She hid her face in his shoulder and pressed him to her. “At last,” she murmured. “I nearly died of worry and couldn’t let the others see.” She looked at Tungdil, still on his horse, and saw Lot-Ionan beside him. “You’ve done it!”
“It was easier than we’d thought,” he told her, freeing himself from the embrace. “Let’s talk about it inside. There is a great deal to tell.”
“Here, too.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “Sadly, none of it good, my husband.”
Anxiously, Ireheart hurried to reach the conference hall. The dwarves, Coira and Lot-Ionan followed and Goda gave the order to fetch their guests.
On all sides dwarves knelt in homage to Tungdil, proffering their weapons to him as a mark of respect and unconditional obedience. Ireheart could tell Goda did not appreciate this gesture. Well, there’s a surprise.
The rejoicing in Evildam was unstinting. From the other three gates came bugle calls and the clatter of axes on shields. A storm of euphoria broke over them, with everyone involved in the celebration: Dwarves, humans, undergroundlings and ubariu alike.
Ireheart walked tall and proud as never before. Back straight, crow’s beak shouldered, legs splayed, he waved at the crowds, a smile on his face. It was the same for Slin and Balyndar. They relished being treated as heroes. And rightly so.
Only his wife’s stony expression troubled the warrior’s mood. But only slightly.
The double doors leading to the conference chamber were opened for them by the ubariu sentries.
Ireheart’s jaw dropped: Dwarves were seated at the table! Dozens of dwarves, all of them clan leaders, and the flags that hung on the walls behind them denoted which delegates had come.
“By Vraccas!” he exclaimed, his heart racing with joy. “Scholar, do you see that?” He wanted to grab him by the shoulder and shake him wildly in his excitement, but he thought better of it.
“Stay near me, all of you,” Tungdil told his friends quietly. “I want them to remember the faces of their greatest heroes forever.” He walked in, slow and dignified.
A clanking and clattering sounded out as the dwarves knelt before their high king, holding up their swords in the age-old oath of allegiance. All the tribes were represented; even the thirdlings and freelings had come to pledge fealty and to follow Tungdil’s command.
Nobody spoke. It was a weighty moment, the greatest event in the history of the children of the Smith.
The impressive sight brought tears to Ireheart’s eyes. His Scholar had achieved what no high king before him had ever accomplished. He was not ashamed of the salty drops on his cheeks and he could see the same emotion on the faces of many gathered there.
“Long live High King Tungdil Goldhand!” he shouted, raising his crow’s beak before falling on one knee. Affected by the spectacle, Slin and Balyndar followed suit. Goda was the last to bow the knee to the one-eyed dwarf.
“You have responded to my call.” Tungdil raised his deep voice, covering the audience with the essence of his royal authority. “For this I thank you. The definitive battle for Girdlegard will be fought in the Black Abyss, because the war that started two hundred and fifty cycles ago has not yet ended.” He let his gaze wander over the assembled dwarves. “This is why I have returned: To help my people.”
“That’s a lie,” hissed Goda, but only Ireheart heard her.
He flashed his eyes in warning and she bit her lip.
“You can see that I have changed, but in my heart I am still a child of the Smith. Without my friends,” and he gestured toward the dwarves behind him, “my first task would never have succeeded. It is clearer than ever now that we will meet the second challenge triumphantly.” He indicated to the assembly that all should rise. “I bear the title of high king because the fourthlings and fifthlings elected me. Many may see it as a fault that I was not chosen by all the tribes.” Tungdil raised his arms. “I ask you, each and every one of you, every clan leader and every king, for this very reason, once more: Do you wish me to lead you?”
The thunder of agreement made the room rock, and Ireheart felt a jolt to his spine. Such unity!
Tungdil bowed to the dwarves. “I swear that I shall serve my folk and that you shall never regret your choice.” Then he turned his brown eye to the thirdlings. “Step forward, king of the thirdlings, and announce what we have agreed.”
To Ireheart’s surprise Rognor Mortalblow stepped back and gave way to a familiar figure. “Hargorin Deathbringer!” he exclaimed. He had not expected that.
The sturdy dwarf placed both hands on his belt. “My name is feared as leader of the Black Squadron, but my deeds served but one goaclass="underline" To allow my tribe to survive in the hope that an opportunity like today would arrive when we could sit with our brothers and our sisters round one table. And fight evil,” he declared. “Rognor was my chancellor, carrying out my commands. He would have given his life for me if the alfar had attacked, aiming to kill the king of the thirdlings.” He pointed to Balodil. “And it was by my orders that courageous warriors transformed themselves into Zhadar, to learn the secrets of the alfar and deploy their own tricks against them.”
The first decent thirdling. Apart from the Scholar.
Ireheart listened agog, like all the others present in the chamber.
“We have made preparations. And we are sick,” Hargorin went on, “we are sick of fighting our own brothers and sisters. Even though it would have been easy to eradicate the remaining tribes because we are superior in number, and because, thanks to the Invisibles, we knew the secrets of all of the strongholds, we would not have attacked you. It was enough to know we could have defeated you had we so wished.” He took a deep breath. “I, Hargorin Deathbringer of the clan of Death Bringers, now declare the blood-feud ended between us and the other dwarves of Girdlegard, whether they belong to a tribe or designate themselves as free! No dwarf need go in fear of his or her life when entering the Black Mountains or on meeting one of us.” He tapped his weapon. “This shall never taste dwarf blood. I swear by Vraccas! We are a united folk, all children of the Smith!”
Ireheart stood thunderstruck. He looked at Tungdil, then at Goda and finally at Hargorin. “Peace?” he mumbled. “The thirdlings are making peace with us?”
Hargorin smiled at him. “Peace,” he affirmed.
In that moment anyone could have heard the fall of a sparrow’s tail feather.
The kings and clan leaders stared at Hargorin and his delegation. They had heard the words but as yet did not believe them.
Ireheart knew how they felt. He, too, was speechless. The prospect of hundreds, no, thousands more cycles of warfare and hatred had been removed with those few sentences, and no endless negotiations had been necessary! All made possible by a single dwarf: Tungdil Goldhand.
That is his great achievement, he thought. There will be no greater high king to come after him. There will be statues showing him as the bringer of unification. Desperate returnee has become unassailable warrior and high king of all the tribes. Ireheart’s breathing sped up with the excitement and, when nobody in the chamber voiced a response, he cried out: “Smash us with the sacred hammer of Vraccas-is no one going to cheer?”
A hurricane of voices broke out, assailing the ears and outdoing the thunder of jubilation they had heard on entering the fortress. Dwarves on all sides shouted out in joy and relief, waving weapons in the air and running up to the thirdlings. Not to attack them but to shake hands.
Tungdil remained where he was, Bloodthirster in one hand, the other on his hip, smiling as he surveyed the scene.