Slin uttered a curse and lifted his weapon, aiming and firing in one smooth movement.
The bolt struck Kiras from behind, finding her heart, but at the same time the ax sliced through the tionium armor, through the ribs and into Tungdil’s heart. They fell dying into each other’s arms, to sink into the swamp.
The trumpeting stopped abruptly and a mass cry of horror resounded on all sides.
“No!” Ireheart ran up. He dragged the undergroundling’s body off Tungdil, levered Keenfire out of the wound and surveyed the horrific injury, which was pouring blood. A conventional healer would be unable to do anything at all.
“Coira,” he yelled, beside himself. “Come here and save him, maga!”
She stepped forward slowly and shook her head sorrowfully. With a voice thick with tears she said, “I can’t. I have nothing left. I used it all to produce the wind you asked for…”
Ireheart lifted his friend’s head and washed away the mud from his face using water from his drinking pouch. “This must not be allowed to happen, ye gods,” he shouted. “You cannot let the hero of Girdlegard and the Outer Lands die!”
“It… was… not… Tungdil,” breathed Kiras, contorting her body and moaning. “The gems on the ax… I had to do it…” Her eyes dimmed.
“IT WAS HIM!” cried Ireheart, staring at Keenfire. The diamonds were still glowing but Boindil knew that the cause was him-a result of the elf curse-not Tungdil. “It was him!” he echoed quietly, weeping at the death of his friend.
Goda opened her eyes.
She had heard everything and had only pretended to be in a swoon so that her husband would not be able to demand that she save the creature’s life.
When she sat up she noticed something sparkling in the cuff of her sleeve.
She reached and pulled out the last of the lost diamond splinters. It had been with her all along!
Goda saw Ireheart hunched over the corpse of the dead dwarf. It would have been so easy for her to keep him alive…
Epilogue
The Outer Lands,
The Black Abyss,
Early Summer, 6492nd Solar Cycle
Hargorin Deathbringer looked at the sixth of the vraccasium caskets-the one that had the thirdling runes embossed on the side.
Inside were some of Tungdil Goldhand’s ashes from the extremely moving cremation ceremony. In a departure from normal dwarf-tradition, the tribes and freeling dwarves had each been given a commemorative portion of the ashes of this, the mightiest and most worthy dwarf high king who had ever lived, so that they could conserve and honor his memory in their own land. This was the agreement the kings and queens had reached.
Ireheart pushed the box over the table to him, then handed the others to Xamtor, to Balyndis, who had now recovered from her fever, to Frandibar, and to Gordislan the Younger from the freeling city. He did not touch the last box, which had the sign of the secondlings on it.
They had all gathered in the assembly hall of the fortress round a small table to discuss what had happened and what the immediate future might hold for the children of the Smith. All those present were distraught at the recent death of their hero and the atmosphere was distinctly gloomy.
Hargorin looked at the others, then slid the little casket back to Ireheart. “They have chosen you as their king. It is yours. Take it with you to the Blue Mountains and put up a worthy monument to your friend.”
Ireheart looked at the box. Part of him was still refusing to accept the idea that the Scholar was now dead. Another part of him embraced the notion that it had not been Tungdil but his doppelganger who had died. And the third and strongest part of him knew who it was they had committed to the fire while the trumpets had sounded, the dwarf-choirs had sung and prayers to Vraccas had been spoken. Balyndis told them all that it had indeed been Tungdil. Ireheart’s inner being had told him the same thing.
I should have listened to my own feelings right from the beginning. He had allowed himself to be influenced by those like Goda and Kiras who had been led astray. There were still those among the tribes who were secretly waiting for Tungdil’s return. I know better.
He stretched his hand out slowly and placed his fingers on the reddish golden metal. “I shall do that, Hargorin.” He took a long breath. “I shall leave soon, together with those of my tribe who had fled to the freelings. We will put things to rights and will clear the last of the black-eyes’ corpses from the tunnels.”
Balyndis gave him an encouraging smile. “You will be more than capable, Boindil. I know from our previous acquaintance that you always love a challenge.”
Ireheart gave a faint grin in response. “Let’s hope Vraccas is listening, Queen Balyndis.”
“We still have to settle the matter of appointing our next high king,” said Frandibar thoughtfully.
“Let’s leave that question open. For the next twenty cycles,” suggested Xamtor. “I don’t think it would be fitting to choose a replacement for Tungdil Goldhand in a rush. Let the throne remain empty for now. We shall see who proves worthy of the high office of supreme leader of all the dwarf-tribes.”
“If it were up to me,” Hargorin said, indicating Boindil, “it would be him.”
Ireheart raised his hand, rejecting the honor. “I thank you for your nomination but I should not want to accept the title. Xamtor’s suggestion is the best. Let us meet once a cycle and report what occurs in each of our dwarf realms. In twenty cycles’ time we will summon the clan leaders and let them decide.” His speech was greeted with applause.
Frandibar looked at the model of the Black Abyss, which still showed the rocks and fortress. “Evildam will be left in the care of the ubariu and undergroundlings, Boindil.”
“Yes. There is no reason to hold on to the fortress or repair it. They can let the fortress decay or use the materials to build something else. I heard talk about erecting a statue to Tungdil’s memory.” He consulted the lined faces round him. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
Nobody had any new issues to bring to the table and so the assembly broke up, with the delegates taking leave of each other before making their way back to their own realms. Frandibar would have the shortest journey, Xamtor the longest.
Ireheart strolled off through Evildam, the casket under his arm. He was deep in thought. Cracks had appeared on all the walls. It was time for the rest of the garrison to leave; other parts of the building were threatening to cave in, despite the engineering supports hurriedly put in place.
The last Zhadar suddenly stood in front of him with a demonic grin, as if he had been spat out by the darkness. “Are you off home?”
Ireheart contemplated the dark armor that the dwarf, who called himself Balodil, had never taken off. “Yes, what about you? You are a thirdling…”
He denied it vehemently. “No, I’m a Zhadar, created by the alfar. And I want to hunt them down until I’ve smoked the last of them out of their hidey holes.”
“Aiphaton was going to take that on. If you’re going to do it, at least take a party of the former Black Squadron along under your command.”
“Aiphaton would never be able to find them all. I know their secrets but he doesn’t. They tricked their own emperor; he seems keen to forget that. I’ll go alone. The thirdlings are good fighters but they’re not the right ones to hunt down the alfar.” Balodil took his flask off his belt. “This is for you.”
Ireheart stared at the gift and reached out for it. “But… I thought you need it yourself?” He looked around carefully to see if he could be observed.
The Zhadar chuckled, then barked like a dog, though he soon seemed quite normal again. “I can make my own stuff.” He leaned forward. “From alfar blood,” he said in a voice as deep as a well. “I squash them like you squeeze fruit to get the juice out.” He ran his tongue over his lips and his eyes glittered.