The Fate of the Dwarves

XXX

The Outer Lands,

The Black Abyss,

Early Summer, 6492nd Solar Cycle

As they rode up to the Evildam fortress they saw flags and banners wafting proudly in the wind. But the walls had suffered damage.

Ireheart turned to Tungdil, who, with Lot-Ionan’s help, was now able to move again in his armor, “What can have been happening?”

He recalled how the magus, recently, had maliciously let them all spend the whole night puzzling over the frozen armor before getting up at dawn, executing two swift gestures and throwing a dark purple veil over the tionium. After that the armor had worked perfectly, even repairing the dents to its own bodywork, whereas previously it had failed to respond even to Keenfire. The magus gave no explanation for what he had done. Not even to his foster-son.

Afterwards everything had moved fast.

They had left Mallenia and Rodario back at a farmstead and headed off in a breathless gallop toward the Brown Mountains, crossing directly through to the Outer Lands. They stopped for nothing and were answerable to no one—Tungdil was high king and did not have to justify his actions. His word was law.

Ireheart glanced at the magus. We’re going to have trouble with him.

Tungdil had also noted the cracks in the fortress walls. “As long as Evildam is still standing we have not lost,” he said, relief in his voice. “The most important thing is that we aren’t too late.”

Trumpets heralded their approach. A detachment of ubariu and dwarves marched out to accompany the high king’s troop as behoved their status, leading them to the tower, now newly equipped with additional supports, while the garrison cheered.

Ireheart saw many more children of the Smith on the battlements than expected. “Are my eyes deceiving me?” he asked Slîn, drawing his attention to the soldiers.

“No. There are some standards up there I don’t recognize.”

“Or perhaps these are banners you never wanted to see,” Balyndar added. “Those are the thirdling clans.”

“By Vraccas!” said Ireheart in astonishment. “So they’ve come to support us!” He turned to Tungdil. “Your own tribe has come to lend arms to the high king.” He laughed in relief.

“It was a good trick, choosing the one-eyed dwarf as high king,” Balyndar muttered.

“It wasn’t a trick,” protested Ireheart angrily. “It was…”

“There’s Goda,” Slîn interrupted. “Are you going to greet your wife, General, or shall I do it for you?”

Ireheart reined in his pony, jumped off and ran to his spouse, embracing her, even letting go of his crow’s beak for once to do so. “I’m holding all the happiness of the world in my arms,” he whispered in her ear, feeling his throat constrict. “I have missed you so, Goda!”

She hid her face in his shoulder and pressed him to her. “At last,” she murmured. “I nearly died of worry and couldn’t let the others see.” She looked at Tungdil, still on his horse, and saw Lot-Ionan beside him. “You’ve done it!”

“It was easier than we’d thought,” he told her, freeing himself from the embrace. “Let’s talk about it inside. There is a great deal to tell.”

“Here, too.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “Sadly, none of it good, my husband.”

Anxiously, Ireheart hurried to reach the conference hall. The dwarves, Coïra and Lot-Ionan followed and Goda gave the order to fetch their guests.

On all sides dwarves knelt in homage to Tungdil, proffering their weapons to him as a mark of respect and unconditional obedience. Ireheart could tell Goda did not appreciate this gesture. Well, there’s a surprise.

The rejoicing in Evildam was unstinting. From the other three gates came bugle calls and the clatter of axes on shields. A storm of euphoria broke over them, with everyone involved in the celebration: Dwarves, humans, undergroundlings and ubariu alike.

Ireheart walked tall and proud as never before. Back straight, crow’s beak shouldered, legs splayed, he waved at the crowds, a smile on his face. It was the same for Slîn and Balyndar. They relished being treated as heroes. And rightly so.

Only his wife’s stony expression troubled the warrior’s mood. But only slightly.

The double doors leading to the conference chamber were opened for them by the ubariu sentries.

Ireheart’s jaw dropped: Dwarves were seated at the table! Dozens of dwarves, all of them clan leaders, and the flags that hung on the walls behind them denoted which delegates had come.

“By Vraccas!” he exclaimed, his heart racing with joy. “Scholar, do you see that?” He wanted to grab him by the shoulder and shake him wildly in his excitement, but he thought better of it.

“Stay near me, all of you,” Tungdil told his friends quietly. “I want them to remember the faces of their greatest heroes forever.” He walked in, slow and dignified.

A clanking and clattering sounded out as the dwarves knelt before their high king, holding up their swords in the age-old oath of allegiance. All the tribes were represented; even the thirdlings and freelings had come to pledge fealty and to follow Tungdil’s command.

Nobody spoke. It was a weighty moment, the greatest event in the history of the children of the Smith.

The impressive sight brought tears to Ireheart’s eyes. His Scholar had achieved what no high king before him had ever accomplished. He was not ashamed of the salty drops on his cheeks and he could see the same emotion on the faces of many gathered there.

“Long live High King Tungdil Goldhand!” he shouted, raising his crow’s beak before falling on one knee. Affected by the spectacle, Slîn and Balyndar followed suit. Goda was the last to bow the knee to the one-eyed dwarf.

“You have responded to my call.” Tungdil raised his deep voice, covering the audience with the essence of his royal authority. “For this I thank you. The definitive battle for Girdlegard will be fought in the Black Abyss, because the war that started two hundred and fifty cycles ago has not yet ended.” He let his gaze wander over the assembled dwarves. “This is why I have returned: To help my people.”

“That’s a lie,” hissed Goda, but only Ireheart heard her.

He flashed his eyes in warning and she bit her lip.

“You can see that I have changed, but in my heart I am still a child of the Smith. Without my friends,” and he gestured toward the dwarves behind him, “my first task would never have succeeded. It is clearer than ever now that we will meet the second challenge triumphantly.” He indicated to the assembly that all should rise. “I bear the title of high king because the fourthlings and fifthlings elected me. Many may see it as a fault that I was not chosen by all the tribes.” Tungdil raised his arms. “I ask you, each and every one of you, every clan leader and every king, for this very reason, once more: Do you wish me to lead you?”

The thunder of agreement made the room rock, and Ireheart felt a jolt to his spine. Such unity!

Tungdil bowed to the dwarves. “I swear that I shall serve my folk and that you shall never regret your choice.” Then he turned his brown eye to the thirdlings. “Step forward, king of the thirdlings, and announce what we have agreed.”

To Ireheart’s surprise Rognor Mortalblow stepped back and gave way to a familiar figure. “Hargorin Deathbringer!” he exclaimed. He had not expected that.

The sturdy dwarf placed both hands on his belt. “My name is feared as leader of the Black Squadron, but my deeds served but one goal: To allow my tribe to survive in the hope that an opportunity like today would arrive when we could sit with our brothers and our sisters round one table. And fight evil,” he declared. “Rognor was my chancellor, carrying out my commands. He would have given his life for me if the älfar had attacked, aiming to kill the king of the thirdlings.” He pointed to Balodil. “And it was by my orders that courageous warriors transformed themselves into Zhadár, to learn the secrets of the älfar and deploy their own tricks against them.”

The first decent thirdling. Apart from the Scholar.

Ireheart listened agog, like all the others present in the chamber.

“We have made preparations. And we are sick,” Hargorin went on, “we are sick of fighting our own brothers and sisters. Even though it would have been easy to eradicate the remaining tribes because we are superior in number, and because, thanks to the Invisibles, we knew the secrets of all of the strongholds, we would not have attacked you. It was enough to know we could have defeated you had we so wished.” He took a deep breath. “I, Hargorin Deathbringer of the clan of Death Bringers, now declare the blood-feud ended between us and the other dwarves of Girdlegard, whether they belong to a tribe or designate themselves as free! No dwarf need go in fear of his or her life when entering the Black Mountains or on meeting one of us.” He tapped his weapon. “This shall never taste dwarf blood. I swear by Vraccas! We are a united folk, all children of the Smith!”

Ireheart stood thunderstruck. He looked at Tungdil, then at Goda and finally at Hargorin. “Peace?” he mumbled. “The thirdlings are making peace with us?”

Hargorin smiled at him. “Peace,” he affirmed.

In that moment anyone could have heard the fall of a sparrow’s tail feather.

The kings and clan leaders stared at Hargorin and his delegation. They had heard the words but as yet did not believe them.

Ireheart knew how they felt. He, too, was speechless. The prospect of hundreds, no, thousands more cycles of warfare and hatred had been removed with those few sentences, and no endless negotiations had been necessary! All made possible by a single dwarf: Tungdil Goldhand.

That is his great achievement, he thought. There will be no greater high king to come after him. There will be statues showing him as the bringer of unification. Desperate returnee has become unassailable warrior and high king of all the tribes. Ireheart’s breathing sped up with the excitement and, when nobody in the chamber voiced a response, he cried out: “Smash us with the sacred hammer of Vraccas—is no one going to cheer?”

A hurricane of voices broke out, assailing the ears and outdoing the thunder of jubilation they had heard on entering the fortress. Dwarves on all sides shouted out in joy and relief, waving weapons in the air and running up to the thirdlings. Not to attack them but to shake hands.

Tungdil remained where he was, Bloodthirster in one hand, the other on his hip, smiling as he surveyed the scene.

Ireheart could contain himself no longer: He embraced his friend with a laugh, slapping him on the back over and over. “You were amazing, Scholar!”

“Without you, old friend, none of this would have been possible,” the one-eyed dwarf replied, holding out his hand. Then he turned to Slîn, Balodil and Balyndar. “Without each and every one of you it would not have been possible. You all shared in our success.” Finally he turned to address the assembly. “We can celebrate later,” he said, waiting for quiet. “Let us think now of those who have given their lives in this mission and have been welcomed into the eternal forge of Vraccas.”

To Ireheart’s astonishment Tungdil reeled off every single name of the fallen, from the dwarves to the Zhadár.

“And now,” he said to Goda, “I want to hear what has happened here since we have been gone.”

The maga made her report. She told of the attack the monsters had launched, of their own counterattack, the appearance of the enemy magus, the abduction of her daughter, the injury to her son. She told of all the events round the Black Abyss.

Ireheart’s euphoric mood plummeted and concern for his children made him start to his feet.

But Goda held him back with her eyes, warning him not to leave the assembly. “They are both safe now. Go and see them when the audience is over,” she told him. “There has been no change since my daughter escaped and returned to us. The monsters have rebuilt their towers taller than before. Their camp has now regained its former size,” she summed up. “But there has been no sighting of their magus.”

Tungdil nodded. “You have heard now why we need Lot-Ionan to combat the dwarf who calls himself Vraccas. In the cycles I spent in the Black Abyss I made him my mortal enemy, but I assure you he would have broken out some time or other even without my provocation. His thirst for power is insatiable.” He had them bring out the scale model of the ravine, which showed the locations of all the tents and towers. “He is our prime target. Once he is dead the beasts will lose heart. Then it will be an easy fight and we will be in a position to make the rocks collapse on top of them, making sure no evil ever escapes again!”

“When do we start fighting?” Hargorin asked, puzzling over the model.

“In two orbits’ time. I need to rest after my journey.” Tungdil tapped the glass dome that represented the barrier. It shattered. “Lot-Ionan will do that for us and he will ride into battle at my side. We’ll finish the monsters off, and as soon as the dwarf-magus notices he’s nearing defeat, he’ll come out.” He gave the assembled kings a piercing warning look and urged them, “No one is to confront him! He belongs to me and Lot-Ionan. No one else could stop him. Goda has already described his power. Nobody would stand a chance.”

“Apart from me,” interrupted Balyndar. He pulled Keenfire out of its sheath and showed it to the assembly. A loud murmur ran through the crowd. “The weapon which vanquished the demon, which defeated Nôd’onn and many of Girdlegard’s foes, has returned to its own kind. And it will serve us once more.”

“The diamonds are glowing,” one of the dwarves called out in alarm. “Who is among us? The ax is trying to warn us.”

The Zhadár stepped forward. “It’s me,” he chuckled. “I may look like a dwarf, but I changed ages ago. The älfar implanted the seed of evil in me but I used its power to do good. That,” he whistled softly, indicating Keenfire, “is why it is sparkling so nicely. It can sense my presence.”

Goda looked at Tungdil and was about to say something but Ireheart gestured emphatically to her to keep silent. He guessed she was going to cast new doubts on the integrity of the Scholar. Not now, he mouthed.

“He is the last of his kind,” said Tungdil. “His friends and comrades have all fallen, fighting the good fight and giving their lives for Girdlegard. With his help we can find and kill every last älf, wherever he may be hiding, as soon as we have our victory here in the Outer Lands.”

The assembled dwarves applauded or clattered their weapons on the table.

“Then go back to your warriors, and tell them what is to happen the orbit after next. And take your rest.” The high king bowed his head to them. “Vraccas will be with you.” Turning, he nodded to Ireheart and left the chamber.

Goda came over to her husband. “You heard it.”

“What?”

“Vraccas will be with us.” She watched Tungdil’s retreating back. “But who is with him?”

“Oh, come now, Goda.” Ireheart sighed and shook his head. He left her standing there and went to see his children.

One orbit later, when Ireheart had stretched out for a nap, there was a knock at the door and a messenger asked him to go to the conference chamber. The high king had summoned him.

Ireheart made his way there as quickly as he could. He was thinking through the next orbit’s battle. Evildam echoed to the sound of blades being sharpened on whetstones, and the clink of hammer on metal where armor was being repaired. Final preparations were underway. They were agreed on tactics. Nothing would be changed now.

He worried less about himself and his own survival; he was concerned for Sanda in particular. I would give anything for her to recover from what has happened. While his injured son was obviously getting better, he had seen in his daughter’s eyes that Sanda had not got over her treatment in captivity.

He had noticed a similar effect in Coïra, who had still not recovered from her near-death experience at Sisaroth’s hands. For this reason he had put the two of them together, hoping they would share confidences and help each other.

Balyndar was another problem. Ireheart feared the fifthling might do something reckless with Keenfire, endangering the outcome for the dwarves. The looks that Balyndar and Goda had exchanged were almost conspiratorial. It would be no use trying to talk sense to his spouse. She had made up her mind and was not going to change it. All Tungdil’s achievements meant nothing to her.

“Vraccas, why did you make us so stubborn?” he complained under his breath before going down the corridor that led to the conference chamber. Coïra was also on her way there.

He lifted his arm in greeting and she slowed her pace. She was wearing a dark-blue robe with long sleeves, and a black cap on her head. Ireheart recognized Weyurn’s coat of arms in the embroidery on the sleeves. “How are you, Majesty?”

“Well, thank you.” She smiled. “You’ll be wanting to know if I’ve spoken to your daughter?”

Ireheart tilted his head and his braid fell forward. “I’m so worried about her… she’s so low and seems very confused. So different.”

Coïra frowned. “Have your wife’s suspicions taken hold of you, too?”

“What suspicions?”

“That it is not really your daughter.”

Ireheart threw up his hands. “Is she saying that? First it was the Scholar she had doubts about and now she thinks her own daughter has been replaced! It’s persecution mania!”

“Yes, yes,” said Coïra mildly, to calm the dwarf down. “It obviously is your daughter. She has told me many personal details.” She stopped at the door. “She has endured the most terrible thing that a woman can ever go through. The dwarf that abducted her announced his intentions and put the blame squarely on Goda for not accepting his conditions. Her spirit has been damaged by the thought of this betrayal.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “I can do nothing for her, Boïndil Doubleblade. My fate was harmless in comparison.”

Ireheart could find no reply, so great was the hatred raging in his soul. Hatred for the enemy in the vraccasium armor, against whom all his fighting prowess would be useless in battle. I shall desecrate his corpse.

In a fury he stepped into the hall with Coïra—but stopped dead in his tracks: As well as Tungdil, Slîn, Balyndar and Balodil there were two white-clad elves in the room, wearing light palandium armor under their robes.

They carried swords and shields on their backs and long daggers hung from their belts. The male was dark, while the female’s hair was almost white; both looked too tall for Ireheart’s taste, too thin and too pretty. As with the älfar; they don’t come in the fat and ugly format at all. If only one of them would just fart like a pony so they weren’t always so damn perfect.

Tungdil asked the maga and Ireheart to come in, and introduced the elves. “These are the last two heroes to whom you owe the annihilation of the Girdlegard älfar. They were as much a part of it as I was myself.” He said their names, then indicated the elves. “This is Ilahín and his wife Fiëa. When the rebellion started in the älfar regions they left their hiding place and led the humans to where the black-eyes were.”

“But we would never have been able to do that without your preparatory work,” Fiëa said sweetly in typical singsong elf tones. Dwarves had never liked the way the elves spoke. Nor the way they admired the humans.

“So you’ve heard?” said Ireheart, baring his teeth and looking at the tips of their ears.

Ilahín laughed. “I’ve missed all those dwarf-jokes.”

Ireheart stopped. “You like being made fun of?”

“He’s an exception,” Fiëa said, not sounding quite so friendly now. “I’m not fond of it at all.”

“Stop right now, old friend,” said Tungdil, motioning to him and Coïra to sit down. “They have come to thank us and to bring news from Girdlegard.”

Ilahín waited until everyone was seated. “Aiphatòn’s action and your own involvement have meant that it is safe for us to appear once more and for us elves to take some part in the liberation of our homeland. As we are not able or willing to give our thanks to the Unslayables’ offspring, because of who he is descended from, this makes it all the more important for us to thank you.” He lifted a chest from the floor and opened it. It contained daggers made of a white metal. “They are made of pure palandium and can cut through anything. They have the power of the elf goddess in them and will equip you for the coming battle.”

Fiëa handed a knife to each of them.

Ireheart had to admit that the workmanship was excellent, even if they could not compare with dwarf-weapons. He could see the elves employed different procedures when tempering and forging metal. Children’s toys. But he did not want to be disagreeable so he thanked them politely for their gift and tucked his new dagger in his belt. It was quite something to have an elf weapon hanging on a dwarf’s combat belt.

“We have also destroyed wide swathes of Dsôn Bhará, as well as Phôseon Dwhamant. The area has been given back its old name of landur. The humans will make sure that nothing remains to remind them of älfar occupation.” Ilahín pointed to his wife. “Fiëa and I will return to the Golden Plain to found a settlement. We are convinced the elves will return to Girdlegard when the news of the victory gets out into the Outer Lands. We want them to find a home waiting when they arrive.” The elf smiled.

“How charming. But there are only two of you,” commented Slîn.

“We live long enough to get a lot done,” was Ilahín’s reply.

“And we shall not die before the other elves have arrived,” added Fiëa determinedly.

“The daggers are not their only gift. They have offered to fight with us against the monsters,” Tungdil explained.

“Isn’t that rather dangerous if you are keen to start a new homeland for your people?” Slîn asked, not noticing until after he spoke that his words could be construed as an insult of sorts. “I’m not doubting your skill in a fight, Fiëa and Ilahín, but… it will be a fierce battle and many will be injured, many will be killed. Of course it is nothing compared to the campaign you fought against the älfar in Girdlegard.”

Fiëa looked at him. “Your concern is touching, but we know how to fight, Slîn.” She bowed. “Permit us to retire. We must rest to be ready for the morrow.” She and Ilahín left the room.

“Well, what do you know?” Balyndar had the dagger on the table in front of him. “The elves have emerged from their forest haunts.” Slîn and Balodil laughed quietly.

“They know when a battle is hopeless and can assess when victory is possible.” Tungdil stared at them sharply, tying his new dagger to his belt. “Ask the fifthlings and firstlings. They have used similar strategies in past cycles, as far as I can make out. There is a difference between strategic withdrawal and the cowardice you seem to be accusing them of.” He walked to the door. “We meet tomorrow. I am not to be disturbed until sun-up, when we attack the beasts.”

Ireheart also took his leave and disappeared.

Slîn studied the model of the ravine and fortress. “Right, so tomorrow it is.” He glanced at Coïra. “You will cope, maga?”

“With Lot-Ionan and Goda’s support there should be no problem getting the mountain to collapse in on the abyss,” she answered. “On my own I would never manage it, but with the three of us I’m sure it’s possible.”

“But what if you have to use up your energy in the battle?” Balyndar tipped over some of the little figures in the evil camp.

“I don’t think we’ll have to. Lot-Ionan is the one who’ll have to cast most of the spells. His magic reserve is incredible. I don’t know how he does it. Even though Balyndar damaged his onyx staff.” She suppressed a yawn. “We’ll attack and defeat the army of darkness. If we run out of missiles for the new catapults, then it’s your turn. Together with the ubariu, the undergroundlings and the humans it should be easier than…” she flicked another of the little figures off the board “… doing that.” With these words she took her leave and left the chamber; the Zhadár disappeared without a farewell.

Slîn looked first at Balyndar, then back to Keenfire. “Don’t do anything silly,” he warned, as he got to his feet. He held his crossbow in such a way that it could be construed as a threat. “I shan’t let you out of my sight on the battlefield and should I see you up to any treachery directed against the properly elected high king…” He left the sentence unfinished and strode out, his weapon shouldered.

Balyndar sat alone in the chamber, his eyes on the model of the abyss and his right hand on the hilt of Keenfire. “I’ll do whatever I think is right,” he said, leaning forward. He had discovered a figure that looked very like Tungdil.

He reached out for it, tossed it into the air and chopped it in half with Keenfire’s blade.

Ireheart made sure that he could not be seen, then knocked at the door.

Ilahín opened up, looking surprised. “Well, what brings you here, Boïndil Doubleblade? What can I…?”

“Let me in,” Ireheart said, pushing past the elf. “Forgive my coming unannounced, but there’s a very… unpleasant matter I need your help with.” He sat down, his shoulders drooping. “Help me, Ilahín.”

The elf shut the door and pulled out a chair for himself facing the dwarf. “You know, friend dwarf, that I will gladly help you. What’s on your mind?”

Ireheart took out the drinking pouch that Balodil had given him. “Smell that and maybe you can understand. This used to belong to a Zhadár and I drank out of it by mistake.”

Ilahín took the vessel, opened it and fanned the air to get the scent. All his amiable helpfulness disappeared. “This is… elf blood!”

“And it’s the reason the älfar hunted you all down. They needed it to brew a concoction that turned selected thirdling warriors into Zhadár,” he explained, looking at the elf. “My drinking it was a mistake,” he insisted. “One of the Zhadár told me only an elf would be able to liberate me from the curse of having drunk it.” He rubbed his nose awkwardly.

Ilahín gave no answer. Instead he called Fiëa, held the pouch out to her and pointed to Ireheart. There followed a long and involved exchange that grew more and more heated. The dwarf got the impression the two elves did not agree. But about what?

“Forgive me if I interrupt you,” he called out after a long tense wait. “Is there any remedy against the thirst or not?”

The elves stared at him.

Ilahín took a deep breath. “The thing is, Boïndil Doubleblade, we don’t really know,” he admitted. “Your guilt is very serious.”

“Ho, damn it! But I had no idea.”

“That is neither here nor there,” said Fiëa sharply. “If you kill a human and then say you didn’t know it was wrong, the other humans will still hunt you down and bring you to trial, won’t they?”

Ireheart had to nod in agreement.

“What you’ve done is to commit blasphemy and the fact you did it unwittingly does not help. That’s unfortunately the fact of the matter,” said Ilahín in friendlier tones. “However, you are one of our folk’s benefactors, so we believe the goddess will perhaps be merciful in your case and reduce the punishment.”

“I don’t understand. What’s going to happen? What have I got to do?”

Fiëa took the leather pouch and cut it open. The dark viscous liquid spilt onto the floor and formed a stain. “You will have to pray to Sitalia, Boïndil Doubleblade, and beg her to release you from the curse.”

“But…” He saw the stain growing in size until the elf-woman covered it with a cloth to wipe it up. Then the cloth flew into the fire and there was a hissing sound. Black flames shot out and then the nightmare was over. “But I need…”

“No, Boïndil Doubleblade.” Ilahín interrupted him. “Each new sip of that liquid would take you one step nearer damnation.”

Ireheart tugged at the silver and black hairs on his scalp in frustration. “It’s the only way to combat the thirst! You have no idea how it burns!”

They looked at each other again. Fiëa took a small bag from her belt. “In here are some herbs, Boïndil Doubleblade, which will help you with the symptoms. But the thirst will only disappear if Sitalia pardons you. Pray to her, that is what we counsel. Pray with fervor and humility.”

“But I did nothing wrong!” Ireheart felt a fool constantly reiterating his innocence, but he did not know what else to do.

“Tell Sitalia,” advised Fiëa. “We believe you. Your deeds speak for you.”

Ilahín touched the despairing dwarf on the brow. “You must convince the goddess. She will show herself to you if you do things properly.”

“Or else?” he asked uncertainly.

“The herbs will not help you forever, and you…” Fiëa grimaced. “You know what will happen, friend dwarf.” They looked at him, challenge in their eyes. He understood.

He got up, dragged himself to the door and went out. “Thank you,” he said as he turned on the threshold. “Praying to Sitalia,” he muttered under his breath. “Begging the pointy-ears’ goddess for favors! It’s come to that! I’m innocent!” Depression and prevarication had given way to the familiar stubborn resistance. “Then I’d rather die a hero’s death in battle! So there! That’s all the elves will get out of me!”

He stomped off down the corridor to his own chambers with grim determination. Vraccas will help me.