The Revenge of the Dwarves (57 page)

Girdlegard
,

Queendom of Weyurn
,

Twelve Miles Northwest of Mifurdania
,

Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T
ungdil’s delight at being able to embrace his long-lost foster-father—something he would never have dared to do
as his young apprentice—was difficult to express in words. “You are come alive again, resurrected from the stones, venerable Lot-Ionan! The gods were with us all!” he rejoiced.

Lot-Ionan smiled at him, the wrinkled face transformed. “Tungdil Bolofar! A familiar face amongst the strangers in Weyurn. You have grown strong. Strong and earnest. Like a warrior now, not my young smith and errand-boy.” He looked round at the others by the door: he knew none of them. “I assume there’s lots to tell? I have heard that Nudin was destroyed. More than six or seven cycles past.”

“Aren’t you too tired?”

“Not in the slightest. It’s as if I’ve bathed in the fountain of eternal youth.”

“What is the last thing you remember?”

The magus reflected. “It was the dispute with Nudin. I thought sand was running through my veins and my heart was turning to stone and dying. The next moment I awoke on the bottom of a lake and drowning. My magic saved me.”

“We know there is a new magic source there, honored sir,” said Tungdil. “But the other source has dried up forever.” Before continuing, he turned to his companions. “It’s best you go and rest now. Get your wounds attended to. On the morrow we shall all leave for Toboribor. I have a lot to talk about with my foster-father here, Lot-Ionan; I need to tell him what has been happening in Girdlegard.” Then he looked at the village spokesman. “Be good enough to see we have somewhere to sleep. Queen Wey will reimburse you for the expense. Please bring us refreshment.”

“Of course,” replied the man, getting up to give the
relevant instructions. A little later they were brought cheese, dried fish, bread and wine.

Tungdil smelled the wine but resisted the temptation. He shook Lot-Ionan’s hand once more. “I am so glad to see you,” he repeated, drawing up a chair next to him.

The magus noticed the golden mark on Tungdil’s hand as it shimmered in the firelight. “What’s this, then?” The eyes observed him sharply. “What is happening in Girdlegard?” Running his hands over Tungdil’s short brown hair, he said, “And most of all I want to know how things have been for you.”

Tungdil suppressed his weariness and related stories from the old times: battles with Nudin, and against the eoîl and her avatars. He told the magus she was an elf who had brought disaster to the land.

He kept it short, telling only the bare facts. But time sped by and when dawn showed rosy-red on the horizon, he was just coming to the most recent events. He told his foster-father about the diamonds, the thirdlings and the unslayable siblings. “Now they have got the diamond, they will try to use its power for evil. At the same time a huge army threatens the fourthlings’ gates. It is made up of undergroundlings, orcs and others. They are the original owners of the diamond, and have the right to demand its return.” He finished his report. “You have come back at the very best moment.” He yawned, not able to resist the urge any longer.

Lot-Ionan was silent and stared at the flames in the fireplace. His hair and his beard were dry by now and he looked as if he had never been turned to stone. “The friends
of yore are all dead, nothing is as I knew it.” His light blue eyes looked out of the window. “Hardly am I free from Nôd’onn’s curse, still trying to take in all the news, and already I must prepare to meet the next mighty foe.” He sighed. “And my Tungdil Bolofar is now Tungdil Goldhand. A proper dwarf. A hero.” He shook his white head. “Ye gods! What have you done to my world?”

“Your vaults are still there,” smiled Tungdil. “The orcs did not destroy everything when they raged through.”

“A little stability in these new times.” Lot-Ionan turned and put his hand on Tungdil’s shoulder. “But if Palandiell, and apparently Samusin as well, want me and the young magus to save Girdlegard from the unslayables, then so be it. You made your real father more than proud. And I am so proud of you, too.”

Tungdil’s eyes were swimming with emotion. “What shall we do, venerable sir?”

“What you suggested. I will see the elf waiting on Windsport Island and hear what he has to say. It is hard to believe that the elves have left the path of light and been dazzled by the forces of evil.” He reached for some of the cheese. As he did so, he took a sharp intake of breath and stood up, clutching his back.

“Revered Lot-Ionan, what…?”

He raised his hand. “It is nothing, Tungdil. It seems not all of me is yet free of the petrifying curse.” He made another attempt to reach out for the cheese and this time managed it. “It might be old age,” he smiled. “I like to forget how many cycles I have lived so far. I’m not counting my statue-time.” He ate the cheese and drank some wine.
“Then we’ll be off to Toboribor to see about the unslayables. On the way I’ll test Dergard a bit so that I can evaluate his talent. We should be able to vanquish the älfar leaders. Unless they are able to employ the stone’s power.”

“Should we give the diamond back to the undergroundlings?” asked Tungdil.

“I think so. It will save loss of life. If they really have their own rune master and an army of that size—whatever the acronta might be—then Girdlegard has nothing to oppose them with.” He studied Tungdil’s face. “On the contrary. If they have preserved us in the past and never tried to conquer our land despite their military superiority, it speaks in their favor. I am happy to explain this to the kings and queens.” He noted how tired-looking Tungdil’s eyes had become. “Get some rest, Tungdil.”

“No, I can sleep on the boat over to Windsport. At last we have all the vital people together—now is not the time to sleep. Time is on the side of the unslayables, not ours.” He stood up and left the room with the magus.

The village spokesman awaited them with the message that two ships of the royal fleet had made harbor, enquiring about a shipwrecked party.

Impatiently Tungdil woke his companions and sent them off to the ship without their breakfast. Lot-Ionan summoned Dergard to his cabin and the two magi disappeared to talk away from prying eyes and ears.

One of the ships headed off to guard the älfar island. A contingent of soldiers was to land and hunt down the älf still at large. The second ship took Tungdil and his companions to Windsport Island to pick up the elf they had left
at a shrine dedicated to Palandiell. They would cure his fever with Lot-Ionan’s magic.

Now the summer showed itself from its best side. The fresh breeze filled the sails and drove the ship onwards.

Tungdil had closed his eyes as soon as they cast off. He spent the crossing asleep in a hammock until Sirka woke him in the evening.

“Are we there?” He rubbed his eyes, pleased to see her; the sight of her was still unfamiliar and exciting. He was astonished that he still felt shy about responding to her advances. Balyndis had agreed to set him free. Was he still bothered perhaps by the way he had gone about asking for his freedom? It seemed that not all the ties binding him and Balyndis had really been cut.

“Not yet. But soon.” She held out her hand to help him up.

He looked at the end of the cliff where an imposing building stood. It now served less as a shrine and more as a house for Weyurn’s royal archives. Palandiell was no longer the favorite deity here, as she was in the realms of Rân Ribastur or Tabaîn. Ever since the enormous increase in lake size in the country, the water goddess Elria had become more popular. But innumerable records were available in the shape of parchment rolls which held the memories of the old kingdom, its towns and villages.

The ship slid past while the waves pounded against the cliff fifty paces away. Veils of spray rose up and blew over to their vessel covering everything with a thin damp film. Tungdil was wide awake now.

“I’ll tell Lot-Ionan,” he said to Sirka and hurried off. It
felt like running away almost. But deep inside he was burning to know more about her and her culture, before committing himself. Too many open questions had to be answered.

He knocked at the cabin door. “We have arrived, Lot-Ionan.”

The magus could read the unspoken question about how Dergard was shaping up. “Come in,” he invited, closing the door behind him.

Dergard was sitting on a bench, not looking very happy.

“My young friend here knows a few good formulae to make magic with, but he understandably lacks experience,” Lot-Ionan began. “I, on the other hand, have plenty of experience but the time I spent turned to stone has left gaps in my memory.” He touched himself on the temple. “Sometimes there’s a syllable missing, or my hands make the wrong movement. That can ruin any spell.”

“What does that mean for our project, magus?”

“That Dergard and I need each other’s help to confront the unslayables. One of us without the other won’t be much use.”

“You are more than one hundred cycles ahead of me, honored Lot-Ionan,” said Dergard.

“It would be strange if that were not the case, but it does not alter the fact that my tongue or my hands may let me down. We don’t have the time I would need to rectify the gaps in my memory.” Lot-Ionan looked at Tungdil and the ax. “It will lie as ever in your hands to do all the fighting. Dergard and I will offer support, but probably no more than that.” He was about to touch Tungdil’s head but
halted suddenly, caught by a flash of pain in his back. “Damned old age,” he muttered. “Why have I got no spells for that?”

Tungdil considered the matter. “Let’s not tell anyone about your state of health,” he suggested. “The unslayables have to believe that you two are the ones to fear. Otherwise I shan’t be able to get near enough to use Keenfire. Do you agree?”

Lot-Ionan smiled. “You are a good general, I see. We’ll let friends and foe alike think that Dergard and I are the only ones up to taking on the älfar leaders.”

The ship’s progress slowed; shouts and trampling feet up on deck showed they were docking.

“Now let us see about the elf,” said Lot-Ionan, stepping out of the cabin in the lead. The group left the ship, passed the little town and climbed up to the shrine, where its custodian was waiting: a man of about sixty cycles, slightly bald and with a red nose from too much wine. His clothing was in disarray as if flung on hastily.

“Welcome back.” He bowed and led them past walls lined with bookshelves. Here were kept the ancient records of Weyurn’s subjects: births, marriages and deaths. Queen Wey wanted to be able to trace the history of her land. “Your elf has not yet come round, but he still lives.” The man put on an important air. “That is due to my care, of course, as well as to his own stamina.” They stopped three paces short of tall double doors. “I am no medicus but I would say that a human would have died long since.” His dull, drunkard’s eyes swiveled to Lot-Ionan. “Is he your medicus?”

“Indeed,” said the magus, to avoid further discussion. He opened the right-hand door and went in, accompanied by Dergard, Tungdil, Ireheart, Sirka, Goda and Rodario. The rest stayed in the halls of the shrine waiting to hear what the two magi might achieve.

The room was flooded with evening light and smelt of the lake and summer. Open windows let in the sound of the waves, fresh air and fine droplets of spray from the spume as the waters hit the cliffs below the building.

The elf lay, eyes closed, hands on blanket and torso wrapped in bandages.

“Thanks,” said Lot-Ionan, closing the door firmly to leave the keeper outside. “What have you tried, Dergard?” asked the magus.

“I don’t have much in the way of healing spells,” he admitted ruefully.

The older magus undid the bandage and inspected the puncture wounds in the elf’s body. At the blackened edges the flesh was rotting. “You tried the formulae you found in Nudin’s works?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me which ones.” Dergard reeled them off and the magus nodded. “These are good charms. Don’t reproach yourself for anything. But the elf needs different magic.”

He held his hands over the wounds, his eyes hazy. He intoned a spell until a bluish glow emerged from his fingertips. The light dripped slowly like thick honey onto the damaged flesh, pooling on the elf’s chest.

Lot-Ionan completed the charm, stepped back and gave
a sign to Dergard, who carried on the procedure. The blue turned pale yellow now.

The magic caused the rotten flesh to be rejected. It shriveled up and fell off as dried skin onto the sheet. The holes left by the arrows closed up and healed over. Only lighter skin betrayed where the injuries had been.

“It is finished,” breathed Dergard with relief, nodding at Lot-Ionan.

“Neither of us could have done this on our own,” said the older of the two, smiling. “This is a good omen for our continued cooperation.” He stepped over to the bed. “Let us wake him up.”

Ireheart took a bowl of water and threw it on the elf’s face. “Ho, wake up, there! You’ve been asleep long enough!”

The elf jerked his eyes open. Catching sight of the grinning dwarf he instinctively slid back, hitting his head on the bedstead. His hand flew to the side where he would normally have carried his weapon.

“Don’t worry, friend,” said Tungdil in elf language. “We found you in the groves of Âlandur with three arrows in you. Your own people had attacked you. We brought you with us here to Weyurn to look after you.” He indicated his foster-father. “This is Lot-Ionan the Forbearing and next to him is Dergard the Lonely. These magi have saved your life. I am Tungdil Goldhand. Can you tell us what happened to you?”