The Fate of the Dwarves

XXIV

The Outer Lands,

The Black Abyss,

Fortress Evildam,

Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Goda prayed to Vraccas longer than was her wont.

As soon as the sun rose she was on her knees by her little shrine, begging her creator to come to the aid of her daughter Sanda, who she presumed was now in the beasts’ lair, in the clutches of the terrible dwarf.

“Annihilate him,” she whispered, tears flowing through the down on her cheeks. “Smash him to pieces, Vraccas, with your great hammer, cast him into the forge and incinerate his soul. He has turned his back on you and has the worst of all evil plans in store.” She stood up. “You know that Ireheart and I have been defending the humans and all the other peoples in your name. Do not allow us to be repaid in this way.” She bowed before the tiny Vraccas figurine, crafted from pure vraccasium, then left her chamber.

Out in the corridor a messenger hurried to meet her. “My lady, they have sent a negotiator,” he announced. “He’s at the southern gate.”

Her heart began to race. Hastening after the messenger, she soon reached the half-open gate and stepped through, right up to the edge of the red screen.

On the other side stood a monster with features similar to a human but it was considerably taller and very muscular. It had three arms—one on each side and one in the middle of the chest—and held two long shields and a huge pike. The beast had not been equipped with armor, but the body had several layers of leather clothing; the odor coming through the barrier was revolting.

“The one who bears many names and who is our master,” it said in a rough voice, showing sharp teeth as broad as a dwarf’s finger, “sends his instructions to you, sorceress; you are to surrender the fortress immediately. Otherwise the one who bears many names and who is our master will kill your own flesh and blood. After he has violated her many times, and then sent you, orbit by orbit, a further slice of her body: The fingers first, then the forearms, and so on. With his magic powers he will ensure that she continues to live right up until the end and experiences pain fully…”

Goda raised her hand. “Enough. Go back to him and tell him that I cannot do that. There is more at stake than my own daughter. But I shall kill him with my own hands if he harms her. And tell him that my magic power is also great. I am not afraid of him.” She nearly choked, but controlled herself, determined not to show fear.

“If your powers were really great the barrier would have been destroyed and you would already have launched your attack,” the monster replied. “As the one who bears many names and who is our master thought you might respond like that, he has a proposal that he thinks you will find you can accept in exchange for the life of your daughter.”

“I am not prepared to bargain.” Goda turned away. “No matter what the stakes.”

“Her life in exchange for that of Balodil,” it called after her.

“I know of no Balodil.” She stopped, a cold shiver running down her spine.

“The one who bears many names and who is our master says you know the one about whom I speak.” It made several strange noises, a cross between a belch and a growl. “He has taken your daughter to a place you will never find. Even if it came to a battle and you penetrated the ravine, your daughter would not be there. You will only get her back if the one who bears many names and who is our master receives Balodil’s corpse and the armor he stole.”

Goda turned to the messenger, who was holding his two shields closer now, in order to be able to hide behind them if necessary. “I am a dwarf and would never betray one of my own kind,” she said, her voice quivering. “Tell your master he may expect nothing of me. Apart from a painful death if he touches my daughter.” She strode off abruptly and gave the sentries a sign to close the gate.

“He who bears many names and who is our master accords you three orbits in which to make up your mind. After that time has elapsed you will receive the fingers of your daughter’s right hand,” Goda heard the creature say before the gates thudded shut.

Much as the dwarf-woman tried not to waste further thought on the offer, she could not forget it. “What harm if I were to kill the deceiver?” she said to herself once she had returned to her own chamber. She knelt again at the shrine and prayed to Vraccas. “You know he is not really Tungdil. To exchange his life for Sanda’s would not be a crime, but a doubly good deed.” She shut her eyes and saw her daughter’s countenance before her. She wept.

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Rân Ribastur,

In the Southeast,

Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Tungdil had decided not to take the most direct route, which would have involved a long march through the Sangpur deserts, and so their company had set off for the southern part of Rân Ribastur; they would head east later on, to make straight for the Blue Mountains.

They had seen very few humans. Tungdil, using the maps carefully, had led them through the forests, which grew so thick in places that they had to walk in single file, with the head of the column slashing at the undergrowth to carve out a path. They had abandoned the ponies.

They purchased provisions from the smallholdings they passed on the way. Rodario and Mallenia were in charge of buying stores; that way, no one got to see the dwarves.

And things were astonishingly quiet.

There were no wild animal attacks and the legendary enchanted creatures and magic plants left them in peace as well. But they were given dire warnings about not leaving the path and not traveling through the forest by night.

Making a final stop on the territory of the former queendom, they rested one late afternoon in the shadow of towering trees, whose foliage let through hardly any light; the canopy of leaves would give them protection from the heat waiting to hit them a few miles further to the east when they emerged from the forest.

Slîn used his telescope to scan the dunes about four miles away. “The light is shimmering as if it were water.”

“And I’m very glad to know that it’s not,” said Ireheart, who was sitting on the ground, his back against a tree trunk. “I can’t wait to get away from all these creepy creepers but I’m not too keen on burning hot sand, either.”

“Or the icy nights of the desert.” Balyndar filled his drinking pouch with water from the little stream. “Dwarves are mountain people. I don’t mind the cold if I’m where I belong.”

“I couldn’t agree more, fifthling.” Slîn nodded and swung his telescope. “Nothing for miles. No long-uns, no trees, no shade.” He lowered the glass. “It’ll be the first time for me, going into the desert.”

“It’s said to be very beautiful,” said Rodario, trying to see the bright side of what was probably going to be the toughest part of their journey. “A desert isn’t only sand. There’ll be rocks aplenty. That’ll cheer you up, friend Slîn.” He altered his voice and took on the persona of a storyteller. “In the old days the queendom was a mountain region, one peak higher than the next. People say the wind in Sangpur is so fierce that it eroded the mountains into sand inside of seven times seven cycles. Now, this is all that remains.”

“You can tell that to your grandmother,” growled Ireheart.

Rodario beamed. “I did. She believed me.”

“Well it’s nonsense! The only mountains in Girdlegard are our own. The only genuine mountains.”

“Isn’t it amazing what they can find to quarrel about?” Coïra remarked to Mallenia, passing her the salami. “About mountains.”

“I know men who’ll start a fight about the dimensions of their own little man,” replied the girl from Ido, and the other woman laughed.

“You see? They’re laughing at us,” Slîn complained to Rodario. “There’s some kind of conspiracy going on. It started that night we were in the burned-out farmhouse.”

The actor stroked his chin in thought. “Yes, you’re right. The fine ladies choose to make us the butt of their jokes.” He winked at Coïra, who smiled back before glancing quickly at Mallenia. The Ido girl nodded to her, which Rodario found surprising. He was pretty sure he had missed something.

“What else do you know about the desert?” Balyndar urged. “I don’t want fairy tales. I want the truth.”

“Then you’d better ask the Scholar,” said Ireheart. “He always used to know that kind of stuff.”

“And we’ve got Franek.” Coïra waved the famulus over. “We were just talking about the desert; what can we expect, apart from heat and sandstorms?” she asked him. “You must have crossed the desert when you escaped from Lot-Ionan?”

He sat down on the green moss and scooped up some water from the stream to drink and to cool his face. “May Samusin be by our sides…”

“May Vraccas continue to stand by us,” Ireheart corrected sharply. “I want nothing to do with that other god. And I certainly don’t want to owe him any favors.” Slîn and Balyndar were of the same opinion. Ireheart filled his pipe indignantly. That’ll be the day…

Franek started again. “Whoever is protecting us we’re going to need his help on the final miles through to the Blue Mountains. Bumina has gone to ground in the desert. She always planned to give eternal life to dead things.”

“Hey, undeads! We know all about them, don’t we?” Ireheart called to Tungdil, who was sitting talking to Barskalín. “I’m not afraid of them. In the time of the Perished Land we cut them down, whole ranks of them, one, two, three, fast as you like!” He accompanied his words with appropriate arm movements, losing odd bits of tobacco.

“That’s not what I meant…” replied Franek.

“Then you weren’t expressing yourself clearly,” Slîn interjected, grinning. He enjoyed being able to play out his distrust of the famulus. “Why don’t you come to the point?” Humans and dwarves laughed in response.

Franek didn’t rise to their bait. Rodario admired his cool. “Bumina found places in the desert where she released some magic and she sealed it in,” he explained slowly. “She wanted the magic to find itself something to embody, to incorporate itself. At first the experiments failed and the magic capacities dissipated. But, with time, she discovered the formula to enforce her will on the magic to do what she wanted by employing runes. She was assiduous and persevered until circumstances conspired…”

Ireheart thumped his crow’s beak handle on the ground. “Tell it properly, wizardling. Say it so we can understand.” The audience laughed again.

Now Franek grew impatient. “So it’s not just your stature that’s diminutive. Your brain must be the same,” he hissed venomously.

“Ooh, a hit!” Rodario commented.

Ireheart’s chest and arm muscles jerked dangerously. “Have a care, little wizardling. Or my hand will slip and I’m not sure my tiny brain will be able to hold me back.” He pointed to Coïra. “We already have a maga and we can find the way without you.”

Franek made an obscene gesture—and in a flash Ireheart was beside him, grabbing his little finger and snapping the top joint; it cracked and the famulus shrieked with pain.

“Sorry, it’s the fault of my tiny brain,” said the dwarf in a dangerously quiet voice. “If I were brighter, of course, I’m sure I wouldn’t have done that. And just think what else I might be stupid enough to do to you?” He played with the crow’s beak. “Having a hole in your foot is probably quite painful, my little sorcerer’s apprentice.”

“Stop it, Ireheart,” Tungdil ordered, looking up from his study of the maps. “Leave him be. He is on our side.”

“But he insulted me!” the old warrior fumed, pointing with his pipe. “It was him that started it!”

“Then that’s an end to it now. Sit down and let me get on with my work.” Tungdil pored over the map again.

Franek clutched his damaged finger and showered his assailant with ferocious looks. Ireheart was sitting now next to Slîn. “Well at least he can’t do any magic now, even if he gets to bathe in the source,” he whispered to the fourthling, who burst out laughing.

“I hope the sand creatures gobble you up,” the famulus spat out between clenched teeth.

“Ah,” said Balyndar. “So that’s what the magic does. It makes creatures of sand.”

“Sand creatures. Beings made of stone, made of… made of everything that is dead and that is in the magic places,” Franek summed up, staring at his hand. He did not dare straighten the fractured finger.

“How can we best deal with them?” Rodario did not relish the idea of having to contend with a wall of stone or rubble.

“Us? We can’t do anything.” Franek pointed to Coïra. “This is a test for her. Only counter-magic can destroy these fiends. Conventional weapons will be worse than useless.”

“We’ll see about that.” Ireheart tested his crow’s beak for sharpness and puffed away furiously at his pipe until his head disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. Neither he, Balyndar, Slîn or Franek saw how pale Coïra had gone.

Tungdil gave the order for them to set off. “The sun is low enough now. We can make a start. It’s better if we can adapt slowly to the changes in temperature.” He got the Zhadár to put white cloaks over their dark armor, to deflect the sun’s rays. This should help them avoid heatstroke; Tungdil and the others protected themselves in a similar way, putting on wide white tunics.

“I look like an icicle,” joked Slîn.

“An icicle with a beard?” Rodario grinned.

Barskalín and Tungdil took the lead, then came several Zhadár, then the dwarves and the humans; the rest of the Invisibles brought up the rear.

Even a march of four miles, after coming out of the shelter of the trees and heading toward the dunes, had them breaking out in a sweat, in spite of the spring weather and the advanced hour. When they climbed up the soft sand, walking became much more onerous.

Their heavy armor quickly caused the dwarves to get out of breath, however grateful they normally were for its reliable protection in a fight—Tungdil was the only one who seemed to have no difficulty in coping with the heat. He stomped off ahead as if he were a machine and not a creature made of flesh and blood.

Neither Ireheart nor the other dwarves wanted to show they were struggling. Not until the night stars shone above their heads and it had grown extremely cold did Tungdil tell them to settle down, in sight of a rock formation. But he was not going to let them rest for long, it seemed. Slîn sank down onto the sand and took off his helmet; he was exhausted.

“We have crossed the first belt of sand,” their leader announced. “We’ll camp over there by the rocks. They’ll afford enough shelter if a storm comes up.”

“That’s another three miles,” Slîn said. It was obvious he was not willing to take one more step. “It’s just as good here.”

Tungdil shot him a look. “We march. If you can’t take it, sit and wait for dawn. We’ll collect you when the horizon is pale blue.” Without giving the rebellious dwarf another thought, he set off.

“Come on, fourthling.” Surprisingly, it was Balyndar who spoke. “Let’s show our high king what you are made of.”

“The crossbow is so heavy,” he complained. “The weight is making my legs tired.”

“Hand it to me. Let’s go.” Balyndar stretched out a hand to haul him up. “Three miles is nothing.”

Slîn looked at the fifthling. “How did I get to earn your sympathy?”

“We are all in this together, Slîn, whether we like it or not. We know you’re good with the crossbow. We need you.”

Balyndar shouldered the weapon. “And it really is heavy.”

“I don’t suppose he could have kept going for as long as you did, fourthling,” Ireheart added with a wink.

Slîn looked from one to the other. “You’re taking the piss!”

“No, we’re not. I swear by Vraccas.”

“It’s just, it’s late. I want to get some rest. And you’re stopping me if we leave you here,” said Balyndar, deadly serious, then he smiled.

Slîn turned to Rodario. “They’ve both got a touch of the sun. That’ll be it.”

The actor put on a sympathetic face. “Yes, it’s said the sun can easily have that effect. The juices the brain swims in—they dry up and, hey presto, there you are, turned into a nicer person, whether you want to be or not.”

“So maybe we should put Lot-Ionan out in the sunshine for a bit, what do you say?” Coïra chimed in, laughing. “Sounds simple enough.”

“But you can see that it works, if you look at these two stubborn, bad-tempered dwarves here,” said Rodario, bowing to Ireheart and Balyndar as an apology for the teasing.

After a considerable amount of fooling and joking they reached the rock, which rose twenty paces high and was eight paces by eight in ground area. Tungdil chose the eastern side for their camp and instructed the guards to wake them at first light.

They were too tired to prepare a meal and, one by one, they fell asleep. Even hunger would not keep them from the realm of dreams tonight.

Ireheart glanced at Tungdil, who was resting sitting upright, his back to the rock. In the starlight his bearded face appeared older than ever; his eye was open and fixed on the dark skies. His lips moved. Then the runes on his tionium armor began to glow. Only then did he shut his eye.

Ireheart dozed off.

The Outer Lands,

The Black Abyss,

Fortress Evildam,

Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Goda stared at the parcel packed in waxed paper. It had been found at dawn by sentries at the western gate.

Even though she had been prewarned about what the monsters’ leader was going to do, she did not want to have to see her daughter’s severed fingers.

Her hands worked of their own accord, opening the knots in the string, unfolding the paper and lifting off the lid of the unadorned box.

Goda looked away as the smell of blood hit her nostrils. She bent slowly forward; her very eyes seemed afraid of what was in the container.

“Vraccas,” she groaned. Her fear grew stronger. The next parcel would contain Sanda’s forearm. And the orbit after that she would receive the upper arm. Then the fingers of the other hand. Bit by bit.

Her cruelly fertile imagination saw her mutilated daughter; soon there would be only a bloody torso and a head. Goda could hear her screams, her pleas, her sobs—because her mother was refusing to kill a dwarf she did not even believe to be the real Tungdil…

“I can’t,” she sobbed, throwing herself onto her knees before the shrine. “I can’t sacrifice my daughter like that, Vraccas. Not for the sake of some charlatan whose lies everyone else has fallen for.” She stared at the little statue. “I shall have to strike a deal with this enemy. I have no other choice…”

There was a loud knock at the door. “My lady! My lady! Come quick! A miracle!” came a soldier’s voice.

Goda wiped the tears from her face and opened the door.

“My lady, your daughter! She has come back and is waiting for you at the gate!” he enthused.

“My… daughter?” She looked at the table where the little box with the fingers lay. Then she hurried out, her head spinning, reeling from joy and shock. When she reached the southern gate at last, there was Sanda!

She was still wearing the chain-mail shirt, but it hung down on her limply and badly laced; her face showed severe bruising and the right sleeve was blood-soaked. Her dark hair hung lank and greasy. But Sanda was smiling.

“My daughter!” Goda took her in her arms and pressed her to her breast, her eyes shut. They remained in that tight embrace for several moments. “What has he done to you?” Goda stared anxiously into her daughter’s brown eyes.

Sanda avoided her gaze and her pupils flickered. “He beat me and humiliated me. It was a place just like Tungdil said the Black Abyss was,” she whispered and began to shake, hugging herself. “I never want to go there again,” she said out loud, looking at her mother. “I’d rather die.”

Goda was about to answer, when her eyes fell on the right arm. She was looking for the wound, but saw—a healthy arm with no fingers missing!

She forgot what she had been intending to say and snatched up the girl’s hand. “How is that possible, Sanda?” The digits were pink and tender as those of a newborn baby.

“He who bears many names cut them off,” she said in a faltering voice. “He grew me new ones in their place. It was dreadfully painful but not as painful as the other things he did to me.” She looked at her hand. “As the other things he did…” she repeated quietly, swaying on her feet.

Goda supported her. “Why did he let you go?”

“He didn’t let me go. I escaped,” said Sanda, her knees buckling under her. Goda sat her down on a bench and sent for water. “I escaped and I ran and ran, Mother. I ran and then I got lost but somehow I got away.” She looked at her hand. “Quick, give me a knife!” she cried, holding her hand outstretched. “Those are not my fingers! They are his! He made them grow there! They will obey his will!”

“Hush, my child.” Goda took her in her arms and rocked her as she had done with the infant Sanda. “You are back with us now.”

Sanda coughed. “They are his fingers. I touched the barrier and it opened up for me,” she said abstractedly. “Why else would the screen do that?” Then she gave a long shrill scream. “The evil is now part of me!” With untold strength she tore herself out of her mother’s embrace, grabbed an ax from a startled sentry and had chopped off the fingers before Goda could stop her. “There! I’ve done it!” Sanda trampled on the severed digits, while blood spurted out of the stumps on her hand.

“Vraccas, restore her mind!” cried a horrified Goda, holding her fast. The sentries helped her. They bandaged up the bleeding hand so that Sanda would not die from blood loss and carried the fainting girl up to her chamber. There, her mother undressed her and bathed her.

Sanda’s body showed that she had been tortured. Goda wept tears of fury and hate. “For this I shall put him to death so slowly that it takes him a whole cycle to die,” she vowed. “What he deals out to others he shall suffer himself.” As she dried her daughter’s arms—she was brought up short. There was a mark on the inside of the left upper arm. She had never noticed it before. It was not a result of the torture she had endured. It was the size of a fingernail, red. It looked as if it had grown there.

Instinctively Goda recoiled and studied the dwarf-girl with different eyes. She started to doubt that it was really her own daughter. Had their enemy sent a copy, a clone? The same as he had done with Tungdil?

“Vraccas, rid me of my suspicions,” she prayed in sudden despair. “I’m sure she will always have had this mark but please let me remember having seen it before.” Still holding the towel she rested her hands in her lap and watched her daughter closely. She noted other peculiarities. Was the chin always so soft? Were the cheekbones not normally a little higher? And what about the nose? Even the shape of the eyebrows seemed suspect.

“No,” she said. “It is my daughter! It really is!” Goda dried Sanda’s shoulders and covered them with the sheet. “It is her. I’m not going to succumb to a trick. The enemy is trying to make me doubt her, wanting to sow distrust.” She took a deep breath and stood up to go to the guards to hear what had been happening in the plain by the Black Ravine. She had to force herself to place a farewell kiss on her daughter’s brow.

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Sangpur,

Southwest,

Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Ireheart woke up and opened his eyes.

Above him the stars glinted; around him he could hear quiet snores, and then the crunch of sand. This came from Slîn’s boots; the fourthling was on watch, striding up and down. The two Zhadár who shared the guard duty made no sound when they walked.

Apart from that the camp was silent.

What woke me? Ireheart was surprised. While he was pondering, the stars appeared to be growing brighter. Now they were as bright as the sun by day, but they gave off no warmth. What’s…? He sat up.

Day seemed to have dawned.

Their surroundings showed up clear and distinct; he could even see Slîn relieving himself over at the rock; he was writing his name in the sand with dwarf-water. That was easy enough if you had a short name, of course, but it didn’t ever work with Ireheart’s. And if you wanted to put the family name as well, you’d have to drink an awful lot.

He rubbed his eyes but it was still bright, even though the sun had not yet risen. When he looked at his hands he saw a black liquid on his fingertips! It had come from rubbing his eyes.

He was suddenly frightened. What is happening? Is this place cursed?

He got up and Slîn looked over at him at once. Ireheart acknowledged him with a gesture and went over to ask if he had noticed anything strange.

He could see the fourthling clearly. He could discern every single ripple in the sand at his feet and could hear the slightest of noises, even the very grains of sand as they were shifted by the breeze. But Ireheart knew perfectly well that his hearing was not good. All that noisy clanging and battering in battles had taken their toll and in recent cycles he had been having trouble with the higher-pitched tones.

But tonight it was different.

After two paces he was overcome with thirst; the need was so strong that it could not wait until after he had talked to Slîn. So he turned on his heel and went back to where he had been lying, to collect his flask.

Ireheart drank and drank and drank, but the thirst could not be slaked. Water seemed to increase his need rather than quench it!

Out of breath from drinking so fast, he tossed the flask aside and took hold of Balyndar’s. There was not enough coming out for his liking, so he took his knife to the pouch, forcing the last drop down his burning gullet.

In a fury he chucked the empty leather to the ground. Vraccas, what is wrong with me? He was already stretching his hand out for the next soldier’s drinking vessel. As he lifted his hand he felt a sharp pain in his wrist.

A scorpion had been hiding under the flask and had defended itself with its sting. Ireheart stamped on the insect and drew out his knife to open the wound and suck out the poison.

But when he looked at his arm he saw the wound was glowing yellow! There was a shimmer surrounding the sting; he could feel the heat coursing up his arm, and then the glow died away.

Ireheart sat down on the sand. Have I just healed myself from the poison? Or was that a miracle sent by Vraccas?

Thirst flamed up once more, torturing him. He clutched at his throat with both hands to try to soothe his discomfort. Then he stuffed a handful of sand in his mouth to stop the burning sensation. It did not work.

He swayed and tipped sideways as the stars above his head swirled and circled.

Then the agony began.

Ireheart was well acquainted with the pain of burns; he had suffered sword injuries or arrow wounds; he knew how it felt to have a dislocated shoulder or a sprained ankle; he had known toothache and fever. If he put all those tortures together and multiplied them tenfold he was getting close to what he was now suddenly subjected to.

His breathing stopped and he could not move a muscle. His mind was drawn upwards to the stars and he felt he was floating like a layer of gold leaf in the warm air of the forge.

Then he tasted blood in his mouth and all around abruptly went dark.

Blinking, he saw the stars once more as tiny specks of light against the black firmament; next to him he saw a Zhadár stowing away his flask and smiling at him.

It’s that confounded crazy troublemaker! “It would have to be you,” muttered Ireheart, before he spat out a mouthful. He knew this taste well. It was that stuff that was apparently distilled elf water. “Did you just give me that Tion water?”

The crazy Zhadár bared his teeth and nodded. “It’s the only thing that helps when you’ve got the bad thirst,” he piped, in a high voice like a castrato. “It’s the only thing! One drop and the fire dies down.” He chuckled and laid his finger to his black lips. “Shhhh! We must not tell anyone that I gave you some of that. Barskalín would be furious. We haven’t got much of it and it’s the most precious thing we have.”

Ireheart waited. His thirst had actually gone. Sand scrunched between his teeth, but there was no more water left to rinse his mouth out with.

“It’ll keep you going for a few orbits. Then the thirst will return,” the Zhadár mouthed, giggling. “Do you notice how wonderful it makes life? The most obscure secrets of the universe make sense and it makes you as strong as a giant!” He stood up and made an exaggerated bow. “Ireheart, Ireheart. Soon you’ll be one of us. A little bit like us. Your soul has changed color and is starting to become as black as ours,” he fluted in his high-pitched tones, then adding in a bass note: “Soon!” He stepped back silently and rejoined his comrades, lying down on his blanket.

Ireheart found it impossible to get back to sleep.

He had been shown clearly that the liquid was not merely a herbal distillation, as he had at first hoped. Until now he had completely forgotten that he had helped himself from another’s flask. What did it all mean? And why, by Vraccas, had it taken so long to show the effects?

Tossing and turning on his blanket helped not a jot. He got up and went over to the Zhadár. “Oy, wake up,” he said, shaking him by the shoulder. “Tell me what’s happening to me.”

The Invisible’s eyes opened and a grin appeared on his face. “Come with me.” He bounded up, grabbed the dwarf by the sleeve and tugged him over to a gap in the rocks. “Nobody must see us,” he whispered. “It is forbidden to reveal our secrets.” He crouched down, pulling Ireheart down, too. “Elf blood, distilled and…”

“You told me that already… but is it the truth?” Ireheart interrupted angrily. “What is it doing to me and how does it change the color of my soul? Will I ever get to the eternal forge now? Will Vraccas admit me?”

“Perhaps not all of your soul,” the Zhadár conceded regretfully. “Vraccas may have to burn out the affected part and let the rest of you enter. If he is kindly disposed to you.”

“Listen… have you got a name?”

“Balodil,” said the Zhadár, the answer shooting out like an arrow.

“That’s nonsense. That’s the name the Scholar took when he went into the beasts’ realm of eternal terrors.”

“But it was mine first,” came the sulky response.

Ireheart’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so? Then tell me who gave you that name.”

Balodil said nothing but pointed silently at Tungdil as he slept.

“Of course,” groaned Ireheart. “Vraccas, what else do you have in store for me? A crazy Zhadár who pretends to be the Scholar’s son.”

“He dropped me into the river when we were crossing on the bridge,” said Balodil resentfully. “I can remember how the current took hold of me and dragged me under. I couldn’t breathe. Some time later I woke up. I was with some humans. They fed me and made me work for them but then they sold me and I escaped when the älfar invaded.” He told his story quickly and without a pause. “I ran all the way to the caves of Toboribor. I lived there for many, many cycles. That’s all. I survived from orbit to orbit by stealing from the outlying farms. Until Barskalín found me and took me off to join the Zhadár.” He grinned, raising his arms and flexing his muscles. “I’m the strongest of all of them.” Balodil pointed back to Tungdil. “It was him that dropped me in the water. Even if he used to look different. I recognized him straightaway.”

Ireheart could hardly believe what he was hearing. A chilling story; abstruse enough to be true? It could all be a pack of lies. Did Tungdil maybe tell him about losing his son?

He shook his head. Very few people knew the story of Tungdil and Balyndis’s first child: The effect on Tungdil of the child’s loss had nearly driven him mad with alcohol and grief. And after all the cycles that had passed in the meantime. There were so many other tales that could be told.

Ireheart looked at Balodil and tried to spot similarities between him and Tungdil or, indeed, Balyndis. He saw no resemblance and was angry with himself for giving any credence to the words of a crazy Zhadár. “Whatever… Balodil: Just tell me what I can do about all this.”

The Zhadár glanced furtively back over his shoulder. “You have the curse of the elves on you now.”

“You don’t mean to say you used their blood for this revolting stuff?”

“Yes, we did. We found the last of the elves and took them prisoner…”

“I thought the älfar had eliminated all the pointy-ears?”

“No, they didn’t get all of them. We finished the task off. All except two. They cursed us all and anyone who would partake of the drink. If anyone can free you from the stain on your soul it will be one of the two elves still alive.” Balodil cocked an ear. “I must get back to the others. Barskalín has woken up. If I’m away too long he’ll think something’s wrong.” He put his hands on Ireheart’s shoulders. “Swear you’ll not betray me. Nobody must know that we spared the lives of two of the elves. Not until all the älfar have been wiped out.” The grip on his shoulders was painful.

“All right, I swear, for Vraccas’s sake.”

Balodil released him and disappeared into the shadows.

“What do I do when the thirst comes back?” Ireheart asked in a muffled whisper.

“I’ll be there and I’ll help you slake your thirst,” came the answer out of the dark.

He sighed. “Vraccas, whenever I think it can’t get any worse, you have a surprise in store for me,” he grumbled. “My soul is besmirched, I have an elf curse on me and the only pointy-ears who might be able to help me—well, no one knows where they are or if they’re even still around.” He fiddled with his trousers, preparing to give some dwarf-water to the desert. “Oh, and let’s not forget the monsters of the Black Abyss. And Lot-Ionan, who we have to defeat but mustn’t kill. All the usual suspects for a dwarf like me to contend with. Anyone would think it was some marketplace bard coming up with this tale. Perhaps you’ve got a pet storyteller, Vraccas, giving you ideas.” He directed his dwarf-water to describe at least the first letter of his name in the sand.

He was not surprised in the slightest to note that his stream ran black as ink before it trickled away between the grains of sand.