by Markus Heitz
“We’ll have to rely on you to decipher the tomes,” said Balendilín. “You can always consult our archives, if you think they’ll be of use.”
“You should ask your historians. I’m sure they’d do a better job than me,” muttered Tungdil.
Balendilín shook his head. “They don’t know the magi’s writings as well as you do. No one understands the long-uns better than you.” He looked encouragingly at the dejected dwarf. “I know it’s a heavy burden, but a great deal is at stake. We’ll never forget it.”
“I’ll do my best,” he promised, forcing down his mouthful. He hiccuped discreetly. His palate had adjusted to the cheese, but his stomach was proving less adaptable — not unreasonably, considering the quantities involved. To round off the meal he poured a mug of sour milk and stirred it through with a spoonful of honey. Dwarven cuisine was a lot better than he had thought.
Excusing himself from the table, he made his way back to his chamber, this time looking fixedly at the floor so as not to be distracted by the magnificent marble carvings. The speech that was taking shape in his mind was going to cover all the events of the previous weeks and more.
Tungdil drained the strong malt beer from his tankard, wiped his beard, and looked up at the assembly. The delegates had listened patiently while he’d read out Lot-Ionan’s letter and tried to establish his lineage as the illegitimate offspring of the dead fourthling king.
True to their word, three of Gandogar’s chieftains claimed to recall a rumor about a missing heir. Bislipur instantly accused them of lying.
“I expect you’re wondering why I think I would make a good king,” said Tungdil, raising his voice above the tumult. The beer had settled his nerves and quashed his inhibitions about appearing before an assembly of dignitaries and chieftains. “The fact is, I know better than anyone the dangers that lie ahead. I know the power of the Perished Land; and I know we need to stand united. It would be fatal to squander our strength on a campaign against the elves. Their numbers may have dwindled, but their army is not to be mocked.”
“We’re not afraid of the pointy-ears!” Bislipur shouted, incensed.
“Maybe not, but dead heroes are no use to us at all,” Tungdil retaliated. “The elves have been fighting the älfar for hundreds of cycles. What chance would we have of defeating them? Their bowmen are the best in Girdlegard. Before we get within three hundred paces, they’ll bombard us with arrows!”
“Not if we sneak up on them,” Bislipur objected.
“You can’t honestly believe they won’t notice an army of a thousand dwarves! Friends, this war will end in our defeat.” He looked at them beseechingly. “Darkness has eaten its way into the heart of our lands. Vraccas entrusted the safety of Girdlegard to our race; it’s our duty to defeat Nôd’onn and expel Tion’s minions — and if the elves and humans are able to help us, we must ally ourselves with them!”
“The high king’s puppet has learned his part well,” sneered Gandogar.
“Our minds think alike because we both see reason. If there was anything between your ears but sheer bloody-mindedness, you might see sense as well.” A ripple of laughter swept the room.
“The elves must be punished,” shouted Bislipur, drawing himself up to full height. “You heard how they betrayed our kinsfolk and allowed Tion’s beasts to storm the Stone Gateway. Their crimes cannot go unavenged!”
“And what of Nôd’onn? A war against the elves would weaken us dangerously.” Tungdil thumped his hand against the marble. “Of course, if we really want to make things easy for the magus, we could always open our strongholds to the orcish invaders! Is that what you want? Maybe you should ask the runts if they’d like to join us in a campaign against the elves!” He waited for the commotion to settle. “In my possession are two tomes belonging to Lot-Ionan in whose household I was raised. Once I have unlocked their meaning, we will hold the key to defeating Nôd’onn and the Perished Land.” He neglected to mention that even Andôkai had failed to make sense of the books. “Just think of the glory if the dwarves were to save Girdlegard! Our heroism would humiliate the pointy-ears far more than military defeat.”
There was a hum of excitement from the benches. Books that could defeat the Perished Land; that was news indeed!
“He’s lying!” roared Bislipur. “Since when did magic ever help the dwarves? It brings us nothing but trouble! Magic is to blame for the dark wizard’s power!”
“I say we fight the elves, then retreat to our ranges until the humans have settled the matter for themselves,” added Gandogar, springing to his feet. He hurried to the middle of the assembly to be sure of the delegates’ attention. “Don’t listen to the foundling who learned our lore from books. He’ll never understand our ways.” He laughed. “A high king who knows nothing of his race? It’s downright ridiculous!”
“It can’t be that ridiculous or you wouldn’t be so het up,” Tungdil said pointedly. There was another low rumble of laughter. He was doing Lot-Ionan proud with his witticisms, although the beer could take some of the credit. I mustn’t get carried away, he told himself.
Gundrabur had heard enough. He raised the hammer and pounded it against the marble table. “Both candidates have made their cases and the assembly must decide. Delegates, remember you are voting for your future high king. Those in favor of Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, raise your axes!”
Tungdil counted the glistening blades. To his great surprise, Gandogar’s share of the vote had dwindled to less than two-thirds among the fourthling chieftains. When his own name was called, the number of axes was far greater than expected. Balendilín gave him an approving nod.
Tungdil’s personal victory did nothing to change the end result: The majority had voted in favor of Gandogar, which amounted to a mandate for war. Bislipur held his head high. It was clear from his triumphant expression that he thought his work was done.
“At this stage in the proceedings, it falls to me, the reigning high king, to approve the assembly’s choice,” declared Gundrabur. “Regrettably, in view of King Gandogar’s foolish determination to steer our race toward destruction, I see no option but to declare him unfit for office. For that reason, I nominate Tungdil in his place. Who will back me?”
Gandogar and Bislipur watched in stunned silence as a third of the delegates raised their axes, thereby investing Gundrabur with the authority to proceed.
The hammer crashed noisily against the marble. “Then the succession shall be decided on merit. Our candidates will prove their ability in a contest: Gandogar and Tungdil will each nominate a task, two further tasks will be set by the assembly, and the fifth task will be drawn at random. You have seven orbits to prepare.” With that, he called the hustings to a close.
Dazed, Tungdil made his way along the line of supporters who were queuing to pat him on the back, wish him well, and intercede with Vraccas on his behalf. Faces, beards, and chain mail loomed on either side of him, disappearing in a blur. His mind was reeling from the uncommonly strong beer and the exhilaration of success. It was incredible to think that dozens of dwarves had been won over by his arguments, but there was no escaping the knowledge that his triumph was founded on a lie.
Although the chances of discovering anything about his provenance were slim, Balendilín had promised to do what he could to investigate without arousing suspicion. The counselor was too tactful to mention the possibility that the foundling was descended from Lorimbur’s folk, and the notion of it seemed ludicrous to Tungdil, who felt comfortable living in Ogre’s Death and shared nothing of the thirdlings’ murderous dislike of other dwarves. In any case, there were more urgent matters than establishing his origins. First and foremost, he needed to practice his axmanship in case Gandogar opted to challenge him to a duel. And he still had to settle on a task of his own.
No one knew what to expect from the fifth and final task. Each candidate could nominate four challenges and one would be drawn from a pouch. Only Vraccas could predict the outco
me.
Tungdil returned to his chamber to find Gorén’s books and the contents of the leather bag strewn across his bed. Andôkai must have broken the spell and examined the artifacts!
He turned over the fragments of two silver-plated decanters and studied the runes. What a pity! If the inscriptions were to be believed, it took a single drop of liquid for the vessels to fill themselves over and over again. Mixed in with the shattered decanters was a broken hand mirror. The fractured glass cast back a cracked reflection of his bearded face. Seven years of bad luck. He chuckled grimly as he picked up a shard. To be cursed by a mirror was the least of his problems.
He turned his attention to a couple of lengths of wood. They were as long as his arm and had a gray, almost metallic shimmer to them. The grain was wayward and irregular. What are they? He supposed they could be cudgels. But what would they be doing in the bag? He tossed them carelessly onto the bed.
The maga had written him a note. Furious with her for leaving Girdlegard and for rummaging through his things, he left it unread. Then curiosity got the better of him.
The mystery is solved, or as good as.
You were right: There is a way to defeat Nôd’onn and the books explain how. However, the means are beyond us, which is why I’m leaving Girdlegard for good.
The first book is an account of the Outer Lands that tells of a place called Barrenground, where demonic beings have the power to enter human souls, take possession of them, and invest them with extraordinary power. Men possessed of such demons are driven by an urge to destroy goodness wherever they find it and bend everything to their will.
The second book tells of a race called the under-groundlings who invented a mighty ax to destroy the demonic power.
The blade of this ax must be made of the purest, hardest steel, with diamonds encrusting the bit and an alloy of every known precious metal filling the inlay and the runes. The spurs should be hewn from stone and the haft sculpted from wood of the sigurdaisy tree.
The ax must be forged in a furnace lit with the fiercest of all flames and its name shall be Keenfire.
This is the weapon with the power to slay the demonic spirits. Keenfire can slice through flesh and bone, cutting through the human body to destroy the evil presence within. Any harm that has been done reverts to good.
Regrettably, I was unable to make sense of one passage, which means I cannot vouch for the method’s success. The task is as good as hopeless.
All the same, it explains why Nôd’onn is interested in the artifacts. The bag contains two fragments of sigurdaisy wood.
The sigurdaisy is extinct in Girdlegard, but its wood is exceptionally hard, so hard that it can’t be worked with ordinary tools. Humans used to believe that the trees were sacred and they burned the wood for its powerful aroma and deep crimson flames. They stopped conducting the rituals when all the trees were gone. I once witnessed a sigurdaisy fire in honor of Palandiell, but that was over a hundred cycles ago.
Even if were possible to make such a miraculous weapon, no one would get close enough to Nôd’onn to slay him. The whole business is ridiculous.
If the dwarves have any sense, they will cross the ranges and settle in the Outer Lands. Maybe the under-groundlings will give them shelter.
My work here is done.
Tungdil read and reread the letter until there was no further doubt: Lot-Ionan’s murderer was not completely invincible. They had everything they needed to kill him — even the wood.
He hurried to find Balendilín. The counselor had lit a number of oil lamps, which bathed his chamber in light. Like the rest of Ogre’s Death, the room was hewn from rock and the masons had even thought to sculpt a bed and cabinets. It looked as if the mountain had created a furnished chamber especially for his use.
Tungdil handed him the letter.
“There is mention in our records of distant kin on the far side of the mountain,” he said when he saw the reference to the mysterious undergroundlings. “The inhabitants of the Outer Lands seem to have more experience of fighting the Perished Land.”
Tungdil brandished the piece of parchment. “It explains why Nôd’onn was desperate to get his hands on the books and the bag! Well, it’s too late now: His secret is out. Balendilín, you’ve got to tell the human sovereigns of our discovery before they lose all hope. They need to keep the magus fighting while we work on the weapon. If only they can keep him busy until then!”
Balendilín studied the passages relating to the making of the ax. “We’ll have to enlist the help of the fourthlings: Their skill in diamond cutting is unsurpassed. Our people can take care of the stone, but as for the best smiths…”
“Borengar’s folk!”
“Yes, but none of their nine clans are here. The firstlings ignored our summons. Giselbert’s fifthlings were exceptional blacksmiths, but their line was snuffed out.” Balendilín scowled. “And that’s not the only hitch. The fieriest furnace in Girdlegard belonged to the fifthlings. Its name was Dragon Fire and the hardest metal would melt in its flames. But the Gray Range has been in the hands of the Perished Land for over a thousand cycles.” He rested his head in his hands. “The maga was right. It’s not possible.”
“We can’t give up now. Call a meeting and let the delegates decide. We need to send word to the firstlings and ask for their assistance. Then we’ll…” He trailed off. “Well, I’ll take a look in the archives. Maybe I’ll find something that will help.”
“Good luck to you, Tungdil.”
The dwarf left the chamber and headed for the vaults, where the written record of the secondlings’ history was preserved. Now that the initial excitement was over, he was left with the sobering realization that they were barely any closer to saving Girdlegard from Nôd’onn’s grasp.
I’m not giving up! The very hopelessness of the situation made Tungdil more determined than ever to succeed.
He settled down to his task with all the stubbornness and persistence typical of his race. It was his solemn intention not to leave the secondlings’ archives until he found something of use.
Tungdil hurried back and forth, fetching ancient tomes, rolls of parchment, and stone tablets from their places in the vaults. He piled everything on a table to examine it at length.
Lot-Ionan must have known that my schooling would come in handy. Some of the parchment was so fragile that it tore or crumbled at his touch. It made Tungdil appreciate the durability of the marble tablets that lasted an eternity, provided they weren’t dropped.
After a good deal of reading, he found evidence to back up Balendilín’s vague assertions about the undergroundlings. According to the archives, a race of dwarves on the other side of the ranges went by that name. Whether or not Vraccas had created them was anyone’s guess, but they seemed to have much in common with the children of the Smith. They were accomplished metal workers and shared the dwarven passion for the forge.
On the fourth orbit he learned the secret of Dragon Fire, and his optimism, which had survived in spite of everything, was dealt a grievous blow.
The flames of the fifthlings’ fiery furnace had been lit by the white tongue of Branbausíl, a dragon who had roamed the Gray Range until Giselbert’s dwarves stole its fire, killed it, and seized its hoard. Argamas, its mate, had taken refuge in Flame-mere, a small lake of molten lava at the heart of the fifthling kingdom. The creature had never been seen again.
The stolen fire enabled the dwarves to heat their furnace to phenomenal temperatures and create alloys from metals that had never been melded. Dragon Fire was powerful enough to melt tionium, the black element created by Tion, and combine it with palandium, the deity’s pure white metal.
Later records indicated that the furnace had fallen with the fifthlings. Neither the älfar nor any other creature of Tion could find a use for the strange white flames, and Dragon Fire had been extinguished.
Tungdil’s only hope lay in finding the dragon’s mate who had escaped the dwarves’ axes. If the firstlings could prov
ide a smith and Argamas could furnish the fire, Keenfire could be forged and Nôd’onn defeated.
“More traveling.” He sighed. We’ll have to go west to the firstlings, then north through the heart of the Perished Land to the lost fifthling kingdom. But how are we supposed to cross Girdlegard without Nôd’onn finding out?
He put the question to Gundrabur and Balendilín when he met them in the great hall to report on his findings and share a keg of beer. The king and his counselor looked at each other knowingly.
“There is a way,” the high king told him, “a secret way that has faded from memory over the cycles. My predecessor told me of it.” He lit his pipe and sucked on it vigorously. “It dates back to the glorious orbits of old. In those happy times traveling was easy. We used underground tunnels that crisscrossed the whole of Girdlegard, linking our kingdoms.”
“Tunnels… So we could travel unseen. With ponies we could —”
“You won’t need ponies. You’ll get there soon enough.” Gundrabur pulled his cloak tighter and sent for another blanket. His inner furnace was burning worryingly low.
Tungdil frowned. “I don’t follow.”
“You’ve seen the wagons carrying iron ore through the mines?”
“Sure, but…” Then he grasped what the high king was saying. “We can go by wagon?”
Gundrabur smiled. “Indeed. Our forefathers used wagons to travel by the shortest route from the firstling kingdom to the secondling kingdom and the secondling kingdom to the fourthling kingdom and so forth, unimpeded by marshland, wilderness, rain, or snow. They could convey troops wherever they wanted in no time at all. Within a matter of orbits an entire army could cross from north to south undetected by men, elves, or magi.”