The Fate of the Dwarves

VIII

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Weyurn,

Lakepride,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

Mallenia opened her eyes to see an awning. It was mainly in orange and red, and had unfamiliar white and yellow embroidery; the air was damp and cool, as if the windows were wide open. The scent of beeswax candles gently pervaded the room, and the light flickered softly.

She turned her head and saw a black-haired woman of about her own age sitting at her bedside, wearing a bright red dress with a tight-fitting bodice that emphasized her figure; the skirt was full and elegant.

“Welcome.” The woman smiled at Mallenia. “My name is Coïra and you are on the island Lakepride in Weyurn. In the palace here you should be safe from the älfar who were pursuing you, Mallenia of Ido,” she said quietly. “We have been able to save your arm, but even with magic it will take some time to heal. The night-mare’s bite took flesh and bone.”

Mallenia looked at her upper arm, hidden under a thick bandage. She could still feel the bite. Clearing her throat, she said, “I owe my life to you. I will never be able to repay what you have done for me.”

“There is no need,” came the friendly response. “You are a freedom-fighter and have dared to do things I would never have the courage for.”

“Don’t be so modest, Princess,” said a man’s voice at the other side of the bed. “In Mifurdania you fought Lohasbrand’s orcs. That makes you a defender of freedom.” Before the Ido girl could turn her head, a man with an unkempt beard bent over her. “May I introduce myself? I am Rodario the Seventh,” he said shyly.

“He protected you from the night-mares down on the shore,” said Coïra, “while I was dealing with the älfar.” She remembered that he had not explained yet why he had not drowned. Surely he had told her he could not swim?

“Then I am in your debt, also,” Mallenia nodded.

“Oh, not really. We freedom-fighters must stick together,” he said, playing down his involvement. “And protected is an exaggeration. I just made sure you weren’t trampled by the animals’ hooves, that’s all.”

Mallenia smiled at him, before looking at Coïra. “The älfar—you defeated them? Just the two of you?”

“Even if I am not the same kind of maga as my predecessors, I still have powers enough. It was lucky for you that the älfar turned up after I had refreshed my magic energy. If they had arrived earlier I wouldn’t have been able to help.” She poured Mallenia a glass of tea. “But I’m afraid I must disappoint you: The älfar are still alive; I drove them back to Idoslane.”

Mallenia pressed her lips together so tightly that they turned white. “You don’t know them.”

“Brother and sister, aren’t they?” asked Rodario. “They looked so alike.”

“Triplets,” corrected Mallenia, taking a sip of the tea to moisten her throat.

Coïra pushed back the strands of long black hair. “As we met two of them and you were riding a night-mare, I think I know what must have happened.”

“They caught me in Topholiton, in Gauragar. My comrades were all murdered; I managed to kill one of the siblings and I escaped. Then they overtook me,” she reported. “And they will return to kill me. I heard them talking when they thought I was unconscious.”

“You understand their speech?” Rodario sat down and studied the woman. He liked what he saw. He liked it very much. At least as much as he liked Coïra, although they were so different in build and coloring. He saw that the blond Mallenia was used to working out with weapons and exercise. “Respect! How did you learn the language? It’s supposed to be extremely difficult.”

Mallenia forced a smile to her lips, but it came out crooked. “When a land has been occupied for as many cycles as Idoslane has, you get to understand the words the oppressors use.” She did not dare to touch the bandaged arm; the wound was itching and throbbing painfully as it started to heal. “How long will it take?”

“The bone was badly affected. Multiple splintering. My magic has been able to fuse the remaining pieces but it will be at least eight orbits before you can use the arm again.” Coïra stood up. “In two orbits’ time you can get up. Shall I send a messenger to tell your friends where you are?”

Mallenia gave a deep sigh. “There’s nobody left. The Dsôn Aklán, as they call themselves, killed all who were close to me or who were descendants, like myself, of Prince Mallen.”

Rodario sat up with interest. “What does that title mean?”

“Something like gods of Dsôn.”

“Quite a title!” He rubbed his chin. “But tell me, what was the reason for the slaughter? To stamp out rebellion once and for all? Or is there more to it?”

Mallenia was surprised. “What do you mean, more?”

“How should I know? You’re from Idoslane and you know the old myths and sagas. Is there a prophecy, maybe, connecting the descendants of Mallen with the overthrow of a mighty enemy?”

Mallenia was suddenly touched with doubt. “That had never occurred to me,” she confessed.

“The älfar are well known for mysticism. So people say,” Rodario added. “It might be like them to hunt down yourself and the others to stop a prophecy coming true.” He seemed no less excited by the idea than she was. “It sounds like a story that ought to be put on the stage, don’t you think?”

“Your enthusiasm is all well and good, but which stage would you perform it on?” objected Coïra. She was afraid the injured girl would be upset by the man’s wild speculations and not be able to get the rest she so sorely needed. “In Weyurn you have no spectators and in Idoslane you wouldn’t manage more than two sentences if the älfar in the story don’t come out the winners.”

Rodario stroked his meager beard again, as if he were trying to encourage it to grow. “That’s true,” he said pensively. “I’ll have to enquire.” He looked at Mallenia. “We’ll need to find out whether there’s more than bloodthirstiness behind the killings that the black-eyes are carrying out.”

She was about to answer, but there was a knock and a servant stuck his head round the door. “Princess, your mother wants you. A messenger has arrived. One of the Lohasbranders.” She raised her hand in acknowledgment and the servant withdrew.

“Rest, now, Mallenia. We’ll look in on you later,” said Coïra as she left, motioning to Rodario to follow her. “The more sleep you can get, the quicker you’ll recover.”

The two left the room and walked side by side through the palace, which was built at the top of the island.

Rodario could not contain himself. “What do you think the Dragon wants?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing ever since I heard there was a message,” said Coïra, deeply preoccupied. She reproached herself for having acted unwisely in Mifurdania in letting her identity be known. She had brought danger on herself and on her beloved mother. The Dragon did not forgive. Certainly he would not forgive the death of an ally or support given to a criminal.

“I could volunteer as a hostage if Lohasbrand demands one,” he began, but she waved this suggestion aside.

“Nobody is volunteering. I thought we could try to divert the Dragon’s attention to the two älfar, without letting on why they were here. The dead night-mare would be proof. Then maybe the little episode in Mifurdania would lose its significance,” she said firmly, but she was not convinced by her own words. “Are you all right? Your face?”

Rodario touched his cheek. “It’s nothing. The iron wall gave me a kiss.”

“I don’t understand how you managed to fall over the parapet. And to reach the shore. Didn’t you tell me you couldn’t swim?”

“Carelessness and a puddle on the slippery walkway. I think Samusin saved my life,” he lied. He had decided not to say anything about Loytan’s attack on him. He would settle the matter with the count man to man. And he’d make sure he never turned his back on him again. “It all makes sense. My clumsiness got me to the shore at just the right moment. You on your own facing those älfar—it doesn’t bear thinking about.”

Coïra laughed at how serious the actor sounded. As if he really believed that she would have been in difficulty without him. “Yes, you saved me, Rodario the Seventh,” she said in friendly tones, taking his hand. “Who would have suspected this fighting spirit in you? Forgive my honesty but, personally, I would never have thought it of you. Not after your night-time adventure in Mifurdania.”

“How should I take that?”

“The little yelp when I stood in front of you—it was quite sweet. Like a little girl.”

“Bah!” he said, overacting again.

She had to laugh. “I’m glad your true nature has come to the fore.” The maga looked into his brown eyes to add a teasing remark—but stopped, in confusion. The hesitant expression on Rodario’s face had disappeared and given way momentarily to something decidedly masculine, an air of a victor.

The impression spread briefly to his whole figure, giving him a strikingly different aura; she stared at him—but then the boyish shyness returned.

Rodario smiled and pressed her hand. “I’m glad, too.” He let go as they approached the passage and came in view of the servants. Coïra wondered what it was that had just happened.

They walked to the west wing together; this was the queen’s residence, even if it was in reality her prison and had been so for some time.

The servant opened the door to the high tower and they stepped into the room with its big round many-paned window of leaded glass. Behind the window what was left of the lake’s beauty spread out to the horizon. There were clouds over the glistening surface of the lake and individual islands stood high, like plates on pillars. Others had the form of spheres.

Wey the Eleventh, deposed queen of Weyurn, rested on a cushioned seat by the window. Round her sat, or stood, four heavily armed and armored Lohasbranders. Wey was wearing a silken wine-red dress and a cap of black lace.

What did not remotely go with her attire was the iron ring around her neck. Four chains were attached to it, each one leading to a guard. Rodario noticed a device on the ring that would cause it to close up tight if the chains were pulled. Death by suffocation. If all four men pulled at the same time, he imagined it would decapitate her.

Rodario admired Wey, who pretended to ignore the humiliating chains. He had heard that the guards never left her side, in order to prevent her having access to the magic source. The ruler was the most powerful maga in Girdlegard, people said, more powerful even than Lot-Ionan. Nobody knew how old she was.

The Dragon, Rodario remembered, had somehow managed to defeat her and had promised to spare her daughter, and her land, if she agreed to submit to this imprisonment. The Scaly One must have had only the narrowest of victories. Rodario wondered why nobody had killed the four Lohasbranders. Concern for the population?

Wey nodded to them and the chains clinked slightly. Coïra and the actor bowed and took their seats on chairs the serva nts brought.

A fifth Lohasbrander came out from behind a set of bookshelves with a heavy volume in his hands. Rodario thought he might be about fifty; he had short brown hair and a burn scar under his left eye. He was flanked by two orcs: Both of them tall, armed to the teeth and quite horrible. He noted the new arrivals, studied them in turn and sat down at the desk that really belonged to the queen.

“Wrong seat,” Coïra said rudely to the man. “Unless you are in reality a woman under your armor and entitled to the crown of Weyurn.”

The man laughed out loud. “The wildness of youth,” he chuckled, opening the book to browse through its pages. “You are always so direct in your words. Considering what you have been up to your conduct might be described as audacious and unwise in the extreme.”

Rodario viewed the scale of horn that the envoy wore on a chain round his neck. It was engraved with a design that showed the man to be one of the Dragon’s privy councilors, meaning that his words would be command and law, as if he were speaking for the Scaly One himself. Rodario thought it was not a promising sign, and so he got up from his seat. “I admit everything; the guilt was mine alone.”

“Guilt?” The man looked bewildered. “By Tion! Now I see: It’s yet another of the would-be Rodarios.” He groaned. “They should all be done away with. I can’t stand that face.” He leaned forward. “Let me see: Yours is too fat, the beard is ridiculous, you don’t speak your lines properly; it’s as if you had stuffed cotton wool in your cheeks. Quite the opposite of the one we executed in Mifurdania. I’m sure he would have won the contest.”

Rodario and Coïra stiffened.

The man grinned at them. “Yes, and now you’re not quite so full of yourselves, are you?” He pointed to the scale he wore. “Let’s get back to the real reason for my visit. I am Präses Girín and I have been sent by Lohasbrand to investigate incidents that have occurred in Mifurdania. It is said,” and he turned his attention to Coïra, “you were involved. Things happened which only a maga could have arranged.” His left hand gestured toward Wey. “If your mother has not left the island, as the guards assure me, there remains only you. That is an infringement of the agreement!”

Rodario had not sat down again. “Präses, who did you execute?” he stammered.

Girín rolled his eyes. “There are so many of you. How should I know who everybody is? I think it was The Incomparable Rodario.” He smirked. “The sword did for him in the end. He wasn’t as elusive as he thought. So the rebellion has lost its head, in all senses of the word. All that nonsense about liberty and resistance has gone with the wind.”

Coïra held her hand to her mouth. Rodario swayed on his feet. “Stand tall,” he murmured, pulling himself together.

Girín looked at Coïra. “Let’s get back to you…”

“You are accusing the wrong person,” the actor interrupted, pulling himself to his full height. Stand tall! “It was me!”

“You?” Präses burst out laughing. “What’s your game? You want me to die laughing?”

“As actors we have a few ways to trick our audiences. We can produce illusions with a little powder, we can turn out the lamps and we can call up demons, given a little time to prepare and the wherewithal,” he explained. “You will be acquainted with the old stories of the wonderful magister technicus Furgas? I had time enough at my disposal to arrange the escape. A friend of mine disguised himself and the two of us stormed the tower to free The Incomparable One. The orcs were stupid enough to fall for it.”

Girín stood up, then raised his left arm and beckoned. “Come here, actor.”

Wey and Coïra exchanged horrified glances.

The princess found it touching how Rodario was trying to help her but was in a quandary. If the Lohasbrander came to the conclusion that she had overstepped the terms of the agreement, her mother’s life would be in danger; but at the same time she did not want the actor to make this sacrifice. She was amazed at the bravery he was exhibiting. There was more man in Rodario than she had assumed on first meeting him.

The actor moved over to the desk and Girín studied him closely. “All right, show me how you did it,” he challenged, leaning back in his chair. “Show me your fake magic.”

“I… need time to prepare!” said Rodario, pushing up his sleeves. “Right then, for example, the ball of fire. Here you’d have a little device with special plant seeds. When I press the igniting trigger and the flint…”

Girín shook his head. “No, I don’t want explanations. I want to see the real thing.”

“I’d have to go back to Mifurdania to get my equipment.” Rodario shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t do it otherwise. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and meet those älfar that are spying round here secretly in Weyurn.”

“Of course,” said Girín in superior tones. “Älfar. We see them here all the time. Saw one the other day doing some fishing by the lake.” The orcs grunted with laughter.

“Don’t you believe me?” He turned to Coïra. “She had to take on three of them yesterday, or they’d have infiltrated Weyurn. Probably scouts. On the shore you’ll see the remains of a night-mare carcass. They’re probably still near at hand. Tell that to the Dragon. There’s more than one who’s not keeping to agreements, then.”

Präses was sunk deep in thought. Then he sent one of the orcs over to the mainland.

Coïra had to suppress a smile. Rodario had cleverly diverted attention from himself. It was clear that Girín could not allow himself to be negligent in such a matter.

“But,” said the Lohasbrander, facing Rodario again, “whatever the truth about the älfar story you’ve just fed me, it doesn’t remove your guilt.” He motioned to another orc and the creature approached the actor. “I will take you with me to Mifurdania and confront you with the guards that survived the attack. If they think it’s possible that they confused Coïra with you in women’s clothing, then the blame can be lifted from the Weyurn ruling family and nobody is harmed.” Girín nodded to the queen. “For you, Rodario the Howevermanyeth, the journey is over, one way or the other. When you arrive the contest could be finished and you will learn the name of the winner before the executioner lays your head on the block.”

The actor had gone pale; his hands were fastened behind his back with a chain the orc took from his belt. But Rodario was still standing tall, with his chin slightly raised.

Coïra looked over at her mother again and tried to read in her eyes what the queen was thinking.

“I was telling the truth, Präses,” said Rodario. “But what if the orcs don’t agree? How reliable are they?”

“If it turns out they are sure that it was indeed Coïra who was responsible for the attack on the prison, Wey will suffer the consequences.” Girín sounded indifferent. “Those are the terms of the treaty you signed,” he told the queen. “The Dragon insists the terms are strictly observed and does not want to be the only one to keep to the agreement. You can thank your own flesh and blood.”

“No. She won’t have to. Coïra had nothing to do with it,” Rodario repeated. He was dragged to one side by the orc and forced to stand next to the desk.

“Mother, what do you say?” asked Coïra, her hands on her belt that lay loosely round her hips. “The älfar would not stop for Präses if they encountered him and he were to stand up to them?”

“Hardly,” said the queen. “And we’d have to ask the Dragon for support immediately to help us get rid of the invaders who threaten our island.”

“What are you talking about?” barked Girín, switching his gaze from mother to daughter and back. “There are no älfar here, and they certainly would not dare to attack an envoy of the mighty Lohasbrand. The consequences would be unthinkable.”

Wey got up slowly from her chair, her hands folded in front of her, like Coïra’s. “I have waited so long for the opportunity to be freed from these fetters, Präses,” she announced with dignity, pride in her eyes. “The gods listened and sent them to me. On this notable orbit. Thanks to you and to the älfar.”

Girín guessed what was coming and sprang up from his chair. “Quick! Kill them both!” The orc drew a huge sword and was about to attack Coïra, while the four guards pulled at the chains holding the queen’s collar. The circumference of the ring narrowed.

Rodario tripped up one of the orcs, but not sufficiently to bring the creature to the floor. It stumbled, though, and took a couple of moments to regain its balance.

Red lightning hit face and breast; the orc let out a shrill scream of pain and fell burning onto the marble flagstones. Even the dark blood issuing from its wounds was in flames. Rodario could not tear his eyes away.

White trails of energy laid themselves round the ring and prevented it being pulled any tighter. Then the flashes worked their way along the chains to the hands of the Lohasbrander guards. With a hiss their fingers caught fire, as if they were made of dry wood.

The flames traveled up with amazing speed, slipping under the armor. Smoke issued from the guards’ collars. The soldiers dropped the chains and beat at their clothing trying to extinguish the flames. Seconds later they were on the floor, burned black.

The iron ring around Wey’s neck burst open with a clang and fell, glowing, to her feet. The queen looked at Girín, who had drawn his sword and was standing by the great window, trembling all over. “Did you really think I had no more magic power, Lohasbrander?” she said angrily.

“The Dragon will come and annihilate you!” he said. “He will destroy the whole of Weyurn; it will be overwhelmed in a sea of fire and the lakes will boil away.”

“The Dragon will learn nothing of this. But he will be told about you and the älfar who fought you. In the palace. You will be portrayed in a heroic light. You should be pleased about it.” Coïra smiled and stepped over to Rodario. A quick flash and his bonds were released. “We shall implore him to seek out the älfar. Because, of course, we care about the future of Weyurn, just as he does, even if for different reasons. He will take up our offer, that much is certain.”

“But before that,” Wey went over to him, “you must die, to bring our story to a fitting end.”

Girín struck the window with his sword, shattering some of the panes. A strong gust of wind swept in through the opening, blowing objects around. The curtains flapped, papers and cloths and empty glasses landed on the stone floor. The air was filled with noise. “Never!” he screamed and jumped out, knowing that though it was a considerable fall he would eventually hit the lake waters.

Rodario did not want to leave it to chance as to whether or not the man died. Surprisingly fast he bent over one of the dead guards, drew a dagger and hurled it at the falling figure.

The blade hit Präses in the back of the neck. His body went limp and the hand released the sword. Rodario was satisfied. The women rushed forward and watched the corpse fall. They saw Girín as a black dot flying to meet the waves.

“That must be… at least eighty paces down. The impact of the water would have broken his neck, anyway,” said Rodario with enjoyment. “He just didn’t think it through.”

Coïra wondered if Rodario’s good aim had been more luck than judgment. She could not decide. Together they saw how the Lohasbrander plunged into the waters of the lake and disappeared. “Do we need his body?” Wey asked them.

“It would be as well. We’ve got enough corpses to convince the Dragon, but the cadaver of Präses would be most effective.” Her eyes fixed on the boat nearing the shore. “There’s the orc rowing over, the one he sent to find the night-mare.”

Coïra had understood. “I will see to it he doesn’t land, in case he saw who fell out of the window.” She embraced her mother and held her tight for a long time. “How long I’ve waited for this!”

“It seemed like an eternity.” Wey had closed her eyes and placed her arms around her daughter.

Rodario’s heart was beating wildly. “What shall we do now?” he asked excitedly. “What’s the plan? You do have a plan?”

“In part,” replied Coïra, freeing herself from her mother’s arms. “We let the Dragon think that the älfar killed his men. Then we’ll see what happens. If we’re lucky he’ll wage war on them. While they wear each other down we can go about our other projects.” She came up to him and embraced him. “You are welcome to contribute your ideas to our rebellion.”

Rodario grew hot. In his imagination she was naked as he had seen her at the bottom of the shaft. “Gladly, princess,” he breathed, lifting his arms awkwardly. Was he permitted to embrace her or not?

Before he could decide, Coïra let go. “You are a sweetie, Rodario the Seventh!”

“I do have a suggestion!” he hastened to say. “How would it be if we kept people thinking the unknown poet is still alive? I could take on his role—well, the rhyming, anyway.”

Coïra nodded, although she was not over-enthusiastic. “Do you think you’d be able to? Nothing against your poetry…”

“I am a quick learner. You’ll see.” He made a deep bow. “I promise you, you’ll be surprised just how quick.”

There was a glimpse, Coïra felt, an image of the other Rodario, the one who was manly and who could aim very straight when throwing a dagger. Suddenly she was keen to see his verses.

Wey was still standing at the window watching the lake. “See to the greenskin, Coïra,” she commanded. “He’s nearly at the shore.” She turned to them. “I shall speak with our new poet in the meantime. There seems to be a hidden talent here.”

Rodario bowed. “At your service, Majesty!”

The Outer Lands,

Seventy-six Miles Southwest of the Black Abyss,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

The flattened head of the crow’s beak hammer struck Tungdil’s armored chest and the runes flared up once more on the tionium platings, as if issuing a challenge to the sun and stars.

The handle of the weapon flashed—and shot off diagonally to hit the ceiling. Then the crow’s beak fell to the floor.

“Ha!” Boïndil was standing close to the feet of the recumbent dwarf. “This time I didn’t get clobbered with a magic shock.” He grinned and smoothed down his beard, realizing that the hairs were standing on end from the magic charge. “If I let go of the weapon at the last moment and jump out of the way, the energy can’t get to me. Ho, Scholar, what do you say to that: Am I clever or am I clever?” He picked up the crow’s beak and studied the metal head. “Hmm. It looks all right.” Ireheart extended a hand to Tungdil. “How’s it going? Can you move now?”

Tungdil blinked. “All I can see is bright lights in front of my eyes,” he snapped, lifting his right arm. The friends clasped hands and soon the dwarf was on his feet next to Ireheart. “But it did help. Colossal shock and potentially self-destructive, but it did the trick.”

Boïndil laughed. “Not really self-destructive.” He looked at the huge hole the magic had torn in the ceiling, a hole the size of a cow. “Anyway, now I know what to do if you fall over again. You’ll just have to make sure I’m always around. If you’re not careful they might think you’re a statue next time it happens and you’ll end up on top of a pedestal.”

Tungdil lifted his arms and legs, turned his head and twisted from side to side. The armor had regained its former flexibility and was behaving as if nothing untoward had occurred. “I’ll try to remember that when I’m fighting our enemies,” he replied, going over to the table to have something to eat at last. Ireheart did not seem to have left him much.

“I couldn’t have known my treatment for broken armor would work so quickly,” Ireheart apologized in response to the enquiringly raised eyebrow. “What exactly did you feel when I hit you?”

“I don’t know. It should never have happened.”

Boïndil laughed and caught the sausage to pull it down. “Hang on, I’ll rub it clean in the snow. Should taste fine.” He tapped it against Tungdil’s armor. “When it’s thawed out, I mean.” “I’ll be all right with what I’ve got here,” said Tungdil, stopping his friend leaving the hut. “And the thirdling? Where did he get to?”

“The White Death rode down to the valley and caught him. Vraccas was on our side.” Ireheart thought hard, his brow furrowing. “I’ve never seen a skirt-wearer like that one before. In armor with those runes. I could swear they were älfish symbols. Very strange.”

“What’s strange about it? You said the thirdlings and the black-eyes had a pact.” Tungdil took the last ladlefuls from the pot, tipped them onto a plate and sat down to eat.

“There’s a big difference between making a pact and having weird runes and peculiar armor. What I’ve heard about the thirdlings didn’t mention they were actually friends with the black-eyes, or that they’d give each other armory lessons.” Ireheart could not help glancing at his friend’s tionium covering.

Tungdil went on chewing and drank a mouthful of tea. “So you want to know what kind of being it was I robbed and killed,” he said, interpreting Ireheart’s questioning gaze.

“Exactly, Scholar. He must have been a swine of a fellow, I know. And he must have used bad magic to make the armor, just like the älfar do. That’s obvious from what just happened.” Ireheart looked at Tungdil. “What else should I know? For an emergency?”

Tungdil scraped up the last bit of food and licked the spoon clean. “That was very good,” he said. “You didn’t leave me much, but it was very good.”

Boïndil frowned. “Is this a miserable attempt to avoid answering?” He hunted in his pocket and pulled out his substitute pipe. “Good thing I had a second one with me. That idiot trampled on my favorite pipe. I’d smoked it in just right.” He filled it with tobacco and lit it with a spill from the fire.

Tungdil paused, staring at the steam rising from his mug of tea. As it rose it mixed with the blue smoke Ireheart was puffing out.

“I met him one cycle after I arrived on the other side. At least I think it was a cycle. The light is different down there and you lose the sense of the length of an orbit. I was defending myself against a horde of orcs and was in trouble because of the injuries I’d received in the Black Abyss. I killed the first twenty orcs quickly, but more and more monsters kept emerging from the passageways, attracted by the screams of the dying. I had my back to the wall and was fighting for my life; I’d taken two crossbow bolts to the body and my arm was practically severed, so I sent my final prayer to Vraccas. Then he appeared.” Tungdil’s voice failed, as if he needed a drink of water. “He wore different armor from this set, but it was similar. It was the first suit he had forged.” Tungdil leaned over to Boïndil. “I swear he had greater strength than any dwarf. Stronger than you, Boïndil. Take you and me and your brother together and you come close. He wields two weapons the weight of the crow’s beak at the same time, and he’s so fast on his feet you can’t see his blows coming. He carries a third weapon in a harness on his back. He…”

“Has he got a name?” Ireheart was listening with rapt attention.

Tungdil’s eye flickered and Boïndil was not sure if it was fear or anger at the interruption. “He has many names. One of them I can pronounce: Vraccas.” “What?” Ireheart sat bolt upright. “That’s blasphemy! How does he dare to call himself that?”

“He is without doubt something special and until I turned up he was the only dwarf in the blackness of the other side.” Tungdil shuddered. “If you could see him, Boïndil, you would understand why the name made sense to me. And he saved me from the orcs.” He dropped his gaze and stared at the mug of tea. “He took me to his refuge, an old stronghold abandoned by Tion’s hordes. He had reinforced its defenses as necessary and had installed a giant forge there. It was just the way I’d always imagined the creator’s eternal smithy! He has forges hot enough to melt anything, Boïndil! Stone, ore, everything! I saw it with my own eye. Dragon’s Breath is merely a warm breeze in comparison.” Tungdil stood up, restless now. “He passed the time thinking up types of new armor and perfecting them. If you like, I was his apprentice.”

Boïndil rubbed his beard. He did not like the sound of this. “And these runes? Did the false Vraccas think them up, too?”

Tungdil nodded. “He knew a lot about magic, I think. But it was a different art from that of the magae and magi in Girdlegard. On the one hand, spells are compressed into the runes and you can bring them to life by the use of particular words. On the other, sometimes they can function on their own.”

“I remember,” grumbled Ireheart. “The first time was enough for me.” He glanced at the ceiling, where snowflakes were drifting through the hole in the roof before melting on the floor. A hole in the roof is better than an arm torn off. He leaned on his elbows and put his chin in his hands. “So he was your master?” Tungdil was walking up and down. “He showed me forging techniques that were new, and I made my own armor using these new skills. It had not escaped my notice that he would be visited every so often by monsters, and that he was quite polite to them. Horrific creatures, Ireheart. They were messengers from the kordrion and other monsters who are worse still. They would order armor and weapons for their troops. And some of them wanted to get him to lead their own armies. They’d have given him whatever he asked. You know, there was constant war among the beasts, because by nature they were so violent and bloodthirsty and couldn’t get out of the Black Abyss, so they would fight each other.”

Ireheart’s imagination was working overtime, creating terrifying images. He saw crudely hewn passages full of monsters, slaughtering each other and covering the walls and ceilings with blood and guts; enormous caverns filled with vicious fighting forces, roaring and rampaging and at each others’ throats; black fortifications that they charged and rammed, the walls shaking from the impact and from the hail of missiles.

Boïndil felt Tungdil staring. His friend smiled knowingly.

“Nothing you can imagine is bad enough to describe what I saw,” said the one-eyed dwarf softly, as he took his seat again. “What wouldn’t I give for a good gulp of brandy and a barrel of black beer,” he sighed.

“Me too,” muttered Ireheart, in spite of himself. His friend’s story had affected him deeply. “What happened to you after that?”

“My master, if we can call him that, never took up their offers. He did not wish to lead armies—why would he? They weren’t his wars and they weren’t his people.” “And where was he from?” Boïndil wanted to know.

Tungdil ignored the interruption. Perhaps on purpose? “He provided arms for all sides. He made everything they asked for, but never gave them armor as good as his own. After thirty cycles with him I had won his trust and complete confidence. He would send me as his agent to negotiate with the forces of evil. They started to make those same offers to me.” He swallowed and looked down. “I didn’t resist. Reason told me it was a good thing to send as many beasts as possible to their deaths and I could do that best by leading one lot against another. And I had to get to the Black Abyss—what better way to get there than at the head of an army?”

“A wise decision, Scholar,” commented Boïndil.

“But it brought down the anger of my master on my head. I had always let him think that I was sticking to his own principles: Never take sides and make everyone pay.” Tungdil was about to take another sip and saw his cup was empty. “A mercenary. For one hundred cycles I was no better than a mercenary, serving the rulers who offered the best wages. I had my own domain, Ireheart.” He smiled, but it was a thoughtful smile and a cruel one. “Thousands followed my command, my two fortresses were impregnable. But that made the princes in the underworld mistrust me. The ones I served got together to try to defeat me.”

“You had to escape?”

Tungdil laughed and the sound of his laughter sent shivers down Boïndil’s spine. He noted the deep malice in the voice of his friend. “No. I defeated them all and seized their realms. My warriors were the best because I had trained them in the way of dwarves. They were able to cut great swathes through the lines of the enemy. My power lasted about thirty cycles and I was the undisputed overlord on the other side.”

“And your former master had turned against you,” Ireheart assumed. He could not banish the chill from his body. The shadows were making Tungdil’s face harder, the furrows deepened and the scar on his brow darkened.

“Because there was no more money to be made. I had ruined trade for him.” Tungdil took a deep breath. “Let me stop there for now, my friend. I am tired and pained by the memory of all those orbits in Girdlegard I had wanted to forget. They pain my heart and mind.” Tungdil got up and walked to the beds. “Can you take first watch?”

“Of course, Scholar.” Boïndil hid his disappointment as best he could. He had a thousand questions to bombard his friend with, but he took pity on his old comrade-in-arms, noting how stiff and tortured he seemed to be—like a dwarf of eight hundred cycles.

Ireheart got up, placing a few more small logs on the fire and in the stove so that they would not freeze. The vital heat they needed was escaping all too quickly through the gaping hole in the roof. When he turned round he saw that Tungdil had closed his eye and was already asleep.

The dwarf rubbed his beard. He stood in the middle of the room, at a loss. Time passed slowly.

Eventually he went over to where his friend lay.

He studied the familiar face closely. Slowly he stretched out his right hand, the fingers approaching the golden eye patch.

When his fingertips were a hair’s breadth away, Ireheart hesitated. It is not right, he said to himself. He balled his fist and forced his arm away, turning around and making his way back to the table.

You’ll regret this one day! That was an opportunity that won’t come round again. The doubting voices in his mind were shouting and screaming at him, but Boïndil ignored them.

He stared up through the gap at the stars and prayed to Vraccas—to the true Vraccas—and this Vraccas did not live on the far side of the Black Abyss, among fiends and monsters.