The Revenge of the Dwarves (47 page)

“I swear this on the blade of Keenfire.”

The undergroundling with no name nodded to his leader encouragingly and finally Sûndalon agreed. “We shall accompany you, Tungdil Goldhand.” He stood up. “But
we would have got into the fortress,” he said with a smile of utter conviction.

Girdlegard
,

Kingdom of Gauragar
,

Porista
,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T
ungdil, Boïndil, Goda, the fifthling contingent and the undergroundlings did not have to go all the way to Paland.

In Porista the royal banners of the human realms stirred in the breeze above the city walls indicating that the mighty rulers of Girdlegard were once more assembled. And the banners were flying at half mast.

The dwarves marched through a town that was eerily quiet. The atmosphere in the streets was muted from oppression and fear, with any pleasures or delights smothered. On the way to the assembly tent they heard what had happened in Paland and how the defense force had been destroyed.

When Tungdil, Ireheart and Sûndalon entered the royal marquee in the early part of the afternoon, humans, dwarves and elves were debating what they should do next. Goda waited outside, as always.

Prince Mallen’s seat was empty and on the throne-like chair that had once been Liútasil’s Tungdil saw an elf-woman in white robes and bearing the insignia of a sovereign. In her long pale hair costly gems were set; the bright gaze of her blue-green eyes scanned the newcomers. A successor
to Liútasil had been found and she surpassed all others here in her beauty and her presence. She was introduced to him as Princess Rejalin. Tungdil immediately thought of the eoîl.

King Bruron received the dwarves with a half-hearted smile and looked in surprise at the beardless dwarf who was taller than Tungdil by a hand’s breadth. “You will have heard about Paland?”

Tungdil nodded and bowed to the other rulers. “I was shocked to hear the news. So now there is only one diamond in Girdlegard. And nobody knows where it is.”

“One?” said Isika, deep foreboding in her voice. With her black hair and lined face she presented a dark contrast to Rejalin. The robe of the elf princess made her own sumptuous attire seem inferior. “Were you routed by these beasts as well?”

“No, I was defeated by Sûndalon.” Rejalin stepped to one side to let the undergroundling be seen. “He comes from the Outer Lands, from a town at the foot of the mountain range. And he is on a quest to regain what belongs to them. Listen to his story.”

And Sûndalon told them, as previously agreed with Tungdil, about the artifact whose power had stopped up the evil chasm. He told them how the eoîl had stolen it, without mentioning that this eoîl was a broka—an elf-woman. “We couldn’t tell anyone. We feared there would be long-drawn-out negotiations, even though it rightfully belongs to us. We also feared the monsters would hear about the missing artifact.” He stepped up to the table and spread out the fragments of the gemstone copies. The rulers
looked despondently at the shimmering pile of crystalline remains.

“Either the beasts already have the real diamond or the one that’s got lost is the one with the incomparable magic power.” Tungdil’s voice broke the silence. “I think the beasts have long been in possession of the one that’s disappeared.” He turned to address the kings and queens. “We must put all our efforts now into getting it back. Two reasons: It must not be allowed to serve the sinister purposes of the unslayables and its power must be used to permanently seal up the evil ravine. Otherwise Girdlegard will not be safe.”

Rejalin turned her head to one side and observed Sûndalon. “You formed an alliance with the orcs to get the stone back. Is that correct?”

Sûndalon wrinkled his face in distaste. “I would never fight side by side with those creatures. The ubariu are honorable and are sworn enemies of the orcs. They are our brothers; our races were both created by the god Ubar.”

“They are like the orcs apart from the tusks, aren’t they?” Rejalin smiled. For that smile men would worship her as a goddess.

It had no effect on Sûndalon. “They are taller in stature than orcs. Their eyes are the red of the rising sun and their philosophy is a thousand times better than that of a broka,” he retorted sharply. “If you regard them as your enemy you must take us as enemies also.”

“Strange,” said the elf-woman thoughtfully. “And what are… broka?”

“They are like you, but corrupt and false. They pretend to be benign and wise and keen to befriend all other folk. In reality they are trying to spread their own ideas. With no thought for others. They must be eliminated.”

Sûndalon had spoken in dark tones. He was finding it hard to restrain himself.

“He means the älfar,” Tungdil came to his aid. “We cannot judge by appearances, Princess Rejalin. Your people know that only too well.”

She dropped her penetrating gaze. “I ask your pardon, Sûndalon. I did not want to offend.”

“This is not good news that you bring us, Tungdil Goldhand,” sighed King Bruron. “It will be best if you set off for Idoslane straightaway with Keenfire in your hand. Prince Mallen is laying siege to the caves of Toboribor. We think the monsters are hiding their prize there. It will be extremely dangerous to fight these monsters without a magus at your side. We have been shown that superior numbers are no threat for them.” He contemplated the wonderful engravings on the head of Tungdil’s ax. “Only Keenfire will be able to withstand attacks from the sorcery of the unslayables and their allies.”

“As soon as the sun rises, I’ll be on my way,” nodded Tungdil.

A messenger hurried into the marquee, stepped up to Bruron and whispered to him. Tungdil feared that their planned daybreak departure would already be too late.

“We have a delegation wishing to bring us news,” said the king, turning to the doorway. “Send them both in.”

The curtains parted with a theatrical flourish and in
stepped Rodario, in flamboyant robes as magnificent as any worn by the assembled monarchs. “My respects to you all, mighty sovereigns of Girdlegard, you humans, dwarves and elves, one and all.” He made a deep bow.

Tungdil was delighted to see his friend. This type of grand entrance was typical. For Rodario it was in fact quite restrained. No drums, no fanfare, no herald?

The kings and queens watched the dramatic approach of the new arrival with amazement, but limited their reactions to an amused raised eyebrow here, an expression of slight disapproval there.

“Wherever heroes are gathered and history is written, I must also be to hand. For who else would take true note and show events on the stage to future generations, if not myself?” Rodario granted the company the benefit of his dazzling smile.

“What ho! Lock up your women! The Fabulous Rodario has returned!” grinned Boïndil.

Rodario smiled and stroked his elegant beard—shorter now than Tungdil recalled. “I have not come on my own, Your Gracious Majesties. I bring you a man who is able to answer many of the open questions puzzling Girdlegard.” He gestured to the door with his cane.

A moment later a man appeared. His short black hair and his thin moustache gave him a fleeting resemblance to Furgas, except for how old he looked. He was wearing a simple pair of breeches, a shirt over them, boots and a cloak. His clothing all seemed too big for him and flapped around his shrunken body.

“I have come to…” he whispered and threw Rodario an
uncertain look. “I have come to atone for my deeds. I cannot ask forgiveness for what I have done.”

“By Vraccas! It really is Furgas,” Boïndil said, horrified. He had recognized the magister technicus only by his voice. “Rodario the Incredible has incredibly managed to dig him out.”

“No, I did not dig him out, but freed him, good friend Boïndil Doubleblade. On my own. Freed him from the clutches of thirdlings known as Bandilor and Veltaga, who have made their home on an island that they can submerge or bring up to the surface as they choose. In the middle of Weyurn’s waters.” The actor used every rhetorical trick in his repertoire as he described the meeting with Furgas. His narrative arts were such that the entire audience hung on his every word. “Finally we swam the five miles through the wild waters and arrived at Mifurdania. From thence we journeyed with the traveling
Curiosum
outfit to reach Porista,” he told them, concluding his tale. “So we have found the culprits who send out death devices to hound the dwarf peoples.”

“Masterly, indeed, Rodario,” said Isika graciously. “Magister Furgas. What deeds were you speaking of? Why did you say forgiveness could not be sought?”

“Because not only did I construct the island for Bandilor and Veltaga. I built the machines as well,” he whispered. He repeated the account he had given to Rodario. “Through my actions countless dwarves have lost their lives. It is my fault. More will die. The next device is on its way.” He asked for a glass of water. “You must pronounce sentence on me. I will accept any punishment.”

The marquee buzzed.

Tungdil went over to Gandogar to ask for clemency for Furgas.

The high king bent forward. “Do not worry. I am not seeking his life,” he said quietly. Then, raising his voice: “We shall not hold you responsible, magister technicus. Your genius and your injured soul were both abused by the dwarf-haters. Our revenge shall be against
them
, not you. You were their tool; they used you for their malign plans. But we shall never forget the countless victims. We demand of you that you do everything in your power to stop further dread events. For now you have our understanding. Do not disappoint us.”

“You see? Like I said: they can tell the difference. Now be brave and tell them everything,” Rodario said gently, brushing over Gandogar’s threat. “They won’t hurt you.”

Furgas sobbed. “I… built the machines,” he repeated, in despair.

“We have pardoned you,” repeated Gandogar.

“No, there are
more machines
, though.” He told the story through his tears of the malformed hybrid creatures he had adapted, constructed with his own hands. The kings and queens sat thunderstruck. They listened, horrified and enthralled at one and the same time. It defied imagination. “I am to blame that they are rampaging through Girdlegard, killing, maiming and bringing destruction.”

Tungdil watched the elf princess. Apart from himself she was the only one whose countenance was not a mask of disgust and fascination. On the contrary, she seemed glad.
She was assuming, as was he, that she now understood the significance of the pit at the bottom of Weyurn’s lake. She turned her head abruptly and looked him in the eyes. He felt she could read his thoughts. “Let us look on the bright side of Master Furgas’s report: it means there is a new magic source in Girdlegard.” Rejalin’s voice rang out clear and true. “And it seems the unslayables do not know where it is. Those two thirdlings will be clever enough to keep it hidden from them, so that they can hold sway over them and keep them dependent.”

“Of course.” Tungdil understood at once what she meant. “The magi of Girdlegard left nothing to chance when selecting their own prime locations. They chose to be within the magic force fields: their power source. When the magi left the fields they would find their magic diminished after a few spells,” he explained. “Andôkai the Tempestuous and my own foster-father Lot-Ionan once told me how it all worked. Only by using the power of the magic source were they able to perform their incredible feats with words, gestures and immense concentration.” He stopped to catch his breath. “I assume these machine monsters function by the same principle. They will have to reload with the magic, never mind what complicated mechanics they employ.”

Gandogar slammed his fist down on the table. “At last! A weak point!” he exclaimed with relief. “Magister Furgas! Where exactly is this source?”

Furgas shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Somewhere at the bottom of Weyurn’s lake.”

“You’ve no idea? A clue? Some island in the vicinity?”
Isika gave an agonized groan. “By Palandiell, get thinking, man! It’s you we have to thank for this whole ghastly plague!”

“Most of my islands float, Queen Isika,” Queen Wey came to his rescue. “Even if he had noted one of them it wouldn’t help us.”

“Then,” said Tungdil Goldhand slowly, “we must bring up the island together with its thirdlings and just ask them.”

“We’ll be with you there.” Gandogar grinned. “For a cause such as this even dwarves shall take to water and defy the curse of Elria.” He looked at Queen Wey. “This is a matter for our folk, Your Majesty. I shall send you a contingent of my best warriors, dwarves of untarnished reputation without the slightest shred of a thirdling connection. They will be glad to fill the gaps in the ranks of your own army to make good the losses sustained in the Paland massacre. The island of the thirdlings will be taken by storm. And the magic source will be protected.”

Queen Wey inclined her head in agreement.

“I suggest we retire now and convene again in the morning for the last time. Then the groups will leave and do what has to be done,” announced King Bruron. “At long last we have an opportunity to do something about the dire threats that paralyze our native land. Palandiell will protect us.”

“May I help alleviate the shock and worry?” offered Rodario, bowing deeply. “I invite the mighty rulers this evening to attend an exclusive premiere performance in the
Curiosum
. The production is an exquisite comedy which
should restore some laughter into these serious times. If we lose the ability to laugh, we have lost everything.”