The screams and the scent of elf blood were still not enough to cool the raging fury within. “So you are their princess!” With one stride he was close, ducking under the elf woman’s sword lunge and cutting through the tendons at the back of her knees with a swift right-handed swipe. She fell to the ground with a shriek of pain and he stood on her sword hand. “And Liutasil?”
She stared at him, mouthing something.
“Oh no, you’ll put no eoil curse on me.” His left arm shot forward and he pierced her wrist, causing her to open her fingers so that the diamond rolled away with a clunk to land among the pile of old bones. “You, lady, have caused me more pain than I have ever felt; I shall distribute this pain among all the elves of Girdlegard.” Withdrawing his sword, he rummaged around in the pile of bones until he had located the stone, lifting it up with a triumphant gesture. “It is mine now. As soon as I have learned how to put its powers fully to use I shall bring to your people the annihilation they so narrowly escaped before. Dson Balsur may have fallen but you will never be safe from the alfar.”
In the princess’s unwavering turquoise gaze, however, there was no trace of doubt: the blind faith of elves. “The eoil will protect us. They will return. The symbols in the holy shrines promise…”
“Return? If they do I shall be here to destroy them. But you won’t be around to see it happen, princess.” The unslayable had caught the sounds of approaching footsteps and gruff voices coming from the passage. A second wave of undergroundlings burst in. His wounds smarted badly and his limbs felt weak now. Retreat. They are too many . Pocketing the diamond and sheathing one of his swords, he took the handle of the second in both hands. “And there will be no more elves for the eoil to find. Not in Girdlegard.”
The blow he dealt Rejalin cut right through her torso, the blade slicing slantwise from shoulder to hip and crunching into the orc skeletons beneath her. He regretted that her end was swift. He would have preferred to torture her until the end of time, using her blood as a constantly renewable source of paint.
Beloved sister. He knelt by Nagsar Inaste’s head and put out his hand gingerly to touch it… then stopped. He could not look at her features for a final time. The heartache would kill him.
Instead he stroked her long black hair and cut off a hank as a reminder. Then, clutching the lock in his blood-smeared hands, he bounded off into the tunnels as fast as his injuries would permit.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Idoslane,
The Caves of Toboribor,
Late Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
D eath was standing right in front of him, in the terrible image of the alfar that had escaped back on the island.
Towering proudly over the recumbent figure, death clasped a slender spear in one gloved fist while the other arm hung loose. The slim torso was partly naked and partly protected by armor.
The black depths of the eye sockets were trained on the dwarf. “You shall not die, Tungdil Goldhand,” spoke death in friendly tones, bending over him. The long black hair framed a narrow face that was at one and the same time cruel and fascinating. Death’s right hand touched Tungdil’s chest. “I still need you.”
The alfar runes on armor and weapon gave off a greenish glow and a sudden warmth suffused the dwarf’s body. As the icy cold was displaced, his grateful heartbeat grew strong and his ears filled with the sound of rushing blood.
“Nagsor Inaste has escaped with the diamond you were seeking,” death explained in a clear voice. “He will return to the island to reach the tunnel Furgas devised. It was nearly completed before you killed the magister. If Nagsor Inaste can finish the work he can get through to the Outer Lands. And the stone will be lost forever.” Death stood up. “Nagsor Inaste will return with a huge army, greater than anything Girdlegard has ever seen. Neither you nor the orcs will be able to halt its progress.”
Tungdil opened his mouth but could not speak.
Death turned away. “Stop him, Tungdil Goldhand. Stop him and his appalling offspring.” Death stepped into the shadows and disappeared.
Tungdil tried to lift his head but a wave of pain enveloped him; he lost consciousness and fell back on the ground…
O nce upon a time death came for a dwarf and wanted to carry him off, but the dwarf stood firm on his rock, glowered and refused to go. So death passed him by.”
Tungdil knew this saying from southern Sangpur and he recognized the voice. He attempted to open his eyes but only the right one responded. The left consisted entirely of pain and refused to obey.
“Do you see? Did you see that?” a different voice rejoiced. “Didn’t I tell you Vraccas would leave us at least one hero to save Girdlegard. Fantastic work, Lot-Ionan. Here’s to your skill!”
Tungdil registered a bright light and blinked; he could see Rodario, Sirka and Lot-Ionan. “Where am I?” he croaked, raising his hand to touch his left eye.
The magus stopped him. “No, Tungdil, don’t.”
“An arrow,” said Rodario, showing the item in question with blood still sticking to it. “We had to pull it out. Lot-Ionan turned up just in time to save your life. May the gods be thanked that they allowed you to live.”
“But I could not save the sight of that eye,” Lot-Ionan added regretfully.
Memory returned and Tungdil struggled up with the help of his friend. He had a bandage over one eye and half of his face.
“Be careful now,” Sirka warned him. “You’ve only just come back from a meeting with your maker.”
Around him in the cavern around a hundred dwarves were seeing to their wounded. “How are Ireheart and Goda?” he asked, leaning on Sirka’s arm.
“We’ve taken them to the nearest camp,” Rodario told him.
“That’s not what I asked! How are they?”
“They are alive. Goda’s injuries are not life-threatening but our hot-blooded friend is in a bad way. Your healers say it will be a few orbits before they know whether or not he’ll make it.” Rodario had lost his jocularity. “I’d never have thought the elves would do this.”
As Tungdil clenched his fists in anger he noticed the dried blood on his hands and clothing. It could not all be his own? “Not the elves,” he corrected. “It’s the atar. Esdalan has nothing to do with all this.” He caught sight of the remains of the alfar woman lying like garbage at the side of the altar, her head a good two paces off, with the long black hair obscuring her features.
Sirka followed his gaze. “That’s elf handiwork; they did that presumably before they made the acquaintance of the second unslayable.” She pointed to where the elf corpses lay soaking in their own blood.
Amongst the dead, all dispatched by the same murderous sword, lay the body of Rejalin. The diamond had been of no help to her.
“We’ve blocked off all the exits, but…”
Tungdil waved a hand dismissively. “Waste of time. He is on his way to Weyurn with his remaining offspring.”
“The source? What does he need the magic source for if he’s got the diamond?” Rodario wondered. “On the other hand, if he runs away from us he won’t have the right spell to release its power.”
Tungdil looked around for Keenfire: his specially forged ax was missing. The others had no idea what had happened to it. He assumed the unslayable had taken it, because death had left empty-handed. Now he had two reasons for hunting down the unslayable.
“I know why Fur… the thirdlings started to tunnel into the Outer Lands,” he told them, swallowing the name of the magister because he still did not believe Bandilor’s version. It could not be Furgas behind the whole ghastly plan. “They want to make a way through so that Tion’s hordes can overrun Girdlegard. The tunnel must be nearly finished.”
The others stared at him. This was the first they had heard of it. They looked hurt and surprised that he had kept it to himself.
“Bandilor told me during the fight,” he explained. “I didn’t think the tunnel was as important as the diamond.”