The dwarves looked at one another and went off to the sledges to shut their eyes for a while; with warm rugs of cat fur over them and bearded faces wrapped in scarves, they lay down to rest. They trusted their high king.
Ireheart was unsure what to do. His legs were painful and as heavy as ten sacks of lead shot, but on the other hand he did not want to leave his friend-who had made the same exhausting climb in his peculiar armor-alone on watch.
His eyes were tired and smarting and he could hear his stomach rumbling. “I need something to eat first, Vraccas, or my insides will be louder than a thunderstorm.” He went over to the sledge that held their food supplies. “Then, perhaps, a little smoke, to aid digestion, and the world will look a whole lot better,” he muttered to himself. When he opened the first layer of leather to get at the bread something caught his eye on the edge of the rock they had pulled themselves up over. He was surprised to see a metal retaining hook, shiny and without rust. There was a dusting of snow on it… Hoar frost would have made sense, but snow?
“What does it mean?” He leaned over and brushed the snow aside. One glimpse was enough to tell him the hook was not one of their own. “Well, I’ll be squashed flat with a hammer…” he cursed, rushing over to tell Tungdil what he had found.
The one-eyed dwarf didn’t want to come and inspect it. Instead he turned on his heel and stormed into the cave. Ireheart followed him.
The smell of moss grew stronger and became overwhelming, making it difficult to breathe.
Ireheart lit a torch, intent on carefully examining what they found. What he saw caused him great concern.
The kordrion’s brood had consisted of pale cocoons each the size of a human-until unidentified intruders had turned up and slashed them to ribbons. Opaque sticky liquid covered the floor ankle deep, almost frozen solid near the mouth of the cave; dead and dismembered embryonic kordrions lay among the mess.
“So that’s put paid to our great plan.” Ireheart squatted down to look at the corpses. They reminded him a little of flying fish, but they had more eyes and were ten times as large. “What can have done it?”
“They were either mad or desperate, the same as us.” Tungdil stomped about the cave, bending over to examine individual body parts. “I should say there were ten of them with very sharp weapons-you can tell from the cuts,” he imparted to his friend. “And the prints say: Dwarves.”
“Balyndis would never have kept it from us if she’d sent people out,” said Ireheart, moving through the carnage. “Despite all this slaughter the overriding smell is still the moss. It could have been worse; anyone who’s been covered head to foot with the stinking guts from an orc’s slit belly will know what I mean.” As he walked across to Tungdil he surveyed the scene.
The one-eyed dwarf yelled a warning at him, “No, don’t!”
“Don’t what?”
“Too late. You’ve trodden in it.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter.” Ireheart gestured dismissively. “It’s only moss. Perhaps Goda will like the smell.”
“It’s not just her that will like it. The thing is, that smell will stick to your clothes. And to you. The kordrion will assume you killed his young,” Tungdil explained.
Ireheart stared open-mouthed in distress. “Just me? What about you, Scholar?”
“I didn’t touch anything and, anyway, nothing sticks to tionium. I can wash off any splashes,” he replied. He examined the cave floor minutely. “There was an extra cocoon just here. They’ve taken it with them.” He rubbed his nose. “I wonder why.”
Ireheart laughed. “Not the same reason as us, surely?”
“We’ll have to find them to stop them doing something stupid.” He pointed to the entrance. “Wake the others and tell them. I’ll check outside for tracks.” He kicked one of the mutilated dead. “When they’re grown they’re ten times the weight of a warrior in full armor. If our thieves haven’t taken to the skies we’ll find them and confront them.” They left the cave together, Tungdil to the right, Ireheart to the left.
Boindil woke the troops and explained. As he was summing up Tungdil came over.
“I’ve found their tracks. They’ve climbed down on the other side of the mountain,” he informed them calmly. “We’ll follow them and get the last of the kordrion’s offspring. They can give it to us voluntarily or we can force them to hand it over. That cocoon is our only chance for a long, long time. The kordrion needs at least three cycles before it’s ready to lay again.” He looked at their faces. “It’s vital nothing injures the outer casing. It would mean death for the young, and the parent would smell that at once. There’d be no more point in its following us.”
Except to pursue and slaughter its offspring’s killers, thought Ireheart.
Slin scowled. “Any idea who’s stolen a march on us? It’s almost as if our plans had been overheard. But who’s behind this? And what’s he planning to do with the cocoon?”
“I hadn’t told them yet that we’ve found dwarf-bootprints,” said Ireheart.
“Children of the Smith?” Balyndar gave a short mirthless laugh. “Or small humans? Or gnomes and cobolds with stolen footwear playing a trick?”
“Courageous cobolds?” Ireheart dismissed the idea. “Cobolds would never put themselves within ten miles of a kordrion.”
“We’ll soon see who we have to thank for this disaster.” Tungdil indicated they should break camp and stow their gear. “Boindil, you stay close to me from now on,” came the quiet instruction. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”
“You’ll need protection from the kordrion. Even if he’s stronger than I am I can fight him off for long enough to give us a chance to escape. I’m going to need you on this mission.” Tungdil was serious and honestly concerned for his friend’s safety. “It is only the first of many. But all of our plans must work if we are to free Girdlegard and save it from the army gathering in the Black Abyss.”
Ireheart swallowed hard. The inner chorus of doubting voices that had previously troubled him fell silent, not a single one able to protest now against his conviction that his friend could be trusted. He nodded to Tungdil and followed him to the other side of the eyrie, where a broad set of tracks led to the steep slope.
Tungdil surveyed the path the thieves must have taken. “What do you make of that?” he asked.
“I don’t see the marks of any runners. So, have they used their shields to slide the cocoon down the mountain?” Ireheart raised his eyebrows. “Madness. They haven’t abseiled, they’ve just slipped and slithered down!” He thought of the dwarf-hater they had seen careering down the mountainside in the Outer Lands. Could the thirdling skirt-wearers be behind this?
Tungdil looked at the other dwarves, who were catching up with them now: Bearded faces with crystals of ice around noses and mouths, eyes sparkling with determination. “Do you lot think we’re brave enough to do what those thieves have done?” His manner indicated, once more, that his questions were not questions, but commands. He took one of the sledges, pushing it off and jumping on board. Speeding over the edge, it was more a fall than a ride across the snow as he shot down toward the valley. “How many usually die on his little missions?” muttered Slin, taking the leather band of his crossbow firmly in his hand. He shoved his own sledge downhill.
Ireheart was ahead of him, launching himself into the wild ride with a triumphant cry, “Vraccas!”
After a few paces, picking up speed all the time and with the strong icy wind bringing tears to his eyes, every bone in his body juddering and jarring, he knew one thing for certain: A lightning journey by tunnel car through the depths of the mountains was a princesses’ tea-party compared to this.