by Markus Heitz
Passing the immense building that would have made even an ogre look small, he reached the plain in front of the entrance to the fifthling kingdom, ruled by the descendants of Giselbart Ironeye.
It seemed only yesterday that he had led the twenty-strong reconnaissance troop here with his friend Boïndil and his current life-partner, Balyndis.
On that journey they had made their way through a devastated landscape of ruins and moss-covered stones. Most of the fifthlings’ fortifications had been turned to rubble.
Today a completely different scene met his eyes, a scene to gladden the proud heart of any child of the Smith.
He was riding now past where they had drowned some of Ushnotz’s orc army. He saw that the pit had been filled in and covered over with black marble slabs bearing inscriptions in gold and in vraccasium to commemorate the glorious battle and honor the fallen dwarves. Each one of them a hero, they lived on in songs about the war.
Nowhere was there the slightest trace of the weathered ruins Tungdil had once struggled through. All the old stones had been moved elsewhere. Blocks of light-colored granite and dark basalt rock formed a continuous encircling wall the height of twenty paces: a protective arm surrounding the entrance itself.
Three towers of black basalt rose above the main structure; from the platforms the dwarves could overlook the length of the steep winding path and could see probably a hundred miles in the other direction into the kingdom of Gauragar. The banner of the fifthlings—a circle of vraccasium chain-links to represent the work of the goldsmiths and the unity of the people—was flying from the flagpole to show who was on guard.
Tungdil felt moisture on his face. Turning his head he looked over at the nearby waterfall, still crashing and thundering as it had five cycles ago. The white cascade with its clouds of vapour sparkled and shimmered like crystal in the spring sunshine. All in all, the view was spectacular.
The pony Keen-Ears snorted, looking for grazing at the foot of the forbidding fortress, but found nothing to his liking on the bare rock. He pawed the ground impatiently.
“I know. You’re hungry. They’ll let us in soon.” Tungdil did not get a chance to stand around admiring the skill of the secondling stone masons in the construction of this impressive building.
Tall as a house, the two doors of the great portal opened slowly. Iron plating had been fixed to the outside of the gate to withstand attacks with battering rams and other siege engines.
A dwarf came out, his helmet sparkling like diamonds. Tungdil knew who wore elaborate headgear like that. The high king, Gandogar Silverbeard of the Clan of the Silver Beards of the fourthling folk, had come out in person and was hastening forward to welcome him.
“King Gandogar.” Tungdil fell on one knee and reached for the ax called Keenfire to proffer to the king in the time-honored dwarven greeting. This was the silent renewal of the vow, pledging one’s life for the sake of all dwarves and for Girdlegard.
Gandogar stopped him with a gesture. “No, Tungdil Goldhand. Do not kneel to me. Let me shake your hand. You are our greatest hero. Your deeds are beyond measure. It should be I who—”
Tungdil rose to his feet, grasping the king’s hand and interrupting the flow of praise. As he and the high king shook hands, Tungdil’s rusty chain mail grated.
Gandogar concealed his sense of shock as best he could. Tungdil was looking old, older than he really was. The brown eyes were dull, as if all simple joy of life were lost. His face was swollen, beard and hair matted and unkempt. The change in him could not all be from the long journey. “It should be I who kneel before you,” he finished.
“Don’t praise me so much,” smiled Tungdil. “You are embarrassing me.” The one-time rivals had become friends.
“Let us go in so you can see with your own eyes what the best of the firstlings, secondlings and fourthlings have achieved.” Gandogar hoped that his surprise at Tungdil’s state had not been too obvious, as he gestured toward the entrance. “After you, Tungdil.”
“And the thirdlings, king? What have they contributed?” asked Tungdil as he untied his pony to lead behind him.
“Apart from your own contribution, you who made everything possible?” returned Gandogar. It was not easy for him to see in Tungdil the dwarf of five sun cycles ago. If a child of the Smith ever let his chain mail rust it was a bad sign. There would be a chance later on to speak of that. Not now. He took off his helmet, revealing his long dark brown hair. “The thirdlings do what they do best: training us in warfare. And they are unbelievable at it.” He smiled. “Come. We have a surprise for you.”
They strode through the gate.
On the other side a rousing reception awaited him, with dwarves of all ages lining the way into the mountain, their laughing faces aglow. They were celebrating his visit, honoring him, applauding. There were musicians in the crowd and up on the towers and the walls. Flutes and crumhorns sounded out and the rhythm was given by the dwarves beating on their shields. The enthusiasm was palpable; it was all in his honor, and the crowd’s welcome flowed round him like liquid gold.
“Word got round quickly that you were on your way,” grinned Gandogar. He was pleased at the success of the surprise welcome. “They’ve been longing to see their great hero.”
“By Vraccas!” Tungdil was so moved by the reception that his throat went dry. “Anyone would think I was returning in victory from a great battle.” His gaze swept over the crowd, noting the laughing faces of men, women and children who had turned out eagerly to meet him. And they had come despite his five-cycle absence away in the vaults of his foster-father. On the other hand, for a dwarf five solar cycles were not long.
He waved at them all, responding to their hearty welcome as he strode at the high king’s side through their ranks. “My thanks,” he called joyfully. “Thanks to you all.”
The applause swelled and he heard his name shouted.
He could easily have been running the gauntlet of their disapproval, it struck him. For his wife Balyndis was once married to Glaïmbar Sharpax from the Iron Beater clan of Borengar’s people: the same man who now held no less a title than ruler of all the fifthlings.
Meeting Glaïmbar would be the biggest challenge. The people of the Gray Range had seemingly forgiven him for being with Balyndis now, but did there have to be so many of them? He smiled at them bravely and breathed a sigh of relief when safely within the enormous corridor that led inside the mountain.
Gandogar stopped at the entrance; he noticed that Tungdil’s joy was not unmixed. “Are you all right?”
The dwarf did not answer at first. “It’s strange. On the one hand my heart sings like sounding iron smitten on the smith’s anvil. But on the other…” He broke off, fell silent, then cleared his throat. “I think it’s just that I am not used to having so many dwarves around me all at once, Gandogar.” He smiled, lifting his hand in excuse. “Normally it’s just the one dwarf, my wife.”
“I understand. In part,” responded Gandogar. “How you can live so isolated, far from any company—that’s a mystery to me. All those strangers around one can be frightening.” He winked. “I know what it is like. My wife’s clan is enormous. I’m always terrified of their family visits.”
Tungdil laughed. Meanwhile one of the dwarves had taken the reins of his loyal pony, promising the best of grooming and care. Tungdil and the high king progressed through the corridors, passages and rooms; the music and the sounds of rejoicing from the crowds grew quieter now.
Tungdil recalled… Here he and his comrades had encountered nothing but dust and rubbish. After the defeat of the fifthlings, Tion’s monsters had ruled in these mountains for hundreds of cycles.
But now it was over. Delegations of all the dwarf folk had come and brought new life after the victory. The Gray Range pulsated; Tungdil could hear children’s laughter. What pain he felt at that sound.
“We haven’t been content merely to make good the damage to the stonework on the walls and in the rooms,” he heard a man�
��s voice in the adjacent passageway. A dwarf came out with his retinue. “We have created new halls. New halls for the children growing up in the light of the sun that rises up over the Dragon’s Tongue, the Great Blade and the other mountain peaks.”
Tungdil recognized the impressive figure and the characteristic voice at once; he would have preferred not to meet this dwarf until later on. “Greetings, King Glaïmbar Sharpax,” he said, bowing. He was surprised to see a female dwarf in an embroidered brown robe standing behind the ruler, a newborn baby on her arm. “May I congratulate you on the birth of your child?”
Glaïmbar, taller and more solid in stature than Gandogar, ran a hand over his luxuriant black beard. “My thanks, Tungdil Goldhand, and welcome to my kingdom.” He pointed to the baby. “These are the true fifthlings. The rest of us will keep their kingdom safe until they are old enough to defend it for themselves.” He held out his hand; the metal plates on his elaborate armor clinked as he moved. “I can see the concern in your eyes, Tungdil. We shall let bygones be bygones. My heart has found another and I harbor no grudge, neither against you nor against Balyndis. Tell her so when you return.”
In spite of the many adventures he had experienced in his short life, and the many lucky escapes from perilous situations, Tungdil had seldom felt so strong a sense of relief as now. He grasped the king’s hand in both his own, shaking it so vigorously that Gandogar restrained him. “Stop, my friend. Glaïmbar will need that arm again,” he laughed indulgently; he knew the history these two shared.
A swift glance at Glaïmbar’s face showed Gandogar that the king of the fifthlings was also taken aback by the lack of care in Tungdil’s appearance. This was not how a hero should look, even if he had withdrawn from society and lived away from them all for such a long time.
“Sadly, I don’t need my arms for fighting anymore,” added Glaïmbar after a pause. “It has grown quiet on the Northern Pass.”
“Be content, King Glaïmbar,” said Tungdil. He felt as if a leaden weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Following on from the rapturous welcome he’d been met with, here were words of forgiveness from a former rival; two of his greatest fears were resolved. But still he warned himself not to be too trusting. Until he saw deeds to back up the words of reconciliation, he must remain on his guard. “Your arms will soon be tired from rocking the child.”
“Come. I will show you the new treasures of our flourishing dwarf kingdom.” Gandogar, Glaïmbar and Tungdil walked away together to explore the fortress.
Each dwarven folk had contributed the finest of its handiwork and skills. The secondling stonemasons had executed immaculate repairs and excavated new accommodation quarters and halls, forming pillars and bridges of stone with an accuracy that beggared belief.
The smithies of the firstlings had supplied decorative strengthening girders, fretted screens, metal furniture and fencing, lamps and other articles.
The fourthlings brought the arts of their colleagues to perfection by studding them with precious stones, polished for sparkle.
Together with artistic murals in gold and vraccasium and other precious metals from the devastated remains of the vanquished fifthling realm, the new occupants had created the finest of dwarf kingdoms. Here, all the best had been brought together.
Glaïmbar enjoyed the admiration he saw in the eyes of his high-ranking guests. “You see how the whole of the Gray Range territories have become a center of excellence. And the cream of the thirdling warriors are training us in new methods of combat, so we may better protect our wealth and the land of Girdlegard,” he concluded as they completed their tour and made for the assembly hall.
Tungdil remembered this unusual room clearly; it was constructed like a theater with a circular floor area, twenty paces across. The walls had a broad ledge at waist height—about four paces wide—then continued in the vertical plane.
Here was the place he had made the proposal that Glaïmbar should be crowned king. Here it was he had renounced his own claim. What would have happened if I had been king of the fifthlings? he wondered, gazing at the empty rows. Would things have turned out better, or worse?
There was to be no voting in the chamber today. Instead, the clan leaders were waiting to feast with them. They were all sitting in the center of the first level at a long table that seemed to bear every dish the dwarven cuisines could offer.
When the three stepped into the room, conversations ebbed away and all those present got to their feet. Knees were bent in homage, swords held aloft, heads bowed. It was the silent pledge, a promise to give life and limb for the high king. “Rise and eat,” spoke Gandogar, taking his place at the end of the table. “Let us enjoy our meal. I am hungry from our walk. Thirsty, too. Let us talk later.” Tungdil sat at his left side, Glaïmbar at his right. The meal began and the musicians struck up.
Tungdil partook of the feast with delight, his palate enchanted by the variety of tastes: spiced root jelly, roast goat meat, kimpa mushrooms, sour cheese with herbs, and steaming hot dumplings made of root flour. The feast was such a contrast to the simple fare of his life in the mines—neither he nor Balyndis were accomplished cooks—the other thing was that he liked the food of humans, but she preferred a more traditional diet. The compromises usually tasted rather disappointing.
He wiped his fingers on his dirty beard. So enthusiastically was he attacking his food that he missed the horrified glances of the clan leaders. They were disturbed at his lack of grooming.
Gandogar passed him a tankard of beer. “Here, taste this. You don’t have stuff like that back home, do you?”
It won’t have been meant unkindly, but it made its mark through the wafer-thin mental armor. His expression clouded over. “I am content with what I have.” He took a helping of the roast, sinking his teeth into the goat flesh; brownish-red gravy dripped through his matted beard as if it were blood trickling down. His abrupt movements were at odds with his words.
“Do you have any children yet?” asked Glaïmbar, not knowing that this was another sensitive area. “Who knows when we will need the next heroes, and if your children—”
Tungdil threw down the piece of meat, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his mail shirt and gulped down his beer. Then he motioned to a dwarf standing by to bring him more. “Please, tell me why you have summoned me, King Gandogar,” he said, changing the subject so emphatically that even the simplest of minds got the point.
Glaïmbar and the high king exchanged looks. “As I said before, it is all very quiet now, Tungdil,” said the king, continuing to eat. “This makes me uneasy.”
“Rightly so,” agreed the other. “For a whole cycle now we’ve been seeing a lot of orc activity in the Brown Ranges; they’re all surging over the pass as if the forces of goodness were pursuing them.” He was served dessert. “But at the Stone Gate it’s as quiet as the grave.”
“These last four cycles we could have safely left the gates open and nothing would have happened,” added Glaïmbar.
Tungdil recognized the pudding at once and took some. It was a light sweet cream that he’d had before, back with the freelings of Trovegold—in the house of the dwarf Myr, who had betrayed him and paid for it with her life. The woman he had loved.
The choice of dessert was a mistake. The first spoonful brought back the bitter-tasting memories that wrecked his appetite. He reached for the beer again.
“That is strange indeed,” he grunted rather than said. He cleared his throat and swallowed down the images of the past. A lot of beer would be needed to keep those pictures in their place. “Have you sent out scouts?”
“No,” answered Glaïmbar. “We didn’t want to waken any sleeping ogres until we had completed and extended our defenses.”
“That’s why you are here. We thought of sending out a small party and we thought of you, Tungdil Goldhand, to lead it.” Gandogar took over. “You’ve been to the Outer Lands, I hear.” He pointed to the hero’s ax, resting next to his chair. “You have the ax Keenfire to
overcome all adversaries. You are the best choice for such an undertaking.”
Tungdil pushed his full plate away and asked for a third tankard of beer. He was stilling his hunger with the barley now. As so often in the recent past. “Yes, Your Majesty. I have been to the Outer Lands. I stayed about the length of an orbit. It was foggy; I lost three men to the orcs and in one of the caves I discovered a rune that I couldn’t decipher. It wasn’t worth going.” He poured the beer down his throat, clanged the tankard down and suppressed a belch. “You must admit, it’s not a lot of experience.”
“Nevertheless, we need to find out what’s happening there.” The high king did not sound as if he would accept a refusal on Tungdil’s part, not even an implied one. “I want you to set off tomorrow for the Stone Gate. You’ll take a group of our best warriors with you to the Outer Lands, and you’ll see what’s what.”
Tungdil had started on the fourth tankard, but put it back down on the table. “It’ll be foggy, king, that’s what. You know what fog is like. How many shades of gray do you want me to describe when I get back?”
“Hang on, Goldhand,” warned Glaïmbar, delicately eating his dessert. “You may have to offer the high king an apology if you see hordes of monsters assembling there to attack us.”
Tungdil turned back to his beer and then looked at Glaïmbar. So he was keen to send him to the Outer Lands, was he? Perhaps the mooted reconciliation hadn’t been so genuine, after all? He was ashamed of harboring this uncharitable thought. He was as suspicious as a gnome.
Cursing, he put down his beer. “Excuse my surly tone, King Gandogar,” he said quietly. “Of course I will go to the Northern Pass.” Turning to Glaïmbar, “I’ll be happy to encounter Tion’s creatures. And if I die in battle, I don’t care! Because…” He pressed his lips together. “Forgive me. I am too tired to be good company.” He got up, bowed to the two rulers, grabbed the tankard and left the dining hall.