Sirka also bade her friends farewell. Boïndil let her depart, even though he still had not told her the punchline. It was not the right time for jokes at the moment.
The two dwarves were alone.
“Do you know what’s bothering me?” said Ireheart thoughtfully, after the last steps had died away. “Why did the artifact reject Lot-Ionan?”
“Well, if anyone is pure in spirit then it has to be Lot-Ionan,” said Goda springing to the defense of the magus. “And who expects a magus to sacrifice his life to chastity? I’m sure he doesn’t get up to anything like that now, but I’m sure he remembers what he did when he was younger…” She took his hand. “He is good.”
Ireheart was thinking. “Yes, you’re right.” He let himself be persuaded. Then his face took on a worried expression. “You know what this means for our iron band?”
“We shall have to wait another four cycles.”
He sighed. “That will be hard. As hard as any diamond.”
Goda laughed. “In the meantime you can train me up to be the very best warrior maiden there’s ever been in Girdlegard or the Outer Lands. Your efforts and your noble restraint will receive their reward after four cycles.” She gave him a long kiss. “And we’re not forbidden to kiss.” She smiled. For a second it crossed her mind that they still had to fight the duel she had vowed to her dead grandmother. That could wait.
Ireheart touched her cheek, stroking the pale down on her skin. “It will be the best and the worst four cycles of my life,” he joked. “Vraccas hates me for some reason.” He kissed her and then became earnest. “I pray daily to our creator that he may keep Tungdil safe.” He stood up and went to the doorway, opened it and looked over toward the Black Abyss under its shimmering globe. “I wonder where he is? And what he’s doing, alone with the misbegotten offspring of strange gods?” Again he wiped the perspiration from his brow.
Goda took his hand. She could give him no answer and she certainly did not share his optimism about Tungdil’s fate. She presumed him dead. But she was not going to say so.
In silence they both watched the glowing sphere under which lay both hope and horror. You could not have the one without the other.
Girdlegard,
Porista, Royal Capital of Gauragar,
Winter, 6241st Solar Cycle
Once more Girdlegard’s rulers were meeting to confer.
King Bruron escorted his guests into the first completed chamber of his royal residence. Huge stoves ensured a pleasant temperature despite wintry blizzards without.
Bruron had ordered sumptuous decoration of the hall, commissioning furnishings, frescoes, tapestries and sculptures with taste and care. The impression given was that the rest of the palace was already in place. However, only the outlines of the main structure were visible. The elf Esdalân, the monarchs of the human realms, lords of the dwarven kingdoms and heads of the freeling cities were gathered to hear Rodario’s reports from the Outer Lands: eloquently and with compelling and colorful detail he described recent events at the Black Abyss.
“… and so—with the sacrifice brought by Tungdil Goldhand—the battle ended. We have lost a great hero. He gave his life for Girdlegard…” He bowed to his audience. “… for your sake and to enable you to sleep soundly in your beds. May this courageous dwarf forever remain in your thoughts, and let us ensure that it is not only the children of the Smith who mourn him.” With these words he took his seat to deafening applause, in particular from the dwarves, on whose faces many a tear glistened.
Lot-Ionan rose to his feet. Dressed in a light blue robe, he wore white gloves to hide the disfiguring burns he had received from touching the artifact. In his left hand he held a long, superbly carved walking stick of birchwood. “I see it as our task to utilize this new peace accorded us by the sacrifice of my foster-son Tungdil and his companions, some of whom remain in the Outer Lands. It is time for reconciliation.” He looked at Esdalân. “The elves have been subjected to horrendous treatment meted out in anger. Are you prepared to let bygones be bygones and excuse the deeds targeted at the atár?”
Esdalân looked at Ginsgar calmly. “I insist on an apology for the cruelties received and for the devastation suffered in landur. The grand palaces and temples were laid waste, and this was fitting. But it was not right that settlements were torched and destroyed when the inhabitants had nothing to do with the blinkered obsessions of some of my people. Sincere words of atonement and some redress are essential here.” His gaze wandered over the faces of the assembled dwarves. “With your help we shall reconstruct our elf realm. When that is done, then there shall be forgiveness for the children of the Smith.”
Ginsgar opened his mouth to let out a hearty laugh. “Sure thing, Esdalân. We can build a few houses for thirty-seven elves, no bother. That forgiveness will be winging its way to us.”
If offended by the words and tone, Esdalân chose not to show it. He was too sensible to allow himself to respond in kind. “And how about the words of apology from you, Ginsgar Unforce? You led your troops through our groves, plundering and killing.”
The laughter ceased abruptly. “And your own apology for the poisoning of the dwarves?”
“That was the atár, not the elves.” Esdalân looked past Ginsgar and appealed to Xamtys. “Atár and elves have nothing in common.”
“Hair-splitting,” said Ginsgar with contempt. “If I don’t hear an apology, then you’ll have to wait, too.”
“In that case I don’t want the dwarves’ help in landur.” Esdalân nodded to the self-appointed high king. “As soon as you are ready to apologize our two peoples may make a fresh start. But not until then.” The elf leaned back in his seat, making it obvious that he had no more to say. But the door of reconciliation had not been slammed shut.
Lot-Ionan sent a disapproving look Ginsgar’s way. “How can you do this, Ginsgar Unforce?”
“Easily,” he replied curtly. He, too, had no more to add. The gulf between the two peoples had not grown any narrower. The dead heaped in that gulf prevented any peace.
“You will come to your senses,” predicted Lot-Ionan. He addressed the whole assembly. “We have heard that the kordrion has escaped and taken to the hills. It is feared that it will be hiding somewhere between the fifthling and fourthling territories, to lick its wounds. It is vital that the dwarves patrol not only the passes but also the remote mountain regions. As soon as the kordrion is sighted, I must be told.”
“Didn’t Master Rodario say the creature cannot be overpowered?” Isika asked.
“As far as the ubariu and the undergroundlings are concerned, yes.” Lot-Ionan indicated his wand. “I am looking into acquiring new famuli and famulae to train. We shall soon have young people versed in the high art of magic. No one has tried to combat the kordrion with magic. The rune masters of the ubariu used their powers differently from my own ways.” He smiled reassuringly. “You see, Queen Isika, I am optimistic.”
Queen Wey started to speak. “Then let me add something here, venerable magus, to make you more confident still, even if it has been with great concern that I and my subjects have observed it.” She went to the map of Girdlegard and indicated her own realm. “The water level in the lake is sinking all the time. It’s as if someone had pulled the plug out of a bath tub.”
Rodario and Lot-Ionan exchanged swift glances.
“How much has been lost?” the actor asked. He was aware of a possible reason. The force and weight of water gushing in had foiled the magister’s attempt to complete the tunnel. Somewhere in the western part of the Outer Lands a mighty river must be bringing potential devastation.
“My citizens who live on solid islands report the level has fallen by as much as ten paces. Ports and harbors are having to be resited. In some places the lake waters have shrunk so much that people have to walk a whole day to collect fresh water for their homes.” Queen Wey surveyed the assembly solemnly. “The lake is running dry. Soon, my subjects will be living not on islands but on mountain
peaks soaring a thousand paces up into the sky. It may be good news for you, Lot-Ionan, because access to the magic source will be easier, but my people are distraught. You can’t make farmers out of fishermen.”
“I think I can guess what has caused the water to vanish,” said the magus. He explained his theory. It coincided with Rodario’s ideas. “We could deal with the cause if we collapsed the tunnels. I would prefer to undertake a dive to the bottom of the lake for the magic before I see a water-based country turned to desert laid bare. Weyurn without its lakes is unthinkable. The whole of Girdlegard would suffer: its lakes give rise to our rivers and streams. The consequences would be dire indeed.”
Mallen asked to be allowed to speak. “In the name of the human kingdoms I suggest the dwarves permit our warriors to share guard duties at each of the passes into Girdlegard.” He stood up. “It is only fair that we don’t leave the defense of the whole of Girdlegard up to the dwarves. We too want to make our contribution to our safety and security. It will be our gesture of acknowledgment and thanks for them having stood guard loyally these thousands of cycles, losing thousands of their people in the course of that defense.”
“No,” interrupted Ginsgar. “We’ll have no humans in our mountains. We are carrying out our duties properly on our own. Humans would get in the way. They understand neither our way of life nor our way of thinking and fighting. If there were an attack our soldiers would be hindered by them, not helped.”
“You have no kingdom under you,” Xamtys corrected him. “You have appointed yourself high king, that’s all.” She inclined her head toward Mallen. “As for the firstlings, let me say that humans are welcome to join their efforts to our own. We have suffered too many losses recently and would be grateful for more soldiers to help fill the gaps in our ranks, until our own new recruits are trained up.”
Bylanta and Balendilîn agreed with her, but Glaïmbar and Malbalor refused to cooperate. From the looks exchanged between Ginsgar and Xamtys it seemed the dwarven folks were headed for a massive clash of wills about who should have overall power. Never had their enmity been displayed so openly. In the past they had given outsiders the impression of unity or had formed a common front of silence when disputes occurred.
Mallen expressed his thanks. “Let us discuss numbers tomorrow: how many soldiers the firstlings, secondlings and fourthlings will take.”
The council now moved to the topic of what line to take with the ubariu and the mighty empire in the northeast of the Outer Lands. Against Ginsgar’s will—unsurprisingly—it was decided to invite initial contact, if for no other reason than to tackle the kordrion. The monarchs resolved to leave it in the lap of the gods as to how the relationship developed after that.
As it was already late Bruron closed the meeting. The potentates of Girdlegard were to reconvene in the morning. The kings and queens of the human realms left the hall and the dwarves remained behind to continue negotiations.
Immediately Xamtys slammed her fist down on the table and hissed accusingly at Ginsgar, “How can you dare to appear here as high king?”
“The matter is settled,” he snorted, dismissing her with a smile and gesture.
“You think it is settled. You have a handful of followers, Ginsgar, and they swore loyalty to you when they were high on battle victory. Not more than that.”
“Not in my view.” Glaïmbar spoke. “Ginsgar did what we should have done. Elves or atár, what’s the difference? When the next eoîl turns up, the thirty-seven pointy-ears will go mad and try to found another empire of purity. We’re better off without the elves.” He pushed back his chair and knelt before Ginsgar, proffering his weapon. He bowed his head. “I acknowledge you as my high king, Ginsgar Unforce.”
Malbalor also rose and dropped to one knee, repeating the ceremony.
Xamtys jumped up. “So much hot-headed madness from my own realm is insufferable!” She looked at Glaïmbar. “I can’t think why you are supporting him.” Then she turned her eyes to Malbalor. “You are afraid of losing authority because you are a thirdling. You think you’ll hang on to power and your people will be left in peace if you join the dwarf who calls freelings and thirdlings his enemies.” Her eyes narrowed. “You are both wrong. You have split the dwarf folks with your decision. I will never accept Ginsgar as high king.” She stood up and knelt before Bylanta, to be joined by Balendilìn. “We swear allegiance to you, High Queen Bylanta Slimfinger of the clan of the Silver Beards,” they chorused.
Then the freeling city representatives, Bramdal amongst their number, rose and stood at the side of the fourthling queen. They swore no oath but made their commitment plain.
Ginsgar jerked to his feet. “By Vraccas! Rebellion!” he bellowed, reaching for his battle hammer. Malbalor and Glaïmbar stood stock still. “And you,” he shouted at the freelings, “I’ll have you back with the dwarves as Vraccas decreed. Your realms outside Girdlegard have seen their last days.”
Bramdal gave him a contemptuous look.
“You and your two friends will be responsible for what happens,” said Bylanta somberly. “We can prevent the feud,” she insisted to Malbalor and Glaïmbar, “if you give me your oath of fealty! Avert this rift!”
“They have acknowledged me as their ruler,” thundered Ginsgar. “And I shall not rest until I am high king of all the dwarven folks. It is your fault! You are the traitors for not supporting my claim.”
Bylanta drew back. “It is better if we leave,” she said to the dwarves under her banner. “I pray that Vraccas may instill some sense in you, Ginsgar Unforce.”
“That he has done, as my deeds testify.” He laughed scornfully as they left the hall. “We shall force them to swear allegiance,” he told the two kings, laying his hands on their shoulders. “You will not regret having supported me.” He indicated they should rise.
“I hope you are right.” Glaïmbar was on his feet. “They’ll soon understand that what you have done was the only solution for landur.” He lowered his voice. “It’s just you stopped too soon, high king.”
Ginsgar laughed cruelly and ran his hand over his fire-red beard. “Plenty of time…” he hinted with mirth. “Let us drink to my confirmation as high king.”
Malbalor thanked him but gave his excuses. “I am too tired, Your Majesty. I should be but poor company and I am not in the mood to celebrate a victory that is nothing of the kind.”
“Make no mistake, Malbalor. It will be a great victory and we shan’t have to wait long.” He gave him a friendly tap on the chest. “And then we shall drink together.”
“Yes. Then we shall,” he responded weakly, taking his cup of water as Glaïmbar and Ginsgar led the way.
Malbalor was not happy with this stirring of unrest. Xamtys had seen through his motives immediately. As king of the thirdlings, in joining forces with Ginsgar, he felt he would be gaining security for himself and his folk. He must use the intervening time to prepare for Ginsgar’s endeavors.
If leaders did not soon become more clear-sighted, the feud about the high king’s title would end in internecine strife. It would be the first time dwarves fought each other without the thirdlings being the cause, as had been the case under Lorimbas.
A hazy suspicion rose in his mind. “Vraccas, give us reason or give us Ginsgar’s defeat,” he murmured, downing the contents of his cup. “Save your children.”
Girdlegard,
Gray Mountains,
Realm of the Fifthlings,
Winter, 6241st Solar Cycle
Balyndis was seated in the throne room surrounded by the old fifthling grandeur, and the new fifthling magnificence. She interrupted the talks with the clan elders and opened the letter she had just been handed.
It was from Rodario and contained many pages detailing recent events and in particular how Tungdil had met his end. Even if no one could say with certainty that he had died, the descriptions of the monsters in the Black Abyss made it impossible that he could have survived.
“Dead,” she mouthed
. Tears sprang to her eyes, and the words on the paper became illegible through the mist.
“Queen Balyndis,” one of the dwarves prompted cautiously. “What has happened? Is King Glaïmbar not well?”
“No. No, he is fine.” She forced herself to smile, although her heart was mourning the dwarf she was once linked to with the iron band. She had released him from their union, aware that his soul was restless. It had changed nothing in her feelings toward him.
She had returned to Glaïmbar’s side more or less by default. She had not wanted to go back to her firstling clan and certainly had not wanted to go to the freelings. Glaïmbar’s invitation had reached her at a time when few other options were open. He had accepted her back as his spouse without a word about the past; and for this she truly loved him. It was a different love from the one she had for Tungdil. And would always have.
“Would you like to rest?” one of the dwarves suggested. “Perhaps in your condition…?”
“Indeed,” she said, grateful for the excuse. She got up to leave. “Forgive me. I should go and lie down. We will meet again shortly before sunset.”
The clan leaders bowed and Balyndis walked through the throne room to the door. Her attention was otherwise engaged but she still noticed she was being stared at. Geroïn Leadenring was looking at her with malice; he was the brother of Syndalis Leadenring, the king’s second wife. Glaïmbar had rejected her in favor of Balyndis and this had aroused much ill-feeling.
Balyndis avoided the gaze and hurried through the corridors, past her own chambers and directly into the small forge where she was often to be found creating all manner of items in the little leisure time at her disposal. The furnace was always burning, fed from the Dragon Fire.