by Markus Heitz
The green-hided beasts chased after them, hacking at the horses’ legs, slashing their flanks, and hanging off their manes like rabid dogs until the poor animals bolted in agony and terror.
Wild with panic, the horses charged the waiting units, and the chaos was complete.
Meanwhile, the orcs were everywhere, snarling, striking, and ducking out of sight. The horses kicked out, making no distinction between friend and foe, whinnying, snorting, and pawing until they were seized by an overwhelming urge to flee. Even the best riders were unable to stop the stampede: The instincts of the herd were stronger than any bridle or spurs.
Mallen and Tilogorn lost valuable time as they struggled to round up their men and regroup in the marketplace. By then the foot soldiers had arrived and were readying themselves to join the charge through the gates.
In the blink of an eye, the orcs disappeared, leaving only the dead and wounded as evidence that a savage confrontation had occurred. The two commanders didn’t stop to worry about the whereabouts of the enemy, but gave the order for the gates to be breached.
Three thousand riders tore into the palace forecourt. Tilogorn dispatched the units in different directions and the search for Nôd’onn began. Racing up the broad, flat steps, the horses sped through the corridors and halls, unimpeded by defenders or orcs.
“Stay down here and continue the search,” Tilogorn instructed the bulk of his men. He eyed the highest turret, where his instincts told him that Nôd’onn would be waiting. “I’m going up there.” He dismounted and wound his way up the flight of stairs with Mallen and three hundred men. As the staircase narrowed and steepened, he lifted his visor so he could breathe.
On entering the first chamber, he glanced at the large window through which the southern streets of the city could be seen. An armed unit was heading for the palace, the flags of Urgon and their other allies fluttering in the breeze.
“Look, Mallen,” he said, relieved to see the reinforcements. “King Lothaire has taken the gates. The wizard is at our mercy.”
The fair-haired prince of Ido stared in astonishment. “But Lothaire was… I mean, I thought I saw him…” He trailed off, puzzled, and followed the king. Buoyed by new courage and energy, they strode down the corridor until they came to an imposing door, which they opened by force.
Their persistence was rewarded. Twenty paces away a colossal figure in dark green robes was standing with his back to them. The magus was studying the commotion at the base of the turret and didn’t turn round.
Without waiting for Tilogorn’s order, the men spread out and silently leveled their bows. The target was so broad that it seemed the arrows couldn’t fail to hit their mark, but on nearing the magus’s back, the tips rusted, the shafts disintegrated, and wood dust trailed through the air. Soon nothing remained but fragments of metal, which tinkled against the marble floor.
“Welcome, King Tilogorn,” the magus greeted them, his back still turned. “You have entered the enchanted realm of Lios Nôd’onn. What brings you here?”
“The plight of our kingdoms,” Tilogorn replied steadily, drawing his weapon in readiness for a duel. “You are a danger to Girdlegard.”
“And you, King Tilogorn, have invaded my realm, stormed my palace, and threatened my life. Should I consider you a danger?”
“You’re a traitor, Nôd’onn — a murderer and a traitor.”
“A murderer, yes, that much is true. But I killed only because I had to, because I wanted to save Girdlegard — like you. Humankind is facing a much greater danger, a danger that only my friend and I are powerful enough to combat, and for that we need mastery over Girdlegard. The races of men, elves, and dwarves must cede their lands for the greater good — or die.” Turning at last, he looked at them sadly with watery green eyes. “It pains me greatly that some have chosen death already. You’ll join me, won’t you?” He took a step toward Tilogorn and held out his hand.
“Never!” The king signaled for his men to attack and a dozen soldiers stormed forward.
They were still charging when their weaponry, mail, clothes, flesh, and bones perished like the arrows. The unseen power worked so swiftly that there was no opportunity for them to retreat. A semicircle of dust surrounded the magus, four paces from his feet; then an autumn gust dispersed the disintegrating men. The remaining soldiers drew back in fear.
“You underestimated my power, King Tilogorn,” the magus said slowly. “You refused a hand extended in friendship. Your men are paying for your arrogance.”
The fresh wind carried the sound of fighting to Tilogorn’s ears. He listened intently.
“You thought the battle was over, did you?” Nôd’onn gestured to the window. “Why don’t you see for yourself what has become of King Lothaire and his men?”
Tilogorn kept the magus in his sights and sent a soldier to the window to report on the skirmish below.
“They’re fighting our men,” he said in consternation. “The soldiers are waving Urgon’s banners, but they’re… They’re joining forces with the orcs!” He gasped. “Palandiell have mercy on us! The dead soldiers are rising! They’re still alive, and they’re killing our troops!”
Nôd’onn chuckled. “You have been treading the Perished Land for some time, King Tilogorn. I created the illusion to draw you to me and sure enough, you brought me the army I desired —”
He broke off midspeech, racked by violent coughing. Blood dribbled from his lips and two dark streams formed beneath his nostrils. He sank to his knees, still spluttering, and more blood gushed from his mouth, forming a crimson pool on the immaculate marble floor.
“This is our chance,” shouted Tilogorn, rushing toward him. “For Girdlegard!” His soldiers joined the charge.
Most of the valiant warriors were turned to dust, but the magus’s weakness had damaged his magic shield. Thirty men, among them King Tilogorn, penetrated his guard and were able to attack. Three, then four arrows embedded themselves in the bloated body, and the soldiers rushed in, hacking at Nôd’onn’s prostrate form. Seconds later, Prince Mallen joined the fray.
Terrified that they too would fall prey to some wizardry, the men attacked with preternatural force. Their arms rose and fell in a savage frenzy, the blows raining harder and faster all the time. Blood seeped from every inch of the mutilated body, washing over the floor and poisoning the air.
Tilogorn saw a flicker of movement in the open wounds. There’s something alive in there, he realized with a shudder. He threw all his strength behind his blade. “Die, why don’t you!”
“No!” screeched Nôd’onn. Even as he spoke a gust of wind swept his assailants off their feet, knocking them backward. “Girdlegard will be ruined without me!” Black lightning shot from the onyx on his staff, zigzagging in all directions and incinerating the flesh and armor of all in its path.
“Don’t listen to him!” Tilogorn sprang forward and raised his sword. “Keep fighting,” he gasped. His right arm swooped toward the magus. “Keep —”
A bolt raced toward him and seared through his armor, piercing his heart. With a groan he sank down and let go of his sword, which clattered to the ground and disappeared among the muddle of legs and feet. He was filled with a sense of crushing failure.
“Congratulations, Prince Mallen,” Nôd’onn said mockingly. “I suppose this makes you Idoslane’s new king.” He stepped forward and made to shake his hand. “The question is: Will you join me, or lose your kingdom as quickly as you gained it?”
The last of the Idos didn’t stop to consider. Picking up Tilogorn’s sword, he helped the wounded king to his feet. “Let’s go,” he said to Tilogorn. “We’ll deal with Nôd’onn another time.” He dragged the monarch to the door, protected by a guard of men.
The magus watched incredulously. “Not you as well?”
“How could I ally myself with Idoslane’s enemy?” Mallen lifted Tilogorn’s arm over his shoulder and half carried, half propelled him down the stairs. Nôd’onn strode after them.
&nb
sp; “Then you shall die together!” he shouted hysterically. “You’re no use to me!”
A volley of bolts crackled toward them, searing through the last remaining guards. Mallen slung Tilogorn over his shoulder and raced down the stairway. “I’m not leaving you with that monster. I’ll get us out of here if it’s the last thing I do,” he said, gasping under the strain.
“Rule our kingdom more wisely than your forebears.” Tilogorn was fading, his voice little more than a whisper. A trickle of blood leaked out of his mouth and onto the prince’s armor. “Listen carefully: Wait for the other units at a safe distance from Porista. Rescue the wounded and be sure to burn the dead. If you don’t, you’ll face an army of revenants that nothing and no one can defeat. Whatever happens, Nôd’onn mustn’t be granted his invincible undead.”
“You can’t die on me, Tilogorn. I need you to help me exact our revenge.” The prince had to fight for breath as he struggled beneath the extra weight. “Don’t tell me you’re prepared to leave your kingdom to an Ido!” he said harshly, hoping to stir the king’s anger and galvanize his will to live. “What’s the matter with you, Tilogorn?”
“Promise me you’ll make a better king than your grandfather. Promise that you won’t tear Idoslane apart!”
“You have my word.”
“Burn the dead,” the king whispered. “You must save Idoslane. Palandiell be…” The tension left his body.
I shall honor my promise, Tilogorn of Idoslane. Mallen laid the body gently at the foot of the turret. To regain the throne at such a price… He took the dead king’s sword, clasp, and signet ring and ran on.
It was only through sheer determination and good fortune that he and his remaining men escaped the violent fury of the revenants.
As they left the city, they set fire to the buildings, creating a sea of flames that no amount of wizardry could contain. Even the rain invoked by Nôd’onn could not prevent Porista from being razed to the ground, leaving nothing save the palace and the foundations. King Lothaire and King Tilogorn were never to rise from the blaze.
XIII
Underground Network,
Girdlegard,
Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle
By now the five dwarves had a rough sense of how far they were from their destination. At first they hadn’t noticed the numerals on the tunnel walls, marking the completion of each twenty-five-mile stretch. In no time they covered an incredible two hundred miles.
After a while they rolled to a halt in another large hall and decided to rest for a few hours before embarking on the next descent. Traveling by wagon was less tiring than walking, but their muscles were sore after hours of sitting uncomfortably and being thrown from side to side. Even the constant rattling was wearying after a while.
Boïndil told the others to stay seated while he stood on top of the wagon and scanned the dusty floor for prints. “Either they’ve been pulverized or no one’s been this way in ages,” he said. He jumped down and vanished in a thick gray cloud.
Boëndal thought for a moment. “The rail doesn’t look especially clean. Gandogar must have taken a different route.”
Tungdil unfolded the map he had sketched in the previous hall. “It’s possible, I suppose.”
“I hope the ceiling collapses on top of him,” scowled Boïndil, searching the hall for firewood. He found a stash of abandoned timber, but it turned to dust in his hands. There would be no melted cheese on toasted mushrooms after all.
They ate their meal in silence, each absorbed in his thoughts. Bavragor took long drafts from his drinking pouch and eventually burst into song, ignoring his companions’ objections. His powerful voice reverberated through the hall, echoing down the tunnels.
“For pity’s sake, be quiet! We don’t want every creature below the surface knowing that we’re here,” snapped Goïmgar.
Boëndal grinned. “I don’t think it’s much of a secret. He hasn’t stopped warbling since we left.”
“Poor little Shimmerbeard,” teased Boïndil, laying his axes in his lap and setting to work with his grindstone. “You’re not scared, are you? Don’t worry: My brother and I are here to protect you.” He tested each blade with his thumb. “It’s a long time since they tasted orc flesh. They’re almost as impatient as me.”
“Orc flesh? Down here?” Goïmgar asked anxiously.
“Who can tell?” the secondling replied. Boëndal and Tungdil saw the strange glint in his eyes and knew at once that he meant to have some fun: The poor artisan was about to be scared witless. “The tunnels have been abandoned for hundreds of cycles. All kinds of creatures could have moved in without us knowing.” He tapped out a noisy rhythm with the butts of his axes. “It won’t be safe until we get rid of them. From now on, it’s war!”
“That’s enough, mighty warrior,” Tungdil warned him.
Boïndil laughed, spurred on by his fiery spirit. “Show yourselves, you ogres, trolls, orcs, and beasts of Tion! Come out and be hacked to pieces by the children of the Smith!” He had to shout at the top of his voice to drown out the mason’s singing. “Come out, so I can kill you!”
“Don’t provoke them,” Goïmgar pleaded, edging away until he was sitting with his back against the wall. “You shouldn’t bait them like that.”
“Someone once told me about hideous beasts that live down here and plague the dwarves,” said Bavragor, joining in the fun. He oiled his throat with another helping of whatever he kept in his mysterious pouch. “Tion created them as our natural enemies, like he created the älfar to wipe out the elves.”
“Someone once told me about innocent creatures dying in agony because of your singing,” quipped Boëndal.
“More than likely,” said his brother. “You’d better keep your mouth shut, Bavragor. I won’t have you chasing away my orcs.”
The mason gesticulated rudely and launched into another rousing song, only to be silenced by Tungdil. “We need to know if anything’s sneaking up on us,” he explained. Goïmgar and the twins hastened to agree.
“All right, you win.” Bavragor lowered his voice to a hum and curled up in his blankets. Soon he was snoring at a volume to rival his singing. The twins settled down for the night, but Goïmgar stayed exactly where he was. At last Tungdil handed him a blanket since he clearly intended to sleep with his back against the wall.
“I saw what you were up to,” he said softly when he was sure that the others were asleep.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know, when we stopped in the other hall. You were trying to ruin the map so we wouldn’t be able to read it. Why?”
The diminutive fourthling glared at him defiantly. “I was dusting it.”
“Not with the tip of your dagger, you weren’t.” Tungdil looked at him intently and tried to meet his eye. “I wish you’d stop seeing me as the enemy.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” the artisan said coldly. “You’re not the enemy. You’re nobody, not even a fourthling. You can say what you like about your lineage; all I know is you’re not one of us. If you want my opinion, you’re a common thief who’s trying to steal the throne, and I won’t let you get away with it. I know what King Gandogar said about obeying your orders, but I’ll see to it personally that the rightful heir is crowned.”
“Is that why you didn’t want to join the expedition?”
“ Maybe — or maybe I don’t like traveling, fighting, and enduring all kinds of unpleasantness when I’d rather be at home. The journey to Ogre’s Death was bad enough, but now I’m risking my life for a liar.”
“This isn’t about being made high king,” Tungdil said earnestly. “Frankly, the whole business is rather a bore.”
Goïmgar looked at him in astonishment. “Then why are you here?”
“All I care about is forging Keenfire so we can fight Nôd’onn and put a stop to the evil. Girdlegard is in danger and we dwarves are the only ones who can save her inhabitants from the magus’s deadly scheme. That’s what I’m interested in �
�� not the throne.”
“How do I know you’re not lying? In your position, I’d swear blind that my beard was blue and the mountain was made of cheese. And besides, what if we get to Ogre’s Death first? According to the rules of the contest, you’d have to be king. I don’t see why we’re hurrying if you’re not interested in the throne.”
Tungdil could tell that the discussion was going nowhere. It would take more than a single night to convince Goïmgar that he was mistaken about his intentions. The fourthling didn’t trust him one bit.
In any case, Tungdil didn’t like to be reminded about the uncertainty of his ancestry. All his efforts were focused on playing the part of the long-lost heir, but deep down he felt lonely and confused. It was only the thought of Lot-Ionan and Frala that gave him the strength to keep pretending. He would do anything to lead the company to the fifthling kingdom so that Keenfire could rob Nôd’onn of his power and his life.
“There’s no point arguing,” he said glumly. “You should get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.” He wrapped himself in a blanket to ward off the underground cold. At that moment he heard something. It sounded like a single strike of a hammer on rock.
Goïmgar stopped fussing with his bedding and froze. “An ogre,” he whispered tremulously. “Or the ghost of a dwarf who died here when the tunnels were being built…”
Tungdil made no reply. It could be anything, he thought. Reaching for his ax, he listened to the darkness. There was silence. “It was probably just a stone,” he said slowly, relaxing his vigil. “A bit of stone falling from the ceiling and hitting the floor. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Shouldn’t we wake the twins? I bet they’d know what to do.”
“It was nothing,” Tungdil said firmly. “Forget it and go to sleep.”
Goïmgar pulled up his blanket until his beard was completely hidden, then balanced his shield across his chest. Tungdil heard him draw his sword. At last, the artisan decided that it was safe to close his eyes.