by Markus Heitz
“Don’t forget Balyndis,” Tungdil reminded him.
“Who?”
“Our new smith.”
“A woman?”
“You sound as enthusiastic as Bavragor.”
“I’ve got nothing against women, don’t get me wrong. I like a nice well-built lass with plump cheeks and big bosoms, a real woman who you can hold on to and warm yourself against, but —”
“Come on, Boïndil, you know as well as I do that some of the secondling women are excellent smiths. They can be handy on the battlefield as well. Smeralda could fight like a —” He checked himself. Blast.
Boïndil stiffened at the mention of his dead lover’s name. “Fine, we’ll take the woman. If you’ll excuse me, I’m tired.” He disappeared along the passageway in the direction of his chamber.
Tungdil watched him go. That was stupid, he remonstrated with himself. I need to watch what I say.
“I’m no stranger to the smithy, believe me,” said a high-pitched voice behind him. He whipped round in surprise. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Balyndis was still dressed in her mail, and her long dark hair framed her rounded face. “I wanted to tell you that it’s an honor to be chosen for your mission.”
His heart gave a little leap. He was so taken with the idea of traveling through Girdlegard in the company of the female smith that he almost forgot his worries about the twins. He gazed into her brown eyes, unable to say a single word.
“I can handle an ax as well as a hammer, you know.”
Tungdil smiled weakly, still incapable of summoning his voice.
Balyndis didn’t know what to make of his silence. “If you don’t believe me, I can show you.”
“Vraccas forbid!” he cried, raising his arms hurriedly. “I believe you, absolutely. I daresay that women are good at fighting too.”
The new smith seemed to take offense at his words. “In that case, Tungdil, I insist,” she said, reaching for her ax.
Tungdil’s eyes were drawn to the formidable muscles in her arms and chest. “Honestly, Balyndis, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, trying desperately to repair the damage. “I was worried you might get hurt.”
“I see. So you think you can hurt me, do you?”
I wish she’d stop twisting everything I say! “Of course not,” he explained hurriedly while Balyndis hefted her ax belligerently and took a few experimental swipes. “Not unless you weren’t paying attention. Really, Balyndis, there’s no need to prove anything. I believe you!”
“Well, I don’t!” boomed a baritone voice. Bavragor stepped up to the smith, his war hammer at the ready. “It’s bad enough that Goïmgar fights like a girl. The firstling must prove that she won’t be a burden.”
She squared her shoulders menacingly. “For that, mason, your one eye will soon be seeing stars.” Already the war hammer and the ax were hurtling toward each other, and Tungdil barely succeeded in leaping clear.
The weapons collided forcefully. It was clear from Bavragor’s grunts that he was impressed, but he soon got into difficulties, having failed to allow for Balyndis’s strength and speed. By lunging at him from his blind side, she kept forcing him to turn his head. He was so intent on parrying her blade that he didn’t notice when she raised her ax suddenly and whacked him on the head. He took a few dazed steps backward and slumped against the wall.
For a moment he looked at the grinning Balyndis in astonishment, then slowly raised his hand and felt his head. His shoulders shook slightly, rising and falling with increasing rapidity until he was roaring with laughter, the passageways echoing with his mirth.
“No one could say I didn’t deserve it,” he said, still chuckling as he clambered to his feet and extended a rough, calloused hand, which she gladly shook. “You’re a fine lass, all right. There’s no messing with you.”
“Thank goodness we’ve cleared that up,” Tungdil broke in, thankful to have been spared the ordeal. He nodded to Balyndis. “I think everyone agrees that you’re an excellent fighter, so maybe we could go to bed and get some sleep before our early start.”
The firstling smiled and was about to retire when Bavragor hauled her back. “I’ve got a better idea. How about taking me to the Red Range’s finest tavern so I can taste a draft of your firstling beer? There’ll be a song in it for you,” he promised. Balyndis didn’t need further persuasion and the two of them started down the corridor.
“Aren’t you coming, Tungdil?” she shouted as they rounded the corner.
“He’s our leader, remember! He’s got maps to read, tunnels to check… Of course he’s not coming!” said Bavragor, only half joking.
“Don’t overdo it,” Tungdil warned them. “Those tunnels have got lots of sharp curves!” He saw them off with a wave and retired to his chamber to ponder the events of the orbit. No matter how tempting it was, he knew it wouldn’t be wise to fall for Balyndis; the mission required his full attention.
Inside his chamber, the light from the lone oil lamp steeped the polished walls in a gentle glow. It was the perfect ambience for relaxing before the big journey.
“Tungdil?”
He swung round to confront the voice behind him. Ax at the ready, he peered warily into the shadows by the door. “Narmora? Is that you?”
The actress was wearing her black leather armor and exuded a vague air of menace. For some reason Tungdil found himself thinking of Sinthoras.
He kept hold of his ax, his secret antipathy toward the woman growing all the time. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. She’s an ordinary woman. “What can I do for you?” he asked, trying to smile convincingly.
“Remember what Andôkai said about wielding the ax,” she said hesitantly.
“Keenfire must be wielded by the undergroundlings’ foe. Do you have a suggestion?” he said, perking up.
“What about the älfar?” she said cautiously. “The älfar are your enemies, right?”
“Real älfar are our enemies,” he corrected her. “Actresses won’t do, but it’s kind of you all the same.”
She pulled off her head scarf, revealing two pointed ears.
Tungdil took a step backward and tightened his grip on the ax. Long moments of horrified silence passed. “But that’s not… I mean, y-you can’t be an älf…” he stuttered. Then he laughed out loud in relief. “You almost had me going there, but I know your eyes don’t look black in the light!”
Narmora stretched a hand toward the lamp, turned her palm to the ceiling, and muttered unintelligible words. The flame dwindled until there was nothing but a smoldering wick.
She must know some trick. Alchemy or… He stared at the candle in amazement, then turned to Narmora and discovered she was gone. “Narmora?”
Suddenly she loomed behind him. “Half human, half älf,” a voice whispered in his ear. “I inherited my mother’s gifts and her weapons. My father left me little of value, but his eyes are a boon.” The next moment her menacing air was gone. She went over to the lamp and restored the flame by blowing on it gently. “I’m sorry I scared you. Do you believe me now?”
Tungdil composed himself. That explains why I’ve never really taken to her. “I certainly do,” he said with a vigorous nod. “I think you’ve solved the dilemma as to who should wield Keenfire.” He looked at Narmora with new respect. “It can’t have been easy for you to tell me — but it’s nothing compared to the challenge ahead.”
“I can’t see any other solution,” she said simply, her savagery and malevolence suddenly gone. “It’s not as though we could ask an orc or a real älf.” She stroked the hafts of her weapons. “I’ve never really fought with an ax. The magus won’t have much to fear from Keenfire unless you drill me in axmanship first.”
“We’ll have to tell the others, you know.”
Narmora considered. “Yes, I suppose so — although I don’t know how they’ll react.” It was clear she was thinking primarily of Boïndil.
Tungdil smiled encouragingly. “It’s nothing to worry about,
I promise.”
She smiled roguishly, and for a moment there was something älflike about her after all.
On receiving Tungdil’s summons, the rest of the company hurried to his chamber, where he told them of the turn of events. “Which means we’ll be able to defeat the magus after all,” he finished, waiting anxiously for their reaction.
“Strictly speaking, I ought to kill her,” Ireheart said slowly. He showed no sign of making good on the threat.
“Strictly speaking,” Tungdil corrected him, “you ought to kill half of her, but which half would that be? Is the left side human and the right side älf, or the other way round? What if it’s top and bottom?” He sighed. “Seeing as she’s agreed to save Girdlegard, I think Vraccas will let us spare her. There’s no other way.”
Furgas was hugging the half älf and looked worried, which seemed natural to Tungdil, who realized what a risk Narmora was taking in pitting herself against such a formidable foe.
“Furgas and Rodario will stay here in the firstling stronghold until we —”
“She’s not going without me,” the prop master said flatly. “Besides, someone with my technical ability would be an asset.”
“And you’re bound to need a first-rate impresario,” added Rodario. A moment later, it occurred to him that the company had no obvious use for his talents, so he settled for looking handsome and putting on a winning smile.
“He’s right, you know,” said Boïndil unexpectedly. “The enemy won’t be able to concentrate with his incessant jawing.”
The other dwarves smiled, save for Goïmgar, who seethed quietly in the corner until he finally erupted. “Gandogar is in the Gray Range already,” he hissed. “He’ll be the one to forge Keenfire, just wait and see! You’ll never be made high king.” He looked scornfully at Narmora. “I don’t know what you’re relying on her for. She’s only half an älf.” He flounced to the door and stormed out.
“Fine,” said Bavragor, breaking the strained silence. “Narmora can half kill Nôd’onn, and we’ll do the rest.” Whipping out a tankard that he had smuggled from the tavern, he took a long sip.
The tension dissolved and they laughed in relief.
The following morning Queen Xamtys and her entourage of chieftains and elders accompanied Tungdil and the others over the shimmering bridges and deep into the stronghold’s passageways and galleries that reminded the secondlings of home.
Bavragor kept stopping to inspect the masonry, tapping on the walls, running his fingers over the stone, and stamping critically on the floor. “It’s certainly not superior,” he said with unusual diplomacy, “but it’s still very good.”
At length they came to a vast steel door inlaid with runes of glittering gold. The queen recited the formula and they entered a chamber whose every detail Tungdil recognized from its counterpart in Ogre’s Death. At the center of the room were eight rails, and around them a jumble of vats, pulleys, and gears. The engineers soon got the machinery going, and the air filled with hissing, steaming, and rattling, not to mention a smell of hot metal and grease.
“You’ve taken good care of the equipment,” observed Furgas. “No rust, no dust. You could have been out of here in minutes, whenever you decided to go.”
“I should have done this cycles ago,” Xamtys said regretfully. She gave instructions for two convoys to be made ready for departure — the first for her own delegation, and the other for Tungdil and his friends.
Djerůn had made a full recovery and was allocated a carriage of his own. The firstlings had repaired his armor overnight and it looked almost as good as new. Owing to his great height, they decided to remove the seats from the wagon so he could lie down on the floor. That way he wouldn’t run the risk of beheading himself if the height of the tunnel changed.
The rest of the company were spread over two wagons: the five dwarves and the ingots in one, and Andôkai, the players, and the gems in the other.
She looks tired, thought Tungdil. He went up to the maga. “How are you feeling? You said yesterday that you were nearing the end of your strength.”
Andôkai tied her blond hair with a strip of leather to stop it from blowing in her eyes during the blustery ride. “Are you prepared for the truth?”
“You don’t have to lie to me.”
She sat down on the side of one of the wagons and watched the bustle. “My magic will soon be exhausted. Unless we pass through a force field, I won’t be able to replenish my stores.”
“Is that why wizards like to keep to their realms?”
Her eyes settled on Tungdil’s bearded face. “Yes, it’s our secret weakness. As you’ve seen, we can still use our magic outside the enchanted realms, but we can’t store it effectively. Straying from the force fields turns us into leaky pouches that lose their contents even when they’re not in use. It takes only a powerful charm or two, and our energy is spent.” She glanced at Djerůn. “I don’t like the idea of being defenseless when my magic runs out. That’s why I learned to fight and why I always keep Djerůn with me.”
Tungdil thought for a moment. “Maybe we could see to it that Nôd’onn runs out of magic too.”
She shook her head. “The spirit inside him has lent him extraordinary powers. I’m sure it won’t work.”
The dwarf caught sight of Narmora and remembered her trick with the lamp. “Narmora can use magic, can’t she?”
“Not exactly. I don’t know much about the älfar, but they don’t use real magic. It’s more a case of innate abilities: the power to conjure up darkness, extinguish fire, influence dreams — small things that strike fear into human hearts and add to the älfar’s aura of power.”
“But things have changed, haven’t they? Sinthoras broke through your magic shield.”
“That was cunning, not magic. Remember how the älfar in the desert warded off my magic with amulets? The amulets were a present from Nôd’onn to protect them from the magi. Sinthoras tied his to an arrow and broke my spell.” Andôkai rose. “We may as well get going.” Their vehicles were ready, and the queen’s wagon had been lowered onto its rail. “You mustn’t rely on my intervention, Tungdil. I need to conserve my strength.”
“I’ll tell the others,” he promised. Don’t you worry, Keenfire will be forged, with or without your magic, he added silently to himself.
They joined Xamtys at the top of the ramps. The queen was studying a map. “I can’t wait to find out what it’s like in the tunnels,” she said excitedly, stroking her downy cheeks. “Just think of the looks on their faces when I arrive; those menfolk won’t know what’s hit them.” She jumped into the wagon and released the brakes. “Fashion Keenfire and make haste for the secondling kingdom. We’ll be waiting for you.” The wagon rolled away and vanished through the mouth of the tunnel. “May Vraccas be with you!”
“And with you!” Tungdil called after her. He climbed up the next ramp and took his seat in the wagon. The map of the tunnels, given to him by the queen, was tucked safely beneath his chain mail. Boïndil took his place next to him, while Bavragor and Balyndis sat together, laughing and joking, on the bench behind.
“Keep it down, can’t you?” Boïndil said crossly. Leaving without his brother made him irritable and uneasy, and he felt thoroughly out of sorts.
Rodario made a few scribbled notes, then replaced the cork on his inkwell. He took particular care to seal the bottle tightly so as not to spill its recently thawed contents all over his clothes. “My, my,” he said excitedly, “what an adventure! We should build a contraption like this for our theater. The audience could experience for themselves the thrill of traveling through a tunnel like the heroes of our piece.”
“It’s not an adventure and it won’t be thrilling,” Goïmgar contradicted him. “Just wait: Your stomach will turn somersaults, your beard will blow in your face, and you’ll want to be sick.”
“It can’t be that bad,” the player said blithely. He fastened the safety rope around his waist. “I’m not as soft as you think.”
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The wagon reached the end of the ramp and plummeted almost vertically into the tunnel. At that moment Rodario emitted a terrified scream, closing his mouth only when he felt an uncontrollable urge to vomit. For the first time in ages, Goïmgar looked genuinely pleased.
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
Balendilín was in his chamber, ax in hand. He raised it tentatively and took a few practice swipes to check if he could swing it one-handed.
“There’s more of them coming, Your Majesty,” came an anxious shout from outside. “You ought to see for yourself.”
Anyone would think Bislipur’s warmongering had lured them to our gates, he thought darkly, leaving his chamber and striding past row upon row of grim-faced warriors until he reached the highest battlements of Ogre’s Death and surveyed the land below.
The enemy was everywhere. Black figures, some larger than others, were milling about on the ground, and the air reeked of rancid fat. An unwholesome stench of orcs wafted over from their encampment a mile from the gates where they were preparing to attack. The muffled sound of their shouts reached the battlements.
In the distance, gigantic wooden siege engines, each forty or more paces in height, were rolling toward the stronghold. They’ll be over the first rampart in no time with the help of those things.
To the dwarf’s eyes, the contraptions looked crooked and ungainly, but the beasts cared nothing for the engines’ durability or elegance, provided that they fulfilled their purpose, which was to breach the outer defenses so the real invasion could begin. The timber towers had been draped with human skin to protect against firebombs, and the orcs intended to keep them watered for the duration of the assault.
“I didn’t expect them to attack so soon,” said Bislipur, joining him on the battlements and looking down at the hordes. Dressed in full armor, he looked every bit the dwarven warrior. “There must be ten thousand of them at least. What a blessing I’d already sent word to my kingdom and summoned our troops.” He waited for a word of praise, but none came.