Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“Never!”

“Yes. Ubar showed them a broad path that an army can use without being seen; they can go straight past the fourthling bastions.”

“It’s impossible,” Tungdil contradicted her. “It can’t be done! The peaks can’t be climbed.”

“You will soon see it is true.”

“The monsters from the Outer Lands could have found it just as well!”

“They did find it, Tungdil. Several times. We stopped them ever carrying the discovery back to their own kind.” Sirka paused for breath. “Sundalon did not want us to tell you before we had recovered the diamond. But I think you need to know.” She stroked the back of his hand. “Take it as a proof of my trustworthiness.”

“So the peace we have had in Girdlegard is due not only to harmony between the dwarf folks, but to you,” he mouthed, shocked to the core.

He was imagining the extent of the destruction if armies of ogres, trolls, alfar, bognilim and other Tion-bred horrors marched in via Urgon with no warning, streaming out over the rest of Girdlegard. Nothing would remain.

So those cycles of deceptive calm they owed to the protection the undergroundlings had given them. And the undergroundlings were now at risk themselves. “Why did you do it? Why did you never show yourselves?”

“What for? None of your kind came over. We assumed you did not like us. And we knew that our brotherhood pact with the ubariu would cause trouble between us.” She stood up and went to the door. “Now it’s clear we were right to stay hidden. I must tell them that we’re leaving for Weyurn,” she said in the doorway. “You won’t tell anyone what I’ve said?”

A thousand questions were burning on Tungdil’s tongue but he controlled himself. “No one,” he promised, touching his ax to strengthen the vow. “By Keenfire, I swear it.” He smiled at her and she slipped out.

His thoughts raged in tumult. Unslayables, undergroundlings. It all sounded like unmitigated disaster.

It lay in his hands to prevent the catastrophe. Again. He did not feel particularly strong and was pleased to know there would soon be support. Soon he would be able to call on the help of his foster-father Lot-Ionan. A wise magus, older than any other soul in Girdlegard, he possessed a strong intellect with a wealth of experience. He had always stood Tungdil in good stead with his sound counsel. His assistance would be needed again. Or better still, Lot-Ionan should decide what to do. Tungdil did not want to be making decisions.

He caught sight of the last of the sealed letters.

He had refrained from reading this one out. It was from Glaimbar Sharpax. Tungdil was afraid of what it would say. But read it he must.

He stood up, tearing it open.

Highly esteemed Tungdil Goldhand,

You were correct in thinking that I still am very attached to Balyndis. I summoned her to me as soon as I received your letter.

To my great joy she accepted the invitation and to my even greater delight she promised to return to my side. As my first wife she has every right to be there.

I am to tell you that she had been aware of your coldness toward her. For this reason she is prepared to give you up, on the understanding that she will never have to see you again. She says she would not be able to bear it.

I am sure that I shall be able to smooth things between Balyndis and her clan so that relations are as she deserves. I shall be a good husband to her and she will be the best royal consort the fifthling realm has ever seen.

I thank you for the openness you have shown. I respond in kind: true feelings do not admit of change. Balyndis has learned painfully that there is no stable commitment on your part. But we, children of the Smith…

Tungdil tore the letter through.

He did not need to go on reading. The important points had been made and he had no taste for a lecture on fidelity from Glaimbar Sharpax. He knew full well what it entailed. Balyndis had read and understood his letter. He would always be grateful to her, and he was aware how much pain he had caused her. He could not rejoice over the parting.

He looked out into the courtyard to watch Sirka. He met his own reflection on the window glass. “You coward,” he said.

His reflection seemed to nod in agreement.

Girdlegard,

Queendom of Weyurn,

Twelve Miles Northwest of Mifurdania,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

After the initial interruptions their journey now went smoothly. They boarded the two royal ships that had been placed at their disposal and headed for Mifurdania. On the way they put in at Windsport Island and left the sick elf in the care of Queen Wey’s palace archivist.

But then their luck ran out.

The dwarves and their companions learned that even a lake could produce extremely high waves, that evening the goddess Elria started to play with their vessels. The waters were set in turbulent motion, and hurled against the stern of their ships.

Constantly tossed up and down they scudded over Weyurn’s lake, with clouds of spray drenching them all. Apart from Tungdil not a single Girdlegard dwarf wasn’t seasick. But the undergroundlings kept a firm footing on the swaying deck-planks.

Tungdil hurried down below to check on the statue in the hold. He would never forgive himself if any harm came to it now in this gale when they were so close to their destination. His legs set wide to help keep his balance, he walked round the blanket-clad stone figure of his foster-father, testing the support ropes. Then he drew back a corner of the blankets to reveal the face.

“Soon,” he promised, taking a deep breath. First it had been a glimmer of hope, the thought he might one day see the familiar and well-loved magus come alive. Now it was as good as a certainty.

What will he say when he hears what has been happening? he wondered, touching the hem of the petrified robe that peeped out under the padded coverings. He caught himself thinking that Lot-Ionan might reproach him with something he had done during the past cycles.

Tungdil grinned. No, he has no cause. Unless the acts of heroes can be condemned. He tightened one of the ropes holding the statue in place and then climbed back up the companionway to the others.

“Elria’s come up with a new curse for us,” groaned Boindil, leaning over the railing and belching up air. There was nothing in his stomach anymore. It was the first time he had spoken to Tungdil since the row back at the farm. Since then, he had preferred the company of Goda, the actor and the other dwarves.

“This is nothing,” grinned Sirka. “Out on the ocean we’ve seen bigger storms than this.”

“There’s open sea in the Outer Lands?” Tungdil recalled the sketchy drawings he had seen of the land on the other side of the mountains. He did not remember reading about an ocean.

“Of course. We sail it.” Sirka looked at the helmsman. “These ships and crews would be lost on our waters. They wouldn’t survive the gales.”

Furgas stood by, not bothered by the weather. “It must have been somewhere near here,” he conjectured, scanning the landscape. He called Rodario over: “The distance is right and there’s an island over there. Is that the one you sailed round?”

Rodario hung on to the mast, water dripping from his clothes. “Could be. Let’s hope the fisherman was correct when he was telling us about the alfar island.”

“The storm’s on our side,” said Sirka. “We can get close without the thirdlings seeing us.”

Tungdil surveyed his little group of diehards, remembering the nameless undergroundling who had taken them to Sundalon that time. He asked Sirka about him. “What did those tattoos on his forehead signify? And the symbols on his clothing? Why wouldn’t he give his name?”