Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

Flagur looked up. “We’ve seen a few of them where I’m from, but none anywhere near as dangerous as this one. Best if we take our rune master along and a dozen of our foremost warriors,” he decided.

“A dozen?” Rodario was surprised. “You don’t think you might be underestimating the opposition? There are still three monsters on the list. He’s bound to have them with him.”

Flagur only smiled, but his smile said more than any flowery assertions.

Isika pursued Tungdil’s train of thought. “Just now you said the stone was lying on the alfar woman’s chest and that she herself looked as if she were dead.” She turned respectfully to the magus. “Do you know what this might signify, Lot-Ionan?”

“I can only hazard a guess.” He thought hard. “The unslayable siblings escaped from Porista to the caves of Toboribor by magic shortly before the Star of Judgment struck. Either their spell didn’t work as planned or else it exacted a physical tribute that she was not equal to. I have read about magi being totally incapacitated if a spell goes wrong. It’s extremely hard to revive them. Maybe by means of this diamond.”

“It would explain her coma. But could she bear children in that state?” Isika looked round the circle. “I mean, these beasts must come from somewhere, even if they only fully turn into monsters after bathing in the magic source.”

“And what if the male alfar had been struck down in the same way but had managed to free himself?” Rodario suggested. His eyes glinted with enthusiasm. “Maybe the two of them were found in the caves and the surviving orcs down there seized on the beautiful alfar and mated with her, overcome with animal lust. They violate her again and again, besotted by her beauty. Then the alfar wakes up, kills the orcs, makes common cause with the thirdlings and sends the misshapen bastards out into Girdlegard to serve his evil ends.” He stopped for air, his eyes fixed on the far distance, actor that he was. An actor planning his next stage appearance. “And then, in order to create a pure being of his own flesh and blood, he takes the alfar beauty himself and impregnates her, creating the young one we saw on the island. A child born of siblings, purer than any other alfar and part of the highest dynasty. What a plot line.”

Mallen smiled. “Your imagination is getting the better of you, my theatrical friend.”

“Call it a variation on a possible truth, because we’ll never find out what really happened. I don’t suppose the unslayable is going to sit down and explain it all to us,” Rodario admitted. “I think it’s a tremendous story though.”

“Well, it fits in with what the alfar are like,” said Tungdil, tired now. “I must get some rest, if you don’t mind. Pray for us all tonight.”

The pavilion door-hanging flew aside and a dwarf came in and bowed to the company. His face was burned by the sun, his armor coated with dust and he smelled of sweat, horse and muck. “For the sake of Girdlegard, help the fourthlings!” he gasped, handing Prince Mallen a leather pouch. “I am Feldolin Whetstone of the Thyst Finders fourthling clan. I bring a message from the Brown Range. We are being besieged by incredible creatures.”

“The size of two dwarves, wearing armor, and their eyes shining purple?” asked Sirka, to everyone’s astonishment. “Voices like the whistle of the wind and the rumble of thunder at one and the same time?”

“By all the gods, you’re describing Djer n!” Rodario exclaimed. “Andokai’s bodyguard: a mountain of steel with many times the strength of a human.”

Mallen took out a written account of the events at the pass and a sketch of the creatures laying siege to Silverfast. “More friends that look like enemies?” he remarked.

“It’s the acronta,” replied Flagur. “We got them to create a diversion so our own army could circumvent the dwarves without being seen. We didn’t want a battle, because it would have meant killing dwarves. But they are Ubar’s children, just as we are.” The ubari grinned at the messenger, who had only just noticed him and was utterly terrified. “They won’t harm you.”

“The acronta,” repeated Tungdil. “How many of them are there?”

“We don’t know. But the army that protects us against some of the larger fiends has about three thousand sword-bearers.”

“Ye gods,” muttered Rodario. “Three thousand of them? What kind of creatures do you have in the Outer Lands if you need so many acronta to deal with them?”

“I never claimed life was easy in Letefora.” Flagur flexed his muscles in a display of strength that would have made any orc go pale with envy. “But that’s nothing compared with what will issue from the Black Abyss. To vanquish them we would need thousands of acronta.”

Tungdil nodded to the messenger. “You have heard the important part. Bring this good news to the fourthlings and to your…” He had been about to say king but remembered that the king of the fourthlings had been Gandogar. His corpse was on its way to the Brown Range to find its last resting place with the other fourthling rulers of the past. His soul was already with Vraccas at the eternal smithy and would be watching events from there.

“The throne is not empty,” said Feldolin. “Gandogar’s sister, Bylanta Slimfinger of the Silver Beards, administered all the duties of state while he traveled in his capacity as high king. As soon as peace is restored Gandogar’s death can be duly mourned and Bylanta’s regency celebrated.”

“Bring her my homage and the blessings of Vraccas,” said Tungdil. He raised his hand in salutation. “Now I must really go.”

He and Sirka left the tent and crossed the human army base to get to the dwarf encampment. There, pale patches on the grass showed where some had already struck camp and left. Presumably they had gone to join Ginsgar Unforce.

“You will accompany me to the Black Abyss?” asked Sirka as they entered their tent.

“Yes, it’s my duty to ensure the diamond arrives safely where it can do most good. And that is not here.” He lay down carefully on the simple bed. His head hurt and the empty eye socket was throbbing so badly he could not think. He took her hand. “Sirka, I am the most unreliable dwarf in Girdlegard. I feel great affection for you, but…” He fell silent and stroked her bald head; her brown skin shimmered in the lamplight.

“I am not asking for more than that, Tungdil,” she said.

“I cannot swear I will be faithful till the end of my days.” He sighed. “I swore to Balyndis that I would always be true because I never thought my feelings would change, but it turned out to be a lie.” He struck himself on the chest. “This accursed restlessness within me! I can’t settle. I have the urge to keep searching for new horizons; I might do the same to you. I will never promise marriage to a woman again.”

“Your restlessness is what has helped your homeland to survive. Without beings such as you nothing would move forward. Everyone would be frightened to attempt anything new; none would break new ground and abandon the familiar. It is good the way it is.” She looked at him. “Is it true you dwarves live forever?”

“What? Oh no, we just live to a very great age, Sirka. I am seventy cycles now and that makes me a young dwarf still. The oldest of us can live more than six hundred cycles, they say.” He saw the shock in her face. “What’s the matter?”

“That’s a big difference,” she said quietly. “Our people never get past the age of sixty cycles. Most pass away at fifty.”

“Fifty?” This was a surprise. “How old are you, Sirka?”

“I am twenty-one. My descendants are seven, five and three…”

“Your descendants.” He spoke solemnly. “And where are they now?”