Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

Goda hit out in despair and fury at the stone that was failing them so. She heard a slight click and it slipped down into place in the setting.

A bright silver light shot along the bars of the artifact, slamming into the mighty rings: the symbols started to glow faintly and then increased in brightness with an opal sheen that made Goda think she was losing her sight.

When her vision cleared she saw a glittering sphere had overlaid the rings of the artifact. A second globe enclosed the opening to the Black Abyss.

She could no longer see the first kordrion, a severed claw and part of a wing being the only evidence that it had ever emerged from its dungeon. A second version raged wildly behind the delicate but impenetrable barrier; as if possessed it hurled itself against the thin membrane, to no avail.

“I’ve done it,” she whispered, hardly daring to believe it. She gazed at the diamond’s matt shimmer. She laughed out loud. “I’ve done it!”

“Yes, you have!” Ireheart returned her joyful words. He tried to stand up, but felt very wobbly. “Come down carefully so I can hug you!”

Rodario placed his hand on Sirka’s shoulder. “Tungdil will have made it, too,” he encouraged.

She let her eyes roam across the sunken battlefield, now filled with the cadavers of beasts and the corpses of her own people. A number of monsters had escaped the axes and swords of their opponents and were fleeing over the edges of the crater to disappear into the distance.

“But the kordrion has got away,” she stammered. “The artifact did not work in time. What now?” She looked at Rodario. “There’s no hope. The books say-”

“Don’t give up, let’s wait and see. The old books aren’t always right, you know.” He leaned on her shoulder for support. “Come, let’s go over to the ravine to find Tungdil.”

She gave him a grateful smile. Together with Goda and an unusually pale Ireheart they made their way over the mountain of bodies.

But neither Tungdil nor Flagur returned from that battle.

The Outer Lands,

East of Letefora, At the Black Abyss,

Early Autumn, 6241st Solar Cycle

Sirka was standing by the protective globe, with one hand on its shining surface. She could feel a tingling in her fingers from the energy it contained.

On the other side she could see the kordrion’s head; it had slunk back into the ravine to rest and was observing her with its topmost pair of eyes. Its ugly skull lay on its claws; every so often it selected an ubariu corpse and swallowed it with obvious enjoyment, before taking up its original position. And waiting.

Ireheart joined her. “It’s waiting for the barrier’s strength to let up.”

“That one and a thousand others,” said Sirka sadly. “I know we can’t open the barrier even for a few minutes to go and look for Tungdil. The kordrion would be out like a shot. One of them free is bad enough.”

Ireheart watched her face. “You’ve been keeping watch for three orbits now. You’ve hardly eaten or drunk anything. Come over to the camp,” he begged. “The scholar wouldn’t want you to starve yourself to death on his account.” He wiped a tear from his eye.

She swallowed hard. “I’m coming,” she said and turned round.

The banners of the ubariu fluttered over the crater. Reinforcements had arrived and a temporary camp had been set up where their injured could be cared for and from which any monsters remaining at large could be pursued and hunted down.

“They say the kordrion has taken to the hills,” he told her, to break the silence and to take her thoughts and his own away from their pain.

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“Who do you mean?”

“Tungdil.”

Ireheart took a deep breath but found breathing ever more difficult. He was relying on his dwarven constitution to help him recover from the poison. It had not killed him outright, so it was not going to do so now. “Common sense would say yes. Only four hundred warriors have survived out of twenty thousand.” He fought down his despair. “But I haven’t seen his body with my own eyes. And no one has been able to tell me how he died. So I don’t give an orc’s fart for common sense. I say he’s still alive. He’s cutting a path through the ranks of the beasts and is looking for the way out. He will cleanse the ravine of evil and he won’t stop until they’re all dead. One fine orbit, there he’ll be, all of a sudden. And if it takes five hundred cycles.” A new tear trickled down through his beard.

“I shan’t be able to wait that long, Ireheart,” said Sirka, her voice choked with emotion. “If he comes back and asks you about me, then…” She wept.

Ireheart stood ramrod stiff at first, then he relented and took her in his arms. Her tears mixed with his own: undergroundling and dwarf united in grief.

“Tell him,” she said quietly, “that I never chose another after him. Even if this is not the way of my people. I know I can never have another companion like him at my side.” She freed herself from his brotherly embrace and dried her tears on her sleeve.

“I shall tell him,” he promised gruffly.

In silence they made their way to the mess tent, where Lot-Ionan, Goda and Rodario were waiting, together with the city-king’s consort.

Opposite them sat the acront, dressed in strange raiment, his head hidden under a light veil. The garment he wore was like the apparel of an ubariu rune master.

The monarch’s wife looked at Sirka and said something to her. “They have been waiting for me,” she translated. “The acront wishes to speak to Goda about the future.”

Ireheart regarded the mountain of fabric with more than a degree of suspicion. “What is there to discuss?” A rush of heat overwhelmed him: he was perspiring from every pore. His body was sweating out the poison. That had to be good.

The acront raised his voice and his consort translated the uncanny sounds; in turn, Sirka rendered the words into the language spoken in Girdlegard.

“He says the ubariu have not yet got a new rune master. He says that you, Goda, should remain in Letefora to guard the artifact until the ubariu have appointed and trained a rune master from among their ranks. He has noted minute cracks in the sphere containing the Black Abyss, because something had affected the diamond’s purity.” She waited until the acront’s partner had interpreted some more words. “Thus it is essential that someone watches and if necessary steps in to strengthen it. It would only be for…” Sirka did some calculations. “… four cycles. After that she could return to her own country.”

“And what if she doesn’t want to?” Ireheart wanted to know.

“You can of course leave. But consider well. A fracture in the protection would mean disaster for Girdlegard,” Sirka translated. “It would only be for a transitional period. All requests will be met; Goda shall have everything she needs. And she will be rewarded for her services.”

Goda sat next to her master, feeling very unsure of herself. “I am not a maga,” she said.

“Yes, you are,” contradicted Lot-Ionan, who had his injured arm in a sling. “You have not received the training but deep inside you are indeed a maga.”

“You honor me to speak so, venerable sire. But at the moment I am not even a famula.” Goda was unhappy. “What could I achieve without Lot-Ionan’s knowledge store?”

The acront spoke once more.

“He says you are the only one allowed to touch the diamond and the artifact. You are connected to both and you are vital. If anything were to happen to the artifact to make the protection sphere collapse, nobody but you would be capable of erecting it again.” Sirka lent the acront her voice. “He asks you to give him four cycles.”