The Revenge of the Dwarves

XV

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Idolslane,

The Caves of Toboribor,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

Tungdil confronted Dergard, thrusting Goda back. “Go and help your master,” he told her. Then he made a feigned attack on the young magus, reckoning Keenfire would afford the protection he needed.

Dergard moved fast. From his fingertips he shot a light-ray toward Tungdil, but Keenfire attracted and then absorbed the magic beam’s energy: its inlaid patterns lit up and the diamonds were transformed into brilliant miniature stars.

Tundil was unscathed; he felt the sigurdacia wood of the ax handle grow warm, that was all. Without further ado he struck the magus on the temple with the flat of the ax blade and Dergard passed out and sank to the ground.

“Look out, Scholar!” shouted Ireheart from behind. “Get down!”

Tungdil launched himself into a backwards dive.

The hybrid creature’s long blade whirred past his face, missing him by the breadth of a beard-hair. The sharp metal edge clanged against the base of the altar and shattered. A roar of frustration was heard.

But the machine’s powerful array of wheels continued onwards, rolling over the unconscious Dergard and slicing him to pieces. Limbs were severed, and all that remained of the head was a shredded mass. Only the gods themselves could have revived him.

“I am going to kill you!” The monster hurled a spear at Ireheart, who had clambered onto the altar. The dwarf sprang back and with Goda dived under cover at the far end of the stone bier.

“I’ll distract it,” Tungdil called over his shoulder. “You two know what to do.” He felt Dergard’s death had been his fault. He had knocked the magus out and, unconscious, he had been easy prey.

The monster drew another spear stored lengthways on the vehicle’s side. “Your ax is nothing to me,” it said, slowly advancing. You cannot even reach me, groundling.”

Tungdil ducked down to grab a loose blade fragment; he weighed it carefully, then cast it with all his strength at his adversary. The machine swiveled and struck him on the left shoulder with a jagged-edged knife. His own throw had not even damaged the machine’s armor plating.

The creature laughed and sped onwards while Tungdil moved back from the altar to give himself more freedom of movement. “You will not defeat me,” he vowed to the creature.

Now Goda tried her luck. She sprinted along the other side of the altar and jumped up in an attempt to get the diamond.

The fiendish creature turned its head and launched a spear in her direction. “Get away from the Creator Spirit!”

Goda was taken by surprise. The sharp point cut through her chain mail links and armor, piercing the collarbone and shoulder joint and forcing her to the floor. The weapon shaft protruded from her back.

Tungdil could not let himself think about her fate because the machine-monster was nearly upon him. He crouched down, did a shoulder roll to escape the lethal touch of the wheels and vicious blades, then jumped back on his feet.

With a mighty leap, he launched himself onto the broad platform of the vehicle. Above him towered the armored back of the creature.

Raising his arms he whacked Keenfire with tremendous force against the place he assumed the creature’s spine to be. If this blow were not a death-dealer, his own life would shortly be over.

But the ax did not fail him. It tore into the tionium, hacking at the flesh and gouging through to the vertebrae giving off a dazzling glow as it did so, the diamonds pulsating as if they contained a heart.

The monster gave an ear-splitting screech, cringing and collapsing, its long arms convulsively grabbing at the dwarf on its back. “Get off me!”

“No!” Tungdil had already landed a second ax blow, despite difficulty in keeping his balance on the swaying metal deck. The next swipe was less powerful but hit the same spot, maximizing the injury.

With a bestial roar the creature waved its arms wildly and struck Tungdil on the chest. He flew through the air, landing with a thump on the ground, but without losing his grip on the ax handle. Dazed, he struggled to his feet and, as if through a veil, saw the creature lurching toward him again at high speed.

The other dwarves raced over to support their leader.

He glimpsed the spear that had narrowly missed Ireheart. “My life is in your hands, Vraccas!” Snatching up the spear he hurled it at the foe.

The machine drove on to its own destruction. Keenfire’s strikes had rendered it incapable of taking evasive action or defending itself, and the spear-blade struck it full in the chest.

It swerved violently, then repeatedly somersaulted, each flip forcing the weapon deeper into its chest until the spear finally broke.

Tungdil vaulted aside to escape the heavy vehicle. It rumbled past him and burst open on impact with the cave wall, piercing the monster inside with the array of cogwheels, rods and gears that had propelled it. Blood poured down the rock.

Tungdil saw that the creature’s legs had been amputated above the knee and the stumps fitted with hooks and chains to enable it to move along. It was a horrific sight.

Three dwarves helped Tungdil get over to the altar. Ireheart was standing in front, holding the diamond triumphantly in his right hand. “Here, Scholar,” he called. “We’ve got it! Thank Vraccas! Come and hack off this pointy-ear’s head so we can go and tend to our wounded.” He got ready to throw it. “Here! Catch!”

An arrow whirred past and struck Ireheart on the left side. His hand was knocked sideways, the fingers opened and he dropped the stone; it fell onto the alfar’s breast, rolled down onto her belly and came to rest by her folded hands.

Ireheart stared at the second arrow lodging in his forearm. “Treacherous elves!” he groaned. Then three more arrows hit him in the chest and he collapsed on top of the alfar woman.

Three dozen archer elves streamed out of the second entrance, raining arrows on the dwarves.

“Boindil!” yelled Tungdil, distraught, as he stormed to meet them, ax held high. Now was no time to act out the role of scholar.

Before the other dwarves recovered from their surprise, fifteen of them had been felled. Those of Tungdil’s band still alive hurtled to their leader’s side to launch themselves at the hated foe and to stop the diamond being stolen.

These were the longest-lasting thirty-seven strides that Tungdil had ever taken in his entire life.

On all sides dwarf death-screams resounded. The skilled archers aimed at any gaps in the wall of shields and their deadly missiles repeatedly hit home.

Some of the arrows even penetrated the iron shields, nailing shields to forearms; or, going deeper still, they robbed a warrior of his life.

As the noise of war shouts, scurrying boots and rattling chain mail subsided, Tungdil, only three paces from the elves, realized he was the sole survivor. Behind him lay a trail of dwarf dead.

Eyes awash with tears of fury and hatred, he raised the ax and swung it at the nearest elf, only to receive a vicious blow on the head and a cut through his left eye. The pain was excruciating and erupted like a thunderstorm inside his head.

He lost all power in his muscles. Everything weighed a ton and Keenfire suddenly seemed as heavy as a mountain. Tungdil slid to the ground at the feet of an elf.

A boot turned him on his back and Rejalin’s face floated above him. “The time of peace between our peoples, Tungdil Goldhand,” she said icily, “is over. None of the groundlings will survive our test. You are all corrupt.” She reached past him and lifted up Keenfire. “Heavy. But unique, in that it fights for good. It will serve us better than it has served your people.” She stood tall. “We, the eoil atar, will shepherd Girdlegard into an age of immaculate purity. The era of weakness and decay and dissolution is over.”

Tungdil tried to reply but his senses deserted him. Death was knocking at his door ready to escort him to the eternal smithy.

Before he closed his eyes, giving in to an irresistible compulsion, Tungdil thought he saw a figure in black alfar armor step out of the shadows to approach the elf ranks from behind. In each raised hand a naked blade was clasped.

Warm rain… But was he imagining it? Where would warm rain come from in a cave?

Then his thoughts fragmented…

W hy have you done this to me?”

The unslayable one woke up, suddenly confronted by the beautiful face of his son, who was crouched down at his side, a spear in one armored glove, his hand touching the metal plates sewn into his perfect flesh.

“I have not harmed you. I have had you made mightier than all other beings in Girdlegard.” He sat up, rose swiftly from the couch and seized his helmet from the weapon stand. He had only intended to allow himself a moment’s rest before returning to the fray. The battle seemed to be going increasingly against them. The dwarves and undergroundlings were fighting fiercely in the tunnels and for some reason the elves had also arrived in search of the diamond. This rivalry brought no advantage to himself and his sister Nagsar Inaste.

“Mightier than you, creator?”

“Why aren’t you back in the tunnel where I told you to stay?” he censured his son.

“I needed to speak to you, creator father.” His son stood up. “I don’t wish to spill any more elf blood.”

The unslayable froze. “Get back to your post at once,” he said, his voice ice cold. “You are to kill every elf you meet.”

“But they are just like us! We are killing them but they look like us. They must be friends…”

“We are not like them at all! Do friends come to your house and try to kill you? And try to steal your treasure?” He put on his helmet. “Do what you are told, boy. You are responsible for your creator mother.” He turned abruptly toward his son. “Do you want her to die before she has ever clapped eyes on you?”

“Why are my brothers different from me?”

“They are not your brothers.”

“But they said she is their creator mother too.”

“They are lying. Have nothing to do with them.” He made to thrust him out of the chamber into the passageway.

But the young alfar ducked under his arm and would not yield. “Take these plates off me,” he demanded harshly. “They hurt. I can’t take them off by myself.”

“No. You will need them. They will protect you in battle.”

“Your armor goes on top, not right inside you. Why can’t I have armor like that?” the young alfar argued stubbornly, his black gaze unwavering.

The unslayable hated such confrontations. “It is special metal that gets the powers working in you.”

“But I still don’t want it.”

“I am supremely indifferent as to whether you want it or not. You are my son and you will do what I say.”

“I…”

The unslayable one grabbed him by the throat. “Hold your tongue! We don’t have time to argue about this nonsense. The safety of your creator mother is more important than any petty wish of yours. Have you understood?”

The black eye sockets of the young alfar sparked with anger. “But it hurts so much!”

“Deal with it!” The unslayable hurled him brutally out of the chamber. “You know where you’re supposed to be.” He wanted to waste no more time.

The alfar stumbled against the wall, growled and lifted his spear; immediately the runes on it blazed up, giving out a dark green light. “Take the metal out. I’m not asking, I’m telling you.”

The unslayable stopped in his tracks. “Put down your weapon this instant!” he menaced, drawing his own two swords. “You do not threaten your father.”

“You don’t do this to me, either!” the alfar accused in reply, looking down at the black trickles of blood on the armor plating.

The unslayable one narrowed his eyes. “Did you go back to the island?”

“I wanted them to take the plates off, but the human wasn’t there and the groundlings refused to help. All I could do was take some more of the power to make the pain less.” He was watching the other’s movements carefully. “I don’t want to hurt you, creator father. Just let me be like you.”

They stood wordlessly glaring at each other.

From nearby the clank of weapons could be heard. One of the bastards was screaming and bellowing amongst an uproar of dwarf yells.

“The enemy has found Nagsar Inaste’s cavern. Happy now?” shouted the unslayable. “It was your task to guard that passage.” He lifted his foot, but the spear was already leveled at his throat. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I’ve told you. You shall not leave until you have done what I want.”

The creator father considered his handiwork: beauty and perfection on the outside, disappointing failure within. How had his sister borne him progeny such as this? Perhaps the fault could be traced back to the orcish violations she had been subjected to. His offspring’s fine looks were no use to him at all. There was no place for a son who challenged him and made demands instead of obeying. The swords flashed swifter than arrows to find the gaps in the armor plating and pierce the breast and throat of the stupefied young alfar. “You are no longer any son of mine,” declared the unslayable, with a sidestep deftly avoiding the leveled spear, behind which there was little force now. “Better ones will follow: sons who know how to obey their originator. Even if I and the creator mother have to wait another thousand cycles.” He kicked his son in the belly, felling him; the swords slid back out of the torso, black blood spurting out of the wounds. “You wanted me to take the pain away?” He stabbed again with both swords.

The alfar reared up, then shrank down, attempting to ward off the slashing blades with his metal gauntlets. It was hopeless. The runes on his armor flickered and died as the slim body fell slack to the floor.

The unslayable wasted no more time. His beloved sister was in terrible danger and the bastards were not able to protect her.

As he drew nearer to her cavern the sounds of fighting ceased abruptly. It was not a good sign.

He entered at the rear of the cave and suppressed a cry of horror when he saw what had happened.

Elves. Elves in the white armor worn by the eoil’s followers had taken over the cave. One of their archers was finishing off the last of the groundlings with a shot through the eye as he reached the group. One bastard lay dead, surrounded by the ruins of his machine over by the wall, and the cave floor was littered with dwarf corpses.

No! Don’t let them have taken you, beloved sister! He saw her beheaded torso lying on the altar. Her sacred black blood streamed down the sides, down the steps, and onto the floor of the cave. An elf woman held Nagsar Inaste’s head in her hands and an elf was reverently holding out the diamond to her. The stone had ceased to shine.

Despair overwhelmed the unslayable. My fault! It is my fault! If I had not failed she would be living still. He leaned against the wall, feeling his strength ebb away, his limbs frozen.

The sight burned itself into his brain. He could smell her blood, see it still trickling still from the stump of her neck.

Images of the past rose up in his mind. Wonderful images. The time they had looked out from the highest window in the Dson tower to survey their realm in delighted pride; when they had celebrated their victories over the elves of the Golden Plain and Lesenteil’s followers; when they had made love-the pain and deep devotion-a passion that was never-ending…

Such memories were drowning in his sister’s blood and being washed away. An elf strode up to the altar and prodded the corpse with a spear. It dropped down on the far side of the altar, rolled down the steps and came to rest awkwardly, like so much rubbish.

I shall avenge your death, my beloved Nagsar Inaste, as never a true wife was avenged by a loving spouse. Blind anger forced strength back into his muscles. Slowly he raised his swords. The elves by the altar were congratulating themselves on a presumed victory, praising the eoil. I shall leave Girdlegard. I shall take the diamond with me and decipher its secrets. And when I return nothing shall withstand my fury. He circled slowly toward the elves. Everything will perish in my storm. Like these elves.

The unslayable one came up behind the first of them unobserved, their bloody destruction thus assured.

Those who had stowed their weapons fell first, with nothing to hand to fend off the attacker’s double blades. Those still holding them were quickly overwhelmed. Finally, with less than a third of their number still standing, outright slaughter turned into battle.

“The princess! Guard her!” echoed the cry. The elves put up tough resistance but were no match for the unslayable, powered as he was by his fury. Any injuries he took hardly slowed him. His whirring blades sliced at throats and arms, severing wrists and legs, plunging through skulls and chests. The old orc skeletons underfoot drank up the blood of new victims.

The unslayable lashed out furiously until only three warriors and the elf princess remained.

He fended off the first assault, spinning his assailant round so that the offending blade pierced the belly of the next foe. Swiftly he shattered the elf sword with his own; and with his other weapon he batted a sharp fragment into the third attacker’s face.

He parried a thrust from the last elf coming at him with a jagged blade, severing the elf’s arm below the elbow. Using his swords like scissors, he cut off the soldier’s head, sending it flying through the air. Then he plunged his two blades with massive force right and left of the neck stump straight down into the warrior’s body. Arms, shoulders and upper body parts were sliced off to fall on the heap of orc bones.

The screams and the scent of elf blood were still not enough to cool the raging fury within. “So you are their princess!” With one stride he was close, ducking under the elf woman’s sword lunge and cutting through the tendons at the back of her knees with a swift right-handed swipe. She fell to the ground with a shriek of pain and he stood on her sword hand. “And Liutasil?”

She stared at him, mouthing something.

“Oh no, you’ll put no eoil curse on me.” His left arm shot forward and he pierced her wrist, causing her to open her fingers so that the diamond rolled away with a clunk to land among the pile of old bones. “You, lady, have caused me more pain than I have ever felt; I shall distribute this pain among all the elves of Girdlegard.” Withdrawing his sword, he rummaged around in the pile of bones until he had located the stone, lifting it up with a triumphant gesture. “It is mine now. As soon as I have learned how to put its powers fully to use I shall bring to your people the annihilation they so narrowly escaped before. Dson Balsur may have fallen but you will never be safe from the alfar.”

In the princess’s unwavering turquoise gaze, however, there was no trace of doubt: the blind faith of elves. “The eoil will protect us. They will return. The symbols in the holy shrines promise…”

“Return? If they do I shall be here to destroy them. But you won’t be around to see it happen, princess.” The unslayable had caught the sounds of approaching footsteps and gruff voices coming from the passage. A second wave of undergroundlings burst in. His wounds smarted badly and his limbs felt weak now. Retreat. They are too many . Pocketing the diamond and sheathing one of his swords, he took the handle of the second in both hands. “And there will be no more elves for the eoil to find. Not in Girdlegard.”

The blow he dealt Rejalin cut right through her torso, the blade slicing slantwise from shoulder to hip and crunching into the orc skeletons beneath her. He regretted that her end was swift. He would have preferred to torture her until the end of time, using her blood as a constantly renewable source of paint.

Beloved sister. He knelt by Nagsar Inaste’s head and put out his hand gingerly to touch it… then stopped. He could not look at her features for a final time. The heartache would kill him.

Instead he stroked her long black hair and cut off a hank as a reminder. Then, clutching the lock in his blood-smeared hands, he bounded off into the tunnels as fast as his injuries would permit.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Idoslane,

The Caves of Toboribor,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

D eath was standing right in front of him, in the terrible image of the alfar that had escaped back on the island.

Towering proudly over the recumbent figure, death clasped a slender spear in one gloved fist while the other arm hung loose. The slim torso was partly naked and partly protected by armor.

The black depths of the eye sockets were trained on the dwarf. “You shall not die, Tungdil Goldhand,” spoke death in friendly tones, bending over him. The long black hair framed a narrow face that was at one and the same time cruel and fascinating. Death’s right hand touched Tungdil’s chest. “I still need you.”

The alfar runes on armor and weapon gave off a greenish glow and a sudden warmth suffused the dwarf’s body. As the icy cold was displaced, his grateful heartbeat grew strong and his ears filled with the sound of rushing blood.

“Nagsor Inaste has escaped with the diamond you were seeking,” death explained in a clear voice. “He will return to the island to reach the tunnel Furgas devised. It was nearly completed before you killed the magister. If Nagsor Inaste can finish the work he can get through to the Outer Lands. And the stone will be lost forever.” Death stood up. “Nagsor Inaste will return with a huge army, greater than anything Girdlegard has ever seen. Neither you nor the orcs will be able to halt its progress.”

Tungdil opened his mouth but could not speak.

Death turned away. “Stop him, Tungdil Goldhand. Stop him and his appalling offspring.” Death stepped into the shadows and disappeared.

Tungdil tried to lift his head but a wave of pain enveloped him; he lost consciousness and fell back on the ground…

O nce upon a time death came for a dwarf and wanted to carry him off, but the dwarf stood firm on his rock, glowered and refused to go. So death passed him by.”

Tungdil knew this saying from southern Sangpur and he recognized the voice. He attempted to open his eyes but only the right one responded. The left consisted entirely of pain and refused to obey.

“Do you see? Did you see that?” a different voice rejoiced. “Didn’t I tell you Vraccas would leave us at least one hero to save Girdlegard. Fantastic work, Lot-Ionan. Here’s to your skill!”

Tungdil registered a bright light and blinked; he could see Rodario, Sirka and Lot-Ionan. “Where am I?” he croaked, raising his hand to touch his left eye.

The magus stopped him. “No, Tungdil, don’t.”

“An arrow,” said Rodario, showing the item in question with blood still sticking to it. “We had to pull it out. Lot-Ionan turned up just in time to save your life. May the gods be thanked that they allowed you to live.”

“But I could not save the sight of that eye,” Lot-Ionan added regretfully.

Memory returned and Tungdil struggled up with the help of his friend. He had a bandage over one eye and half of his face.

“Be careful now,” Sirka warned him. “You’ve only just come back from a meeting with your maker.”

Around him in the cavern around a hundred dwarves were seeing to their wounded. “How are Ireheart and Goda?” he asked, leaning on Sirka’s arm.

“We’ve taken them to the nearest camp,” Rodario told him.

“That’s not what I asked! How are they?”

“They are alive. Goda’s injuries are not life-threatening but our hot-blooded friend is in a bad way. Your healers say it will be a few orbits before they know whether or not he’ll make it.” Rodario had lost his jocularity. “I’d never have thought the elves would do this.”

As Tungdil clenched his fists in anger he noticed the dried blood on his hands and clothing. It could not all be his own? “Not the elves,” he corrected. “It’s the atar. Esdalan has nothing to do with all this.” He caught sight of the remains of the alfar woman lying like garbage at the side of the altar, her head a good two paces off, with the long black hair obscuring her features.

Sirka followed his gaze. “That’s elf handiwork; they did that presumably before they made the acquaintance of the second unslayable.” She pointed to where the elf corpses lay soaking in their own blood.

Amongst the dead, all dispatched by the same murderous sword, lay the body of Rejalin. The diamond had been of no help to her.

“We’ve blocked off all the exits, but…”

Tungdil waved a hand dismissively. “Waste of time. He is on his way to Weyurn with his remaining offspring.”

“The source? What does he need the magic source for if he’s got the diamond?” Rodario wondered. “On the other hand, if he runs away from us he won’t have the right spell to release its power.”

Tungdil looked around for Keenfire: his specially forged ax was missing. The others had no idea what had happened to it. He assumed the unslayable had taken it, because death had left empty-handed. Now he had two reasons for hunting down the unslayable.

“I know why Fur… the thirdlings started to tunnel into the Outer Lands,” he told them, swallowing the name of the magister because he still did not believe Bandilor’s version. It could not be Furgas behind the whole ghastly plan. “They want to make a way through so that Tion’s hordes can overrun Girdlegard. The tunnel must be nearly finished.”

The others stared at him. This was the first they had heard of it. They looked hurt and surprised that he had kept it to himself.

“Bandilor told me during the fight,” he explained. “I didn’t think the tunnel was as important as the diamond.”

“And how do you know the unslayable is heading there?” Rodario stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I don’t want to pour cold water on the notion. I’m just surprised. Did he tell you before he left?”

“Yes,” he lied. “The unslayable told me because he thought I was done for. He wanted me to die in despair.” He looked at them determinedly. “He’s on his way there. We’ve got to catch up with him before the elves find out and arrive in hot pursuit.” Crusted elf blood flaked off his fingers as he moved them. He would have loved to get into a tub of warm water to rid himself of such filth.

“The elves have got other worries.” Lot-Ionan signaled for a pony-drawn wagon. It would save them a long foot-slog underground, meaning they should reach the surface is about half an orbit. “We heard that the two elf missions Rejalin sent to Toboribor were ambushed and killed.”

“Was it the ubariu?”

“No. Your lot,” Rodario said without reproach. “One Ginsgar Unforce of the firstlings felt it incumbent on him to avenge the high king’s death. He’s marching on Alandur. And apparently volunteers from the dwarf realms are swarming to his banner like flies. The atar will reap the storm they’ve sown.”

They took their seats on the cart and the long journey up to the cave entrance began.

“I’m not joking, Tungdil. If you don’t watch out and old Ginsgar is successful you’ll have a new high king without a by your leave from your noble Xamtys and the other dwarf high and mighties. It won’t come to a vote at all.” Rodario waited for a reply.

Lot-Ionan nodded. “Just what I was thinking. And we don’t want the dwarves led by a high king who’s set on war. Who knows, perhaps he’ll attack the freelings you were telling me about. Or the thirdlings?”

This was all too much for Tungdil. His eye-or what was left of it-was giving him acute pain, his best friend was fighting for his life, the diamond was lost and he had forfeited the magic ax. And now there’s war with Alandur-

“Be quiet, all of you,” Sirka demanded. She had read his expression. “He needs rest. Let him sleep.” She offered her lap as a pillow.

Exhausted, he laid his head on her knee, wishing fervently that when he woke up everything could be like before.

But Vraccas was not going to do him that favor. The wheel of time could not be halted and reversed.

When he woke up they were in the open and it was late afternoon. Autumn was near but the sun was giving up the last of its warmth as if there were no tomorrow.

Tungdil felt rested enough to visit Ireheart’s sickbed and found Goda there, red-eyed and anxious, at her mentor’s side, fingernails dug into her palms.

Tungdil needed no more evidence of Boindil’s parlous state of health or the strength of the thirdling’s attachment.

The sight of his seriously injured comrade brought back the memory of the death of Boendal, the twin brother. “May great Vraccas be magnanimous toward your hero here,” he intoned, putting his hand on Goda’s shoulder. “Goda, excuse all my harsh words and forgive me for not trusting you. I have no doubts now about your sincerity.”

She raised her head and burst into tears. “I’m so afraid he’ll die,” she wept. “Isn’t it crazy? I came to kill him to avenge Sanda’s honor.” She gave a sob and the feelings she had been concealing got the better of her. “Now he is near the death I so often wished on him. And it’s my worst nightmare.” Shyly she took hold of Ireheart’s hand and bowed her head again.

Tungdil quickly wiped away his own tears. “Vraccas will not take him yet.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I saw death itself back there in the caves. He spoke to me and never mentioned summoning Ireheart.”

She gave a faint smile. “Thank you. So you’re not really surprised?”

“No. Balyndis told me what you two had talked about. I never thought you capable of treacherously killing either one of us.” He turned around to go. “I was worried about maintaining secrecy. I was wrong, I can see that now.” He pointed to the injured dwarf. “When he wakes up, Sirka, Rodario, Lot-Ionan and I will all have left. You stay here with him. Mind he stays in bed and tell him I shall be needing him when I go campaigning in the Outer Lands.” He saw the shock in her face, and smiled reassuringly. “Only as an escort and for company on the way. I don’t want to deprive you of him forever. One last journey, that’s all. He more than anyone deserves to be with a loving companion.” He went out quickly.

Goda laid her forehead on Ireheart’s hand, closed her eyes and prayed to Vraccas. She had only ever once before asked her god so fervently for anything: the death of Sanda Flameheart’s killer.

“Tell me, Vraccas, what you want of me in exchange for the life of your hero Boindil?” she whispered unhappily. “I don’t want him to die. Do you hear me, Creator of all Dwarves? Preserve his life and take mine instead.”

“Vraccas had better not,” grunted Ireheart softly. He pressed her hand. “You make sure you stay alive.”

Goda’s eyes shot open and she suppressed a gasp of delight. “Master!” she whispered ecstatically. The next moment she was wondering how long he had been conscious. She blushed and pulled her hand away, but he would not let go.

“So you came to kill me?” he asked; weakness forced him to speak slowly and carefully. Goda sobbed. “No, don’t cry… I understand why. And believe me, there were times when I toyed with the thought of doing away with myself.” He swallowed hard. “Vraccas knows how many nights I’ve lain awake regretting Sanda’s death. I killed a magnificent dwarf. Like I had done once before.” Ireheart forced himself to describe the painful events. There should be no more secrets from her. “Her name was Smeralda; she was a little younger than you. We were very fond of each other but our love ended harshly. I killed her in the heat of battle at the High Gate. I did not know what I was doing.” Tears flowed. “I mistook her for one of the enemy…” He collected himself and paused. When his voice was steady again he sighed, “I thought I would never find love again after that. Until you came. I know we cannot be together, Goda. Killing your kinswoman is too great a barrier.”

Goda stood up and sat on his bed. “I can see the torture in your eyes, master. The pain is not from your wounds but in your soul. There can be no one in the whole of Girdlegard with more genuine regret than this.” She had not let go of his hand. “I did not want to love you even when you stole into my thoughts. Yet, despite all my complaints about the training, I became fonder and fonder of you. I did not want to admit it. I forbade myself to love the dwarf that had killed Sanda. So I hid behind sarcasm and rejection. Until I thought I had lost you.” Her shoulders shook. “When I saw you fall with all those arrows in you I should have rejoiced.” She looked him in the eyes. “But the opposite happened. I wished I was the one lying there so badly injured.”

Ireheart felt his throat constrict.

“Even if my great-grandmother’s soul spins in fury, I can’t help myself,” she said softly. “With all my heart I long to be more to you than just a pupil, Boindil Doubleblade of the secondling clan of Ax Swingers.” Her gaze was as steady and honest as her words. “If I have not pushed you too far away with my unkindness, I want to ask you to let me remain close at your side. I don’t care if we are fighting together in battle or sharing a home.”

“The same goes for me,” he croaked. “It would make me so very happy.” A wave of joy shot through his body, washing all the pain away as he looked up at Goda’s sweet face. The pale down on her cheeks reflected the candlelight’s shimmer, and the warmest affection shone in her brown eyes. He hardly dared to believe what was happening. Perhaps it was just a feverish dream. If that was the case, he did not wish to be cured of the fever.

Goda lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it gently. “Yes, Boindil. But promise me one thing: Let us fight the duel I demanded of you.”

“What do you mean-?”

“Please,” she interrupted him. “I made a vow to Sanda. I cannot break my promise to her. I’ve already broken my word by telling you of my feelings.” Ireheart nodded and she breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll let you sleep now.” And she made as if to leave his side.

Ireheart held her hand tightly. “Stay here,” he begged, stroking her cheek.

She sat down again, and held his hand until he fell asleep.

She smiled, while a tear of despair escaped from her eye. She had betrayed her great-grandmother and yet felt enormously blessed. She had never felt such happiness.

S irka was waiting for Tungdil outside the tent. “Do you feel up to another meeting?”

He nodded and she led him to Mallen’s tent, where the blond Idoslane prince was standing in front of a map of Girdlegard. Around the table sat the kings and queens of the human realms; neither dwarves nor elves were present.

Mallen came over and bowed to Tungdil. “I want to show my gratitude and respect,” he said. All the other men and women rose to their feet and followed suit. For Isika, Ortger and Wey it was also by way of an apology for things they had said in the past. Their consciences were not clear.

Tungdil heard the news about the dwarves’ advance under Ginsgar Unforce. It was of no concern to him. “There’s no time to think about Alandur. The important thing is the diamond. We cannot leave it in alfar hands.” He told them what the unslayable had purportedly said. “I am sure he was not lying. He has made a pact with the thirdlings and presumably he knows very well what is waiting on the far side of the tunnel. When I was fighting the thirdlings Bandilor told me they had been negotiating with the monsters on the other side. In the worst possible scenario there may be an army already waiting for the tunnel into Girdlegard to open.” Tungdil pointed to Alandur on the map. “I don’t approve of what Ginsgar Unforce has done. But I can understand why he has done it. He is acting like any dwarf would who sees no difference between elves and atar.”

Mallen looked at him. “I will have Ginsgar told of your disapproval, Tungdil Goldhand. I hope Xamtys will move soon and recall the rebellious warriors. There’s nothing that I can do.”

Bruron’s expression was similarly rueful. “I am in the same situation. My best soldiers are in Toboribor. I won’t be able to stop Ginsgar.”

“It’s regrettable that some of the elves Ginsgar will kill aren’t actually involved in this atar madness. But it can’t be helped.” Tungdil bit his lip. “Don’t get me wrong but you all know what is at stake.”

Flagur entered the pavilion in full armor. “I have heard what is happening.” He did not look happy at all and his light pink eyes reflected his dissatisfaction. “From now on allow us to support you. We shall escort you to the west. Our mounts are better than any of Girdlegard’s horses, so we can get to the island ahead of the alfar. Unless he can fly.”

“No, he can’t do that,” Lot-Ionan confirmed.

“Not yet, anyway,” added Rodario. “As long as he hasn’t accessed the diamond’s power or got to the magic source.”

“Let me have just one night’s rest,” Tungdil requested. “We’ll set off in the morning.”

“How many men should we take?” asked Flagur.

“How many will you need to destroy a creature that did for thirty elves and upwards of a hundred orcs all by itself?” Tungdil would have loved to know exactly what had happened in the caves. And what the diamond had been doing in the hands of that sleeping beauty.

Flagur looked up. “We’ve seen a few of them where I’m from, but none anywhere near as dangerous as this one. Best if we take our rune master along and a dozen of our foremost warriors,” he decided.

“A dozen?” Rodario was surprised. “You don’t think you might be underestimating the opposition? There are still three monsters on the list. He’s bound to have them with him.”

Flagur only smiled, but his smile said more than any flowery assertions.

Isika pursued Tungdil’s train of thought. “Just now you said the stone was lying on the alfar woman’s chest and that she herself looked as if she were dead.” She turned respectfully to the magus. “Do you know what this might signify, Lot-Ionan?”

“I can only hazard a guess.” He thought hard. “The unslayable siblings escaped from Porista to the caves of Toboribor by magic shortly before the Star of Judgment struck. Either their spell didn’t work as planned or else it exacted a physical tribute that she was not equal to. I have read about magi being totally incapacitated if a spell goes wrong. It’s extremely hard to revive them. Maybe by means of this diamond.”

“It would explain her coma. But could she bear children in that state?” Isika looked round the circle. “I mean, these beasts must come from somewhere, even if they only fully turn into monsters after bathing in the magic source.”

“And what if the male alfar had been struck down in the same way but had managed to free himself?” Rodario suggested. His eyes glinted with enthusiasm. “Maybe the two of them were found in the caves and the surviving orcs down there seized on the beautiful alfar and mated with her, overcome with animal lust. They violate her again and again, besotted by her beauty. Then the alfar wakes up, kills the orcs, makes common cause with the thirdlings and sends the misshapen bastards out into Girdlegard to serve his evil ends.” He stopped for air, his eyes fixed on the far distance, actor that he was. An actor planning his next stage appearance. “And then, in order to create a pure being of his own flesh and blood, he takes the alfar beauty himself and impregnates her, creating the young one we saw on the island. A child born of siblings, purer than any other alfar and part of the highest dynasty. What a plot line.”

Mallen smiled. “Your imagination is getting the better of you, my theatrical friend.”

“Call it a variation on a possible truth, because we’ll never find out what really happened. I don’t suppose the unslayable is going to sit down and explain it all to us,” Rodario admitted. “I think it’s a tremendous story though.”

“Well, it fits in with what the alfar are like,” said Tungdil, tired now. “I must get some rest, if you don’t mind. Pray for us all tonight.”

The pavilion door-hanging flew aside and a dwarf came in and bowed to the company. His face was burned by the sun, his armor coated with dust and he smelled of sweat, horse and muck. “For the sake of Girdlegard, help the fourthlings!” he gasped, handing Prince Mallen a leather pouch. “I am Feldolin Whetstone of the Thyst Finders fourthling clan. I bring a message from the Brown Range. We are being besieged by incredible creatures.”

“The size of two dwarves, wearing armor, and their eyes shining purple?” asked Sirka, to everyone’s astonishment. “Voices like the whistle of the wind and the rumble of thunder at one and the same time?”

“By all the gods, you’re describing Djer n!” Rodario exclaimed. “Andokai’s bodyguard: a mountain of steel with many times the strength of a human.”

Mallen took out a written account of the events at the pass and a sketch of the creatures laying siege to Silverfast. “More friends that look like enemies?” he remarked.

“It’s the acronta,” replied Flagur. “We got them to create a diversion so our own army could circumvent the dwarves without being seen. We didn’t want a battle, because it would have meant killing dwarves. But they are Ubar’s children, just as we are.” The ubari grinned at the messenger, who had only just noticed him and was utterly terrified. “They won’t harm you.”

“The acronta,” repeated Tungdil. “How many of them are there?”

“We don’t know. But the army that protects us against some of the larger fiends has about three thousand sword-bearers.”

“Ye gods,” muttered Rodario. “Three thousand of them? What kind of creatures do you have in the Outer Lands if you need so many acronta to deal with them?”

“I never claimed life was easy in Letefora.” Flagur flexed his muscles in a display of strength that would have made any orc go pale with envy. “But that’s nothing compared with what will issue from the Black Abyss. To vanquish them we would need thousands of acronta.”

Tungdil nodded to the messenger. “You have heard the important part. Bring this good news to the fourthlings and to your…” He had been about to say king but remembered that the king of the fourthlings had been Gandogar. His corpse was on its way to the Brown Range to find its last resting place with the other fourthling rulers of the past. His soul was already with Vraccas at the eternal smithy and would be watching events from there.

“The throne is not empty,” said Feldolin. “Gandogar’s sister, Bylanta Slimfinger of the Silver Beards, administered all the duties of state while he traveled in his capacity as high king. As soon as peace is restored Gandogar’s death can be duly mourned and Bylanta’s regency celebrated.”

“Bring her my homage and the blessings of Vraccas,” said Tungdil. He raised his hand in salutation. “Now I must really go.”

He and Sirka left the tent and crossed the human army base to get to the dwarf encampment. There, pale patches on the grass showed where some had already struck camp and left. Presumably they had gone to join Ginsgar Unforce.

“You will accompany me to the Black Abyss?” asked Sirka as they entered their tent.

“Yes, it’s my duty to ensure the diamond arrives safely where it can do most good. And that is not here.” He lay down carefully on the simple bed. His head hurt and the empty eye socket was throbbing so badly he could not think. He took her hand. “Sirka, I am the most unreliable dwarf in Girdlegard. I feel great affection for you, but…” He fell silent and stroked her bald head; her brown skin shimmered in the lamplight.

“I am not asking for more than that, Tungdil,” she said.

“I cannot swear I will be faithful till the end of my days.” He sighed. “I swore to Balyndis that I would always be true because I never thought my feelings would change, but it turned out to be a lie.” He struck himself on the chest. “This accursed restlessness within me! I can’t settle. I have the urge to keep searching for new horizons; I might do the same to you. I will never promise marriage to a woman again.”

“Your restlessness is what has helped your homeland to survive. Without beings such as you nothing would move forward. Everyone would be frightened to attempt anything new; none would break new ground and abandon the familiar. It is good the way it is.” She looked at him. “Is it true you dwarves live forever?”

“What? Oh no, we just live to a very great age, Sirka. I am seventy cycles now and that makes me a young dwarf still. The oldest of us can live more than six hundred cycles, they say.” He saw the shock in her face. “What’s the matter?”

“That’s a big difference,” she said quietly. “Our people never get past the age of sixty cycles. Most pass away at fifty.”

“Fifty?” This was a surprise. “How old are you, Sirka?”

“I am twenty-one. My descendants are seven, five and three…”

“Your descendants.” He spoke solemnly. “And where are they now?”

“I told you we love and part when it is over. We never force anyone to stay together if feelings have cooled and died. We are a passionate people.” She gave him a kiss. “My children live in Letefora. They are brought up by the community and I visit them regularly.”

“Do they know you?”

“They call me their mother but it does not mean very much. They are children to all; everyone looks after everyone’s children as if they were their own.” She stroked his chest. “Rest. You have shown such fortitude today.”

She stirred a powder into a small dish of water and handed it to him. “Drink this. It will ease your pain.”

He did as he was bid and soon the throbbing in the eye socket grew fainter and allowed him to sleep. For the first time for ages he was not plagued by nightmares. He saw the Outer Lands in his mind’s eye, full of beauty and new creatures. Sirka was his guide in this new land, one that fascinated and enticed him. Even if there was much he would not understand until he had seen it with his own eye.

T he herd of befuns, the mounts that the ubariu had spoken of, were huge. They were like oversized orcs on four legs instead of two, with stumpy little tails. The body was muscular and as broad as that of a horse while the flat head had a snout with numerous protruding teeth. On their hands were three fingers apiece, covered in a hard layer of tough skin, with which they were able to pick up large objects.

To Tungdil the shape of the saddle seemed odd; it had a back support for the rider to rest against, relatively tall and curved like a small baldachin. He asked Sirka about the construction as someone pressed the reins into his hands. Stirrups were nowhere to be seen.

“The animals rear up in battle and help the rider by using their claws. The saddles are designed to stop us being thrown off.” She shook the back rest. “We’ve had them lengthened. You slide into the correct position.”

Rodario was getting to know his befun. “Stinks a bit, doesn’t it?” He sniffed at its light gray skin. “Stinks quite a lot, in fact.”

“It’s from their glands. They secrete a substance to toughen the skin. They’re safe against arrows and even a sword cut isn’t a problem.” Sirka showed him a damp shiny patch on the head. “A liquid also comes out there from time to time. Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”

“Is it acid?”

“No, it’s a sex gland, so if you don’t want to be jumped on by another befun for a bit of how’s your father I suggest you leave it well alone.”

“Aha!” Rodario slid right back in the saddle. “I enjoy making love but preferably not with this enchanting species. I probably wouldn’t survive its attentions.”

“Indeed. You wouldn’t.” Sirka vaulted up into the saddle and signaled to the troops behind her. She called out in a language her companions couldn’t understand; it sounded elegant and was reminiscent of elvish.

Flagur rode at her side, if you could call it riding; the befuns’ gait was nothing like that of a horse-more a series of rhythmical jumps, quite hard on the back and stomach if you were in the saddle. But they were swift and agile. Once equipped with an armored ubariu on its back, a befun would not be something Tungdil would want to face in battle. “Let’s move on!” Flagur announced. “If the distance they told us is correct we’ll be there in five orbits.

“That’s very fast,” said Tungdil. “That would be more than two hundred miles a day!”

Flagur grinned. “I keep forgetting things are different in Girdlegard. The befuns will run from sunup to sundown and they don’t need any more rest than that, or to stop and feed. They’re ideal for conditions back home.” He clicked his tongue and made a strange noise that the befun responded to. They set off at a trot.

“It’s amazing! I can hardly wait to escort the diamond back to your homeland,” Tungdil said to Sirka.

“And I can’t wait to show you around.” She touched his hand gently and followed Flagur.

The little troop set off for Weyurn-a journey that would take them through the dry northlands of Sangpur and forest margins of Ran Ribastur: about a thousand miles all told. On the first orbit they crossed Idoslane. A more direct route would have led them through the burning desert heart of Sangpur, but that was not a risk Tungdil wanted to take. Sandstorms and drought can be as deadly as any alfar.

Of them all it was Lot-Ionan who was finding it most difficult to adapt to the mounts. “I was a good rider once,” he said, “and could always keep my seat. But these befuns are quite a challenge!” Like the others he was constantly being jolted forwards and backwards and from side to side. To be on the safe side he had tucked the end of his beard under one of the straps securing the luggage, so that it wouldn’t blow in his face.

Tungdil was certainly feeling all the bones in his body. Often he would bite his tongue or his own cheek. No, if you weren’t used to it, these animals made for uncomfortable riding. Sirka and Flagur and the rest of the troop were managing to look good in the saddle, thus earning respect in the eyes of the humans they passed on the road.

The strange picture they made not only aroused interest, but also instilled fear into some, who sought to defend themselves. They knew all too much about orcs from the old stories and these looked much more dangerous than the old versions. Only the royal banners of Mallen and Bruron kept the group immune from attack.

Flagur did not arrange any rest periods until after sunset, when almost immediately the befuns spontaneously came to a halt and lay down like dogs to rest; the saddles stayed on their backs.

Rodario jumped off rather than dismounting. “Why, by all the gods, do they do that?”

“They can’t see very well in the dark and even at dusk their sight is bad. To stop themselves crashing into a tree or bumping into a rock they just lie down and wait for the sun to come up.” Sirka took a net out of her saddlebag and went off to the stream. “Will one of you come with me to help catch their feed?”

“Fish?” Tungdil went with her. “These funny creatures eat fish? They look more like predator carnivores to me.”

“You’re right. They eat everything,” she said, giving the word such emphasis that he preferred not to put further questions. “So it’s vital they don’t get hungry. If they set off to hunt on their own account the whole area could be devastated.”

“I see.” He waded into the water. “Throw me one end. We’ll make a barrier,” he suggested. “We can let the fish and the current do all the work rather than wear ourselves out continually tossing the net in.” She agreed and together they set about collecting sticks and branches to secure the net as a kind of funnel.

Tungdil’s empty eye socket was hurting badly, so Sirka gave him some more powder which he took with a handful of water from the stream.

The strangest insects were chirping away; soon the birds joined in with a twilight song. Tungdil realized it was one of very few evenings they had been spared any nasty surprises. “No alfar, no orcs,” he sighed with relief, sinking down on the grassy bank.

“Like in Letefora,” said Sirka, propping herself up on one elbow so she could keep an eye on the net. “May Ubar help keep it that way. Too many sacrifices have been made; it would be awful if we don’t succeed.” She looked at him. “Balyndis. Is that her name?”

He nodded. “Yes, but I don’t want to talk about her.”

Sirka watched his solemn face. “I am so happy we’ve found each other. It doesn’t matter how long it lasts.” She kissed him on the mouth.

He stroked the nape of her neck, pulling her close.

Laying her head on his shoulder she listened to the sound of his heart. “Sounds normal to me,” she said after a while.

“What did you think it would sound like?”

“A heart that’s going to beat for many hundred cycles should sound different. But it doesn’t. It’s not even any slower.”

He sat up and pushed her gently to the ground, then placed his ear on her breast. The scent that rose in his nostrils was arousing, and he felt the warmth of her brown skin on his cheek.

“And what can you hear?”

“Same as with all dwarves,” he said and kissed her throat. A sudden stabbing pain shot through his eye socket and he fell back. Any trace of desire abruptly disappeared. “Damn those atar,” he cursed, clutching at the side of his face, but it only made it worse. “I feel like wishing Ginsgar success with his campaign.”

“It’s the best thing for broka,” nodded Sirka earnestly. “Nobody is going to shed a tear for them. And there’s more harmony among the peoples of Letefora than ever now. No one there thinks they’re above the rest. Just friends or enemies. But no more false friends.” She stood up and went to check on their catch. “Come on, Tungdil. Let’s take the befuns their feed before they start on Rodario.”

They dragged the first load of fish over to their campsite in sacks, leaving the net in place in the stream to catch more. Later, when the befuns were fully fed, the two of them slipped under a blanket by the fire and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

“Ah, love’s young dream,” said Rodario with a yawn. “I wonder what my own darling is up to?”

Flagur looked at him. “You’ve got a girl?”

“Yes.”

“And how many children do you have with her?”

“With her? None, as far as I know.” He gave a dirty grin. “But there may be a few boys and girls in Girdlegard that will do well on the stage.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I am a friend to all women and women all love me. I am incredibly irresistible.”

“And what does your girl have to say about that?”

“Have fun, she says; she’s just the same as me,” he laughed.

“Well, we seem to have more in common with humans than with dwarves,” chuckled the ubariu.

“Don’t jump to the wrong conclusion, my dear Flagur. Most people in Girdlegard are very keen on convention and like to live as married couples.” Rodario smiled. “I make sure that the young wives don’t find life too tedious, and I help prepare the daughters for love.” He took a fish and grilled it over the fire on the end of a stick. “It’s a shame there won’t be much of an opportunity to learn more about your homeland. It would be illuminating to hear a couple of stories.” He blinked. “But I’m far too sleepy to take notes.”

“Why don’t you come along with the diamond’s escort? Then you can see my country,” suggested Flagur.

“Do your people like theater? My repertoire of tales of heroes and their great deeds is enormous. I have the best range of props…” His voice tailed away. “No, I used to have the best props possible. Magister Furgas made them all for me.” He stared into the fire. “My friend is dead. I can’t believe it. Can you? I spend five cycles searching for him; I free him from the clutches of his captors and then he melts away to nothing in a sea of red-hot iron. Killed by the treachery of thirdlings.”

Flagur had been listening intently. “But not forgotten.”

“No, I haven’t forgotten him and I never will.” He pulled the cooked fish off the bones and ate thoughtfully. Occasionally he looked over at Lot-Ionan, who was sitting on the grass some distance away from the fire talking to the ubariu rune master. “I wonder what they’re discussing?”

“I expect they’re talking about the different ways they each use magic.” Flagur retrieved his fish from the fire, strewed some powder on it from a little bag, and started to eat his supper with evident relish.

“Can I try some?” asked Rodario, indicating the yellow spice.

“Of course.”

The actor drizzled a little cautiously onto his fish, sniffed, and tasted it carefully. His expression moved from skeptical to delighted. “I think I should market this stuff,” he enthused. “This mixture is… unique! I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“I’m glad you like it. We used to wage war for it in the old days.”

“Entirely reasonable,” said Rodario. “And what agreement was reached?”

“We eradicated the other side.” Flagur handed him the little bag. “It’s made from a particular stone, milled and ground, rinsed three times in salt water and then rubbed to a fine powder.”

“You killed off a whole people for the spice?” He could not believe it.

“They were only phottor. They have no brains. Not worth worrying about,” the ubari reassured him. “But they were sitting on the biggest natural source of the spice, so we killed two birds with one stone: We had the meat and the spice.”

Rodario lowered his fish. “You don’t mean to say you ate the orcs?”

“Of course. They taste delicious, but the ones you had in Girdlegard were even better. I tried one who got lost and came over to our realm. It was the best ever taste.” He closed his eyes. “Mmm; it’s coming back to me now.”

Suddenly the conversation was taking a frightening turn. There were not many occasions when orcs had managed to get out of Girdlegard through to the Outer Lands. “When was that? Where did you come across him?” Rodario enquired.

“It was ages ago. On the other side of the mountain you call the Gray Range. He was trying to persuade us to take arms against the ubariu… I mean, you dwarves.” He laughed. “He was a stubborn fellow. He kept going on about immortality-something he’d drunk out of a little bottle.”

Rodario put two and two together. It must have been one of the creatures subject to Ushnotz, the orc lord; part of a unit that had got cut off from the others and got through to the empty realm of the fifthlings at the stone gateway. In the early days it had not been guarded.

By Palandiell! The black water, he thought. Worried now, he watched Flagur and measured him up. Ushnotz’s warriors had partaken of the black water and were immortal. What would happen if you ate the orc flesh? If the flesh was evil, would it pull you that way too? Was Flagur only pretending to be a friend? Perhaps he really wanted the diamond for his own rune master. Was he perhaps planning to take over Girdlegard with his hundred-thousand-strong army as soon as he had the stone?

The ubari watched him. “What’s is the matter, Rodario? Why’ve you gone quiet?”

“I’m… tired.” He avoided the question. “I’m sorry if I’m not good company. It always happens when… I eat fish.” Quickly he wolfed down his meal and said goodnight. As if purely by chance he lay down next to Tungdil and tried to wake him gently.

“What is it, Fabuloso?” the dwarf asked, drunk with sleep.

“You’ll never believe this but-”

“Then don’t tell me,” he interrupted, turning over. “I’m in pain.”

“Our friend and ally has a secret. He’s eaten an orc that had drunk from the black water,” he whispered emphatically.

Now Tungdil was fully awake. “What are you talking about? Why would he do that?”

“Because they taste good. Apparently.” Rodario shuddered.

Tungdil digested the news and considered the possibilities. “Even if it were true, Ushnotz and his orc folk are long dead.”

“But before that Flagur ate one of them. He was from the Gray Range, he said.” The actor was insistent and agitated.

Tungdil could just about work out what might have happened. Back then he and Ireheart had attacked a few orc scouts at the Stone Gateway and pursued three of them into the Outer Lands. One of these had escaped and must have run straight into Flagur’s arms. “They eat orcs?”

It was not too far-fetched. He remembered that Djer n met his nutritional needs from all sorts of Tion’s creatures. The acronta and ubariu had a few characteristics in common.

He cast a look at Sirka’s sleeping countenance and wondered whether the undergroundlings enjoyed certain dishes that might be based on less than conventional meat sources. If they worshipped the same god…

He found the idea revolting. Admittedly his own folk enjoyed eating insect larvae-something the humans found hard to understand. But there was still a difference between eating maggots and eating orcs. And the difference was not merely to do with the taste.

Rodario sighed. “What shall we do, Tungdil? Can we afford to trust Flagur or does he carry the seed of evil in him? Perhaps without being aware of it?”

The dwarf lifted his head a little to look at the ubari. He was sitting with his back to them in front of the flames of the campfire, his silhouette broad and impressive. “To be honest with you, I don’t know,” he answered the actor. “Keep an eye on him and tell me immediately if you get the idea he’s not behaving like an ally.” He cradled his head back on his arm. “But I shall trust him until we have evidence to the contrary.” He smiled. “Leave a few things in the hands of the gods, Fabuloso. Give them something to do and don’t leave it all to the mortals.”

“If you say so, Hero of Girdlegard,” sighed Rodario, closing his eyes. “Let us hope the gods see everything.” Then he had a thought. “No, they don’t have to see absolutely everything. Otherwise my soul is never going to get to the garden of the Creator Goddess.”

“Why? Did she forbid humans to behave the way you do?” asked Tungdil, his one eye firmly shut.

Rodario laughed softly. “It depends how you interpret it. But she doesn’t agree with making love to women who really belong in the arms of another.”

And there it was yet again: the thought of Balyndis.

Now he was free of her Tungdil found himself thinking of her more often than when they had been a couple. Guilty feelings nagged. He knew she would feel she had been deceived. He knew how cowardly his conduct had been. One letter. No more than that.

There he was, brave enough to vanquish Girdlegard’s most fiendish foes but unable to find the courage to face his partner and admit that he no longer wanted to be with her. No longer could be with her.

He opened his remaining eye and turned to Sirka, contemplating her features, black in the starlight. He listened to her even breathing, took in the smell of her and felt her warmth.

At least Sirka would not suffer when one day he left her. The undergroundling people seemed to be as restless as his own wandering spirit when it came to emotional attachments. Perhaps she would be the one to leave first.

That thought made his heart lighter.