The Fate of the Dwarves

XXVII

Girdlegard,

Blue Mountains,

Realm of the Secondlings,

Late Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Ireheart was overwhelmed by his impressions.

He was back in the homeland he had left so long ago; because of Lot-Ionan it had been impossible since for him even to make visits. He took a deep breath and recognized the unique smell of the Blue Mountains, remembering these same tunnels from the old days. He was dismayed by the dilapidation.

Vaults, passageways, caverns, halls and chambers—everywhere was in need of attention. A mountain is not dead, as humans tend to assume. Things there are always on the move. Rocks shift as the mountain grows, shudders and sways. Places die away, and the inhabitants of the mountain have to adjust accordingly. Supports have to be put in, rubble cleared, new chambers hewn. Since Lot-Ionan’s takeover, none of the maintenance had been carried out.

“Cracks, roof falls, leaks,” he noted with distress. “What a disgrace! For that alone the hocus-pocus wizard deserves a good beating!”

“Quite apart from the wanton destruction,” added Slîn.

“That’ll have been the experiments he and the famuli carried out,” said Franek, who was at the head of the company alongside Tungdil.

“Then you deserve the same beating,” growled Ireheart, giving him a shove. “A mountain will be resentful. I hope it doesn’t take it out on us, when my folk move in again.”

“I’m sure it will be glad to have you back,” said Slîn. “It must be totally sick of magic by now.”

The humans followed the dwarves, with the Zhadár bringing up the rear. In the temperate cool of the mountain they had regained their strength; they had located an underground stream and drunk fresh courage with every gulp of water. Now they were on their way to a second, vital, source. Franek did not seem to have trouble recalling which tunnel to take.

Ireheart was being more cautious than usual. As soon as the little wizard shows the slightest indication of trying to trick us, I’ll split his skull with my crow’s beak spike and give his brain some fresh air.

“The älfar attack should already be underway,” Rodario told Mallenia. They had taken Coïra between them and were helping her along. To be on the safe side. “Nobody will be in our way.”

“Apart from Lot-Ionan,” interjected Mallenia.

Rodario dismissed the idea. “What are the chances of encountering the magus in this enormous underground realm?”

“He could be at the magic source, guarding it. Then things would be difficult for us.” She spoke quietly, not wanting the dwarves or Zhadár to overhear.

“There it is,” said Franek, indicating an oval door inside a palandium arch that had runes chiseled into the lintel. “The source is behind that door.”

“What do the symbols mean?” asked Tungdil as he headed for the entrance.

“It’s a formula. It has to be pronounced to make the door open. That way Lot-Ionan knows somebody’s going in. He’s got a bracelet that starts to glow when the incantation is spoken,” the famulus explained.

Tungdil considered the entrance. “How did you get in? You knew about the security arrangements.”

“I tried a counter-incantation I thought was foolproof.” Franek looked down, humiliated. “It cost me my position.”

“We could just break the door down, Scholar.” Ireheart looked at Balyndar. “Keenfire can make a nice little hole in it and overcome any magic device.”

“But Lot-Ionan would still know,” warned Franek. “He can turn up very quickly, before the queen and I have had a chance to refresh our own stores of magic. He won’t be weakened yet.”

“So we’re practically at our destination but we can’t go in,” said Balyndar impatiently. “If the magus finds us now we’ve got no chance.”

“You and Tungdil will survive,” Ireheart ventured. “You’re both immune to magic.”

Tungdil pursed his lips and lifted Bloodthirster. “Balyndar is right. We’ll go in and let Queen Coïra bathe in the pool; Balyndar and I will stand guard and make sure Lot-Ionan can’t surprise us.” He turned to the maga. “How long would you need?”

“It depends on the strength of the source,” she said, uncertainly.

“It’s enormously powerful,” Franek said. “It never took me longer than a few moments.”

“We can hold him off that long,” said the fifthling determinedly, nodding at Tungdil. The one-eyed dwarf barged the door.

A loud hissing sound ensued as the runes above the entrance flared, showering Tungdil with sparks, but his tionium armor absorbed the spell as if it had been harmless rays of light. The wood splintered and the door burst open.

Tungdil stood on the threshold with his weapon raised above his head, checking in all directions to see if it was safe. “There’s no one here,” he called back.

The others hurried over and Balyndar remained at the doorway, facing out, Keenfire in his hands.

It was a small chamber, really more like a sauna. Steps led to a vertical shaft protected with a grille; the walls were decorated with a mosaic portrait of Lot-Ionan’s face.

The magus has changed a lot, thought Ireheart. Compared with how he used to look he had gone bald, and he had three reddish-silver tufts of hair on his chin. The eyebrows were bushier, too. His features had become crueler and more demonic, as if the bones had been rearranged. But it was unmistakably the face of the Scholar’s one-time foster-father.

“Coïra needs to stand over the shaft,” said Franek. “Her weight will cause the grating to sink five paces down, bringing her directly to the magic force field. She’ll need to use a spell to bring herself up again.”

Slîn and Balyndar were at the door. “Why don’t the steps go right down into the source?”

“Lot-Ionan wanted it like this. I don’t know what his motives were.” He saw Ireheart’s suspicious expression. “Well, let me go first if you think it’s a trap.”

“Oh, I can see you’d like that,” Ireheart laughed. “Scholar, what do we do here?”

Tungdil gestured to Coïra to come over to the shaft. “If anything happens to her, kill Franek,” was the only instruction he gave.

“That’s easy. I can do that,” Boïndil replied.

The queen was taken down the steps by Rodario and Mallenia and, as they withdrew, she sank down, the grating lowering itself with a click.

“I shan’t bother to remove my clothing this time,” she said. “You will have other opportunities to admire me naked.”

“I can hear something being wound tight,” said Slîn, listening to the mechanism.

“Take care!” Rodario called to Mallenia. “I don’t like it. How do we get her up again?”

The Ido girl took off her belt and asked for Rodario’s as well. She swiftly tied them together and tested the knot. “If Coïra jumps she can reach this and we can pull her up.” She knelt and looked down. “Dark as the grave,” she said quietly.

“Horrid thing to say.” Rodario knelt also. The clicking still continued indicating that the grating had not reached the bottom. “Has it started yet?”

A blue shimmering light surrounding the maga showed that the source was bestowing its power.

They waited in silence. The tension in the chamber had them all sweating, except for Tungdil, who was the very embodiment of calm, as if he were in possession of a secret certainty that they would all leave the Blue Mountains alive with Lot-Ionan their captive.

Ireheart kept switching his attention between the source and the door. “I hate this,” he grunted, wiping his sweating hands yet again on his undershirt. “Oh, how I hate this. I’d rather be in a battle for a whole orbit.”

In the corridor all was quiet. Not a sound, no shouts, and no Lot-Ionan.

“Where do we go to find him?” Tungdil demanded of Franek.

The famulus shrugged. “He could be anywhere, but I reckon he won’t be far. I’m surprised he hasn’t turned up yet to see what’s…”

“Quiet,” ordered Balyndar. “Someone’s coming!”

Rodario could see that Coïra was undergoing contortions in the blue light, as if in intense pain. She crouched down, cowering and holding tight to the walls, swaying and moaning. This was not at all how he remembered events at the source near Lakepride. “Coïra, are you all right?”

No answer.

“We ought to get her out of there,” he decided, letting the end of the improvised rope down. “Catch!”

Ireheart stood behind Balyndar and Tungdil, taking care not to touch his friend’s armor as he peered out between them.

A young woman in a dark-blue figure-hugging dress raced toward the chamber, her long dark hair streaming out behind her.

Terrified, she glanced over her shoulder; she had not seen the dwarves at the chamber entrance. An arrow jutted out of her shoulder. A greeting from the älfar archers.

“The little sorceress is injured. Good!” murmured Boïndil. So she must have used up all her magic at the first encounter, and needs to get it recharged. She would be an easy victim. “Will you let me have her?” he asked Tungdil and Balyndar.

Bumina saw them and stopped short. “Dwarves? By Samusin, how did you get in here?”

Franek came up behind the dwarves and addressed Bumina. “You didn’t expect this, did you?” he said with malicious glee. “Oh dear, did the älfar hurt you?” He pulled out his dagger. “That’s nothing to what I’m going to do to you! You destroyed my town! The trap had your signature all over it.”

“Lot-Ionan made me do it.” Bumina studied the dwarves and tried to gauge what they would do. She raised her arms. “Get out of the way and let me into the source.”

Tungdil and Balyndar both raised their weapons at the same time.

Rodario called down the shaft, but there was still no answer from the queen. Uttering a curse, he jumped down, directing his fall as best he could by bracing hands and feet against the walls. He landed by Coïra, who had collapsed; he, too, was covered in a white light, but he felt nothing.

“What is it?” he said, helping her up.

“The source is incredibly… powerful,” she groaned. “I’m not used to it and it really hurts! It’s drenching me with power, more than I’ve ever known.” Her next sentence was a muffled groan and her fingers clutched at Rodario’s collar. “I can’t concentrate on finding the right spell to get out of here,” she stammered. “Help me…” Her body became rigid and then repeatedly convulsed unnaturally.

Rodario took her girdle and told Mallenia to throw down the improvised rope. He tied the belts together, fastened them to Coïra’s hands and threw the other end back up. “Pull her up!” he shouted, crouching down to lift her onto his shoulders. “I’ll support her from below.”

The rope tightened and soon the young woman was being pulled gradually out of the sphere of magic influence.

The clicking ceased, and the grille slid sideways under Rodario’s feet!

The dwarves up at the doorway knew nothing of this.

Franek was still laughing at Bumina. “If you really had any magic power you would have cast a spell at us.”

“You haven’t used magic either, so I can only assume your reservoir is as empty as mine.”

Ireheart looked over his shoulder. Coïra was being heaved up out of the shaft by Mallenia. The queen thanked her, gasping for air, and then stood up. She no longer looked as drained as she had done and there was a new spark in her eyes. “But now we have a maga strong enough to magic the two of you into the ground.”

Tungdil turned quickly round and nodded at Franek, who could hardly wait to get down into the source. “Your turn now.” Without warning he plunged Bloodthirster twice into the stomach of the famulus. “Go to Samusin or to whichever god you want.”

Franek collapsed onto the stone flags, gurgling horribly, still moving his lips inaudibly. His fingernails scratched at his killer’s tionium shin protectors. By the time his head hit the floor he was dead.

Ireheart was not distressed but he was surprised. Another deed the old Tungdil would not have carried out.

“He told us about your secret path,” Tungdil said to Bumina. “That’s how we got in.” He lifted Bloodthirster, red and dripping. “Where is Lot-Ionan? Don’t even think about running away.”

The famula recoiled. She turned and started to run, but Tungdil hurled his weapon at her with a furious roar. It hit her on the back, exactly where the arrow had struck. Screaming, she fell to the ground, felled by the impact.

With one bound Tungdil was by her side, brutally tearing Bloodthirster out of her flesh; he used his boot to turn her over, then placed the weapon’s sharp tip at her throat. “I’ll count to three and if I don’t get told where to find him you will die,” he snarled. The deep voice sent shivers up Ireheart’s spine. “One…!”

“Die and lose your soul!” Bumina whimpered.

“It’s no good trying to protect your master. You’ll be harming yourself, not him. Two!” He increased the pressure he was exerting, and the blade penetrated her flesh.

“Gone! He’s gone!!”

“Three!” Without showing any emotion Tungdil pushed Bloodthirster through her throat. The famula attempted to gasp for air, coughing and spluttering, her hands grasping the deadly weapon instinctively, but the arm of the dwarf was like steel. Bumina fought death—and lost. Her eyes went dull and her life left her.

“We’ll look for him ourselves,” Tungdil announced. “He can’t be far away.”

“Nor can the black-eyes,” said Ireheart, unable to take in what his friend had just done. These humans had deserved to die. But the way he had done it: That was extraordinary. Thorough.

“Help!” they heard Mallenia’s voice. “I need your strong arms!”

Ireheart was about to turn round and help the Ido girl but at that moment he saw älfar charging round the corner. He reckoned there must be about seventeen of them, all wearing black leather armor, with iron plates over the breast. Their weapons were of various kinds, but similar to swords. His battle-lust flared up on the spot. “I’ll be with you in a tick,” he called. “I’ve just got a few black-eyes to flatten!” He raised up his crow’s beak and hurled himself at the enemy with a mighty war cry to Vraccas.

A black shadow overtook him.

“Oh no! Scholar, don’t spoil my fun,” he complained. “You go and help Mallenia! Leave them…”

To me is what he had intended to say, but Bloodthirster crashed horizontally into the side of the first älf, slicing into him as easily as if he had been made of wax. While that enemy was still falling to the ground, Tungdil was already striking the next one, making a hole in his chest before yanking out the dripping steel spike to plunge it into the neck of a third älf. Blood was everywhere.

Ireheart stared at his friend in astonishment. He had never seen him fighting so brutally.

The swiftness of his movements was such that he was faster than the black-eyes he was fighting; the älfar did not know what had hit them. They had never fought dwarves before and had certainly never met an adversary like this. Black blood was raining all around, severed limbs fell, weapons and armor shattered at each of Bloodthirster’s strikes.

Tungdil was screaming like a mad dog on each attack he launched. He mowed his way through the ranks of the älfar, cutting a path. The fallen were blocking Ireheart’s view. When the last of the enemies was slain, he saw Tungdil standing with his back to him at the far end of the corridor. He had blood all over him, dripping from his armor and helmet.

“Vraccas help us!” he heard Balyndar say.

Turning round he saw a very pale fifthling at his right hand. Balyndar had also followed the course of the combat. To be more exact, it had not been combat but slaughter. Faced with Tungdil those älfar were like drunken orcs. And yet Ireheart knew that he himself would never have been able to fight his way from one end of the passage to the other like that. Not nowadays and not without taking some injury.

Coïra had been too busy to watch. She was staring into the darkness of the shaft. In order to be able to get Rodario out with magic she first had to be able to see him.

She lifted her hand and a torch flew into her outstretched fingers. She trained its light down into the dark shaft until she could see the actor. He was clinging to the open grille with both hands, poised perilously above the abyss.

But the grille was moving again, coming up. This would mean Rodario’s fingers would be crushed and he would fall.

This time the maga had no problem finding the right magic formula. Now that she was outside the source she no longer felt confused and overcome with the ecstasy that had robbed her of the power of clear thought.

Invisible powers took hold of the actor and lifted him, pulling him through the narrow gap between wall and grille and floating him up out of the shaft to land between the two women.

Hardly was he back on his feet than Coïra rushed into his arms to embrace him. But she released him at once. “I must see what’s happening outside,” she said, excusing herself.

“A hero,” said Mallenia, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “But you did need a bit of help. I like that.” She grinned and followed the maga out to where the dwarves were.

Rodario rubbed his painful hands, checking the cuts on his palms. “Samusin, god of justice, I thank you,” he prayed. Then he noticed Franek’s dead body and the black blood coating the threshold. Next to him there was a loud click and the grille was back in place.

“Huzzah! May Vraccas be praised! More black-eyes!” Rodario could hear Ireheart’s happy voice. “Scholar, these ones are mine, got it? I can’t let you have all… Scholar! SCHOLAR!” There ensued loud shouts and the clash of weapons. “He’s only gone and done it again!”

Rodario put his hands on his hips, took a deep breath and drew his sword. It was sometimes nice not to be a hero. Unfortunately he considered himself to be one now and heroes had to fight.

He followed the Zhadár; Mallenia, Coïra and Slîn were ahead of him, with Balyndar and Ireheart racing in front. He could not see Tungdil anywhere but he could hear the continuous barrage of battle and screams coming from another passage.

“Why won’t anyone tell me what’s happening?” he complained in his best stage manner, hurrying so as not to miss the finale.

They trotted along through the tunnels of the dwarf realm, always on the lookout in case they encountered Lot-Ionan, the älfar or Vot, the last famulus. Ireheart reckoned they had been doing this for around three orbits now.

However, they had met nothing and nobody.

The älfar slaughtered by Tungdil in his solo assault had not been part of the main force; they seemed to have belonged to a scouting party who had entered the cave system by skirting Vot and Bumina. They were probably trying to kill Bumina before she got to the magic source to replenish her reserves, and they ran straight into our arms. Boïndil grinned. Nice one!

But Ireheart was still mad at Tungdil for having taken on and killed over twenty-five warriors at lightning speed. It had not seemed to cost the other dwarf any noticeable effort, nor had the missing eye limited his performance in any way. Ireheart found himself having to admit that Tungdil was superior to him in combat skills, flexibility and speed. In the old days they had been about equal but after this orbit he was painfully aware that he could no longer compete.

“Off to the right,” he instructed, leading the group into the former throne room.

The pomp and splendor of this hall had long passed, the famuli having conducted experiments that had caused the cave walls and several of the high pillars to collapse. There were holes and burns in the battle scenes showing historical victories of the dwarves; upturned braziers and fallen lamps lay scattered on the ground.

The table for the use of the dwarf-kings and the carved stone dais for the clan leaders had been smashed; the impressive marble throne on which Gundrabur Whitecrown had once sat now lay shattered after some spell had been let loose. A symbol for the loss of dwarf-power.

Ireheart had been hoping to find Lot-Ionan hiding here.

“This isn’t working,” said Rodario, noting the dwarf’s drooping shoulders. “We could be wandering around in these mountains for ages without ever coming across the magus.”

“But what else can we do?” Slîn asked Coïra. “Didn’t you say you had a special spell?”

“To locate him?” She shook her head.

Mallenia sat down on a section of fallen pillar. She made no attempt to conceal her dissatisfaction. “We need a new plan. Who knows what’s happening back at the Black Abyss or in my country?”

“You don’t have to worry about the älfar. The poison must have worked by now. There won’t be more than a few of them still alive,” Tungdil reassured her. “Any survivors won’t be a danger to us and Aiphatòn will dispatch them all soon.”

“We should have stayed by the source,” complained Balyndar. “Sooner or later Lot-Ionan would have come along.”

“There’s nothing to say we can’t go back there.” Ireheart stretched and heard a crack as the vertebrae altered position. “I’m getting old,” he noted with astonishment. “Anyone would think my bones were made of wood.”

“Back to the source,” ordered Tungdil. “We’ll need to find provisions on the way. Our stomachs are rumbling so loudly that we don’t stand a chance of creeping up on the enemy.”

The group turned, about to leave the throne chamber, but then heard footsteps from the other side of the room.

A young man of not more than thirty cycles entered the hall and spotted the Zhadár, who brought up the rear of their party. He lifted his right arm and sent a dazzling lilac-colored magic beam shooting their way.

Troublemaker and Growler had the presence of mind to dodge behind a stone pillar.

“Thanks, Vraccas,” cheered Ireheart, wheeling around on his heel. “We’ve found Vot!”

“Charming! But actually, he found us,” said Slîn, going down on one knee and lifting his crossbow ready to fire, all in one smooth movement. Before anyone could stop him he had sent a bolt flying at the famulus. “And this is my magic!”

Vot had not seen what was coming and had his arms raised to conjure up a new spell. The missile went straight to his heart but a glowing light showed that he was already starting to heal himself with magic.

Tungdil raised Bloodthirster to attack him and Coïra sent out a shimmering chaining spell to tie his hands and bind up his eyes. Now he was as good as harmless, because he could no longer see his target and thus could not cast any spells.

“We want your master: Lot-Ionan,” said Tungdil. “We asked Bumina his whereabouts a few orbits ago but she didn’t want to tell us, so her corpse now rots at the entrance to the source. It’s up to you what fate you choose.”

Vot had not yet lost his arrogance. “Who do you think you are? How dare you…?”

The dark-clad dwarf cut along his throat with the tip of his blade so that the wound bled profusely without endangering his life. “The next strike will have more power behind it.”

“Lot-Ionan is not here,” said Vot through clenched teeth. He had understood that it was not his place to ask any of the questions.

Ireheart kicked his shin. “You are about to meet your death if you lie to us again, my lad.”

“I’m telling the truth,” said the terrified famulus. “The magus has left.”

Tungdil moved the tip of Bloodthirster and pressed it into the young man’s chest. “Where’s he gone? Tell me or let’s see how quickly you can heal yourself this time.”

Vot lay still, not daring to move. “He’s gone north,” came his quiet voice. “He’s going north to punish the älfar for their attack. He knew about their plans and left us in charge of guarding the source. On their return to their lands they were to find only ruins.”

“That’s a lie!” exclaimed Ireheart. “Franek told us he never lets his famuli use the pool without supervision.”

Vot sighed. “Circumstances forced him.”

“I don’t believe you.” Tungdil inserted his blade in a different place.

“It’s the truth! He let us have three visits. After that a destruction spell will be set off in the chamber,” Vot said quickly.

“What is he going to do exactly in the north?”

“Lay waste to the älfar realm for attacking him. What else?”

“Yes, and what else?” Ireheart imitated the famulus. “I do that every orbit: I get up, I shovel stuff, then I fill in the Black Abyss with my bare hands and then I do a little bit of destruction just to keep my hand in.”

Vot snorted with derision. “Lot-Ionan is powerful enough to turn whole swathes of land to desert. He has learned to take up enormous amounts of magic energy. The älfar will soon be feeling the results.”

“There’s another magic source there,” Ireheart told Tungdil. “It seems Lot-Ionan wants to spread out his sphere of influence to the other side of Girdlegard.”

“He will see that neither the kordrion nor the Dragon exist. The älfar have been wiped out—and he can take over as undisputed ruler of Girdlegard,” Tungdil continued the line of thought.

“So we might just as well have waited in comfort with Aiphatòn,” sighed Slîn. “He would have come to us.”

“Then we wouldn’t have found the ax.” Balyndar lifted Keenfire. “It will serve us well.”

“Off to the north, then.” Rodario studied his worn-out boots. “But this time let’s get some horses so we don’t have to do the whole thing on foot.”

Troublemaker shouted a warning and drew his weapon.

The group sprang away from the entrance, abandoning Vot to his pool of blood.

“Confound it!” Ireheart saw an approaching horde of älfar stumble into the throne room from the side entrance they had been intending to leave by. Congealing black blood dripped out of their mouths and noses and many of them were swaying as they walked; when they raised their weapons to confront the group of humans and dwarves they gave the impression of being extremely weak. The poison had not killed them yet but it was winning.

Älfar were streaming in through the second door as well, and leading them—was Aiphatòn. As he passed he stabbed Vot with his spear, hoisted the corpse up for all to see and made a short speech.

Mallenia interpreted. “He says the sorcerer that put the curse on them has now been killed and that they will soon recover. To get free of the spell they need to find Lot-Ionan. The…” she searched for the right word “… dwarves—that’s you—aren’t worth expending any time and effort on. The magus must be found; that is the most important thing.”

One of the älfar stepped forward to speak to Aiphatòn.

“He thinks they ought to kill us first. He recognized Keenfire and is afraid we will make trouble. He thinks we probably know how to activate hidden traps from the old dwarf-times, installed to deter invaders.” Mallenia continued to pay attention. “If I’ve got this right, the älfar we see here are the last of the whole contingent.”

Hmm, difficult. Ireheart was already doing some rough calculations in his head and arrived at three hundred adversaries in total. In normal circumstances he would hardly have thought they had a chance. But their maga was newly refreshed with magic, Tungdil was a dangerous force to be reckoned with, and Balyndar had Keenfire, so the battle might be more of a competition to see which of them killed the highest number. He was the one with the worst outlook. “I’ll take Aiphatòn,” he whispered to Tungdil.

“You will wait.” Tungdil told Coïra to hold a defense spell in readiness in case a shower of arrows came their way.

Mallenia insisted they let her listen. “The emperor is rejecting the suggestion. He says they can take us on after the gate has been opened. First of all they need to search for the magus.”

“He’s obviously trying to protect us,” said a relieved Rodario. Like Mallenia, he too had drawn his sword.

“I don’t think he will succeed. And he doesn’t need to.” Tungdil sprang up the steps to the ruined throne, brandished Bloodthirster and called out.

“Do I want to know what he’s saying?” Rodario sighed.

“Well, I do.” Ireheart grinned in joyful anticipation. “He’ll finish off the black-eyes! They’ll be eliminated from the mountains, as is only right. We’ll do it, us dwarves!” He smiled grimly. “Vraccas, what a glorious orbit this will be!”

“Tungdil’s telling them it was him who brought the curse down on them and that they must take his life if they want to break the spell.”

A roar went through the älfar and the first of them charged forward to hurl themselves on the one-eyed dwarf.

He spread his arms and held Bloodthirster out. One rune after the other flared up on the black tionium, and the more runes that joined in, the more dazzling their light.

“Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to get anywhere this time either,” muttered Ireheart.

As the wave of älfar crashed up against the steps leading to the stage, Tungdil leaped over their heads into the very midst of his attackers and disappeared from his friends’ sight. But the sounds of metal striking metal, the shrieks of pain and the spraying blood coming over to drench them told more than any direct view could have done.

“They’re actually not touching any of us!” Rodario was astonished.

“I’m not letting this happen! I want some of this!” Ireheart began his own attack.

Balyndar followed suit with Keenfire, whose diamonds and inlaid patterns were blazing out. With each stroke the ax head left a fiery trail in the air and the blade severed everything it touched. They fought their way through the mass of älfar side by side. At first the enemy did not notice them, but soon they turned their attention to the new threat presented by the dwarves.

Now they had a battle after Ireheart’s own heart! “Bring me your lives, you long-legged land-plagues!” he bellowed enthusiastically, smashing heads indiscriminately “You’ll regret ever having set foot in my native land! Oh and how you will regret it!”

Ireheart fought one grisly fight after another, taking his share of cuts and stab wounds, but this did not deter him. He was too deeply immersed in battle-rage and saw a red mist over the whole scene. His blood was coursing faster, hotter and more vitally through his veins, and though he had lost sight of Balyndar, this did not worry him. He forgot everything in his merciless killing spree.

The ranks of the enemy grew ever thinner. Ireheart felled another älf by hooking the spike of the crow’s beak around his foot; then he whacked the flat side of the weapon into the face of the struggling warrior. Looking round, he realized that his latest victim was the last of the enemy. “Ho, are we done already?” he yelled.

Tungdil was sitting on the steps with Bloodthirster on his knee. He was staring blankly ahead. Rodario, Coïra and Mallenia were standing together, looking as if they had not had to use their swords at all; dead älfar all around them had been burned beyond recognition. Such was the power of magic.

Slîn wandered among the dead recovering the bolts he had shot. Balyndar knelt in front of a stone statue, his hands on the shaft of Keenfire, and his eyes closed. He was doubtless praying to Vraccas and offering thanks for the victory.

The corpses of the älfar surrounded them, blood forming a giant pool like ink on the flagstones. The Blue Mountains were refusing to let the black liquid drain away.

“Scholar?”

“He is lost in his memories,” said a soft voice behind him.

Still half intoxicated by the battle, Ireheart whirled round and struck out. The crow’s beak crashed against a slender spear. It was Aiphatòn standing there. “Lucky escape,” he sniffed.

“Too slow,” the emperor corrected him amicably. “You must be tired. Otherwise I’m sure you would have got me and killed me like all the rest, Boïndil Doubleblade.”

The dwarf narrowed his eyes. “I can tell when I’m being mocked.”

“That wasn’t my intention.”

“You didn’t intend to mock me or you didn’t intend I should be able to tell?”

“I didn’t intend to mock you.” Aiphatòn inclined his head to Ireheart. “Forgive me.”

The dwarf made a dismissive gesture, feeling a bit stupid standing next to an älf whose armor showed no bloodstains. “You weren’t fighting?”

“These are your mountains. I considered it more appropriate to leave their cleansing to you,” answered Aiphatòn. “My contribution was to poison them. That made it possible for you to defeat them. Otherwise I would probably have stepped into the fray on your side.” He surveyed the heaped bodies. “I was never one of them, even if I believed it for a time. It was a mistake that I have now corrected.” He looked at Ireheart. “The southern gate has not been touched and the few who escaped the magic spells of Vot and Bumina have now died in the tunnels.” He pointed to Tungdil. “He ought to take the armor off. Or it will take possession of him more and more.”

“Possession?”

“Didn’t you know?”

Ireheart grabbed his water flask and moistened his dry throat. “I suspected it,” he replied quietly. “How much do you know about it?”

“Nothing at all. But I can read the symbols. It indicates a pact between the armor and the one who wears it that each will protect the other and that they will never part. Then the day will come when the wearer will never want to take it off at all. Not even to sleep. Not even when he eats. Not even when he defecates. His flesh will be rubbed raw by it, gangrene will set in and Tungdil will die in his own excrement.” Aiphatòn saw the horror in the dwarf’s face. “Make him take it off.” He strode past, toward the door. “I am going to Dsôn Bhará, to finish my mission.”

“Perhaps it won’t be necessary.” Ireheart explained what Vot had vouchsafed to them.

The älf considered the implications. “Then I shall see what the magus has left. If he and I encounter each other I shall overpower him and leave him bound and tethered for you to find.” He winked at Ireheart. “Look after your friend if his life is dear to you.” With these words he left the hall.

The dwarf followed him with his eyes, then looked at Tungdil, who was still seated on the remains of the throne, staring at the wall, one hand stroking his thigh guards, lost in thought.