Tungdil nodded to the messenger. “You have heard the important part. Bring this good news to the fourthlings and to your…” He had been about to say king but remembered that the king of the fourthlings had been Gandogar. His corpse was on its way to the Brown Range to find its last resting place with the other fourthling rulers of the past. His soul was already with Vraccas at the eternal smithy and would be watching events from there.
“The throne is not empty,” said Feldolin. “Gandogar’s sister, Bylanta Slimfinger of the Silver Beards, administered all the duties of state while he traveled in his capacity as high king. As soon as peace is restored Gandogar’s death can be duly mourned and Bylanta’s regency celebrated.”
“Bring her my homage and the blessings of Vraccas,” said Tungdil. He raised his hand in salutation. “Now I must really go.”
He and Sirka left the tent and crossed the human army base to get to the dwarf encampment. There, pale patches on the grass showed where some had already struck camp and left. Presumably they had gone to join Ginsgar Unforce.
“You will accompany me to the Black Abyss?” asked Sirka as they entered their tent.
“Yes, it’s my duty to ensure the diamond arrives safely where it can do most good. And that is not here.” He lay down carefully on the simple bed. His head hurt and the empty eye socket was throbbing so badly he could not think. He took her hand. “Sirka, I am the most unreliable dwarf in Girdlegard. I feel great affection for you, but…” He fell silent and stroked her bald head; her brown skin shimmered in the lamplight.
“I am not asking for more than that, Tungdil,” she said.
“I cannot swear I will be faithful till the end of my days.” He sighed. “I swore to Balyndis that I would always be true because I never thought my feelings would change, but it turned out to be a lie.” He struck himself on the chest. “This accursed restlessness within me! I can’t settle. I have the urge to keep searching for new horizons; I might do the same to you. I will never promise marriage to a woman again.”
“Your restlessness is what has helped your homeland to survive. Without beings such as you nothing would move forward. Everyone would be frightened to attempt anything new; none would break new ground and abandon the familiar. It is good the way it is.” She looked at him. “Is it true you dwarves live forever?”
“What? Oh no, we just live to a very great age, Sirka. I am seventy cycles now and that makes me a young dwarf still. The oldest of us can live more than six hundred cycles, they say.” He saw the shock in her face. “What’s the matter?”
“That’s a big difference,” she said quietly. “Our people never get past the age of sixty cycles. Most pass away at fifty.”
“Fifty?” This was a surprise. “How old are you, Sirka?”
“I am twenty-one. My descendants are seven, five and three…”
“Your descendants.” He spoke solemnly. “And where are they now?”
“I told you we love and part when it is over. We never force anyone to stay together if feelings have cooled and died. We are a passionate people.” She gave him a kiss. “My children live in Letefora. They are brought up by the community and I visit them regularly.”
“Do they know you?”
“They call me their mother but it does not mean very much. They are children to all; everyone looks after everyone’s children as if they were their own.” She stroked his chest. “Rest. You have shown such fortitude today.”
She stirred a powder into a small dish of water and handed it to him. “Drink this. It will ease your pain.”
He did as he was bid and soon the throbbing in the eye socket grew fainter and allowed him to sleep. For the first time for ages he was not plagued by nightmares. He saw the Outer Lands in his mind’s eye, full of beauty and new creatures. Sirka was his guide in this new land, one that fascinated and enticed him. Even if there was much he would not understand until he had seen it with his own eye.
T he herd of befuns, the mounts that the ubariu had spoken of, were huge. They were like oversized orcs on four legs instead of two, with stumpy little tails. The body was muscular and as broad as that of a horse while the flat head had a snout with numerous protruding teeth. On their hands were three fingers apiece, covered in a hard layer of tough skin, with which they were able to pick up large objects.
To Tungdil the shape of the saddle seemed odd; it had a back support for the rider to rest against, relatively tall and curved like a small baldachin. He asked Sirka about the construction as someone pressed the reins into his hands. Stirrups were nowhere to be seen.
“The animals rear up in battle and help the rider by using their claws. The saddles are designed to stop us being thrown off.” She shook the back rest. “We’ve had them lengthened. You slide into the correct position.”
Rodario was getting to know his befun. “Stinks a bit, doesn’t it?” He sniffed at its light gray skin. “Stinks quite a lot, in fact.”
“It’s from their glands. They secrete a substance to toughen the skin. They’re safe against arrows and even a sword cut isn’t a problem.” Sirka showed him a damp shiny patch on the head. “A liquid also comes out there from time to time. Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”
“Is it acid?”
“No, it’s a sex gland, so if you don’t want to be jumped on by another befun for a bit of how’s your father I suggest you leave it well alone.”
“Aha!” Rodario slid right back in the saddle. “I enjoy making love but preferably not with this enchanting species. I probably wouldn’t survive its attentions.”
“Indeed. You wouldn’t.” Sirka vaulted up into the saddle and signaled to the troops behind her. She called out in a language her companions couldn’t understand; it sounded elegant and was reminiscent of elvish.
Flagur rode at her side, if you could call it riding; the befuns’ gait was nothing like that of a horse-more a series of rhythmical jumps, quite hard on the back and stomach if you were in the saddle. But they were swift and agile. Once equipped with an armored ubariu on its back, a befun would not be something Tungdil would want to face in battle. “Let’s move on!” Flagur announced. “If the distance they told us is correct we’ll be there in five orbits.
“That’s very fast,” said Tungdil. “That would be more than two hundred miles a day!”
Flagur grinned. “I keep forgetting things are different in Girdlegard. The befuns will run from sunup to sundown and they don’t need any more rest than that, or to stop and feed. They’re ideal for conditions back home.” He clicked his tongue and made a strange noise that the befun responded to. They set off at a trot.
“It’s amazing! I can hardly wait to escort the diamond back to your homeland,” Tungdil said to Sirka.
“And I can’t wait to show you around.” She touched his hand gently and followed Flagur.
The little troop set off for Weyurn-a journey that would take them through the dry northlands of Sangpur and forest margins of Ran Ribastur: about a thousand miles all told. On the first orbit they crossed Idoslane. A more direct route would have led them through the burning desert heart of Sangpur, but that was not a risk Tungdil wanted to take. Sandstorms and drought can be as deadly as any alfar.
Of them all it was Lot-Ionan who was finding it most difficult to adapt to the mounts. “I was a good rider once,” he said, “and could always keep my seat. But these befuns are quite a challenge!” Like the others he was constantly being jolted forwards and backwards and from side to side. To be on the safe side he had tucked the end of his beard under one of the straps securing the luggage, so that it wouldn’t blow in his face.
Tungdil was certainly feeling all the bones in his body. Often he would bite his tongue or his own cheek. No, if you weren’t used to it, these animals made for uncomfortable riding. Sirka and Flagur and the rest of the troop were managing to look good in the saddle, thus earning respect in the eyes of the humans they passed on the road.