Is that all there’s going to be? Ireheart kept expecting another wave of Tion’s monsters to surge up out of the Black Abyss, maybe another kordrion, a dragon or two, anything that would stand at the side of these pitiful two hundred creatures for the inevitable battle. He was getting ever more concerned that no extra troops were appearing on the other side. “When’s it going to start?” he whispered. “Scholar, how long do we wait?”
Tungdil took two paces forward. “Here stands a famulus to challenge his master!” he called. “Let us see who prevails. After that, the armies can meet in battle if they still care to.”
Thundering and clanking, the contingent of humans appeared and the ubariu army crested the wall of rock. They, too, took up their formations. Thus the pincer movement was complete and the last two hundred and one enemies were surrounded.
Ireheart found the tension unbearable. “How can he remain so calm?” he asked.
“Goldhand or the other one?” responded Balyndar.
“The other one.” Ireheart scanned the gathered forces of humans, ubariu, undergroundlings and dwarves. “Even I would be a bit nervous faced with this lot.”
“Not if you had a pact with your supposed enemy,” Balyndar remarked, glancing at Goda. “It could be that we are the victims of the most scurrilous, duplicitous plot in the history of Girdlegard.”
“Nonsense,” grunted Ireheart. “The Scholar would never do a thing like that.” His fingers tightened on the shaft of his ax. “May Vraccas be my witness: If the two of them don’t start fighting soon, I will.”
Tungdil advanced toward the vraccasium-clad dwarf, his left arm stretched out in a gesture of challenge.
His opponent gave a harsh growl and stomped forward, lifting both hammers and twirling them playfully.
The armies watched closely what their leaders were doing and waited, tense and alert, for the duel to begin: Famulus versus master.
Ireheart glanced over at Lot-Ionan. The magus twitched his fingers almost imperceptibly and his lips moved in a silent incantation. What is he up to?
Before the two opponents had reached each other, the dwarf in vraccasium uttered a further sound and pointed one of his hammers at Tungdil.
The fact that nothing happened seemed to disturb both of them, as Ireheart could see from their body posture. The Scholar was the first to recover composure: He made a swift leap forward, swinging Bloodthirster at his opponent’s head.
It took a while for Ireheart to work out what had occurred. The opposing dwarf had tried to freeze the tionium armor and paralyze Tungdil, but it had not happened! Ireheart spotted a satisfied expression on the face of their own magus. Had he counteracted the spell? Had the course of action been agreed in advance with the Scholar… or was it the overture to an act of treachery?
The master warded off Tungdil’s strike, halting it with his crossed hammers, pushing back the attacker, who spun on his heel and forced the blade up against the evil dwarf’s throat.
Again the hammers were crossed, forming scissors, then their master turned them and hooked the hammer heads together so that Tungdil was prevented from extracting Bloodthirster. The dwarf-magus ducked down, wrenching back Tungdil’s lethal blade.
The maneuver was successful and the united armies let out a horrified cry as Bloodthirster flew through the air and got stuck in a bog ten paces away from Tungdil. Hollow laughter rang out from under the master’s helmet and he pushed his visor up. The repulsive sight of the disfigured face made Ireheart retch.
A whirring sound-and suddenly a bolt flew from out of the midst of the assembled dwarves, hitting the dwarf-master in the face. Slin had obviously been waiting for precisely the right moment.
Ireheart could see clearly that the projectile had penetrated the nose plate. Blood oozed out, the injured dwarf swayed and took two steps to the side, to be caught by one of his own troops hurrying to his aid. He uttered a loud groan and made useless gestures with the hammers. Tungdil raced over to retrieve Bloodthirster while Lot-Ionan raised his arms to cast a spell.
“By Vraccas! Now it’s going to start,” said Ireheart.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Urgon,
Passview, in the Northeast,
Thirty-one miles from the Entrance to the Realm of the Fourthlings,
In the Brown Mountains,
Early Summer, 6492nd Solar Cycle
Rodario was just about to scold Mallenia for having got up, but then he fell silent and sat down on the edge of the bed to watch her.
She was standing at the window in her nightgown looking out over the hills of Urgon and over to Borwol, where the troll realm had once been. The light from the window made the fabric of her night attire transparent, showing an appealing silhouette; in spite of her muscular build she still had feminine curves. In his arms, Mallenia always felt quite different from Coira. Rodario was aware of his outstanding good fortune.
“I’m amazed,” said the Ido girl, half turning to him.
“Are you? What about?”
“How you ever managed to survive. You’ve no idea how to move silently, Rodario.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” he said with a smile. “I didn’t want to startle you.” He tried to put on a stern face. “You should be in bed. You’re supposed to be resting. The journey tired you.”
“That’s what journeys do. I don’t want to miss the outcome of the battle. In all of Girdlegard there’s talk of nothing else.” She leaned out again, watching the people in the streets outside the inn. “Some of the men are going off to volunteer for the army.”
Rodario got up and came to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her body and holding her tight. “The humans are drunk on their victories and their newfound freedom! It’s great! But it’ll be even better if it’s all over before they get there.” He followed her gaze; a company of young men in armor were setting off under a standard bearing the coat of arms of their town. “If they have to fight monsters they will lose.”
Mallenia turned in his arms. “Is that why we are making such slow progress? Are you trying to keep me safe?” Her eyes challenged his. “Tell me the truth, actor.”
“We’re going slowly because the coach cannot travel any faster,” he assured her. “I want to find out how Coira is and I don’t want to leave her alone any longer.”
Mallenia nodded. “Yes, that’s what I thought. So she needs your protection more than I do.”
“When she left with Tungdil and the rest it was the other way around. You were too weak even to lift a knife,” he objected.
“That’s all changed now,” she said, grinning. She gave him a playful shove that took him off balance.
“So I see,” he said, laughing. He kissed her hand. “So let’s get going.” He collected their things while she changed out of her nightgown in front of him with no false modesty, putting on her leather armor and picking up her swords. Her movements were still slow and she had some difficulty fastening all the buckles but she managed in the end.
Their bags were ready and Rodario called the innkeeper’s boy to help with carrying the luggage.
Together they loaded the coach Rodario had hired, stowing provisions on board for themselves and the coachman, and oats for the horses.
Rodario was about to help Mallenia up into the carriage when the innkeeper emerged. He held his errand boy roughly by the scruff of the neck. “One moment!” he said sharply. “This ne’er-do-well has a confession to make.”
“Must I really?” the boy whimpered.
A slap in the face convinced him. “You deserve to have your hand cut off. That’s what will happen if the fine lady and gentleman insist on the proper penalty,” he yelled at the boy. “You bring shame to my establishment! And you will pay for it with pain.”
Rodario had been feeling in his pockets to see if anything was missing. Neither he nor Mallenia seemed to have been robbed. “Tell me what you found on him, my good man.”