Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“Then I must keep silent on this matter.”

“Promise me at least that you’ll warn our warriors about the elves,” begged Tungdil.

“I shall.” Gandogar turned his attention again to the assembly. The great and the good of Girdlegard were unanimous now; even Queen Isika had accepted Princess Rejalin’s suggestion. “It is decided. The united fighting force of dwarves will set off for Toboribor. The thirdlings and secondlings will form the vanguard,” he announced, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

His words were greeted with applause.

Sundalon could stand it no longer. His request had not been considered. He raised his hand and waited until the clapping ceased. “Do we get the stone back when you have defeated the unslayables?”

“No,” answered the elf princess at once.

“I think we should let Lot-Ionan decide,” said Tungdil, in an effort to avoid a dispute. “He will know best what the diamond’s power is.”

“In my opinion it would be too dangerous to give the diamond away before it has been minutely examined.” Rejalin gave the undergroundling a gracious smile. “Don’t misunderstand me. I trust you but I don’t trust the Outer Lands. And you tell us that these supposedly mild-natured orcs have a… was it a rune master?” Sundalon nodded. “… they have a rune master who is versed in magic. The last thing we want is an orc with limitless magic powers. Not even in the Outer Lands.”

“Then you are condemning our land to destruction, broka,” snarled Sundalon. “And if creatures from the Black Abyss find their way to Girdlegard, then think on this day and on these words of the broka.”

“We have the children of the Smith guarding our gateways,” she replied calmly. “So far they have failed only the once to defend us. It will not happen again. Is there an alliance stronger than this?”

Sundalon grabbed hold of his weapons with both hands, as if needing them for support. Or perhaps it was the princess’s throat he imagined in his grasp. “It is typical of your people to spread insults or poison. It is not for nothing we have eradicated them in our realm.”

Rejalin raised her eyebrows smiling still. She had achieved her goal; she had the undergroundling breaking through the thin ice she had led him onto.

“You have done what?” whispered Queen Wey, grown suddenly pale.

“Then broka means elf and not alfar,” said Isika, her voice toneless. “We are sharing a conference table with creatures from the same creator as the orcs who have wiped out all the elves in their land?”

“You misunderstand,” Tungdil objected, trying to salvage what he could. “They had to do this! The eoil stole their diamond and incited the elves to violence against them. They could not see clearly.” He was gathering all his courage to speak his suspicions out loud, but Rejalin was ahead of him.

“Then there is no question of giving you the diamond, Sundalon. My people will never let that happen.” Her beautiful features displayed arrogance and ice-cold determination. “If you should ever get possession of the stone you will lose it again through our doing. Whether it be in Girdlegard or in the Outer Lands.” Her bodyguard behind her put their hands on the pommels of their swords.

“It is better if you leave,” said Gandogar to Sundalon. “And you, Princess Rejalin, watch your words before they launch something that cannot be stopped.”

The undergroundlings left the assembly tent.

After a brief hesitation Tungdil followed them out. When he was halfway through the lobby he turned on his heel. “We shall meet in Toboribor,” he told the gathering. He made no bow to them. “May your gods stand by you and may they open your eyes, Your Majesties all, before it is too late.” He left, Ireheart and Goda in his wake, together with Furgas and Rodario.

What remained was an uncomfortable oppressive silence.

Nobody spoke; Bruron closed the meeting. There were tasks enough before them and issues in the air that neither elves nor humans nor dwarves wished to discuss.

Girdlegard,

Queendom of Weyurn,

A Hundred Miles West of Gastinga,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T hey were taking far too long to get from Porista to the shores of the lake where their ship was waiting.

There were many reasons for the delay: unexpected rainfall meant the cart with Lot-Ionan’s heavy statue was getting bogged down, then Dergard fell sick and they had to stop over at a farm until the fever passed. They could not take risks with his life, and at the same time they must not deplete their force by splitting into two groups. The ax Keenfire could not be wielded in two places at once.

Tungdil sat with Rodario and Furgas in the farmer’s parlor studying a map. This was a rare document that actually showed the Weyurn territory now under floodwater. They were trying to guess the location of the disappearing island.

Ireheart and Goda were doing sentry rounds with the guards. They had a hundred secondling dwarves and a dozen undergroundlings led by Sirka, even if Boindil did not approve. He was also far from approving of the apparent flirtation between Tungdil and Sirka. He had made his views clear to his friend after Sirka made no attempt to conceal her affections.

Rodario raised his head. “Is our esteemed Boindil in a bad mood?” he asked Tungdil. “I just heard him yelling at the guards again.”

“It’s the weather. Dwarves can’t stand rain. And he’s hot-blooded and spoiling for a fight.” Tungdil went on poring over the chart. They’d got a shortlist of five locations. “Can the island travel along underwater?” he asked Furgas.

“So, it’s his hot blood, is it?” Rodario stepped over to the window. “Or is it his pupil?” He watched them practicing in the barn. At first glance it all seemed straightforward, but his dramatic training had sharpened his senses to signs of physical attraction. “I get the feeling there are sparks flying there.” He turned to Tungdil. “Yes, definite sparks.”

“Best stay well out of that,” said Tungdil with a wry smile. He was keen to avoid discussion of feelings and attraction, for fear he and Sirka might be the actor’s next target.

Furgas drank the tea the farmer’s wife had brought them. Still underweight and pale, he would sometimes sit in the corner all day saying nothing. Other times he’d be completely normal. The effects of whole cycles in captivity would not be easy to get over.

“Yes, it can,” he said, in answer to Tungdil’s question. “I made a system of tubes and chambers that fill with water or steam. If the valves are opened, and the contents expelled, it propels itself slowly forward.”

“Not good.” Tungdil leaned back in his seat. “Then it could be absolutely anywhere.”

“No. It can’t move fast. It’s a mountain we’re talking about, creeping along under the water.” He drew a ring round the place they presumed was its last sighting. “It would be roughly in this area. It has to come up every so often to take on air and to get food for the workforce.”

“They can see it but nobody will talk because it’s the nightmare alfar-island and everyone’s terrified,” Rodario added. “Ingenious, these thirdlings. The front-story of alfar was a neat idea to keep people quiet.”

“We can only hope the queen’s ships come across the island by chance and word gets round they’re not really alfar and that there’s a considerable reward for information about the island’s whereabouts.” Tungdil helped himself to tea and let his thoughts wander a little.

In his mind’s eye he saw Balyndis and Sirka. Dwarves as different as it was possible to be.

He had been hoping his fascination with Sirka would be a passing infatuation, intrigued though he was by her appearance and behavior. She was the opposite of Girdlegard dwarves. But he still couldn’t keep his eyes off her or his thoughts away. He recalled another time his loyalty to Balyndis had been tested. Myr.