“It would explain her coma. But could she bear children in that state?” Isika looked round the circle. “I mean, these beasts must come from somewhere, even if they only fully turn into monsters after bathing in the magic source.”
“And what if the male älfar had been struck down in the same way but had managed to free himself?” Rodario suggested. His eyes glinted with enthusiasm. “Maybe the two of them were found in the caves and the surviving orcs down there seized on the beautiful älfar and mated with her, overcome with animal lust. They violate her again and again, besotted by her beauty. Then the älfar wakes up, kills the orcs, makes common cause with the thirdlings and sends the misshapen bastards out into Girdlegard to serve his evil ends.” He stopped for air, his eyes fixed on the far distance, actor that he was. An actor planning his next stage appearance. “And then, in order to create a pure being of his own flesh and blood, he takes the älfar beauty himself and impregnates her, creating the young one we saw on the island. A child born of siblings, purer than any other älfar and part of the highest dynasty. What a plot line.”
Mallen smiled. “Your imagination is getting the better of you, my theatrical friend.”
“Call it a variation on a possible truth, because we’ll never find out what really happened. I don’t suppose the unslayable is going to sit down and explain it all to us,” Rodario admitted. “I think it’s a tremendous story though.”
“Well, it fits in with what the älfar are like,” said Tungdil, tired now. “I must get some rest, if you don’t mind. Pray for us all tonight.”
The pavilion door-hanging flew aside and a dwarf came in and bowed to the company. His face was burned by the sun, his armor coated with dust and he smelled of sweat, horse and muck. “For the sake of Girdlegard, help the fourthlings!” he gasped, handing Prince Mallen a leather pouch. “I am Feldolin Whetstone of the Thyst Finders fourthling clan. I bring a message from the Brown Range. We are being besieged by incredible creatures.”
“The size of two dwarves, wearing armor, and their eyes shining purple?” asked Sirka, to everyone’s astonishment. “Voices like the whistle of the wind and the rumble of thunder at one and the same time?”
“By all the gods, you’re describing Djern!” Rodario exclaimed. “Andôkai’s bodyguard: a mountain of steel with many times the strength of a human.”
Mallen took out a written account of the events at the pass and a sketch of the creatures laying siege to Silverfast. “More friends that look like enemies?” he remarked.
“It’s the acronta,” replied Flagur. “We got them to create a diversion so our own army could circumvent the dwarves without being seen. We didn’t want a battle, because it would have meant killing dwarves. But they are Ubar’s children, just as we are.” The ubari grinned at the messenger, who had only just noticed him and was utterly terrified. “They won’t harm you.”
“The acronta,” repeated Tungdil. “How many of them are there?”
“We don’t know. But the army that protects us against some of the larger fiends has about three thousand sword-bearers.”
“Ye gods,” muttered Rodario. “Three thousand of them? What kind of creatures do you have in the Outer Lands if you need so many acronta to deal with them?”
“I never claimed life was easy in Letèfora.” Flagur flexed his muscles in a display of strength that would have made any orc go pale with envy. “But that’s nothing compared with what will issue from the Black Abyss. To vanquish them we would need thousands of acronta.”
Tungdil nodded to the messenger. “You have heard the important part. Bring this good news to the fourthlings and to your…” He had been about to say king but remembered that the king of the fourthlings had been Gandogar. His corpse was on its way to the Brown Range to find its last resting place with the other fourthling rulers of the past. His soul was already with Vraccas at the eternal smithy and would be watching events from there.
“The throne is not empty,” said Feldolin. “Gandogar’s sister, Bylanta Slimfinger of the Silver Beards, administered all the duties of state while he traveled in his capacity as high king. As soon as peace is restored Gandogar’s death can be duly mourned and Bylanta’s regency celebrated.”
“Bring her my homage and the blessings of Vraccas,” said Tungdil. He raised his hand in salutation. “Now I must really go.”
He and Sirka left the tent and crossed the human army base to get to the dwarf encampment. There, pale patches on the grass showed where some had already struck camp and left. Presumably they had gone to join Ginsgar Unforce.
“You will accompany me to the Black Abyss?” asked Sirka as they entered their tent.
“Yes, it’s my duty to ensure the diamond arrives safely where it can do most good. And that is not here.” He lay down carefully on the simple bed. His head hurt and the empty eye socket was throbbing so badly he could not think. He took her hand. “Sirka, I am the most unreliable dwarf in Girdlegard. I feel great affection for you, but…” He fell silent and stroked her bald head; her brown skin shimmered in the lamplight.
“I am not asking for more than that, Tungdil,” she said.
“I cannot swear I will be faithful till the end of my days.” He sighed. “I swore to Balyndis that I would always be true because I never thought my feelings would change, but it turned out to be a lie.” He struck himself on the chest. “This accursed restlessness within me! I can’t settle. I have the urge to keep searching for new horizons; I might do the same to you. I will never promise marriage to a woman again.”
“Your restlessness is what has helped your homeland to survive. Without beings such as you nothing would move forward. Everyone would be frightened to attempt anything new; none would break new ground and abandon the familiar. It is good the way it is.” She looked at him. “Is it true you dwarves live forever?”
“What? Oh no, we just live to a very great age, Sirka. I am seventy cycles now and that makes me a young dwarf still. The oldest of us can live more than six hundred cycles, they say.” He saw the shock in her face. “What’s the matter?”
“That’s a big difference,” she said quietly. “Our people never get past the age of sixty cycles. Most pass away at fifty.”
“Fifty?” This was a surprise. “How old are you, Sirka?”
“I am twenty-one. My descendants are seven, five and three…”
“Your descendants.” He spoke solemnly. “And where are they now?”
“I told you we love and part when it is over. We never force anyone to stay together if feelings have cooled and died. We are a passionate people.” She gave him a kiss. “My children live in Letèfora. They are brought up by the community and I visit them regularly.”
“Do they know you?”
“They call me their mother but it does not mean very much. They are children to all; everyone looks after everyone’s children as if they were their own.” She stroked his chest. “Rest. You have shown such fortitude today.”
She stirred a powder into a small dish of water and handed it to him. “Drink this. It will ease your pain.”
He did as he was bid and soon the throbbing in the eye socket grew fainter and allowed him to sleep. For the first time for ages he was not plagued by nightmares. He saw the Outer Lands in his mind’s eye, full of beauty and new creatures. Sirka was his guide in this new land, one that fascinated and enticed him. Even if there was much he would not understand until he had seen it with his own eye.
The herd of befúns, the mounts that the ubariu had spoken of, were huge. They were like oversized orcs on four legs instead of two, with stumpy little tails. The body was muscular and as broad as that of a horse while the flat head had a snout with numerous protruding teeth. On their hands were three fingers apiece, covered in a hard layer of tough skin, with which they were able to pick up large objects.
To Tungdil the shape of the saddle seemed odd; it had a back support for the rider to rest against, relatively tall and curved like a small baldachin. He asked Si
rka about the construction as someone pressed the reins into his hands. Stirrups were nowhere to be seen.
“The animals rear up in battle and help the rider by using their claws. The saddles are designed to stop us being thrown off.” She shook the back rest. “We’ve had them lengthened. You slide into the correct position.”
Rodario was getting to know his befún. “Stinks a bit, doesn’t it?” He sniffed at its light gray skin. “Stinks quite a lot, in fact.”
“It’s from their glands. They secrete a substance to toughen the skin. They’re safe against arrows and even a sword cut isn’t a problem.” Sirka showed him a damp shiny patch on the head. “A liquid also comes out there from time to time. Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”
“Is it acid?”
“No, it’s a sex gland, so if you don’t want to be jumped on by another befún for a bit of how’s your father I suggest you leave it well alone.”
“Aha!” Rodario slid right back in the saddle. “I enjoy making love but preferably not with this enchanting species. I probably wouldn’t survive its attentions.”
“Indeed. You wouldn’t.” Sirka vaulted up into the saddle and signaled to the troops behind her. She called out in a language her companions couldn’t understand; it sounded elegant and was reminiscent of elvish.
Flagur rode at her side, if you could call it riding; the befúns’ gait was nothing like that of a horse—more a series of rhythmical jumps, quite hard on the back and stomach if you were in the saddle. But they were swift and agile. Once equipped with an armored ubariu on its back, a befún would not be something Tungdil would want to face in battle. “Let’s move on!” Flagur announced. “If the distance they told us is correct we’ll be there in five orbits.
“That’s very fast,” said Tungdil. “That would be more than two hundred miles a day!”
Flagur grinned. “I keep forgetting things are different in Girdlegard. The befúns will run from sunup to sundown and they don’t need any more rest than that, or to stop and feed. They’re ideal for conditions back home.” He clicked his tongue and made a strange noise that the befún responded to. They set off at a trot.
“It’s amazing! I can hardly wait to escort the diamond back to your homeland,” Tungdil said to Sirka.
“And I can’t wait to show you around.” She touched his hand gently and followed Flagur.
The little troop set off for Weyurn—a journey that would take them through the dry northlands of Sangpûr and forest margins of Rân Rîbastur: about a thousand miles all told. On the first orbit they crossed Idoslane. A more direct route would have led them through the burning desert heart of Sangpûr, but that was not a risk Tungdil wanted to take. Sandstorms and drought can be as deadly as any älfar.
Of them all it was Lot-Ionan who was finding it most difficult to adapt to the mounts. “I was a good rider once,” he said, “and could always keep my seat. But these befúns are quite a challenge!” Like the others he was constantly being jolted forwards and backwards and from side to side. To be on the safe side he had tucked the end of his beard under one of the straps securing the luggage, so that it wouldn’t blow in his face.
Tungdil was certainly feeling all the bones in his body. Often he would bite his tongue or his own cheek. No, if you weren’t used to it, these animals made for uncomfortable riding. Sirka and Flagur and the rest of the troop were managing to look good in the saddle, thus earning respect in the eyes of the humans they passed on the road.
The strange picture they made not only aroused interest, but also instilled fear into some, who sought to defend themselves. They knew all too much about orcs from the old stories and these looked much more dangerous than the old versions. Only the royal banners of Mallen and Bruron kept the group immune from attack.
Flagur did not arrange any rest periods until after sunset, when almost immediately the befúns spontaneously came to a halt and lay down like dogs to rest; the saddles stayed on their backs.
Rodario jumped off rather than dismounting. “Why, by all the gods, do they do that?”
“They can’t see very well in the dark and even at dusk their sight is bad. To stop themselves crashing into a tree or bumping into a rock they just lie down and wait for the sun to come up.” Sirka took a net out of her saddlebag and went off to the stream. “Will one of you come with me to help catch their feed?”
“Fish?” Tungdil went with her. “These funny creatures eat fish? They look more like predator carnivores to me.”
“You’re right. They eat everything,” she said, giving the word such emphasis that he preferred not to put further questions. “So it’s vital they don’t get hungry. If they set off to hunt on their own account the whole area could be devastated.”
“I see.” He waded into the water. “Throw me one end. We’ll make a barrier,” he suggested. “We can let the fish and the current do all the work rather than wear ourselves out continually tossing the net in.” She agreed and together they set about collecting sticks and branches to secure the net as a kind of funnel.
Tungdil’s empty eye socket was hurting badly, so Sirka gave him some more powder which he took with a handful of water from the stream.
The strangest insects were chirping away; soon the birds joined in with a twilight song. Tungdil realized it was one of very few evenings they had been spared any nasty surprises. “No älfar, no orcs,” he sighed with relief, sinking down on the grassy bank.
“Like in Letèfora,” said Sirka, propping herself up on one elbow so she could keep an eye on the net. “May Ubar help keep it that way. Too many sacrifices have been made; it would be awful if we don’t succeed.” She looked at him. “Balyndis. Is that her name?”
He nodded. “Yes, but I don’t want to talk about her.”
Sirka watched his solemn face. “I am so happy we’ve found each other. It doesn’t matter how long it lasts.” She kissed him on the mouth.
He stroked the nape of her neck, pulling her close.
Laying her head on his shoulder she listened to the sound of his heart. “Sounds normal to me,” she said after a while.
“What did you think it would sound like?”
“A heart that’s going to beat for many hundred cycles should sound different. But it doesn’t. It’s not even any slower.”
He sat up and pushed her gently to the ground, then placed his ear on her breast. The scent that rose in his nostrils was arousing, and he felt the warmth of her brown skin on his cheek.
“And what can you hear?”
“Same as with all dwarves,” he said and kissed her throat. A sudden stabbing pain shot through his eye socket and he fell back. Any trace of desire abruptly disappeared. “Damn those atár,” he cursed, clutching at the side of his face, but it only made it worse. “I feel like wishing Ginsgar success with his campaign.”
“It’s the best thing for broka,” nodded Sirka earnestly. “Nobody is going to shed a tear for them. And there’s more harmony among the peoples of Letèfora than ever now. No one there thinks they’re above the rest. Just friends or enemies. But no more false friends.” She stood up and went to check on their catch. “Come on, Tungdil. Let’s take the befúns their feed before they start on Rodario.”
They dragged the first load of fish over to their campsite in sacks, leaving the net in place in the stream to catch more. Later, when the befúns were fully fed, the two of them slipped under a blanket by the fire and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
“Ah, love’s young dream,” said Rodario with a yawn. “I wonder what my own darling is up to?”
Flagur looked at him. “You’ve got a girl?”
“Yes.”
“And how many children do you have with her?”
“With her? None, as far as I know.” He gave a dirty grin. “But there may be a few boys and girls in Girdlegard that will do well on the stage.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I am a friend to all women and women all love me. I am incredibly irresistible.”
“And what does y
our girl have to say about that?”
“Have fun, she says; she’s just the same as me,” he laughed.
“Well, we seem to have more in common with humans than with dwarves,” chuckled the ubariu.
“Don’t jump to the wrong conclusion, my dear Flagur. Most people in Girdlegard are very keen on convention and like to live as married couples.” Rodario smiled. “I make sure that the young wives don’t find life too tedious, and I help prepare the daughters for love.” He took a fish and grilled it over the fire on the end of a stick. “It’s a shame there won’t be much of an opportunity to learn more about your homeland. It would be illuminating to hear a couple of stories.” He blinked. “But I’m far too sleepy to take notes.”
“Why don’t you come along with the diamond’s escort? Then you can see my country,” suggested Flagur.
“Do your people like theater? My repertoire of tales of heroes and their great deeds is enormous. I have the best range of props…” His voice tailed away. “No, I used to have the best props possible. Magister Furgas made them all for me.” He stared into the fire. “My friend is dead. I can’t believe it. Can you? I spend five cycles searching for him; I free him from the clutches of his captors and then he melts away to nothing in a sea of red-hot iron. Killed by the treachery of thirdlings.”
Flagur had been listening intently. “But not forgotten.”
“No, I haven’t forgotten him and I never will.” He pulled the cooked fish off the bones and ate thoughtfully. Occasionally he looked over at Lot-Ionan, who was sitting on the grass some distance away from the fire talking to the ubariu rune master. “I wonder what they’re discussing?”
“I expect they’re talking about the different ways they each use magic.” Flagur retrieved his fish from the fire, strewed some powder on it from a little bag, and started to eat his supper with evident relish.
“Can I try some?” asked Rodario, indicating the yellow spice.
“Of course.”
The actor drizzled a little cautiously onto his fish, sniffed, and tasted it carefully. His expression moved from skeptical to delighted. “I think I should market this stuff,” he enthused. “This mixture is… unique! I’ve never tasted anything like it.”