The lake waters streamed in, creating an undertow that dragged the fishing boats toward the island. The hole filled up, bubbling and raging, and then a column of water shot up as high as the palace itself before sinking again.
“Hold tight,” was all that Tungdil said, as a powerful wave hurtled their way. He grabbed hold of the mast and hunched down, bracing himself.
“I hate Elria,” growled Ireheart, finding a rope to cling to. “She always finds a way to ruin things for me when I go on a journey.”
The rump of the boat rose up, surrounded by spray, and a huge breaker covered the dwarves with ice-cold lake water. Then they pitched down again. Their vessel shook and shuddered, but did not overturn.
Slin looked back over his shoulder. Not all of their party had fared so well. Two of the boats had foundered. “May Vraccas preserve them from Elria’s wrath,” he prayed briefly, then set his gaze ahead.
Steam still rose where the steel walls had been. A loud rumbling filled the air. The pillar on which the island rested was starting to crumble at one side. The basalt stone was breaking apart and the island’s equilibrium was lost.
As the island toppled slowly to the left-hand side, the supporting column of rock snapped completely and Lakepride hit the water. A second massive wave rolled toward the boats. The fishermen were beside themselves with terror. Their little ship surged upwards once more on the crest of the wave.
Tungdil stood at the mast, a picture of calm, as he scanned the tormented surface of the lake.
“Well, Scholar?” called Ireheart. He steadied himself on the planks and leaned forward to counteract the movement of the boat. “Do you think there’s any hope of survivors?”
This second wave was much stronger than the first, Ireheart noted from the angle the boat took and the length of time it seemed suspended. I’ll never, ever go on a lake again. Never ever! He was dreading the pitching crash when the wave finally sent them plunging down again.
They were briefly horizontal before the bows pitched forward and they hurtled down the back of the wave. They were not far from where the shaft, until very recently, had been, and where the island had stood.
“Dwarf overboard!” came a shout behind him. Balyndar stood at the low railing and pointed to starboard. “Slin’s been hit by the breaker and dragged under!”
Tungdil did not even turn round. “We have to look for the maga,” he answered. “We’ve enough dwarves. There’s only one maga.”
Ireheart stared at his friend, baffled by this cold-hearted attitude. He’s reverting to the Tungdil who came back to us from the Outer Lands with a reputation for horrific deeds of cruelty. He saw some buoys on deck that the fishermen used to mark the location of their nets. They were made of pigs’ bladders filled with air, cork tree branches or glass balls encased in string.
Ireheart grabbed four of them and ran over to Balyndar. “Where is he?”
Together they stared out at the waves until the fifthling located the missing dwarf. “There! Cast it now!”
Ireheart hurled the floats out, putting all his strength behind the throw so that they carried all the way to him.
A spluttering, paddling Slin grabbed hold of the rope tied to one of the floats and pulled it over, but he continued to sink due to the weight of his armor. He was fighting for his life, they could see. It was only when he managed to pull the other three floats over that he was able to keep his head above water. It was enough to enable him to breathe.
Ireheart was relieved and went back to join Tungdil in the bows. “We’ve saved him. One of the other boats will pick him up.”
“Good.” He stretched up to see more distinctly something he had caught sight of through the spray.
“You might just as well have said ‘I couldn’t care less,’ Scholar,” Ireheart said reproachfully. “That’s what your tone of voice was saying.”
Tungdil turned round suddenly and, for a blink of an eye, looked as if he were going to hit Boindil. His face was full of fury. “If I need a crossbowman, I’ll find a new one. If I need a maga, what do I do then?” he countered the rebuke. “It’s good that Slin is safe. No more than that. Without Coira our chances of prevailing against Lot-Ionan are diminished. It’ll make no difference not having Slin with us. He won’t have the kind of weapon that can kill a magus outright.” He looked at the fisherman and directed, “Hard to port.”
Ireheart did not know what to say. This was a real blow.
The boat slipped round and headed for some of the floating rubble.
It was still rocking about and the lake had not yet settled. The fisherman reefed the sails to decrease their speed; he did not want to hole the boat. There were constant bumps and clanks as driftwood and flotsam collided with the hull.
Tungdil had a boathook in his hand, held like a harpoon. “Look out for survivors. If you see a woman tell me at once. The others can pick up the men.”
Ireheart lifted a net and stared out at the water. “A woman!” he called, pointing to a blonde girl in leather armor, motionless, face up, floating next to an empty barrel.
Tungdil used the hook to pull her nearer and the Zhadar heaved her up over the side. “Is that the maga?” he asked the fisherman.
“No, sir, the queen has black hair,” was the reply.
Ireheart laid the girl down by the mast and quickly covered her with a blanket before Tungdil could think of chucking her overboard again; her lips were blue and quivering. “That’s good,” he said reassuringly. “You’re alive.” She looked pretty tall and strong for a human. A warrior-girl, then.
One of the Zhadar whistled and pointed to starboard.
They changed course to head for what he had seen. Tungdil fished the next woman out of the lake. She was wearing a black robe and had long dark hair. She, too, was unconscious. And she wasn’t breathing!
“That’s her,” whispered the frightened fisherman. “That’s the queen! Elria, be merciful!”
“Elria? I’ll show Elria!” Ireheart turned her over and trod on her back with his boots till the water gushed out of her mouth and she started to cough. “There! Hurrah! I am a born healer!” He helped the maga to turn over and wrapped her in a new blanket. “You owe your life to Vraccas,” he told her kindly.
“It felt more like the sole of a boot,” she groaned.
Tungdil came over and looked down at her. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Coira Weytana, queen of Weyurn.”
She coughed again and gave him a grateful nod.
“This is High King Tungdil Goldhand,” said Ireheart, introducing his friend first, then himself and then the others on board. “We arrived just in time.”
There was a splash next to the boat and a man’s hand was seen clamped to the railing; then the second hand appeared and a torso pulled itself up over the side. Brown hair was slapped tight to his head and his aristocratic face was beardless. “I assume I am allowed on board?” He looked at the assembled crowd in astonishment. “Well I never. A sailing barge full of dwarves!”
“By all the spirits of the dead!” Ireheart’s eyebrows were raised in amazement, because he thought he was seeing the ghost of a man who had long since died. The clean-shaven ghost of a man. “Rodario?”
XVIII
Girdlegard,
Former Queendom of Weyurn,
Lakeside,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
Nobody in the quiet hamlet of Lakeside could have dreamed that they might one day have the privilege of offering hospitality not only to their queen, but also to those illustrious dwarf-heroes of cycles long past, Tungdil Goldhand and Boindil Doubleblade, the celebrated Mallenia of Ido, and a descendant of the fabled Rodario the Incredible. Not even the best storyteller in the village could have imagined such a company in their midst.