The Fate of the Dwarves

Epilogue

The Outer Lands,

The Black Abyss,

Early Summer, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Hargorin Deathbringer looked at the sixth of the vraccasium caskets—the one that had the thirdling runes embossed on the side.

Inside were some of Tungdil Goldhand’s ashes from the extremely moving cremation ceremony. In a departure from normal dwarf-tradition, the tribes and freeling dwarves had each been given a commemorative portion of the ashes of this, the mightiest and most worthy dwarf high king who had ever lived, so that they could conserve and honor his memory in their own land. This was the agreement the kings and queens had reached.

Ireheart pushed the box over the table to him, then handed the others to Xamtor, to Balyndis, who had now recovered from her fever, to Frandibar, and to Gordislan the Younger from the freeling city. He did not touch the last box, which had the sign of the secondlings on it.

They had all gathered in the assembly hall of the fortress round a small table to discuss what had happened and what the immediate future might hold for the children of the Smith. All those present were distraught at the recent death of their hero and the atmosphere was distinctly gloomy.

Hargorin looked at the others, then slid the little casket back to Ireheart. “They have chosen you as their king. It is yours. Take it with you to the Blue Mountains and put up a worthy monument to your friend.”

Ireheart looked at the box. Part of him was still refusing to accept the idea that the Scholar was now dead. Another part of him embraced the notion that it had not been Tungdil but his doppelganger who had died. And the third and strongest part of him knew who it was they had committed to the fire while the trumpets had sounded, the dwarf-choirs had sung and prayers to Vraccas had been spoken. Balyndis told them all that it had indeed been Tungdil. Ireheart’s inner being had told him the same thing.

I should have listened to my own feelings right from the beginning. He had allowed himself to be influenced by those like Goda and Kiras who had been led astray. There were still those among the tribes who were secretly waiting for Tungdil’s return. I know better.

He stretched his hand out slowly and placed his fingers on the reddish golden metal. “I shall do that, Hargorin.” He took a long breath. “I shall leave soon, together with those of my tribe who had fled to the freelings. We will put things to rights and will clear the last of the black-eyes’ corpses from the tunnels.”

Balyndis gave him an encouraging smile. “You will be more than capable, Boïndil. I know from our previous acquaintance that you always love a challenge.”

Ireheart gave a faint grin in response. “Let’s hope Vraccas is listening, Queen Balyndis.”

“We still have to settle the matter of appointing our next high king,” said Frandibar thoughtfully.

“Let’s leave that question open. For the next twenty cycles,” suggested Xamtor. “I don’t think it would be fitting to choose a replacement for Tungdil Goldhand in a rush. Let the throne remain empty for now. We shall see who proves worthy of the high office of supreme leader of all the dwarf-tribes.”

“If it were up to me,” Hargorin said, indicating Boïndil, “it would be him.”

Ireheart raised his hand, rejecting the honor. “I thank you for your nomination but I should not want to accept the title. Xamtor’s suggestion is the best. Let us meet once a cycle and report what occurs in each of our dwarf realms. In twenty cycles’ time we will summon the clan leaders and let them decide.” His speech was greeted with applause.

Frandibar looked at the model of the Black Abyss, which still showed the rocks and fortress. “Evildam will be left in the care of the ubariu and undergroundlings, Boïndil.”

“Yes. There is no reason to hold on to the fortress or repair it. They can let the fortress decay or use the materials to build something else. I heard talk about erecting a statue to Tungdil’s memory.” He consulted the lined faces round him. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

Nobody had any new issues to bring to the table and so the assembly broke up, with the delegates taking leave of each other before making their way back to their own realms. Frandibar would have the shortest journey, Xamtor the longest.

Ireheart strolled off through Evildam, the casket under his arm. He was deep in thought. Cracks had appeared on all the walls. It was time for the rest of the garrison to leave; other parts of the building were threatening to cave in, despite the engineering supports hurriedly put in place.

The last Zhadár suddenly stood in front of him with a demonic grin, as if he had been spat out by the darkness. “Are you off home?”

Ireheart contemplated the dark armor that the dwarf, who called himself Balodil, had never taken off. “Yes, what about you? You are a thirdling…”

He denied it vehemently. “No, I’m a Zhadár, created by the älfar. And I want to hunt them down until I’ve smoked the last of them out of their hidey holes.”

“Aiphatòn was going to take that on. If you’re going to do it, at least take a party of the former Black Squadron along under your command.”

“Aiphatòn would never be able to find them all. I know their secrets but he doesn’t. They tricked their own emperor; he seems keen to forget that. I’ll go alone. The thirdlings are good fighters but they’re not the right ones to hunt down the älfar.” Balodil took his flask off his belt. “This is for you.”

Ireheart stared at the gift and reached out for it. “But… I thought you need it yourself?” He looked around carefully to see if he could be observed.

The Zhadár chuckled, then barked like a dog, though he soon seemed quite normal again. “I can make my own stuff.” He leaned forward. “From älfar blood,” he said in a voice as deep as a well. “I squash them like you squeeze fruit to get the juice out.” He ran his tongue over his lips and his eyes glittered.

Ireheart could not deny that he found Balodil weird. “What will you do after you’ve found them all?”

He shrugged his shoulders and puffed out the air in his lungs, looking like a dwarf-child being told off by its mother. “This and that. Perhaps I’ll go to the freelings, perhaps I’ll leave Girdlegard, perhaps I’ll jump off a cliff.” He gurgled and rubbed his beard. “Or perhaps I’ll go to the Outer Lands and look for an army to invade Girdlegard with.” He watched Ireheart’s face carefully. “Well?”

“You wouldn’t do that.” Ireheart studied him. “You know there are too many heroes who can stop you.” Now Ireheart bent forward. “And I know your weak point: Tungdil’s son could never destroy his own father’s inheritance.”

Balodil jerked back and gave a malicious laugh. “No, I was never his son. I picked up the story and liked the idea of joking around with the name.” He giggled again. “It fooled you, didn’t it?”

“Nearly,” Boïndil admitted, relieved. “I wish you luck with your plans.”

The Zhadár saluted. “If you ever need me, call my name to the east wind. The wind is my friend and will send me your message,” he said earnestly, stepping out into the outer corridor, where the torches had suddenly been extinguished. “May your god protect you.” And with that he was gone.

Almost too late Ireheart remembered. “Where did you hear Balodil’s story?”

“A friend told me,” came the answer out of the darkness. “The one you called the Growler. He claimed he was Tungdil’s son.”

The dwarf felt his blood run cold. “What?” He followed the Zhadár into the dark. “Is that true?”

There was no answer.

With a head full of thoughts Boïndil went back to his quarters. Some dwarves were leaving, carrying heavy boxes and wooden chests.

The move was underway. Everything had been packed and was ready to go to its real home.

It’s really a bit of a shame. Ireheart was beginning to feel nostalgic and passed his hand over the granite of the walls. Evildam had been built according to his plans and had been home to him, his children having grown up here. I shall often come back, even if the journey’s only in my mind.

He entered the room where his family were sitting with Coïra, Mallenia and Rodario. His wife was talking with the maga and waved him to come in as soon as she noticed him.

Ireheart knew she had attended the funeral for Kiras: A swift and simple ceremony. He had not gone, himself. The murderess of his best friend could expect neither pity nor respect.

“Ho! Have the magae been dividing up Girdlegard?” he joked, putting casket and flask on the table.

“No. We shall live in peace and harmony with one another,” Coïra answered. “We have decided that I shall use and guard the magic source in the former älfar realm. I shall do this together with the two elves. It is regrettable but I shall have to govern Weyurn from a distance. Goda will protect the source in the Blue Mountains.”

“The new king of Gauragar may not like that idea.”

“She will,” said Mallenia. “The new king is going to be a queen.”

“You?” Ireheart bowed in her direction. “You have really earned it after so many cycles fighting for freedom. I offer my hearty congratulations, Queen Mallenia. Is our actor friend going to be taking Idoslane under his wing perhaps?” He winked.

“No. I’m happy for her to reign in both those lands. I’m applying for Urgon,” Rodario answered calmly. “The assembly there is interviewing candidates; I’ll address it on my way home. What with my heroic deeds and the legendary theater tours I’ve undertaken, the throne should be in my pocket.”

Mallenia and Coïra both laughed at him. “And he really believes it, the poor thing,” the Ido woman teased.

“Yes, I do!” Rodario pouted. “You’ll see! I’ll be ruler there!”

“In your dreams or your next life,” joked Coïra. “You should have enough on your plate, going to and fro between your two women. You wouldn’t have time for such an important office.” She put on a sad face. “Or are you saying that we don’t mean as much to you as a throne?”

Rodario burst out laughing. “If you ever get fed up with running a country and being a maga you can always get a job in my theater.”

Mallenia only grinned, one hand on the hilt of her sword. “Let’s go. Goda and Ireheart must have things to talk about.”

The two women and Rodario shook hands with the others and left.

“The long-uns are a strange lot,” said Ireheart, kissing Goda on the forehead. “Sometimes just the one of you is too much for me, but the actor wants to take on two women.”

Goda grinned and sent the children out to help with the packing. “You will make a good king. Your children will support you.” She kissed him. “As I do.”

“Do you?” he blurted out the question.

She started to reply but instead stroked his silvery black hair. “It is the only issue we disagree on, dear husband. Kiras was right to do what she did.”

Ireheart looked deep into her eyes. “You know I see things very differently. We won’t mention it again.” He turned away, teeth clenched, so as not to say more, not to hurt her. He loved her too much for that.

Ireheart heard her sigh and leave the room.

Relieved to be alone with his thoughts he turned to the table, where two items waited for his attention: The casket and the drinking pouch.

He strode over, touching first the cool vraccasium and then the leather drinking vessel. He took his own flask out from under his chain mail and was disgusted to hear the black liquid inside swill thickly about.

It’s this stuff that caused Tungdil’s death. This and the curse that rests on me.

Ireheart took his crow’s beak, stepped over to the huge fireplace and started to feed the blaze, putting log after log on the pile of burning wood until the flames rose high. He went over the events of recent orbits in his mind. So many of his questions would stay unanswered forever. You and I shall meet again in the eternal forge. Then we shall have time to talk.

“I don’t need to ask the elf goddess for mercy,” he said quietly, throwing his own drinking pouch into the flames. The heat scorched and blackened the leather and the black liquid seeped out. When it touched the glowing wood it bubbled away to dark smoke. “I am Boïndil Doubleblade of the clan of the Ax Swingers, a child of the Smith and king, from the tribe of secondling dwarves.” He hurled the second vessel into the fire. “Vraccas made us out of stone and gave us life. I will overcome the curse on my own, as true as I stand here!”

He watched fascinated as the second vessel was devoured by the flames. Resting his hands on top of the crow’s beak, he drew himself up tall and straightened his back, looking every inch the born ruler.

Then he turned round and went back to the table, contemplating the vraccasium urn that shone in the reflected firelight, as if it had an inner strength. He placed a hand on it and felt its warmth.

“I shall miss you, Scholar,” he whispered. Then, picking up the urn he left the room without looking round. The Blue Mountains were waiting for their king.





Dramatis Personae

DWARVES

Firstling Kingdom

Xamtor Boldface, king of the Firstlings, from the clan of the Bold Faces of Borengar’s firstling folk.

Secondling Kingdom

Boïndil Doubleblade, also known as Ireheart, from the clan of the Swinging Axes, warrior.

Boëndalin Powerthrust, his eldest son.

Thirdling Kingdom

Tungdil Goldhand, warrior and scholar.

Goda Flameheart, warrior.

Sanda and Bandaál, two of Goda’s children.

Hargorin Deathbringer, leader of the Black Squadron.

Jarkalín Blackfist, horseman with the Black Squadron.

Rognor Mortalblow, king of the thirdlings.

Fourthling Kingdom

Frandibar Gemholder of the clan of the Gold Beaters, king of the fourthlings.

Goïmslîn Fastdraw (Slîn) of the clan of the Sapphire Finders, descended from Goïmdil’s fourthling folk.

Fifthling Kingdom

Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers, queen.

Balyndar Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers, her son.

Freelings

Gordislan Starfist, king of Trovegold.

Barskalín, sytràp (commander) of the Zhadár (älfar name for the Invisibles).

HUMANS

Rodario the Incomparable, actor.

Rodario the Seventh, actor.

Mallenia, freedom-fighter.

Queen Wey XI, deposed queen of Weyurn.

Princess Coïra Weytana, her daughter.

Count Loytan Loytansberg, a noble in Weyurn.

Duke Amtrin, ruler in Gauragar; a vassal of the älfar.

Enslin Rotha, mayor of Hangtower.

Tilda Cooperstone, town councilor in Hangtower.

Tilman Berbusch, rebel.

Hindrek, gamekeeper.

Cobert, his eldest son.

Ortram, his youngest son.

Qelda, his wife.

Duke Pawald, vassal of the älfar.

Wislaf, Gerobert, Vlatin and Diederich, Pawald’s men.

Frederik, butcher in Topholiton.

Zedrik, sentry in Topholiton.

Uwo, fishmonger in Topholiton.

Arnfried, blacksmith in Topholiton.

Girín, official, deputy for Lohasbrand.

Rilde, farmer (f.) of large estate.

Xara, her daughter.

Mila, farmer (f.).

Grolf and Lirf, farmhands.

Lombrecht, the old farmer, Rilde’s father.

Franek, famulus.

Droman, Vot and Bumina, two famuli and one famula.

OTHERS

Aiphatòn, emperor of the älfar.

Sisaroth, Tirîgon and Firûsha, älfar triplets, also known as the Dsôn Aklán, the gods of Dsôn (Bhará).

Ùtsintas, älf in Dsôn Bhará.

Wielgar, Lohasbrander, henchman of Lohasbrand.

Pashbar, orc guard.

Yagur, ubari army officer in Evildam.

Pfalgur, ubari army officer in Evildam.

Fanaríl and Alysante, elves.

Ilahín, elf.

Fiëa, an elf, wife of Ilahín.





Afterword

After the third volume I was convinced I had finished Tungdil Goldhand’s story. Well…

Could I have guessed that what I considered the end of the matter would have aroused so much curiosity and so many requests for the saga to be continued? It certainly took me by surprise: Eighteen months of endless emails all on the same topic. At readings (no matter which book I was reading from) people would ask about volume four. And people all wanted to know about that joke (which still has not been explained, and now never will be. There are some secrets that have to stay secret. This is the author’s revenge.) It was tremendous fun thinking up these new adventures and placing the old friends in fresh battles. For the very last time.

I am no fan of Happy Ends in the conventional sense. This ending is unambiguous, at least it is from my viewpoint. The dwarves have passed their final test and have earned peace and quiet.

In order to forestall tons of emails asking about a possible fifth volume, I must emphasize: Nothing is planned! Anyway, tetralogies are unusual enough. Another fine reason.

What’s next?

The world of fantasy still has me in its grip and the universe won’t undergo any major change: It’s the turn of the älfar now! Evil demands the balance be redressed and wants the right to report from its point of view. There are a few issues to bring to light.

When this will all be ready to read I cannot say at the moment. But the älfar won’t be patient for long. Although, I must admit it would be fun to write a whole series about a clumsy fat farting elf…





Acknowledgments

My thanks go first of all to the many, many dwarf-fans whose loyalty and enthusiasm I find fascinating! It has made me very happy to entertain my readers with stories about the “Small People.”

I should like also to thank the numerous test-readers, Michael “LudoCreatrix,” Palm and Barbara Beckmann, Piper Verlag my publishers, and my editors Angela Kuepper and Carsten Polzin, both with Piper. Piper let me do whatever I want. Let’s hope that lasts! I don’t want to omit the Alten Bahnhof, where I spent so many creatively inspiring and entertaining evenings.

And this is for those who enjoy statistics. During the writing of this book the author used up 223 candles, 359 liters of tea (Assam Hazelbank, Assam Mokalbarie, East Frisian blend, spiced tea, English blend, English Breakfast tea) and twice that amount of tap water, 91 joss sticks (various fragrances) and absolutely no drugs, legal or otherwise. None of the above-mentioned teas are drugs!

No animals were harmed in the making of this book. Unless they might possibly and without my knowledge have come too close to the candles, the hot tea, the water or the joss sticks.