The Revenge of the Dwarves

  “And if this were so, Queen Isika, we should be the ones exposed to them in the tunnels of Toboribor—not your people,” Gandogar interjected. “Let that be our concern. If there are ten traitors among my five thousand warriors, what harm can they do?”

  “I agree with Rejalin,” said Ortger, smiling at the elf princess. “The dwarves know what they’re doing and we can keep this area safe. My soldiers are used to moving in the mountains and can secure the peaks.”

  While the rulers gave their assent one by one, Tungdil hurried to Gandogar’s side. “The elves are not to be trusted,” he whispered. He gave a quick summary of Sûndalon’s story.

  “If you ask me it looks as if the same thing is happening here as the undergroundlings suffered.”

  Gandogar had listened carefully, his eyes closed. Then he looked at Sirka. “How long have you known these undergroundlings?” he asked Tungdil.

  “You know how long.”

  “And you think you can trust what they say?”

  “Your Majesty, I…”

  He raised his hand. “No, Tungdil. Our peoples have been living in harmony for many cycles now. Now they have sent envoys to impart their knowledge to us.” His eyes sought Tungdil’s. “Apart from the word of the undergroundling dwarves, whose origins are questionable, have you…?”

  “Gandogar, you…”

  “Enough,” came the unusually sharp command. Sweat was collecting on the king’s brow; the effort of controlling the pain was too much. “Everyone knows their origins are in doubt. And until I’ve seen one of these supposedly harmless orcs they call ubariu and been given proof of their good intentions I shall stick to my opinion.” His brown eyes were resolute. “Even if I believed you, the others here would not. Not without evidence.” He lowered his head. “Do you have evidence?”

  Tungdil clamped his jaws so tightly shut that they hurt.

  “Do you have this proof, Tungdil Goldhand?” repeated Gandogar.

  “No, I don’t,” he admitted reluctantly. He was near to despair. If only the injured elf back at the inn would regain consciousness and could speak! “No.”

  “Then I must keep silent on this matter.”

  “Promise me at least that you’ll warn our warriors about the elves,” begged Tungdil.

  “I shall.” Gandogar turned his attention again to the assembly. The great and the good of Girdlegard were unanimous now; even Queen Isika had accepted Princess Rejalin’s suggestion. “It is decided. The united fighting force of dwarves will set off for Toboribor. The thirdlings and secondlings will form the vanguard,” he announced, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

  His words were greeted with applause.

  Sûndalon could stand it no longer. His request had not been considered. He raised his hand and waited until the clapping ceased. “Do we get the stone back when you have defeated the unslayables?”

  “No,” answered the elf princess at once.

  “I think we should let Lot-Ionan decide,” said Tungdil, in an effort to avoid a dispute. “He will know best what the diamond’s power is.”

  “In my opinion it would be too dangerous to give the diamond away before it has been minutely examined.” Rejalin gave the undergroundling a gracious smile. “Don’t misunderstand me. I trust you but I don’t trust the Outer Lands. And you tell us that these supposedly mild-natured orcs have a… was it a rune master?” Sûndalon nodded. “… they have a rune master who is versed in magic. The last thing we want is an orc with limitless magic powers. Not even in the Outer Lands.”

  “Then you are condemning our land to destruction, broka,” snarled Sûndalon. “And if creatures from the Black Abyss find their way to Girdlegard, then think on this day and on these words of the broka.”

  “We have the children of the Smith guarding our gateways,” she replied calmly. “So far they have failed only the once to defend us. It will not happen again. Is there an alliance stronger than this?”

  Sûndalon grabbed hold of his weapons with both hands, as if needing them for support. Or perhaps it was the princess’s throat he imagined in his grasp. “It is typical of your people to spread insults or poison. It is not for nothing we have eradicated them in our realm.”

  Rejalin raised her eyebrows smiling still. She had achieved her goal; she had the undergroundling breaking through the thin ice she had led him onto.

  “You have done what?” whispered Queen Wey, grown suddenly pale.

  “Then broka means elf and not älfar,” said Isika, her voice toneless. “We are sharing a conference table with creatures from the same creator as the orcs who have wiped out all the elves in their land?”

  “You misunderstand,” Tungdil objected, trying to salvage what he could. “They had to do this! The eoîl stole their diamond and incited the elves to violence against them. They could not see clearly.” He was gathering all his courage to speak his suspicions out loud, but Rejalin was ahead of him.

  “Then there is no question of giving you the diamond, Sûndalon. My people will never let that happen.” Her beautiful features displayed arrogance and ice-cold determination. “If you should ever get possession of the stone you will lose it again through our doing. Whether it be in Girdlegard or in the Outer Lands.” Her bodyguard behind her put their hands on the pommels of their swords.

  “It is better if you leave,” said Gandogar to Sûndalon. “And you, Princess Rejalin, watch your words before they launch something that cannot be stopped.”

  The undergroundlings left the assembly tent.

  After a brief hesitation Tungdil followed them out. When he was halfway through the lobby he turned on his heel. “We shall meet in Toboribor,” he told the gathering. He made no bow to them. “May your gods stand by you and may they open your eyes, Your Majesties all, before it is too late.” He left, Ireheart and Goda in his wake, together with Furgas and Rodario.

  What remained was an uncomfortable oppressive silence.

  Nobody spoke; Bruron closed the meeting. There were tasks enough before them and issues in the air that neither elves nor humans nor dwarves wished to discuss.

  Girdlegard,

  Queendom of Weyurn,

  A Hundred Miles West of Gastinga,

  Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

  They were taking far too long to get from Porista to the shores of the lake where their ship was waiting.

  There were many reasons for the delay: unexpected rainfall meant the cart with Lot-Ionan’s heavy statue was getting bogged down, then Dergard fell sick and they had to stop over at a farm until the fever passed. They could not take risks with his life, and at the same time they must not deplete their force by splitting into two groups. The ax Keenfire could not be wielded in two places at once.

  Tungdil sat with Rodario and Furgas in the farmer’s parlor studying a map. This was a rare document that actually showed the Weyurn territory now under floodwater. They were trying to guess the location of the disappearing island.

  Ireheart and Goda were doing sentry rounds with the guards. They had a hundred secondling dwarves and a dozen undergroundlings led by Sirka, even if Boïndil did not approve. He was also far from approving of the apparent flirtation between Tungdil and Sirka. He had made his views clear to his friend after Sirka made no attempt to conceal her affections.

  Rodario raised his head. “Is our esteemed Boïndil in a bad mood?” he asked Tungdil. “I just heard him yelling at the guards again.”

  “It’s the weather. Dwarves can’t stand rain. And he’s hot-blooded and spoiling for a fight.” Tungdil went on poring over the chart. They’d got a shortlist of five locations. “Can the island travel along underwater?” he asked Furgas.

  “So, it’s his hot blood, is it?” Rodario stepped over to the window. “Or is it his pupil?” He watched them practicing in the barn. At first glance it all seemed straightforward, but his dramatic training had sharpened his senses to signs of physical attraction. “I get the feeling there are sparks flying there.” He turned to Tungdil. ??
?Yes, definite sparks.”

  “Best stay well out of that,” said Tungdil with a wry smile. He was keen to avoid discussion of feelings and attraction, for fear he and Sirka might be the actor’s next target.

  Furgas drank the tea the farmer’s wife had brought them. Still underweight and pale, he would sometimes sit in the corner all day saying nothing. Other times he’d be completely normal. The effects of whole cycles in captivity would not be easy to get over.

  “Yes, it can,” he said, in answer to Tungdil’s question. “I made a system of tubes and chambers that fill with water or steam. If the valves are opened, and the contents expelled, it propels itself slowly forward.”

  “Not good.” Tungdil leaned back in his seat. “Then it could be absolutely anywhere.”

  “No. It can’t move fast. It’s a mountain we’re talking about, creeping along under the water.” He drew a ring round the place they presumed was its last sighting. “It would be roughly in this area. It has to come up every so often to take on air and to get food for the workforce.”

  “They can see it but nobody will talk because it’s the nightmare älfar-island and everyone’s terrified,” Rodario added. “Ingenious, these thirdlings. The front-story of älfar was a neat idea to keep people quiet.”

  “We can only hope the queen’s ships come across the island by chance and word gets round they’re not really älfar and that there’s a considerable reward for information about the island’s whereabouts.” Tungdil helped himself to tea and let his thoughts wander a little.

  In his mind’s eye he saw Balyndis and Sirka. Dwarves as different as it was possible to be.

  He had been hoping his fascination with Sirka would be a passing infatuation, intrigued though he was by her appearance and behavior. She was the opposite of Girdlegard dwarves. But he still couldn’t keep his eyes off her or his thoughts away. He recalled another time his loyalty to Balyndis had been tested. Myr.

  She had been a thirdling spy, a scholar like him, and Balyndis, under pressure from the elders of her clan, had been advised to leave him. It was no wonder that Myr and he had got together—until her treachery was revealed. Then it had been easier not to be troubled by conscience.

  “For a magus in training, Dergard’s a bit on the vulnerable side, don’t you think?” Rodario had discovered the cake the farmer’s wife had left on the side. And then he spotted the daughter of the house running past the window in the rain to the barn to milk the cows. “What a delight,” he murmured dreamily, cutting himself a slice.

  “What would Tassia say?” Furgas said crossly. “You’re the same as five cycles ago. It’s not clever, just selfish.”

  “I’ve no idea what she’d say. She didn’t ask me my opinion when she slept with other men,” he retorted, taking a bite. “We’re both grown up and have a taste for life. So what’s the problem?” He would never admit to the jealousy he felt. “Don’t you have eyes for womenfolk anymore?”

  “There aren’t any women in my life now. I swore to be faithful to Narmora. Just because her body no longer exists doesn’t mean I don’t stay true,” he said, his voice unsteady. “I dream of her each night and she gave me the strength to survive the time on the island. I would never betray her by desiring another.”

  “An admirable attitude, Furgas. Keep away from women and you won’t get hurt.” He chewed the mouthful of cake, his eyes still on the farmer’s daughter. “Imagine if you had fallen for Tassia. Oh Palandiell, what a disaster! She’s my female equivalent.”

  Tungdil noticed Furgas was getting jumpy.

  “The girl certainly understands the art of seduction, I can tell you. She’s as faithful as a leaf in the breeze, blowing this way and that.” Rodario rattled on, stuffing his face with cake. “It has cost me dear, finding that out. I can only warn everyone about her.” He laughed quietly. “Little slut. But I can’t stay away.” Then he turned to face the dwarves. “Do you still need me? I’d like to help the farmer’s girl with her churns.”

  “Leave her be,” said Tungdil. “I don’t want a row with her father. They’ve been so good to us.”

  “Don’t you worry your head, hero. I’ll be as discreet as anything.” He winked at them and left the room.

  The barn where Goda and Boïndil were working out was huge.

  The farmer had put fleeces down in the old hay loft and new washed wool waiting to be spun. Two weaving looms behind had been clattering away the last couple of orbits.

  Boïndil took a couple of ropes from the wall and was snaking them in turn toward Goda. “Imagine these are lots of opponents attacking you.” The first one, with an iron ring at the end, was coming at her fast. She turned and avoided it.

  “Excellent,” he said, aiming the second at her left thigh.

  Goda managed to swerve out of the way several times but the fifth rope hit home. The iron ring hit her on the breast.

  Ireheart tutted impatiently. “That’s you dead, Goda. That was a sword-thrust in the chest.” He pointed to the floor. “Forty!”

  “I’m not doing press-ups,” she protested. “I would have warded off the blow.”

  “You wouldn’t.” He looked her full in the eyes and regretted it at once. His warrior heart was working overtime. “Fifty.”

  Goda picked up her flail. “Try it again, master. I’ll show you what the night star can do.”

  “No, you won’t. You’re supposed to be taking avoiding action.” He was angry that she was questioning his authority. “Sixty.” Now he made a threatening move toward her.

  She raised her weapon. “First you’ll have to get me on the floor.” She pulled in her head, and her eyes blazed. “I have had enough of being ordered about, master.”

  Previously Boïndil would have rejoiced at the prospect of being free of his young pupil. But now it was his worst nightmare. “You’re confusing persistence with bullying. It’s for your own good,” he said to cover his embarrassment. “You asked me to teach you how to fight.”

  “Or else? Seventy?” she laughed with malice.

  Ireheart grabbed the handle of the night star and rammed the top of it against her head. Goda started to topple and he placed his foot behind hers, pulling it from under her so that she fell. “One hundred,” he said, twirling her weapon in his hands. “You let go of the night star. You know only to do that if you have a second weapon on you.”

  She propped herself up on her elbows, ignoring a trickle of blood from her forehead.

  Boïndil sighed and went over to crouch down beside her. “Goda, I’m trying to keep you safe and alive.”

  “With push-ups? Is it to impress the orcs? Perhaps I can challenge an opponent to a contest?” she hissed, sitting up.

  Again their faces were very close.

  Ireheart swallowed hard and swung back as if a Vanga had bitten him. “No. It’s to motivate you to make more effort,” he muttered. “If you don’t make the mistakes you don’t have to do the press-ups.” He took a handful of the wool and tried to wipe the blood from her face.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Goda thrust his hand away roughly.

  “I wanted…”

  “I know what you wanted, master.” She flashed at him. “And I know what you want. Don’t forget you killed Sanda. I feel nothing for you. I’d rather have Bramdal than you. Make me a warrior and then let’s fight to see how good your teaching was. You can keep everything else. I don’t care.” Boïndil was thunderstruck. Her harsh tone had hit him to the quick; she had known exactly what he was thinking. “It…” He swallowed, searching for words. His spark of hope was dying. Then he pulled himself together. “It’s not what you think. I am your instructor and I am concerned for you. That is all.”

  “So I should hope.” Goda turned and pushed herself up from the floor. She began her press-ups. One hundred of them. Blood dripped from her forehead but that did not bother her.

  Ireheart watched, vowing to himself that he would not give up.

  When Rodario opened the door he foun
d a soldier whose armor bore the insignia of King Bruron.

  “A message for Tungdil Goldhand,” he announced, looking past Rodario. “That’ll be you?”

  “Eyes as keen as an eagle’s,” joked the showman. “How many dwarves do you see sitting here?” The soldier went over to Tungdil, handing him several rolls and folded papers.

  “I am to bring your answer straight back to His Majesty,” he said, retreating. “I’ll wait outside.”

  “Get yourself something to eat and have a rest,” invited Tungdil. “It will take some time. Send Boïndil and Sirka in.”

  He waited silently until the messenger had left the room and the others had joined him, then he unrolled the parchment.

  Goda came in as well. She seemed to have her mentor’s complete confidence. Tungdil noticed she had dried blood on her face. Weapons practice must have been rougher than usual today.

  “It’s from Prince Mallen,” Tungdil read out. “The initial attacks on the caves at Toboribor have been successful. The monster whose arm I severed has been killed.” His face showed regret. “So far Mallen reports he has lost seven hundred and eleven men in the caves; most of them died through sorcery. There is no indication that the unslayables are using the diamond’s power. Furthermore, the first contingents of thirdlings and firstlings have arrived. They will be taking over from his soldiers.”

  “May Vraccas keep them safe,” murmured Ireheart.

  Tungdil started to read Gandogar’s missive. “In exchange the elves have sent warriors to the realms of the secondlings and thirdlings to undertake guard duties on the walls and gates. Everything is running smoothly, he writes.”

  “The broka will kick up soon.” This was Sirka’s dark interpretation of events. “They’re just taking up their positions. They have all the monarchs in Porista at their mercy, and they’re creeping into the mountains to get close to the dwarf rulers. It’s like what they did to us.” She clenched her fists. “The difference is that no one in Girdlegard is prepared to stop them.”

  “Not without proof.” Tungdil repeated the words of the high king. “I tried my best in the assembly but Gandogar would not let me speak.”