The Revenge of the Dwarves (68 page)

The screams and the scent of elf blood were still not enough to cool the raging fury within. “So you are their princess!” With one stride he was close, ducking under the elf woman’s sword lunge and cutting through the tendons at the back of her knees with a swift right-handed swipe. She fell to the ground with a shriek of pain and he stood on her sword hand. “And Liútasil?”

She stared at him, mouthing something.

“Oh no, you’ll put no eoîl curse on me.” His left arm shot forward and he pierced her wrist, causing her to open her fingers so that the diamond rolled away with a clunk to land among the pile of old bones. “You, lady, have caused me more pain than I have ever felt; I shall distribute this pain among all the elves of Girdlegard.” Withdrawing his sword, he rummaged around in the pile of bones until he had located the stone, lifting it up with a triumphant gesture. “It is mine now. As soon as I have learned how to put its powers fully to use I shall bring to your people the annihilation they so narrowly escaped before. Dsôn Balsur may have fallen but you will never be safe from the älfar.”

In the princess’s unwavering turquoise gaze, however, there was no trace of doubt: the blind faith of elves. “The eoîl will protect us. They will return. The symbols in the holy shrines promise…”

“Return? If they do I shall be here to destroy them. But you won’t be around to see it happen, princess.” The unslayable had caught the sounds of approaching footsteps and gruff voices coming from the passage. A second
wave of undergroundlings burst in. His wounds smarted badly and his limbs felt weak now.
Retreat. They are too many
. Pocketing the diamond and sheathing one of his swords, he took the handle of the second in both hands. “And there will be no more elves for the eoîl to find. Not in Girdlegard.”

The blow he dealt Rejalin cut right through her torso, the blade slicing slantwise from shoulder to hip and crunching into the orc skeletons beneath her. He regretted that her end was swift. He would have preferred to torture her until the end of time, using her blood as a constantly renewable source of paint.

Beloved sister
. He knelt by Nagsar Inàste’s head and put out his hand gingerly to touch it… then stopped. He could not look at her features for a final time. The heartache would kill him.

Instead he stroked her long black hair and cut off a hank as a reminder. Then, clutching the lock in his blood-smeared hands, he bounded off into the tunnels as fast as his injuries would permit.

Girdlegard
,

Kingdom of Idoslane
,

The Caves of Toboribor
,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

D
eath was standing right in front of him, in the terrible image of the älfar that had escaped back on the island.

Towering proudly over the recumbent figure, death
clasped a slender spear in one gloved fist while the other arm hung loose. The slim torso was partly naked and partly protected by armor.

The black depths of the eye sockets were trained on the dwarf. “You shall not die, Tungdil Goldhand,” spoke death in friendly tones, bending over him. The long black hair framed a narrow face that was at one and the same time cruel and fascinating. Death’s right hand touched Tungdil’s chest. “I still need you.”

The älfar runes on armor and weapon gave off a greenish glow and a sudden warmth suffused the dwarf’s body. As the icy cold was displaced, his grateful heartbeat grew strong and his ears filled with the sound of rushing blood.

“Nagsor Inàste has escaped with the diamond you were seeking,” death explained in a clear voice. “He will return to the island to reach the tunnel Furgas devised. It was nearly completed before you killed the magister. If Nagsor Inàste can finish the work he can get through to the Outer Lands. And the stone will be lost forever.” Death stood up. “Nagsor Inàste will return with a huge army, greater than anything Girdlegard has ever seen. Neither you nor the orcs will be able to halt its progress.”

Tungdil opened his mouth but could not speak.

Death turned away. “Stop him, Tungdil Goldhand. Stop him and his appalling offspring.” Death stepped into the shadows and disappeared.

Tungdil tried to lift his head but a wave of pain enveloped him; he lost consciousness and fell back on the ground…

O
nce upon a time death came for a dwarf and wanted to carry him off, but the dwarf stood firm on his rock, glowered and refused to go. So death passed him by.”

Tungdil knew this saying from southern Sangpûr and he recognized the voice. He attempted to open his eyes but only the right one responded. The left consisted entirely of pain and refused to obey.

“Do you see? Did you see that?” a different voice rejoiced. “Didn’t I tell you Vraccas would leave us at least one hero to save Girdlegard. Fantastic work, Lot-Ionan. Here’s to your skill!”

Tungdil registered a bright light and blinked; he could see Rodario, Sirka and Lot-Ionan. “Where am I?” he croaked, raising his hand to touch his left eye.

The magus stopped him. “No, Tungdil, don’t.”

“An arrow,” said Rodario, showing the item in question with blood still sticking to it. “We had to pull it out. Lot-Ionan turned up just in time to save your life. May the gods be thanked that they allowed you to live.”

“But I could not save the sight of that eye,” Lot-Ionan added regretfully.

Memory returned and Tungdil struggled up with the help of his friend. He had a bandage over one eye and half of his face.

“Be careful now,” Sirka warned him. “You’ve only just come back from a meeting with your maker.”

Around him in the cavern around a hundred dwarves were seeing to their wounded. “How are Ireheart and Goda?” he asked, leaning on Sirka’s arm.

“We’ve taken them to the nearest camp,” Rodario told him.

“That’s not what I asked! How are they?”

“They are alive. Goda’s injuries are not life-threatening but our hot-blooded friend is in a bad way. Your healers say it will be a few orbits before they know whether or not he’ll make it.” Rodario had lost his jocularity. “I’d never have thought the elves would do this.”

As Tungdil clenched his fists in anger he noticed the dried blood on his hands and clothing. It could not all be his own? “Not the elves,” he corrected. “It’s the atár. Esdalân has nothing to do with all this.” He caught sight of the remains of the älfar woman lying like garbage at the side of the altar, her head a good two paces off, with the long black hair obscuring her features.

Sirka followed his gaze. “That’s elf handiwork; they did that presumably before they made the acquaintance of the second unslayable.” She pointed to where the elf corpses lay soaking in their own blood.

Amongst the dead, all dispatched by the same murderous sword, lay the body of Rejalin. The diamond had been of no help to her.

“We’ve blocked off all the exits, but…”

Tungdil waved a hand dismissively. “Waste of time. He is on his way to Weyurn with his remaining offspring.”

“The source? What does he need the magic source for if he’s got the diamond?” Rodario wondered. “On the other hand, if he runs away from us he won’t have the right spell to release its power.”

Tungdil looked around for Keenfire: his specially forged
ax was missing. The others had no idea what had happened to it. He assumed the unslayable had taken it, because death had left empty-handed. Now he had two reasons for hunting down the unslayable.

“I know why Fur… the thirdlings started to tunnel into the Outer Lands,” he told them, swallowing the name of the magister because he still did not believe Bandilor’s version. It could not be Furgas behind the whole ghastly plan. “They want to make a way through so that Tion’s hordes can overrun Girdlegard. The tunnel must be nearly finished.”

The others stared at him. This was the first they had heard of it. They looked hurt and surprised that he had kept it to himself.

“Bandilor told me during the fight,” he explained. “I didn’t think the tunnel was as important as the diamond.”

“And how do you know the unslayable is heading there?” Rodario stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I don’t want to pour cold water on the notion. I’m just surprised. Did he tell you before he left?”

“Yes,” he lied. “The unslayable told me because he thought I was done for. He wanted me to die in despair.” He looked at them determinedly. “He’s on his way there. We’ve got to catch up with him before the elves find out and arrive in hot pursuit.” Crusted elf blood flaked off his fingers as he moved them. He would have loved to get into a tub of warm water to rid himself of such filth.

“The elves have got other worries.” Lot-Ionan signaled for a pony-drawn wagon. It would save them a long foot-slog underground, meaning they should reach the surface
is about half an orbit. “We heard that the two elf missions Rejalin sent to Toboribor were ambushed and killed.”

“Was it the ubariu?”

“No. Your lot,” Rodario said without reproach. “One Ginsgar Unforce of the firstlings felt it incumbent on him to avenge the high king’s death. He’s marching on Âlandur. And apparently volunteers from the dwarf realms are swarming to his banner like flies. The atár will reap the storm they’ve sown.”

They took their seats on the cart and the long journey up to the cave entrance began.

“I’m not joking, Tungdil. If you don’t watch out and old Ginsgar is successful you’ll have a new high king without a by your leave from your noble Xamtys and the other dwarf high and mighties. It won’t come to a vote at all.” Rodario waited for a reply.

Lot-Ionan nodded. “Just what I was thinking. And we don’t want the dwarves led by a high king who’s set on war. Who knows, perhaps he’ll attack the freelings you were telling me about. Or the thirdlings?”

This was all too much for Tungdil. His eye—or what was left of it—was giving him acute pain, his best friend was fighting for his life, the diamond was lost and he had forfeited the magic ax. And now there’s war with Âlandur—

“Be quiet, all of you,” Sirka demanded. She had read his expression. “He needs rest. Let him sleep.” She offered her lap as a pillow.

Exhausted, he laid his head on her knee, wishing fervently that when he woke up everything could be like before.

But Vraccas was not going to do him that favor. The wheel of time could not be halted and reversed.

When he woke up they were in the open and it was late afternoon. Autumn was near but the sun was giving up the last of its warmth as if there were no tomorrow.

Tungdil felt rested enough to visit Ireheart’s sickbed and found Goda there, red-eyed and anxious, at her mentor’s side, fingernails dug into her palms.

Tungdil needed no more evidence of Boïndil’s parlous state of health or the strength of the thirdling’s attachment.

The sight of his seriously injured comrade brought back the memory of the death of Boëndal, the twin brother. “May great Vraccas be magnanimous toward your hero here,” he intoned, putting his hand on Goda’s shoulder. “Goda, excuse all my harsh words and forgive me for not trusting you. I have no doubts now about your sincerity.”

She raised her head and burst into tears. “I’m so afraid he’ll die,” she wept. “Isn’t it crazy? I came to kill him to avenge Sanda’s honor.” She gave a sob and the feelings she had been concealing got the better of her. “Now he is near the death I so often wished on him. And it’s my worst nightmare.” Shyly she took hold of Ireheart’s hand and bowed her head again.

Tungdil quickly wiped away his own tears. “Vraccas will not take him yet.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I saw death itself back there in the caves. He spoke to me and never mentioned summoning Ireheart.”

She gave a faint smile. “Thank you. So you’re not really surprised?”

“No. Balyndis told me what you two had talked about. I
never thought you capable of treacherously killing either one of us.” He turned around to go. “I was worried about maintaining secrecy. I was wrong, I can see that now.” He pointed to the injured dwarf. “When he wakes up, Sirka, Rodario, Lot-Ionan and I will all have left. You stay here with him. Mind he stays in bed and tell him I shall be needing him when I go campaigning in the Outer Lands.” He saw the shock in her face, and smiled reassuringly. “Only as an escort and for company on the way. I don’t want to deprive you of him forever. One last journey, that’s all. He more than anyone deserves to be with a loving companion.” He went out quickly.

Goda laid her forehead on Ireheart’s hand, closed her eyes and prayed to Vraccas. She had only ever once before asked her god so fervently for anything: the death of Sanda Flameheart’s killer.

“Tell me, Vraccas, what you want of me in exchange for the life of your hero Boïndil?” she whispered unhappily. “I don’t want him to die. Do you hear me, Creator of all Dwarves? Preserve his life and take mine instead.”

“Vraccas had better not,” grunted Ireheart softly. He pressed her hand. “You make sure you stay alive.”

Goda’s eyes shot open and she suppressed a gasp of delight. “Master!” she whispered ecstatically. The next moment she was wondering how long he had been conscious. She blushed and pulled her hand away, but he would not let go.

“So you came to kill me?” he asked; weakness forced him to speak slowly and carefully. Goda sobbed. “No, don’t cry… I understand why. And believe me, there were
times when I toyed with the thought of doing away with myself.” He swallowed hard. “Vraccas knows how many nights I’ve lain awake regretting Sanda’s death. I killed a magnificent dwarf. Like I had done once before.” Ireheart forced himself to describe the painful events. There should be no more secrets from her. “Her name was Smeralda; she was a little younger than you. We were very fond of each other but our love ended harshly. I killed her in the heat of battle at the High Gate. I did not know what I was doing.” Tears flowed. “I mistook her for one of the enemy…” He collected himself and paused. When his voice was steady again he sighed, “I thought I would never find love again after that. Until you came. I know we cannot be together, Goda. Killing your kinswoman is too great a barrier.”