Flagur gave a sketchy bow and left.
Ireheart, Goda, Sirka and Tungdil took their leave and hurried out to inform the rest of the dwarves about the death of their high king. Tungdil felt a dull ache inside. He sensed this was not a good omen.
When they reached the camp the banners were already at half-mast. The news had spread quickly. And the anger of the warrior dwarves, men and women alike, gathering around to hear him confirm the rumor, was palpable. The commanders of the freelings stood somewhat apart.
Tungdil stepped onto an upended bucket brandishing Keenfire in the air. “High King Gandogar is dead…”
A furious dwarf pushed forward. “Murdered!” he screamed. “By the pointy-ears.” There were shouts from all sides as indignation at the cowardly murder spread.
“Listen to me!” called Tungdil, as loud as he was able, to be heard over the noise of the throng. “The elves are not guilty of the king’s death. Our foes are the atar. You must not make the mistake of treating them and the elves alike.” The angry hubbub dwindled away and Tungdil was able to report what had happened in the tent. Then he pointed Keenfire at the caves of Toboribor. “The atar want to take over our homeland. Let us now fulfill the task Vraccas gave us. Stop them! For the sake of Girdlegard!”
No one spoke.
A dwarf in the first row went down on one knee, removed his helmet and leaned on the upright shaft of his war hammer. His lips moved silently. Warriors to the left and right followed his example. In a wave of clinking armor and clattering helmets the dwarves all knelt on the flattened grass. Only the dwarves of the free towns remained standing.
“What are they doing?” asked Sirka, surveying the sea of bowed bare heads. “Are they calling you their new leader? Or are they praying?”
“No, they are not praying,” answered Tungdil, all too conscious of what was happening. He could read their lips. “It is an oath of vengeance.”
XIV
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
The Blacksaddle,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Limasar stood contemplating the blackened remains of the table mountain from whence the eoil and her army of light had issued. They had set the dark mountain on fire to show their power to the peoples of Girdlegard; even non-combustible elements had been transformed into sheets of bright flame.
The elf touched the rock reverently and scratched off some of the sooty deposit. Underneath, the stone was a startling white: the eoil had driven out the evil and replaced it with purity. Only such pristine stone was fitted for the new holy shrines and palaces.
“A wonderful place to rest,” said Itemara next to him. She was a member of the warrior division he was taking to Toboribor on the orders of their princess. “It’s amazing that no one else has discovered the beauty to be found here.”
“But how could they?” Limasar, the leader of the troop, looked at the elf-woman. “They think the place is cursed. Whereas, of course, nowhere is purer. It has been purified, cleansed right down to the depths of the earth.” He raised his arms. “Can you imagine the magnificent palace we shall build for the eoil and Rejalin?”
“Yes, Limasar,” said Itemara, visibly moved. “It is the center of a pure…” She broke off, swayed and looked down at the crossbow bolt protruding from her breast bone.
Limasar quickly ducked behind a rock. “To arms!” he shouted to his warrior elves a hundred paces away camped under an overhang. Even creatures such as they, who preferred sunshine to night, needed to take shelter from the sun’s scorching noontime rays.
Itemara wrenched the arrow out of her chest as if it had been a mere splinter, but blood spurted out onto the stone, trickling down. “Where was that…” And only then did the elf-woman collapse.
Limasar, scanning against the light, could hardly see his troops. He had led them from the Red Range of mountains in the southeast of Girdlegard. Finally he was able to make them out as they jumped to their feet.
At the same moment about fifty small creatures with huge two-handed quarrying hammers appeared on top of the rock they were sheltering under.
“Dwarves?” Limasar pressed himself against the rock. “Look out, overhead!”
The warning came too late. Above, where the rock was vulnerable, dwarves had been hammering away to split the stone. Limasar could hear the grinding sound as it gave way.
The enormous overhang crashed down in one piece, burying the company of warriors. Weighing many tons, the gigantic boulder crushed elves and horses like grapes in a wine press.
Just seventy of his four hundred soldiers survived the attack. They crawled out of the debris. Others were pinned down and screaming for help.
The air was filled with the sound of arrows as crossbow bolts showered down on them, bringing swift death to thirty more.
With fearful roars the dwarves leaped down off the cliff and launched themselves without mercy on the wounded and helpless elves, taking no notice of pleas for help or gestures of surrender. Hammers that had made the rock face collapse were now smashing slender bones.
More and more dwarves appeared: the new arrivals, carrying axes, cudgels and shields. The remnants of Limasar’s unit were hopelessly outnumbered.
“Accursed dwarves!” Limasar yelled. “May Sitalia strike them all!”
He heard footsteps and a shadow flew past. Suddenly a red-headed brawny dwarf with a bright beard was menacing him. “What coward is crawling around here in the dirt?” the dwarf laughed grimly. “Stand up, pointy-ears. I am Ginsgar Unforce of the clan of the Nail Smiths from Borengar’s firstlings.” He was wielding a two-headed hatchet and holding a shield. “You shall follow those you have led to ruin.”
Limasar stood up and drew his sword. “How do you dare to attack us?”
“Your trickery has been exposed. All of you, you and your princess; you killed our high king-despicable treachery!” He made a great sweeping blow, but the elf dodged the ax. “We know your plans. Eoil, huh! We destroyed her and we’ll do the same to you.”
Limasar stabbed at the dwarf, catching his shield. “ You? The dwarves think they will destroy us?” He laughed at him. “Not today, not tomorrow and not when the world comes to an end.”
Ginsgar hacked at his opponent’s right flank and, when the elf parried the blow, hit him on the head with the edge of his shield. The blow met bone and sent Limasar lurching into a block of stone. “You are wrong, as you see.” He rammed the flat side of the shield onto the fist in which the elf held his sword. Putting his weight behind it he broke the fingers of the elf’s hand. The weapon fell to the ground.
Limasar yelled and drew a dagger with his other hand. “You cannot prevail against purity.”
Ginsgar struck the elf with his hatchet before he could be harmed by the dagger. The ax blade laid open the armor, and the chest beneath it. The elf collapsed.
“Bring me a hammer!” called Ginsgar, setting his foot against the elf’s shoulder and wrenching his ax blade out of the elf’s flesh. “Don’t die yet, pointy-ears!” he laughed. “My hammer wants to smash your arrogant face. It’s been waiting so long.”
Five dwarves ran up with the weapon Ginsgar wanted. On their clothing could be seen the blood of countless elves. The head of the hammer was red and sticky and had fine hairs clinging to it.
“Tell me your name,” Ginsgar demanded of Limasar, who shook his head weakly in protest. “No? then keep it to yourself and tell your false gods when you meet them.” He lifted the hammer and dropped it vertically onto the skull of the wounded elf. The bone stood no chance against the strength of the blow. The skull burst open and blood streamed out through nostrils, ears and mouth before the head was crushed beyond recognition.
“That’s for Gandogar!” he cried and spat on the mutilated corpse. He shouldered his hammer and went over to where the overhang had collapsed.