The Fate of the Dwarves

VI

Girdlegard,

Protectorate West Gauragar,

Topholiton,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

Down in the brick-built cellar four lamps shed a faint light over the score or so people gathered.

Most of them were glad not to be obviously recognizable. Simple clothing concealed social status or provenance, and they wore hoods to keep their faces in shadow.

They were meeting under the house of the sheriff, who was asleep two floors up, reluctant to know anything about what was going on here. His courage amounted only to leaving the iron-clad door to his cellar unlocked.

Mallenia, surrounded by her co-conspirators, could not believe what Frederik was telling her. “The thirdling is still alive?” She forced herself to take a deep breath. The air down here was stale and smelled of sweat and food. The group had been there for some time arguing and planning, as they sat among smoked hams, sauerkraut barrels, jars of jam and bottled fruit and tubs of salted meat.

Frederik nodded. He was a local butcher of good reputation and no one would have thought him likely to rebel against the vassal ruler and the älfar here in Topholiton. In his early thirties, he had a face that seemed much too nice for the butchery guild he belonged to; and certainly too nice for revolutions. “It is so, my lady. Hargorin heads the Black Squadron once more and is riding out collecting the tribute. It is said his warriors are more brutal than ever.” He took a folded paper out of his sleeve and handed it to her. “Read for yourself. The price on your life has been increased. Whoever brings your head to Hargorin may select what they like from his treasure store.”

Mallenia looked at the sketch of herself on the crumpled paper and was dismayed how true to life it was; underneath the picture was the number 1,000. That was a great deal of gold. “They say that Hargorin’s treasure hoard contains objects of breathtaking value,” she said pensively.

Frederik looked enquiringly around the circle. He took off his cap, revealing short black hair. “My lady, I know you don’t want to hear this but we think you should halt your activities. You have provoked the älfar and their henchmen to intolerable lengths and with rewards like this…”

“I shall go on provoking them,” she interrupted without a moment’s hesitation. “They will go on hounding me even if I crawl into some dark hole and hide for cycle after cycle.” Mallenia surveyed the assembly.

Her fellow insurgents looked tired, fear and distress showing on many of the faces. They were frightened for their families. The death of friends, killed in the attack on the Black Squadron, had brought home to them that even the best-laid plans could go wrong.

Mallenia knew why Frederik was making this suggestion and she could not take it amiss. She smiled. “I thank you for what you have done in past cycles, but I am going to release you now,” she said kindly, trying hard to show she harbored no resentment. “From now on I ride alone.”

“My lady!” exclaimed Frederik in shock. “No! We don’t want to give up…”

She put her hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Frederik. I can’t have you all taking these risks for the sake of my struggle.”

“Gauragar is our homeland, my lady. We have the same duty as you to fight off the oppressors.” He was not prepared to drop the subject. “We are glad to have you at our side. If the Urgon group were here, they would say the same.”

Zedrik stood up. One of the sentries at Topholiton’s gates, he was a rough man of rough appearance. He was only ever to be seen in armor, as if there were no life for him outside military service. “May the gods and yourself, my lady, forgive me, but I have been wondering about our cause for a long time—whether there’s any point. We steal the tribute, kill a few thirdlings maybe, but does this make anything better for the people here in Gauragar?” Zedrik sounded disconsolate. “The people support us but they are the ones to suffer when the reprisals come.”

“What do you suggest?” Frederik studied him. “Do you want to kowtow to the black-eyes forever and a day? Is that what you want for your children and their children? This oppression?”

“It’s how it used to be, and we managed all right; it’s not a bad life,” replied Zedrik with a sigh. “We pay up and they leave us in peace.”

Mallenia followed the dispute attentively, her decision now reinforced by what she’d heard. They must break up their organization. The butcher did not want to give up, as she had first thought, but some of the others did. Too many. Fear could lead to betrayal, just as a high reward might.

Frederik was disgusted. “Just how stupid are you, Zedrik? What happens when we’ve nothing left to pay them with? When they raze our villages to the ground because they want the land for their preposterous art projects; want to change everything to fit in with their mad ideas of aesthetics?” he cried, exasperated. “Does nobody remember what happened in Tareniaborn?”

Tareniaborn. Mallenia swallowed hard and the thought of the town with its forty thousand men, women and children, filled her with horror. Nothing like that had ever happened before.

It had been eleven cycles ago. One of the älfar princes had decided to turn the town into a work of art: Tareniaborn and all the land surrounding it.

To this day no one knew whether the älf had gone mad or whether each and every town in Idoslane could expect a similar fate.

“You were there, my lady. Think of how cruel our over-lords were,” Frederik demanded grimly. “And bear in mind, they’re not going to shrink from violence on that scale if the fancy takes them again.” All eyes in the cellar were on Mallenia.

“I can’t say how it happened. I arrived when it was all over,” she said. “I came on the town by accident when out riding with some volunteers. We were up on a hill and had a good view of the town and plain.” She felt a fluttering in her stomach and started to feel sick. “We saw patterns in the snow round the walls, and the whole town glistened red. Everything, absolutely everything, was covered in a layer of frozen blood. Red ice, everywhere!” She saw in her mind’s eye the ghastly lanes and alleys of Tareniaborn. “In the marketplace they’d strung up the hearts of the inhabitants, pierced with silver wire and silver rods, twisting them together to make a giant tree, the hearts of the adults on the trunk, those of the children on the twigs. And they’d hung the heads of newborn babes like fruit from the branches.”

She could not go on. The tree and all its gory detail had swamped her imagination. The tiny bunches of different-colored hair, attached to look like leaves, making the whole work so horrendous…

Mallenia saw the disgust in the eyes of those around her. “Be glad you didn’t see it.” She continued softly, “In the fields round about they’d stripped and eviscerated the bodies, using the bones to form huge symbols on the ground, with the town at the center. Maybe it was all dedicated to one of their gods, who knows. But it was so incredibly awful that you actually had to look at it. A terrifying fascination. Bone laid next to bone as if there had never been another function for them apart from making those symbols on the ground.” The young woman looked at Zedrik. “They’d placed the intestines in between the bones to give color. When we first saw it from the distance we didn’t know what it was made of. Then we used our telescopes…”

The watchman ran outside, two others following him, not wanting to vomit over the feet of their friends.

Frederik had grown very pale, but kept his head. “And yet you think of giving up?” he confronted the others. “If the älfar decide to turn Topholiton into a work of art—you’ll die with the knowledge that you were too cowardly to stand up and resist!” Anger had brought out the veins on his forehead.

“So what do we do?” called Zedrik from the doorway, wiping his mouth. The tips of his boots were shiny and wet, bits of food still clinging to them. “Go to war? Against the thirdlings and the älfar? We’d have to kill our own families first so they’re not executed by the enemy.” He gave a choked laugh. “No one can save us from them, Frederik. Only the gods, perhaps, but they must have made up their minds to make us suffer for many cycles yet.”

“The gods would come to our help if we dared to rebel against the vassal-rulers,” replied the butcher fervently, but he was calmed by Mallenia’s hand on his shoulder.

“I know how worried you all are but I do see that I should withdraw from the campaign for a time, as my good friend Frederik suggests,” she announced, and a sigh of relief went round the room. “I shall let you know when we next ride out together but, until then, stay with your families and behave as if nothing were wrong. I need you alive.” She stood up. “There will come a time when we will rise up against the älfar, but it will not be tomorrow and will not be in thirty orbits. We will know when an opportunity presents itself, and all three of the realms will be ready and waiting.” She drew her sword and held it high. “For Gauragar, Urgon and Idoslane! For freedom for all!”

They all echoed her cry, cheering and applauding Mallenia, descendant of the famous prince.

Suddenly the lamps went out!

Somebody laughed nervously in the dark, others cried out in dismay, calling for light; Mallenia could hear that at least two of the conspirators had drawn their swords, fearing an attack—or was this an attack?

She ducked down and placed her left hand on her second sword, thinking through various possibilities of who could be attacking her here in the cellar: The thirdlings with Hargorin, some bounty hunters or the Dsôn Aklán älfar?

She realized there had not been a draft strong enough to extinguish all four lamps. Magic? A particular sort of magic. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck. Have they found me?

The cellar door banged open, dim light coming from the windows opposite.

A figure stood on the threshold, bending slightly forward, a long sword in his hand. The conspirators immediately recognized the sharply pointed ears and were terrified by the sight, because they knew what it meant for all those in the cellar: Death.

Behind the älf stood the sheriff, his face like wax in the light of a single ray of light.

“Well, well, what have we here? The rebels,” said the älf in a velvety voice. “Well spotted, Sheriff. They have indeed broken into your cellar to steal supplies.” The tone betrayed that he was protecting the sheriff and did not intend to connect him with the deeds of the rebels. The älf took a bag of gold from his belt and threw it over his shoulder, so that it fell in the snow in front of the sheriff. “Here—here’s your reward.”

“Have mercy, sire!” Zedrik was the first to whine. “Have mercy on our families! They knew nothing about what we’ve done.” Sinking to his knees at the bottom of the steps, which were the only way out of the cellar, he stretched up his arms in supplication. “Spare their lives!”

The älf took two steps down in order to accommodate his full height. They could still only see his silhouette because the light was behind him. No one had dared try to relight the candles.

“So what exactly have you done? Let’s have some confessions and then your families shall be allowed to continue to enjoy the light of day.” He raised his sword arm and rested the weapon in the crook of his right arm as if he were holding a baby. “What do I hear?”

Zedrik sobbed. “We are guilty…”

“… guilty of wanting freedom for Gauragar,” interrupted Mallenia, standing up. “Of wanting to throw out our oppressors, the älfar, the thirdlings and the vassal-rulers, and bring them to justice!”

“No,” shouted Zedrik. “Be quiet! You don’t know…”

“Yes I do. I know full well. They are hunting down not only me but all who belong to the line of my forefather, Prince Mallen.” She stared at the älf. “Look at him,” she urged the conspirators. “He is playing a game and has no intention of sparing any of you. The only way to save your loved ones is to kill him before he learns your names and can pass them on.” The young woman clenched her two swords tight in her fists and took up an attack stance.

The älf raised his head and looked at her. “Mallenia! I would be lying if I said I had not expected to find you here.” He still kept his sword up against the crook of his arm, but let go of the hilt and drew something out from beneath his mantle. He tossed it to her. “I found this. Is it yours?”

An envelope fell at her feet. She recognized it at once. It contained a warning to Hindrek, a second cousin thrice removed. The fact the letter was here at her feet made it plain what had happened to him and his family. “Monsters, you are monsters. You deserve death a thousand times over,” she hissed.

“Isn’t it strange, then, that we bring thousandfold death rather than receiving it?” He made a gesture and the lamps were relit. Then he put his hand back on the hilt of his weapon. “We bring death ourselves if we must. Or if we are in the mood. I was outside the cellar for some time, listening to what you said about Tareniaborn.” His tone was conversational, as if he were chatting to friends or at some reception. The metal plates of his lamellar armor showed under his cloak. “I was moved by your words, proud of having had the pleasure of being the creator of the work of art you described. I, Tir��gon, designed the work you had admired in awe.” He bowed in her direction. “It was both a pleasure and an honor to elevate the town in such a way and to release the inhabitants from their mortal concerns. All älfar remember Tareniaborn fondly. Humans, one finds, are at least good for one thing.”

The horror experienced by the people in the cellar was palpable.

The älf was pleased to note it. “The vast gap between our race and yours is one that cannot be bridged,” he said, breaking the silence. “On occasions such as this I notice it particularly: You are not prepared to take up your swords and kill for any other cause than to fight for freedom, or to gain riches or power. My race, however, can. Death and art form a unit. The transitory nature of life moves with grandeur and perfection.” Tirîgon paused and looked at them all with regret. His eyes were steely blue, reflecting the lights. “I can see some very acceptable bone formations here in rather ugly bodies. They could be put to satisfactory aesthetic use.”

Mallenia had heard enough of his self-glorification. She charged up to the älf, her swords in her hands.

Her opponent laughed with delight. “What bravery! What passion! Your bones will form an exquisite decoration. I do appreciate boldness and courage.” He took his sword in both hands and held it out horizontally in front of him. The blade measured at least two arm-lengths and on a conventional battleground would bring its bearer enormous advantage of range—but between the barrels, tubs and shelves in the cellar the long sword imposed its own restrictions. This is what Mallenia was counting on.

Frederik followed her lead and swung his butcher’s cleaver.

“Mind out!” she shouted to the men and women. “They are triplets. There will be two more somewhere.” Then she had reached the älf and thrust his sword aside, ducking down and stabbing with her second weapon.

But the enemy had a devilish turn of speed and possessed skills she could not have dreamed of.

Tirîgon took off from the ground, leaping off the side wall and using the momentum to run several steps up toward the ceiling. After this acrobatic achievement, which he managed easily despite the weight of his armor, he landed behind Frederik and stabbed him in the back of the neck so that the sword emerged from his open mouth. From the front it looked as if the man were sticking out his tongue—a tongue made of pointed steel.

“Not a bad try, Mallenia,” the älf mocked. “If the bold butcher hadn’t been standing behind you, you’d be dead now.” With a sudden jerk he twisted the blade and pulled it up vertically. The metal had been sharpened to such a degree that the head was cut in two halves. Blood, brains and liquid gushed out, splashing onto the floor of the cellar, then Frederik dropped forward where he stood, the butcher’s cleaver crashing to the ground. The two halves of his head shifted, giving him a grotesque appearance.

Mallenia whirled round, one sword aimed at Tirîgon’s head, the other at his belly. But now he was no longer standing behind her—or rather, yes, there he was, again.

The young woman felt the draft go through her blond hair, while her sword thrust met empty air. Then she was hit on the back, a blow that sent her flying against one of the stone sauerkraut vessels.

She landed against it, banging her hip, fell over it and came to rest lying by a tub of salted meat. She twisted on the floor and held her two blades up, crossed in front of her body for protection.

Not a moment too soon: Blades clashed and her arms took the force of the recoil. The älf had delivered a mighty blow. His weapon was a finger’s breadth away from her nose.

With an angry roar she shoved his blade aside and kicked him in the middle. Even though the armor took much of the impact Tirîgon was forced backwards.

He laughed and circled his blade in the air, then gripped it again with both hands while Mallenia stood up and moved away from the stone tub.

She wanted a wall at her back. The enemy was too quick for her, and was superior in skill and strength. She did not think she stood a chance of leaving the cellar alive, being well aware that the älf was playing a game with her. Arrogance often came before a fall, however.

Her friends had moved back out of her way, following this uneven duel with fascination.

“Is this cellar full of cowards?” Tirîgon mocked. “There are twenty of you… nineteen to one, if you so wish! Mallenia was right: If you don’t kill me, your families will die—and yet still you are standing around like lemons, doing nothing?” He winked at Mallenia. “I owe your courage this mark of respect: You’ll be the last one to die. Watch me and learn. You will need the knowledge to use against me.” He took two swift steps, leaped on to the tub and launched himself into the air.

He landed feet first on the wall and ran up it diagonally to the ceiling and down the other side. As he ran he wielded his sword so nimbly against the conspirators gathered below him that the eye could not follow its movements. With every slash blood spurted high out of deep wounds. Screams echoed around.

He landed gracefully on a wine barrel and held his sword diagonally away from himself, surveying the scene with satisfaction at the speed of his attack. More than half of the rebels lay dead on the floor of the cellar. He left no wounded. “The art lies in avoiding the bones to save them for future use,” he explained to the survivors, lifting the bloody blade. “As you know your fate now, are you ready to defend yourselves yet?”

Three women turned tail and made for the door.

But two more älfar were standing there, unmistakably the missing siblings Mallenia had warned them of. The Dsôn Aklán were all accounted for. They blocked the doorway with their mere presence and without drawing a weapon. Dark smiles were threat enough.

Tirîgon sprang down from the wine barrel to face the survivors, who now were determinedly drawing their swords and knives and surrounding him. “That was a long time coming,” he observed maliciously. “My promise is this: If you can injure me—give me the slightest of scratches—your families shall live. Because you won’t be able to kill me,” said the älf complacently. He placed his sword in the scabbard he wore on his back. Presenting himself, unarmed, to the crowd, he stretched out his arms and turned on the spot. “What are we waiting for?”

Mallenia looked at the two älfar by the door. They had not moved. They were leaving their sibling to take his pleasure as he wished—then the älf woman turned to face Mallenia.

The haughty expression on the älf sister’s countenance turned to curiosity. She was about to move forward, but her brother held her back. Her blue eyes stayed fixed on the Ido princess, as if she were studying the face of an old friend.

Mallenia had no idea why she was attracting such interest. Shaking off her sense of unease, she stepped over the dead bodies to reach the handful of her loyal followers about to enter the fray.

If she died, she wanted to die among her own people, fighting for Gauragar. Her movements were governed by an obsession to inflict a wound on the älf Tirîgon, thereby saving their families.

Tirîgon adjusted his tionium arm protectors and waited with a smile.

Uwo, a little man and the town’s only fishmonger, thrust with his sword, making a quick move to one side.

The älf blocked the jab with his forearm and the blade broke into three from the impact. While the pieces were still in mid-air, Tirîgon grabbed one of them and hurled it at Uwo, hitting him in the chest. The man sank to the floor.

Already, Tirîgon had snatched the next piece of blade, which he threw at another attacker heading his way. The metal sliced through his throat and he fell, gurgling, hands clasping his neck, trying to close the gaping wound.

The courage of desperation drove the conspirators to a joint attack on the enemy, who was enjoying his sport, avoiding jabs and thrusts and deflecting blows in other directions, so that their blades hit their own friends.

By the end, only Mallenia and Arnfried the blacksmith were left to stand against the älf. The rest had fallen or were cowering on the earthen floor, fatally injured.

The smith, a strong man with a long beard and impressive muscles, was bleeding from a wound in his right shoulder, but he had his dagger gripped fast in his hand and was snorting with fury.

Tirîgon regarded the red splashes on his armor. “Regrettable,” he said. “That should not have happened. The blood runs into the engraving and then clots.”

Arnfried sprang abruptly forward to surprise the enemy. He feigned a stab with his knife and at the same time launched a punch to the face. Mallenia stormed in, taking advantage of the älf’s defensive move.

The slim adversary avoided the blade and grabbed the blacksmith’s balled fist with his left hand. But he had underestimated the man’s strength and was forced backwards against a wine barrel.

Arnfried brought a knee up and rammed it into Tirîgon’s ribs; the armor grated. Concerned, the female älf cried out in her own language.

Mallenia used her left-hand sword to jab at the älf, who stepped aside at the last moment. The tip of her sword went through wood, releasing a stream of white wine behind him that made the floor slippery.

“Respect,” growled Tirîgon, addressing the smith and parrying his next attack with his other hand. There was a click and two metal discs shot out from the long outer side of his forearm bracers. Like lightning he drew them across the man’s breast. Arnfried yelled out and jumped backwards, losing his balance on the wet floor. As he fell, the älf was directly above him and smashed a mighty blow into his solar plexus. Bones cracked and buried themselves in the lungs; the smith rolled in the mud in agony.

Without hesitation Mallenia threw herself at Tirîgon to pull him to the ground. He had noticed her coming at him out of the corner of his eye and leaped away—becoming a victim of the wet floor like the smith. His right foot slipped. Although he tried to steady himself he crashed against the tub of salted meat that Mallenia had earlier fallen foul of.

The female älf cried out.

Mallenia hurled both her swords at the enemy as he lay; one aimed at his head, the other at his groin. He would not, she hoped, be able to parry both strikes. But Tirîgon, acting on reflex, jerked up his plated arms: The first sword was deflected and flew off into a corner of the cellar, the second broke up on striking the tionium.

Nevertheless the älf emitted a groan.

Mallenia could not believe her eyes. A long thin splinter of blade had pierced the älf’s cheek, nailing him to the barrel. Not a fatal wound by any means but certainly very painful. And, above all, it had destroyed the perfection of his countenance.

Behind her, Mallenia heard the sound of fast steps and metal scraping.

Meanwhile Tirîgon raised his hand and said something she did not understand; the injury to his face made the words sound terrible.

“You promised to spare our families,” said Mallenia. She did not have to turn around to know that the älf woman was behind her with a drawn sword in her hand, ready to kill her. “Do you keep your word?”

The älf uttered a low “Yes.”

“And I shall leave this cellar alive?”

“Never!” came a hiss at her back. But the defeated brother confirmed the agreement was to be honored.

“And you thought we couldn’t kill you,” Mallenia said carefully, her left hand on the handle of her knife. She bent down and cut off a lock of his black hair. “This will be a reminder of my triumph over you and your arrogance.”

The murderous look in Tirîgon’s eyes said all there was to say.

“Look after your luck, last of the Ido line,” came the warning from the second älf at the door. “You will be able to leave the cellar. The conspirator families will be allowed to live. As far as we’re concerned, that is. But what Emperor Aiphatòn does, when he hears about it, is another matter.”

“He will certainly hear of it,” said the älf sister gleefully.

Mallenia turned around angrily. The siblings were standing behind her, and the sister did indeed hold a sword in her hand. “I should have known you would find a loophole, a way of breaking the agreement!”

“It’s not a loophole. It is an exact interpretation.” The älf, identical to his wounded brother apart from the fact that his sword was different, bowed slightly. “If I were to interpret it even more minutely, I could say that, in reality, Tirîgon injured himself and it was not you who wrought a miracle.” He pointed to his sister. “Firûsha would be happy were we to come to that view of things. As long as we are still deliberating how to construe the significance of your victory you will be able to reach the door unharmed.” He took a deliberate step to the side to allow her to pass.

Mallenia did not hesitate, and hurried out of the room, with its awful stench of blood, guts, wine and salted meat.

As she left, she unfastened her hand-crossbow from under her cloak, cocked it and turned on the threshold. She pointed it at the wounded älf, aimed at his head and fired.

The bolt flew out and struck Tirîgon in the neck.

Mallenia cursed. She had been aiming at the head but her hand had been shaking. But if the gods—apart from Tion—were on her side she was now rid of this enemy.

She stepped out of the door in great haste, slamming it behind her. The key was on the outside, because the sheriff had forgotten to remove it. Thus she was able to lock the siblings in and make her escape. She would need the head start this gave her.

The älfar would be pursuing her, so the conspirators’ families should be safe. For the moment. She could worry about everything else later.

Mallenia turned and saw the älfar mounts only five paces away. Shall I?

No one had ever dared ride one of the night-mares—or rather, nobody had lived to tell the tale.

She knew that taking one of these animals would give her the best chance of getting away. Conventional horses were hopelessly inferior to these tamed unicorns.

“Let’s see if I can trick you,” she murmured, approaching the beasts with the lock of Tirîgon’s hair in her outstretched hand. She watched the nostrils of the night-mares attentively and thought she could identify which one was reacting to the smell of the tuft of hair.

She rubbed the lock of hair over her own face and arms, torso and legs. “Here, smell that? Tirîgon has said I can ride you,” she said gently as she walked round the big black animal, its dreadful red eyes seeming to glow like molten lava. She put one foot in the stirrup and swung herself up into the saddle.

The night-mare reared up and whinnied; it sounded more like a screech. Then it stamped its hooves on the paving stones, striking white sparks that left scorch marks on the stone.

Mallenia grabbed hold of the animal’s neck and made herself flat, so as to avoid being bitten, but she stayed on determinedly; then she dug her heels into the creature’s flanks. “If you don’t want to obey…” she threatened, and banged the handle of her dagger against the creature’s forehead blaze.

The night-mare shot off and galloped through the dark streets. Sparks flew whenever its hooves struck the ground. As they rushed along, flashes lit up the walls like lightning in a storm.

Mallenia took hold of the reins and forced the night-mare to her will. This was like no horse she had ever ridden before. The skin round a normal horse’s mouth would have torn or the neck vertebrae would have been damaged by the violence. But it seemed not to mind, and eventually obeyed her instructions. They raced toward the town gate; the attentive watchmen had already opened it for her. They must have thought she was one of the älfar.

Riding like the wind she left Topholiton and thundered along the road to the west.

The Outer Lands,

Seventy-four Miles Southwest of the Black Abyss,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

Tungdil and Ireheart rode side by side, covering the miles to the fourthlings’ stronghold through which they could gain access to Girdlegard. To their old home…

A meeting had been arranged with the remaining dwarf-rulers; messengers had been sent out in advance.

Boïndil had selected a white pony with brown markings; a second animal, heavily laden, was on a lead rein attached to his saddle. Tungdil rode a befún, after the habit of ubariu warriors.

The befún resembled a large gray-skinned orc on four legs with a short stumpy tail. The body was muscular and as broad as a horse, the nose flattened, which made the head quite short. Its squarish, three-fingered hands, covered with toughened skin, were adept at grasping things.

Ireheart knew that a befún would stand erect in battle, aiding its rider by the use of its claws as an extra weapon. A special saddle with a long, curved back support ensured the rider had the right posture and could not easily be dislodged.

The two dwarves made a strange pair. The companions were different in so many ways, not simply in their choice of mount.

Ireheart presented the classic dwarf-figure familiar throughout Girdlegard from ancient times, when the small-statured folk had campaigned heroically against Nôd’onn or the avatars or the creatures from the Black Abyss, described in so many heroic tales. Those grand days were long past; recent battles had ended in defeat: Against the älfar, against Lot-Ionan, against the Dragon… But the dwarves were still respected.

Ireheart sported an impressive braided beard and had a memorably wrinkled dwarf-face. He wore his reinforced chain-mail shirt under a light-colored fur coat with a hood. He had his crow’s beak weapon fastened to his saddle, and was puffing away at his pipe while humming a tune.

Tungdil in his dark armor seemed more like a small squat älf. The fact that he rode a befún emphasized the spooky impression, and the weapon Bloodthirster at his side—the reforged älf sword he used—did not help to make him look like a friendly child of the Smith. Any dwarf of the thirdling tribe, the dwarf-haters, would have treated him with respect, assuming him to be one of their own.

It was thoughts such as these that occupied Boïndil constantly; he tried hard to push them out of his mind and not to think about the obvious changes in his friend.

Puffing blue smoke, he brought out his drinking flask. So that the water in it did not freeze, Ireheart carried the flask close to his body. “Well, do you remember the way?” he asked his friend, as he took a long draft from the flask. “I prefer to rely on my pony’s memory. His head is bigger.” He put the stopper back. “It must be a hundred and fifty cycles since I was last anywhere near here.”

Tungdil laughed. “That makes two of us. But I can add a further hundred cycles.” He looked round. “No, try as I might, without the path I’d be completely lost. Or, at the very least, I’d take a very long time.”

The companions fell silent again.

The clattering of hooves on stone was thrown back as an echo by the mountains; a light breeze chased the new-fallen snow and formed it into drifts in places, hazardous for the ponies.

“No questions at all, Tungdil?” Boïndil finally asked. He attempted a smoke ring.

Keeping his gaze solidly toward the front, Tungdil opened his mouth and said, “I’m still trying to come to terms with what you’ve told me. Lot-Ionan the Forbearing. What can have changed him so? Magic?” He was lost in thought for a time, then sighed deeply. “There are so many things I want to remember, to convince you that I really used to know them. To convince you that it’s really me, your comrade-in-arms.” He touched the scar on his brow. “It was this blow, I presume, that robbed me of my memories, both happy and sad. It was my master who delivered the blow and it nearly did for me. It didn’t kill me but it wiped away images of my past. It’s the only explanation I can come up with.”

Ireheart studied the scar. “I’ve heard of that happening, someone losing their mind if they’ve been hit on the head in a fight. But losing your memory is the lesser evil, surely,” he said, sounding relieved. “I should have realized…”

“… except that all the people around you were telling you to fear the worst. They made you think I was not your old friend, the Scholar, who owes you so much.” Tungdil fell silent again, lost in thought.

Ireheart let him be. He would ask him some other time about this master he had mentioned. But not now.

“I know! When I saw Lot-Ionan last he had a light blue robe and was wearing white gloves…” Tungdil seemed alarmed. “The gloves, Ireheart!” he cried excitedly. “I can see it clear as day; he needed gloves to cover the burns he sustained touching the artifact. The skin had healed but had stayed black.”

“That’s the idea, Scholar!” Ireheart greeted this successful recollection gladly. “The artifact treated the magus harshly. I had a bad feeling even then,” he added angrily. “But I’m glad you can remember it. The artifact had denied him access because he was not pure in thought. At the time we thought it meant he had lost his purity through some trivial misdemeanor, but we’ve known for some time now that it must have been something much worse.” Ireheart wished he had a whole band of pig-faced orcs at hand to take out his fury on. He had been blaming himself for several cycles for not having acted against Lot-Ionan; he had let Goda talk him round. “In part it is my fault. If we had stopped him then and there, or imprisoned him, the tribe of the secondlings would not have been practically eradicated.”

“Goda was his apprentice?”

Ireheart nodded. “She was his famula for about ten cycles. The ubariu couldn’t find anyone else to be their rune master. But then she noticed that the artifact was reacting differently from usual. When she touched the dome to refresh her magic, it was very painful. She thought her own purity of soul was in danger, but couldn’t explain what the reason was. She had given birth to our firstborn quite a long time beforehand, so it wasn’t that.”

Tungdil adjusted the golden eye patch, and the polished metal flashed in the sunshine. “So the change was gradual?”

Ireheart looked at his friend and started wondering, despite himself. Did he always wear the patch on the right side? Wasn’t it the left eye that he’d lost? He could not be sure, but the thought did nothing to put his mind at ease. He pulled himself together to reply.

“That’s right. Until he tried to teach Goda some magic spells that she thought were just too cruel. When she refused to cooperate he fell in a rage and walked out. After that, a few letters came, asking her to go to him in Girdlegard so that they could talk it all through, but she did not want to leave the artifact unattended. The last letter was full of threats and said some dreadful things. We took it as confirmation that we’d made the right decision.” Ireheart caught sight of a mountain hut on the road to the pass where travelers could shelter rather than spend the night out in the open. “Look! It’ll be a bit basic, but much better than sleeping in the snow.”

“And Girdlegard just sat back and watched him conquer the Blue Mountains?” objected Tungdil, unable to believe it.

“But what could they do against a magus, Scholar? After he’d been freed from petrification by bathing in the magic source his strength grew greater with each coming orbit. You would have thought he had the skills of two magi.” Boïndil clenched his fists in helpless anger. “That was how he managed to wipe out nearly the whole of my tribe. He subjugated the very rocks to his commands. And with that power he defeated the dwarves.”

“What do you mean? He made the tunnels fall in?”

“Exactly, Scholar. He sent one earthquake after another and our halls and strongholds collapsed. Passageways filled up with molten rock and water flooded the shafts. Thousands lost their lives, and then he lay in wait for the wave of refugees at the fortress Ogre’s Death, and struck them down with magic spells.”

Ireheart’s eye filled with tears of anger and grief that rolled down his cheeks into his beard, where the freezing wind turned them to gems of ice. “There are hardly a hundred of them left. They took refuge with the freelings.”

Tungdil grimaced. “That doesn’t sound like the man who brought me up,” he muttered. “I’ve no reason to doubt you, my friend. Something in the past must have contaminated him with evil. Perhaps the source that awakened him?”

Ireheart wiped the pearly tears away. They melted in his fingers. “No one knows. You’re the only one who would dare take up arms against him. You, and maybe the Emperor Aiphatòn.”

“The High Pass—is it open?”

“He closed it up after the black-eyes from the south marched through. He didn’t want to let too many of Tion’s monsters in, I suppose,” said the dwarf dismissively. “Are we sticking to your plan, Scholar? Or have you thought of another way to defeat an adversary like him so that we can force him to serve us?”

Tungdil did not answer. He stared straight ahead at the hut. “Someone’s expecting us,” he said quietly. “I wonder why they haven’t got a fire going.”

Ireheart’s eyes widened in anticipation. “Here we go! You think there are some footpads waiting to ambush us?” Secretly he was wondering how Tungdil could have spotted the enemy. The wind was blowing away from the hut, there were no tracks in the snow and he himself would have heard the tiniest of sounds in the stillness. He supposed it was down to the constant experience of battle sharpening his friend’s senses. He got ready to wield his crow’s beak, but Tungdil motioned him not to.

“I don’t know how many they are. We’ll act as though we haven’t seen anything. That way he, or they, will think we’re an easy target,” he suggested.

“Because if they have crossbows they could shoot us out of our saddles. I get it,” said Ireheart, pretending to be checking the buckles on the harness. “I hope the place is full of robbers,” he said. “Ho, this’ll be fun!”

“Not much fun for whoever’s going to have to fight us.” Tungdil patted his befún’s neck. “Shall we have a bet?”

“No, not this time,” said Ireheart with a grin.