The Revenge of the Dwarves

  Ireheart looked at the undergroundling. “That is the way of it. No one would have believed you or Sûndalon. Not after he’d said that about exterminating elves.”

  “There’s no reason to lie. They were the danger, not us,” objected Sirka.

  “You carry orc blood. I bet most of them see you and your kind as a threat,” he grumbled, resting his hands on the head of his crow’s beak. Since learning of their origins his attitude to the strangers had changed. He rejected them out of hand. He despised them.

  “Ubar formed us out of mountain blood. We have the strength of the mountains within us.” Sirka had had enough of being insulted in this way. She stood up and approached Ireheart, her eyes blazing with anger. “Ubar created the ubariu from that same blood, made them taller and stronger still and instilled in them a hatred of evil. That is what binds us and the ubariu, dwarf. They have never betrayed their land or the people who live there.” She pointed to Goda with her weapon. “Look. She’s a thirdling. Can she make that same claim? Which of us two is more trustworthy?”

  “Your status is far below that of my pupil, undergroundling.” The warrior twin was not impressed by her anger and was not going to tolerate her attack on Goda. “Hold your tongue.”

  Now it was Tungdil’s task to settle this. Sirka was being attacked. “She is right, Ireheart. Goda could easily be a traitor. You know nothing about her except what she tells you. Has she given you any proof of where she’s from or of the story she tells? Is there a thirdling who can back up her story? You know just how clever Myr was. I don’t like you bringing her to a meeting where secrets are being discussed.”

  Ireheart looked up in amazement. He would never have expected his friend to criticize him in this way.

  Goda stepped forward. “I will not take your insults, undergroundling.”

  Sirka smiled at her. “I have told no lies about your people. Not all of you enjoy the same good reputation as Tungdil Goldhand or Sanda Flameheart. We are on our way to seek out and bring two evil thirdlings to justice. They are thirdlings, Goda. Not undergroundlings. We have no malicious intent on Girdlegard. We wouldn’t have spared dwarf lives as we did in our pursuit of the missing diamond.”

  Rodario insinuated himself between the warring parties and offered round the plate of cake. “Perhaps it’s time we all calmed down and remembered who we are really here to fight, before you two scratch each other’s eyes out. Have some cake. It’s delicious.”

  Goda sat down and rested her hand on the night star, mirroring Ireheart’s gesture with his crow’s beak. Sirka went round the table to stare at the map. Nobody ate any cake.

  “Well, it’s all for me, then,” mumbled Rodario between mouthfuls and he went back to the window to watch the farm-girl again.

  “Rodario is right,” Tungdil looked at Ireheart and his pupil, but there was no apology forthcoming. Instead he held up the letter. “Gandogar says that the secondlings have halted and destroyed a machine that was killing dwarves with gas. Inside it they found containers made of stone with substances in glass tubes which combined to make a poison that did for thirteen dwarves before the machine was tipped into a mineshaft and buried under rubble. They assume it was a similar machine that poisoned the firstling wells.”

  “So much for the elves being the guilty parties,” Goda said to Sirka, who waved her hand dismissively.

  Ireheart watched Furgas, who was weeping softly, his hands in front of his face. Once more it was an invention of his that was causing death and destruction.

  They sensed it could have been much worse. Poison gas in a densely populated part of the Blue Mountain Range would have meant the number of victims would have been higher still. Hundreds, Furgas thought.

  “We have to find the island quickly and capture it,” he said, his tone subdued. He took his hands from his face, wiping away his tears and running his fingers through his hair. “The monsters will soon have to visit the source to recharge with magic. They need the island for that. It will be soon. There must be no more victims.”

  Tungdil agreed. “I’ll ask Dergard if he thinks he can travel. Then we’ll set off for the shore to embark in search of the island. We’ll leave the injured elf on Windsport Island—it’ll be the safest place for him.” He tried not to look at Ireheart while he was dispensing further orders. “Prepare to move off. The meeting is over.”

  Boïndil and Goda left the room. Rodario went too, wanting to escape the uncomfortable atmosphere. Furgas finished drinking his tea and left Tungdil alone with Sirka.

  “Your friends will blame me that you spoke up on my behalf,” she said, coming over and stroking his beard.

  He caught hold of her hand and pushed it gently away. “No, Sirka,” he smiled. “Don’t make it harder for me than it already is.” He still had received no answer to his letter to Balyndis. “I’m finding it too hard to resist.”

  “Then give in,” she whispered, raising her arm again to touch him. “There’s no harm, Tungdil. We like each other and we will love each other. It is only a question of time. We can postpone it or go ahead and feel much better. Who knows what the morrow may bring?” She moved forward and kissed him.

  This time he did not try to stop her. He relished the tenderness; his body was eager for more. He placed his arms round her. She was slim and wiry and at the same time immensely strong under his hands.

  And yet he pushed her away. “Wait. I have to ask you something,” he said breathlessly, blood surging through him like a river of fire. “What is Sûndalon going to do?”

  “You want to know that right now?”

  “I couldn’t ask you when the others were here,” he smiled. “I didn’t know you wanted to kiss me. I just wanted to talk.”

  Sirka took a deep breath and clasped his hands. “He will prepare my homeland to avert the worst,” she answered vaguely.

  “That could mean anything.”

  She gazed into his eyes. “I will tell you a secret. Before we left to come to Girdlegard, Sûndalon called the ubar people and the acrontas together,” she said slowly. “They will have gathered on the northern border by the gates.”

  So that was why the orcs were desperately attempting to break through the fourthlings’ Brown Mountains. They had an army of orc-haters at their backs, driving them on. “An invasion? You want to conquer Girdlegard?”

  “No. We want the stone back. We want to crush the seed of danger that threatens our land. Stone and seed—both are here in Girdlegard.”

  Tungdil swallowed. “Sirka, how big is the army?”

  “They will be eighty thousand ubariu, four thousand acrontas and fifty thousand of my own people.”

  “Oh Vraccas,” he groaned, seeing Girdlegard submerged in blood. “The fourthlings will fight you because they think you threaten them. They will launch everything they have against you to keep you away from the diamond.”

  “And fail. For the acrontas it will be easy to blast the gates open. We have reconnoitered and found your weak spots.” Sirka seemed relieved to be able to tell him everything at last. “But they won’t have to. Our scouts have found a way through the Brown Mountains.”

  “Never!”

  “Yes. Ubar showed them a broad path that an army can use without being seen; they can go straight past the fourthling bastions.”

  “It’s impossible,” Tungdil contradicted her. “It can’t be done! The peaks can’t be climbed.”

  “You will soon see it is true.”

  “The monsters from the Outer Lands could have found it just as well!”

  “They did find it, Tungdil. Several times. We stopped them ever carrying the discovery back to their own kind.” Sirka paused for breath. “Sûndalon did not want us to tell you before we had recovered the diamond. But I think you need to know.” She stroked the back of his hand. “Take it as a proof of my trustworthiness.”

  “So the peace we have had in Girdlegard is due not only to harmony between the dwarf folks, but to you,” he mouthed, shocked to the core.
br />   He was imagining the extent of the destruction if armies of ogres, trolls, älfar, bögnilim and other Tion-bred horrors marched in via Urgon with no warning, streaming out over the rest of Girdlegard. Nothing would remain.

  So those cycles of deceptive calm they owed to the protection the undergroundlings had given them. And the undergroundlings were now at risk themselves. “Why did you do it? Why did you never show yourselves?”

  “What for? None of your kind came over. We assumed you did not like us. And we knew that our brotherhood pact with the ubariu would cause trouble between us.” She stood up and went to the door. “Now it’s clear we were right to stay hidden. I must tell them that we’re leaving for Weyurn,” she said in the doorway. “You won’t tell anyone what I’ve said?”

  A thousand questions were burning on Tungdil’s tongue but he controlled himself. “No one,” he promised, touching his ax to strengthen the vow. “By Keenfire, I swear it.” He smiled at her and she slipped out.

  His thoughts raged in tumult. Unslayables, undergroundlings. It all sounded like unmitigated disaster.

  It lay in his hands to prevent the catastrophe. Again. He did not feel particularly strong and was pleased to know there would soon be support. Soon he would be able to call on the help of his foster-father Lot-Ionan. A wise magus, older than any other soul in Girdlegard, he possessed a strong intellect with a wealth of experience. He had always stood Tungdil in good stead with his sound counsel. His assistance would be needed again. Or better still, Lot-Ionan should decide what to do. Tungdil did not want to be making decisions.

  He caught sight of the last of the sealed letters.

  He had refrained from reading this one out. It was from Glaïmbar Sharpax. Tungdil was afraid of what it would say. But read it he must.

  He stood up, tearing it open.

  Highly esteemed Tungdil Goldhand,

  You were correct in thinking that I still am very attached to Balyndis. I summoned her to me as soon as I received your letter.

  To my great joy she accepted the invitation and to my even greater delight she promised to return to my side. As my first wife she has every right to be there.

  I am to tell you that she had been aware of your coldness toward her. For this reason she is prepared to give you up, on the understanding that she will never have to see you again. She says she would not be able to bear it.

  I am sure that I shall be able to smooth things between Balyndis and her clan so that relations are as she deserves. I shall be a good husband to her and she will be the best royal consort the fifthling realm has ever seen.

  I thank you for the openness you have shown. I respond in kind: true feelings do not admit of change. Balyndis has learned painfully that there is no stable commitment on your part. But we, children of the Smith…

  Tungdil tore the letter through.

  He did not need to go on reading. The important points had been made and he had no taste for a lecture on fidelity from Glaïmbar Sharpax. He knew full well what it entailed. Balyndis had read and understood his letter. He would always be grateful to her, and he was aware how much pain he had caused her. He could not rejoice over the parting.

  He looked out into the courtyard to watch Sirka. He met his own reflection on the window glass. “You coward,” he said.

  His reflection seemed to nod in agreement.

  XII

  Girdlegard,

  Queendom of Weyurn,

  Twelve Miles Northwest of Mifurdania,

  Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

  After the initial interruptions their journey now went smoothly. They boarded the two royal ships that had been placed at their disposal and headed for Mifurdania. On the way they put in at Windsport Island and left the sick elf in the care of Queen Wey’s palace archivist.

  But then their luck ran out.

  The dwarves and their companions learned that even a lake could produce extremely high waves, that evening the goddess Elria started to play with their vessels. The waters were set in turbulent motion, and hurled against the stern of their ships.

  Constantly tossed up and down they scudded over Weyurn’s lake, with clouds of spray drenching them all. Apart from Tungdil not a single Girdlegard dwarf wasn’t seasick. But the undergroundlings kept a firm footing on the swaying deck-planks.

  Tungdil hurried down below to check on the statue in the hold. He would never forgive himself if any harm came to it now in this gale when they were so close to their destination. His legs set wide to help keep his balance, he walked round the blanket-clad stone figure of his foster-father, testing the support ropes. Then he drew back a corner of the blankets to reveal the face.

  “Soon,” he promised, taking a deep breath. First it had been a glimmer of hope, the thought he might one day see the familiar and well-loved magus come alive. Now it was as good as a certainty.

  What will he say when he hears what has been happening? he wondered, touching the hem of the petrified robe that peeped out under the padded coverings. He caught himself thinking that Lot-Ionan might reproach him with something he had done during the past cycles.

  Tungdil grinned. No, he has no cause. Unless the acts of heroes can be condemned. He tightened one of the ropes holding the statue in place and then climbed back up the companionway to the others.

  “Elria’s come up with a new curse for us,” groaned Boïndil, leaning over the railing and belching up air. There was nothing in his stomach anymore. It was the first time he had spoken to Tungdil since the row back at the farm. Since then, he had preferred the company of Goda, the actor and the other dwarves.

  “This is nothing,” grinned Sirka. “Out on the ocean we’ve seen bigger storms than this.”

  “There’s open sea in the Outer Lands?” Tungdil recalled the sketchy drawings he had seen of the land on the other side of the mountains. He did not remember reading about an ocean.

  “Of course. We sail it.” Sirka looked at the helmsman. “These ships and crews would be lost on our waters. They wouldn’t survive the gales.”

  Furgas stood by, not bothered by the weather. “It must have been somewhere near here,” he conjectured, scanning the landscape. He called Rodario over: “The distance is right and there’s an island over there. Is that the one you sailed round?”

  Rodario hung on to the mast, water dripping from his clothes. “Could be. Let’s hope the fisherman was correct when he was telling us about the älfar island.”

  “The storm’s on our side,” said Sirka. “We can get close without the thirdlings seeing us.”

  Tungdil surveyed his little group of diehards, remembering the nameless undergroundling who had taken them to Sûndalon that time. He asked Sirka about him. “What did those tattoos on his forehead signify? And the symbols on his clothing? Why wouldn’t he give his name?”

  “I think only seven people know it. I’m not one of them. He’s a confidant of Sûndalon’s and serves the acront of Letèfora. He was trained by him.”

  This information brought more questions than clarity. “But what—?”

  “Mountain ahead!” the lookout shouted down. Tungdil had to suppress his curiosity.

  Dergard, standing in the cabin doorway, waved Tungdil and Furgas out. “That’s where the source is,” he yelled against the wind. “I can feel it. No doubt about it.”

  “If the island has surfaced it means they’re either expecting monsters or disembarking them,” said Furgas.

  Tungdil pursed his lips. Four monsters, possibly with a renewed intake of magic, would be impossible odds if they had not brought Lot-Ionan back to life first. “We don’t have a choice,” he said. “We have to storm the island and submerge it. Stand by, Dergard.” He hurried up to the helmsman and captain to give orders. “Find a place we can land.”

  “Impossible. See that shoreline? Solid rock. It would slice our hull.”

  “There’s no other way. We haven’t got enough dinghies and we wouldn’t be able to launch them in this weather anyway,” insisted Tungdil.
“If need be, run the ships aground and wreck them.”

  “You’re no sailor, Tungdil Goldhand! Have you any idea what you’re asking us to do? You’re risking all our lives!”

  “Just do it, Captain. There’s more at stake than a couple of ships.” And a few lives. He came off the bridge, then down below deck to chase the dwarves and Weyurn soldiers up top to start the onslaught on the island. Lot-Ionan’s draped statue was brought up on deck and made ready for hoisting on the crane. Tungdil watched the preparations closely. There must be no mistakes.

  They gathered in the bows. The nightmare älfar island grew in size as they approached.

  Their ships ran aground on the basalt ledge, the spars of the keels bursting and splintering. None of the dwarves or undergroundlings made a sound; they clutched at ropes or the vessels’ superstructure. The wooden planks sliced through as if a giant knife had severed them.

  “All on shore!” shouted Tungdil, sounding a bugle to alert the dwarves on the second craft. He leaped off the deck and landed on the rock.

  Most of the soldiers and dwarves did the same, although a dozen or so ended up in the water after the ship was forced away from the shore by the broiling waves. They sank without trace.

  Tungdil cursed under his breath. Their lives must not have been lost in vain. “Let the statue down now!” he called. He could see water flooding into the open forward section of the ship.

  The crane swung round as the sailors maneuvered the winch, and the stone magus left the deck.

  When it was half over the shore the ship lurched again, splitting open on the rock like a loaf of bread torn apart.

  The heavy weight danced and jumped around like a murderer in a hangman’s noose. Then it proved too great a burden. The rope snapped and the statue plunged down.

  Dwarves sprang out of the way to avoid being crushed to death. The figure tumbled to the shoreline shelf and started to roll toward the edge.