Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

The Black Abyss,

Fortress Evildam,

Late Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

Goda sat in her chamber sorting through the latest messages from Girdlegard.

Had she been asked to summarize them, she would have said that everywhere else things were going better than they were in Evildam.

Rebellion against the Lohasbranders had broken out in Weyurn and Tabain, and it was clear that neither a dragon nor any additional orc reinforcements had turned up there to quash it. The freedom-storm let loose by Rodario’s descendants could not now be contained.

There had been deaths and injuries but the humans in the oppressed regions had driven the pig-faces back into the Red Mountains. The Lohasbranders and their vassals had been tried and then, mostly, executed. Goda was amazed that after two hundred cycles of despotic rule, the newly liberated humans were bothering to use the courts to apportion blame and decide punishment.

The Red Mountains were back in the hands of the children of the Smith. That was where the next message was from: Xamtor, king of the firstlings, had written to say that all the orcs who had fled there from the revenge of the humans in Weyurn and Tabain had been killed.

Goda consulted a map of Girdlegard and ran her hand down the western edge. The chains of oppression had been smashed. “Vraccas, don’t take away your protection,” she prayed. There was a knock at the door. “Come in!”

Kiras stepped into the room. She was wearing a headband to cover the burn on her forehead. “You were asking for me?”

“Yes.” She indicated a chair. “How are my poor children? I expect you were with them?”

The undergroundling sat down. “Yes, but the guard told me you visited them this morning.”

“That was this morning.”

Kiras placed her hand on Goda’s. “Your son seems better and Sanda’s mind is clearing after the torture she was put through. She’ll soon be herself again. Apart from the fingers she chopped off when she was so disturbed.”

Both of them knew things would never be the same as before.

“There is news. Good news.” Goda showed her the letters and opened up another message, scanning the content. “Oh, excellent. The fire of freedom has crossed the border into Gauragar. The thirdlings have left their garrison and retreated into the Black Mountains, so as not to have to fight against the humans. According to these reports,” she said, handing the letter over to Kiras, “the southern alfar are already at the Ogre’s Death fortress.”

“We haven’t received any news from Ireheart, though.”

“That’s right. I’m very concerned.” Goda listened to her heart, trying to gauge by instinct whether her partner was alive or dead. She felt no premonition that he might be ill or dead, so supposed his group must be approaching their target: Lot-Ionan. “I know they will prevail.”

“That’s good. We need the help of a magus…” Kiras looked at Goda.

The dwarf-woman tried to smile. “I know what you mean.”

Kiras smiled back. “The guards report that everything is quiet at the barrier. The monsters have not attempted to set up new camps. It seems their attack on the northeastern gate left them with a bloody enough nose to discourage them from attempting a repeat performance.”

Goda was relieved to hear it. There was only one more splinter of diamond-the one she must have dropped on the stairs when she fell-and no matter how many of her servants had searched on their hands and knees, she’d been unable to locate it. Nobody knew about the unfortunate state of affairs with the magic reservoir. “I wonder how seriously I managed to injure the dwarf. Maybe that is the reason they haven’t attacked again?”

“He has seen what power you possess. He presumably thought it would be easy to overcome our defenses. But now he knows better.” The undergroundling adjusted her headband.

Goda looked at the girl’s bald head. “Does it hurt?”

“No. Just a feeling of heat and pressure from the wound.” Kiras made light of her discomfort. “What bothers me is the thought that I’m carrying around some sort of symbol and I don’t know what it means.” She looked at the maga. “So I will go to a healer later on and have it cut out. I’d hate to think the dwarf has branded me in order to take possession of me whenever he wants to. I won’t have that.”

“I don’t think it’s anything magic, but I understand you want to be on the safe side.” She smiled. “I want you to tell the officers about our news at the briefing. That’s why I summoned you.”

“Won’t you be there? What shall I say when they ask where you are?”

“Tell them I’m investigating something.” Goda could see the undergroundling was keen to know what she was hinting at, but did not want to go into details.

When she was alone again, Goda wrapped material around her knees, and padded her hands in the same way, leaving her fingers free. Then she went back to the stairs to search for the splinter again.

She was more than ever reliant on its power. It must be found.

The dwarf-woman was convinced she would be able to find it, even if it took her several orbits of searching. In the next battle that very splinter would be crucial.

But as she strode through her rooms an unpleasant thought occurred to her: Perhaps someone had already found it and was keeping it. Without reporting it to her. And Sanda had been on those stairs.

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Sangpur,

Southwest,

Late Spring, 6492nd Solar Cycle

The Blue Range was no longer merely a dark line on the horizon with an almost invisible promise of lofty peaks, but a discernible chain of mountains rising from the desert, like a life-saving island in the middle of an ocean.

“What do you say, Scholar? Eighty miles to the fortress?” Ireheart felt his chain-mail shirt was a little looser now. They had all lost weight; their food had been scant and the journey strenuous.

“About that. But we’re not heading for Ogre’s Death.” He called Franek over. “You were saying we should go a different way?”

The famulus nodded. “Bumina always took a certain path when she wanted to leave the tunnels and escape from Lot-Ionan’s surveillance in order to conduct her experiments in the desert.”

Ireheart made a face. “Oh, that would be the same Bumina that set all those traps for us in the desert trading station because she knew you’d be coming back?”

“She didn’t realize I knew her secret,” Franek replied. “It’s not dangerous.”

“In this land there’s absolutely nothing that’s not dangerous,” said Ireheart crossly, kicking at the sand. “Even the grains of sand are waiting to kill you.”

“But times are coming soon when everything will be peaceful again.” Tungdil set off, letting the famulus lead the way.

Their little group was sadly reduced in strength, meaning their confidence had also dwindled, or so it seemed to Ireheart. The only one who clung steadfastly to his belief in the success of their mission was the one who at first had refused to join them, and who could not be fully trusted: Tungdil Goldhand.

Of the three Zhadar who had survived, now only two remained: Ireheart had named them Troublemaker, Gasper and Growler. Gasper, however, had been found dead at the fireside one morning, an empty Zhadar drinking flask clutched in his hands.

Tungdil had assumed the Invisible had died of thirst, but Ireheart knew better. Unfortunately. He expected the same fate awaited him, but so far the deadly thirst had been staved off. For now.

“What a bunch of heroes,” he muttered. The totally exhausted maga had, by now, to be half carried; they would have to drag her to the magic source. Let’s hope we don’t run into that Bumina. Or friend Vot.