She glared at him. “So your doubts can’t be removed?”
Looking at Boindil, Tungdil said, “You have convinced my friend, Goda. Give me time. Maybe I can come to the same conclusion.”
“Not everyone is like Myr.” Her words shot out.
Tungdil was shocked. “No, they are not all like her,” he agreed softly, standing up and leaving the tent.
Outside, in the light of the rising sun, he marched sharply off, up and down the hillocks until he found the highest. Here he sat down on the dew-fresh grass, out of breath now.
He surveyed the scene spread out before him: smoke rose from a campfire or two. The army was starting to wake up, like the rest of Girdlegard.
Perhaps Balyndis, back in the Gray Range, was also waking. Was she looking at Glaimbar and thinking of him? Was she cursing his memory? Did she still love him but understand it could lead nowhere? He hoped that she understood.
Tungdil snatched up a few blades of grass. What was going to happen to Sirka and him? Would he only disappoint her, too?
Turning these thoughts over in his mind he remained on the hilltop until the sun climbed above the horizon. A fanfare signaled a meeting. He would arrive late, but no matter. They would not start without him.
“Vraccas, guide me,” he begged, getting to his feet brushing the dew from his leather breeches and relishing the feel of the cool dawn air on his face.
He could not have said why he did so, but he turned toward the north. There he saw, ten miles away, the wide snake heading toward them over the hills of Idoslane. An army of considerable size was marching to Toboribor.
The ubariu: The thought shot through him. Without the fourthlings having noticed, Sundalon had accompanied the army through the mountains to support his claim for the diamond. Tungdil tried to guess how many soldiers were involved. When Sirka had mentioned the number eighty thousand she had not been lying.
Now they had to hurry.
He started back down immediately. The meeting was going to be really interesting now. He wondered how Rejalin would react to the news of the approaching ubariu. Secretly Tungdil felt relieved to see the army. The elves would not dare to set out against such superior numbers.
Gandogar would be shaken to hear that the dwarves were not in sole charge of Girdlegard’s safety. And had not been for several thousand cycles.
“Yes, this is going to be lively,” he said to himself as he got near to the camp.
Sentries from the outposts were dashing in to inform Mallen of the approach of what they took to be an orc army that had appeared out of nowhere.
Tungdil went swiftly in, cutting a messenger off in mid-flow. “Your Highness. The approaching force is not an enemy,” he explained. “These people have kept Girdlegard safe in the past just as my own have done. I shall send Sirka out to them. She will return to us with a delegation of the ubariu.”
Prince Mallen, surrounded by tumult, tried to think. “I have stopped being surprised by anything,” he said flatly. “Let us meet in the conference marquee.”
Tugdil bowed and went off to give Sirka her instructions.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Idoslane,
Four Miles from the Caves of Toboribor,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
T he besieging armies were in complete uproar.
Four hundred ubariu standards had appeared on the hills behind the encircling siege. Each of the banners measured five paces in length and one pace in breadth; the bright fabrics with their unfamiliar symbols flapped and swirled in the wind. The poles they were suspended from bent with the weight of the material and each standard needed four bearers. The noise of the flags whipping in the breeze was audible from afar.
This sea of flags was enough to impress the humans, the dwarves and even the elves. For Tungdil there was, thanks to Sirka, the additional knowledge that each standard represented one thousand warriors encamped over the hills out of sight.
Depicted in the arms Tungdil noted stylized weapons, patterns like flowers, and images of animals; still others reminded him of elaborate elf designs. No two were the same. He cast a final admiring glance their way and then entered the tent where all the monarchs had foregathered. Arguments were already underway and it was no surprise to see Rejalin deep in conversation with Isika and Ortger.
Prince Mallen rose to his feet and rapped on the table for silence. “As we have all seen, something very unexpected has occurred,” he said in carrying tones, suppressing the last of Isika’s whispered comments. “Tungdil Goldhand, tell us what this means.”
The dwarf got up. “The ubariu have come to secure the return of their property. Their envoy Sundalon explained at the previous session what vital importance the diamond has for them and for the whole of Girdlegard.”
“It’s a trick,” exclaimed Rejalin, radiant as the morning. “These are creatures of Tion, disguised as lambs but with the nature of beasts.”
“Did we not agree we should not judge purely on appearances, princess?” Tungdil’s retort was still respectful in tone. “Must I remind you of your own relatives? If we followed your line of argument we would have to raise a hand against every elf in Girdlegard on the grounds that we cannot be sure there is no evil lurking in them.” He had chosen these harsh words with care, to enrage and provoke her before Esdalan appeared. The more disturbed her behavior in front of the sovereigns of Girdlegard, the better.
The elf-woman was not going to do him the favor of a wild retort, but her eyes flashed in his direction. She sensed the dwarf was up to something.
Before Tungdil could continue, a commotion at the entrance heralded seven of the unfamiliar ubariu. Sirka followed in their wake.
The ubariu differed in appearance from their close relatives, the orcs: their stature was broader and more muscular. However, their faces were more finely drawn, if hardly more attractive; sharpened tusks protruded from between their lips and their skin was the darkest of greens.
They wore skillfully fashioned iron armor quite unlike the crude harnesses the orcs would sport. Underneath was a layer of padded dark fabric and their feet were protected with boots. Their weapons were heavy curved swords, broad at the tip to enable a more powerful blow. They exuded a smell like lavender.
Ireheart cursed under his breath and took firm hold of his crow’s beak. There was a sharp intake of breath from those present; Queen Wey was heard to groan.
“Our greetings to all the rulers of Girdlegard.” The ubariu spokesman bowed. He surveyed the company with a pink-eyed gaze. The voice recalled that of an orc but his speech, though accented, was clearly enunciated. Like Sirka, of course, he was speaking a foreign language; Tungdil was astonished that the ubariu knew the common tongue the rest of them used. “My name is Flagur and I am here to help the ubariu,” and he pointed to Sirka, “win back their stolen diamond.”
“But I thought the orcs were the ubariu?” said Isika, thoroughly confused.
“We call each other ubariu,” Sirka explained. “We are both creatures of the god Ubar.”
“A nice family indeed,” said Ortger, a flush of high emotion visible through the beard growth on his cheeks.
“We,” said Flagur civilly but assertively, “are not the creatures that you call orcs and we refer to as phottor. We may resemble them in looks but we fight them as fiercely as you in Girdlegard once had to do.”
“Your army’s approach can be read as a threat, Flagur,” Isika said to him. She had gone very pale and her black hair emphasized this. “We have heard from the lookouts that you bring at least eighty thousand soldiers.”