Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“How was it possible for him to use the diamond?”

“Later, Lot-Ionan! If you want to save Girdlegard you have to make an effort.” After a short pause the voice added, “Or do you want me to help you, old friend?”

“No,” Lot-Ionan shot back the answer. He closed his eyes tight and pressed the diamond with both hands, trying to force the power out of it like squeezing the juice out of a fruit. Nothing happened. Then came a shout from Rodario and the crash of a body falling.

“Too slow, old friend. Now there is no one between the unslayable and yourself. The bravest heroes of Girdlegard are all vanquished,” said Nudin. “My offer still stands, Long-Sufferer. You won’t get far today with your famous patience, believe you me.”

Lot-Ionan opened his eyes and saw the alfar two paces away. Visions of a devastated Girdlegard flamed up in his mind. Innumerable beasts were streaming in hordes from the north, escaped from the confines of the Black Abyss, and they were joining forces with the monsters from the west. Together they were raging through the defenseless land and inching it toward annihilation. Nothing remained except for enclaves of horror, scorched and violated, all the people reduced to servants of evil.

The alfar pushed up his visor and showed the magus his even-featured face where, instead of eyes, only two dark holes were to be seen.

The beauty of that face was arresting and impossible to resist. Lot-Ionan recognized that he wished only to fulfill every demand the creature might put on him. It would only have to ask him for the stone and…

“No,” he shouted at the alfar, stiffening every sinew against the remorseless attraction-even if he would not be able to sustain the effort. “Help me, Nudin,” he said quietly.

“Gladly, my friend.”

A vicious sharp pain stabbed Lot-Ionan’s spine, traveling up and shooting through the shoulder into the arm, spreading into the fingertips. Suddenly the diamond blazed with green fire.

And at once the magus knew all his powers were returning. He remembered the spells. Many spells. They rushed into his mind of their own accord, and his mouth formed the words as his hands made the magic gestures, to fling at the alfar.

The creature was staggered by this magic onslaught. Enclosed within a sphere of malachite fire there was no escape. A single thought from Lot-Ionan sufficed to make the ball-like structure shrink around the alfar until it touched the tip of his helmet.

He crouched down and tried to strike a hole in his prison, but his efforts were in vain. The globe grew tighter around him, until his skeleton crunched under the pressure. The tionium bent out of shape, bones fractured and pierced the skin and internal organs of the unslayable; his blood flowed down onto the dust. His shrill screams reverberated through the tunnels.

By this time the globe’s diameter was that of a small wagon wheel; it shrank and shrank to the size of a crystal divining ball, then to the size of a child’s marble. Magic turned the unslayable into a bloody thing of flesh and metal devoid of any life.

Lot-Ionan made the sphere disappear, and the tiny ball rolled into the dust. With the aid of his new-found powers he raised it up without having to touch the revolting object; he sent it flying into the heart of the machine.

“Are you pleased with me, Forbearing One?” asked Nudin’s voice. “I think we worked very well together.”

The magus paid no heed and instead gave swift attention to his companions. For Tungdil any help was now too late. The alfar sword had cut his heart into pieces. “No,” Lot-Ionan whispered, aghast. Memories of the past, happier cycles, rose in his mind: Tungdil working at the forge, or laughing in the kitchen with the maid Frala and her children, while the dwarf read them stories. What would he not have given to return to those far-off days. With everything he had since lost.

“Try!” whispered Nudin enticingly.

“Try what?”

“To bring him back to life.”

“To make him one of the undead? I cannot do that. And even if I could, no, it’s better he should…”

Nudin laughed, as an adult will laugh at the naivete of a child. “Lot-Ionan the Forbearing. There is no limit to the power in your hands. The gods will be jealous. Go on, try.”

“No.”

“Try it. You won’t be disappointed.”

Lot-Ionan placed his left hand gingerly on the dwarf’s lifeless body while in his right he grasped the diamond. Healing spells combined with images of a vital Tungdil.

The magic worked!

As the wound closed up and the heart began to beat under his fingertips, the magus could hardly take it in. He had acquired dominion over life and death, the fervent desire of magi and magae for generations. The power was his, so simply, with no need for cycles of research, invention of new spells, and countless experiments. All that was needed he held in his hands.

Tungdil’s eyelids fluttered and opened. He looked at his foster-father. “Revered Lot-Ionan? Am I dead?” Coughing, he sat up, spitting out dust and blood. In disbelief he ran his fingers over the ripped chain mail shirt; he could see exactly where the alfar’s sword had struck. “I must be dead.” His brow furrowed. “He hit me…” He hastily looked around for the alfar, getting to his feet. Then he noticed that even the severe injury to his arm had gone. “Where is the unslayable?”

“Dead.” Lot-Ionan stroked Tungdil’s hair as he used to do when he was young. “The diamond, Tungdil. It is incredibly powerful and it can… heal wounds like nothing else in the whole of Girdlegard.” He did not wish his foster- child to know that of rights he should be in the eternal forge with Vraccas.

“Dead?” Tungdil felt giddy. He had to put a hand on the wagon to steady himself. “Where is the body?”

“I have destroyed it. It is in the machine somewhere.”

“Are you certain that…”

“Yes.” The magus went over to treat Rodario’s injuries. The actor, too, would of rights have been with his ancestors, his belly sliced open by the alfar’s blade so the entrails spilled out. But the diamond and the magic power restored everything to its rightful place and the deadly wound had closed up before Tungdil could see it.

After that, Sirka and Flagur were attended to. The other freed souls Lot-Ionan left in the hands of the god Ubar. He did not want to be profligate with the force of the diamond. It surely would come to an end at some time.

Tungdil searched the wagon the alfar had used to reach the tunnel’s end, hoping he might locate Keenfire. No luck. This time the enemy had ensured the legendary weapon would not be found.

His boot met something sharp, something metal. He bent down and picked up one of the unslayable one’s swords.

“A trophy?” commented Rodario, extremely surprised at his own survival.

Tungdil was admiring the blade’s quality and decided to take it with him. “I’ll make myself an ax from this metal. It will stand me in good stead until I find Keenfire.” He went to Sirka and embraced her. “We’ve done it,” he whispered with relief. “The diamond is safe.”

“Let’s get out of the tunnels,” said Rodario. He indicated his shredded clothing. “I have no idea how I survived all that, but I’m not asking.” He nodded to the magus. “At last I appreciate the wonders of magic, revered magus.” Climbing into the wagon he started to crank. “All aboard, heroes of Girdlegard! I want to see the sun.”

Tungdil saw from their faces that none of them understood what had happened. Nobody had witnessed what had occurred between Lot-Ionan and the unslayable. But joy took over from speculation and laid itself over all the open questions like a fire blanket over flames. It killed his own doubts, too.