“It would be as well. We’ve got enough corpses to convince the Dragon, but the cadaver of Prases would be most effective.” Her eyes fixed on the boat nearing the shore. “There’s the orc rowing over, the one he sent to find the night-mare.”
Coira had understood. “I will see to it he doesn’t land, in case he saw who fell out of the window.” She embraced her mother and held her tight for a long time. “How long I’ve waited for this!”
“It seemed like an eternity.” Wey had closed her eyes and placed her arms around her daughter.
Rodario’s heart was beating wildly. “What shall we do now?” he asked excitedly. “What’s the plan? You do have a plan?”
“In part,” replied Coira, freeing herself from her mother’s arms. “We let the Dragon think that the alfar killed his men. Then we’ll see what happens. If we’re lucky he’ll wage war on them. While they wear each other down we can go about our other projects.” She came up to him and embraced him. “You are welcome to contribute your ideas to our rebellion.”
Rodario grew hot. In his imagination she was naked as he had seen her at the bottom of the shaft. “Gladly, princess,” he breathed, lifting his arms awkwardly. Was he permitted to embrace her or not?
Before he could decide, Coira let go. “You are a sweetie, Rodario the Seventh!”
“I do have a suggestion!” he hastened to say. “How would it be if we kept people thinking the unknown poet is still alive? I could take on his role-well, the rhyming, anyway.”
Coira nodded, although she was not over-enthusiastic. “Do you think you’d be able to? Nothing against your poetry…”
“I am a quick learner. You’ll see.” He made a deep bow. “I promise you, you’ll be surprised just how quick.”
There was a glimpse, Coira felt, an image of the other Rodario, the one who was manly and who could aim very straight when throwing a dagger. Suddenly she was keen to see his verses.
Wey was still standing at the window watching the lake. “See to the greenskin, Coira,” she commanded. “He’s nearly at the shore.” She turned to them. “I shall speak with our new poet in the meantime. There seems to be a hidden talent here.”
Rodario bowed. “At your service, Majesty!”
The Outer Lands,
Seventy-six Miles Southwest of the Black Abyss,
Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle
The flattened head of the crow’s beak hammer struck Tungdil’s armored chest and the runes flared up once more on the tionium platings, as if issuing a challenge to the sun and stars.
The handle of the weapon flashed-and shot off diagonally to hit the ceiling. Then the crow’s beak fell to the floor.
“Ha!” Boindil was standing close to the feet of the recumbent dwarf. “This time I didn’t get clobbered with a magic shock.” He grinned and smoothed down his beard, realizing that the hairs were standing on end from the magic charge. “If I let go of the weapon at the last moment and jump out of the way, the energy can’t get to me. Ho, Scholar, what do you say to that: Am I clever or am I clever?” He picked up the crow’s beak and studied the metal head. “Hmm. It looks all right.” Ireheart extended a hand to Tungdil. “How’s it going? Can you move now?”
Tungdil blinked. “All I can see is bright lights in front of my eyes,” he snapped, lifting his right arm. The friends clasped hands and soon the dwarf was on his feet next to Ireheart. “But it did help. Colossal shock and potentially self-destructive, but it did the trick.”
Boindil laughed. “Not really self-destructive.” He looked at the huge hole the magic had torn in the ceiling, a hole the size of a cow. “Anyway, now I know what to do if you fall over again. You’ll just have to make sure I’m always around. If you’re not careful they might think you’re a statue next time it happens and you’ll end up on top of a pedestal.”
Tungdil lifted his arms and legs, turned his head and twisted from side to side. The armor had regained its former flexibility and was behaving as if nothing untoward had occurred. “I’ll try to remember that when I’m fighting our enemies,” he replied, going over to the table to have something to eat at last. Ireheart did not seem to have left him much.
“I couldn’t have known my treatment for broken armor would work so quickly,” Ireheart apologized in response to the enquiringly raised eyebrow. “What exactly did you feel when I hit you?”
“I don’t know. It should never have happened.”
Boindil laughed and caught the sausage to pull it down. “Hang on, I’ll rub it clean in the snow. Should taste fine.” He tapped it against Tungdil’s armor. “When it’s thawed out, I mean.” “I’ll be all right with what I’ve got here,” said Tungdil, stopping his friend leaving the hut. “And the thirdling? Where did he get to?”
“The White Death rode down to the valley and caught him. Vraccas was on our side.” Ireheart thought hard, his brow furrowing. “I’ve never seen a skirt-wearer like that one before. In armor with those runes. I could swear they were alfish symbols. Very strange.”
“What’s strange about it? You said the thirdlings and the black-eyes had a pact.” Tungdil took the last ladlefuls from the pot, tipped them onto a plate and sat down to eat.
“There’s a big difference between making a pact and having weird runes and peculiar armor. What I’ve heard about the thirdlings didn’t mention they were actually friends with the black-eyes, or that they’d give each other armory lessons.” Ireheart could not help glancing at his friend’s tionium covering.
Tungdil went on chewing and drank a mouthful of tea. “So you want to know what kind of being it was I robbed and killed,” he said, interpreting Ireheart’s questioning gaze.
“Exactly, Scholar. He must have been a swine of a fellow, I know. And he must have used bad magic to make the armor, just like the alfar do. That’s obvious from what just happened.” Ireheart looked at Tungdil. “What else should I know? For an emergency?”
Tungdil scraped up the last bit of food and licked the spoon clean. “That was very good,” he said. “You didn’t leave me much, but it was very good.”
Boindil frowned. “Is this a miserable attempt to avoid answering?” He hunted in his pocket and pulled out his substitute pipe. “Good thing I had a second one with me. That idiot trampled on my favorite pipe. I’d smoked it in just right.” He filled it with tobacco and lit it with a spill from the fire.
Tungdil paused, staring at the steam rising from his mug of tea. As it rose it mixed with the blue smoke Ireheart was puffing out.
“I met him one cycle after I arrived on the other side. At least I think it was a cycle. The light is different down there and you lose the sense of the length of an orbit. I was defending myself against a horde of orcs and was in trouble because of the injuries I’d received in the Black Abyss. I killed the first twenty orcs quickly, but more and more monsters kept emerging from the passageways, attracted by the screams of the dying. I had my back to the wall and was fighting for my life; I’d taken two crossbow bolts to the body and my arm was practically severed, so I sent my final prayer to Vraccas. Then he appeared.” Tungdil’s voice failed, as if he needed a drink of water. “He wore different armor from this set, but it was similar. It was the first suit he had forged.” Tungdil leaned over to Boindil. “I swear he had greater strength than any dwarf. Stronger than you, Boindil. Take you and me and your brother together and you come close. He wields two weapons the weight of the crow’s beak at the same time, and he’s so fast on his feet you can’t see his blows coming. He carries a third weapon in a harness on his back. He…”
“Has he got a name?” Ireheart was listening with rapt attention.
Tungdil’s eye flickered and Boindil was not sure if it was fear or anger at the interruption. “He has many names. One of them I can pronounce: Vraccas.” “What?” Ireheart sat bolt upright. “That’s blasphemy! How does he dare to call himself that?”