by Markus Heitz
“That’s not what I s-said,” stammered Goïmgar. “I told him to bolt it after you.” Bavragor took a menacing step toward him, and the artisan sidled out of the gate tower, ready to flee through Mifurdania’s streets.
“You’ve been nothing but trouble since we set out,” the mason accused him, waving his mighty fists in Goïmgar’s face. “I’ll beat you to a pulp, you miserable liar.”
“And I’ll shave off your shimmering whiskers with my axes,” added Boïndil.
That did it. Picturing himself bruised and beardless, Goïmgar fled, vanishing into the bustling town.
“Stop!” Tungdil shouted after him, but the artisan didn’t look back. I should have known this would happen. Tungdil fixed Bavragor and Boïndil with a stony glare. “Congratulations,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “How extraordinarily helpful of you both! We’re on an urgent mission and thanks to your childish taunting, a vital member of our company has taken to his heels. Perhaps a nice game of hide-and-seek will take our minds off the fact that we’re surrounded by orcs.” This time Tungdil didn’t bother to conceal his rage; he wanted them to know how furious he was.
Bavragor and Boïndil stared sheepishly at the floor.
“He nearly got us killed,” ventured Bavragor.
“Says who?” snapped Tungdil. “You didn’t let him finish. You had only the guard’s word for what happened and you threatened to beat him up.”
“Why else would he take off like that?” protested Boïndil. “If that’s not the sign of a guilty conscience, I don’t know what is!”
“Unbelievable: The one time you’re in agreement, and it has to be this. Once we’ve tracked down Goïmgar, we’ll get to the bottom of the matter — by discussing it calmly.” He scanned the streets and spotted a tavern. “I want the two of you”— he nodded at Bavragor and Boïndil —“to take yourselves over there and wait at a table for Boëndal and me to return. Don’t get into any arguments — and remember what I told you about dealing with humans.”
Bavragor scratched his beard. “But where are you going?”
“To find Goïmgar, of course! Do you think he’d show himself in front of you? You scared the living daylights out of him.” Tungdil hurried off, signaling to Boëndal to follow.
Bavragor and Boïndil did as instructed and found themselves a table in the tavern. They ordered a hot meal to fill their bellies and a tankard of beer to while away the time.
The other drinkers stared in open amazement at the two dwarves whose mail was covered in orcs’ blood. Stone-faced, the pair returned their glances and focused grimly on their meal.
At last Boïndil emptied his tankard and took the first step toward ending their feud. “Listen, about what happened between me and —”
Bavragor held up a hand to silence him. “I don’t want to hear it,” he said, spurning the attempt at a truce. “I wish she’d never had anything to do with you. I told her so from the beginning, but she was too stubborn to listen. Don’t expect me to forgive you, because I won’t; I want you to be tortured by your conscience for the rest of your life.” He poured the contents of his tankard down his gullet and burped. “After what you did, I don’t even want to share a table with you.” He got up and strode to the door. “Tell Tungdil that I’ve gone to buy a pony.”
Boïndil watched him go and bit his lip. The publican brought him another tankard of beer.
Meanwhile, Boëndal and Tungdil had split up and were scouring the streets of Mifurdania in search of Goïmgar. Tungdil had made straight for the battlements and was reeling from his first bird’s-eye view of the town.
The sheer number of houses was incredible. Mifurdania consisted of nothing but roofs, the solid expanse of thatching and tiles interrupted only by marketplaces or temples. A dwarf on the run from a beating and an unwanted shave would find no shortage of places to hide.
Tungdil permitted himself a final sigh, then put his mind to finding Goïmgar. Before he made his way down into the jumble of houses and streets, he crossed over to the other side of the battlements and looked out at the forest. For the time being, the orcs had retreated and were setting up camp among the trees. There could be no further doubt that Mifurdania was under siege. We’re trapped, he thought glumly.
Tungdil started down the street that the fourthling had taken. At first he called out Goïmgar’s name, but after a while he fell silent, discouraged by the townspeople’s stares.
It seemed to him that Goïmgar’s disappearance was the predictable outcome of the quarreling among the group. Please, Vraccas, help me find him. He peered down every alleyway and searched every courtyard, but the missing fourthling was nowhere to be found.
At length he came to a marketplace where a man in bright garments was standing on a platform, ringing a bell and shouting at the top of his voice.
“Roll up, Mifurdanians, roll up for Theater Curiosum and learn the truth about Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty. Witness the grisly circumstances leading to his reincarnation as Nôd’onn the Doublefold and resulting in Girdlegard’s demise,” he called stirringly. “Marvel at our celebrated actor, the fabulous Rodario; be transported by Furgas, the best prop master in Girdlegard; allow yourselves to be spirited away to a world where the sun always shines!”
The man took a sip from his hip flask, seized his torch, and sent a tongue of fire crackling over the townspeople’s heads.
“Mifurdanians, for one orbit only this rare entertainment can be viewed in our magnificent theater for the bargain price of three small coins. Don’t delay a moment longer — we won’t be performing tomorrow if the orcs have their way!” There was scattered laughter from the crowd as he mimed his own beheading. “What are you waiting for, Mifurdanians? Roll up and join the queue!” He motioned to the building behind him. “The players are ready and the spectacle awaits! Leave your worries at the door!”
The townspeople were already streaming through the double doors, glad of the chance to forget their woes.
Tungdil clambered onto the platform. “Excuse me,” he asked the man, “have you seen a fellow who looks a bit like me?”
“Like you?” The man grinned. “You’re not exactly the ordinary type.” He made a show of rolling his eyes and squinting; then his features fell back into place. “Hang on a minute; he wouldn’t be a bit scrawnier, would he? Scrawnier, but with a bushier beard?” Tungdil nodded. “In that case, he’s in the Curiosum already.” Tungdil leaped down from the platform and joined the back of the queue.
He paid for a seat in one of the boxes in order to get a better view. It seemed a strange time for Goïmgar to be cultivating a passion for the arts. Maybe he thinks Bavragor and Boïndil won’t find him if he hides among the crowd.
The auditorium was shaped like a circle with a raised platform at the center, allowing the stage to be seen from every side.
Tungdil noticed that the building was made entirely of wood. The stalls and galleries groaned with the weight of the audience, but the theater bore the strain valiantly.
Perfume and perspiration battled for mastery of Tungdil’s nose. He caught a whiff of petroleum from the lamps in the rafters, the lone source of light in the windowless room. The noise of the chattering spectators made him think of a gaggle of geese.
Tungdil found his seat in a narrow booth with flimsy walls. The hard wooden bench was so low that he had to perch on the backrest and place his feet on the cushions in order to see the stage. Come on, Goïmgar, where are you? he thought impatiently.
His brown eyes searched the audience without discovering the familiar features of the dwarf.
He must be somewhere, he thought. He could only hope that Goïmgar was seated on the other side of the theater, hidden from view by the crimson curtains that were draped around the stage. He waited patiently for the performance to begin.
Suddenly the lights went out and the voices dropped to a whisper. A tense silence descended on the room.
The first soft notes sounded from the orchestra, inviting the spectators to enter
the actors’ world. The musicians, seated in a separate gallery, continued the melody, while a winch squealed into action and the curtain went up on the stage. Tungdil found himself looking at a grassy plateau.
The scenery was so convincing that he almost had to pinch himself. He could practically feel the wind and smell the soil.
Overhead, daylight flooded into the theater as prop hands unveiled the windows in the roof. The glass panels were arranged in such a way that only the stage was illuminated, leaving the wings and the rest of the auditorium shrouded in gloom.
It didn’t matter to Tungdil that the spectators were seated in the shadows: His eyes were accustomed to seeing in the dark. At last he could survey the whole auditorium and continue his hunt for the missing dwarf.
He barely noticed that the performance was underway, having more important things to think about than humans in fancy dress. He scanned the audience attentively, but could see no sign of Goïmgar.
I may as well keep looking outside. He stood up with the intention of leaving and was amazed to see a beige-clad figure on the stage. He froze.
Surely it can’t be… Resting on a rock, delivering a monologue, was an elderly man with a white beard. Lot-Ionan! The fair-haired woman clad in armor, hand resting encouragingly on his shoulder, looked exactly like Andôkai. Tungdil listened to see whether the voices were as he remembered them.
In no time the purpose of his visit was forgotten and he was focused on the plot. The actors were so convincing that he felt as if the real Lot-Ionan and Andôkai were before him, even though he knew that the magus was dead and the mistress of Brandôkai had left Girdlegard forever.
“Come, Lot-Ionan,” said Andôkai, “the time for forbearance is over.”
ENTR’ACTE
We must fight the Perished Land!”
Lot-Ionan sighed. “We can halt its advance, but that is all.” He ran a hand over the lush grass. Barely half a mile away the meadows gave way to a bleak expanse of withered vegetation and gray earth: No living plant could survive within the Perished Land. “It is not in our power to defeat it.”
Andôkai chose not to reply, turning instead to ascend the slope where the other magi were waiting. Lot-Ionan followed, leaning heavily on his staff. At last the six members of the council were assembled on the grassy knoll, looking down on their foes.
A few paces away, the promontory fell away in a sheer cliff. The wind gusted toward them, whipping at their clothing and carrying the foul cries of the invaders to their ears.
Held back by the magic girdle, the beasts were pushing, shoving, snarling, and jostling in their eagerness to breach the unseen barrier and invade the lands beyond.
Seen from above, their massed ranks were a rippling sea of darkness. Orcs toting all kinds of lethal weaponry mingled with hideous trolls, ogres, and other vile beasts, forming a ragged and disorganized force. All had left their homeland north of Girdlegard and swarmed over the Stone Gateway like a plague of locusts, laying waste to towns and villages in an orgy of destruction.
The rulers of men had sent an army to stop them, but the beasts had cut them down. Now only the magi could check the invasion and hold back the Perished Land.
“Let them come to us,” said Andôkai. “Stay your magic until they’re in reach of the village, then attack.”
Maira looked at the buildings below. Nestled at the foot of the mountain, the little wooden huts seemed to be clinging to the hillside for support. “They must be terrified,” she said softly, her voice full of compassion. “How desperate they must feel.”
“Utterly desperate,” agreed Turgur, whose splendid robes were more suited to a banquet than a war. “Which means, of course, they’ll be doubly grateful when we come to their rescue.”
Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty was too busy scanning the enemy ranks to respond. It was exciting to see so many new and unfamiliar creatures, and he was looking forward to learning more about their kind. I’ll spare a few of them and question them later, but I won’t tell the others. They’ll only accuse me of being too lenient with the beasts.
Maira seemed to read his mind. “Every last beast must die, Nudin. We can’t let the Perished Land encroach any farther.”
Nudin nodded, already focused on the battle ahead. Everything hinged on the magi intervening at the critical time. Without his efforts, they would never have discovered the flaw in the girdle: He had used the malachite table to pinpoint the problem and identify a place where they could wait for the beasts and take them unawares.
Just then a loud crackling filled the air. The Perished Land was launching an attack on the girdle and at length it gave way. Snarling and shouting, Tion’s minions charged toward the village, the ogres and trolls outpacing the orcs and the diminutive bögnilim squawking in frustration at the rear.
At once Andôkai summoned a storm, and the sky darkened above the promontory, bright lightning flickering between the roiling clouds. The first volley of bolts shot toward the charging hordes.
That was the signal for the others to join in. Together they unleashed their magic against the forces of the Perished Land.
Orbs of fire soared through the air, wreaking havoc among the troops. The earth gave birth to strange creatures of rock and dust who hurled themselves on the orcs, while the ground opened up, swallowing ogres and trolls.
The assault on the village faltered, then failed. The first to retreat were the short-legged bögnilim, who sought shelter in the Perished Land, little realizing that the destruction of the girdle had laid them open to attack. The magi’s missiles scorched through the ranks of the fleeing creatures, setting them ablaze.
Every effort was made to destroy the beasts entirely, so that nothing could be salvaged by the Perished Land’s dark power. Corpses were consumed by tongues of fire, cremated by lightning, turned to dust, or dashed to pieces against the ground.
Andôkai whipped up a fearsome gust that tore into the last dogged attackers, sweeping them back into the Perished Land. Meanwhile, the other magi were preparing to restore the girdle and make it stronger than before.
With a sweep of his robed arm, Lot-Ionan summoned the waiting apprentices, who hurried over with the malachite table. The six magi joined together for the complex ritual, channeling their energies and harnessing the magic to restore the barrier, thus securing Girdlegard against future attacks. At last it was safe for the villagers to leave their houses and thank their deliverers with waves and cheers.
As for the magi, their relief was tempered by the knowledge that the northern pestilence had spread. The Perished Land had extended south, claiming every inch of territory trodden by Tion’s beasts and advancing as far as the gates of the village, where the new girdle was in place.
Turgur waved back at the devoted crowds. “We should let them thank us in person,” he said. “The simple souls would be delighted to have us in their midst.”
Nudin managed a weary smile. “Do the simple souls need Turgur or does Turgur need the simple souls? Be careful about casting yourself into their adoring arms, fair-faced magus. It’s an awfully long way down.” The others chuckled gently.
“I vote we retire to our tents, recover our strength, and enjoy a glass of wine,” proposed Maira.
“Someone needs to tell the villagers to leave their homes without delay. Next time the Perished Land attacks, they might not be so lucky,” said Nudin. “I’ll take care of it while the rest of you relax.”
Andôkai gave him a hard look, but said nothing.
A narrow path led down from the promontory to the settlement below. On nearing the village, Nudin was showered with gifts of bread, fruit, and wine as the villagers offered him simple tokens of gratitude.
Nudin acknowledged their generosity by stopping and accepting a sip of wine. He lost no time in warning them of the continued threat. “I’ll send some men to help you with the move,” he promised. “We’ll find a safer place for you to make your homes.”
He helped himself to an apple, then made his way back
, skirting the edge of the battlefield without venturing into the Perished Land.
Here and there the ground was still smoldering, the energies unleashed by the magi vaporizing the soil and turning grains of sand to glass. The earth was pocked with craters and furrows and everywhere reeked of death.
The shallow sound of breathing brought him to a sudden halt. He listened, heart pounding, trying to locate the wounded beast. The death rattle sounded again and this time he was able to trace its source.
Gingerly, he stepped over the corpses and poked about in the jumble of body parts until his staff uncovered the injured beast. Lying beneath the vast torso of a troll was a bögnil, unable to free itself from the colossal weight. It looked rather like a stunted orc.
“Don’t be afraid,” Nudin reassured it in the language of Tion’s beasts. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The bögnil stuck out its tongue and fumbled for its sword.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” said the magus. “I’ll get you out of your predicament, but only if you answer my questions. I want to know about your species: where you come from, what kind of society you live in, and how you employ your time when you’re not invading Girdlegard.” He produced a roll of parchment and an inkpot from his satchel. “Remember: I have the power to ensure that you speak nothing but the truth.” The creature stared back at him with soulless eyes and blinked in confusion. It didn’t know what to make of the crazy stranger who was proposing something more complicated than rescue or death. It still hadn’t responded when a long black arrow bored through its throat and pinned it to the troll.
“Andôkai?” Nudin wheeled round and blanched. Even a confrontation with the tempestuous maga would be preferable to this. He watched in horror as four älfar slipped through the magic girdle, effortlessly breaching the unseen barrier. The lead älf set another arrow to his string and leveled the bow at Nudin.
Just you try it! Nudin’s hastily conjured charm stopped the quivering arrow in midflight and sent it speeding back toward the archer. A look of panic crossed the creature’s dark eyes in the instant before he died.