Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

A third explosion hurled molten rock into the air. It spattered as far as the fleeing armies, creating new victims. Smoke and steam rose up, obscuring the view.

The battlefield was silent now.

“No.” Ireheart stared into the veil of steam and dirt. “Coira, can you get rid of this fog? I have to know what’s happening.” He stood up, groaning, and laid Goda down on her cloak. She was still breathing, so he was less concerned about her than about the welfare of his friend.

The maga did what he had requested and called up a mild breeze to waft away the curtain, even though clouds of dirt and steam still persisted.

The Black Abyss had gone; lava bubbled in its place, the black heart-blood of the mountains sealing up the chasm. Evildam had lost a good third of its walls and, as far as he could make out through the smoke, only a few of the human and ubariu warriors were still alive. The dwarf-fighters, men and women alike, had done better than the others because the kordrion had never reached their ranks.

“He has made the ultimate sacrifice,” he muttered gruffly. “The Scholar knew what would happen and gave his life for us!” Tears filled his eyes. “Vraccas, you have admitted the greatest of your heroes to your eternal forge today.”

“There!” cried Rodario with a happy laugh. “Can you see what I see?”

Ireheart glanced to the left-and gave a shout of joy: Through the smoke and ash a dwarf came swaying and stumbling, clad in battered tionium; he was using Bloodthirster as a crutch and limping over toward them.

“Scholar!” Ireheart rejoiced. “Oh, Vraccas, if I ever strike it rich I’ll offer all my wealth at your shrine! It’ll be worth it! Worth it a thousand times over!”

The armies on the plain and fortress walls had seen Tungdil. The chorus of voices cheering their hero was louder than any shouts of joy Ireheart had heard before. He wept with emotion.

Tungdil was badly burned; lava had cooled and hardened on his chest, and blood was pouring from a gaping wound in his side. But still he had walked smiling out of the inferno and was now waving to the humans, the ubariu, the undergroundlings and his own folk.

“That’s my Scholar,” sobbed Ireheart.

“I knew we’d do it,” said Slin, shaking hands with Ireheart. “A good job we trusted him.”

The dwarves, injured or otherwise, sank to their knees before the high king: Even Ireheart and Slin, who was putting a new bolt in his bow to be on the safe side, bowed to show respect.

The wave spread.

Humans, elves, ubariu and undergroundlings bowed before Tungdil Goldhand as the trumpets blared. Tungdil walked steadily onward until he had nearly reached his friend.

I knew it! Ireheart was the first to get to his feet, intending to give Tungdil a hearty embrace, high king or no.

Suddenly Kiras sprang past him and he felt a jerk at his arm as she raced toward the Scholar. He realized too late that the undergroundling had grabbed Keenfire out of his grasp.

“This is not Tungdil Goldhand! This weapon can’t be fooled like you can.” Kiras shrieked, holding the legendary ax in both hands. “See how the diamonds sparkle! What more proof do we need?” She delivered a strike.

Slin uttered a curse and lifted his weapon, aiming and firing in one smooth movement.

The bolt struck Kiras from behind, finding her heart, but at the same time the ax sliced through the tionium armor, through the ribs and into Tungdil’s heart. They fell dying into each other’s arms, to sink into the swamp.

The trumpeting stopped abruptly and a mass cry of horror resounded on all sides.

“No!” Ireheart ran up. He dragged the undergroundling’s body off Tungdil, levered Keenfire out of the wound and surveyed the horrific injury, which was pouring blood. A conventional healer would be unable to do anything at all.

“Coira,” he yelled, beside himself. “Come here and save him, maga!”

She stepped forward slowly and shook her head sorrowfully. With a voice thick with tears she said, “I can’t. I have nothing left. I used it all to produce the wind you asked for…”

Ireheart lifted his friend’s head and washed away the mud from his face using water from his drinking pouch. “This must not be allowed to happen, ye gods,” he shouted. “You cannot let the hero of Girdlegard and the Outer Lands die!”

“It… was… not… Tungdil,” breathed Kiras, contorting her body and moaning. “The gems on the ax… I had to do it…” Her eyes dimmed.

“IT WAS HIM!” cried Ireheart, staring at Keenfire. The diamonds were still glowing but Boindil knew that the cause was him-a result of the elf curse-not Tungdil. “It was him!” he echoed quietly, weeping at the death of his friend.

Goda opened her eyes.

She had heard everything and had only pretended to be in a swoon so that her husband would not be able to demand that she save the creature’s life.

When she sat up she noticed something sparkling in the cuff of her sleeve.

She reached and pulled out the last of the lost diamond splinters. It had been with her all along!

Goda saw Ireheart hunched over the corpse of the dead dwarf. It would have been so easy for her to keep him alive…

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.”