Tired and with aching limbs he walked down the stairway. Then, escorting the walking wounded, he moved off along the basalt planking toward the second fortress.
Tandibur was sensing they would have to confront whatever hid behind the black visors of these new warriors. “But with what weapons?” he whispered. “How can they be stopped?” He prayed to Vraccas that this small army of giants at Silverfast would not concern themselves with the dwarves. Not today, not tomorrow, not in ten thousand cycles.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Idoslane,
Ten Miles from the Caves of Toboribor,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Lot-Ionan sat quietly by the fire warming his hands. The nights had lost their summer mildness and after his six petrified cycles there was permanent cold within him; neither hot tea, nor warm brandy nor thick blankets could drive it out.
Dergard was already asleep. Ireheart cut himself a piece of the rabbit from the spit-roast. He chewed away making unsatisfied noises.
“Magus, are you sure we can’t get you those last few miles? It’s not far now.”
Lot-Ionan raised his white head. “Trust me, Boïndil. I would rather sleep in a warm tent than in the open air.” He eased his back with his right hand. “My back is too painful to get back in the saddle.”
Ireheart was calculating what the old man might weigh. “I could carry you.”
Tungdil cut a morsel of meat for Sirka. During the journey he had spent hours thinking about Girdlegard’s precarious situation. He had confided in Lot-Ionan but even with help from the magus no satisfactory course of action had emerged.
Otherwise he observed an iron silence. Not even Ireheart had been taken into their confidence. Since the incident on the farm there was a split in a friendship that had withstood tests in the past. This time it seemed difficult to get over. Not speaking meant an uncomfortable atmosphere between the two of them. “Leave it, Ireheart, let the magus get some rest. It’s no good if he’s thoroughly exhausted when we get there.”
Sirka took the slice of meat and placed it between pieces of bread. She tasted it gingerly. “Now I know what I love about my own land,” she said, fighting down a mouthful. “The meat tastes better.”
“Probably how they feed the animals,” grinned Tungdil.
“Well, I like it,” mumbled Ireheart, making light work of the rest of the rabbit after Rodario had indicated he did not want any more. The playwright was sitting next to Lot-Ionan, scribbling away by candlelight.
“Say, Sirka, could you tell us about where you’re from?” he said suddenly, dipping his pen in the ink. “We can see you, we saw your soldiers and we’ve heard about the adventures in Girdlegard…” The quill made circles in the air. “But what’s it like back in…?” He paused expectantly.
“Letèfora,” she completed. “Why do you want to know?”
“To go in this play. And I’m curious.” Rodario laughed. “Exotica goes down well on stage. The punters love a whiff of the Outer Lands.”
Sirka’s close-shaven head shimmered in the light, her dark skin enhancing the whiteness of her teeth. “Letèfora is a city where many races live: humans, acronta, ubariu and ourselves. The buildings are finer than any in Girdlegard. Not even the dwarves can match us for our architecture.” She noted the indignation in Ireheart’s face. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t mean the dwarf buildings are not good. They are just…” She shrugged her shoulders. “… smaller.”
“So what’s the deal with monsters and things?” asked Rodario.
“Oh, I expect you’ll find even their monsters are bigger than ours. And they probably fly. Their screams will deafen you and the mere sight of one will strike you dead,” scoffed Boïndil. He wiped the meat juices off his over-short beard. “Just like Djern.”
Sirka nodded, “You’re right, Boïndil. Absolutely spot on, even if I don’t know what a Djern is. Our beasts are very varied. We have phottòr… winged orcs, and enough other creatures to make the bravest warriors quail and take flight.”
“Only human soldiers, I’d wager,” Goda joined in, earning a grateful look from her tutor. “Or elves, perhaps. But never the children of the Smith.”
Before the harmless storytelling could develop into a fully fledged row about the dwarves and their courage, Tungdil threw in a question. So far he had listened with great interest, hanging on every word from Sirka’s dark lips. “When we were traveling north through to the Outer Lands we found this rune on the wall.” He sketched a shape in the sand.
Sirka reflected and drew a clearer version next to it. “It must have been this one. It’s an ancient sign that indicates a safe mountain pass. Long ago our people reconnoitered the whole of the northern range.”
“Aha,” said Ireheart, pointing at her with the end of a rabbit bone he had been chewing at. “So you were preparing to attack Girdlegard.”
“Yes,” said Sirka, “but when we learned that dwarves were manning the gates, we gave up. We assumed the land behind the gates would be in your hands.” She said all this in a tone of voice that could have been lies or truth. Nobody could work it out.
“Very enlightening,” said Rodario and went on writing. “In view of the situation I’ll be circumspect on the matter of invading Girdlegard.” He put on a serious face. “The audience might not like it. We can do without upsetting people right now.”
“That’s if it’s true,” said Goda, taking firm hold of her night star to sharpen the blades with a whetstone. “Sounded to me like she was having us on.”
Sirka grinned. “Who knows? Perhaps our scouts are still out there waiting for their opportunity?”
“Ho, a sense of humor. Do you know the one about the orc asking a dwarf the way?” Boïndil was starting to warm up.
“Hang on…” Tungdil had just remembered the young dwarf that had never returned. When Sirka mentioned the undergroundling scouts, an explanation occurred to him for the disappearance. He put the subject to her.
“Yes, I met one,” came the reply.
“What?” Ireheart tossed the bone back over his shoulder. “What were you doing with the clan-dwarf? I thought he was a thirdling that had run off.”
“A thirdling? No.” Sirka asked for the water bottle, to rinse the last taste of rabbit away. “He had been following our scouts and got lost. It was too late when we found him. He was thin as a rake, talking rubbish about machines and saying he wanted to protect Girdlegard from them. He died of exhaustion soon after.” Tungdil nodded. They had done the right thing telling Gremdulin Ironbite’s mother her son had died. They had not wanted to awaken false hopes. “What were your scouts looking for at the gateway?”
“Seeing what was new.” Sirka placed a log on the fire. “Seeing if things were all right.”
They heard the sound of approaching hoof beats. A lantern swayed a couple of feet above the ground, illuminating the path for horse and rider.
“A messenger from Prince Mallen?” guessed Rodario, getting up. “Good. He can tell the army we’ll be with them tomorrow.” The dwarves got to their feet as well, ready for a fight.
The rider saw the campfire and came over. “The blessings of Vraccas on you,” came the greeting. “Good things come in threes!”
“Bramdal!” Ireheart cursed under his breath. “Now it’s certain. He’s spying on us,” he whispered to Tungdil. “It’s no coincidence we keep bumping into him.”
The executioner rode up, and dismounted using his patent rope ladder. “There was far too good a smell of meat. I couldn’t simply ride past.”
Ireheart gleefully held up the rabbit carcass he had gnawed clean. “Too late, executioner. Death was way ahead of you this time. On your way.”
Bramdal’s dark clothing made it difficult to see where he ended and the darkness began. It helped that he had light blond beard braids and a pale face. “Looks like there’s not much warmth at this fireside. What’s the matter?”
“You need to ask?” Ireheart took a step forw
ard and Goda did the same. “You turn up out of the blue once too often. Your business is with death and then to cap it all you sell off the dead bodies. What decent dwarf would do that?”
Bramdal wedged his thumbs under his belt. “I don’t work as an executioner now, Boïndil Doubleblade. I told you before. And the fact we keep meeting is due to the fact we are both heading the same way. Why should I want to keep bumping into you?”
“My friend thinks you spy for the dwarf-haters.” Tungdil watched the other’s face very carefully.
“Then wouldn’t I have my weapons drawn and be attacking you?” Bramdal sat down on the grass. “I could just stay quiet and pretend I don’t mind being accused like that. Later on when you’re all asleep I could slit your throats and rob Girdlegard of its greatest heroes.” He looked at Lot-Ionan. “Did I forget something?”
“You forgot to mount up and ride off again,” suggested Ireheart. “Be off with you, hangman. We don’t want you here.”
“What if I were bringing Trovegold news to the army?”
Tungdil moved over next to him. “If you like, give us your news and then be on your way. If you don’t want to share it, then mount up and ride off now.” He wanted to be rid of the executioner because he feared Boïndil was going to lose his temper.
Bramdal made a regretful face. “So that’s the thanks I get for helping you reach the freelings that time? You drive me away from your fireside?”
“No.” Ireheart drew himself up in front of the executioner, his war hammer in his hands. “It’s me who’s chasing you off.”
Bramdal sighed. “I should have known you wouldn’t be friendly. I got that impression last time we met.” He stood up and went to his horse. “Trovegold is sending Prince Mallen money toward the expense of the siege. In return for that the freelings want to trade in Idoslane and have asked to negotiate with their largest towns.” He climbed up onto his specially adapted saddle. “I would say there is a new alliance on its way there.” From high up on his mount Bramdal nodded down at the others. “Because you never know how long the old ones will hold.”
He cantered off toward the southeast. For a long time they could still see his lantern. Then he crested the brow of a hill and disappeared from view.
“Good riddance.” Ireheart sat down again. He pulled a second rabbit out from behind a rock and skinned it. One puny little rabbit was never going to have been enough for him.
“What does that all mean?” Rodario asked himself and then the rest of them. “Are the freelings afraid the dwarf peoples will change their minds?”
“It looks like it.” Lot-Ionan looked at Tungdil. “Can there be a reason?”
“No. I never saw anything in the talks to indicate a worsening of relationships. I don’t know why they’re looking for support like this.” Tungdil threw himself down on the grass. Sirka joined him. “Do they know more than us?”
“We’ll find out tomorrow.” Lot-Ionan shivered and put more wood on the fire. “Let’s not waste time worrying about it now. There are more important things. Let’s get some sleep.”
Goda was given first watch and the others bedded down by the fire. Tungdil thought for a long time about what the executioner had said.
Girdlegard, Kingdom of Idoslane,
Four Miles from the Toboribor Caves,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tungdil and his companions halted on a small hill and surveyed the biggest siege ever mounted in Girdlegard.
The scene was impressive.
The joint armies of the Girdlegard kingdoms and the elf realm encircled the entrance to the orcs’ underground domain. Nothing and no one could escape unseen. No less than seventy thousand warriors and volunteers had gathered here to confront the evil in the shape of the unslayables and their ghastly machine hybrids.
The deep green of field and orchard was marred by a black line of trenches; immediately behind lay the army encampments of the various kingdoms. Small portable bridges were available as need arose to cross the trenches.
The dwarves’ numerous tents were pitched well behind the boundary. From there, units would set off to rage through the caves of Toboribor in search of the unslayables, one of the sentries told Tungdil’s group. Nearly all the clans of the dwarf tribes had sent troops. A sea of standards and banners fluttered in the warm breeze and, a little way off, the flags of the freelings were flying.
“Isn’t that splendid? The evil won’t get through that lot.” Ireheart surveyed the scene proudly.
“That’s if the evil is in the caves in the first place.” There was doubt in Lot-Ionan’s voice.
Tungdil nodded. “Let’s find out how successful they’ve been so far in eradicating the unslayable danger for all time.” He spurred his pony on. The freelings had their camp set up too far away from the dwarves for his liking. Bramdal was proving to be correct.
Lot-Ionan rode next to him. “Have you got any further with your cogitations or are you still as much in the dark as I am?”
“I’m lost as well,” he sighed. “It all stands or falls with how the elves behave. I won’t risk a guess.” He forced his gaze away from the banners of the town.
“I don’t want to guess, either. Esdalân didn’t seem the type to be telling lies, though there must be other reasons for elves to fire on elves. At any event it was better that we left him in the village back there. I want to make up my own mind.” The magus indicated the tent bearing Mallen’s standard. “Let’s ride over. I think we should tell him everything. From what you say he is a level-headed ruler. Even if he is an Ido.”
Bramdal must have given warning of their approach. They were received with shouted greetings and much approving pounding of fists on shields from the soldiers. Men bowed respectfully to the magus, delighted to see him returned.
The unusual noise drew Mallen out of his tent. He was attired in the impressive suit of armor his ancestors had worn and his fair hair streamed free. “Welcome to Idoslane, noble Lot-Ionan.” The prince bowed. “And welcome to you all.” He shook hands with Rodario and Ireheart. “Master Bramdal told us you would be joining us soon. The greatest heroes are now assembled. We will meet the unslayables head-on.” Holding the tent flap open, the ruler invited them inside. “If you are not too tired I’d like to explain what we’ve achieved in the past few orbits.” He sent messengers out to summon the dwarf commanders. Then he addressed Lot-Ionan. “You will forgive us for not putting on an adequate celebration in honor of your return, but we have no time to lose.”
The magus nodded. “But of course, Prince Mallen. There are more important matters. Celebrations can wait until our victory.”
Like all the others he noticed the peculiar painting on the inside of the tent walls.
“A map,” Mallen explained. “This is the dwarves’ work. They have surveyed and drawn out all the caves they have penetrated here.” He pointed to the blue-shaded area. “These parts they have taken over already. They have set up small strongholds within the cave complex.”
“But are the unslayables really in the caves?” the magus wanted to know, seating himself at the table; the others followed suit.
“We’re certainly working on that assumption. The dwarves have had sight of all their monsters. I think they are supposed to be diverting our attention from the unslayables themselves. That’s why the dwarves are fighting their way in to the sections where resistance initially was low.” Mallen showed them the part he was referring to, marked in green. “They were right. Suddenly, fierce resistance was encountered and it looks as if the last of the älfar are holed up in this cave area.”
Gandogar strode in and Tungdil and the other Girdlegard dwarves bowed respectfully in greeting. A little way behind came the freeling commanders—and Bramdal. He gave them an inscrutable smile.
“What a pleasure to see all of you safe and well,” Gandogar exclaimed. “And you, magus, I have only known as a stone statue. So you must be Lot-Ionan the Forbearing.”
“Not all escaped w
ith their lives. Far too many were carried off to Vraccas’s Eternal Smithy,” Tungdil interjected, giving a concise report of what had occurred in Weyurn. “We lost Furgas on the island. He burned to death in molten iron. We saw it happen and could do nothing to save him.”
Mallen and the high king both fell silent at this news.
“So Furgas is dead?” Mallen leaned forward on the table. “We shall miss his genius. In the past he wrought good as well as bad. I don’t want to sound heartless, but did he at least say where his machine creatures’ weak points might lie?”
“Yes.” Rodario, eyes glistening at the thought of his dead friend, took out a folder he had carried in his saddlebag and put it on the table. “He left me several drawings to show where each monster will be most vulnerable.” He cleared his throat, choked with emotion. “The points in question are small. Steady hands and a true aim will be needed when they are attacked.”
Passing the folder of drawings to a servant to have copies made, Mallen said, “Trust me: I regret his death, but now is not the time to mourn the passing of friends. It will have to wait until the älfar have been defeated.”
The tent opened again to admit Rejalin; she brought an escort of three guards and two unarmed elves.
“No one told me that a meeting had been arranged,” she said with a gracious smile. “If I hadn’t seen Gandogar entering the tent I would have missed it. Did you not wish to hear the view of the elves?”
Ireheart opened his mouth. “You can be—”
“Boïndil was about to say that you can be sure we would have called you,” Tungdil interrupted smartly. “Because we need your warriors as soon as possible in Toboribor and not in the dwarf realms any more.”
“Why is that? Surely you need us to keep the gateways safe while so much of your fighting force is here in Toboribor. The monsters still present an undeniable threat. The monsters and the undercover thirdlings in your own ranks.” However charming and considerate her tone of voice, criticism was clear in Rejalin’s message. It was her opinion that the thirdling traitors should have been assiduously sought out.