Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

Perhaps it was the light here in Porista, perhaps it was their surroundings or perhaps it was the dwarf-girl’s sparkling eyes that suddenly made Ireheart quite enjoy looking at her. From one second to the next his feelings changed. He became unsure of himself. “Let’s see what there is,” he stammered and averted his eyes quickly. Something that shouldn’t happen was happening. Not with her.

They made their way over to the tent flying the fourthling banner. The sentries announced their arrival at once. Goda stayed outside, but Tungdil had someone take her a drink.

Gandogar received them, stretching out a hand to each dwarf. “Events are threatening to overwhelm us,” he said, noting with pleasure the change in Tungdil’s appearance. He sensed the new vitality. “I was just about to address the clan leaders about a campaign to the Outer Lands, but now I’ve had to come to Porista with the assembly to deal with the newest outrage.” Tungdil thought the high king’s face was far more deeply lined than before. Worry was taking its toll. “How did you get on with the elves?” Gandogar’s eyes strayed to Ireheart’s shorn head. “Is this a new fashion?”

“A fight. Tungdil can explain.” Boindil preferred not to have to say much, or he’d find himself confessing the truth to his sovereign.

Tungdil bowed his head. “To be honest, sire, it was quite boring. We didn’t get to see Liutasil. They fed us. They showed us only places of no significance.” He lowered his voice. “I think they were trying to keep something from us. There are new holy objects in the clearing, and we learned by chance of new buildings they kept secret from us. Yet we have let their people see everything. It is not fair. With your permission I should like to address these issues with Prince Liutasil. He is here, isn’t he?”

“No.” Gandogar poured some water and they took the polished gold cups he proffered. “He has sent representatives: Vilanoil and Tiwalun. They said he’d be coming along later because something important needed discussing first.”

Boindil frowned. “That’s what they told us, too. It must be something really huge if it’s taking this long to debate.” He glanced at Tungdil. Now life was going to get difficult for him. The last people he wanted to meet here in Porista were their Alandur elf guides, who were very likely to know all about what he’d done.

Tungdil was silent, looking at the contents of his beaker. “Strange things are happening in Alandur.”

“What do you mean?” asked Gandogar in concern.

“I mean just that: something strange is happening in Alandur.” His old gruffness broke out. He pulled himself together. “I hope there will prove to be an innocent explanation.” He emptied his drink, bowed and put down the cup. “When does the session begin, Your Majesty?”

“We should already have reconvened. They will sound a bugle.”

Tungdil looked at Gandogar. “I have bad news. My diamond has been stolen. A new monster invaded Lot-Ionan’s vaults and attacked us. Balyndis was injured.” He summarized the events. “We lost track of the monster; it escaped off through the rocks where it left no prints. Then we got your order to come straight to Porista.”

“So you’ve lost your stone as well? The same as happened to the firstlings. A shape-shifting orc and a handful of beardless undergroundlings robbed the firstling queen.” Gandogar let out a long breath, clenching his fists. “And there’s more bad news. Xamtys suspects the thirdlings have poisoned their wells in the Red Mountains. Countless dwarves had died, men, women and children, before anyone noticed the water was poisoned. The experts have found that the fatal effects don’t develop until you’ve drunk a certain amount. Boiling the water doesn’t help at all. They have to bring their drinking water from a long distance away. In the Red Range no one trusts anyone now.”

“This suspicion will spread when the dwarf realms learn about the poisoned cisterns,” Tungdil reflected. His hope that the thirdlings might ever assimilate peaceably had died.

The age-old deep-seated hatred amongst some of the dwarves was still fermenting. The insidious lust for revenge was hitting the other dwarf folks more cruelly than ever. And those thirdlings loyal to their origins would soon become disaffected. Things would get worse.

“Perhaps it is better to rally the thirdlings who are living dispersed in other communities, and put them all together as a tribe somewhere away from the dwarflands,” Tungdil said thoughtfully.

The bugle sounded, summoning Girdlegard’s great and good back to the conference table. Their discussion must end for now.

“With you, then, as their king?” Gandogar picked up the idea quickly. He put his helmet under his arm. “I was thinking as much. We ought to discuss it with the clans and with the freelings as soon as we’ve dealt with the matter of the diamonds. Maybe there’s a place for the thirdlings amongst the Free Towns.”

“What…” Tungdil bit his tongue, suppressing the words “What rubbish!” He laid his hand on Keenfire’s ax head. “Would it be a good idea to exile them again? I am not sure if the freelings would want so many thirdlings in their towns. If I were their king I’d be afraid of armed insurrection. Who would stop them?”

“Oh, this is all so ghastly,” cursed Ireheart. “Anyone would think Vraccas had granted us five cycles of peace purely to thrust us straight into the furnace now. The diamonds are being stolen, orcs and monsters stalk our lands, the wells are poisoned and the elves are cooking up Vraccas knows what devilry.”

“Did you say a shape-shifting orc just now?” Tungdil broke in, stepping alongside Gandogar. They walked over to the assembly together.

“Reports were vague,” the high king answered. “But magic was involved.”

“What? The snout-faces and magic now?” murmured Ireheart. “Have Tion and Samusin completely lost their godly senses, sending them after us? They can’t be Girdlegard orcs. Damned sorcery! Never could stand magic.”

Goda tagged along at a discreet distance. She was exhausted by the enforced march, and Ireheart was regretting his instructions to her. He might have overdone it, he thought. But he did not let it show. “Wait outside again,” he said, adding a mumbled “Have a bit of a rest.”

Tungdil entered the tent and watched the sovereign rulers of Girdlegard take their places. He knew most of them; the human faces had aged quicker than the dwarves and elves, of course, in the last five cycles. The thorn of mortality was lodged deep in their flesh.

He observed Ortger with curiosity. Urgon’s young ruler was talking quietly to his neighbor at the council table, Queen Isika, nodding repeatedly. Then he stood up with a respectful bow.

Vilanoil and Tiwalun did not accord the dwarves a single glance. Their unfriendly demeanor warned Tungdil and Ireheart that the black finger marks must indeed have come to their notice.

King Bruron stood up and tapped his ring against his drinking vessel, the melodic ping cutting short the assorted rulers’ conversations. All their attention was on him. “Let us get back to business, Your Majesties.” He indicated Tungdil. “As you see, we have a trusted guest and old friend among us. One of Girdlegard’s famous heroes-Tungdil Goldhand-has come to be with us in our dark hour. He will help us with our deliberations, I am sure.”

Gandogar leaned over toward Tungdil. “His gold cup is an inferior alloy. The sound it made wasn’t good at all. Either the goldsmith has taken him for a ride or he’s having to cut costs but wants to keep up appearances.”

“And of course we are delighted to welcome Boindil Doubleblade, whose services to our homeland are no less significant,” continued Bruron with a smile. “We need heroes like these if we are to avert the coming dangers.”