The Fate of the Dwarves

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Girdlegard,

Protectorate of Gauragar,

Eleven Miles East of the Entrance to the Gray Mountains,

Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Ireheart’s eyes were fixed on the chain of hills rising to the north. They were the foothills of the Gray Range, running across the horizon in a ribbon, and they promised the travelers a place of safety.

“I wish we were there already,” he muttered into his mottled gray and white beard.

Tungdil was riding at his side, still preferring a befún to a pony. This made him taller in the saddle than the rest of the group, which consisted of the two of them and then Balyndar and his deputation of fifthlings. Frandibar had also given them his five best fourthling warriors, one of whom was a crossbow archer. “It never looked for a moment as if we were in any danger.”

“That’s what bothers me,” said Balyndar, scanning the snowy expanse before them. “On the journey we narrowly escaped from a patrol of Duke Amtrin’s men. He’s in the service of the älfar.”

“Escaped! Listen to that,” snorted Ireheart. “I can’t believe it! In the old days we’d have hunted them down instead of running away and hiding.”

Balyndar assumed the words were intended as criticism of himself and his fifthling soldiers. “I don’t blame you for talking like that, Doubleblade. You won’t know that their patrols are always accompanied by two älfar archers with longbows. We can’t compete with them.”

“I know that,” he growled. “My brother was nearly killed by their black arrows.”

Tungdil sat up straight in the befún’s saddle. “We’re going to get a chance to prove the opposite,” he said quietly, pointing to the southwest with Bloodthirster. “They’ve been following us for a while now. If I’m right, there are twenty of them. They could have overtaken us easily with those horses.”

“They’re waiting to see what we’re doing. Which way we’re heading.” Balyndar let his pony drop back between Tungdil and Ireheart. “That’s more than strange. The others always chased us.”

“They’ll be afraid.” Boïndil gave a hearty laugh. “If they meet more than forty dwarves they start to sweat, no matter what the temperature is.”

“I think,” Tungdil took up his train of thought, “that they don’t have any älfar with them. I can’t make out any firebulls or night-mares. On snow like this it’d be easy to spot the animals.”

“Or maybe they are circling round us to attack from the front. An ambush,” Balyndar suggested in concern. He gave his fifthlings the order to have their shields at the ready.

Ireheart reckoned the enemy troop were a good two miles away, if not more. It was a miracle that Tungdil had been able to recognize anything at this distance, he thought. When he lost that eye of his, did the vision in the other get sharper? Or what else could it be?

The befún gave a warning snort and turned its head to the right, where several large—up to seven paces high—dark gray boulders jutted out from the snow.

“Take cover!” Tungdil commanded, slipping out of the saddle. Ireheart did not hesitate and even Balyndar quickly followed suit.

The long black arrow aimed at the leader whirred through the air straight past his right ear and buried itself in the snow so deep that not even the fletching was visible above the white.

Immediately there followed a cry and one of the female dwarves fell back off her pony. An arrow had pierced the edge of her shield and gone straight through the protective helmet into her right temple.

Now all the dwarves had grasped that the archers attacking them were hidden behind the rocks. They dismounted quickly and used the bodies of their ponies as shields against the lethal arrows. Nobody panicked and nobody shouted out, as might have happened with humans in the same situation.

Another set of arrows hissed, and three dwarves fell. Hit in the heart or the head, none of them had any chance of surviving.

“Curse the black-eyes,” raged Ireheart, crawling through the snow to Tungdil. “I’ll shove a longbow up their arses and the arrows, too. Sideways!!”

“They’re behind the second boulder from the front,” said his friend calmly, spying out between the legs of his befún. “Can you see them? Their white cloaks make them nearly invisible against the snow.”

Ireheart had to screw up his eyes to make out the figures, which bobbed up occasionally above the rocks they were hiding behind just long enough to fire their arrows before ducking down again. Again Ireheart was amazed by Tungdil’s eyesight. “It’s at least forty paces to that first rock,” he calculated. “Time enough for them to finish us off with forty arrows.” He turned to Balyndar. “Suggestions?”

One of the ponies collapsed with a whinny; an arrow had struck it in the eye. The älfar were changing their tactics and were going for the dwarves’ cover. One small horse after another was killed, kicking out wildly, sometimes injuring their own riders with their hooves.

Ireheart grabbed a handful of snow and pressed it into a ball of ice. “Three shields on top of each other and we storm them? Scholar? We could make our way forwards like that.”

“The patrol is galloping this way,” called someone. “They’re attacking!”

“This’ll be getting crowded,” muttered Ireheart.

A loud scream came from by the boulders.

Ireheart was quick enough turning his head to see one of the älfar swaying behind his rock, falling forward and plunging from his vantage point, his bow and arrows falling with him.

“What happened? Did his bowstring snap and strike him?” Ireheart noticed the snow had turned red where the älf lay.

“Didn’t you hear the crossbow?” asked Tungdil.

A click and a second älf lay dead.

“Huzzah! It seems Frandibar has given us a damn good marksman.” Boïndil laughed and jumped up, lifting his crow’s beak and ordering the dwarf-warriors to form a protective wall with their shields to defend themselves against the riders’ attack. “Now I feel better.” He kept an eye out in the fray for the fourthling archer who had protected them from further losses. The marksman lay pressed close to the corpse of his pony and was calmly reloading his crossbow as the patrol came thundering up. The noise of their hooves grew louder and the group of dwarves prepared themselves for the full force of their attack.

The archer rested the stock of his crossbow on the saddle of his dead animal for support, lay down at full length on his stomach and focused his sights on the leader of the fast-approaching troops. From this distance he could easily see their insignia.

Another bolt whirred and the group’s commander jerked backwards from the impact; his feet slipped out of the stirrups and he fell. The riders storming along in his wake were too late to swerve and he was swallowed up under flying hooves and a glistening whirling cloud of snow.

“Attack!” yelled Ireheart with a whoop of delight, rushing forward and circling his crow’s beak overhead. The rage he would have directed against the älfar now needed a new target.

The troop followed him and raced toward the enemy with no thought of their own safety.

The cavalry group’s riders fanned out, their attack formation disintegrating. So loud were the bloodcurdling cries of the dwarves that three of the attackers’ number failed to hear the order to halt, instead continuing forward at full tilt while the rest of the mounted company fell back and prepared to retreat.

“Hey! Get over here so that I can run you through with the spike of my war hammer!” Ireheart ducked under the oncoming spear tip and struck the rider with the flat end of his weapon. The impact tore the man out of his saddle, leaving a large dent in his breastplate and blood pouring out of a gash.

Ireheart employed the remaining impetus to swing round in a circle, delivering a swipe with the spiked end to the next rider’s thigh.

“Gotcha!” He took a strong wide-legged stance in the snow and held the handle of his crow’s beak in both hands. “You’re not going anywhere, long-un!”

At first the dwarf was pulled a few paces forward across the snow, but then he found stone underfoot. Now he could pull the man’s leg sharply backwards, dislocating it at the hip-joint.

Balyndar propelled the third rider out of the saddle with a blow from his morning star. The spike-studded balls hit him on the neck and breast and the man fell gurgling to the snow.

Boïndil towered over his fallen prisoner, crow’s beak in one hand as he pushed down on the man with his right foot. “How long have you been following us? What’s your business?” he barked. “If you tell the truth you will live.”

“We followed your tracks,” the man groaned, pain distorting his voice and features alike. “We’ve been coming after you for two orbits. The älfar wanted you drawn into an ambush, so we could interrogate survivors to find out what you’re up to. We were told not to attack you until they had opened fire.”

Balyndar came over to join Ireheart. “Did you drop a messenger off first to send news of having found us?” he asked the captive, dangling the bloodied globe of his morning star above his face.

“No,” he moaned. “We’re the only ones who know about you being here.” Tungdil stomped over through the snow, his eye on the patrol retreating into the distance. “It makes no odds,” he said darkly. “They’ll be off to the nearest garrison to make a report. By that time we’ve got to be in the Gray Mountains. The älfar will be able to work out for themselves that a large dwarf-party will have something serious in mind that’s not going to be good news. Those were the days, when we had the old tunnel system.”

“What we need is the good old tunnel system,” said Ireheart with regret.

“The tunnels are all flooded. I told you,” said Balyndar. “We think that’s where the water from Weyurn’s dried-up lakes has ended up. It can’t all have gone through to the Outer Lands.”

Tungdil gave the order to remount and then placed Bloodthirster’s tip at the nape of the captive’s neck. “Anything else we should know?”

“I’ve told you everything!”

“Then you’re no more use to us.” His arm jerked forward, the blade he held slicing through skin, muscles and sinews; vertebrae cracked apart. “Right. Let’s deal with the black-eyes,” he said calmly to Balyndar and Ireheart.

“I promised I would spare his life!” Boïndil blurted out incredulously.

“If he told the truth. That’s what you said,” retorted Tungdil, going over to his befún, climbing into the saddle and heading over to the rocks where the dead älfar lay, sprawled in unnatural postures. “How would you know if he was lying to you?”

Balyndar watched the black-armored dwarf go, then turned his gaze to the corpse on the ground, the blood still welling. “I’m not wasting any sympathy on the long-un,” he said thoughtfully. “But I can’t go along with Goldhand’s action either. We could just have left him. The winter would have finished him off.” He walked away to get his pony.

Ireheart pulled the end of his crow’s beak out of the man’s leg, cleaned it on the fellow’s cloak and marched over to the rocks. The old Tungdil would never have done that. “Yes, he would,” he muttered. “We had to do it. The Scholar was right. It wasn’t nice, but it was necessary.”

“Did you say something, General?” the dwarf with the crossbow turned to ask. “I didn’t catch it.”

Ireheart stopped and looked at the fourthling. Under an open mantle he was wearing light armor composed more of leather than of mail. The resultant lightness made for ease of movement; he wore a broad metal strip over the breast to protect heart and lungs. Shoulder-length brown hair was visible below the helmet; his beard, of the same color, was braided along the jaw line, with silver wire around the individual plaits. It gave him a dandyish air.

At his side hung a quiver with crossbow bolts and a device for anchoring the loading mechanism when he retightened the bow. The thick bowstring of the long-range weapon had to be cranked by hand. The firing force was immense, as the älfar and members of the mounted patrol had learned to their cost.

Boïndil examined the stock. “Actually,” he said, “I’ve never liked crossbows and archery. They take all the fun out of fighting. But today I gave thanks to Vraccas that he let us have you by our side.” He proffered his hand. “What is your name?”

“Goïmslin Fastdraw of the clan of the Sapphire Finders, fourthling. But they call me Slîn,” he said, fastening his crossbow to the saddle so that he was free to shake hands. “I know that all children of the Smith prefer the blade to the bolt. But if, like me, you’re not so quick with the sword, then this is the only option.” He pointed up to the rock formation. “When you go up to check on the älfar, have a look: I should have got both of them through the heart. If not, I owe you two gold coins.”

“That exact?”

Slîn nodded. “I always aim for the heart. Whether it’s women or my other victims.” He winked and Ireheart had to laugh.

“I’ll have a good look.” He hurried off to join the others, who were already over by the rocks.

It was quite obvious how excellent Slîn’s eye was. Both älfar lay in the snow with skewered hearts. The reinforced bolts had penetrated their armor and Boïndil found himself wondering if Tungdil’s special armor would withstand such an impact.

“They’ve tethered their night-mares on the other side,” Tungdil said in greeting.

Ireheart fingered the crow’s beak. “They will follow their masters into death.” He looked at the älfar archers’ bodies and ordered them to be searched. Balyndar and his dwarves got to work.

Under the whitish gray mantles was the typical älfar lamellar armor; their swords lay unused in the scabbards, the two älfar having been given no opportunity to draw them against the dwarves. The dwarf-warriors were not interested in the food supplies the älfar had with them, but there was a fine dagger that one had carried in his belt.

Balyndar noticed it first. “By Vraccas!” he cried angrily, pulling the knife out of its sheath. “That is the work of a dwarf-smith!” He turned the blade, held it to the sunlight, and ran his finger along it. “No question: This dagger was fashioned by a dwarf.” He bent down to study the armor. “Unbelievable!” he exclaimed. “The thirdlings have been co operating more closely with the älfar than I had ever feared.”

Ireheart glanced over at Tungdil and thought of the dwarf-hater they had encountered in the Outer Lands. “The thirdlings made this armor?”

Balyndar looked up. “I’m absolutely sure of it.”

“The thirdlings can expect no mercy from us when we’ve defeated the älfar,” growled Boïndil. “Betraying the other tribes like that is unforgivable. They have given away the secrets of the forge.”

“And yet you have a thirdling for your high king.” Tungdil appeared very calm. He pushed the älfar body away from him with his boot. “Did the dwarf-armor help him any? As long as we have the better crossbow bolts the thirdlings can carry on making armor for them.”

Balyndar turned the knife in his hands and ran his fingers over it. “There’s something wrong.” He started to unclothe the älfar bodies.

Tungdil called him back. “What are you doing?”

“I want to take the armor. To investigate it further. I think…”

“No time for that.” The one-eyed dwarf beckoned the band to move off. “Go with Ireheart and help him deal with the night-mares. Then we leave. The patrol will soon reach another garrison belonging to the count and they’ll be reporting what’s happened here.” Balyndar was about to respond but Tungdil raised his hand. “I’m ordering you.” He stared at the fifthling, who shook his head but got up and made off, morning star in hand.

It had not escaped Boïndil’s notice that, unseen by Tungdil, Balyndar had pocketed the knife. “Well, I’ll be off,” he said cheerily and followed Balyndar. But when he heard grinding sounds behind him he turned round. Tungdil was striking the bodies again and again, thrusting his weapon through their chests.

“What are you doing, Scholar?” he called in surprise.

“Making sure,” replied Tungdil, wiping Bloodthirster on the snow and then getting back on his befún. “Hurry up. I want to get to the Gray Mountains.” He let his mount move on so that he could take up the lead.

“He was destroying the runes,” Balyndar said from behind. “Did you see them, too, Doubleblade?”

“Rune?” He came up to the fourthling, whose morning star was covered in blood. The night-mares were no longer alive. “I don’t understand.”

Balyndar drew a shape on the snow with the blood dripping from his weapon. “That’s what I mean. If you look at the left side of your friend’s armor, Doubleblade, you’ll find that same symbol.” He left Ireheart standing there and went back to his pony.

Girdlegard,

Dwarf Realm of the Fifthlings,

Gray Mountains,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Access into the realm of the fifthlings had changed dramatically. A new stone building rose twenty paces high in front of the gate itself. There were many small apertures in the tower wall; the actual entrance was a relatively narrow door, just wide enough for a befún to pass through.

Ireheart guessed what the apertures were for. If you tip molten pitch and hot coals down you could see off an army.

The gate opened and a messenger and watchtower guards were waiting to greet them in the queen’s name.

There was no rejoicing when they rode in, no fanfares sounded to announce their arrival in the Gray Mountains. The walls had not been adorned to celebrate their coming and there were no flags flying from the battlements. No dwarves had come to welcome them.

Ireheart was angry, but said nothing.

He knew that Balyndar had dispatched a warrior to announce their approach, but the reception was cool in the extreme. Dislike Tungdil’s conduct and demeanor as one might, he was still the dwarves’ high king. Respect for his high office should have made it automatic to show deference to the troops under his command, who would no doubt soon be expected to carry out heroic deeds.

“We’re entering the realm of the fifthlings as if we are some third-rate undesirable merchants,” said Slîn, nudging his pony up next to Boïndil’s. His remark was loud enough for Balyndar and the messenger to hear. “Has the queen forgotten who it is she’ll be receiving?”

“She has not,” replied her son at the front of the train. “Unlike the fourthlings, our dwarves have been faced with an overwhelmingly tough task and are having to fight the kordrion as well as this deadly fever. Both adversaries have weakened us. We have better things to do than to stand in rows,” he said disdainfully, “cheering and waving at heroes from the past. You will be given food and drink and, if you want singing and dancing, let me know. But it might be hard to make jolly hosts out of a tribe that’s in mourning.”

“No need to be so thin-skinned, Balyndar.” Slîn bared his teeth. “I need hardly remind you that this welcome is not in accordance with the dignity of the high king you helped to elect.”

Ireheart sent him a look that said to hold his tongue. “Let it go,” he bade him quietly. “We don’t need quarrels here. You’ll be going into battle together, remember.”

Slîn grinned. “But I shall, of course, be standing behind him,” he said, placing a hand on the stock of his crossbow. “The prerogative of archers.”

They rode through the passages in silence. The corridors were different now. Ireheart did not recognize anything, and they would have been hopelessly lost without their guide.

They were led to a hall, where they left their ponies and the befún and then continued on foot.

Their fifthling contingent peeled off from the troop one by one to return to their own clans, leaving the fourthlings, Tungdil and Ireheart alone with Balyndar.

“Feels a bit like a trap,” whispered Slîn to his companions. He had his crossbow hanging on his back, and wore a nifty ax at his belt. “But, of course, we’re among friends.”

A second messenger joined them and said something quietly to Balyndar.

“My mother is looking forward to meeting the brave dwarves under the command of the High King Tungdil Goldhand,” he announced, and gestured them toward a large simple iron gate guarded by two sentries with halberds. “Wasn’t the throne room on the other side?” asked Ireheart in surprise. “I know there’ve been a lot of changes…”

“You’re right. This is not the old throne room we’re coming to,” Balyndar interrupted. “That was in the region of the Gray Mountains where the fever kept recurring. We don’t go there anymore and won’t make an exception to that rule, even for important visitors.” He preceded them. “This is our new throne room.” He signaled to the sentries to open the double doors.

Cool silvery light fell on them. The whole chamber was dressed out in polished steel. All the furniture shone cold in the lamp glow. Even the tall columns supporting the ceiling seemed to be made of burnished steel, so smooth that it reflected the surroundings perfectly.

Elaborate ornaments had been engraved and decorated to give emphasis to them. Confusing to the eye, the colored patterns seemed to move if you stared at them.

In another place the artist had chiseled likenesses of dwarf-rulers, decorating them with jewels or precious metals. It was obvious that the queen who used this room had once belonged to the tribe of the firstlings, talented smiths and metal-workers just as she was herself.

“It seems the mountain itself gave birth to this room,” murmured one of the fourthlings. “Everything fits together so smoothly—no joins or sharp edges.”

Balyndis Steelfinger was seated on the raised throne before them. Her long dark-brown hair was unbound under her sparkling steel helmet and her scaled armor, of the same material, was so bright that the visitors were forced to narrow their eyelids.

“Unthinkable what the effect would be if she were standing in full sunshine,” Slîn observed. “She’d dazzle anyone within ten paces.”

Balyndis got to her feet and stepped down from her throne. “Enter and be seated at the fifthlings’ table,” she bade them. “I am glad you have come and was pleased to learn all the good news from your messenger. It seems Girdlegard will soon be freed from evil’s oppression. Vraccas will surely be with us.”

Ireheart did his best to watch Tungdil’s face while the dwarf-queen approached them, hand outstretched. She had previously been Tungdil’s companion for many cycles. They had lived together and she had borne him a son, lost in a terrible accident. This reunion should provide enough tension to set sparks flying. But search as he did for emotion in his friend’s face, he noted none.

There was plenty of emotion, however, to be seen in the queen’s features. “By Vraccas,” Balyndis said with feeling, halting her steps as she came closer to the one-eyed dwarf. “It is true! Really true! You are alive and have come back from the dark!” Tears appeared in the corners of her eyes and trickled down her soft cheeks. The fluff on her face was more pronounced than on the younger females of her race. She stopped in front of Tungdil, visibly moved, her hand still held out toward him.

“Indeed. I have returned from the darkness. But I have brought the shadows with me,” he answered. “I know who you are, Balyndis Steelfinger, queen of the fifthlings, but I do not remember anything of what once bound us together.” In explanation he pointed to the scar on his forehead. “A blow to the head robbed me of much that was precious to me.” Balyndis swallowed and looked at him intently, as if thinking she could wreak a change in him and release those hidden memories. But when she saw that the expression in his brown eye did not alter, she let her arm drop, and knelt before him. “I greet you, High King Tungdil Goldhand,” she said sadly, bowing her head. “May Vraccas bless you and all who follow you in your quest to save Girdlegard.”

“I thank you, Queen Balyndis.” He indicated to her by a touch on the shoulder that she should stand, and then made his way over to the laden table.

Many delicacies had been prepared and were displayed in dishes and on plates; the smell made Ireheart’s mouth water as he realized how hungry he was.

“About time too,” muttered Slîn at his side. “I was ready to start licking the furniture, my stomach was rumbling so.”

They took their seats round the table. Dwarves served the food and ensured that neither plates nor jugs were ever empty. During the course of the meal Tungdil elucidated his mission again. Balyndis made no response apart from the occasional nod.

Ireheart got the impression that she was trying to read Tungdil’s mind to fathom his feelings. I wonder if she’ll have any more luck than I’ve had.

“Enough from me,” his friend said eventually. “Tell me, the fever that broke out here: How long have you and the fifthlings been troubled by it?”

“Over a hundred cycles. It started slowly, so our healers didn’t notice it at first,” she explained, raising her tankard of black beer in a toast to the company. “But soon the incidence of illness increased and it reminded us of the plagues that struck the original fifthlings. We abandoned the tunnels and caves and had them sealed up. I could show you on the map which regions were affected.”

“Did the outbreaks come randomly or is there a pattern to it?” asked Tungdil. He had hardly touched his food and Ireheart was sure he seemed much paler than usual. He studied the map they showed him, concentrating hard.

“We couldn’t find any pattern to it,” answered Balyndis. “We got the freelings to search the places where the highest mortality had occurred, to see if maybe the älfar were targeting us, but no traces were found. And those who were part of the freelings’ expedition all fell ill a few orbits later. They died.”

“How?” asked the one-eyed dwarf.

“They suffocated in their own blood. First they grew feverish and then their lungs filled with blood until they could not breathe.” She shuddered. “An appalling death, Tungdil.”

He pushed the map away and emptied his tankard—the seventh, if Ireheart had not lost count: A considerable amount for a dwarf who had not eaten anything much. Heroic achievement. “Did their limbs change color? Perhaps the tips of their fingers? What about their tongues?”

Balyndis and her son exchanged glances.

“I didn’t tell him,” said Balyndar. “Nobody knows.”

Tungdil shot him a dangerous smile. “I don’t need to be told. I worked it out for myself.” He summoned a fresh tankard. “It’s not a curse. It’s an odorless gas.”

Balyndar rolled his eyes. “No, it’s not! We ruled that out.”

“The methods for investigating the conventional humors exuded by the mountain are useless with this problem, Balyndar. It’s the kordrion. In countless ways it’s been responsible for the deaths in the Gray Range. It doesn’t just eat those who confront it. Its excrement is lethal as well, causing the painful death Balyndis has just described as soon as it meets water.” He took the map in his hand. “Ireheart told me that the kordrion is in the northern part of the Gray Mountains, near the Stone Gateway. That’s your explanation: Rainwater washes the excrement down the slopes and it runs into the rivers that feed the canals, being washed down to the parts of the mountain where the so-called fever turns up.”

“Even its shit is murderous?” exclaimed Ireheart in disbelief. “That’s what I call a really devious monster! Good thing we’re going to get rid of him.”

“We aren’t going to. It will be Lot-Ionan.” He put the next full tankard to his lips and took a long draft. “I think it will take a cycle or two until the toxic effect fades away so that you can return to those regions.” He saw that Balyndar did not believe him. “It is something to do with alchemy, Steelfinger,” he explained. “I grew up in the house and laboratories of a magus. The composition of the kordrion’s excrement is unique; if you like, a kind of dried acid. As soon as it comes into contact with water, the substances mix and a lethal gas is released. I used this several times on the other side of the Black Abyss if a siege wasn’t going well.” He finished his drink. “I don’t give your sick dwarves much of a chance. The lungs won’t recover from the acid burns. They’re for the eternal smithy.”

“I believe you,” said Balyndis, pale now. She indicated where the kordrion was thought to have its eyrie. “Vraccas was good to us and we have always been able to destroy the soft eggs before they hatch. Our scouts report, though, that it’s back in the nest and that the kordrion has learned to keep supplies. If we are out of luck it won’t have to leave the clutch of eggs to get food. That was always our opportunity to make a move.”

“We’ll think up a suitable diversion,” Ireheart said confidently. “Right, Scholar: We go to the nest, grab the eggs and run off through the Gray Range all the way to the entrance to Gauragar?”

“No. We must go over the summits, so that it can follow our tracks. I’ve worked out a route.”

Balyndar’s eyes widened. “In winter? Are you out of your mind?” After a pause he added, “High King.”

Without hesitating, Tungdil recited the names of the summits they would have to cross, specifying places they would rest. “Does that still sound like madness to you,” he asked cuttingly, “or more like a demanding but achievable journey?”

Balyndis nodded. “I’m amazed how much you still remember about my homeland, when there are so many other things you have forgotten.” It was a snide remark, but one she couldn’t resist making. “It seems your mind has concentrated on the scholarly side of your nature and eliminated all feeling. Is that how it is, High King?”

Tungdil turned his brown eye toward her. “That may indeed be so, Queen Balyndis. But it will help us and Girdlegard. I shan’t be complaining.”

“Nor me,” announced Ireheart, still digesting the details of his friend’s strategy. Throughout the whole of the journey so far he had not once seen Tungdil consult a map. His knowledge must be vast. “I suggest we set off as soon as possible before the wretched things hatch out.” “Tomorrow. As soon as the sun is up,” said Tungdil, getting to his feet. “I would like to rest. Queen Balyndis, be good enough to have me shown to my chambers. And tomorrow my ponies must be fresh and ready. And we’ll need provisions. Please arrange that.”

She signaled to one of the dwarves to accompany the ruler of all the dwarf-tribes, and Tungdil left the throne room without even bidding farewell.

Slîn and the fourthlings withdrew, leaving Balyndis and her son alone with Boïndil.

They carried on eating in silence and later avoided any mention of Tungdil while they discussed such topics as the Black Abyss and the dangers facing Girdlegard. Ireheart, however, was well aware they couldn’t skirt round the issue forever and, fed up with having constantly to defend the Scholar to others, he eventually took a quick draft of beer and broached the subject of his friend himself. “It may be that I’m mistaken, Balyndis, but there’s a strong resemblance between Tungdil and your son.”

He realized that the question was out of order, potentially problematic and possibly insulting. He was implying that she had deceived her husband, Glaïmbar Sharpax of the clan of the Iron Beaters and king of the fifthlings, passing off another’s child as his son.

But Balyndis took his words with equanimity, relieved almost that it had been mentioned. “It is very obvious, isn’t it?” she said softly. “It was a mistake to send Balyndar to the meeting in the Brown Mountains. All the clan leaders have seen him and his real father together, and will have put two and two together.”

“Will this affect your regency, do you think?” She shook her head. “No one is after my throne, now that Geroïn Leadenring is dead from the fever. He was the brother of Syndalis Leadenring, the king’s second wife; she was rejected in favor of me. Geroïn and some of his clan never forgave me for that. I rule well though, and if the kordrion can be driven off, the tribe of the fifthlings will flourish.” Balyndis started to cough.

“I had forgotten you are unwell,” said Ireheart, in concern.

“It will get better. Now that we know what the cause of the fever and lung disease is.”

“We have found the guilty party but we haven’t found a cure.” Ireheart tried to shut out from his mind the explanation the Scholar had given, in particular those words concerning the inevitable death of the sufferer. “But we’re sure to find something to make it better,” he hastened to say. He felt gloomy. Pull yourself together. She’s not dead yet.

The queen sighed. “Glaïmbar knew.”

“What? That Balyndar was not his son?”

“Yes. He never said so, but I could read his expression. He did not voice his suspicions or reject Balyndar; that was his greatness of heart. I loved him for that generosity.” She gave a pained smile. “Balyndar will succeed to the fifthling throne after me, Ireheart. That’s what Glaïmbar wanted, too, because he saw what a splendid ruler he will be one day.”

“But he does not get on with his real father.” Ireheart dusted a few crumbs off his beard, which had somehow trailed in his plate of food. “And he has a fair idea of who it is he’s dealing with? I mean, he’s not blind; he must have noticed the similarity.”

“That could be the reason Balyndar doesn’t like him. He doesn’t want to be the son of Tungdil Goldhand, a complete stranger, rather than of Glaïmbar, whom he admired. Glaïmbar taught him to fight and I taught him the work of a smith. Tungdil didn’t always come off particularly well when I told stories of him, if you take my meaning. After he ended our relationship in a letter, I was angry and disappointed in him for a long time. Age has made me milder.” She closed her eyes. “But when I saw him standing in front of me again, Ireheart, all the old feelings came back.”

“So you are convinced he really is Tungdil?” He bit his tongue: Too late.

To his surprise Balyndis smiled. “Don’t be confused by the somber exterior. My heart”—here she placed her hand on her breast—“my heart recognized him at once. It has never misled me.”

“It was the same for me,” he replied. He lifted his tankard.