Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“Then it’s the fault of the women, not us.” The warrior grinned. “It’s always the women.”

Tungdil laughed quietly. “That’s being too simplistic.” He searched for the right words. “I’m not happy, Boindil. Frustrated. In Girdlegard there’s nowhere I feel at home. I don’t belong with the humans. I don’t belong with the dwarves.”

“You’ll be off to join the undergroundlings, then. I knew it.”

“How…”

“You’re the learned scholar, Tungdil. You sat around on your arse more than five cycles in Lot-Ionan’s vaults trying to be a decent settled dwarf. For the sake of Balyndis. But your heart and soul weren’t in it.”

This took Tungdil by surprise. It was all true. He stared at his friend.

“Now, with the unslayables, there’s a new challenge for you and then you’ll be off, over the hills and far away.” Ireheart smiled. “Whatever kind of dwarf you are, Tungdil, you’re not the type that likes settling down. There are a few more characteristics of the children of the Smith that have passed you by as well. Good thing, too. You got the dwarves and freelings together. You united the dwarf tribes and Gindlegard has you to thank that it still exists in its present form.” He patted Tungdil on the knee and stood up. “An ordinary dwarf like myself would never have managed all that. Vraccas made you like this to bring a bit of life into the race. Stay the way you are, Scholar. I’ll have to get used to it, even if it takes some time. You’ll have to excuse my grumbling. I am and remain your friend.” He held out his hand. “If you want my friendship.”

“How would I cope without a bad-tempered honest dwarf?” Tungdil grasped his hand and they embraced. He was glad they had had this exchange. The black curtains between them were now swept away.

Ireheart beamed with relief. “Now we’ve sorted that out, let’s see how pointy-ears deals with Esdalan’s accusations.” He shouldered the crow’s beak. “I said pointy-ears on purpose, because she’s not one of the elves we have to get on with.” He went over to where a canvas partition shielded Goda’s sleeping quarters. “Ho, it’s great to be able to say pointy-ears again.”

Tungdil got himself a hearty breakfast. He sat quietly eating while Boindil was briefing his trainee for the assembly session. It did not escape her notice that her mentor kept taking a sideways glance over to Tungdil. Finally she came over. “What can I do to convince you I am to be trusted? Give me a task, exact an oath from me-something to reassure you. I have Ireheart’s confidence.”

“It’s not necessary, Goda,” Tungdil replied.

“I want to get rid of these doubts you have about me,” she insisted. “We are both of the thirdling tribe. You know what it is like not to be trusted.”

He stayed silent about his and Gandogar’s vague misgivings about letting the thirdlings reassemble as a tribe in their own right. “Yes, I do.” The memory of the rejection he had met with from Balyndis’s clan flashed through his mind. “And I don’t like having you so near me and Ireheart, Goda, when I have these doubts. But I have a duty to be cautious. If you were a spy for the dwarf-haters you could cause immense damage with what you might learn.”

She glared at him. “So your doubts can’t be removed?”

Looking at Boindil, Tungdil said, “You have convinced my friend, Goda. Give me time. Maybe I can come to the same conclusion.”

“Not everyone is like Myr.” Her words shot out.

Tungdil was shocked. “No, they are not all like her,” he agreed softly, standing up and leaving the tent.

Outside, in the light of the rising sun, he marched sharply off, up and down the hillocks until he found the highest. Here he sat down on the dew-fresh grass, out of breath now.

He surveyed the scene spread out before him: smoke rose from a campfire or two. The army was starting to wake up, like the rest of Girdlegard.

Perhaps Balyndis, back in the Gray Range, was also waking. Was she looking at Glaimbar and thinking of him? Was she cursing his memory? Did she still love him but understand it could lead nowhere? He hoped that she understood.

Tungdil snatched up a few blades of grass. What was going to happen to Sirka and him? Would he only disappoint her, too?

Turning these thoughts over in his mind he remained on the hilltop until the sun climbed above the horizon. A fanfare signaled a meeting. He would arrive late, but no matter. They would not start without him.

“Vraccas, guide me,” he begged, getting to his feet brushing the dew from his leather breeches and relishing the feel of the cool dawn air on his face.

He could not have said why he did so, but he turned toward the north. There he saw, ten miles away, the wide snake heading toward them over the hills of Idoslane. An army of considerable size was marching to Toboribor.

The ubariu: The thought shot through him. Without the fourthlings having noticed, Sundalon had accompanied the army through the mountains to support his claim for the diamond. Tungdil tried to guess how many soldiers were involved. When Sirka had mentioned the number eighty thousand she had not been lying.

Now they had to hurry.

He started back down immediately. The meeting was going to be really interesting now. He wondered how Rejalin would react to the news of the approaching ubariu. Secretly Tungdil felt relieved to see the army. The elves would not dare to set out against such superior numbers.

Gandogar would be shaken to hear that the dwarves were not in sole charge of Girdlegard’s safety. And had not been for several thousand cycles.

“Yes, this is going to be lively,” he said to himself as he got near to the camp.

Sentries from the outposts were dashing in to inform Mallen of the approach of what they took to be an orc army that had appeared out of nowhere.

Tungdil went swiftly in, cutting a messenger off in mid-flow. “Your Highness. The approaching force is not an enemy,” he explained. “These people have kept Girdlegard safe in the past just as my own have done. I shall send Sirka out to them. She will return to us with a delegation of the ubariu.”

Prince Mallen, surrounded by tumult, tried to think. “I have stopped being surprised by anything,” he said flatly. “Let us meet in the conference marquee.”

Tugdil bowed and went off to give Sirka her instructions.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Idoslane,

Four Miles from the Caves of Toboribor,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T he besieging armies were in complete uproar.

Four hundred ubariu standards had appeared on the hills behind the encircling siege. Each of the banners measured five paces in length and one pace in breadth; the bright fabrics with their unfamiliar symbols flapped and swirled in the wind. The poles they were suspended from bent with the weight of the material and each standard needed four bearers. The noise of the flags whipping in the breeze was audible from afar.

This sea of flags was enough to impress the humans, the dwarves and even the elves. For Tungdil there was, thanks to Sirka, the additional knowledge that each standard represented one thousand warriors encamped over the hills out of sight.

Depicted in the arms Tungdil noted stylized weapons, patterns like flowers, and images of animals; still others reminded him of elaborate elf designs. No two were the same. He cast a final admiring glance their way and then entered the tent where all the monarchs had foregathered. Arguments were already underway and it was no surprise to see Rejalin deep in conversation with Isika and Ortger.

Prince Mallen rose to his feet and rapped on the table for silence. “As we have all seen, something very unexpected has occurred,” he said in carrying tones, suppressing the last of Isika’s whispered comments. “Tungdil Goldhand, tell us what this means.”