Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“The shafts and caves immediately below the abyss are deep and convoluted,” Tungdil explained. “There’s not enough metal in the whole of Girdlegard and the Outer Lands together to fill them up. But plugging the top of the ravine makes sense. That can’t be attempted, however, until you’ve destroyed the army they’ve got lying in wait down there.”

“The army you’ve led to us,” Goda interrupted.

“I was its leader . It would have come to you anyway. That’s different.” Tungdil was remaining remarkably calm, Ireheart thought, remembering his violent reaction the night before. “I have spent cycle after cycle making a name for myself among the monsters of the abyss so that they would trust me and accept me as one of their own. That was the only way eventually to get to be their leader. A leader even the kordrion obeyed. For I knew full well the orbit would arrive when the barrier would fall and I wanted to be in the first ranks. As a thirdling, an ordinary child of the Smith, they would have torn me to shreds. And they nearly did at the beginning.” With every phrase his words sounded darker and more threatening until he cleared his throat and removed the menace from his voice. “I let them believe I would lead them against you. It won’t be long before they recover from their surprise and they’ll be mounting another attack, more hate-filled than before.”

“Evildam will be able to repel them,” Ireheart said with all the conviction he could muster.

“It won’t be enough, my friend. I know what’s in store.” Tungdil looked from Goda to Ireheart and back again. “You need an army, a huge army, able to swarm down into the upper chambers and tunnels, fighting the beasts in their lairs, while the preparations are in hand up here to fill in the ravine. And a magus. You’ll need a powerful magus.” He looked at Goda. “There’s no other way.”

She had noted the change in his tone. “So you’re not going to help us?”

“What makes you assume that?” spluttered Boindil. “Of course he will!”

“She’s right,” said Tungdil calmly, placing his gauntleted hands together as if in prayer, or as if he were keeping some tiny creature captive between his palms. “I’ve fought all my battles and have no further desire to be a warrior.”

Ireheart’s mouth dropped open. “You’re joking, Scholar!” he exclaimed. “Don’t take me for a fool! Don’t joke about something like this! So many people have waited for you, putting all their hopes in you to drive injustice out of Girdlegard. Humans, elves-wherever they might be-and dwarves. Your own folk await you!”

“I know,” Tungdil countered. “But I made no promises to anyone about returning to save them. I was able to thwart an initial attack on your fortress and have warned you about the extent of the threat you face. Now you know what you have to do. I shall do no more.”

“It was a different story last night!” Ireheart was near despair. “You said yourself…”

“… that I had returned home to find peace and quiet.” Tungdil finished the phrase, resentment in his tone. “That was all. And I said I needed more time, to-”

“Which home did you mean, Tungdil Goldhand?” Goda intervened, ready with her next test. “Tell me: Where is your home? Back in the vaults of Lot-Ionan? That’s long gone. Or do you long to return to the freelings in their underground realm, besieged by the thirdlings? Or do you want to go back to Balyndis, your first love? Or perhaps you feel like going to the undergroundlings to spend your twilight cycles?” She gestured toward the window. “Isn’t it rather the case that you are at home in the land whose tunnels lead to the Black Abyss? By far the longest part of your life has been spent there. That fits the picture of a homeland best, don’t you agree?” She stood up. “It would be all the same to me if you were just to disappear.”

“Goda!” her husband bellowed, horrified, but she went on regardless.

“Perhaps you don’t dare accept that you have doubts about him, Boindil. But I am paying close attention to the doubts I have. What use to us is this Tungdil in his wonderful armor if he’s not prepared to act?” she said aggressively. “By Vraccas, this can’t be Tungdil!” Goda cast contemptuous looks at the one-eyed dwarf. “The Scholar would have done anything and everything in his power to put an end to the misery afflicting Girdlegard. If those had been your first words I would never have become suspicious.” She leveled her index finger in his direction. “You are not Tungdil, so get back to the Black Abyss where you came from before you undermine the morale of our troops. I’d rather have them thinking that you went away again in secret and that one orbit you will return a second time!”

She turned away, shaking Boindil’s hand off. Then she left the room.

Ireheart watched Tungdil, who appeared to be unmoved by the accusations. There were no protests, no objections. “Say something, Scholar!” he begged. “For the sake of our creator, the Divine Smith! Say something to dispute Goda’s words-something to let me believe in you. To let us all believe in you! You have no idea what effect it will have on the remaining dwarves and humans if you withdraw in this way.”

Tungdil got up, walked around the table and stood in front of his friend for three long moments, then placed his left hand on Boindil’s shoulder. Then he went out through the door to the corridor.

“That’s not an answer!” Ireheart cried out angrily. “Come back here and give me an answer.” He followed, rapidly catching up with Tungdil and grasping him by the shoulder, trying to force him to turn around. But he was not able to move the dwarf.

Boindil felt his fingers tingling, and then a shock that knocked him off his feet, hurling him back against the wall. He fell to the stone floor with a groan.

Stars and sparks were dancing in front of his eyes, and he could make out his friend’s face leaning over him in concern. “I’ll fetch a healer,” came the voice, distorted now. “You should not have done that, my hot-blooded friend. But never fear, you’ll soon be fine again.”

As that final sentence echoed in his ears, Boindil lost consciousness.

Tungdil made his way to his chamber.

The upheaval caused by Boindil’s collapse had settled now. The healer who had been summoned assumed the commander of the fortress had suffered a simple fainting fit. Perhaps too much celebrating the night before.

Even if the odd person thought there was more to it than that, nobody saw any connection with Tungdil. Not openly, at least. And when he came round, Ireheart had not said anything that could throw suspicion on anyone in Evildam.

As he turned a corner, Tungdil came face to face with a dwarf-woman.

Judging from the slim young face she was not yet many cycles of age, though the skin was as tanned as that of a shepherd. She wore a beige tunic embroidered with thorn wreaths, the front only loosely fastened, showing the white shirt beneath decorated in a similar manner. Tungdil’s gaze slid over the figure; he saw a shaved head and light blue eyes.

“You are Tungdil Goldhand?” she asked, unsure of herself.

“And you must be one of the undergroundlings,” he said. “Taller than a dwarf-woman and smaller than a human.”

She nodded and came a step closer. “I am Kiras.” She lifted her face so that the light from the lamp illuminated it. “They say that I look very like a forebear of mine,” she said, expectantly. Her eyes were fixed on Tungdil’s eye. “I’m wearing a garment made to be like hers. For you.”

Tungdil furrowed his brow. “What’s that to me?”

“Can’t you guess?” Kiras’s hopeful expression changed. “I had been so looking forward to giving you a surprise. If you can’t take her in your arms now you are back, I hoped I would be able to soothe your pain. I am one of Sirka’s descendants.” She gave him a radiant smile.