The Revenge of the Dwarves (52 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

The undergroundlings left the assembly tent.

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

What remained was an uncomfortable oppressive silence.

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

Girdlegard
,

Queendom of Weyurn
,

A Hundred Miles West of Gastinga
,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had been a thirdling spy, a scholar like him, and Balyndis, under pressure from the elders of her clan, had been advised to leave him. It was no wonder that Myr and he had got together—until her treachery was revealed. Then it had been easier not to be troubled by conscience.

“For a magus in training, Dergard’s a bit on the vulnerable side, don’t you think?” Rodario had discovered the cake the farmer’s wife had left on the side. And then he spotted the daughter of the house running past the window in the rain to the barn to milk the cows. “What a delight,” he murmured dreamily, cutting himself a slice.

“What would Tassia say?” Furgas said crossly. “You’re the same as five cycles ago. It’s not clever, just selfish.”

“I’ve no idea what she’d say. She didn’t ask me my opinion when she slept with other men,” he retorted, taking a bite. “We’re both grown up and have a taste for life. So what’s the problem?” He would never admit to the jealousy he felt. “Don’t you have eyes for womenfolk anymore?”

“There aren’t any women in my life now. I swore to be
faithful to Narmora. Just because her body no longer exists doesn’t mean I don’t stay true,” he said, his voice unsteady. “I dream of her each night and she gave me the strength to survive the time on the island. I would never betray her by desiring another.”

“An admirable attitude, Furgas. Keep away from women and you won’t get hurt.” He chewed the mouthful of cake, his eyes still on the farmer’s daughter. “Imagine if
you
had fallen for Tassia. Oh Palandiell, what a disaster! She’s my female equivalent.”

Tungdil noticed Furgas was getting jumpy.

“The girl certainly understands the art of seduction, I can tell you. She’s as faithful as a leaf in the breeze, blowing this way and that.” Rodario rattled on, stuffing his face with cake. “It has cost me dear, finding that out. I can only warn everyone about her.” He laughed quietly. “Little slut. But I can’t stay away.” Then he turned to face the dwarves. “Do you still need me? I’d like to help the farmer’s girl with her churns.”

“Leave her be,” said Tungdil. “I don’t want a row with her father. They’ve been so good to us.”

“Don’t you worry your head, hero. I’ll be as discreet as anything.” He winked at them and left the room.

T
he barn where Goda and Boïndil were working out was huge.

The farmer had put fleeces down in the old hay loft and new washed wool waiting to be spun. Two weaving looms behind had been clattering away the last couple of orbits.

Boïndil took a couple of ropes from the wall and was snaking them in turn toward Goda. “Imagine these are lots of opponents attacking you.” The first one, with an iron ring at the end, was coming at her fast. She turned and avoided it.

“Excellent,” he said, aiming the second at her left thigh.

Goda managed to swerve out of the way several times but the fifth rope hit home. The iron ring hit her on the breast.

Ireheart tutted impatiently. “That’s you dead, Goda. That was a sword-thrust in the chest.” He pointed to the floor. “Forty!”

“I’m not doing press-ups,” she protested. “I would have warded off the blow.”

“You wouldn’t.” He looked her full in the eyes and regretted it at once. His warrior heart was working overtime. “Fifty.”

Goda picked up her flail. “Try it again, master. I’ll show you what the night star can do.”

“No, you won’t. You’re supposed to be taking avoiding action.” He was angry that she was questioning his authority. “Sixty.” Now he made a threatening move toward her.

She raised her weapon. “First you’ll have to get me on the floor.” She pulled in her head, and her eyes blazed. “I have had enough of being ordered about, master.”

Previously Boïndil would have rejoiced at the prospect of being free of his young pupil. But now it was his worst nightmare. “You’re confusing persistence with bullying. It’s for your own good,” he said to cover his embarrassment. “You asked me to teach you how to fight.”

“Or else? Seventy?” she laughed with malice.

Ireheart grabbed the handle of the night star and rammed the top of it against her head. Goda started to topple and he placed his foot behind hers, pulling it from under her so that she fell. “One hundred,” he said, twirling her weapon in his hands. “You let go of the night star. You know only to do that if you have a second weapon on you.”

She propped herself up on her elbows, ignoring a trickle of blood from her forehead.

Boïndil sighed and went over to crouch down beside her. “Goda, I’m trying to keep you safe and alive.”

“With push-ups? Is it to impress the orcs? Perhaps I can challenge an opponent to a contest?” she hissed, sitting up.

Again their faces were very close.

Ireheart swallowed hard and swung back as if a Vanga had bitten him. “No. It’s to motivate you to make more effort,” he muttered. “If you don’t make the mistakes you don’t have to do the press-ups.” He took a handful of the wool and tried to wipe the blood from her face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Goda thrust his hand away roughly.

“I wanted…”

“I know what you wanted, master.” She flashed at him. “And I know what you
want
. Don’t forget you killed Sanda. I feel nothing for you. I’d rather have Bramdal than you. Make me a warrior and then let’s fight to see how good your teaching was. You can keep everything else. I don’t care.” Boïndil was thunderstruck. Her harsh tone had hit him to the quick; she had known exactly what he was thinking. “It…” He swallowed, searching for words.
His spark of hope was dying. Then he pulled himself together. “It’s not what you think. I am your instructor and I am concerned for you. That is all.”

“So I should hope.” Goda turned and pushed herself up from the floor. She began her press-ups. One hundred of them. Blood dripped from her forehead but that did not bother her.

Ireheart watched, vowing to himself that he would not give up.

W
hen Rodario opened the door he found a soldier whose armor bore the insignia of King Bruron.

“A message for Tungdil Goldhand,” he announced, looking past Rodario. “That’ll be you?”

“Eyes as keen as an eagle’s,” joked the showman. “How many dwarves do you see sitting here?” The soldier went over to Tungdil, handing him several rolls and folded papers.

“I am to bring your answer straight back to His Majesty,” he said, retreating. “I’ll wait outside.”

“Get yourself something to eat and have a rest,” invited Tungdil. “It will take some time. Send Boïndil and Sirka in.”

He waited silently until the messenger had left the room and the others had joined him, then he unrolled the parchment.

Goda came in as well. She seemed to have her mentor’s complete confidence. Tungdil noticed she had dried blood on her face. Weapons practice must have been rougher than usual today.

“It’s from Prince Mallen,” Tungdil read out. “The initial
attacks on the caves at Toboribor have been successful. The monster whose arm I severed has been killed.” His face showed regret. “So far Mallen reports he has lost seven hundred and eleven men in the caves; most of them died through sorcery. There is no indication that the unslayables are using the diamond’s power. Furthermore, the first contingents of thirdlings and firstlings have arrived. They will be taking over from his soldiers.”

“May Vraccas keep them safe,” murmured Ireheart.

Tungdil started to read Gandogar’s missive. “In exchange the elves have sent warriors to the realms of the secondlings and thirdlings to undertake guard duties on the walls and gates. Everything is running smoothly, he writes.”