A second messenger joined them and said something quietly to Balyndar.
“My mother is looking forward to meeting the brave dwarves under the command of the High King Tungdil Goldhand,” he announced, and gestured them toward a large simple iron gate guarded by two sentries with halberds. “Wasn’t the throne room on the other side?” asked Ireheart in surprise. “I know there’ve been a lot of changes…”
“You’re right. This is not the old throne room we’re coming to,” Balyndar interrupted. “That was in the region of the Gray Mountains where the fever kept recurring. We don’t go there anymore and won’t make an exception to that rule, even for important visitors.” He preceded them. “This is our new throne room.” He signaled to the sentries to open the double doors.
Cool silvery light fell on them. The whole chamber was dressed out in polished steel. All the furniture shone cold in the lamp glow. Even the tall columns supporting the ceiling seemed to be made of burnished steel, so smooth that it reflected the surroundings perfectly.
Elaborate ornaments had been engraved and decorated to give emphasis to them. Confusing to the eye, the colored patterns seemed to move if you stared at them.
In another place the artist had chiseled likenesses of dwarf-rulers, decorating them with jewels or precious metals. It was obvious that the queen who used this room had once belonged to the tribe of the firstlings, talented smiths and metal-workers just as she was herself.
“It seems the mountain itself gave birth to this room,” murmured one of the fourthlings. “Everything fits together so smoothly-no joins or sharp edges.”
Balyndis Steelfinger was seated on the raised throne before them. Her long dark-brown hair was unbound under her sparkling steel helmet and her scaled armor, of the same material, was so bright that the visitors were forced to narrow their eyelids.
“Unthinkable what the effect would be if she were standing in full sunshine,” Slin observed. “She’d dazzle anyone within ten paces.”
Balyndis got to her feet and stepped down from her throne. “Enter and be seated at the fifthlings’ table,” she bade them. “I am glad you have come and was pleased to learn all the good news from your messenger. It seems Girdlegard will soon be freed from evil’s oppression. Vraccas will surely be with us.”
Ireheart did his best to watch Tungdil’s face while the dwarf-queen approached them, hand outstretched. She had previously been Tungdil’s companion for many cycles. They had lived together and she had borne him a son, lost in a terrible accident. This reunion should provide enough tension to set sparks flying. But search as he did for emotion in his friend’s face, he noted none.
There was plenty of emotion, however, to be seen in the queen’s features. “By Vraccas,” Balyndis said with feeling, halting her steps as she came closer to the one-eyed dwarf. “It is true! Really true! You are alive and have come back from the dark!” Tears appeared in the corners of her eyes and trickled down her soft cheeks. The fluff on her face was more pronounced than on the younger females of her race. She stopped in front of Tungdil, visibly moved, her hand still held out toward him.
“Indeed. I have returned from the darkness. But I have brought the shadows with me,” he answered. “I know who you are, Balyndis Steelfinger, queen of the fifthlings, but I do not remember anything of what once bound us together.” In explanation he pointed to the scar on his forehead. “A blow to the head robbed me of much that was precious to me.” Balyndis swallowed and looked at him intently, as if thinking she could wreak a change in him and release those hidden memories. But when she saw that the expression in his brown eye did not alter, she let her arm drop, and knelt before him. “I greet you, High King Tungdil Goldhand,” she said sadly, bowing her head. “May Vraccas bless you and all who follow you in your quest to save Girdlegard.”
“I thank you, Queen Balyndis.” He indicated to her by a touch on the shoulder that she should stand, and then made his way over to the laden table.
Many delicacies had been prepared and were displayed in dishes and on plates; the smell made Ireheart’s mouth water as he realized how hungry he was.
“About time too,” muttered Slin at his side. “I was ready to start licking the furniture, my stomach was rumbling so.”
They took their seats round the table. Dwarves served the food and ensured that neither plates nor jugs were ever empty. During the course of the meal Tungdil elucidated his mission again. Balyndis made no response apart from the occasional nod.
Ireheart got the impression that she was trying to read Tungdil’s mind to fathom his feelings. I wonder if she’ll have any more luck than I’ve had.
“Enough from me,” his friend said eventually. “Tell me, the fever that broke out here: How long have you and the fifthlings been troubled by it?”
“Over a hundred cycles. It started slowly, so our healers didn’t notice it at first,” she explained, raising her tankard of black beer in a toast to the company. “But soon the incidence of illness increased and it reminded us of the plagues that struck the original fifthlings. We abandoned the tunnels and caves and had them sealed up. I could show you on the map which regions were affected.”
“Did the outbreaks come randomly or is there a pattern to it?” asked Tungdil. He had hardly touched his food and Ireheart was sure he seemed much paler than usual. He studied the map they showed him, concentrating hard.
“We couldn’t find any pattern to it,” answered Balyndis. “We got the freelings to search the places where the highest mortality had occurred, to see if maybe the alfar were targeting us, but no traces were found. And those who were part of the freelings’ expedition all fell ill a few orbits later. They died.”
“How?” asked the one-eyed dwarf.
“They suffocated in their own blood. First they grew feverish and then their lungs filled with blood until they could not breathe.” She shuddered. “An appalling death, Tungdil.”
He pushed the map away and emptied his tankard-the seventh, if Ireheart had not lost count: A considerable amount for a dwarf who had not eaten anything much. Heroic achievement. “Did their limbs change color? Perhaps the tips of their fingers? What about their tongues?”
Balyndis and her son exchanged glances.
“I didn’t tell him,” said Balyndar. “Nobody knows.”
Tungdil shot him a dangerous smile. “I don’t need to be told. I worked it out for myself.” He summoned a fresh tankard. “It’s not a curse. It’s an odorless gas.”
Balyndar rolled his eyes. “No, it’s not! We ruled that out.”
“The methods for investigating the conventional humors exuded by the mountain are useless with this problem, Balyndar. It’s the kordrion. In countless ways it’s been responsible for the deaths in the Gray Range. It doesn’t just eat those who confront it. Its excrement is lethal as well, causing the painful death Balyndis has just described as soon as it meets water.” He took the map in his hand. “Ireheart told me that the kordrion is in the northern part of the Gray Mountains, near the Stone Gateway. That’s your explanation: Rainwater washes the excrement down the slopes and it runs into the rivers that feed the canals, being washed down to the parts of the mountain where the so-called fever turns up.”
“Even its shit is murderous?” exclaimed Ireheart in disbelief. “That’s what I call a really devious monster! Good thing we’re going to get rid of him.”
“We aren’t going to. It will be Lot-Ionan.” He put the next full tankard to his lips and took a long draft. “I think it will take a cycle or two until the toxic effect fades away so that you can return to those regions.” He saw that Balyndar did not believe him. “It is something to do with alchemy, Steelfinger,” he explained. “I grew up in the house and laboratories of a magus. The composition of the kordrion’s excrement is unique; if you like, a kind of dried acid. As soon as it comes into contact with water, the substances mix and a lethal gas is released. I used this several times on the other side of the Black Abyss if a siege wasn’t going well.” He finished his drink. “I don’t give your sick dwarves much of a chance. The lungs won’t recover from the acid burns. They’re for the eternal smithy.”