The Fate of the Dwarves

IX

Girdlegard,

Northeast of the Brown Mountains,

In the Realm of the Fourthlings,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

Ireheart and Tungdil made their way to the outlying fortress, Silverfast, built to protect Girdlegard against threats from the northeast.

The stronghold had been reinforced with basalt stone by the fourthlings two hundred and eleven cycles previously because it had to serve as the primary barrier should the beasts from the Black Abyss ever encroach on this territory.

The tall walls and watchtowers with their topping of snow blocked the view of the yet more imposing second line of defense: The fortress Goldfast. These two strongholds were intended to repel any invaders and deny them access to the Brown Range of mountains.

Looking at the blocks of stone, Ireheart could easily tell they had been cut by dwarf-hands, but the fourthlings had not been granted the same skill as masons that Vraccas had given to his own race. The fourthlings were masters in the art of working with precious metals.

The ponies and the befún curved round to face the glittering white plain—a plain that years earlier had been overrun first by orcs and then, immediately afterwards, by the acronta.

Ireheart was familiar with the epic stories about the battle but had not been there himself. “I can imagine how it happened. It must have been quite a fight; just my kind of thing!” he said. As he spoke, his breath formed a white cloud. “The pig-faced orcs, ogres and trolls would have hurled themselves at those walls and started to climb.” He pointed to the right. “Over there the original watchtower collapsed under the constant catapult fire, killing hundreds of beasts.” He sighed. “And then they got closer and closer, stormed up the ladders and were about to swarm through the gem-cutters’ corridors, but…” he paused and looked at Tungdil, “… but then they appeared!”

Tungdil was listening but gave no sign that he knew how the story went.

“The monsters had nearly overwhelmed the fourthlings when the acronta rolled in over the plain and hunted down the orcs as if for sport, like a dog might chase a cat.” He laughed and slapped his thigh. “What wouldn’t I have given to have seen that and to have fought at their side!”

“Didn’t the acronta eat the orcs afterwards?”

“Oh, yes, they did. Do you remember Djern, Andôkai’s bodyguard—Andôkai the Tempestuous?” Boïndil looked at the walls, which had been repaired two hundred and fifty cycles ago, twice as thick as before, even though in truth the more dangerous enemies lay to the south of the dwarf realm. But in those times there had been no way of knowing that.

Two flags flew on the highest towers: One for the kingdom of the fourthlings and one for the union of all the dwarf realms. It was a nice fancy, because there was now no true community of dwarves as in the old times under the high king.

Tungdil patted the befún’s neck. “No,” he said honestly. “There are large parts of my life I know hardly anything about.” He touched the scar on his forehead and looked at Ireheart. “Tell me about this Djern character.”

Ireheart gave a dismissive wave. “He’s not important, Scholar. I just wanted to talk about the acronta and… it doesn’t matter.” He took his bugle, put it to his lips and sounded it. It was not long before an answering fanfare came from the walls. On hearing that he blew a different set of notes.

Slowly but surely, the gates of Silverfast were opened for them.

Tungdil and Ireheart rode up to the entrance in silence. A troop of dwarves stood in formation at the gate, pikestaffs in their hands.

The one-eyed dwarf noted that crossbow marksmen were manning the battlements. “We don’t seem to be particularly welcome,” he commented.

“They don’t have anything against us personally. It’s regulations,” explained Boïndil. “Frandibar Gemholder of the Gold Beater clan adopted the procedure on my advice. Nobody gets through to the other side without undergoing a thorough check. Not even me.” Ireheart was concerned about how the envoys of the dwarf-races would react to this folk hero, now so sadly changed.

They rode up to the guards.

“Not sure, Ireheart?” Tungdil’s voice was devoid of bitterness or reproach. He smiled sadly. “There will be others to whom the notion of my being an impostor or a phantom will occur, when they see me. Especially when they hear my new suggestions for forcing Lot-Ionan to his knees. Because that’s what we need to do: We have to bend him to our will, and not kill him. That, Ireheart, is going to be the most difficult thing, with a determined and desperate opponent.”

“Desperate? Lot-Ionan is a magus; why should he be desperate?”

“The longer we fight against him, the more he will be overwhelmed with despair. Believe me.” Again his features displayed a frightening mirth. The expression would have suited a demon. Ireheart would not have wanted to turn his back on Tungdil at that moment, but he returned his smile.

They had reached the sentries now: Heavily armed and grim-faced dwarves in thick coats. They held their pikes ready to be used instantaneously.

“State your names and your business,” said the captain of the guard. Tungdil left the explanations to Boïndil.

Boïndil noticed that the guards’ attention was focused on the Scholar. In his flamboyant armor and mounted as he was on a very unusual animal, he aroused curiosity and suspicion; that altered when they learned the somber dwarf’s name.

“By Vraccas!” exclaimed the captain; he bowed to them both. “Can it be true that the two greatest dwarf-heroes have arrived to free Girdlegard? We did not expect you so soon. The delegates have not all come yet.”

“Then we’ll begin the strategy meeting without them,” said Tungdil abruptly. “Can we pass?”

“Of course, Tungdil Goldhand,” said the captain at once and gave a signal. The guards drew back to let them through.

“How do you know I am the real Tungdil Goldhand?” he asked darkly from atop his befún. “Do I look like a child of the Smith? In this armor? And what do the runes on the tionium signify? What if they meant death to observers?”

“Well… you’re riding with Boïndil Doubleblade. He identified himself with the bugle signal. I thought…” The dwarf-captain hesitated and looked at Ireheart. He had not expected to be blamed and criticized for the warm welcome he had given the new arrivals.

“Thank you. We’ll find our own way in,” said Boïndil in much friendlier tones. “Give us a soldier who can guide us swiftly and directly through the Brown Mountains to King Frandibar Gemholder. There is not an orbit to be lost. And the pressure of the crisis affects even such heroes as Tungdil Goldhand. Forgive the harshness of his manner.” He spurred his pony on.

The captain saluted and called out a name; as soon as Ireheart and Tungdil had passed under the archway, an opening large enough to have admitted even a kordrion, a dwarf came riding after them to act as their guide. He kept his distance. The words of the somber hero had been noted.

“What was all that about, Scholar?” whispered an angry Boïndil. “Isn’t it enough if they get suspicious gradually? Do you enjoy sowing doubts?”

“I thought there would be some kind of a check,” he replied. “But they let us waltz in without asking us even to dismount. They should have searched our luggage at the very least.” His right hand touched the breastplate and stroked one of the runes. “And with this armor, these runes, he just let me in. Did you see how they stared at me? As if I were a monster.”

“At the moment that’s just what you sound like, Scholar,” Ireheart retorted, feeling insulted. “You’re not happy, whatever people do. What advice would you have given him?”

“Go and tell the captain he must not admit a single dwarf after us,” Tungdil said. “No matter who he is or who he claims to be. We saw one thirdling in the Outer Lands and I don’t think he was the only one. They will try to break into the realm of the gem cutters from the north.

“A spy, then,” Boïndil surmised. “Of course! They’ll circumvent the Brown Range and check out the lie of the land and see where the defenses are weak before they attack.”

Tungdil offered ironic applause. “Now you’ve understood. I hope you can see, then, why I acted as I did.”

But Ireheart couldn’t really, even though the explanation made some sense. Surely the Scholar could have spoken rationally and calmly to the captain. “I’ll tell our leader. He’ll pass it on to the Silverfast troops. They’ll be more careful in future.”

The main gate of Goldfast stood open in welcome for the heroes, and here again the dwarves were received with cheers of frenetic rejoicing, fanfares and drum rolls. All the guards had left their posts to greet the pair.

Waving and smiling to the crowd, Ireheart sneaked a look at Tungdil. The Scholar cast a stony gaze to right and left. He rested one hand on his thigh as he rode; the other held the reins of the befún. He entered the fortress like a grim, war-weary general: No hand raised in acknowledgment, no greeting, no smile. The only clues to his state of mind were the spark in his eye, his pride and his awareness of his own power.

They continued without delay and Tungdil urged their guide to make swift progress.

Ireheart was still thinking about the thirdling they had encountered at the mountain refuge. “It would mean,” he blurted out while they were riding through a large cavern where the walls were covered in a film of water, “that the skirt-wearers have done more than merely form an alliance with the black-eyes.”

Tungdil had shut his eye and was listening carefully to the falling drops of water in the wall niches.

“The armor carried älfar runes, didn’t it?” Boïndil insisted, urging his pony to keep up with the befún. “I thought everything about the enemy dwarf was strange. That powder he strewed in my face, blinding me… where did he get that? The thirdlings usually rely on their military prowess and wouldn’t use dirty tricks like that. And he moved in such an unusual way, not like a dwarf at all. He very nearly,” he said, turning his face toward Tungdil, “made me think of Narmora. What do you think?”

Tungdil opened his eye and sighed. “So who is Narmora?”

“Who was Narmora, more like,” growled Ireheart in exasperation. “By Vraccas! How am I expected to tell you what conclusions I’ve come to if you don’t remember half the things we’ve been through together?”

“I, too, would prefer to be able to remember.” Tungdil looked at his friend. “So was she an älf?”

“She was a half-älf. She was the companion of the crazy magister technicus…” He hesitated and waited tensely.

“Furgas,” said Tungdil without hesitation. “I remember him very well. A true master, more than a genius. But then he was seduced by evil ideas and went mad. Narmora will have inherited… Was it her father or her mother that belonged to the älf folk?”

“The mother.”

“So it goes like this,” Tungdil summed up pensively. “You think the black-eyes have been training the thirdlings in their own dark arts. But how would that work? Our race has no talent for magic…”

“And what about Goda, then? And my children?” Ireheart objected, having to rein in his family pride. His life-companion was a maga. The only maga in the dwarf folk. “Goda belonged to the thirdlings once. Why should she be the only one?”

“If you follow that through, maybe the secret talent Vraccas gave to the thirdlings was the gift of magic,” Tungdil mused. “A gift he never told them about, on purpose. He wanted them to find it out on their own, in good time.”

Ireheart rubbed his beard and fiddled around arranging the braids. “Why would he do that? I think it’s just a matter of chance.” Even while he was speaking he was aware that his friend had spent many cycles in the vaults of a great magus. “Go on, Scholar, tell me. Did you ever have a go at spells yourself?”

“No.”

That answer was so fast in coming that it made Boïndil’s inner chorus of doubting voices wake up. He closed his eyes and demanded that they stop challenging his friend’s identity, but however forcefully he pressed his eyelids shut the voices merely became hoarse, rather than going quiet; he waited in vain for them to be silent. What evidence will allay these suspicions once and for all, Vraccas?

After a long ride through the Brown Mountains and in through a vaulted arch, seven paces high and made of pure silver set with onyx stones, they reached an area of the dwarf realm set aside for official business.

On the walls of the corridors were depictions, more than life size, of events from the history of the fourthlings and of the other dwarf folk, displayed not in paint but in mosaic, using different-colored jewels. Shortly before they were told to dismount they saw a picture of the Black Abyss. The artist had placed a dwarf in heroic stance at the mouth of the ravine, the weapon Bloodthirster clearly recognizable in his hands.

Tungdil got down from the befún to inspect it. Slowly he raised his hand to touch his own image. “By all that’s unholy,” he mouthed, swallowing hard. “Such a long time. Such a long time ago.”

Ireheart stood next to him and observed his expression. “Typical of the gem cutters. They could easily have done one of me as well,” he complained jokingly, without taking his eyes off his friend’s face.

“In truth, they could,” said Tungdil absently, his armored gauntlet still resting on the mosaic. “I promise you’ll be in the next one they do.”

“Side by side, the two of us, Scholar.”

Tungdil stared at the picture of the Black Abyss. “No. I shan’t be on the next picture, Ireheart. I’ve already played my part. It is the turn of other heroes now.” Tungdil turned abruptly to face his companion. “Heroes like you and your children. Heroic women like Goda.” A tear rolled down his cheek and slid down into his beard to hide. “I shall merely be the one who brings things together, but the fighting and glorious deeds will be carried out without me.” He took a deep breath and his expression became cold and hard again. “Let’s get on.”

Ireheart was too surprised to respond. He followed Tungdil, who was heading toward a huge door where the dwarf-leader stood; the door itself was covered in gold leaf, and runes picked out in diamonds shone brilliantly. They promised a haven of calm and safety to whoever passed through the doorway.

Four dwarf-sentries stood guard. It was obvious from their relatively slight stature that they were fourthlings; they saluted the new arrivals.

Tungdil and Ireheart stepped into the room one after the other. There was a hexagonal table in the middle, made of a bluish-gray ogre-eye stone. Each of the tribes had a place accorded them, and the freelings had also been included. The bitter enmity of the thirdlings had led to someone shattering the part of the table originally intended for them. Between the secondlings and thirdlings was a gaping hole.

This was not the only thing that struck the eye; only the representatives of the fifthlings and fourthlings were sitting at their places; there was food and drink arrayed on the table in front of them. The delegates of the various clans sat some distance off on stone benches.

Ireheart saw at once how few were gathered there. His courage started to ebb.

As the two of them entered the room, dwarves stood up and bowed their heads.

“Welcome,” said one dwarf, wearing an ornamental silver cuirass with polished gold inlay. He made no secret of his wealth. It would have been difficult to conceal the brilliance of the dazzling jewels on his armor. He had long blond hair, his sideburns reached to his chest, while the beard on his chin curled down all the way to his belt; the remaining facial hair was smartly trimmed to a finger’s length. “I am Frandibar Gemholder of the clan of the Gold Beaters and I am king of the fourthlings. I bid you both welcome, Tungdil Goldhand and Boïndil Doubleblade, and am glad to be the first in Girdlegard to receive the heroes of our race. It is truly a great honor!” He approached them, stretching out his hand to Tungdil.

The one-eyed dwarf studied the king as if he were dealing with some leprous supplicant. He had to force himself to hold out his own hand, doing so slowly and reluctantly. Ireheart sighed, showing himself eager to greet the king in contrast, and giving a strong handshake.

Then a second dwarf came over from the table. His wavy dark-brown hair was worn in a plait, his beard was short and, in contrast to the ruler of the fourthlings, he wore combat dress that seemed to be a cross between chain mail and lamellar armor. On his weapons belt hung a two-headed morning star studded with spikes, and at his left side there was short-handled throwing ax.

His figure was impressively muscular. The fifthlings were a mixture of different dwarf-tribes and had accepted the heritage of the Gray Range. The original fifthlings, the defenders of the Stone Gate, had all died out, so Ireheart hazarded a guess that this dwarf’s ancestors had been firstlings or secondlings.

“I am Balyndar Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers, son of Balyndis Steelfinger the First, queen of the tribe of the fifthlings,” he said by way of introduction. “My mother sends her regrets, but she is needed at the Stone Gateway. We are not only dealing with Tion’s monsters but are also having to cope with the ravages of a mysterious fever that has struck down many of the tribe. Her own health is fragile and she is not up to making the long and dangerous journey to the Brown Mountains.” He bowed again. “I have come at her behest to find out what the hero of Girdlegard has to tell us. I must say straight off that my mother has her doubts: She does not believe Lot-Ionan can ever be defeated.”

Ireheart looked at Tungdil, struck by the resemblance between his old friend and this young dwarf. The chin, mouth and nose were almost identical and their voices were so similar in intonation. By Vraccas! If I didn’t know better I’d take them for father and son. A swift glance to Gemholder showed that the same thing had occurred to the king.

Tungdil watched the queen’s son, opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, sounding as if he had really intended to say something quite different. “We thought the sickness curse on the northern realm was banished for all time.”

“Tion’s power has grown. No surprise, considering what’s been going on in Girdlegard,” replied Balyndar. “But thank you for your sympathy.” He nodded to the older dwarf.

Ireheart’s eyes whizzed to and fro; he compared the dwarves as unobtrusively as possible and found his first impression confirmed.

Balyndis had been Tungdil’s companion, but he had rejected her and selected an undergroundling as his mate: Sirka. Balyndis had gone to the fifthlings and been welcomed again by the king; soon she shared his throne and bore a son.

What an awful thought. The warrior screwed up his eyes. The boy’s age would be about right.

“You will want to refresh yourselves…” Frandibar began.

But Tungdil shook his head. “We need to get down to business first,” he interrupted, looking at the clan delegates. “You may find yourselves amazed by what I say but don’t laugh at my words or interrupt me. What I’m going to put to you is the only way to free Girdlegard from the repeated plagues and assaults it now suffers. From what our whole race now suffers.” He walked round the table and reached the place where the table edge had been hacked away. “I am a thirdling and so I shall sit here,” he announced. He held himself very upright, with neither fear nor awe in his expression. It was clear to all that he was accustomed to commanding and being instantly obeyed.

Boïndil was surprised to note that there was no resistance among the clans to what Tungdil had said. The hero was indeed an impressive presence. Or does his appearance make them afraid, and that is why they are submitting?

Gemholder got a servant to bring a chair for Tungdil and the dwarf took his place as if he were the king. As if he were still ruler over a realm and commander-in-chief of an army. “What about the office of high king?” he asked.

“After Ginsgar died and all the things that happened in Girdlegard there was no time to elect a high king to govern all the tribes,” replied Balyndar. “We were all too busy fighting the attackers. And it’s been like that right up until the present orbit, Tungdil.”

“The secondlings have been wiped out, the thirdlings don’t count. What about the firstlings? Have they crawled so deep into their tunnels for fear of the Dragon that they can’t find the way out?” Tungdil looked first at Balyndar, then at Frandibar. “What’s the last you heard from them?”

“There was a letter sent to my mother,” said the fifthling. “A certain Xamtor Boldface was asking for support against the Dragon, but we had to tell him that we don’t have enough soldiers to man an expedition. They would have had to fight their way past the kordrion and across Dragon-land to get to the Red Mountains.” Balyndar’s face went dark. “The Lohasbranders, it is said, kill any dwarf they set eyes on. Our deputation would never have reached the west alive.”

“We thought the same,” agreed the king of the fourthlings. “Queen Balyndis passed on the request to us, but we are having to defend ourselves against the thirdlings and the älfar. We need every weapon and warrior available.”

Tungdil glanced over at the second unoccupied place at the table. “Where are the freelings?” Shoulders were shrugged. “Well, you’ve still got to put a coalition force together to fight for Girdlegard.” Tungdil ran his gauntleted fingers over the broken edge of the table. “A fighting group composed of the best of the fourthlings and fifthlings. Like in the past when we were looking to forge Keenfire.” He stopped. “Did Keenfire ever turn up again?” The dwarves shook their heads. Tungdil reached for his tankard and downed the contents in one; then he slammed it down and appeared to stare into the void.

Ireheart felt the unrest that was spreading through the gathering. The clan chiefs had been expecting more than this.

“Lot-Ionan,” said Tungdil suddenly, and a jolt ran through the assembled company. His voice was deeper now and the sound of it struck fear in their hearts. “He is the last magus, and so, for our race, he is undefeatable. The tribes are in no position to be able to deal with our other adversaries; or, if they could, then only one at a time and with terrible losses. That would only give an advantage to remaining foes.” He banged the table. “If you are mad enough to attack first. But if you let someone else do the spadework and wait with your attack until the enemy has been weakened, then victory is a possibility.”

“What do you mean?” Balyndar wanted to know. He was drinking water, Ireheart noticed, and not touching any food that was heavy or greasy.

“We get the kordrion, the älfar, Lot-Ionan and the Dragon to wage war on each other,” he explained, smiling darkly. “Whoever emerges as the victor will be annihilated by the children of the Smith.”

Balyndar uttered a peculiar sound that turned into mocking laughter. “Simple as that? The four of them have split up our homeland among themselves for cycles now, but they’ll attack each other at the drop of a hat just because the great Tungdil Goldhand turns up and asks them to?” He got up, looking furious. “My mother was right. You won’t change anything. It’s like being in a battle waiting for the veteran fighters to arrive, only for a feeble old man to turn up instead.”

Hardly had he said that last word when he was hit so hard on the back that he fell forward onto the table. A shadow had grabbed him by the nape of the neck and was rubbing his face against the rune that stood for the realm of the fifthlings.

Ireheart blinked and then saw it was his friend. How did he manage to move so quickly?

“Balyndar Steelfinger! You may have inherited much from your mother, but not her iron will,” said Tungdil angrily. “Take a look at the symbol for your tribe!” He increased the pressure. Balyndar tried to resist and turned to grab his attacker, but he could not. “Look at it, I said,” shouted Tungdil. “The name Balyndis will be the last name of a sovereign in a whole line of queens and kings if we all follow your way of thinking. There’ll be no one at all who can read about the exploits of the dwarves.” He let Balyndar go and went back to his own seat.

Balyndar pushed himself upright and stared at the one-eyed dwarf in fury. On his right cheek and on his temple the rune had left an imprint that was gradually fading. “You dare to…”

“I dare, yes, I do dare!” Tungdil’s voice drowned out the words of the younger dwarf. “I dare to tell you and the others what must be done. It is simple; all it takes is skill, courage and sharp blades. But not an army. Not at first.” He pointed north. “Steal the kordrion’s young and take them to Lot-Ionan. The beast will follow, looking for its offspring. You have to be ready with a small force to overthrow the victor. And the victor will definitely be Lot-Ionan. You need the magus to put a stop to what is being prepared in the Black Abyss.”

Frandibar folded his arms. “What if the kordrion defeats the long-un? Then, according to you, we’d be helpless.”

“He won’t. A kordrion can’t defend itself against magic. It might be able to destroy the wizard’s famuli but it will be powerless faced with Lot-Ionan himself.” Tungdil’s fingers ran along the line of the Red Mountains on the map on the central table. “After that you take the best treasures from the Dragon’s hoard and plant them on the älfar. Lohasbrand will set his humans and his orcs on the älfar in Dsôn Balsur, and because they won’t be able to overrun the black-eyes on their own, he’ll have to get over there himself.” Tungdil’s gaze swept over the assembled dwarves. “Again it will be the task of the children of the Smith to watch and wait. And then to attack the victor, who will be weakened by then, of course, from the battle. You should manage that. And there you are: Girdlegard is free of all tribulation.”

“He’s gone mad,” came the voice of one of the clan leaders. “What kind of expedition would be able to do all that?”

“So do you not have any fresh heroes? Was it just a cheap excuse—let’s do nothing at all until Tungdil comes back?” Tungdil whirled round. “I can see some strong arms and watchful eyes here in this room. Take Balyndar with you. He’s an obvious choice.” He pointed at Ireheart. “Don’t forget my old comrade. He and his crow’s beak will sort out enemy skulls and armor, no problem. Get yourself a skillful cross-bowman and send a handful of brave hearts along with them. When you’ve found them, offer prayers to your god, and send them on their way.”

“And you won’t be with them?” The king of the fourthlings was aghast.

“No.” Tungdil sat down heavily in his chair. “After over two hundred cycles of constant war, battle and combat, enough is enough. I shall find myself a nice little place and shall watch from the sidelines as you eliminate evil. It’s enough for me to know that I have given you the plan.”

Balyndar had swallowed his anger and looked extremely disappointed. “So this is the great hero, whose deeds are so far out of our league. He looks like one of Tion’s warriors and the speeches he makes demand the impossible of us. Then he sits down and takes his ease to watch us fail.” He laughed joylessly. “Thank you, Tungdil Goldhand.”

Ireheart heard the clan leaders talking quietly among themselves and observed that they were not following what was going on at the hexagonal table anymore. As for himself, he was still trying to think through the strategy his friend had outlined. This meeting mustn’t end in discord! He took a deep breath, raised his voice and announced “The Scholar is right!”

Silence fell in the hall. All of them stared at him.

“He’s right,” Ireheart repeated, laying his hand on the map of Girdlegard. “We don’t have massive armies to march in with. Our strongholds have been destroyed for the most part, and in those fortresses that still exist we sit waiting for death to take us. Either with älfar arrow, kordrion attack, fever, or dragon fire.” He stood up. “Our only hope is to employ the tactics Tungdil has described.” He placed his hand on his crow’s beak. “I shall be of the party riding out to save our race. The fate of the dwarves must be decided by the dwarves themselves.”

Frandibar studied him carefully, then looked at Tungdil. “There’s certainly some truth in what we’ve heard,” he said, speaking gravely. “And it will have an impact if we can say that Boïndil Doubleblade rides at the head of a band of daring warriors. But the one we really need is the most famous of us all.” His eyes fixed on Tungdil. “I beseech you. Go with him. The time for rest is when Girdlegard is at peace once more.”

Balyndar cast a contemptuous glance at Tungdil. “Otherwise we will have witnessed the most pointless return of a hero there has ever been in Girdlegard.”

The one-eyed dwarf smiled maliciously. “Neither threat nor entreaty can move me. I have been through too much for that. I have lived through too much.”

A thought flashed into Boïndil’s mind that seemed perverse and monstrous enough to make some sort of sense. His friend could not be motivated by the offer of treasure or by appeals to altruism. He had been heaped with glory and wealth on the other side of the Black Abyss. But there is one honor he is missing… “And what if you were to lead us as high king of the dwarves, Scholar?” Ireheart spoke his thoughts out loud.

At once a clamor of voices broke out.

“Quiet!” demanded Frandibar, raising his arms. “Be quiet and let him finish.”

Unruffled, Ireheart elucidated his idea. “This is not just a random suggestion. Think about it: With one of their own tribe at our head we have a chance to negotiate with the thirdlings. Imagine if we could do that… if Tungdil could do that—if he could convince them they’d be better off holding back while we fight the älfar, and waiting to see what happens. Or even supporting us in our fight.”

No outcry ensued. The dwarf folk discussed the matter quietly among themselves, gesticulating and nodding or shaking their heads.

Ireheart and Tungdil exchanged glances. The smile had altered and now showed a mixture of amusement, disbelief and satisfaction.

Balyndar was frowning, his hand gripping his morning star. “I would have to vote in favor, even if he is not my first choice,” he announced, turning to the assembly. “Boïndil Doubleblade’s suggestion is not to be dismissed out of hand. We are in a position to elect Tungdil Goldhand as our high king. The generations coming after us can decide if we have acted sensibly in this crisis. We must not forget the effect it will have on Lot-Ionan when Tungdil appears. He was once his foster-father, after all.” Balyndar turned to Tungdil. “But I have my doubts. I say this openly.” “Let it be a further reason to take part in the campaign yourself,” said Ireheart, not able to quell his own growing misgivings when he saw Tungdil’s smile. Vraccas help us.

Frandibar stayed silent for a time before getting to his feet. “Our race has never had to make a decision like this. Not until this orbit. It is important that every clan leader, man or woman, be asked his or her opinion.” He pointed to the first dwarf of the fifthling tribe and recorded his approval of the plan.

It took a long time to ask each member of the assembly for their view.

But finally the decision was unanimous. All eyes rested on Tungdil when Frandibar opened his mouth to address the hero.

Ireheart came to Tungdil’s chamber. A single candle still burned; tiny flames flickered in the fireplace, casting a dark-red glow over the room.

His friend was sitting by the fireplace in full armor, his back to the door. Although his chair was large, he only just fitted. His right hand lay on the pommel of Bloodthirster, while the tip of the weapon rested on the floor. The golden eye patch shimmered blood-red in the firelight and the inlaid patterns on the black tionium armor glowed as if they had come alive, warmed by the flames.

Ireheart saw that food on a plate next to Tungdil was untouched, but the beer jug lay empty on its side. “You’re not happy with how the vote went, Scholar,” he stated.

Tungdil did not answer.

“Scholar?” Ireheart came around the armchair to look at his friend’s face. He was horrified. The remaining brown eye had changed its color, taken over by green whirling patterns. Then dark-yellow spots appeared from the depths and suppressed the green. The black pupil looked glassy and dead.

Ireheart bent forward. “What’s happening…?”

Tungdil’s gaze grew sharp again and once more his eye was brown. “I’m sorry, I was asleep,” he said in greeting, rubbing his face as if he wanted to make sure everything was back in place. “What can I do for you?”

Boïndil pulled his head back, fighting down his astonishment and shock. “I wanted to know how you were feeling. If you were satisfied with how the vote went.” He took a seat opposite Tungdil.

“Is that the real reason you came?” Tungdil was breathing heavily. “Or did you want to see what I get up to when I think no one is watching?”

“You’re surely immune to being taken by surprise in that armor of yours.” Ireheart attempted a light tone, his smile awry.

Tungdil looked at his friend and Ireheart was pleased to see the old familiar expression. He had no doubt about it; this was his true Scholar.

“I didn’t ever ask you what you thought of my suggestion,” Tungdil said. “About how we take on the enemy.”

“Bit late for that now, surely? The decision is made.”

“Yes, I should have taken you into my confidence earlier,” replied Tungdil. “You were a wonderful advocate for me.”

Boïndil smiled amiably. “I can’t leave you to face those obstinate stubborn-heads all by yourself. What kind of comrade would that make me?” He rubbed his brow and put his fingertips together. “It will certainly be dangerous, and undoubtedly there will be much loss of life. I have no illusions on that score. But it could work, because none of the enemies will be expecting a trick like we have planned. We’ll get them with their own weapons.” He muttered into his beard: “Well, at least the black-eyes.”

“You’re sure about this?”

Ireheart considered the matter. “There are many imponderables in your strategy that we can’t influence. What if the älfar kill the Dragon sooner than we intend them to? What if the kordrion doesn’t care about its brood like you assume it does? What if Lot-Ionan only has to snap his fingers to turn the beast to stone?” He folded his arms across his chest. “But I think that’s unlikely.”

“Is that because you are sufficiently desperate to believe anything or because it was me that suggested the plan?”

“I’m in favor because it’s a good plan. Audacious, but good,” replied Ireheart thoughtfully. “I’ve been through so much with you and we’ve made so many impossible things happen, so I don’t have doubts about this.”

Tungdil nodded in silence and stretched out his hand for the jug. Seeing it was empty he swept it from the table. “Do you think the title of high king will suit me?”

That was a question Ireheart would have preferred not to have to answer. “It was my idea, after all. If I hadn’t been convinced of that I wouldn’t have put it to the assembly,” he said, skirting around the difficulty.

“You think it was your idea. But what if my runes had put a spell on you?” Tungdil suggested wearily. “If it was me putting the idea into your head? So that I could get my hands on the title at last, after all those cycles of wanting it. Although I knew under normal circumstances it could never happen? It would never be allowed.” The eyelid fluttered and the eyeball rolled back. He was practically asleep.

“I don’t believe that, Scholar,” said Ireheart quietly as he stood up. “If I don’t want to do something I’m sure nobody else’s thoughts can take hold of me.” He looked around the chamber and found a blanket that he spread over Tungdil.

Ireheart’s lips narrowed. “You will be the best high king the tribes have ever had,” he whispered as he withdrew. “A high king born of crisis and one that will tower over all the previous incumbents. Perhaps the ruler who will finally be able to bring peace to the children of the Smith. Genuine peace and not just an armistice.”

The warrior walked to the door and smiled at his sleeping comrade, then he left the sparsely furnished chamber, a room unworthy of a freshly elected high king.