by Markus Heitz
Having put a decent distance between himself and the orcs, Tungdil stopped worrying about trying to move quietly. Provided he could get to the village fast enough, there was still a chance that lives could be saved.
He settled into a steady trot and reached the edge of the wood in short order. With a sigh of relief he stepped out into the open.
Vraccas almighty! He froze at the sight.
Four hundred paces from the wood was another orc encampment, three times larger than the first. The field was carpeted with sleeping beasts. No fires were alight to alert him to the danger.
Tungdil retreated quickly before he was spotted. In spite of his best efforts, he failed to find an alternative route: If he wanted to reach the settlement, he would have to sneak past the sleeping bodies. Soon his misgivings were replaced by dwarven obstinacy. Determined to warn the villagers of the coming danger, he crept along the edge of the wood, trying to stay hidden while he picked out the best path through the camp.
Suddenly his boot met with resistance and he heard a faint click. Leaves swirled into the air and a metal jaw snapped shut, trapping his left calf just below the knee. The ground opened and Tungdil plummeted downward, landing head-first. Everything went dark.
It was the pain that woke him.
When Tungdil came to, there was an excruciating throbbing in his left leg. Groaning, he struggled into a sitting position and gazed up at the dark earthen walls. Gleaming green fronds framed the opening of the pit; it was dawn already.
Clamped to his leg and strangling his blood supply was a contraption whose purpose he knew only too well. Villagers set traps like these to catch wolves. The metal teeth had pierced his leather breeches, leaving a crust of dark red blood around the wound. His calf throbbed dully.
Tungdil did not bother to prize the trap apart but took up his ax, gritted his teeth, and set about hammering the thin pins at the heart of the spring.
Every blow to the trap was a blow to his leg and he moaned softly in pain. Trying not to flinch, he worked on the metal determinedly until the jaws fell open and the pressure was released.
With cautious movements he removed the trap, then flung it away furiously. Using the loamy wall to support himself, he stood up and placed his injured leg gently on the ground. Pain seared through his calf. Running was out of the question; hauling himself out of the pit was going to be difficult enough.
His concern for the people of Goodwater gave him the necessary strength. After tossing his knapsack out of the pit, he slung the leather pouch over his shoulder and wound his fingers around the roots protruding from the soil. Gasping, he hauled himself up and, with a final burst of energy, swung himself onto the grass, where he lay panting for air.
I’ll be more careful where I put my feet in the future, he thought grimly. After a while he crawled to the edge of the wood. The fresh scent on the spring breeze was all the evidence he needed that the orcs had moved on. The field was deserted.
There could be little doubt where they had gone: Smoke was rising in the distance, gathering like a storm cloud in the sky. Tungdil scrambled up, shouldered his knapsack, and hurried off, shaking the dead leaves and mud from his hair.
Anger and loathing dulled the pain, driving him faster and faster until he realized that he was running after all. He wanted to be there with the people of Goodwater since his clumsiness had prevented him from warning them in time.
Such was his resolve that he paid no heed to the voice of reason that bade him take more care. Nothing could stop him from racing toward the settlement, spurred on by the ever-growing column of dark smoke.
That afternoon, sweat-drenched, he reached the top of the hill and looked down on the settlement.
Goodwater was ablaze. Breaches several paces across had opened in the palisades and there were two large gaps where the wooden defenses had been razed to the ground. Mutilated limbs and bodies littered the perimeter.
He soon spotted the remains of the mercenaries, heads impaled on their spears. Their unseeing eyes stared down from the watchtower as the fire raged unchecked through the settlement, reducing the houses to charred shells.
There were no cries for help, no shouted orders to fetch water or quench the blaze. All Tungdil could hear was the crackling of flames, the roar of burning wood, and the crash of collapsing roofs and walls. There was no sign of life.
Clutching his ax, Tungdil marched toward the burned-out settlement. Maybe I’ll find a few survivors trapped among the ruins. He gripped his weapon a little tighter as he passed through the gates and turned onto the high street, limping as he walked.
The warm wind smelled of scorched flesh, and flames were shooting out of the houses where panes of glass had shattered in the heat. The whole settlement was on fire.
Human corpses were strewn across the streets and pavements, bodies piled up like dead vermin. Some of the women were naked, the flesh of their breasts and buttocks gouged with bite marks and scratches. There was no mistaking their particular fate.
Shuddering, Tungdil stepped over the slaughtered villagers and listened intently for the slightest sign that anyone was still alive. It was deathly quiet.
All the while the heat was intensifying. The surviving walls acted like a furnace, trapping the fire and raising the temperature dangerously. The dwarf had no choice but to leave the dying settlement.
Back on the hilltop, Tungdil sat down and made himself watch Goodwater’s final moments. It’s my fault. He buried his bearded chin in his hands and wept in despair. Long moments passed before the tears of anger and helplessness began to slow.
Now he could see why his kinsfolk stood guard at Girdlegard’s passes: Humans were powerless to defend themselves against the brutal beasts. Tungdil looked down through his tears at the burned-out settlement. Nowhere should ever be made to look like that.
He dried his salt-streaked cheeks and wiped his hands on his cloak. His calf was throbbing so painfully that he decided to delay his departure until the following orbit. Curling up on the hillside, he pulled his cloak over him and watched the flames flicker as evening drew in.
The fire raged long into the night until there was nothing left to burn. Red glimmers illuminated the ashes and Tungdil was reminded of the shadow mares’ menacing eyes. So much evil in such a short space of time, he thought sadly.
Tomorrow he would press on with his errand and deliver the pouch. Then it would be time for him to persuade Lot-Ionan to take action before the orcs and älfar grew any more powerful.
When Tungdil woke the next morning, he was forced to concede that the sacking of Goodwater was not, as he had hoped, just a dream.
Gray clouds obscured the sun and the smell of rain hung in the air. There was nothing left of the settlement besides smoking embers, rubble, and burned-out houses whose scorched girders rose starkly into the sky like blackened skeletons.
The fields and orchards were covered with a white mist that advanced over the remains of Goodwater, hiding it from view. The land was mourning the villagers, laying a shroud over the settlement that only an orbit earlier had bustled with life.
The sight was too much for Tungdil to bear, so he gathered his packs and set off. As he hobbled on his way, he tried to eat a little something from his provisions, but the bread he had bought in Goodwater stuck in his throat. There was a cloying taste of death and guilt. He stowed the loaf away.
The gashes in his calf were angry and painful. If he left the wound untreated, he ran the risk of infection or even gangrene, which could cost him his leg or, worse still, his life.
That aside, the journey passed without incident and he crossed back into Gauragar and camped that evening beneath the now-familiar oak. Its leafy canopy sheltered him from the downpour that started that night, only easing late the next morning.
By the fifth orbit the skin surrounding the crusty wound felt hot to the touch and thick yellow pus oozed from the scab. Gritting his teeth, Tungdil walked on.
There was no use waiting for help by th
e wayside. Instead he kept going, trailing his injured leg through the fine drizzle that was rapidly transforming the trail into a mud bath. At last he reached a small hamlet numbering six farmhouses. His forehead was burning.
A fair-haired woman in simple peasant dress, a milk pail in either hand, spotted the staggering figure. She stopped in her tracks.
Tungdil could barely make out her features; she was just a faint shadow. “Vraccas be with you,” he murmured, then toppled over, landing face-first in the mud, his arms too weak to break his fall.
“Opatja!” the woman called urgently, setting down her pails. “Come quickly!”
There was the sound of hurrying footsteps; then Tungdil was rolled onto his back.
“He’s feverish,” said a blurry, misshapen figure, his voice echoing oddly in the dwarf’s ears. Someone was examining his leg. “He doesn’t look good. It’s gangrenous. We’ll have to move him to the barn.” Tungdil felt himself hovering in midair. “He’ll need an herbal infusion.”
“He looks funny,” said a childish voice. “What is he?”
“He’s a groundling,” the woman answered.
“You told me they live in the ground! What’s he doing up here?”
“Not now, Jemta. Take your brothers and sisters inside,” the man said impatiently.
The air was warm and smelled of hay. Tungdil could hear mooing. The rain seemed to stop and the light dimmed. “Goodwater,” he said weakly. “Goodwater has fallen to the orcs.”
“What did he say?” The woman sounded worried.
“Pay no attention,” the man said dismissively. “He’s feverish, that’s all. Look, he must have been caught in a wolf trap. Either that, or the orc had metal jaws.” They both chuckled.
The dwarf clutched at the man’s arm. “You’re right; I’m feverish,” he said, making a last attempt to warn them, “but the orcs are coming. They’re heading in three directions: west, south, and east. Three tribes. At least three hundred troopers.”
Footsteps approached rapidly. “Here’s the infusion,” said the girl. “So that’s what a groundling looks like!”
“Ava, you go inside too,” the man ordered. There was a brief pause; then Tungdil felt as though his leg were being dunked in boiling oil. Even as he screamed the world went dark around him.
… but he doesn’t even have a proper beard!” Tungdil detected a note of disappointment in the girl’s voice. “Grandpa said they always have long beards, but this one’s shorter than Father’s. It’s like… scratchy wool.
“Do you think he’s got gold and diamonds?” The speaker took a step closer. “Remember what Grandma told us? Groundlings are richer than anyone.”
“Come back here!” hissed the girl. “You can’t just search his pockets. It’s rude!”
Tungdil’s eyes flicked open. Squealing, the children jumped back in a flurry of straw. He sat up and looked around.
Nine children were gathered around him, staring with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Their ages ranged from four to fourteen cycles and they were clad in plain garments. Nothing they wore could have cost more than a single bronze coin.
His leg had been dressed and was throbbing a bit, but the pain was gone and his temperature was back to normal. They had taken good care of him.
“Vraccas be with you,” he greeted them. “Could you tell me where I am and who was kind enough to tend to me?”
“He speaks just like us,” said a redheaded boy with sticking-out ears.
The eldest girl, her brown hair in two plaits, grinned. “Of course he talks like us. Why wouldn’t he?” She nodded at him. “I’m Ava. Mother found you five orbits ago. You fell over in the mud, but Father and the others picked you up and looked after you.” She sent a fair-haired girl, Jemta, to fetch the grown-ups. “Are you better now? Do you want something to eat?”
“Five orbits ago?” To Tungdil it seemed more like a short doze. His stomach rumbled loudly. “Hmm, I suppose some food would be in order — and something to drink as well.” He smiled; the children reminded him of Frala, Sunja, and baby Ikana. “Haven’t you ever seen a dwarf before?” The harmless inquiry unleashed a deluge of questions.
“Which folk do you belong to?”
“Are you rich?”
“Where are your diamonds?”
“How many orcs have you slain?”
“Are all groundlings small like you?”
“Is it true you can smash rocks with your bare hands?”
“Why isn’t your beard very long?”
“How many names have you got?”
“Stop, stop!” Tungdil pleaded, laughing. “I can’t answer everyone at once. You can take it in turns, but first I have to tell your parents something.” He wanted to save the news of the orcs for the grown-ups; there was no need to scare the children.
A fair-haired woman whom he vaguely remembered from his last lucid moment five orbits ago came in with a basket of victuals on her arm. The smell was enough to make his mouth water. “I’m Rémsa,” she said.
“And I’m Tungdil. You saved my life and for that I’m eternally grateful.” He lowered his voice. “But I’m going to have to ask you to send the children away.”
“Why?” Jemta protested cheekily.
He grinned at her. “Because certain things aren’t meant for young ears!” They left.
“You’re not still on about Goodwater, are you?” said the woman. “You had all kinds of nightmares while you were ill.”
“They weren’t nightmares, Rémsa. It’s the truth! The orcs, they… Never mind about that: You have to get out of here! They’re coming. They’re heading south, east, and west — three whole tribes of orcs, numbering a hundred troopers each. You’ll be killed. They’ll slaughter your animals and set light to your farms. You have to go!”
Rémsa placed a hand on his brow. “The temperature’s gone,” she said thoughtfully. “You don’t seem feverish…” She unpacked some bread, milk, cheese, and cured meat and laid them on the blanket to protect them from the straw. “So it’s true, is it? I’ll tell Opatja and we’ll send a messenger to Steepleton. The privy council will know what to do.”
“There’s no time for that! They’re on their way already!” he said with as much urgency as the mouthful of sausage allowed. Hunger had got the better of him and he was tucking in ravenously.
“You’ve been sick for five orbits, don’t forget. They’d be here by now if they wanted to attack. We’ll send out a scout, just in case.”
“Is there any way of getting a message through from Steepleton?” A rider or even a carrier pigeon would reach the major cities of Girdlegard faster than anyone else. Those services were by no means cheap, but at least they could be relied on to spread the news quickly.
“A message? I’ll send someone who can note it down for you.”
“It’s no trouble,” Tungdil interrupted politely. “I can write.” He could hardly blame her for assuming he was illiterate; most country people were unschooled. “I just need some parchment and ink — and someone to take the letter as far as Steepleton. It’s for Lot-Ionan in Ionandar.”
She nodded and checked the dressing on his calf. “You were lucky not to lose your leg, you know. It’s a good thing we found you when we did; another orbit and you’d be wearing a wooden peg. That trap must have been a rusty old thing. Make sure you eat and get some rest.”
She gave strict instructions to the children to leave him in peace, but they soon returned, giggling and bearing parchment and a quill.
From then on it was impossible to get rid of them. Knowing nothing of dwarves save for stories and legends, they were determined to satisfy their curiosity while they had the chance. They stared at him raptly, following every loop and flourish of the quill as he composed his message to the magus.
The letter contained a full account of all that had happened in Goodwater, the pact between the orcs and älfar, the designs of Nôd’onn, who was said to be the ruler of the Perished Land, and other salient facts. I ho
pe it gets there in time, he worried silently. He made a second copy in case the first went missing en route, then lay back in exhaustion on his soft bed of straw.
As soon as the children saw that the letter was complete, they pestered him with yet more questions. This time Tungdil answered with one of his own: “Who can tell me about the Blacksaddle?”
“I can!” Jemta volunteered proudly. “It’s almost three hundred miles from here. Father says it’s near the highway. He knows all about Girdlegard from when he used to be a trader.” She paused for a second. “I know — I’ll go and get him for you. He’ll describe it better than me.” Jumping to her feet, she dashed out like a whirlwind and returned a few moments later with Opatja, a stocky gray-haired man. To Tungdil’s delight, he came bearing a tankard of beer.
“The Blacksaddle, you say?” he asked. “An unnatural sort of place. There’s a road, all right, but it doesn’t lead straight to the mountain; you’ll have to hack your way through the forest for the final mile or two.” He picked up Tungdil’s map and traced a rough route. “You can’t miss it: a flat black mountain poking above the trees.”
“Flat?” said the dwarf in surprise, taking a grateful sip of his beer. The children drew closer, listening intently.
Opatja nodded. “Think of it as a giant tablet of soap that slipped from Palandiell’s hands. It’s four hundred paces high, three hundred paces wide, and it runs for a full mile plus another two hundred or so paces.” To show the dwarf exactly what he meant, he sliced a hunk of cheese and cut long vertical gouges into its sides. “That’s from the wind and rain,” he explained to the children.
“Ah, a table mountain! They call them that because the summit is flat like a tabletop. I read about them in my magus’s library.” He tried to imagine how the Blacksaddle would look in real life. Opatja’s description had vaguely reminded him of a legend, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember how it went. Oh well, the three-hundred-mile march would give him ample opportunity to search his memory.
“What do you want with the Blacksaddle?”