by Markus Heitz
“I’m a thirdling, too…”
Bylanta remained as resolute as toughened gold. “You are a hero, Tungdil. Nobody doubts you. You have done great deeds. And Glaïmbar makes no secret of his admiration of Ginsgar, so I can’t rely on him.” She smiled. “That leaves Xamtys and myself. Two dwarf queens against unreason a hundred times stronger than we are. We could use a hero at our side.” She pressed his hand and laid her other hand on his arm. “So come back quickly, Tungdil.”
He bowed to her and mounted his pony to catch up with the head of the march. Tungdil wished he had been spared her softly spoken words; they had touched him more than he wanted. They went on working where Bramdal’s from the evening before had left off. Bylanta had appealed to his sense of responsibility, calling on him to accept the duties in Girdlegard that could be expected of a dwarf of his heroic stature.
“Damn,” he cursed out loud and dug his heels so fiercely into his pony’s sides that the animal gave a startled leap, galloping off as if a pack of wolves were at their heels. The heavy scent of the ubariu and their steeds had already spooked it.
“Someone’s in a hurry to see new lands,” Rodario commented as Tungdil rushed up to join his friends. He wrapped the cape Ortger had given him tighter round himself. “My goodness, it was cold enough in Urgon’s mountains, but here it feels like winter.”
Flagur sat up tall in the saddle and gave the trumpeter a sign. The bugle call echoed back from the mountainside and the army set off at once, with the stamp of nailed boots, the sounds of the horses, the bumping and jangling of the baggage train.
“They may fight monsters, but…” said Ireheart, turning back to look at the long column, “but they’re enough to put the wind up anyone.” When he caught Tungdil’s and Sirka’s disapproving looks he quickly added, “But I know they’re all right, of course.”
Goda rolled her eyes. She insisted on riding behind him and to one side, out of respect, as in her view he was still her weapons master, whatever love she bore him and whatever they now shared. She said, “You are hopeless.”
“That’s right, you lot. Have a go at me. I might as well be a snout-faced orc.” He rode off, grumbling. “I do try. Vraccas and Ubar are my witnesses.”
Rodario laughed. “Progress indeed. He actually got the name of the foreigners’ god right!”
“But it took second place to Vraccas, of course. That’ll never change.”
“I’m off to check on my troops. See you later!” Sirka rode back to join the undergroundling ranks.
Tungdil followed her with his eyes then looked ahead. The tension was mounting. Soon he would be seeing things no dwarf had seen before.
Every twist in the mountain roads made him hope for some revelation but it was several orbits before they had left the tortuous chasms behind.
By now he was riding out to reconnoiter with the ubariu scouts, so keen was he to catch a first glance of Sirka’s land.
He was so obsessed by the need to explore that he forgot everything else. He only wanted to get out of Girdlegard, away from a responsibility he now totally rejected.
They traveled through the maze of rocks and somber gorges, along giddying precipices, with dank fog swirling round them so that each step was a deadly risk.
The route for their return would have to be located anew, because the mountains refused to accept any guiding marks they tried to set, whether a painted or a chiseled sign. Some of the scouts claimed the rock walls even moved.
Tungdil caught himself wondering about turning back, but without a real reason. It was not that he was afraid. But there was something round him and the scouts that made him nervous. Impatience was getting the better of him. It demanded that he either arrive in Letéfora immediately or else that they return to Girdlegard. If he turned round he could clearly see the path inviting him. Turning forward again, there was only fog and vague outlines of cloud and rocks. He must pull himself together.
From time to time the scouts pointed out dark side paths from where perhaps the monsters might have emerged to march off to the pass and toward Silverfast. Probably one of these paths led to the Black Abyss.
Tungdil sensed that he would have got hopelessly lost without their guidance. So it was with enormous relief that after fifteen orbits he noticed the landscape gradually changing.
The mountains became hills and grew broader and greener while bare rock was replaced by verdant slopes studded with windswept trees. A final twist in their road revealed a new world.
They were standing on a plateau, maybe two miles high, and the view took Tungdil’s breath away.
A broad plain spread at their feet and in the center lay a city of gigantic size. He had never seen so many buildings in one place. It was far bigger than any of the human cities in Girdlegard and was threaded through with wide straight streets bustling with activity; concentric rings of thick walls provided defensive ramparts. The highest buildings were in the middle; round, oval, or rectangular. The tallest must have been at least three hundred paces high. You could see the birds circling overhead and diving in great flocks down into the artificial canyons.
“How is that possible?” Tungdil was amazed. “Who lives there? Giants?”
A scout pointed out particular areas in the cityscape. “That is Letèfora directly in front of us. There are some humans there, a few of my own kin, but mostly ubariu and a handful of acronta. All in all I’d say there were about two hundred thousand.” His hand was raised toward the west where, close to the horizon, they could see another city. “That one is the largest city this side of the ocean. It’s called Hòphoca and it offers shelter to ten times a hundred thousand.” He turned to the east. “Over there is the region of the monsters. They’ve taken over the ruins of old settlements where humans used to live; they were abandoned when Letèfora was built. The monsters defend the area stubbornly. We let them live there because the acronta enjoy hunting them.”
Tungdil surveyed the harvested fields, roads and streets running between the cities. There did not appear to be any villages to speak of, but a few extensive farmsteads here and there. Small forest areas ensured a green panorama.
“Where is the acronta army?” asked one of the guides.
“I don’t know. Perhaps they’re taking the mountain route and looking out for more monsters.”
In the far distance Tungdil could make out a silvery shimmer. That must be the sea. Sirka had told him about it: an endless expanse of water with storm winds and waves high enough to make ships and whole islands disappear without trace.
“Our first destination is Letèfora,” said the ubari. “From there the road leads straight through monster territory toward the Black Abyss.”
“Why not use the paths you showed me back there? If we march up with all these troops the monsters might be alerted to the fact the artifact is not working.”
The ubari shook his head and patted the neck of his mount. “The paths are dangerous. You can easily get lost—worse than the roads we took—and then you won’t ever find the way out. The ubariu once lost a complete army. So did we. The ones who survived somehow were lucky enough to find their way back with tales of rocks that came alive, evil vapors and the most ghastly creatures that lay in wait for them. That’s why we took the other route. Nobody but the acronta dare go that way.” He grinned. “The monsters whose land we’ll go through are much too cowardly to stand up to us. Nobody challenges an army of one hundred thousand.” He dismounted. “We’ll wait here.” He sent two of his men back to inform Flagur and to guide them through the labyrinth.
“Where is the hidden road to Girdlegard?” Tungdil asked, sitting down on the ground, while the scout started laying a fire. He could not take his eyes off the city. He had noticed high masts with ropes spanned between them carrying cages above the streets. The wind, he fancied, was bringing him new sounds and smells.
“You’d have to go back half a star course toward the west, just short of the monsters’ land. The entrance is easy to miss in
spite of the bastion we and the ubariu have erected. We don’t want it looking too obvious, otherwise there’d be even more of the beasts turning up.”
Tungdil was as excited as a small child, looking forward to the orbits he would be spending here with Sirka. Not for a moment did he regret having turned his back on Girdlegard. Forever, it seemed.
“What are those cages?” he asked.
The scout blew into the fire again to bring the flames to life. Blue and green flickered up. “Must be the wood,” he surmised, seeing the dwarf’s surprise. “I’ve seen yellow and red fire too.” Then he nodded over at the masts. “That’s how we get around. We’ve got these platforms in Letèfora and the transport’s really easy going in straight lines. Saves a lot of time you’d waste going on foot, specially when the roads are crowded. You can get about fifty humans in one of those cages—less if it’s us, of course. And acronta prefer to walk.”
Tungdil had spotted a bridge of titanic proportions running directly to Letèfora from the mountains in the southwest. “That connects with the mines, does it?”
The scout grinned. “Only a dwarf would ask about mines. No, it’s a water channel supplying the city. There are distribution points in the city itself taking the water in pipes to the various districts.”
“And how…?”
The ubari lifted a hand. “Tungdil, let me see to my mount. Then we can talk some more. But I’m sure Flagur and Sirka will want to explain the delights of Letèfora to you.” He stood up to see to the wants of his befún.
Tungdil went over to his pony, lifted off its saddle and led it to where it could graze. Then he took out paper, inkwell and a quill pen and began to make a drawing of the strange town.
The Outer Lands,
City of Letèfora,
Early Autumn, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tungdil was only to have this one short fascinating insight into life in Letèfora for now.
Flagur took him and his friends into town to introduce him to the ruler, who watched over the fate of his subjects from his residence in the most impressive of the buildings.
As the group rode along the broad street the gates were opened for them promptly when the sentries recognized Flagur’s standard.
The inhabitants bowed, clapped spontaneously or called out. Not understanding the words, Tungdil nevertheless assumed they were being congratulated and welcomed.
The exterior walls of the local houses were covered with a clay layer bearing ornate decorations executed by skillful artisans. Some of the houses were colorfully painted while others were duller in hue but striking because of the use of tiles and ceramic ware; there seemed to be a liking for rounded archways and window frames.
Buildings here were on a par with the standard set by his own kin, but differed from the type of houses favored by humans. Oval and round shapes were popular: many took the form of globes set half in the earth, a style not seen in Girdlegard.
Details were picked out in colored glass; mosaics showed ornamental shapes or hunting and battle scenes. On some facades there were candid depictions of the physical act of union, such as would have made Girdlegarders blush.
“Very nice indeed,” Rodario commented, trying to get a better view.
“So you still have something to learn, Fabuloso?” Ireheart laughed. He pretended not to mind this civic lack of prudishness, but he avoided looking too closely. It was not fitting.
“Of course. There are always new ideas.” Rodario smiled in greeting at some of the women passing by and when they inclined their heads in response he had a generous view into their décolleté. “It’s even better to learn from a mistress of the art, of course.” He smiled at the warrior. “You know what I mean, don’t you? You favor a swift stroke, I believe.”
“Keep your smutty ideas well away from my relationship,” Ireheart warned him without a trace of humor. “I won’t have you dragging things down to your level.” His fists were clenched.
“We’ll discuss it another time, then,” Rodario conceded defeat, but winked at a passing maiden, who immediately averted her eyes.
They approached a square building that tapered off toward the top with wide staircases on each side. Above, the construction had a flattened oval shape which supported four towers.
“I’m used to great buildings, Scholar,” said Ireheart, “but this is more impressive than anything I’ve ever seen.” His eyes wandered over the stone walls. “I can’t decide whether this used to be a mountain or whether they’ve formed it out of enormous blocks of stone. There are no joins to be seen.”
They rode into a hall which was a good hundred paces square. Servants hurried over, humans and ubariu, to take care of the animals, while an undergroundling in a light blue silken dress appeared and bowed before them. Her dark brown hair was long and wavy and her skin nearly black; around her waist she wore a decorative bejeweled chain, fashioned from some unfamiliar metal.
Tungdil and Goda were astonished but tactful, while Ireheart voiced his surprise without inhibition. “By Vraccas, has she burned herself?” he asked, with much sympathy and no volume control.
Flagur laughed outright and Sirka grinned. “No, Boïndil. She will have had black skin from birth. Our people come in all kinds of different colors. Not like you.”
He made a face. “What on earth for? So their enemies can’t see them in the tunnels, perhaps?”
“I can’t tell you what Ubar intended. It’s just the way it is.” Sirka answered.
“You are being rude,” Goda mouthed to her mentor. “Don’t stare.”
“Jolly good thing they don’t understand our language,” said Rodario. “Otherwise you’d have to be apologizing all the time.”
“Why? Just because I’m curious?” Ireheart shouldered his crow’s beak. “It’s difficult to imagine a dwarf wearing that pale blue. Or a deep red.”
“That’s not what I meant when I said different colors.” Sirka looked to Tungdil for help.
“So what colors did you mean?”
“Wait and see.” Flagur put an end to the conversation. “They’re expecting us.” He exchanged a few words with the undergroundling, then they followed her.
The party strode through rectangular galleries five paces high, climbed steps to a floor where the corridors were semicircular, then moved on to the next level where the walls and ceilings of the walkways had a lozenge shape. Tungdil had to ask Sirka about this.
“The building depicts our belief system, which encompasses underworlds and overworlds. Each of these worlds has a different symbol. We climb up through each of the worlds up to where the ruler of the city is; he was chosen by Ubar and is his representative.”
“So is he a god as well?”
“He is the voice and the hand of Ubar. To ignore or challenge what he says would invite punishment from the hand of the god.”
The undergroundling in the blue silk approached a gate that was five paces by three, fashioned out of polished silver and guarded by two heavily armed acronta. Tungdil, Rodario and Ireheart immediately thought of Djern.
Round the gate was a garland of chiseled runes, and paintings of warriors and fabulous beasts. Tungdil assumed they must be the gods of the upper and lower worlds.
Above them all, larger than life, was the picture of a being that he knew well: broad jaws with rows of protruding needle-sharp incisors and an oversize bony head a bit like a human skull, and covered with a thin layer of unhealthy-looking skin with veins painted in yellow. Instead of a nose there were three large holes.
“Djern! By… the gods,” stammered Tungdil quietly.
Lot-Ionan took the diamond out of the pouch on his belt but even he could not take his eyes off the portrait. “What sort of creature did Andôkai have at her side?”
“We’re there now,” said Flagur, taking a deep breath. “Are you ready to meet the ruler of Letèfora?” He pointed to the picture. “To your eyes he may look like a monster but don’t forget he is the image of our god Ubar. Show respect.” He nodded
to the undergroundling and she gave a signal to the acronta guards.
The sentries sprang to life, took hold of the gate’s iron handles placed two paces above floor level, and flung wide the double doors.
Light streamed through the tall room; countless windows, each as high and wide as one of the tall armed guards, permitted the ruler a view over the eastern part of Letèfora in the early morning sunshine.
The chamber walls bore enchanting painted friezes, with inlays of gold, silver and other precious metals adding opulence.
On the regal stool on the throne dais there sat the mightiest acront they had ever seen. Now they knew why the corridors all needed such high ceilings; the monarch must have been a good four paces tall.
He wore neither armor nor helmet but instead a flowing garment of white fabric embroidered in gold and black. The similarity to the details of his portrait in the entrance hall was striking: according to Girdlegard standards a long way from a beauty.
His large violet-colored eyes appraised the visitors. With a deafening crack the wings on his back unfolded, blocking out some of the light. It had been with that very noise that Djern had so terrified the orcs and all other creatures of Tion.
The undergroundling in blue went to stand at the acront’s side. She addressed Flagur.
“He says you are welcome here in Letèfora and he is delighted our mission has had a positive outcome.” Sirka translated for Tungdil and his friends.
“So she can understand him?” Ireheart stroked his black beard, puzzled. “I thought it was supposed to be impossible.”
“She is his consort. She needs to be able to understand him,” Sirka answered simply. “In each generation there is one of us born able to understand an acront and she has been chosen to be his wife and to rule at his side.”
Rodario bent over to the warrior. “How does it feel when you’ve just insulted the mightiest woman in the land, Master Foot in Mouth?”