Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“Either the beasts already have the real diamond or the one that’s got lost is the one with the incomparable magic power.” Tungdil’s voice broke the silence. “I think the beasts have long been in possession of the one that’s disappeared.” He turned to address the kings and queens. “We must put all our efforts now into getting it back. Two reasons: It must not be allowed to serve the sinister purposes of the unslayables and its power must be used to permanently seal up the evil ravine. Otherwise Girdlegard will not be safe.”

Rejalin turned her head to one side and observed Sundalon. “You formed an alliance with the orcs to get the stone back. Is that correct?”

Sundalon wrinkled his face in distaste. “I would never fight side by side with those creatures. The ubariu are honorable and are sworn enemies of the orcs. They are our brothers; our races were both created by the god Ubar.”

“They are like the orcs apart from the tusks, aren’t they?” Rejalin smiled. For that smile men would worship her as a goddess.

It had no effect on Sundalon. “They are taller in stature than orcs. Their eyes are the red of the rising sun and their philosophy is a thousand times better than that of a broka,” he retorted sharply. “If you regard them as your enemy you must take us as enemies also.”

“Strange,” said the elf-woman thoughtfully. “And what are… broka?”

“They are like you, but corrupt and false. They pretend to be benign and wise and keen to befriend all other folk. In reality they are trying to spread their own ideas. With no thought for others. They must be eliminated.”

Sundalon had spoken in dark tones. He was finding it hard to restrain himself.

“He means the alfar,” Tungdil came to his aid. “We cannot judge by appearances, Princess Rejalin. Your people know that only too well.”

She dropped her penetrating gaze. “I ask your pardon, Sundalon. I did not want to offend.”

“This is not good news that you bring us, Tungdil Goldhand,” sighed King Bruron. “It will be best if you set off for Idoslane straightaway with Keenfire in your hand. Prince Mallen is laying siege to the caves of Toboribor. We think the monsters are hiding their prize there. It will be extremely dangerous to fight these monsters without a magus at your side. We have been shown that superior numbers are no threat for them.” He contemplated the wonderful engravings on the head of Tungdil’s ax. “Only Keenfire will be able to withstand attacks from the sorcery of the unslayables and their allies.”

“As soon as the sun rises, I’ll be on my way,” nodded Tungdil.

A messenger hurried into the marquee, stepped up to Bruron and whispered to him. Tungdil feared that their planned daybreak departure would already be too late.

“We have a delegation wishing to bring us news,” said the king, turning to the doorway. “Send them both in.”

The curtains parted with a theatrical flourish and in stepped Rodario, in flamboyant robes as magnificent as any worn by the assembled monarchs. “My respects to you all, mighty sovereigns of Girdlegard, you humans, dwarves and elves, one and all.” He made a deep bow.

Tungdil was delighted to see his friend. This type of grand entrance was typical. For Rodario it was in fact quite restrained. No drums, no fanfare, no herald?

The kings and queens watched the dramatic approach of the new arrival with amazement, but limited their reactions to an amused raised eyebrow here, an expression of slight disapproval there.

“Wherever heroes are gathered and history is written, I must also be to hand. For who else would take true note and show events on the stage to future generations, if not myself?” Rodario granted the company the benefit of his dazzling smile.

“What ho! Lock up your women! The Fabulous Rodario has returned!” grinned Boindil.

Rodario smiled and stroked his elegant beard-shorter now than Tungdil recalled. “I have not come on my own, Your Gracious Majesties. I bring you a man who is able to answer many of the open questions puzzling Girdlegard.” He gestured to the door with his cane.

A moment later a man appeared. His short black hair and his thin moustache gave him a fleeting resemblance to Furgas, except for how old he looked. He was wearing a simple pair of breeches, a shirt over them, boots and a cloak. His clothing all seemed too big for him and flapped around his shrunken body.

“I have come to…” he whispered and threw Rodario an uncertain look. “I have come to atone for my deeds. I cannot ask forgiveness for what I have done.”

“By Vraccas! It really is Furgas,” Boindil said, horrified. He had recognized the magister technicus only by his voice. “Rodario the Incredible has incredibly managed to dig him out.”

“No, I did not dig him out, but freed him, good friend Boindil Doubleblade. On my own. Freed him from the clutches of thirdlings known as Bandilor and Veltaga, who have made their home on an island that they can submerge or bring up to the surface as they choose. In the middle of Weyurn’s waters.” The actor used every rhetorical trick in his repertoire as he described the meeting with Furgas. His narrative arts were such that the entire audience hung on his every word. “Finally we swam the five miles through the wild waters and arrived at Mifurdania. From thence we journeyed with the traveling Curiosum outfit to reach Porista,” he told them, concluding his tale. “So we have found the culprits who send out death devices to hound the dwarf peoples.”

“Masterly, indeed, Rodario,” said Isika graciously. “Magister Furgas. What deeds were you speaking of? Why did you say forgiveness could not be sought?”

“Because not only did I construct the island for Bandilor and Veltaga. I built the machines as well,” he whispered. He repeated the account he had given to Rodario. “Through my actions countless dwarves have lost their lives. It is my fault. More will die. The next device is on its way.” He asked for a glass of water. “You must pronounce sentence on me. I will accept any punishment.”

The marquee buzzed.

Tungdil went over to Gandogar to ask for clemency for Furgas.

The high king bent forward. “Do not worry. I am not seeking his life,” he said quietly. Then, raising his voice: “We shall not hold you responsible, magister technicus. Your genius and your injured soul were both abused by the dwarf-haters. Our revenge shall be against them, not you. You were their tool; they used you for their malign plans. But we shall never forget the countless victims. We demand of you that you do everything in your power to stop further dread events. For now you have our understanding. Do not disappoint us.”

“You see? Like I said: they can tell the difference. Now be brave and tell them everything,” Rodario said gently, brushing over Gandogar’s threat. “They won’t hurt you.”

Furgas sobbed. “I… built the machines,” he repeated, in despair.

“We have pardoned you,” repeated Gandogar.

“No, there are more machines, though.” He told the story through his tears of the malformed hybrid creatures he had adapted, constructed with his own hands. The kings and queens sat thunderstruck. They listened, horrified and enthralled at one and the same time. It defied imagination. “I am to blame that they are rampaging through Girdlegard, killing, maiming and bringing destruction.”

Tungdil watched the elf princess. Apart from himself she was the only one whose countenance was not a mask of disgust and fascination. On the contrary, she seemed glad. She was assuming, as was he, that she now understood the significance of the pit at the bottom of Weyurn’s lake. She turned her head abruptly and looked him in the eyes. He felt she could read his thoughts. “Let us look on the bright side of Master Furgas’s report: it means there is a new magic source in Girdlegard.” Rejalin’s voice rang out clear and true. “And it seems the unslayables do not know where it is. Those two thirdlings will be clever enough to keep it hidden from them, so that they can hold sway over them and keep them dependent.”