by Markus Heitz
He felt a lump in his throat and his emotions were in upheaval. He was faced with a brick wall that Balyndis had constructed round herself. “I know we have a son,” he said quietly. “Permit me to see him and to spend time with him.”
Her smile was amicable but rejecting. “He is a veteran warrior in his own right, commanding troops at the Stone Gateway. He bears the Keenfire weapon and so continues your work. He is no longer in need of a guiding hand from you.”
Tungdil was at a loss. The clever words he had prepared dissolved in the chaos swirling in his soul. But the certainty remained: he loved Balyndis. Sincerely loved her. It must be too soon to tell her. The dwarf-woman looked at one of the rings she wore on both hands. She pulled the largest of them off her finger and held it in front of his face. It was made of vraccasium and bore the symbol of the Divine Smith.
“Take this ring as a talisman. Bring it back to me and I shall allow you one visit to me in the Grey Mountains. We will have a meal together and I will invite Balyndar to be there.” She dropped the ring and he caught it adroitly. Balyndis turned aside and her white fur coat swung round with her.
Tungdil clasped the ring tight in his fist and watched her walk away. That was more than I could have hoped for. He tried it and found it would fit on the little finger of his right hand. It was still warm from hers.
He had deliberately not referred to the orders she had given. The whole of Girdlegard should believe that he and a small troop were to leave via the Grey Mountains, even though Tungdil and Hargorin had made a different plan that they thought was more promising.
Gosalyn still had the notes her friend Belogar had made about the abandoned settlement where Sha’taï had hidden from her Outer Land pursuers. Belogar had overseen the subsequent demolition work to destroy any trace of the tracks the girl had used to get to Girdlegard. These maps and notes were exactly what Tungdil intended to employ when the retinue departed the homeland.
We’ll be taking almost the identical route that Sha’taï came in by. He thought it probable that in this way, they might find their evil enemy or hints to its whereabouts and be able to destroy it. A bold and hazardous undertaking. He turned his brown-eyed gaze to the window and the snowflakes falling outside. Travelling in winter through a desert of ice, rock and snow.
He caressed the ring. There could be no greater incentive to survive the expedition. The gods would decide what happened at the promised meal. He knew what he wanted. He made his way through the various corridors and stairwells to his own quarters and went to bed. He half-heard the uproar elsewhere in the building but paid no heed. Others would have to deal with whatever it was.
A hero once more? he wondered.
This time, he hoped, it would not be another two hundred and fifty cycles before he returned.
The Triplets had placed him under their perfidious protection but not in order to keep him safe in the Black Abyss.
They played the game the älfar are best at: they exerted influence on him, shaped him according to their will. They possessed knowledge of potions and magic known otherwise to none.
Not even in the Outer Lands.
The Triplets were able to guide the will of the Hero, just as a rider controls his night-mare.
Secret notes for
The Writings of Truth
written under duress by Carmondai
XX
Somewhere in the Grey Mountains
6492nd solar cycle, winter
“What did you say?” Tungdil shouted against the wind. Gosalyn’s words were impossible to understand from beneath the layers of material covering her mouth. And he, Tungdil, had a thick fur hood pulled up over his head to protect against frostbite.
The two of them were followed by a select band of bold warriors representing the Freelings and each of the dwarf tribes. They were roped together in case one should slip and take a disastrous fall. The lead soldier fastened a metal staple into the rock and the last man removed it to ensure they left no obvious trace.
“I said, Belogar was thorough!” she said, speaking as loudly as she could, indicating the map in her hands and then pointing ahead. “It’s all gone.”
Tungdil saw the artificially formed fissures. If there had ever been a track here, or a path, it had been torn away and demolished with pickaxe and crowbar, hammer and chisel, leaving in its place smooth slopes that only a bird could traverse.
“No chance. We’ll never get through,” he yelled back.
“No.” Gosalyn pointed east to a wide expanse of snow leading to one of the peaks. Immediately below there was a sheltered ledge. “That way.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“It’s marked as a maintenance area,” she shouted back, her finger on a dotted line on the chart. “Good for spying from. But to get there we have to cross a bridge as narrow as a dagger blade. Follow my footsteps.”
They secured the rope anew, then Gosalyn changed direction, eyes firmly fixed on the ground at her feet. Tungdil followed hard on her heels and they moved off to the right, this time without setting pitons—they would not have been possible in the snow.
The last snow had fallen long ago but the wind was merciless, freezing even objects that contained no moisture. The cloudless skies helped temperatures plunge. Their fur coats were as stiff as frozen boards and the rope joining them together was like a wire. If anything metal touched rock, pieces of iron would break off or fracture—material that normally withstood tremendous impacts in battle.
Even without direct sunshine, the old snow was dazzling in its intensity, which was why the dwarves were wearing masks with narrow slits for the eyes. This did not make the climb any easier.
We’d have made little progress without Gosalyn’s help. Tungdil was grateful Vraccas had sent her, along with her dead friend’s detailed notes. From time to time he gave a backward glance to see if anyone was struggling. I’d rather take more rest breaks than lose anyone to exhaustion.
The column of dwarves trudged on, determined and silent, saving their breath for the climb. The altitude was challenging. Not all the dwarves were mountain-bred, used to breathing thin air. Tungdil was one of those having difficulty breathing. Occasionally he felt faint and his vision would blur. He was plagued with a constant headache. He grabbed a handful of snow, pushed his scarf up and sucked at the icy lump.
“How far?” he bellowed at Gosalyn’s back.
She stretched out one finger but did not raise her head. One mile. An eternity. Tungdil had done longer marches in the chasms of Phondrasôn but heat and humidity were as nothing compared with this deadly chill and depleted air.
They had made good progress since their departure thirty orbits previously. They had passed the deserted settlement where the Fifthlings had set up a fort in case an army of beasts should attempt attack. The orcs can’t take this climate. The paths are dangerous. Not even mountain goats like it up here.
Feeling giddy, Tungdil forced himself to concentrate on each step he took, but he still managed to miss Gosalyn’s footprints.
Nothing untoward happened at first. The snow under his left foot crunched just like before—but there was an additional sound. Like ice breaking. Gosalyn stopped and looked back to the column. “Stop where you are!” she yelled in warning. “Nobody move!”
The sheet of snow to their left started to show long cracks, reaching as far as Tungdil could see through his snow-blindness protection, and then it plummeted down. A flurry of snow enveloped them in a glittering cloud of crystals that bit into their very eyeballs. A gust of wind occasioned by the snow-slip shook Tungdil so that he was forced to take a steadying step to the right, even though there was nothing but a sheer drop down the mountain waiting there as well.
A low growl increased in volume as if they had awakened a thunderstorm directly below them. He could hear shouts behind him and then there was a jerk on the safety rope. Tungdil tried to keep his balance as he glanced back to see what was happening.
The second-to-last fi
gure of their column had fallen and was dangling over the edge, supported by the dwarves immediately behind and in front. But then the weight pulled the last one over, too, and there were two of them hanging in mid-air, swinging over the white abyss.
The rest of the troop shoved their feet as firmly as they could into the snow and held on to their comrades, hoping to save both the hapless victims and the lives of the whole team. Tungdil grabbed hold of the rope and applied his weight to pull on it.
“Pull!” screamed Gosalyn. “But make sure you keep to my footprints! Don’t slide to the right, whatever you do!”
Referring constantly to the chart and checking her route, she moved cautiously forward while the others tried to haul their comrades up. Tungdil could see where she was headed: they were nearly at the narrow rock bridge spanning the ravine, at the bottom of which a mountain torrent ran. Tungdil was surprised the river wasn’t frozen over. White spray rose up in clouds from a waterfall that was partially concealed under a curtain of ice that covered the bridge like a roof. The spray turned to tiny beads of ice cascading down as soon as they found the freezing open air.
He took in all of this within the space of a couple of heartbeats, while still pulling on the rope with all his might. Gosalyn made it to the bridge and he and the rest of team were tugged along behind her.
At that moment one of the rescue team put a foot wrong and missed the safe path. A spectacle of destruction was unleashed. Tungdil stumbled to the right and only a stupendous effort on the part of Hargorin halted his fall. Four dwarves now hung to the right and two to the left of the narrow rock arch.
The King of the Thirdlings felt his arms nearly pulled from their sockets but the artificial limb had twice the strength of a normal leg and he was able to stand his ground. Beligata, standing in front of the red-haired dwarf, paid out more rope and fixed a piton hook into the rock bridge before Tungdil could call out a warning.
The metal clip sat fast and she was able to thread the cord through, but the rock itself reacted with a high-pitched clang. Fracture cracks immediately formed, running along and across. Tungdil could see catastrophe was inevitable, even if the bridge did not collapse with all of them on it. Our mission must not end like this.
“You keep going,” the first of the dwarves to fall called out, his axe at the ready. “Vraccas awaits us.”
“No!” thundered Hargorin, seeing what the consequence would be. “That is the wrong thing to do.”
But it was too late: the fibres of the rope had been severed. The last two in their company plunged into the deep, hitting the water after a long descent.
Elria, have mercy on their souls. Tungdil’s arms were killing him.
But however high-minded the gesture had been, it meant that now there was no counterweight for the four figures dangling on the other side of the bridge. The anchoring hook was slowly being forced out of the stone and the fissures in the bridge grew more threatening.
Groaning, Hargorin threw back his head and then emitted a roar. He was leaning back, almost suspended over the far side of the rock bridge. He was holding the rope with super-dwarf strength, but his leg and the artificial limb were being dragged imperceptibly inch-by-inch closer to the edge.
The four dwarves called up to him but their words were hard to understand. They seemed to be imploring him to cut them free and let them fall.
The pressure was now so great that Beligata, Tungdil and Hargorin all pulled at the same time.
“We’ve got to get everyone off the bridge!” Gosalyn shouted. “It’s going to collapse. The rock won’t hold.”
“I’m not going without these four,” Hargorin replied. “We’ve already lost two. They’re our finest fighters.”
“Cut the rope through or we’ll all die!” Gosalyn called. She had some freedom of movement but could not overtake the three dwarves in order to cut through the rope herself.
“If we reduce the traction, we’ll overbalance and fall with them,” Beligata hissed.
“Throw your axe,” Tungdil demanded, hearing stones break off under his feet. “And quickly!”
Gosalyn took aim and hurled her weapon—but a gust of wind took her by surprise and it was the handle, not the blade of the axe that hit the rope.
Tungdil was about to give the order that his own axe be used, but he recalled that he was alone in not being armed. It had been his intention never to fight again after two hundred and fifty cycles of blood-letting. But my whittling knife. “Attached to my belt, look …”
He fell speechless, then, when he looked ahead and saw a dark-clad älf—unmistakeable in full sun as Inàste’s creature because of his black eyes—rushing over the bridge towards them. He wielded Bloodthirster in his right hand.
How could that be? Ireheart had it last.
“Hargorin, mind out!” Tungdil bellowed.
The dwarves were unable to defend themselves and it was in the älf’s power to destroy them all at one stroke.
The älf delivered the blow.
His blade severed the rope from which the four warriors dangled over the abyss. They fell, screaming, to disappear into the river like the previous two.
Hargorin overbalanced and the älf struck again.
Hargorin was hit on the back with the flat of the blade, sending him back onto the precarious bridge. The attacker grabbed him by the collar and held him fast. “Off you go!” he yelled, pointing the way with Bloodthirster. “This way. Get off the bridge if you want to live!”
Tungdil hesitated—but he was alone in doing so. Hargorin was not bothered that he was faced with an älf; Beligata turned her back on her mortal enemy, as well.
Gosalyn grasped Tungdil by the arm and hauled him along with her. “Come on! You’re blocking their path!” He moved forward, balancing rather than walking, keeping his eyes on safety.
Gosalyn reached solid rock and immediately placed an anchoring hook while Tungdil jumped past her, turning then to see who he could offer a helping hand to.
The bridge crumbled under Beligata’s feet and she and Hargorin were thrown down towards the depths.
Tungdil hurled himself flat and grabbed her arm. “I’ve got you. Hang on!”
She nodded, hiding the terror in her eyes. She seemed convinced she would not have to die. “I’m quite comfortable like this,” she joked.
The älf leaped off the edge, his fingers fastening tight around Deathbringer’s coat. He hauled the dwarf up on to the ledge before sinking down.
“I’ve made the rope fast,” Gosalyn reported, gasping with effort. “We can pull her up.”
Together they heaved Beligata on to the ledge below the towering peak. The wind relented somewhat as soon as the group was reunited on the safe side.
Samusin has got it in for us. Tungdil felt like he was about to pass out, his vision blurring and his breath rasping and rattling as if there were bits of metal in his lungs. “Is that,” he gasped, “is that …?” He was fighting for air.
“It’s Carmondai,” Beligata told him.
“I always wanted to have him along on our expedition,” Hargorin blustered, lying on his back. “But …”
“Not necessary,” said the älf, with a little bow. His face was hidden behind a mask he had constructed to protect his skin from the dazzling light and the intense cold. “I’ve been following you ever since I learned what you were up to. You’re my only chance of getting out of Girdlegard. I’ve no place there any more, since that child turned up.”
It’s the tale-weaver Mallenia was holding captive. I never thought I’d meet him.
Gosalyn nodded at him. “He has helped us often.”
“And I for my part am indebted to Hargorin Deathbringer. He saved my life in Barrenbrig.” Carmondai’s voice was pleasantly modulated and reflected his age and experience in its tones. “It is an honour to meet you face to face, Tungdil Goldhand. I have written about you without knowing you.”
Tungdil pointed at Bloodthirster. “Where did you …?”
Ca
rmondai indicated Beligata. “She had it. But I thought the famous weapon would do better in an älf’s hands so I took it back the first time I knocked her out. Now it’s back to its roots.” He showed his right cheek. “Not to mention Beligata has a penchant for …”
“You have sent four of our dwarves to meet their maker,” Tungdil said. “We would have …”
“You know there was no other way. They would have dragged you all with them. You yourself gave the order to throw the axe.” Carmondai watched the clouds of spray in the yawning chasm turn to pellets of ice and gradually start to form a new transparent cover. “This way you can absolve yourselves of any blame regarding their deaths. Place the blame on the black-eyes.” He gave a quiet laugh. “That way everyone profits.”
For a while they were silent. The dwarves, exhausted, were fighting for breath. The deaths of their comrades had placed a shadow over their mission it would be hard to shift.
“We can’t fulfil the prophecy now,” said Gosalyn, deep in thought. “We needed dwarves from each of the tribes.”
“If it’s predictions you want, I can write you a new one,” Carmondai offered. “It’ll be good. Genuine Sitalia. No one could tell the difference.”
It seems everything’s conspiring against us. Tungdil was more determined than ever to carry on and find out what was happening in the Outer Lands. They would deal later with the question of how to get back. The ring he wore on his little finger made their return essential.
Tungdil watched Carmondai warming his hands at the fire and working his fingers to get them supple. He had spread out several pages covered with sketches and notes from his travels. He used a compressed charcoal pencil; it was unaffected by the vicious cold, whereas ink would have frozen solid by now.