The Revenge of the Dwarves (54 page)

“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 Boïndil, 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 älfar 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 Sûndalon 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?”

“I think only seven people know it. I’m not one of them. He’s a confidant of Sûndalon’s and serves the acront of Letèfora. He was trained by him.”

This information brought more questions than clarity. “But what—?”

“Mountain ahead!” the lookout shouted down. Tungdil had to suppress his curiosity.

Dergard, standing in the cabin doorway, waved Tungdil and Furgas out. “That’s where the source is,” he yelled against the wind. “I can feel it. No doubt about it.”

“If the island has surfaced it means they’re either expecting monsters or disembarking them,” said Furgas.

Tungdil pursed his lips. Four monsters, possibly with a renewed intake of magic, would be impossible odds if they had not brought Lot-Ionan back to life first. “We don’t
have a choice,” he said. “We have to storm the island and submerge it. Stand by, Dergard.” He hurried up to the helmsman and captain to give orders. “Find a place we can land.”

“Impossible. See that shoreline? Solid rock. It would slice our hull.”

“There’s no other way. We haven’t got enough dinghies and we wouldn’t be able to launch them in this weather anyway,” insisted Tungdil. “If need be, run the ships aground and wreck them.”

“You’re no sailor, Tungdil Goldhand! Have you any idea what you’re asking us to do? You’re risking all our lives!”

“Just do it, Captain. There’s more at stake than a couple of ships.”
And a few lives
. He came off the bridge, then down below deck to chase the dwarves and Weyurn soldiers up top to start the onslaught on the island. Lot-Ionan’s draped statue was brought up on deck and made ready for hoisting on the crane. Tungdil watched the preparations closely. There must be no mistakes.

They gathered in the bows. The nightmare älfar island grew in size as they approached.

Their ships ran aground on the basalt ledge, the spars of the keels bursting and splintering. None of the dwarves or undergroundlings made a sound; they clutched at ropes or the vessels’ superstructure. The wooden planks sliced through as if a giant knife had severed them.

“All on shore!” shouted Tungdil, sounding a bugle to alert the dwarves on the second craft. He leaped off the deck and landed on the rock.

Most of the soldiers and dwarves did the same, although
a dozen or so ended up in the water after the ship was forced away from the shore by the broiling waves. They sank without trace.

Tungdil cursed under his breath. Their lives must not have been lost in vain. “Let the statue down now!” he called. He could see water flooding into the open forward section of the ship.

The crane swung round as the sailors maneuvered the winch, and the stone magus left the deck.

When it was half over the shore the ship lurched again, splitting open on the rock like a loaf of bread torn apart.

The heavy weight danced and jumped around like a murderer in a hangman’s noose. Then it proved too great a burden. The rope snapped and the statue plunged down.

Dwarves sprang out of the way to avoid being crushed to death. The figure tumbled to the shoreline shelf and started to roll toward the edge.

“Hold it fast!” bellowed Tungdil, running through water that came up to his middle. He pulled and tugged at the statue, together with five companions, but the blankets round it were sodden and it was heavier than ever. A wave threw three of the dwarves off balance. The stone figure of Lot-Ionan slipped over the edge and sank to the depths.

“No!” roared Tungdil, staring in horror at where the statue had disappeared. He stepped forward as if to dive after it.

“Let it be.” Ireheart held him back. “Who knows whether you’d ever have been able to bring him back to life. We still have a magus, Scholar. We just have to get him to his magic.”

The spell which had turned Lot-Ionan to stone was affecting Tungdil too, it seemed. He could not move. He could not speak. The wind howled in his face, and though he heard the cracking ships’ timbers breaking up, his mind was at a standstill, his plans all over the place like liberated mercury, rolling and disappearing.
What happens now?
The words went round and round in his head.
I’ve lost him for all time. It’s my fault
. This was no way to defeat the island.

“Tungdil!” bawled Ireheart in his ear, shaking him. “Come on, man. We need you.”

“Damnation!” shouted Tungdil into the storm, spray washing away his tears of despair and disappointment. Then his resolute dwarf spirit took over and he exploded into action. “Let’s get this blasted island conquered!” He raised his head. “Furgas!”

Furgas appeared, waved and jumped down off the remains of the ship. He took command and led them through the cave Rodario had encountered before. They were now faced with a massive wall. “There’s a hidden entrance here,” he explained, fiddling with a black stone let into the wall of the cliff.

Tungdil and the others stood back, checking in all directions.

Looking back through the cave entrance Rodario saw another wave lift the damaged ships and smash them against the rock, breaking them into a thousand pieces in the foaming water. A few sailors crawled onto land, but most went to the bottom with the wreck. There was nothing left but to conquer and prevail. There was no going back.

In front of them the wall moved. “This’ll take us to the corridor on the middle level of the forge,” the actor told them.

“Some of you set the captives free,” commanded Tungdil, “but the rest go on. Follow Furgas and me, straight to the thirdlings.” He nodded at them. “May Vraccas be with us. And make us once more the protectors of Girdlegard.” He glanced at Sirka, smiled and then signaled to Furgas to set off.

Two hundred warriors ran through the narrow corridor toward an iron door fastened with metal bolts and bars. Furgas knew his way through these locks and contraptions and the door opened with ease.

Rodario recognized the place at once. They were near where he had fled to hide in the cave behind the furnaces.

Soldiers and dwarves spread out.

“Hey!” shouted one of the prisoners. “Who are you?”

Those standing near him heard the shout. The Girdlegard advance party had been sighted.

“By all the good gods: the queen’s troops! Praise be to Elria! Will you save us?” the prisoner shouted, rattling his chains at them. Now there were shouts and calls on all sides. The men and women were afraid the soldiers would not free them.

Their cries brought the guards running, thinking there was a mutiny. They soon saw their mistake, but didn’t bother to offer resistance. There were too few of them. Aware they stood no chance, they threw themselves on the mercy of the invading party.

But there were ten of the enemy placed in the galleries
above, shooting arrows and throwing down red-hot coals. There were injuries, there were deaths. Their swift progress was halted.

Furgas, Rodario, Tungdil, Sirka, Ireheart and Goda meanwhile were leading a group of warriors to the furnace to attack the thirdlings. The sentries here did not run away or surrender. They fought with great spirit and were not to be subdued with a few random ax blows.

“Look out!” Tungdil noticed the forges on the platform above them were tipping, about to empty their molten contents. “Take cover! Get under the rock ledge, now!”

Liquid iron, glowing red, yellow and gold, poured down on them from above, sending sparks flying. Way below, others were caught by the red-hot splashes and were horribly burned. It was an awesome spectacle. A terrible sight—and a fatal one.

Several soldiers and chained workers sank screaming in the flood of red-hot iron; stinking fumes scorched airways and burned lungs. Hisses and screams filled the air.

“Where’s Furgas?” Rodario saw that his friend was missing. “Furgas!” he yelled like a maniac. Tungdil had to stop him treading in a pool of molten metal. He would have lost his leg.

“There!” Ireheart pointed down to where he could see the magister’s burning mantle smoldering on the liquid fire-death. A blackened arm was uplifted. “Vraccas has punished him for his deeds,” he murmured.

“Aim at those archers hiding in the cliffs,” commanded Tungdil furiously. They had lost yet another vital member
of their invading force. Their ranks were thinning by the minute.

“Furgas,” whispered Rodario, horrified at the loss. “My poor friend. The gods have been so cruel to you since the loss of Narmora. I thought they had taken pity on you when they allowed me to find you.”

That blackened arm had been a last gesture of farewell from the man with whom he had traveled the highways and byways for so many cycles, helping to make the
Curiosum
a magnificent success. He owed his friend so much. Gone, dead, incinerated. “We needed you still, Furgas.” He wiped the tears from his eyes and drew his sword. “The thirdlings shall die to avenge your death.” He stormed back along the gangway.

“Follow him!” Tungdil called to the dwarves. He ordered the last of the captive workers to be freed, telling them to keep the guards occupied. Then the group moved through a gap into a tall narrow cave.

Here was the island’s heart. The room was full of valves, tubing and chains that disappeared up into the roof. There were five huge boilers, fifty paces high, taking up most of the floor room. Underneath the cauldrons enormous furnaces raged, producing the steam that made the island function.

Rodario saw the thirdlings next to the metal casing where narrow glass tubes emerged and led into wider funnels. A clear liquid was bubbling away. “You there!!” He brandished his sword in their direction. “You are going to pay for what you have done to my friend and to Girdlegard!” He flew down the steps to confront Veltaga and Bandilor.

Bandilor uttered an oath and moved the lever behind him. “You’ll never get out of here alive!” Veltaga ran to one of the cauldrons, swung the lever and whirled the valve wheels.

“I hope the Incredible Showman knows there aren’t any stage directions for this bit,” said Ireheart, rushing down in his wake, followed by Goda and Tungdil and the rest of the warriors.

Bandilor lifted his ax and struck the lever to disable it. Then, calmly, he turned to parry Rodario’s attack; he rammed his shoulder into Rodario’s groin and slammed the handle of his ax into the actor’s belly.

Rodario kept going. “Revenge for Furgas!” He kicked Bandilor in the privates and raised his sword to strike home. “Die!”

Distracted by the pain, the thirdling was unable to fend off the weapon. It entered his throat leaving a wound no medicus in Girdlegard would be able to treat. Blood spurted out, drenching levers and controls.

But it was not over yet.

Bandilor hit out at Rodario and struck him on the hip. The ax cut a long red swathe down the pelvis bone; clothing and flesh gaped open and the actor fell to the floor. Faster than a hammer hits iron on the forge the thirdling stood over him, aiming his dying blows at the injured man.

“No, you dwarf-hater!” Boïndil suddenly appeared, smashing his crow’s beak against the other’s weapon, striking it aside. It sang out like a bell as it hit the ground. “It’s me you have to fight!” He used the impetus to whirl his weapon above his head before hitting home.