Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

Malbalor also rose and dropped to one knee, repeating the ceremony.

Xamtys jumped up. “So much hot-headed madness from my own realm is insufferable!” She looked at Glaimbar. “I can’t think why you are supporting him.” Then she turned her eyes to Malbalor. “You are afraid of losing authority because you are a thirdling. You think you’ll hang on to power and your people will be left in peace if you join the dwarf who calls freelings and thirdlings his enemies.” Her eyes narrowed. “You are both wrong. You have split the dwarf folks with your decision. I will never accept Ginsgar as high king.” She stood up and knelt before Bylanta, to be joined by Balendilin. “We swear allegiance to you, High Queen Bylanta Slimfinger of the clan of the Silver Beards,” they chorused.

Then the freeling city representatives, Bramdal amongst their number, rose and stood at the side of the fourthling queen. They swore no oath but made their commitment plain.

Ginsgar jerked to his feet. “By Vraccas! Rebellion!” he bellowed, reaching for his battle hammer. Malbalor and Glaimbar stood stock still. “And you,” he shouted at the freelings, “I’ll have you back with the dwarves as Vraccas decreed. Your realms outside Girdlegard have seen their last days.”

Bramdal gave him a contemptuous look.

“You and your two friends will be responsible for what happens,” said Bylanta somberly. “We can prevent the feud,” she insisted to Malbalor and Glaimbar, “if you give me your oath of fealty! Avert this rift!”

“They have acknowledged me as their ruler,” thundered Ginsgar. “And I shall not rest until I am high king of all the dwarven folks. It is your fault! You are the traitors for not supporting my claim.”

Bylanta drew back. “It is better if we leave,” she said to the dwarves under her banner. “I pray that Vraccas may instill some sense in you, Ginsgar Unforce.”

“That he has done, as my deeds testify.” He laughed scornfully as they left the hall. “We shall force them to swear allegiance,” he told the two kings, laying his hands on their shoulders. “You will not regret having supported me.” He indicated they should rise.

“I hope you are right.” Glaimbar was on his feet. “They’ll soon understand that what you have done was the only solution for Alandur.” He lowered his voice. “It’s just you stopped too soon, high king.”

Ginsgar laughed cruelly and ran his hand over his fire-red beard. “Plenty of time…” he hinted with mirth. “Let us drink to my confirmation as high king.”

Malbalor thanked him but gave his excuses. “I am too tired, Your Majesty. I should be but poor company and I am not in the mood to celebrate a victory that is nothing of the kind.”

“Make no mistake, Malbalor. It will be a great victory and we shan’t have to wait long.” He gave him a friendly tap on the chest. “And then we shall drink together.”

“Yes. Then we shall,” he responded weakly, taking his cup of water as Glaimbar and Ginsgar led the way.

Malbalor was not happy with this stirring of unrest. Xamtys had seen through his motives immediately. As king of the thirdlings, in joining forces with Ginsgar, he felt he would be gaining security for himself and his folk. He must use the intervening time to prepare for Ginsgar’s endeavors.

If leaders did not soon become more clear-sighted, the feud about the high king’s title would end in internecine strife. It would be the first time dwarves fought each other without the thirdlings being the cause, as had been the case under Lorimbas.

A hazy suspicion rose in his mind. “Vraccas, give us reason or give us Ginsgar’s defeat,” he murmured, downing the contents of his cup. “Save your children.”

Girdlegard,

Gray Mountains,

Realm of the Fifthlings,

Winter, 6241st Solar Cycle

B alyndis was seated in the throne room surrounded by the old fifthling grandeur, and the new fifthling magnificence. She interrupted the talks with the clan elders and opened the letter she had just been handed.

It was from Rodario and contained many pages detailing recent events and in particular how Tungdil had met his end. Even if no one could say with certainty that he had died, the descriptions of the monsters in the Black Abyss made it impossible that he could have survived.

“Dead,” she mouthed. Tears sprang to her eyes, and the words on the paper became illegible through the mist.

“Queen Balyndis,” one of the dwarves prompted cautiously. “What has happened? Is King Glaimbar not well?”

“No. No, he is fine.” She forced herself to smile, although her heart was mourning the dwarf she was once linked to with the iron band. She had released him from their union, aware that his soul was restless. It had changed nothing in her feelings toward him.

She had returned to Glaimbar’s side more or less by default. She had not wanted to go back to her firstling clan and certainly had not wanted to go to the freelings. Glaimbar’s invitation had reached her at a time when few other options were open. He had accepted her back as his spouse without a word about the past; and for this she truly loved him. It was a different love from the one she had for Tungdil. And would always have.

“Would you like to rest?” one of the dwarves suggested. “Perhaps in your condition…?”

“Indeed,” she said, grateful for the excuse. She got up to leave. “Forgive me. I should go and lie down. We will meet again shortly before sunset.”

The clan leaders bowed and Balyndis walked through the throne room to the door. Her attention was otherwise engaged but she still noticed she was being stared at. Geroin Leadenring was looking at her with malice; he was the brother of Syndalis Leadenring, the king’s second wife. Glaimbar had rejected her in favor of Balyndis and this had aroused much ill-feeling.

Balyndis avoided the gaze and hurried through the corridors, past her own chambers and directly into the small forge where she was often to be found creating all manner of items in the little leisure time at her disposal. The furnace was always burning, fed from the Dragon Fire.

She cast the pages of the letter one by one onto the glowing coals, observing how they curled in the heat and caught, then turned to ash. The featherlight black flakes flew up the chimney and off, far over the peaks of the Gray Mountains and beyond.

Balyndis watched them go; she threw a shovelful of coal into the furnace and set the bellows to work. Soon white flames were dancing, sending out tremendous heat. She did not want these lines anywhere near her if they spoke of Tungdil’s death. She needed nothing to remind her of him or of his heroic deeds.

The finest remembrance he could have left her with she carried beneath her heart. All the fifthlings presumed the child was Glaimbar’s.

They should continue to think so.

Girdlegard,

Queendom of Weyurn,

Near the Tunnel,

Winter, 6241st Solar Cycle

I t was early afternoon but it looked as if night had fallen. A winter storm covered the western part of Weyurn, bringing icy rain and the first flakes of snow.

Algin saw the foresail belly out dangerously with the storm wind which was chasing the little fishing boat over the crests of the waves. They were traveling so fast that the man was afraid the hull would lift clean out of the water. “Take it down,” he yelled to his friend Retar the helmsman, pointing at the threatened wind-filled canvas.

“No-if we do that the lake will get us,” he shouted back against the roar of the storm.

“If that sail rips we’re done for.” Algin staggered across the rearing deck and with cold wet fingers tried to undo the knots to drop the topsail. That would be simpler than furling the canvas. “We must head back to harbor.”