion he’s replaced the diamond with a false one made of glass.”
Bendelbar ran hot and cold. His guilt was growing by the minute.
The dwarves on their ponies chased along the twists and turns of the ravine, and the gates opened before them in the nick of time.
Every hoofbeat brought them deeper into the Outer Lands. They followed the broad but uneven road; however hard they pushed their mounts they did not catch up with the trader.
Round each corner they expected to see him but were disappointed. There was nowhere he could have hidden. The walls of the chasm either went vertically upwards or there was a precipice down on the other side. The stone was too smooth to give any hand- or foothold.
Not until the sun was sinking over the Red Mountains and darkness was falling over the area like a black cloth, did they come to a halt.
Gondagar cursed roundly. “Where the hell has the bastard got to?” he called out furiously to the echoing mountain walls. “He must be in league with Tion, or how else have we not overtaken him? May Vraccas strike him down with his hammer!”
Bendelbar’s pony snorted in alarm and skidded round a harmless piece of rock on the roadside. The other mounts blew sharply through their nostrils and pricked up their ears, dancing on the spot and only kept from bolting by the riders pulling hard on the reins.
Then Bendelbar smelt it, too: orcs. The smell of their sweat carried on the evening air, polluting it. He slid out of the saddle and took his ax in his hand.
Gondagar followed suit. “I can smell them but I can’t see them,” he growled. “What devilry is this?”
Bendelbar approached the rock the pony had shied from, and held his weapon at the ready. “Perhaps there’s a secret under the stone—”
Suddenly the rock turned into Kartev. The trader threw himself forward with a huge cudgel in his right hand, hitting the dwarf on his injured shoulder.
The blow was hard, too powerful to have come from a normal man, who would not have been strong enough to wield a large club like that with one hand. Equally, it was impossible for a normal man to take on the shape of a rock. Something was not right here.
Bendelbar fell against the pony and under the whirling hooves of the terrified animal. Before he could protect himself from the kicks and get upright again, clenching his teeth against the pain, the fight with Kartev was decided.
But not in the way Bendelbar had expected.
His dwarf friends lay moaning or silent on the path, the man standing over them, taking deep breaths. He looked down at Bendelbar. “Stay where you are. I’ve got what I wanted,” he said, his voice sounding more guttural now, more like—an orc. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“But I want to fight!” yelled Bendelbar, lifting his ax and leaping forward. “Vraccas, come to my aid against the accursed greenskin.”
His ax blow was parried, and the cudgel jabbed him on the cheek and pushed him over.
To the dwarf it felt like being kicked by a pony. Half stunned, but determined not to submit to the enemy, he got to his feet and brandished his ax to keep the attacker at arm’s length. He could see the hazy outline of an orc in front of him. “You won’t get away,” he threatened, his words slurred.
The broad shadow rushed past him and his blade met empty air.
“But I’ve already got away,” the being called from afar. “Go back to West Ironhald and have your wounds treated.” The sound of speeding hooves was heard.
Bendelbar shook his head, trying to clear it. It was no good. He would have to wait until his head stopped spinning and his vision was no longer blurred.
When he stood up, Gondagar was just coming round. The cudgel had made a substantial dent in his helmet and blood was trickling through his black hair, down his chin, his beard and his neck.
“What a ghastly country,” he groaned. “You can’t tell the difference between the orcs and the people. Apart from the smell, that is.” He took in his surroundings. “He’s stolen our pony.”
The dwarves slowly got to their feet. Bruises, one broken arm, painful cuts but no fatalities. Bendelbar was not the only one to express surprise at that. The orc had spared them. This incident would surely give rise to intensive debate at the dwarf folks’ assembly.
They gave up their pursuit and returned to West Ironhald. Halfway there, support troops from the firstling kingdom came out to meet them. A band of about fifty male and female dwarves were approaching on horseback.
As quickly as possible Gondagar related their encounter and spoke of the peculiar abilities displayed by their adversary. “Beware of his magic. It seems he can transform himself into anything he likes. But he still smells of orc,” he told them. “Pay heed to your noses and your ponies. They are less likely to be fooled than your eyes.”
The leader of the troop nodded. “And you be careful, back in the stronghold, what you drink. Several wells have been poisoned. The experts are testing them, one by one.”
“What?” Bendelbar stopped short in the act of opening his own flask.
“A hundred dead have been discovered to the south of the Red Range. They must have died several orbits ago. They all showed signs of bleeding from their mouths, eyes, noses and ears. The clan of the Hard Hammers has been completely wiped out. The queen thinks the thirdlings are behind it.” He nodded at them grimly. “They’ll tell you more back at the fortress. We must push on.” The troop surged forward, leaving the five dwarves behind in a cloud of dust.
Yet more deaths among his kind. But this time Bendelbar was certain t
hat the raid did not stem from the undergroundlings. If it had been the undergroundlings, the weight of his own responsibility would have been incalculable.
VIII
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Porista
Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Do you think the elves are going to cause trouble about the landur thing, Scholar?” Ireheart was growing increasingly uneasy, the nearer they got to Porista. On the horizon now, the city—the future seat of Gauragar’s administration—promised reunions with old friends and probably with old enemies. The dwarf had not forgotten the incriminating finger marks he had left on the elves’ holy stone. Nor had Tungdil.
“We won’t let it get that far,” said his companion, scratching his pony behind the ear. “The good thing about this assembly is that we can tell Liútasil what you did face to face.” He glance at Goda; they had spoken to her about her master’s elf-land mishap. The dwarf-girl kept out of the exchange, but followed every word with silent glee.
“Right.” Ireheart resigned himself to his fate. It was difficult to predict what consequences might result from his having touched the monument. “It didn’t break and it didn’t crack,” he said, eliminating the worst-case scenario. “It left a stain, that’s all. I bet it’ll go away when it’s polished up.” He clapped his thigh. “It’ll be fine. Bit of elbow grease and it’ll be good as new. If there’s still a problem we can send one of our master masons to show the elves how to treat a decent piece of stone so that a perfectly clean hand won’t leave marks.”
“Your words flow like molten gold. Could it be that you are trying to reassure yourself?” grinned Tungdil.
“Me? Am I bothered? Who would I have to be worried about?”
“Liútasil, perhaps?”
“Rubbish! Not scared of elves.” The warrior fell into a sulk and urged his pony on ahead. The sooner he met the lord of the elves and could explain what had happened—he might need his friend’s help there—the sooner the punishment would be over with.