“Don’t you worry. I’ll look after you. We’ll get your tin can open.” Boindil checked on the befun. “But not out here. The befun can pull you to the hut and the pony can tug you in through the door. I’ll get you warmed up and then I’ll have a think about what to do.”
He was true to his word. After a bit of pulling and shoving Tungdil lay in his unwished-for, but secure, prison by the fire that Ireheart had lit. The door he had broken down earlier was now resting upright against the opening, jammed in place by a table to keep out the freshening wind. Boindil prepared a simple but delicious meal from the provisions they had with them.
“Shall I feed you?” he offered, grinning. There was gloating pleasure in his tone, despite the worry that perhaps the armor would never release his friend: Maybe it would stay rigid forever. It had lost its somber and threatening nature, its aura of fear and awe. “Just a heap of expensive junk that doesn’t work anymore,” he muttered.
“No, I don’t want you to feed me. Who knows where you’d drop the food,” growled his bad-tempered companion, staring up at the dusty sausage still hanging from the rafters. Ireheart ate with a healthy appetite. “Has this ever happened before, Scholar?” he asked, his mouth full.
“No. But I’ve never fought a thirdling before that speaks like an alf,” he replied crossly.
Ireheart chewed and put his mind to the problem at hand. If the armor was forced to go solid like that because the black-eye word was used, I wonder who created it in the first place. Who wore it before Tungdil?
Before he had left them all and gone to the abyss, his friend would never in a million cycles have thought of using armor that was obviously of evil origin.
His brown eyes focused on the blade. Had he misjudged the hero? After all, Tungdil had once made himself a new weapon out of one belonging to an alf-Bloodthirster! Boindil was pleased with the idea: Perhaps this very blade held the key to the change in Tungdil. He had become a dark and dangerous dwarf. Although, of course, present circumstances rendered him less than effective.
“Hope you don’t want to make dwarf-water?”
“Not yet,” said Tungdil impatiently.
“I could tip you over so that it runs out of your helmet?”
“You would, too.”
“Of course.” Ireheart laughed.
“By all that’s infamous! If only I knew the counter-incantation.”
Now Boindil’s jaw dropped open, showing the mouthful he had been chewing. “That thirdling put a spell on you? A dwarf-hater that can do magic?” He picked up his cup of tea. “Vraccas help us! It’s getting more and more complicated.”
“No, it wasn’t magic. It was… a command,” Tungdil said, attempting to explain the effect of the thirdling’s words.
“Right. Like with a pony; I say whoa and it stands still.” Ireheart pointed at the armor with his spoon. “Why would it do that?”
“So the wearer can be sure nobody else uses the armor,” sighed the one-eyed dwarf. “It would take too long to go into it.”
“Oh, I’ve got masses of time.” He licked the spoon clean. “So’ve you, Scholar.”
“I don’t feel like explaining, dammit!”
“So, if I’ve understood correctly, it could happen again. For example, when you’re having to deal with an orc. And that,” Ireheart waved the spoon, “is something that’s more than likely. Certainly in Girdlegard.” He contemplated the runes. “You really should take it off as soon as it’s working again. One of these orbits. Soon.” He winked at Tungdil. “If I have to I’ll drag you back all the way to Evildam. Back in my forge I’ve got all the tools I need to crack you open. I’ve got hammers this size!” He spread his arms wide.
“It wouldn’t help.” Tungdil watched the sausage swinging in the breeze. “It’s enough to drive you mad!” he shouted, exasperated and trying with all his might to sit up. But the armor could not be moved. The joints did not even squeak.
“Do you think I could use you as a sledge?”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Taking the rise out of me?” said Tungdil accusingly. “Pity would be more appropriate than this teasing.”
“I’m not being malicious. I’m just saying there are drawbacks to walking around in someone else’s armor if it’s as moody as a woman. I hope you see it that way, too.” He took another mouthful and stood up. “I’ve got an idea,” he mumbled, taking the crow’s beak in one hand. Legs wide apart, he stood over Tungdil, about at the level of his friend’s knees. “Perhaps it’s the same as with a stubborn woman. If you want something from them you have to win them round.” He shoved the last piece of bread in his mouth.
Tungdil stared at him in bewilderment. “What are you up to?”
“Winning it round. Properly.” He took the measure of the blow he would land on the breastplate, using the flattened side of his war hammer. “It might hurt, Scholar. But it’s in a good cause.”
Tungdil’s head bobbed up and down in the helmet; he was trying to break the armor’s strength. “No, Ireheart! Wait! I… I’ll remember, how…”
Ireheart raised his weapon. “Close your eyes. There’s bound to be a flash,” he warned cheerfully, and smashed the crow’s beak down.
Girdlegard,
Former Queendom of Weyurn,
Lakepride,
Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle
Rodario cursed under his breath and tried to melt into the darkness of the shaft.
He was afraid the guards up on the walkway would shoot at him. How should they know that he was just a harmless, curious actor, not an adventurer or a bounty hunter after the money offered for Coira’s head?
He made himself as small as possible and waited to see what they would do. Calling out excuses would not be any use; any proclamations of innocence on his part would sound like unintelligible nonsense at this distance.
The shouts became louder, and a trumpet sounded a warning fanfare.
Rodario started to perspire. In other circumstances he would have felt honored should people make such a fuss on his account, but at present he could not enjoy the attention.
The bluish glow at the bottom of the lake was diminishing and Coira drifted back down, twisting round to land on the planks where her clothes were.
Rodario was granted another full view, and was able to admire the princess in all her beauty, even though she was now covering herself. Utterly besotted, he gave a contented sigh.
Coira fastened her belt, hurried to the gondola and moved the lever. The trip up to the surface began.
The actor ascended at the same time. Clinging to the cable, he was spared the exhausting business of having to pull himself up hand over hand, but the situation was not without danger: The wire rope attached to the winch at the top was coiling as the cage rose.
Rodario saw the square of light drawing closer and closer. The ropes were disappearing into it. Jets of water drenched his back as he was carried up. It was icy cold and he had to clench his teeth so as not to cry out. When he was pulled through the opening, he jumped aside and let go.
He landed safely on the floor and two stumbling extra steps absorbed the momentum. To his relief, there was no one waiting for him. The alarms and commotion had not been on his account.
Hardly had he regained his footing than the cage arrived, clanking and clattering. Coira pushed aside the door and saw him. “What are you doing here?” she asked, fastening the top button of her blouse.
“I was waiting for you,” he replied easily. If you only knew what I have been watching all this time… Rodario looked at her gloves. They were identical and did not have any runes or other decoration. Had she merely not had time to take off the second glove?
She noticed that a puddle was forming at his feet. “Don’t tell me you’re sweating in this weather.”
“What do you mean…?” He laughed in embarrassment. “Oh, that… I was soaked through by the ferry, coming over. All that spray…” Rodario turned toward her to show her where his shirt was wet.