“It’s a good thing I’m here,” joked Ireheart. “If I hadn’t checked for underground passages we’d all have had to shin down that precipice on a bit of string. I’m a brainy dwarf, of course.”
“If you say so. They’re heading east,” stated Balyndar. A thin layer of ice had formed on his mantle; every time he moved there was a rustling sound. “If they keep on in this direction they’ll come to the Red Mountains. The path dates from old times, when the fast tunnels had been forgotten. The track hasn’t been maintained properly by the tribes and it’s sure to be hard going. More a climb than a walk.”
Ireheart had another new idea. “If they’re planning to take the kordrion’s young off to Lohasbrand… perhaps it’s a bunch of mini orcs we’re on the trail of? The Dragon’s bred them specially small so they can use our tunnels and narrow mountain paths? The long-uns, of course, used to breed tiny dogs for going down badger setts and foxholes. Why shouldn’t it work with orcs?”
“It’s worrying, the things you come up with sometimes,” said Balyndar, surveying the plain. “What would the Dragon want with the cocoons?”
“How should I know? To break the kordrion’s will and enforce his loyalty?”
The fifthling tutted, not even bothering to respond to that. “If we head out across the plain the enemy will be able to see us coming. Shall we hug the cliffs?”
“We’ve not a grain in the hour-glass to lose. Straight across,” ordered Tungdil, setting off. Ireheart followed him at once. “What about my theory, Scholar?” he urged, with the eagerness of a young child. “Seems obvious to me.”
“Possible but not probable,” replied Tungdil. “Perhaps the firstlings had the same idea as us and sent out a scouting party.”
“Playing the monsters off against each other to free themselves from the Dragon’s clutches and destroy the kordrion, who’ll have been weakened from the fighting?” Ireheart had a good long think. “Could be. But it’s pretty odd they’re putting the idea into practice at the same time as us.” The more he considered it, the less he liked his own theory. “Nonsense. They would have gone to see Balyndis and asked for permission and support for the expedition. That’s what you do if you’re on someone else’s territory.”
Suddenly Tungdil stood stock still. “Ireheart, Balyndar, Slîn,” he whispered. “Come with me. The rest of you keep going to the other side of the plain and wait for our signal.” He hurried off, bent low, going toward a cleft in the rocks that Ireheart and the others hadn’t noticed.
“It’s a bit of a miracle the way he finds things,” said Slîn. “I wouldn’t have seen that till I’d walked into it.”
“Vraccas has a soft spot for our Scholar,” laughed Boïndil. “It’s always been like that as long as I’ve known him.” Nothing’s changed.
The little band stepped cautiously into the cleft in the rock; it was dark but the air smelled fresh, not stale.
“A tunnel,” whispered Boïndil.
“They probably won’t have come upon it purely by chance. Whoever destroyed the nest and stole the cocoons—it’s been a long time in the planning.” Tungdil led them along a sloping passage. They found crudely hewn steps leading further down.
From below they heard muffled voices.
“We’ve got them,” whispered Ireheart, full of anticipation. “Let me go in first, Scholar! I’ll finish them all off! No one will escape me in these narrow…”
“Pull yourself together,” hissed Tungdil.
“Go on, let him,” said Slîn softly. “It’s fine with me…”
At that very moment the kordrion’s screeching roar was heard outside! Wind shot through the tunnel, leaving them standing in whirling snowflakes.
Boïndil shuddered and remained motionless for a second before coming to his senses. He thought at once of the others in his party, who would be left facing the kordrion on the plain. “May Vraccas be with them!” he prayed. “Let them find shelter before it gets to them. We need every man jack of them if we are to free Girdlegard.” He was about to put in his wax earplugs and go over to Tungdil, but his friend was already heading down the steps. There was no time to give support or employ caution. The kordrion young had priority.
The steps were old, crumbling away in places under their feet. Slîn lost his balance and was only saved by Balyndar’s presence of mind; otherwise he would have tumbled head first down the stairs.
“Shouldn’t we go back to help the others,” asked the fifthling. “They’ll be killed…”
“And so will we if we move out into the open without the cocoon,” interjected Tungdil. “And anyway, to the kordrion Ireheart smells like his offspring’s murderer. We’re no use if we fall in battle—the only ones to benefit would be our enemies. They will have to look to their own devices.”
Finally they reached the ground level and the passage became wider. They fanned out, with Tungdil and Ireheart in the first row, followed by Balyndar and Slîn.
“This leads due east,” said Ireheart. “Our forefathers will have made the tunnel because they knew the high passes would not always be free.”
Tungdil stopped abruptly and Slîn cannoned into him.
A loud and furious laugh swept through the passage. “They’re sending out their heroes as if they had dozens more where they come from,” came a deep voice. “The dwarf world will be hit hard by the loss. What will the tribes do without their figureheads and famous icons of bravery? Will the others emigrate? Commit suicide?”
Slîn bent and quickly lit two torches he had taken from his rucksack; he kept one and handed the other to Balyndar.
“Come out of the dark and I’ll clobber your big mouth for you,” Ireheart bellowed in rage. “Are you a coward?”
“No. I am someone who likes the dark and knows it is his ally,” the speaker replied. “Why should I step into the light? You come over here!”
“Is there something wrong with your voice? You sound like a girl,” shouted Ireheart. He tried to challenge the stranger. “Did a gugul bite off your manhood?” An insult like that and his own combat fire would certainly have flared up.
“Why are you following us? Are the dwarves now worshippers of the kordrion and want to return his offspring to him?”
“We demand you give us the cocoon you stole,” answered Tungdil, motioning Boïndil to desist from his next vocal onslaught. But I’d just made up such a good new insult, thought the latter, ruefully. Ah well, I’ll just have to save it for another occasion.
“Too late,” said the voice in the darkness. “We’ve got it, we need it and we won’t give it up.”
“Then we’ll come and take it!” Tungdil drew Bloodthirster. “There’s only ten of you. And even though your footprints tell me you belong to our race we shall not spare you.”
Silence ensued.
“We’re not dwarves,” said another voice just behind them, a voice out of the dark as deep as the grave. “Not anymore.”
Why can’t I see them? Boïndil stared intently into the blackness until he thought he could make out a shape. Then, as if from nowhere, appeared the form of a warrior; he was the size of a dwarf, in the same armor as the dwarf-hater they had come across in the Outer Lands. It was as if the passage itself had given birth to him; his helmet was closed and in his right hand he held a tionium spear with a long, pointed end.
“That’s an älf’s weapon,” growled Ireheart, pushing in front of Slîn. “It goes with the runes on your armor, you traitor! The thirdlings have gone too far. They can’t be allowed to rule.”
The dwarf came to a halt two paces away.
Slîn was aiming the crossbow at him, Balyndar covered the rest of the passage, and Tungdil rested his own weapon against his shoulder. Nothing in Tungdil’s demeanor showed he felt fear, although both he and his companions knew themselves to be surrounded.
“You didn’t listen to what I said, Boïndil Doubleblade,” said the stranger, lifting his visor. “We’re no longer dwarves.” Ireheart inhaled sharply. At first he tho
ught the dwarf had no face, but then he realized the blackness was the dye used for his beard. “You still look like one to me,” he responded. “Right, are you going to hand over the cocoon?”
The stranger laughed, pleasantly now. “I’ve stepped into your light, so you should reciprocate and come into the dark.” He lifted his left hand and clenched his fist.
The torchlight suddenly went out, leaving only a dull red glow.
“Älfar tricks,” Ireheart spat out, caught by surprise. “Vraccas, strike them with your hammer. The skirt-wearers have betrayed your creation.”
There was a loud click when Slîn fired the crossbow. The sound of splintering wood told them his bolt had missed its target.
“We can see you as clearly as if you stood in the full light of day,” the dwarf said to them. “When your torches light up again, don’t move, or we’ll kill you.”
The torches flared up.
Ireheart cursed. He was flanked by two dwarves in black armor and the blade of a curved dagger was at his throat; another knife hovered by his eye. Again, he had neither heard his adversaries approach nor noticed a current of air. “May Vraccas toss you in his furnace and burn your treacherous souls,” he said contemptuously. He couldn’t see what effect his words had; the visor was still shut.
Tungdil was surrounded by three of the armored foe and saw spears aiming at him. No one was trying to get very close.
“I’ll ask you again: What do you want the embryo for?” Their leader had not moved. “To stuff it up your arse,” was Ireheart’s venomous reply. “Leave me enough room for my crow’s beak and I’ll make you a bigger hole.”
“Truth would be appropriate at this stage,” said Tungdil surprisingly. “Because I hope we can come to an agreement. Meeting dwarves—beings like yourselves here and with the booty that was to be ours—makes me hopeful that the gods intended this.” He looked at the spear points that threatened his face, throat and groin. “We wanted to steal the offspring of the kordrion and bring them to Lot-Ionan, to provoke the monster to attack the magus. Then a dwarf-army would have set out to destroy the sorcerer, who would have been weakened by then.” He studied the leader. “You are heading east. I don’t see any Dragon emblems on you, so you don’t belong to Lohasbrand. I expect you had a similar plan to our own. You wanted to drive the kordrion to attack the Dragon and then to take on the victor in battle. Am I right?”
Their leader gave a smile of acknowledgment and nodded. “You are indeed, Tungdil Goldhand.”
“Who are you working for? For the älfar? Do they want to take over the west and north of Girdlegard like they did in the east?” Tungdil remained as calm as a rock, as if it were he who had the upper hand.
“That’s none of your business. But I have a suggestion to make to you.”
“Keep your suggestions,” growled Ireheart, wondering in which order he should attack his guards. He worked out a strategy that would free him. By Vraccas! You traitors will see what a warrior like me is made of.
“Go ahead. Anything that prevents unnecessary bloodshed will be accepted gladly,” replied Tungdil. Astonished and indignant, Ireheart heard his friend giving in. “But not by me, Scholar!” he contradicted. “These are our deadly enemies! Murderers and traitors because they’re with the älfar…”
Tungdil’s gaze silenced him. He looked round at the others, but Slîn was shuffling his feet and Balyndar was chewing his own cheek. Nobody spoke up in support.
The spears were withdrawn and Tungdil went a few paces further into the passage to discuss things. Away from his party.
Ireheart caught the words of the first few sentences the two exchanged but did not understand the content. The sound was familiar but it took him some time before his mind registered what his heart had rejected as a possibility. They were speaking the älfar tongue! The very last thing you’d expect.
“Charming,” said Slîn, annoyed. “Our high king goes over to talk to dwarves who don’t want to be dwarves, thinking instead that they are really vertically challenged älfar.” He turned to look at his captors. “Might we learn what you call yourselves?” No answer was forthcoming.
Balyndar uttered a curse. “What shall we do, Boïndil?”
“How should I know? I’m a warrior, not a thinker.” Ireheart’s muscles tensed almost imperceptibly—but the blade at his throat was pressed closer. His guards were on the ball. “Yes, all right, all right. I won’t move,” he said to appease them. He watched Tungdil and the other dwarf talking.
After a long time—to Ireheart it seemed endless—Tungdil and the leader returned.
At a signal from the stranger the guards lowered their weapons and moved behind their commander; Tungdil came to Ireheart’s side.
“We have won ourselves some new friends,” he announced, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “If you would care to introduce yourself to my companions?” he suggested, replacing Bloodthirster in its sheath.
The dwarf nodded. “I am Barskalín, the sytràp of the Zhadár. The Zhadár is an älfar word that means The Invisible Ones. Sytràp just means commander.” His left arm described a semicircle. “These are my ten best Zhadár and the rest are waiting at a secret place for our return. To explain why we’re here, I’ll need to go into more detail.”
“There’s no time for that! What about our companions out there on the plain?” said Ireheart sharply. “We have to help them against the kordrion!” With an angry glance at Tungdil he added, “Maybe our new friends could give us a hand and show us what they’re worth.”
Barskalín shook his head. “They are dead, Boïndil. The kordrion wiped them out. One of my invisible Zhadár placed at the cave entrance told me that before I showed myself to you. It was wise of you to follow us into the tunnel.”
Balyndar gasped. “Dead?”
“The kordrion caught them on the plain. How could they have escaped his white fire?” Barskalín nodded down the passage. “We should talk about it later and put a few miles between us and the beast for now. It will follow our scent.”
Ireheart looked first at Slîn and Balyndar, and then at Tungdil. “And where do we go now?”
He had been thinking the Scholar would answer, but it was the sytràp who said, “To the south, to the Red Mountains.” How did the Scholar do that? Ireheart had not expected this, and to judge by the astounded faces of Slîn and Balyndar, they had not reckoned with it either. But he felt no relief.
Nor was he relieved when they were shown something he assumed to be the cocoon, which the Zhadár had hidden under a thick pile of warm furs and dragged along the passage on a shield on rollers.
Girdlegard,
Dwarf Realm of the Fifthlings,
In the North of the Gray Range of Mountains,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
Indistinguishable one from another and vaguely ominous in their identical armor, the Zhadár marched swiftly in the company of the surviving members of the fourthling and fifthling band. They had fastened the cocoon and their equipment and provisions onto a shield and were pulling it along.
“How did you talk them into cooperating, Scholar?” asked Boïndil as they went.
“We’ll have to keep an eye on them,” Balyndar chipped in. “And more important still—what do they want in exchange?”
Slîn looked round. “I shan’t be able to sleep, I can feel it in my bones. Not one of them has shown us his face. Except for Barskalín.”
“You’ll be told next time we stop. It’s better if you hear it from him,” Tungdil placated them, then moved on quickly to catch up with the commander. “They’re chatting again. Like old friends.” Slîn nudged Balyndar and pointed toward Tungdil’s back, indicating a particular rune. “The Zhadár have got the same one on their armor,” he mouthed. “You know what? I bet it’s no coincidence that we’ve teamed up. The plan about the nest was Tungdil’s—perhaps these are his warriors and are just pretending to be… Zhadár?”
“Maybe you’re right,” s
aid the fifthling pensively.
“Stop that nonsense!” commanded Ireheart in the uncomfortable knowledge that he could not tell them what to do.
Balyndar looked at him disapprovingly. “You keep changing your ideas, Boïndil Doubleblade. One minute you’re on his side, then you start to wobble, then you change your mind again.” He stuck his hands in his belt. “You’ll have to come to a decision. When it’s all over.”
Ireheart was angry. “We’ve got a job to do and we’ll do it, and it doesn’t matter who helps us as long as it serves Girdlegard,” he said, avoiding the issue. “There have been losses. Now we have new soldiers and we have the kordrion’s young.”
“He’s right,” said Slîn. “We’re better off like this than being a pile of ash out on the plain. Or devoured by the monster.” He fell silent.
When they came to a cave with a water source, Tungdil signaled to the company to halt and Barskalín complied.
“It’s pretty clear which of them gives the orders,” commented Ireheart, bursting with curiosity. He, Slîn and Balyndar settled down away from the Zhadár to eat. I want to know what the story is with these Zhadár. Vraccas can’t be giving his blessing to this. He glanced at his friend, who was talking to the sytràp. They were studying a map that they had unrolled and spread out, each running their fingers over the lines. Eventually they seemed to have finished and came over.
Barskalín sat down on a boulder. “I owe you an explanation about myself and the Zhadár,” he began. He released his helmet strap, revealing a shaved skull dyed black. “As I was saying: We used to be thirdlings. Each of us is more than four hundred cycles old and we’re all excellent warriors. When Aiphatòn and his southern älfar marched in and it became clear no one could stop them, our king suggested a pact. To our astonishment they agreed.” His gaze wandered over the dwarf-faces. “After about twenty cycles the Dsôn Aklán made us an offer: They were looking for volunteers to train up and learn certain crafts. In exchange it was arranged that this particular unit would eliminate all the dwarf-tribes of Girdlegard.”