by Markus Heitz
“I’m looking for a wizard, a former apprentice of my magus. He moved there some time ago and now Lot-Ionan is concerned for his well-being. He won’t rest until I’ve seen him for myself.”
Opatja contemplated Tungdil’s injured leg. “Leave it a few more orbits before you set off. We’ll give you some healing herbs so you can keep treating it while you’re on the move.” He picked up the letters to Lot-Ionan and rose to his feet.
“Thank you,” Tungdil said warmly. “I’m most grateful to you.”
“Don’t mention it,” replied the former merchant with a laugh. “I’ve never seen the little rascals so quiet!”
He left his guest with the children, who resumed their persistent questioning as soon as he was gone. They could hardly believe their ears when Tungdil told them he was sixty-three cycles old.
“Shouldn’t your beard be much longer?” Jemta asked suspiciously. “I asked Grandpa and he said groundlings grow their beards to the floor.”
“I’m a dwarf, not a groundling! And besides, I grew my beard for thirty cycles before I had to shave it off. It kept getting scorched by the sparks in the forge and then some scoundrel dyed it blue.”
The boy with the protruding ears reached out to touch it. “It’s much wirier and curlier than Father’s!” he pronounced.
“You should try combing it! Imagine how long it takes to braid.” The dwarf grinned and showed them one of his plaits. “It’s willful and unruly, just like us. We dwarves hold competitions to see who can grow the longest, bushiest beards, and we decorate our braids with beads and metal trinkets. Most of my kinsfolk look like me. Very few of us have mustaches, sideboards, or chinstraps, and fewer still have no beard at all.” He could tell them all about it, thanks to Lot-Ionan’s books.
Giggling, the children fashioned their own beards by plaiting stalks of hay and sticking them to their chins with globules of sap scraped from the wooden beams.
“Do all groundlings… I mean, do all dwarves have beards?”
“Absolutely. If you see a clean-shaven dwarf, you can be sure that it’s a punishment for something. An exiled dwarf won’t be allowed home until his beard has reached the length of his ax haft. And since our beards grow so slowly, the banishment lasts for cycles.” Book-learning, he thought sadly. Book-learning passed on to me by humans. He sighed.
Jemta seized her chance and snatched the straw from the chin of the jug-eared boy. “There, you’re banished! Be off with you!”
In no time the battle of the beard was raging with all the youngsters intent on banishing one another from the barn. In the end Rémsa reappeared and put an end to the fun. Amid loud protests, the children were made to say their good nights and go to bed.
The woman smiled at him warmly. “They’ve taken to you,” she said. “They’re not this friendly with everyone, you know. Good night to you, Tungdil. We’ll ask Palandiell to mend your leg.”
They actually like me. It came as a welcome surprise. Frala and her daughters would surely feel at home here. So much has happened already; they won’t believe the half of it! He stroked the scarf that Frala had given him, then lay back and put his arms behind his head. If only he could have answered the children’s questions about dwarven hoards and dwarven customs with proper authority instead of gleaning his knowledge from books. It’s about time I got to know my own people, he thought.
IV
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle
Tungdil soon had the chance to repay his hosts for their kindness in nursing him back to health. Two orbits later, when his leg was almost mended, he set to work in the hamlet’s little forge, tackling all the jobs that the regular smith, the only one in the vicinity, was unable to do on account of a broken arm. From the man’s point of view, the dwarf’s assistance — unpaid, of course — was a godsend.
While the children worked the bellows and squabbled over taking turns, Tungdil placed the iron in the furnace and waited until it glowed red with heat.
The youngsters watched as he hammered the metal amid showers of sparks. With every thud of the hammer, there were squeals of delight.
The smith nodded at Tungdil admiringly. “It’s not often you see such swift work,” he complimented him. “And good quality too. Maybe it’s true that metalwork was invented by groundlings.”
“We’re dwarves, not groundlings.”
“Sorry,” the man said with an apologetic smile. “I meant dwarves.”
Tungdil grinned. “Well, no matter how fast I work, there’s enough to keep me busy for a good long while. How about I stay another orbit? I can always leave for the Blacksaddle after that.”
They were interrupted by Jemta. “Show me how to make nails!” she demanded.
“You want to be a smith, do you?” Tungdil patted the blond child on the head, then set about teaching her how to make a nail. While she ran off proudly to show her handiwork to her parents, he turned his attention to forging a new windlass for the well.
It was midafternoon when he left his perch to lie down in a tub of cool water. His clothes reeked of perspiration, so he climbed in fully dressed.
I’m surprised my skin doesn’t hiss like hot iron, he thought. The cold water took his breath away, but then he sank luxuriously below the surface and came up, snorting and gasping for air. He was just wiping the water from his eyes when a shadow fell over the tub. There was a clunking of metal and the smell of oil.
Plate armor, thought Tungdil, blinking nervously.
A solid man of around thirty cycles was leaning against the outside wall of the forge, arms folded in front of his armored chest. Despite the various weapons about his person, he had no uniform or insignia to identify him as a soldier.
“Were you looking for me, sir?” asked Tungdil, stepping out of the tub. Water streamed from his clothes, drenching the sandy floor.
“Are you the smith?”
“I’m standing in for him at the moment. Is there something you’d like repaired?” The dwarf did his best to be polite even though he had taken an instant dislike to the man. The stranger’s gray eyes bored into him as if to read his innermost thoughts.
“Two of our horses need shoeing. Are you up to it?”
That was enough to turn Tungdil against him forever. “I should hope so. What else would I be doing in a forge? I may as well ask you if you know how to ride!” The dwarf left the bath, trying to look as dignified as possible while leaving a trail of water behind him and making squelching noises as if he were tramping through a bog. His hair hung limply down his back.
Waiting outside on the narrow rutted road were six horses and four men in what looked like full battle dress. One of the horses was laden with kitchen utensils, leather packs, and two rolled-up nets.
The men were conversing in low tones but fell silent when Tungdil approached. They looked at him oddly but made no remark.
The dwarf instructed one of the men to work the bellows. Air hissed into the furnace, fanning the glowing coals until flames licked around them, quivering and flickering above the burning fuel. Tungdil was enveloped in heat, his hair and clothes drying in no time. He was in his element.
“Are you mercenaries?” he asked the fellow on the bellows. Unhurriedly, he chose a hammer and some nails while another man led in the lame horse. Tungdil held the shoe against the hoof; the fit was right.
“You could say that,” came the curt reply. “We hunt orcs and criminals with a price on their head.”
Tungdil placed the shoe among the burning embers and waited. “I suppose business is good at the moment,” he probed. “What of the orcs who razed Goodwater?”
“Gauragar is a big place and Bruron’s soldiers can’t be everywhere at once. We’ve enough to keep us busy,” the leader of the company said brusquely.
The conversation was over.
Working in silence, Tungdil hammered the horseshoe into shape and fitted it to the hoof. A cloud of yellowish smoke filled the
forge. When the job was done, he demanded twice his usual price. The mercenaries paid without objecting and rode away. Tungdil watched them go and dismissed them from his mind.
The next orbit flew by and already it was time for him to leave. The children in particular were disappointed; they had grown fond of the stocky little fellow who showered them with metal trinkets.
Tungdil thanked his hosts profusely. “Without your healing powers a festering wound like that could have killed me.” He dug out the extra money that he had taken from the mercenaries and handed it to Opatja.
“We can’t accept this,” the villager objected.
“That’s your business, but I won’t be taking it back. It’s not often that a dwarf agrees to part with money.” He was so insistent that the coins eventually found their way into Opatja’s purse.
Rémsa gave him a pouch of herbs. “Lay them on your wounds before you go to sleep. Soon your leg will be as good as new.” They all shook hands and he went on his way. The children followed him until the sky grew darker and rain clouds gathered overhead.
“Will you come and see us on your way home?” Jemta asked mournfully.
“Of course, little one. It’s an honor to have made your acquaintance. Keep practicing, and you’ll make a fine smith.” He offered her his hand, but she darted forward and hugged him instead.
“Now we’re friends,” she said, waving and running back toward the hamlet. As she rounded the corner she shouted: “Don’t forget to come back!”
Tungdil was so surprised that he stood there for a moment, hand outstretched, in the middle of the road. “Well, well, who would have thought I could win over a girl-child so easily?” He marched off in good spirits, thinking fondly of the people left behind.
The spring weather had taken a turn for the worse: Dark clouds covered every inch of sky and rain had settled for the duration. After a while, even his boots were soaked, his feet cold and swollen inside the sopping leather.
In spite of the unpleasant conditions, Tungdil was making good progress, but the thought of the orcs and the incursion of the Perished Land, as foretold by the älfar, preyed on his mind.
He remembered what Lot-Ionan had told him about the invasion of the northern pestilence. The Perished Land extended six hundred and fifty miles across Girdlegard, swallowing the whole of the former fifthling kingdom and much of the northern border besides and reaching another four hundred miles southward, where it tapered to approximately half that breadth.
Tungdil reached the shelter of a rocky overhang and examined his map. In his mind’s eye he pictured the insidious evil as a wedge forcing itself into Girdlegard, its tip grinding against the magi’s magic barrier and leveling off, unable to advance any farther.
Now it seemed that the Perished Land’s ruler, the mysterious Nôd’onn, was intent on extending his dominion. And he was undoubtedly making progress, in spite of the magi’s girdle. In the east, the älfar kingdom of Dsôn Balsur was eating its way into Gauragar like a festering sore, covering an area two hundred miles long by seventy miles wide. And while the Stone Gateway remained open, there was nothing to stop further armies of foul beasts from entering Girdlegard from the north.
The magi will have their work cut out now that Toboribor has allied itself with the northern blight. The wizards were powerful, but they could only be in one place at a time.
At least they’ll be forewarned. According to his calculations, the message would have reached Lot-Ionan by now.
All around him, the varied landscape of Gauragar was doing its best to recompense him for the dreadful events at the start of his trip. Even the rain could not dull the vibrant springtime colors, although Tungdil was too focused on his journey to pay much attention to the lush splendor of the knolls, woods, and meadows. At length he came to an abandoned temple, a small edifice dedicated to Palandiell. Light streamed through manifold windows, illuminating carvings that symbolized fertility and long life.
Palandiell commanded the loyalty of most humans, but she was too soft and indecisive for Tungdil’s taste. He was a follower of Vraccas, to whom temples had been constructed in some of the larger cities — or so he had read in Lot-Ionan’s books.
Some humans preferred Elria, the water deity, while others prayed to the wind god Samusin, who regarded men, elves, dwarves, and beasts as creatures of equal standing and strove for an equilibrium between evil and good. Tion, dark lord and creator of foul beasts, was more feared than admired in Girdlegard. I don’t know anyone who would worship him, Tungdil thought in relief. Lot-Ionan’s household, Frala included, prayed to Palandiell.
Tungdil had erected his own special altar and dedicated it to the god of the dwarves who had hewn the five founding fathers from unyielding granite and brought them to life. From time to time he smelted gold in his furnace as an offering: For all he knew, he was the only dwarf in Girdlegard to follow such a custom, but he wanted to give Vraccas a share of the best.
His brown eyes surveyed the ivy-covered walls of the derelict temple. Perhaps men will have greater cause to pray to Palandiell in the future, he mused.
Later he stood aside as a unit of well-armored cavalry-men rode by. Their mail, embellished with the crest of King Bruron, clunked noisily and mud sprayed from the horses’ hooves, spattering his cloak. He counted two hundred riders in all. Will that be enough to defeat a war band of orcs?
From then on Tungdil regularly encountered patrol groups. By the look of things, news of the marauding hordes in Idoslane had traveled fast. Rather than relying on Tilogorn to put a stop to the destruction, King Bruron of Gauragar was taking steps of his own to hunt down the orcs.
It pleased Tungdil to see that the humans had heeded his warning. History would hardly remember the actions of Tungdil Bolofar, a dwarf without clan or folk who had alerted Gauragar to the danger by calling on a peasant family to send word to the authorities that Goodwater had been destroyed. What mattered was that he knew about it and it filled him with pride.
Most nights Tungdil slept beneath the stars, although occasionally he made his bed in a barn and once he allowed himself the luxury of a room at an inn. It seemed prudent to save the dwindling contents of his purse.
After nine orbits his leg was fully mended. The rigors of the journey had made a lasting impression on his girth and his belt sat two holes tighter than usual. Walking was good for his stamina and he no longer panted when he journeyed uphill. Even his feet had become accustomed to the daily toil. At night he sometimes dreamed of Goodwater, the horrors he had seen there still present in his mind.
It took another few orbits of marching before the Black-saddle finally loomed into view. The mountain looked almost exactly like the model that Opatja had irreverently fashioned from cheese, except its sides were pitch-black.
Sunlight glistened on the deep gulleys running vertically down the mountain’s sheer flanks. The forbidding rock jutted out of the landscape like an abandoned boulder and was surrounded by a murky forest of conifers. The trees looked small and fragile by comparison, although the smallest among them was fifty paces high.
In times gone by, it must have been a proper mountain with a summit towering miles above the ground. Perhaps the gods snapped it off as a punishment and left the base like a tree stump in the soil.
There was something vaguely sinister about the mountain. Tungdil couldn’t define it exactly, but he knew he would never have gone there by choice. He could only assume that Gorén prized his solitude more than most.
Brushing aside these misgivings, Tungdil hefted his bags and continued along the gravel road that wound past the forest half a mile to the east. He kept looking for a path or a gap in the trees, but at sundown he was back where he had started and none the wiser for it all.
What a strange forest. Tomorrow I’ll have to cut my way through the undergrowth if the trees won’t let me pass. He could feel the tiredness in his limbs, so he set up camp by the roadside and lit a fire, keeping a watchful eye on the forest for predators.
“Is there room at the fire?” asked the first, introducing himself and his companion. Hîl and Kerolus were everything Tungdil expected of the human male: tall and unshaven with long hair, plain apparel, and needlessly loud voices. They laughed, joked, and passed the bottle of brandy back and forth, but their jollity seemed forced.
“I don’t mean to be nosy,” said Tungdil, “but you seem a little on edge.”
Hîl stopped laughing abruptly. “You’re observant, groundling.”
“Dwarf. I’m a dwarf.”
“A dwarf. I see. I didn’t know there was a difference.” “There isn’t; but the proper term is dwarf. Just as you prefer to be called humans and not grasslings or beanpoles.”
Hîl grinned. “My mistake.”
“We’re afraid of the mountain and of the creatures in the woods,” said Kerolus. “That’s the truth of the matter. We wouldn’t normally stop here, but our poor old nags are beat.” He broke four eggs into a frying pan and invited Hîl and the dwarf to share in his meal.
“So what’s wrong with the mountain?” asked Tungdil, dipping a crust into the egg yolk.
Kerolus looked at him incredulously. “I thought every groundling, er, dwarf, knew about the Blacksaddle. Very well, I shall tell you the story of the mount that lost its peak…”
Hîl settled down by the fire and his companion began his tale.
Many cycles ago there was a mountain called Cloud-piercer, whose summit towered high into the sky. Taller and prouder than any other peak in Girdlegard, it was tipped with snow throughout the seasons and its loftiest pitches were made of pure gold.
Everyone could see the mountain’s riches, but no one could reach them. The golden crown rested on impossibly sheer and unyielding slopes and the glare from the snow and the precious metal blinded any who looked at the summit for too long.