by Markus Heitz
“I’m a dwarf, not a groundling.” Tungdil toyed with the idea of accompanying the envoys to Ionandar the next morning and telling the magus of what he had seen, but he decided against it. His mission to the Blacksaddle was more important. He sat down and laid his ax across his knees.
The rest of the night was spent in watchful silence, their fear of the älfar keeping tiredness at bay. None of them slept a wink, but Friedegard’s spell seemed to have worked and there was no sign of their assailants. At last, with the coming of dawn, the tension finally fell away and Tungdil lay back and dozed.
III
Enchanted Realm of Ionandar,
Girdlegard,
Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle
Reclining in his wing chair with his feet on a stool, Lot-Ionan had made himself comfortable in a corner of his study and was leafing contentedly through a grimoire, one of the many that lined his walls. In addition to his slightly shabby beige robes he wore even shabbier slippers and his pipe lay beside him, tobacco at the ready. Steam rose from a glass of herbal tea on the table. The magus was savoring the peace and quiet.
“Do you hear that, Nula?” he asked the barn owl who was perched on the back of his chair and seemed to be studying his spells. “Not a sound. No noise, no explosions. I was loath to say goodbye to Tungdil, but I know it was the right decision.”
Blinking approvingly, Nula replied with a gentle twittwoo. Lot-Ionan knew full well that she couldn’t understand him, but he enjoyed their conversations. It was an excellent way of collecting his thoughts.
“I suppose it was a bit mean of me, really,” he confessed. “Gorén left the Blacksaddle goodness knows how many cycles ago. He abandoned the mountain after falling for the charms of a beautiful and intelligent elf.” The owl blinked again. “You want to know how I heard about it? My former apprentice told me himself. It was all in a letter that he wrote from Greenglade. He seemed most contented with his new abode and gave a full account of the superior allure of elven women.”
The thought of Gorén’s mistress reminded Lot-Ionan of his age. He had long since lost interest in pleasures of the flesh; other matters took precedence in his mind.
“Tungdil will find out his new address, I shouldn’t wonder. And when he does, he won’t rest until he’s tracked Gorén down and accomplished his errand.” He took a sip from his steaming glass. The cold air of the vaults was conducive to study, but he found himself drinking countless cups of tea.
Nula blinked, this time almost reproachfully.
“What?” he said defensively. “Don’t you remember how he and Jolosin ruined my work? You know how fond I am of Tungdil, but another incident of that kind while I’m rewriting the formula would be disastrous! I took the necessary measures to ensure a lengthy absence, that’s all.”
The owl seemed unconvinced.
“Come on, the journey will do him good! After everything he’s read about Girdlegard, it’s time he saw the country for himself. Besides, he’ll be back before you know it, pleased as punch for finding Gorén on his own. And as for Jolosin, he’ll never want to look at another potato, let alone eat one, and he’ll be cured of playing tricks. We’ll all be better off in the long run.” His eyes fell on his solar calendar. “What’s that I see? Nula, we’re expecting an important guest!”
The circular slide rule indicated that Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty would be visiting that orbit. Needless to say, his fellow wizard would not be putting in a personal appearance. With five hundred or more miles separating their realms, they communicated via magic, availing themselves of an elaborate ritual that could be implemented only during certain phases of the moon.
Not that Lot-Ionan minded the distance. Nudin was fast developing into the most disagreeable character that Lot-Ionan had ever known. At the same time, he was becoming a formidable magus, his growing skill as a wizard correlating almost exactly with his objectionableness as a man.
Of course everyone developed his own personal approach to studying the mystic arts, but only Nudin seemed to think that being rude, bad-tempered, arrogant, and overweight would somehow serve his cause.
“I’ll be honest with you, Nula: That man has spells and charms at his fingertips that others could barely decipher, let alone perform.” He reached under the table and fished out a jug of water and a glass. After giving the latter a quick polish on his robes, he held it critically in the candlelight.
There were those who said that Nudin’s rising power as a magus had not been gained through study and hard work. Rumor had it that he had cast a spell on his body and invested it with the ability to retain magic indefinitely. Lot-Ionan gave the gossip no credence, but even he was forced to concede that Nudin had changed in character and appearance.
At that moment the air cooled suddenly and a fierce gust of wind swept through the room, nearly extinguishing the candles. A faint bluish haze shimmered at the center of the study, gradually assuming the contours of a man. In the span of a few heartbeats, Lot-Ionan found himself staring at Nudin’s imposing bulk.
The wizard of Ionandar appraised his dark-robed guest. Nudin seemed to have grown again — outward as well as upward. His paunch looked larger than before, which was possibly the reason for his especially voluminous malachite-green robes.
Chin-length mousy hair hung limply about his face and there were dark circles around his usually lively green eyes. The apparition was a perfect replica of the real magician, who at that moment was standing in the circle he had cast in his study in Porista, working the magic for his doppelgänger to appear.
The illusion was incredible. Lot-Ionan had never seen a more perfect demonstration of the phenomenon in all his 287 cycles. Apparitions usually shimmered slightly or were marred by minor imperfections, but this one was complete.
Nudin, holding a finely carved maple staff crowned with an impressive onyx in his left hand, languidly dusted his elegant robes with his right, dispatching the lingering blue sparks. Suddenly Lot-Ionan felt terribly underdressed.
“Do sit down,” he said, gesturing to an armchair, and Nudin’s doppelgänger lowered himself smoothly into the seat. Convention dictated that the same courtesies were extended to apparitions as to real guests; it was only polite. “Can I offer you a drop of tea or would you like something else?”
The question was not as absurd as it sounded. Even from a distance of five hundred miles, Nudin would be able to taste the flavor of anything consumed by his doppelgänger.
The visitor shook his head. “Thank you, my friend, but the news I bring will suffer no delay. You must come to Lios Nudin at once. The Perished Land is advancing.”
Lot-Ionan stopped smiling; he had not prepared himself for tidings as dire as these. “How long has it been moving?”
“Some sixty orbits. I took a trip to the border and it came to my attention.” Nudin looked anxious. “Our protective girdle is no longer as strong and reliable as it was. The damage is too great for me to repair; I need the council’s help. The rest of us are in Lios Nudin already; we’re waiting for you…” He trailed off.
“Go on,” Lot-Ionan encouraged him, although he had a sinking feeling that there was worse to come.
“It’s the älfar,” explained Nudin. “They’ve been sighted in the south of Gauragar, many miles from Dsôn Balsur. Meanwhile, King Tilogorn is being plagued by marauding orcs. They’re rampaging through Idoslane, burning down villages and laying waste to the land. He’s sent his army to deal with them…” He looked grimly at his host. “It bodes ill, Lot-Ionan.”
“The incursion of the Perished Land, the älfar, the orcs — they’re all connected?”
“We certainly shouldn’t rule it out,” he said, refusing to commit himself. “You were summoned by the magi’s council. Why didn’t you respond?”
“Summoned?” Lot-Ionan made no attempt to disguise his surprise. “When?”
“I have it on good authority that two of the council’s best envoys were dispatched with a message: Friedegard and Vrabor are their
names. I believe you know them.”
“Of course I know them! But where have they got to?” Lot-Ionan was instantly concerned for the pair’s well-being, especially now the älfar were known to be abroad. “Thank goodness you decided to follow it up yourself. I’ll set off as soon as I can. It shouldn’t take more than a few orbits to get to Lios Nudin.” Lot-Ionan expected Nudin to take his leave, but the apparition did not stir.
“Just one more thing,” his guest cut in. “It’s trivial compared to the other news, but all the same… Do you think you could bring my instruments with you? If you’ve finished with them, I’d very much like to have them back.”
“Your instruments… Of course!” Many cycles ago Lot-Ionan had borrowed a number of items from Nudin on Gorén’s behalf. The loan comprised a small handheld mirror, two arm-length remnants of sigurdaisy wood, and a pair of silver-plated glass carafes with unusual etchings. After finding some reference to the items in a compendium, Gorén had been eager to examine them more closely. Lot-Ionan could no longer recall what conclusion he had reached, but he suspected it was nothing of particular interest. The more immediate problem was locating the things. He had a sudden vision of the wrecked laboratory and hoped to goodness that Gorén had not left the items there.
“I’ll be sure to bring them,” he promised.
Nudin seemed doubtful. “You do still have them, don’t you?” Lot-Ionan nodded in what he hoped was a convincing fashion. “All right, well, make haste, old friend. Only the full council can save Girdlegard from the terrors to come.”
Nudin’s double rose to his feet, positioned himself in the middle of the room, and rapped his staff firmly against the floor. The illusion shattered in a shower of sparks. Glittering dust drizzled to the ground, disintegrating further and further until nothing was left. The interview ended as spectacularly as it had begun.
Lot-Ionan leaned back in his chair. If Toboribor’s orcs have joined forces with Dsôn Balsur’s älfar, the peoples of Girdlegard are in serious danger.
He decided to combine his trip to Lios Nudin with a visit to King Tilogorn in order to pledge his support. At least half of Ionandar lay within the borders of Idoslane, so it seemed only proper to loan the monarch his magical powers in the battle against Tion’s brutes. The magus rose. Time is of the essence; Nudin was right.
He summoned his famuli and issued instructions regarding the luggage he required for the journey and the chain of command among the students while he was away. Then he removed his beloved robes and exchanged them reluctantly for his little-worn traveling garb, comprising another set of robes, also in beige, but made of more durable cloth, and a mantle of dark blue leather.
His servants were busy grooming his bay stallion, Furo. The five-hundred-mile journey to Porista would take ten orbits at most, so everything he needed could be stowed in the saddlebags.
At length Lot-Ionan clambered somewhat stiffly onto his horse. Furo snorted excitedly as the magus leaned forward, stroked its mane, and whispered some enchantment in its ear.
With a loud whinny the stallion thundered out of the underground vaults and through the gates. Once out in the open, with the path ahead and fresh air all around, it picked up speed, accelerating from a canter to a gallop. The cobbles flashed beneath its hooves, covering multiple paces with each stride. Thanks to Lot-Ionan’s art, the horse could outstrip any mount in Girdlegard and it relished its speed.
And thus Furo carried his master, who was clinging on for dear life, across Ionandar and beyond.
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle
The Blacksaddle? Never heard of it!” The morning could scarcely have got off to a less auspicious start. Tungdil pushed the map to one side as the publican placed his breakfast on the table.
Particles of dust danced in the wide rays of sunshine pouring through the plate-glass windows. It came as a relief to Tungdil that he could see without peering; his eyes had adjusted to the brightness already.
None of the good people of Idoslane could tell him anything about the Blacksaddle; it was not even marked on the tavern’s ancient map.
“Is there anyone in Goodwater who could help me?” he persisted. “A clerk or a magistrate or someone?”
The publican shook his head regretfully, sorry to disappoint the outsider. Tungdil spooned his breakfast halfheartedly. The porridge was decent enough, but frustration had taken the edge off his hunger.
Privately he was still hoping that the villagers were too simpleminded to be relied on. The publican struck him as the sort who had never strayed more than ten or twenty miles from home.
Annoyingly, Goodwater was not marked either, but with a bit of luck one of the mercenaries would know the area sufficiently well to pinpoint its location and send him in the right direction.
No doubt Friedegard and Vrabor would have been of some assistance, but they had long since departed. Stopping only to give the publican a few gold coins to pay for the window, they had struck out for Ionandar and taken the arrow with them.
Tungdil was similarly anxious to leave. “Vraccas be with you,” he called to the publican as he slung his pack and the leather bag over his shoulder and stepped out into the street.
The sentries from the previous night had been replaced with a new set of stubbly faces, but Tungdil lost no time in inquiring about the Blacksaddle. Thankfully, the mercenaries had heard of the wretched mountain and could point to Goodwater on the map. It was getting on for midday when he left the settlement and set off down a narrow road, heading north as the sentries had advised.
“If you see any orcs, tell them where they can find their dead friends!” one of the men shouted after him, thrusting his spear at a festering skull and raising a cloud of flies.
He could still hear the soldier’s laughter as he skirted the fields that he had seen in the distance from his window the night before.
Goodwater was an apt name for the place. Tungdil could picture what it would be like at harvest time: fields of corn blowing gently in the breeze, ripe apples hanging from the branches, and enough nuts for countless busy hands. Idoslane struck him as a beautiful place, with the obvious limitation that it wasn’t underground. He never felt quite comfortable in the open.
At least there’s a decent road. He dreaded the moment when he would have to strike out across the countryside. It’s beyond me how the pointy-ears manage to find their bearings when there’s nothing but woods and fields. From what he’d gathered from his reading, the elves had retreated to the glades of landur as part of their quest to live in harmony with nature, art, and beauty. But the smug creatures’ desire for perfection had failed to save them from their treacherous cousins, the älfar.
It’s funny, thought Tungdil, remembering the face at the window, the älf looked just the way I always imagined an elf.
The northern elven kingdom of Lesinteïl had fallen long ago and now the kingdom of landur was two-thirds under the dominion of the Perished Land. As for the elves of the Golden Plains, they were history: The älfar had seized their land, renamed it Dsôn Balsur, and made it their base, from which they sent out scouts to reconnoiter the surrounding land of Gauragar.
Gauragar’s sovereign, King Bruron, was powerless to repel them. As warriors, men were no match for the älfar, and if it came to a battle, Bruron’s soldiers would be lucky to draw their weapons before they were killed.
Tungdil thought of the envoys and tried to estimate the distance between the southeasterly tip of Dsôn Balsur in the north and Lot-Ionan’s vaults in the south. Four hundred miles or more, he reckoned — a formidable distance, even for an älf.
Unless, of course, the Perished Land has edged southward and the älfar have extended their range. If that was the case, it would explain the envoys’ business with Lot-Ionan: Any expansion southward of the Perished Land would pose a threat to the enchanted realm of Lios Nudin.
Tungdil kept a watchful eye on his surroundings as he walked: If t
here were orcs abroad, he had no desire to deliver himself into their clutches. He took particular care at blind corners, stopping to listen for clunking armor and weaponry or bestial snarls and shouts. To his considerable relief, he encountered no one and was spared the unenviable task of choosing to stand his ground or flee the orcs’ superior might. By the time he reached the gaily painted pickets marking the border between Idoslane and Gauragar, it had been dark for about four hours.
His feet were weary, so he decided to journey no farther that night. Spotting a nearby oak, he walked over and scrambled into the branches, hauling his bags after him with a rope that he had purchased in Goodwater.
He valued his life sufficiently that sleeping like a bird in the treetops seemed a fair price to pay for the extra protection it afforded. The orcs were hardly likely to spot him and in the event of trouble, he would draw on his ingenuity to find a way out. Wrapping the rope twice around his body, he tied himself to the tree to stop himself from falling or being shaken from his perch, then closed his eyes — and dreamed.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the fresh cold air that swept the majestic summits of the Great Blade and Dragon’s Tongue. The Northern Pass appeared before him and his imagination took off, soaring high above the Gray Range like an eagle.
A sudden welter of monstrous shouts shattered the serenity of the mountains and echoed hideously against the age-old rock.
On looking down, Tungdil saw the mighty portals of the Stone Gateway and all around them Giselbert and the fifthlings fighting to the death. Axes thudded into enemy armor, biting through sinew and bone, only to be torn out and planted in the next foe.
Still the hordes kept coming.
Tungdil stared in dismay when he saw the endless tide of assailants battering the stronghold. A foul stench of dead orc rose from the battlements where the stone was awash with green blood. He could practically taste the rancid fat on the creatures’ greasy armor. The reek was so unbearable that he woke up, retching.