Boindil examined the stock. “Actually,” he said, “I’ve never liked crossbows and archery. They take all the fun out of fighting. But today I gave thanks to Vraccas that he let us have you by our side.” He proffered his hand. “What is your name?”
“Goimslin Fastdraw of the clan of the Sapphire Finders, fourthling. But they call me Slin,” he said, fastening his crossbow to the saddle so that he was free to shake hands. “I know that all children of the Smith prefer the blade to the bolt. But if, like me, you’re not so quick with the sword, then this is the only option.” He pointed up to the rock formation. “When you go up to check on the alfar, have a look: I should have got both of them through the heart. If not, I owe you two gold coins.”
“That exact?”
Slin nodded. “I always aim for the heart. Whether it’s women or my other victims.” He winked and Ireheart had to laugh.
“I’ll have a good look.” He hurried off to join the others, who were already over by the rocks.
It was quite obvious how excellent Slin’s eye was. Both alfar lay in the snow with skewered hearts. The reinforced bolts had penetrated their armor and Boindil found himself wondering if Tungdil’s special armor would withstand such an impact.
“They’ve tethered their night-mares on the other side,” Tungdil said in greeting.
Ireheart fingered the crow’s beak. “They will follow their masters into death.” He looked at the alfar archers’ bodies and ordered them to be searched. Balyndar and his dwarves got to work.
Under the whitish gray mantles was the typical alfar lamellar armor; their swords lay unused in the scabbards, the two alfar having been given no opportunity to draw them against the dwarves. The dwarf-warriors were not interested in the food supplies the alfar had with them, but there was a fine dagger that one had carried in his belt.
Balyndar noticed it first. “By Vraccas!” he cried angrily, pulling the knife out of its sheath. “That is the work of a dwarf-smith!” He turned the blade, held it to the sunlight, and ran his finger along it. “No question: This dagger was fashioned by a dwarf.” He bent down to study the armor. “Unbelievable!” he exclaimed. “The thirdlings have been co operating more closely with the alfar than I had ever feared.”
Ireheart glanced over at Tungdil and thought of the dwarf-hater they had encountered in the Outer Lands. “The thirdlings made this armor?”
Balyndar looked up. “I’m absolutely sure of it.”
“The thirdlings can expect no mercy from us when we’ve defeated the alfar,” growled Boindil. “Betraying the other tribes like that is unforgivable. They have given away the secrets of the forge.”
“And yet you have a thirdling for your high king.” Tungdil appeared very calm. He pushed the alfar body away from him with his boot. “Did the dwarf-armor help him any? As long as we have the better crossbow bolts the thirdlings can carry on making armor for them.”
Balyndar turned the knife in his hands and ran his fingers over it. “There’s something wrong.” He started to unclothe the alfar bodies.
Tungdil called him back. “What are you doing?”
“I want to take the armor. To investigate it further. I think…”
“No time for that.” The one-eyed dwarf beckoned the band to move off. “Go with Ireheart and help him deal with the night-mares. Then we leave. The patrol will soon reach another garrison belonging to the count and they’ll be reporting what’s happened here.” Balyndar was about to respond but Tungdil raised his hand. “I’m ordering you.” He stared at the fifthling, who shook his head but got up and made off, morning star in hand.
It had not escaped Boindil’s notice that, unseen by Tungdil, Balyndar had pocketed the knife. “Well, I’ll be off,” he said cheerily and followed Balyndar. But when he heard grinding sounds behind him he turned round. Tungdil was striking the bodies again and again, thrusting his weapon through their chests.
“What are you doing, Scholar?” he called in surprise.
“Making sure,” replied Tungdil, wiping Bloodthirster on the snow and then getting back on his befun. “Hurry up. I want to get to the Gray Mountains.” He let his mount move on so that he could take up the lead.
“He was destroying the runes,” Balyndar said from behind. “Did you see them, too, Doubleblade?”
“Rune?” He came up to the fourthling, whose morning star was covered in blood. The night-mares were no longer alive. “I don’t understand.”
Balyndar drew a shape on the snow with the blood dripping from his weapon. “That’s what I mean. If you look at the left side of your friend’s armor, Doubleblade, you’ll find that same symbol.” He left Ireheart standing there and went back to his pony.
Girdlegard,
Dwarf Realm of the Fifthlings,
Gray Mountains,
Late Winter, 6491st/6492nd Solar Cycles
Access into the realm of the fifthlings had changed dramatically. A new stone building rose twenty paces high in front of the gate itself. There were many small apertures in the tower wall; the actual entrance was a relatively narrow door, just wide enough for a befun to pass through.
Ireheart guessed what the apertures were for. If you tip molten pitch and hot coals down you could see off an army.
The gate opened and a messenger and watchtower guards were waiting to greet them in the queen’s name.
There was no rejoicing when they rode in, no fanfares sounded to announce their arrival in the Gray Mountains. The walls had not been adorned to celebrate their coming and there were no flags flying from the battlements. No dwarves had come to welcome them.
Ireheart was angry, but said nothing.
He knew that Balyndar had dispatched a warrior to announce their approach, but the reception was cool in the extreme. Dislike Tungdil’s conduct and demeanor as one might, he was still the dwarves’ high king. Respect for his high office should have made it automatic to show deference to the troops under his command, who would no doubt soon be expected to carry out heroic deeds.
“We’re entering the realm of the fifthlings as if we are some third-rate undesirable merchants,” said Slin, nudging his pony up next to Boindil’s. His remark was loud enough for Balyndar and the messenger to hear. “Has the queen forgotten who it is she’ll be receiving?”
“She has not,” replied her son at the front of the train. “Unlike the fourthlings, our dwarves have been faced with an overwhelmingly tough task and are having to fight the kordrion as well as this deadly fever. Both adversaries have weakened us. We have better things to do than to stand in rows,” he said disdainfully, “cheering and waving at heroes from the past. You will be given food and drink and, if you want singing and dancing, let me know. But it might be hard to make jolly hosts out of a tribe that’s in mourning.”
“No need to be so thin-skinned, Balyndar.” Slin bared his teeth. “I need hardly remind you that this welcome is not in accordance with the dignity of the high king you helped to elect.”
Ireheart sent him a look that said to hold his tongue. “Let it go,” he bade him quietly. “We don’t need quarrels here. You’ll be going into battle together, remember.”
Slin grinned. “But I shall, of course, be standing behind him,” he said, placing a hand on the stock of his crossbow. “The prerogative of archers.”
They rode through the passages in silence. The corridors were different now. Ireheart did not recognize anything, and they would have been hopelessly lost without their guide.
They were led to a hall, where they left their ponies and the befun and then continued on foot.
Their fifthling contingent peeled off from the troop one by one to return to their own clans, leaving the fourthlings, Tungdil and Ireheart alone with Balyndar.
“Feels a bit like a trap,” whispered Slin to his companions. He had his crossbow hanging on his back, and wore a nifty ax at his belt. “But, of course, we’re among friends.”