The Fate of the Dwarves

XIII

Girdlegard,

Black Abyss,

Fortress Evildam,

Late Winter, 6491st/ 6492nd Solar Cycles

Goda contemplated the pulsating edges of the flickering red dome close to the walls of Evildam. The sight reminded her of waves lapping and she knew that, as with the sea, terrible monsters were lying in wait under the surface. She knew why the dwarf-race feared deep water.

Troubled, the maga pulled her cloak tighter round her shoulders. The energy sphere now reached all the way to their stone walls—but she was powerless to affect its growth.

Kiras, in breastplate and limb protectors over thick clothing, was at her side. Using a telescope she watched the enemy’s newly erected protective barrier. “The walls haven’t been damaged. I can’t see any cracks or bulges. The red glow doesn’t seem to be harming the stone. The warriors feared the force might bring down Evildam, but that’s not happening.”

“But the monsters can come directly up to our fortress walls. That is bad. I’ll need something to shrink the sphere down again.” Goda’s right hand played with the diamond splinters in her pocket. But what?

“He killed them,” said Kiras firmly, addressing the maga.

Goda knew exactly what the undergroundling was referring to. “I know. Ireheart saw the injuries on the ubariu, too,” she replied after a while. When the two women stood side by side it was obvious how different their respective dwarf-races were. Kiras, taller and slimmer in stature, was almost like a small human; Goda, in contrast, was one of Girdlegard’s archetypal thickset dwarves. Kiras did not have the darkish fluff on the cheeks that was noticeable on Goda’s round face.

“But Boïndil said nothing.” Kiras could discern monsters behind the red screen running across the plain round the Black Abyss and marking certain places out with flags.

“And he never will. Unless the dwarf pretending to be Tungdil Goldhand finally admits that he is an impostor.” Their attempt to force his hand had failed. Goda looked both ways along the battlements. They were manned at all times, the catapult teams at their stations, ready to take immediate action if the fiends attacked.

“That’ll never happen. Those dead soldiers we found are evidence that he’s pursuing his own ends with every conceivable means.” Kiras lowered the telescope to look at Goda. A flash caught her eye and when she turned in its direction she saw that it came from the eastern battlements. One of the guards had polished his shield so well that it was dazzling her. She thought she could even feel the heat of the reflection it sent. “Is it true they’ve made him high king?”

The maga nodded. “And I thank Vraccas that I’m here in Evildam! This way I’m not subject to his commands.”

The undergroundling leaned against the parapet. “I wonder what happened to the real Tungdil: Dead, captive or has he become something even worse than this thing, this fraud calling himself the hero?”

Goda sighed. “There’s no way of knowing.”

Kiras suddenly brightened up and looked across at the red sphere. “What if we captured one of the monsters for interrogation? Can’t you make a hole in the screen big enough for me and a few ubariu?”

Goda found the idea ridiculous at first but, on reflection… “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’ve got too much to think about. You have to command the fortress and be our maga, constantly on guard against sorcery.” Kiras offered this excuse with a smile, grasping Goda’s hands. “I don’t tell you this often enough: You are like a mother to me. I can never thank you enough for what you have done for me.”

“That’s why I shan’t find it easy to send you in there. Not only because of the monsters—there’s a magus over there as well. And who knows how long I’ll be able to hold the opening for you?” Goda shook her head. “No, we’ll drop that idea.”

A fanfare sounded, drawing their attention to the scene. The women picked up their telescopes.

A variety of creatures were running around, busy as ants, dragging stones to the places marked with pennants and building protective walls. Judging from the speed they were working at they had to be trying to get things completed by nightfall.

Elsewhere, large fat creatures with broad long-taloned paws were digging furiously. As soon as the holes had reached a certain depth they motioned over other workers to bring tubs of molten metal to tip in. Then long iron spikes were set at angles into the cooling substance.

“They’re making fixtures for siege machines.” Kiras surveyed the scene through her telescope.

“Catapults, I’d say. Like the one I destroyed that they were using down in the ravine.” Goda summoned one of the ubariu and asked his opinion; he agreed with her.

While they spoke, other beasts raced up behind the screen, dozens of them dragging huge long timbers. One of the fat monsters supervised their orderly construction and, bit by bit, the confused heap of wood became a siege tower.

“You were right,” said the maga to Kiras. “And over there they’re making an undercarriage for a battering ram.” She called for two of her children, Sanda and Bandaál, who she had been training up in magic skills. “We can’t wait any longer. The magic sphere must be held back before those machines can reach our walls.”

Kiras stared. “What are they doing?”

Goda looked down.

The monsters had half erected the first four siege towers, and then switched to the task of carrying stone blocks over and placing them on the wooden platforms; other workers brought long coils of rope, one end of which dangled back down into the ravine.

“Weights,” decided the undergroundling. “I don’t know what they’re for yet, but they look like counterweights.”

“They’ll be putting up a bigger catapult in the ravine itself, I suppose,” said the ubari soldier, screwing up his pink eyes to see better. “One of the beasts has got a white flag. He’s coming up to the gate.”

Goda assumed it was a herald come to negotiate. If it had not been for the barrier and the enemy magus she would have nailed the creature to the ground with a rain of arrows, then buried it under a rock the size of a house so that the brood of Tion could see what the dwarves had in store for all of them. But in the present situation this seemed unwise. Negotiations, even if Goda did not intend to put the results into practice, would take time. And treasure chests full of time were what she needed, waiting for Ireheart to return with enough allied soldiers to confront the enemy magus.

It would not be easy. Her husband and the one-eyed dwarf calling himself Tungdil had a daunting task; everyone knew that. Unlike the soldiers defending Evildam, Goda was not optimistic about being able to face down Lot-Ionan and force him to his knees.

The creature heading for the gate was walking more slowly now. It stopped three paces away and called out in a quavering voice. The guards passed on the message.

“Has it brought a list of demands?” Goda asked the others. “I wonder.”

The three of them hurried down. Goda, Kiras and the ubari went to the lift along corridors and past battlements and catapults. The open cabin took them down to ground level for the main gate. A soldier came up, a roll of parchment in his hands. “It was posted through the barrier into the spy-hole, Maga,” he explained.

“Put it down,” Goda instructed him. “Carefully.”

The guard looked surprised. “It’s only parchment.”

“Do what you are told!” snapped Kiras. “Who knows what spell they might have put on it. It could be a trick.”

The soldier did as he was ordered.

Goda approached the roll and spoke a security incantation to check whether the enemy magus had impregnated the parchment with a spell that would start to work when it was unrolled. She relaxed when the green flickering cloud did not change color—a sure indication that all was in order.

She picked it up, unrolled it and read:

Defenders,

I, Bearer of Many Names on this side of the Abyss and beyond, demand that you surrender the fortress with immediate effect. Open the gates and withdraw!

Further, I demand the entire hinterland be instantly subjected to my rule. I am inclined to be merciful if this happens without delay. If not, pity will be shown neither to soldiers nor citizens and I shall instruct my warriors that everything is to be destroyed.

I, Bearer of Many Names, am in possession of power beyond anything your own magus can compete with. Your magus should surrender to me voluntarily. If, on the other hand, I am forced to, I shall use my might to sweep him aside, and then shall have my troops wreak greater havoc still on the land.

The reply to this announcement must be received within seven sun courses, no more.

If the reply is not forthcoming within the set period I shall consider my demands to have been rejected and I shall know how to proceed to achieve my justified claims.

Nothing and no one can save you from my anger if you challenge me.

Goda handed the parchment to Kiras. “Insolent is too harmless a word for this fanatical rubbish!”

“Arrogant,” judged the undergroundling on skimming the content. “Arrogant and stupid. Someone’s getting rather big for his boots today.”

The maga went to the gate and had the sentry open the spy-hole. Directly in front of her she saw the red shimmer of the sphere the foe had erected, providing cover for war engines to be moved in close. You would not make demands like that unless you had great power, there was no disputing that. “Maybe he really is that powerful.” She clutched one of the diamond splinters and prepared a spell to attack the red sphere.

A narrow bolt of lightning sped through the spy-hole from the tip of her middle finger; it hit the barrier.

There was a humming sound like in a beehive and then a dark coloring spread where the spell had struck. Red turned to orange and then finally to dazzling yellow.

“Close up the spy-hole!” Goda commanded, stepping away from the gate.

Kiras and the guards could no longer see what was happening on the other side but they heard a loud explosion.

The fortress gate, although reinforced with iron plates, bolts and rods, shuddered under the impact. The hinges shrieked and flakes of rust flew off the metal. The blast was so strong that the entrance opened up a little as some of the metal fastenings fractured, flying in splinters around the heads of the defenders. The ubari standing at Goda’s side was struck and fell to the ground groaning; the undergroundling cried out and grasped her head. Shrapnel had torn off half her ear.

Goda, attending to the needs of the wounded, vowed never to try an experiment like that again. It doesn’t bear thinking about what would have occurred if I’d used a really strong spell.

She knew now that the barrier would return any attack with tenfold magic firepower.

Girdlegard,

Protectorate of Gauragar,

Twenty Miles South of the Entrance to the Gray Mountains,

Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles

Ireheart watched the vanguard of the Black Squadron—whatever that might be—come riding out of the little valley to arrive ten paces away from where Tungdil was standing in a dip in the landscape. He could do nothing to prevent this. He could make out ponies and dwarves with dark armor remarkably similar to that of the Invisibles.

As soon as the squadron noticed the sledges they fanned out, covering the entire breadth of the hollow; there was no way through.

Tungdil halted his sledge and the Zhadár, one by one, slowed down, then dismounted, forming a circle, using their shield-sledges as protection to create a mini fortification with Tungdil and Barskalín in the center. Slîn and Balyndar came up and joined them.

Damn and blast. This is not going to go well. Ireheart doubted he could reach them before the Black Squadron tightened their ring round the Zhadár. Oh, what the blazes… I’ll barge my way through. “Nothing on this mission is going as planned. Not even when we haven’t got a plan!” he cursed under his breath and made himself as small as possible so as to offer the wind less resistance.

In an audaciously dangerous maneuver he swerved past the pony legs, headed for the last gap in the squadron’s ranks and crashed his sledge full tilt against a Zhadár shield.

Ireheart was hurled up into the air, then he slammed into the protective wall and slid into the snow, springing back on his feet immediately, his weapon at the ready. “Get back!” he yelled at the rider in front of him, but he could hardly see what he was doing, what with the melting snow dripping into his eyes. “I swear I’ll get you with my crow’s beak where it’ll really hurt.”

A chorus of loud laughter broke out.

“There are not many children of the Smith who carry a weapon such as yours and who are as old as you,” someone scoffed, but still with a trace of respect in the voice. The dwarf sprang down from the saddle, chains clinking.

Boïndil swiftly wiped the snow off his face. Now he could see the dwarf-warrior clearly: He bore a long-handled ax in his right hand. A thick mantle was worn over reinforced chain mail and the bright red beard had black streaks in it. Green eyes surveyed Ireheart; the body was tensed and the warrior was watching out for a surprise attack born of desperation.

“It would be a pleasure to try my strength against yours,” said the unknown dwarf. “Boïndil Doubleblade.” Then he turned to the Zhadár. “What’s this about, Barskalîn? Since when are you afraid of me and my soldiers?”

“I’m not afraid of them or of you. But I was not sure you were still their leader, Hargorin Deathbringer.” On his command all the shields were lowered and then Barskalín approached his friend. “I wasn’t expecting to meet you and the Desirers on my travels.”

Ireheart’s gaze went from one to the other. “What—by the Smith—is happening here?” He looked at the riders’ dark armor. “Desirers?”

“They collect tribute for the älfar from what was once Idoslane.” Balyndar spoke with hearty disdain. “Robbers and murderers, nothing more.”

“Don’t be so hasty.” Barskalín held out his hand to Hargorin and introduced Slîn, Balyndar and Ireheart. “Now bend the knee before the new high king of the dwarflands,” he announced dramatically. “For he is one of your own, a thirdling. Tungdil Goldhand!”

Hargorin took a step back in surprise and stared at the one-eyed dwarf emerging from the ranks of the Zhadár; then his gaze took in the armor, and Bloodthirster, and finally the hard facial features. He saw the insignia of a high king. “Well, I’ll be…” His voice trailed off in disbelief, then he sank onto one knee and bowed his head, proffering Tungdil his ax.

The Black Squadron dismounted and one hundred and fifty warriors, male and female, all made their reverences to the ruler of all dwarves.

Ireheart looked around with a grin. “If this happens every ten miles or so all the way to Dsôn Bhará, we’ll soon have a decent army to put the wind up the älfar and chuck them out of Girdlegard,” he laughed. “Scholar, will you take a look at this! Thirdlings showing you respect!”

Tungdil commanded Hargorin and his squadron to stand. “If I understand Barskalín and yourself correctly may I assume you share the same views on the älfar?”

Hargorin glanced at the sytràp, who nodded permission to continue. “Lord, many of us have been waiting for you to return to lead your tribe against all the enemies.” As he spoke he seemed radiant with delight. “You don’t know it but our folk recount legends about your fame.”

Tungdil looked at Barskalín, who shrugged and said, “I haven’t had time to tell you.” This will make a good story for the campfire. Ireheart gave a broad grin. “So, my Scholar… A fairy-tale hero fêted by the thirdlings now.”

“If he’s so popular with the thirdlings, this gives us untold opportunities,” remarked Slîn.

“Not all revere him,” Hargorin was quick to point out. “But very, very many do.” He beamed at Tungdil. “One of the legends describes your heroic deeds on the far side of the Black Abyss. When I see you wearing this armor it feels like it was a prophecy. The story describes you exactly like this.”

Barskalîn gave two of his Zhadár orders to watch the sky for any signs of the kordrion’s approach. “We need to find ourselves somewhere nice and quiet where we can talk properly,” he suggested. “Have you got a place near here, old friend?”

Hargorin nodded. “Half an orbit’s ride away. It’s one of my fortresses. Let’s harness our ponies to your sledges and make for the stronghold.”

“Is it strong enough to withstand a kordrion attack?”

Hargorin’s expression did not change. “It can hold up for a good while, at least. And if the tower were to collapse we can still escape through the tunnels.” He looked at Barskalín. “What have you been up to? Why is the beast after you?”

The sytràp laughed. “We’ll tell you later. Take the high king to your home and look after us well. Then we’ll have time to talk.” He became serious. “You will have to come to a decision about whom to serve,” he said, suddenly formal.

“I did that many cycles ago.” The thirdling bowed to Tungdil. “Whatever leads you to the land of the älfar, from now on I and the Black Squadron shall serve only you, Sire. You will bring us glory. As our legends promise.”

Balyndar rolled his eyes. But a happy Slîn on the other hand appeared gratified. “Absolutely charming.”

“Charming sounds… feminine. But I certainly find it all… extraordinary.” Ireheart was pleased that instead of the battle he had been fearing they were now celebrating with their new brothers-in-arms. But he could not shrug off his disquiet at the amount of black there was around him. It was like a weather front of gathering thunderclouds; would it discharge itself into a terrible storm? If so, it was clear that at its very eye would be standing none other than his friend Tungdil.

“It will suck us all in,” he said under his breath, remembering that he too would soon be donning the dark armor of the Zhadár. “Vraccas, don’t let me turn into one of them just because I have to wear their black plating.”

Again it was Slîn who overheard. This fourthling had highly developed hearing. “You’re afraid you might become like them? Boïndil, it’s only black steel we’re going to be putting on.” He tapped himself on the chest, then touched his head. “Our hearts and minds will still belong to us. Look on it as a harmless disguise.” He threw one end of a rope to one of the riders; the other was tied to his sledge. “If you like, I’ll look after you, my poor little dwarf.”

Ireheart laughed. “You’re right to make fun of my childish thoughts.” He got his sledge ready.

Pulled swiftly across the snow, they soon learned the disadvantages of this mode of travel: The ponies’ hooves kicked up the snow and whirled icy clouds into their faces such that, before long, they’d all taken on the appearance of small, grim, bearded snowmen.

Through the snow Ireheart saw the twenty-pace-high curtain wall loom up in front; he also saw blasphemous insults daubed on it that would make any decent dwarf shudder in his boots.

This was nothing less than pure hatred of Vraccas in the form of runes. The symbols swore total annihilation of all the tribes. Shameful slogans daubed on many of the blocks of stone: Vraccas the Cripple, Vraccas the Powerless, Vraccas the Impotent…

Ireheart was not the only one to notice.

“I’m not setting foot in there,” cried Slîn, and Balyndar nodded in agreement. “This is appalling. Vraccas would be enraged if we accepted hospitality from Hargorin Deathbringer. And I can’t help feeling we’re definitely going to need the Creator-God on our side in the next few orbits.”

Ireheart agreed. “We’ll find ourselves somewhere else to stay—in one of the village houses.”

They shouted to the squadron to stop but, not hearing them, the band rode on through the settlement, heading for the main gate of Vraccas-Spite. Finally, the three dwarves cut through the ropes and got off their sledges. Hargorin and Barskalín turned round, and Tungdil ordered a halt.

“What’s going on, Ireheart?” The one-eyed dwarf was surprised. “Why don’t you want the safety of the stronghold?”

“It may not bother you, Scholar.” He pointed to the inscriptions. “But it bothers me! I worship Vraccas and that’s why I won’t enter this fortress, where his name is insulted and his words are dragged through the mud.” He got up and brushed the snow off his mantle. “We’ll find a bed with the villagers.”

“You know that the kordrion will hunt you down as the murderer of its young because of the scent on you of the cocoon?” Tungdil warned. “You won’t have much protection in one of those flimsy huts. You won’t even have woken up before the white fire gets you.”

Boïndil indicated the Invisibles. “The Zhadár walked through the same blood and smashed eggs.”

Barskalín looked a bit shamefaced when he said, “But our armor is made of tionium.”

“Blasted bloody orcshit! That would have to happen to me!” He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t care. Vraccas will protect me, because I shan’t go in there,” he said, pointing to the door. “Not under any circumstances.” Slîn and Balyndar stood at his right and left.

Boïndil was aware that the group had formed into two distinct fronts. On the one side was the Black Squadron with Barskalín and on the other was him and two dwarves he did not know very well, but one of whom, at least, he found tolerable enough.

And it seemed to him that Tungdil would be going over to the dark ones’ side and not to his own.

Hargorin, with Tungdil’s permission, ordered his squad to enter the fortress. The Zhadár followed them in. Deathbringer came slowly over to the three adamant dwarves. “I understand you full well, Boïndil. But trust me when I tell you that the appearance of my house is purely a front.” He pulled out a pendant from under his chain mail: a vraccasium hammer with the sign of the Smith. “I am his,” he whispered. “The whole squadron is his. But we had to disguise our intentions, like the Zhadár, so the älfar wouldn’t suspect us. That has meant we can move around freely all over the lands where the black-eyes are in power. We know a lot about Idoslane and about the resistance movement. Even if the humans consider us unspeakable, we are really on their side. One orbit we shall need this knowledge in order to break the oppressive rule of evil.” Hargorin smiled. “Believe me, Boïndil. For every stone bearing an insult to Vraccas I have begged the creator’s forgiveness and I know that I will receive mercy when I reach the eternal forge. The deception has been essential. These have not been the times for open warfare.” He looked over his shoulder. “But with Goldhand’s return the fight has begun.”

Ireheart looked at Balyndar, then at Slîn. They seemed not to want to be convinced. “I shall be staying out here in the village,” he repeated, a little less aggressively this time. “Blasphemy is blasphemy. Can you recommend somewhere we can stay?”

“Perhaps one of the cheaper ones. Our war coffers are not overflowing,” added Slîn.

Hargorin gave up. “Say that I sent you and you won’t be charged anything. When we meet to arrange the rest of the journey we’ll come to the house you choose. Just let me know where you’re staying.” He turned away and exchanged a few words with Tungdil and Barskalín.

The one-eyed dwarf lifted his hand. “We’ll be there when the kordrion comes to get you,” he called. “Sleep well.” Then he disappeared into the fortress with the others; the door closed with a dull clang, robbing the three dwarves of the sight of the high king. “Three against three,” remarked Slîn.

“What?” flashed Balyndar.

The fourthling pointed to the little gap through which they could just see glimpses of tionium armor. “Us three against those three. I’ll take Hargorin. He’s a good target. Ireheart should fight Tungdil and Balyndar can challenge Barskalín.”

“I’ll have Tungdil,” said the fifthling.

“What are you blethering about? You’re splitting the hairs in my beard,” Ireheart thundered. “We will not be fighting each other.”

“It was just a thought. Forgive me. I got carried away.” Slîn stared at the tips of his boots and was really embarrassed. “It won’t happen again, Boïndil.”

Ireheart thought that Balyndar’s tone of voice showed he shared the same thoughts. Serious thoughts. “Let’s find somewhere to stay. Any preferences?”

Slîn swiveled round to look at the little stone and half-timbered houses ringing the walls of Vraccas-Spite. “They all look the same. I can’t decide.”

“Then let’s go for the one that’s furthest away from the blasphemous inscriptions.” Balyndar went off, dragging his sledge behind him, going back the way they had come.

They reached a farmhouse with a large barn and knocked. It was not long before someone opened the door.

A young woman stood on the threshold studying them from head to foot. “You’re not one of Deathbringer’s people?” she said in surprise. She popped her head out to look toward the stronghold. “Quick, come in, before they see you! They’ll kill you if they see you!”

Ireheart found her solicitude for three total stranger dwarves quite touching. “Good woman, do not concern yourself…”

Balyndar pushed past him. “May Vraccas bless you! Thank you for the warning.” Unobserved, he winked at Ireheart. He was obviously planning to pretend he was a newcomer and nothing to do with the thirdling leader. He told her their names. “We thought it was a dwarf-fortress holding out against the älfar, but when we saw the runes we knew we were wrong. But we’re too tired to travel on.”

Slîn had grasped the idea and pretended he was afraid. “Blasted dwarf-haters!”

Ireheart was still hovering in the doorway; it did not seem right to deceive these humans. On the other hand, they could learn things about Hargorin Deathbringer that he would not be vouchsafing to his guests. “Again, our thanks,” he said and entered the house. “May Vraccas always keep your hearth warm to reward you for your bravery and generosity.”

Ireheart, Slîn and Balyndar were led to a large kitchen where the rest of the family was gathered. Ireheart counted eleven, ranging from ancient to newborn, round the table. The food smelled of cooked cereal of some kind and hearty smoked bacon.

“Grolf and Lirf! Go and put their sledges in the barn, then hide their tracks,” the young woman ordered. Two young fellows jumped up. “We have guests,” she said, introducing the dwarves. “True children of the Smith and not thirdlings.”

“By Palandiell, you’ve chosen the worst place to stop in the whole of Gauragar,” called the old man, whose mouth showed only two teeth. His laugh was as hollow as an empty tin. “They’re going to spend the night here. We can think about how to get them away in the morning without being seen. The thirdling lord won’t let them live if he finds them.” The young woman put her hand to her brow. “By the gods! I have forgotten to tell you who I am. I am Rilde, and this is my farm.” Then she went round the table doing the introductions.

“Boïndil Doubleblade?” An older woman, called Mila, was staring at him. “The Boïndil, who fought so many battles for Girdlegard?”

Ireheart felt himself grow taller with pride.

“Then he’s come to kill Hargorin,” whooped the girl called Xara.

“Be quiet!” Lombrecht hushed her. He was the toothless old farmer to whom the farm had once belonged. “Hargorin is a good overlord. Who knows who would succeed him?”

Ireheart saw that Lombrecht had a pendant depicting Sitalia. “A human who worships the elf goddess?” he said, while a bench was being dragged over for them. “That’s a rarity.”

“And brave.” Slîn nodded to the window to show that the thirdlings disliked the elves even more than they hated the dwarf-tribes.

“Someone has to keep their memory alive,” answered the elderly farmer, while Rilde filled wooden bowls for them. “They were always a part of Girdlegard and must not be forgotten.”

The three dwarves exchanged surprised glances.

“I thought all the elves had fled to a secret hiding place,” Ireheart said, eating his first spoonful. It wasn’t bad, though not a patch on Goda’s minced gugul. “They’re in a grove somewhere, waiting for the children of the Smith to pull the diamond out of the fire again before they get burned. Isn’t that so?”

Rilde sat next to them and Xara brought them three cups and a jug of light beer. “It would be nice if that were the case,” she sighed. “But the legends of my people tell a different story.”

“I think I should spend more time with the long-uns,” Slîn whispered to Balyndar, as he tamed his hunger. “This is where to get the latest news.”

Ireheart looked at Rilde. “Tell us what you know. Where are the last of the elves?”

“I’ll tell you the story of how the älfar came back to Girdlegard and destroyed the last of the elves.” Lombrecht cleared his throat. “It was over two hundred cycles past. A pair of elf lovers met at a pond, the Moon Pond, over where the old elf realm of Lesinteïl used to be. Their names were Fanaríl and Alysante…”

The children were wide-eyed; the dwarves listened, rapt, to the old man’s words and were soon so drawn in that they forgot where they were. They saw the tale unfold in their imagination.

“My life shall be your life. Now and forever,” whispered the elf-girl, bowing her head to kiss her darling. Water streamed out of her wet hair onto his naked chest, dripping down his skin and into the soft grass.

Fanaríl laughed and returned her caresses. “You look like a water nymph—a mermaid, not an elf,” he teased, sitting up.

Alysante squatted naked before him; the last rays of sun shone through the trees, making her face glow and adding to her beauty.

The elf took her hand and kissed it gently, first on the back, then on the palm. “My life for your life,” he vowed. “I cannot exist without you.”

Alysante embraced him tenderly. With the warmth of their young bodies, passion arose; they made love on the bank of the dream-touched pond.

Afterwards they ran hand in hand to the ice-cold waters to refresh themselves, diving energetically head first into the lake.

The splashing made waves, causing the blue and white water lilies to bob up and down on the surface and the pond to overflow, lapping onto the banks up to the rich green grass.

“See how they dance, Fanaríl!” she laughed and swam over to her heart’s darling, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him. “They’re dancing for us.”

“But they only flower for your sake,” he answered, stroking her face tenderly as he broke away. “I’ll gather some for you.” Fanaríl swam off.

“No!” Alysante tried to prevent him. “There’s an undertow! Be careful or it’ll pull you down.”

The elf-girl trod water, keeping her eyes on her companion, but the sun’s last rays reflected on the wavelets so strongly that she had to look away. She could hear the slap of his arms in the water and the splash that his feet made…

Suddenly these regular sounds stopped.

“Fanaríl!” she cried, frightened for him. Her voice echoed over the pond but there was no answer. Alysante quickly swam back to land and clambered onto a rock to get a better view.

Three water lilies were missing, but she could not see the elf.

Her fear increased.

The clear waters of the Moon Pond, which the rest of the elves in their village tended to shun, was suddenly as dark as ink. The beauty of the place disappeared with the last rays of the setting sun and shadows made the dreamy surroundings appear somber and forbidding. The deep waters, in which they had bathed so gaily, could suddenly be housing some gruesome monster. Alysante had always been warned by her father that the pond became evil at nightfall. Now they were to pay the price for their disobedience.

The fine blond hairs rose on the back of her neck. The elf-girl did not dare approach the bank. She ran to where she had left her clothes and dressed quickly. One last look at the surface of the pond and then she was going to run to get help—but a body shot up through the water three paces away from her and launched itself on her with a roar.

Alysante stumbled back with a scream, her hand on the handle of her knife. She stabbed at the creature attacking her.

“No! Stop!” the creature begged, holding out three water lilies. “It’s me: Fanaríl!”

Her fear subsided and her vision cleared so that she could recognize her beloved, who was now bleeding from a knife wound on his chest. “By Sitalia! Forgive me!” she exclaimed in horror. “I thought…” Fanaríl inspected the shallow wound. “It’s just a scratch,” he reassured her, handing her the bunch of flowers. “It’s my own fault. I should not have given you a fright like that.”

In her relief, Alysante pressed a kiss onto his lips before bringing him his clothes in exchange for his gift. “Never do that again,” she begged. “You know what they say about the pond, however beautiful it is here.” She was shaking as she put away her dagger. “I thought a beast must have caught hold of you under the water and it wanted to eat me before I could go for help.”

Fanaríl burst out laughing. “It’s only a pond the old folk tell stories about. But they’re not true. That’s all it is.” Suddenly he stared at the waves, his eyes wide. “There!” he shouted. “Look there! What’s that?”

The elf-girl whirled round. “Where?”

Upon which, her lover pushed her straight into the water!

“There’s a mermaid!” laughed Fanaríl, as she sank in the dark waters.

The water lilies bobbed up and down on the surface. Alysante did not reappear.

“I know what you’re up to,” grinned the elf. “But you can’t scare me.”

He stepped nearer and scanned the murky depths for sight of her.

He could just make out a pale oval. A face, coming closer.

“I can see you!”

Fanaríl got ready to grab her by the shoulders and push her under again. She burst up through the surface with a splash. Fanaríl greeted her with laughter so that she would know her attempt to frighten him had not worked.

But his hands did not meet her naked shoulders. They met hard leather!

For the space of one long breath he gazed into the beautiful but cold face of an unknown elf-woman, then a bolt of lightning shot through his stomach and warmth spread over him. Fanaríl saw the long sword she had rammed through his body. He collapsed, mortally wounded.

The elf-woman rose up out of the Moon Pond and with her left hand pushed a lock of black hair out of her face. She looked round her and disappeared silently into the nearby wood.

At the same moment Alysante jumped out of the water. Her pitiful attempt to emulate the roar of a beast turned into a gale of laughter. “It’s no good,” she spluttered, rubbing the water out of her eyes. “Did I make my darling boy die of fright?” she giggled when she saw Fanaríl lying there.

Only when she saw the red stain and cut on his robe did Alysante understand that he was not play-acting.

She sank down beside him on her knees and examined his wound, looking round to check for attackers. “Sitalia, save him! Fanaríl, open your eyes! You must stay awake…”

Drops splashing onto her back warned the girl before a broad shadow fell over her. A horse snorted.

Alysante looked over her shoulder and her hand flew to her dagger for the second time that evening. Two huge black stallions with dark saddles stood behind her with angry red eyes full of hate. In the middle of their foreheads she could see the sawn-off stump of a horn and, as the nightmares stepped up out of the water, their hooves sent out lightning flashes, lighting up the water.

Alysante knew what she was facing.

Black-haired twin älfar sat on the backs of the nightmares, each in elaborate dark armor, and one of them held a mighty sword in his right hand. He brought the weapon down so fast that she missed its movement. The long sword’s tip was planted on her back. Moisture ran off the blade onto her wet bodice; now she was cold with fear.

“Say who you are, elf-woman,” he demanded roughly. Trembling, she said her name. “Is your village far from here?” Now she stayed silent and promptly the blade dug into her ribs. Warm blood trickled out of the narrow wound, coloring her dress red. “Answer!”

Alysante turned away from the sword and ran off toward the trees. She must warn her friends!

Sobbing with desperation and fear she raced through the thicket. Her thoughts were in turmoil. In her mind’s eye she saw her dead lover and felt his lifeblood still sticky on her fingers. She couldn’t understand where the älfar had come from. Had they been asleep at the bottom of the Moon Pond? Had Tion hurled them in past the mountains of the dwarves?

She was panting hard, her mind in a whirl—then she realized she was leading them directly to the very last of her people! Alysante climbed up the nearest tree to continue her flight overhead from branch to branch, leaving no prints to follow.

At long last, fighting for breath and with aching arms, she reached the edge of the settlement. She saw the glow of lanterns illuminating the delicate houses and ancient Palandiell beech trees. They promised safety.

She climbed down the tree in relief and was about to go over to the buildings when a strong hand grabbed her from behind, hurling her to the ground. A boot was placed on the nape of her neck, pressing her into the forest floor without mercy.

“You were asked by Tirîgon whether your village was far from the pond,” whispered a female voice in her ear. “I shall take him your answer, elf-woman.” A knife scraped coming out of its scabbard. “Now I shall send you to your lover. Be sure the rest of your relatives will be joining you this very night.”

Alysante tried to utter a final warning cry, but the double blade rushed down and took her to the land where Fanaríl sat waiting, tear-drenched in his despair.

There was total stillness in the kitchen.

Ireheart was amazed how good a storyteller Lombrecht had been, given his lack of teeth.

“And that,” Lombrecht summed up,” is how the älfar came back into Girdlegard.

“Didn’t Emperor Aiphatòn bring them in from the south?” Slîn asked, indicating to the other two dwarves that he was sounding these simple humans out as to the extent of their knowledge. Ireheart was letting the implications of the story sink in. Barskalín had hinted that the älfar had entered from the north. Lombrecht had told the story of their return. A kernel of truth, then.

Lombrecht replied, “It’s said they came out of the south. But I know this story and I like it. Aiphatòn will have made up the other story to make himself more glorious. We all know the magus cannot be beaten.”

“Does your tale have an explanation for how the black-eyes got out of the water so easily, as if they could breathe underwater like the fishes?” The mere thought of a black pond made him extremely uneasy.

“My grandfather used to tell me there was an underground river that rose in a grotto in the Outer Lands and emerged into the Moon Pond. It brought evil with it and made people frightened if they found the water and wanted to bathe. That must be why it’s got the bad aura and why there are so many legends about it.” Lombrecht used his spoon to scratch a sketch map on the table. “The älfar will have followed the course of the underground river, underneath the Gray Mountains and the fifthlings, and then they got out of the water. Later on they rebuilt Dsôn Bhará and called themselves Dsôn Aklán.”

Ireheart pushed away his empty plate. “But Girdlegard must be overflowing with älfar if that’s the case. That route must still be open.”

“No, the tunnel collapsed. That’s what we think, because the Moon Pond dried up completely. It’s just a rocky hollow now where nothing grows. It’s where the älfar put their town. But there’s no tunnel, it’s said,” said Rilde, relief in her voice.

“We still have too many of them anyway,” said Lombrecht, getting Xara to bring him a jug of beer, which he emptied at one draft. A loud belch ensued.

Slîn applauded. “Well done, old man. Nice quality. Now I know how he lost his teeth,” he chuckled to Ireheart. “We could make him an honorary dwarf, don’t you think?”

Balyndar shook his head. “We should get to bed. We don’t know what we’ll have to do tomorrow.” He got up.

Rilde stood up. “Of course. You can sleep in the barn. Or in the cowshed loft. It’ll be warmer there.”

“The loft for me,” said the fifthling at once. “I’d rather smell of cows and be warm.”

They went to their quarters and Grolf and Lirf brought them a stack of old horse blankets to keep out the cold.

The warmth and smell of cattle came up through the floorboards and Ireheart soon started to doze off, exhausted.

His last thought was that they had forgotten to inform Hargorin where they were staying. That meant they would have to rise early and knock at the door of the fortress. He did not want Rilde or her family to know. They should not connect the honest dwarves of Girdlegard with either the Black Squadron or the Zhadár.

Ireheart, Slîn and Balyndar managed to pack their things and leave the farm without being observed.

They walked along at the edge of the settlement and approached the second gate of the fortress, where they knocked. Even though the guard recognized them at once and, in Hargorin Deathbringer’s name, invited them in, they refused to enter the courtyard. The sentry sent someone to tell the thirdling leader.

It was not long before he reappeared. Behind him came three servants carrying a bench and a table laid with a meal for them.

“You can eat outside if you prefer,” they were told. “But be quick. The troop is about to head for Dsôn Bhará.”

The three dwarves looked at one another and started to eat in silence outside the gates of the fortress. This conflicted with Ireheart’s plan to keep their presence secret. The sun was not yet fully risen, but word would soon get around.

“We should have used false names,” said Balyndar, sipping his hot tea. “Now they’ll think we’re with the dishonorable ones.”

“That won’t go down well in songs about us,” sighed Slîn, nodding toward the courtyard where the servants were bringing out stands bearing black armor. “Those’ll be for us.”

“Well, I’m not going to put that stuff on in full view.” Ireheart desperately looked around for somewhere to withdraw to. There was no way though that he would step inside Vraccas-Spite.

They used their cloaks as curtains to help each other robe up and put on armor and weapons.

Ireheart thought Balyndar looked more and more like his father now. It was obvious whose son he really was.

Slîn, on the other hand, did not look right in his borrowed get-up. Several of the pieces were too loose for the cross-bowman. He fiddled with his armor unhappily and the metal squeaked. “You two at least have the air of warriors,” he said to Ireheart and Balyndar.

“You look a bit like a gnome in disguise,” teased Boïndil.

The Black Squadron were assembling in the courtyard, with Tungdil, Hargorin and Barskalín in cavalry armor riding in front. It was an impressive and worrying picture. Stable hands hurried over with ponies for the three dwarves waiting outside.

“Good morning,” Tungdil greeted them. “We missed you.”

“Was there a reason you didn’t let us know where you spent the night?” Hargorin’s query sounded harmless but Ireheart thought he was suspicious.

“Didn’t ask their names,” he said quickly, before Slîn could answer.

The fortress commander was not satisfied with that. “Which house was it, then?”

I shan’t betray them. Ireheart swung himself up into the saddle and moved up to be next to Tungdil. Hargorin had to move aside. “No idea. Some house where all the furniture was too big for me.” He gave an innocent grin.

Slîn laughed out loud and Balyndar joined in. They mounted up and the band of riders set off.

Ireheart looked around: They were now a group of over a hundred and fifty. “I assume the Zhadár and the Black Squadron have mingled?”

“Indeed, Ireheart.” Tungdil’s response was not ironic. “The Dsôn Aklán are to think they are still busy trying to steal kordrion eggs.”

“What about the strategy meeting, Scholar?” asked Ireheart, pushing down his visor. “Where are we holding that?”

“We’ve already had it. We brought it forward.” Tungdil looked at him amicably and reprovingly at one and the same time. “We didn’t know where to send the messenger to tell you.”

Ireheart saw the sense in that. “Then tell me what’s been decided.” The one-eyed dwarf turned to the front and raised his arm in a signal to the company. Behind him a standard was hoisted high, displaying the unfamiliar rune that seemed a mixture of dwarf and älfar script. “There’s time enough to tell you on the way.” He lowered his head slightly. “What do you say to my coat of arms, Ireheart? Isn’t it fine?”

Boïndil nodded. But it wasn’t fine. Not fine at all.