“Nothing has driven me here. I no longer lust after battle and the fire in my blood has lessened. It was the Great King himself who asked me to go with you. Somebody’s got to look after you, after all.” He touched the handle of his crow’s beak. “And somebody must see that my brother’s memory is honored. The hammer spur wants to fight, even if I don’t. It is burning to sink itself into a snout-face’s belly.”
A thirdling was running up and down in front of the ranks of warriors; the black tattoos on his face told of his origins and of the skilled profession he followed. A few cycles earlier this thirdling and these very dwarves he now commanded had faced each other as opponents on the field of battle. That boundless hatred was no longer around. Not everywhere.
Boindil followed his gaze. “I’m still amazed,” he admitted. “Apart from a few exceptions,” he laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder, “I really can’t stand thirdlings. I can’t forget that some of them vowed to destroy us, to annihilate us. I am afraid of their deviousness.”
“Yes. But there’s only a handful of them now, not a whole tribe any more like in Lorimbas’s day. The misguided ones will die out,” pronounced Tungdil confidently. “Are these my men?” He walked over to the group, his friend following him.
The thirdling noticed them approaching. “Greetings, Tungdil Goldhand and Boindil Doubleblade,” he said, bowing. “I am Manon Hardfoot of the Death Ax clan. Here are the two dozen warriors I have trained for the excursion into the Outer Lands.” His brown eyes displayed conviction. “They are afraid of nothing.”
Boindil gave a friendly laugh, “Believe me, Manon, there is always something that can make a warrior afraid. Which is not saying that it cannot be overcome.”
Manon grinned in challenge. “Then my troops will show you that there are dwarves without fear.”
“We won’t find anything except rubble and stones,” replied Tungdil calmly. “When can we set off?”
“As soon as you want,” Manon responded.
“Tomorrow, then, at daybreak,” Tungdil decided, walking over to the tower. He climbed up to the top and went out onto the ramparts above the gate. Boindil remained at his side.
Together they contemplated the Outer Lands bathed in the clear light of late afternoon. In front of the gate was the abandoned plain from whence in past times monsters and other fiendish creatures had regularly launched their onslaughts on these walls.
“It’s hard to believe they’ve given up their attacks,” said Tungdil quietly. He relished the feel of the cold wind clearing his head from the last effects of the beer. The air was icy sharp and pure: no trace of monsters here. “Only these ancient mountains can still remember how the armies of Tion’s accursed followers advanced on us in relentless assaults.”
“It will have been the Star of Judgment,” supposed his friend. “It didn’t merely eradicate evil in Girdlegard, but beyond the mountain boundaries as well.” He gave a sigh. “Imagine it, Scholar. Peace.” The tone of his voice revealed that he did not dare to believe it wholeheartedly.
“I remember that day.” The magic wave of light that had rolled over Girdlegard, summoned by the eoil, had burned all the evil to ashes and captured its energy in the form of a diamond. Anyone possessing this artifact and able to use its magic powers would be the most powerful being ever in existence. For safety’s sake the dwarves had made meticulously crafted copies and sent them out to the various dwarf kingdoms; Tungdil held such a stone himself, not knowing if it were real or false. One of the stones had got lost. He asked Boindil about it.
“It remains a mystery. The stone destined for Queen Isika of Ran Ribastur disappeared completely. To this very day no one has found the messenger or the escort sent to protect the diamond. The stone itself never turned up.” He looked up at the cloud-hung summit of the Dragon’s Tongue; no artist could have rendered the beauty of the mountain slopes as they reflected the setting sun. Shadows were lengthening and the breeze grew icier with each breath. “All investigations were fruitless.”
“That was five whole cycles ago,” reflected Tungdil, shivering. “Have attempts been made on any of the other stones?”
“Not as far as I know,” said Boindil. He shook his head. The long plait of black hair swayed like a rope down his back. “Girdlegard has neither magus nor maga now, so there is none that could ever use the power.”
“Except for the handful of initiates serving the traitor Nod’onn,” Tungdil corrected him.
“They have no powers. The eoil dried up the magic source, they say. Where would the famuli draw their strength? And they did not even complete their training. What can they achieve, Scholar?”
Tungdil did not trouble to reply. When growing up, he had been through the school of the magus Lot-Ionan; he was familiar with the power of magic. But since nothing untoward had occurred for such a long time, he was prepared to share his friend’s optimism. There could be too much dwelling on dark thoughts. It wasn’t good for you. “Let’s go down. Spring is a long time coming here at the Northern Pass.” He took a last look at the majestic ridges where the wind was blowing the snow from the rocks in long white banners. “I could do with a warm beer with mead.” They went down the steps.
“How is Balyndis?” enquired Boindil as they left the tower to go to the tunnels. “Girdlegard’s best smith?”
“She’s in mourning,” said Tungdil bitterly. And his response was so adamant that the warrior did not dare to repeat his question. Not yet. In silence they walked over side by side to find their quarters for the night.
“Psst! Tungdil Goldhand!” came a whisper through the crack of an open door. “Have you got a minute?”
Boindil wrinkled his brow. “What’s all the secrecy for?” He pushed open the door, one hand on the crow’s beak hammer he carried. “Show yourself, if your intentions are honest!” A woman yelped in fright; she had not seen the dwarf-twin approach. “You can come in, Scholar. She is harmless,” he said over his shoulder.
Tungdil stepped past him and entered the room where a female dwarf was standing. She was wearing simple clothing and must have seen all of three hundred cycles in her time. “What do you want?”
She bent her gray head in greeting. “Forgive me for addressing you, but… Is it true what I’ve heard? That you are going to the Outer Lands?”
“It is no secret.”
“I am Saphira Ironbite.” She hesitated and cast her eyes down. “May I request a favor?”
“You want him to bring you a souvenir?” mocked the dwarf-twin.
“Bring me my son, if you find him,” she blurted out, grasping Tungdil’s hand in desperation. “I beg you, look out for him! His name is Gremdulin Ironbite of the Iron Biters clan. He is of your height and wears a helmet with a golden moon on the front…”
“I thought no scouts had gone out?” Tungdil’s curiosity was roused. He was skeptical now. He would not have been surprised if Glaimbar were sending him into a trap, perhaps from delayed revenge for his having carried Balyndis off so far away from all the dwarven customs.
“He was not a scout, he was a guard at the gate,” she responded quietly, fighting with her emotions. “His friends told me he heard a suspicious noise and went off to investigate.”
“At the gate itself?” Boindil broke in.
“No, the noise had come from above. A loose stone rolling or something.” There were tears in her eyes. “That’s the last they saw of him.”
Tungdil was touched, but not unduly affected. He did not even know the dwarf they were talking of. “When was this?”
“Half a sun cycle ago,” she sobbed. “Tion’s monsters have him, I am sure. Tungdil Goldhand, if any dwarf can free him, it is you.” She kissed his hand. “I beg you, for the sake of Vraccas. Save him if you can.” She wept, sinking down on her knees at his feet.
Boindil regretted his harsh words, so swiftly spoken. He had wrongly assumed she was approaching his friend with some trivial request. “We shall keep our eyes peeled, good Saphira. Forgive me.”