by Markus Heitz
On the Black Abyss road there was a wagon train approaching, a few miles distant still. White pennants fluttered in the cold north wind. No one walking along the road would be aware of the numerous traps the Thirdlings had constructed. Pits were concealed under the road’s surface that could be activated by a system of ropes and pulleys from inside the fortress. Every single patch of stone or earth around the entrance could bring instant death without the dwarves’ having to employ their catapults, spear-slingers and crossbows.
“Elves,” said Hargorin Deathbringer of the clan of the Stone Crushers. He was ruler of the Thirdling dwarves—the best warriors among the Children of the Smith. In earlier times the Thirdlings had waged war against all the other dwarves but Hargorin had declared the feud ended. Rising to his full height, he stood broader than any other dwarf. “They’ll be here in less than an eighth of an orbit.”
“Do you know the High King’s view?” Rognor turned to him, revealing the tattooed side of his face with its decorative black runes. His smartly-trimmed beard was dyed dark blue.
Both dwarves wore chainmail with reinforced shoulder pieces that had spikes attached. They had short blades in their forearm protectors and they wore the traditional Thirdling skirt of iron platelets to protect the hip and thigh area. A black cloak was a defence against the wind.
“Boïndil will have his reasons for the order.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
Hargorin growled under his breath and did not answer immediately. He was struggling with conflicting arguments and emotions.
One cycle ago the whole of Girdlegard had Hargorin down as the worst possible traitor because he had collaborated with the älfar and collected taxes for them. And had killed for them.
But it turned out that he had been working in secret against the Thirdlings, planning their fall, in spite of all the horrific acts he and his Black Squadron had committed. When Tungdil Goldhand emerged from the Black Abyss, Hargorin was able to drop his mask and turn the hated Black Squadron into an indispensable unit for the fight against the älfar occupying force.
Hargorin kept his eyes fixed on the approaching wagons. He had never reproached himself over his previous deeds; he put up with the abuse and accusations heaped on him by the humans. He had paid his debt by riding against evil in the battle. The Thirdlings, too, had to make sacrifices. Great sacrifices.
The wind started to turn, bringing strains of music from drums and stringed instruments. The elves seemed to be in festive mood.
“They are coming to the land of their creator,” said Hargorin, the breeze playing with the red hair of his beard as if it were grass. “Let’s see what they do.” Then he reached into the folds of his black cloak.
To Rognor’s surprise his hand came out again with a small vraccasium box etched with dwarf runes.
Each of the dwarf tribes, as well as the Freelings, had been given just such a precious casket; it contained some of Tungdil Goldhand’s ashes. It was a relic of the last High King, the greatest hero Girdlegard had ever known.
“I saw him, Rognor.” Hargorin sounded thoughtful. “He was there at my feet, cut down by the very weapon that once brought him victory.” He clapped his hand against his breast. “Keenfire was here at my breast and the diamonds were glowing. That meant the axe sensed the presence of an evil that had to be destroyed.”
“Or at least that evil was nigh.” Rognor was well aware of the various versions doing the rounds about why Keenfire had turned on its previous owner. “Are you saying you believe Boïndil?”
“I’m saying I can’t with any certainty exclude the possibility that Goldhand is still alive.” The red-haired broad-shouldered dwarf opened up the lid of the box.
The wind caught the contents and wafted a breath of the ashes into the air. The small grey cloud rose and disappeared.
“We may be making a big mistake if we’re not careful. Perhaps the hero needs our help to escape from the realm of demons where he’s imprisoned.”
“Could be a trick, though. A trap for our best fighters.”
“I knew you’d throw that one in.”
Rognor gave a hollow laugh. “I am your chancellor, advisor and friend. How can I hold my peace?”
“But what do you really believe?” Hargorin looked him in the eyes. “What does your heart say, Rognor Mortalblow? Could it be true?”
The grey-haired dwarf sighed and did not answer.
“I can’t rule out the possibility that it might be bogus,” the Thirdlings’ king went on. “So I’ve no choice in the circumstances: I must go myself to check it out.”
“You?” Rognor grasped his arm. “Have you lost your mind?” Consternation caused the tattoos on his face to form dark islands. “You are our ruler!”
Hargorin laughed. “But they thought you were their king. For many cycles, at that.”
“Because in secret I was carrying out your orders.” Rognor was incensed. “Why not send Jarkalín Blackfist? He was with the Black Squadron and obeys …”
Hargorin removed his friend’s hand gently. “Tungdil is a Thirdling. A dwarf of our own tribe. And I have only been elected king because he is not here. There could be no better deed than to ride out and fetch our hero home in order that he may take my place.”
“So what was it that died at the Black Abyss?” Rognor was not giving in easily. “If it wasn’t Tungdil, who sent him to us to fight against evil?”
“Maybe it was Vraccas? Or perhaps even evil itself, to drag us to our ruin, but the demonic plan failed?” Hargorin clapped him on the chest. “Be my deputy again, Rognor. You are my chancellor and will have all the authorities you need.”
“Get Boïndil to show you the message again …”
“The Thirdlings trust you. And that is why you will lead them while I’m searching for Goldhand.” This time Hargorin’s interruption sounded sharper. “Senseless to debate it further.”
“Yes, my king.” Rognor knew when it was time to keep silent.
“Officially, I shall be going on a visit to the Fourthlings. A friendly visit,” Hargorin continued. “Nobody must find out where I’m really going.”
“What will you do if you’re found out? I don’t suppose the elves will let a handful of dwarves search for the entrance to the breeding-ground of darkness in their realm, when they’ve just filled it all in.” Rognor diverted his attention to the practicalities, seeing as how he was not going to change the king’s mind about going in person. The tattoos on his face resumed their normal format.
“The elves won’t stop me.” Hargorin said nothing more. But the words he spoke made clear how intent he was on this mission to help Tungdil.
“You’d risk a skirmish, risk even a war, with the pointy- ears?”
“It won’t go that far.” Hargorin glanced at the wagon train as it made its way up the road; the music and singing were louder now. “The elves have changed. I’m positive they’ll let us pass. Maybe a few of them will come along with us. It’s in their interest, too, to have the great hero back in Girdlegard. We are not safe yet, despite having swept the evil out of our lands.” He cast his eyes on the north for a number of heartbeats, dwelling on the mighty peaks where ice, snow and glaciers held sway. “Something tells me we’re not out of the woods yet, old friend. We’ll be needing a true leader. One of a kind.”
He opened the casket lid to its full extent.
The mountain wind snatched the remaining ashes and scattered them to the cool air. Nothing was left but a grey veil on the battlement wall that resisted the wind. But it, too, surrendered at last.
Rognor clenched his jaw. Throwing away the ashes said more than words could have done.
Standing together, they waited until the elves’ train had arrived within hailing distance of the entrance. The two dwarves were lowered down on the lift platform that was operated by a series of pulleys and counterweights.
Once on the ground, Hargorin warned the guards to be ready to close the gate at his signal. Then he and Rognor
stepped out onto the open area in front of the fortress to greet the new arrivals and tell them what the High King had decreed.
There were about a hundred elves in the convoy. A third of them appeared to be soldiers and the rest were women and children of various ages. They drew nearer with their twenty wagons and thirty exquisite horses.
Their music was not to Rognor’s taste. The high notes produced by the harp and the stringed instruments hurt his ears.
“Maybe they could be taught to play something different?” he grunted to Hargorin.
“They’re not going to take to our drinking songs, are they?” Grinning, the king stepped forward, while from the other side, one rider galloped up.
The elf was wearing light leather armour dyed white, with a mantle over it that seemed to Rognor to be unnecessarily thick. If they’re feeling the cold now, what’ll happen when winter kicks in here in the mountains? Freeze to death?
The elf drew up in front of the dwarves and sprang from the saddle before his white stallion had even come to a complete halt. He bowed his head.
“My greetings, Lords of the Mountains,” he said with a soft lilt, using the common language of Girdlegard. “We wish to enter, bringing peace and good intentions. Our destination is the elf realm of landur.”
“To settle there, I assume,” Hargorin added. “Just like the others who came through the gates before you.”
“Indeed.”
The elf smiled warmly at the two dwarves, a smile that was honest and free of arrogance. “My name is Nafinîas and I have my friends and my family with me. We shall live here in Girdlegard and we shall live for Girdlegard, our home. Our goddess summoned us hither.”
An expression of regret spread over Hargorin’s face. “You will have to wait until the sickness is passed, Nafinîas. Or you will enter endingness earlier than you wish.”
“Sickness?” The elf looked shocked. “What is it?”
“Your people are still trying to find out exactly what nature the illness is, but it is thought to have been introduced by the älfar with the aim of wiping out the entire elf race,” Hargorin explained. It sounded true enough. “They must have laid poison in their city of Dsôn Bhará before they abandoned it; they must have realised the elves would come.”
Rognor nodded silently to indicate the veracity of the story. He did not think the elves presented any danger, and thus he could remain relaxed. He kept his hands away from the grip of his war club.
Nafinîas turned to the convoy, calling them to a halt. Animated talk ensued.
Then the elf addressed Hargorin once more. “My people and I are of one mind: let us pass regardless of this sickness. We are skilled healers and have much experience in diagnosing different illnesses and soothing symptoms.”
Rognor’s lips narrowed to a line.
“There is an order in place for the protection of all. No further immigration is permitted until the source of the infection has been located and dealt with,” said Hargorin firmly.
“Who gave the order?” Nafinîas wanted to know.
“The order came from my High King.”
“He isn’t my High King!”
“But this”—Hargorin indicated the impressive fortress—“is definitely my gate. So I am afraid you will have to do as I say. It is the will of our High King. It is for your own good.”
“You’d like us to withdraw and wait for more of my people to die?” Nafinîas looked at him in outrage. “What would you do if you knew dwarves were dying and that you had it in your power to help them?”
Rognor quite understood why the elf was indignant at being refused entry. It seemed they would not turn back on hearing about a fatal illness affecting elves. The ploy was not working.
Hargorin pointed to the road behind them. “If you turn your convoy around you’ll soon be …”
Nafinîas took a step towards the king. “We shall only comply if my ruler commands us to turn back.”
“But entering a land where your lives are at risk? Doesn’t sound like a sensible course of action,” Rognor interrupted impatiently. He realised he had been rude. “Forgive the harshness of my words. It was not my intention to insult you.”
Nafinîas looked at him and then faced Hargorin once more. “Let me pass, dwarf.”
The king shook his head and raised his hand in the air, pointing to the east. “That way. Two orbits’ journey. I can provide you with food if your rations are not sufficient.”
The elf studied the two dwarves. “Since when does the High King of the dwarves show himself so considerate of us?”
“There is a new pact of friendship between the races,” Hargorin replied calmly. “Every life counts. Especially a life that is supposed to be eternal.”
Nafinîas indicated the convoy. “We are not the last ones. Over four thousand elves will be following us. They, too, will want to enter. They will arrive in half a cycle’s time.”
“Pray to Sitalia that she may help Ilahín conquer the plague by then and we will be glad to welcome you through to Girdlegard.” The king’s voice took on a more authoritative note. “Turn around, Nafinîas, and do not cloak me with guilt for the plague that has struck your people.”
“I shall leave.” Nafinîas mounted his horse. “I shall leave as soon as I have a letter from my king in my hands confirming what you say. If he sends me away, we shall withdraw from the gate without delay.” He called out a series of commands and the band of elves started to move the wagons and horses to the side of the road. “Until then we wait here.”
Hargorin lowered his head. “That is not possible, elf. The plain is of strategic importance for my fortress. If an attack were to come, I would need to react without compunction.”
“We will encamp here at our own risk,” the elf replied. “Regard us as your spies, as your vanguard, the first line of defence. Send a messenger to landur and ask for a letter from my ruler. Not from Ilahín.”
“I cannot permit that,” Hargorin was angry. “You must—”
“We are both in an unenviable position,” said Nafinîas from the saddle. “You are under strict orders from your own High King and I am asking for a confirmation order from mine. This is only fair.”
“You are right,” Rognor agreed, trying to lift the tense atmosphere. “We shall send a messenger. It will take some time.”
“We have plenty of time.” Nafinîas gave a forced smile. “Meanwhile, enjoy the fact that your fortress now has its own crack unit of elf-warriors at the gate. This must be a first.” He gave a curt nod and returned to the wagon train, which was forming a defensive circle, preparing to set up camp.
“There’s one problem with Boïndil’s plan,” murmured Hargorin. “It doesn’t work.”
“In their place we would do the same.” Rognor looked at the defences, calculating probabilities. “We wouldn’t just go away. We’d try to get over or round the obstacle. Straightaway. Or when we’d had enough of all the waiting around.” He looked his red-haired king straight in the eyes. “What do you reckon? How long would an elf stay patient, thinking that his people are dying in droves on the other side of the mountains?”
Hargorin uttered an oath and turned to go back through the entrance. “Boïndil must be told about the obstinacy of these pointy-ears.” Then he stopped short. “Isn’t Ilahín their king and his wife their queen?”
This was bothering Rognor, too. “It seems there’ve been some changes for the elves.” He threw his head back to watch a flock of birds rounding the mountain peaks. “How would Nafinîas know about that?”
“So how are we supposed to know what name to put on our fake letter, you mean?” Hargorin corrected him.
“Know anyone that can do elfish?” Rognor suppressed a laugh. Everything was a mess, perhaps, but the situation still had its funny side: a load of pointy-ears settling down to defend a dwarf fortress.
“We’ll find someone.” Hargorin strode through the open gateway. “Or Vraccas will send you inspiration while I’m gone.”
>
Rognor’s mood plummeted. “Send me inspiration?” I’d prefer Lorimbur’s help. But he did not dare voice his thoughts. Hargorin had showed himself to be a true follower of the divine Smith, while his chancellor clung to the old ideas. Like most did.
“Exactly. I’ll be busy. I’ve got a hero to rescue.” The king pointed out at the plain. “Mind the pointy-ears don’t start to pile up while I’m away.” He turned left into the courtyard where the tunnel entrance was. “I have every confidence in you, Chancellor.”
“Of course, my king.” Rognor stayed put, his thumbs jammed in his belt.
Elf melodies reached his ear on the wind and the dwarf gave a shudder.
Can’t put up with much more of that. They’ll have to go.
There’s good beer and there’s bad beer. They’re both good. You drink the good stuff and drown orcs in the bad stuff.
Dwarf saying
IV
Girdlegard
United Kingdom of Gauragar-Idoslane
Gauragar
6492nd solar cycle, summer
And I thought my travelling and waiting days were over. Ireheart sat under the way-station porch sweating away and cursing the sun that was doing its level best to get the crops ripe for harvest. He had placed a wet rag on his head. Occasionally he’d waft it around in the air to cool it before putting it back on his forehead. He was starting to appreciate the cold beer from the ice cellar.
He had been writing a letter to his family in the Blue Mountains so they would not be concerned at his prolonged absence. His return was long overdue. Goda would be coping splendidly with the day-to-day business of ruling the country—bringing about improvements and getting the repair work done on the fortresses—but he didn’t want her distracted by worrying about him.
The tavern lad brought him a fresh beer.