by Markus Heitz
But the people’s desire for the gold was overwhelming and they summoned the dwarves to their aid.
A delegation came to Gauragar to examine the golden mountain and set about it with pickaxes, chisels, and spades.
Owing to the superior quality of their tools, they succeeded in burrowing their way into the mountain and digging a tunnel to the top. They hollowed out the mountain and carried away its treasures without being dazzled by the gold.
Of course, the people of Gauragar were furious and demanded to be given a portion of the trove. While the men and dwarves were quarreling, the mountain came to life, quaking with fury and bent on shaking the plunderers from its core. By then, of course, its flesh was riddled with shafts and tunnels, and the tip of the mountain fell in on itself, crushing the looters beneath its weight.
And now you know the story of how Cloudpiercer lost its summit and its glory.
Since then the denuded mountain has simmered with murderous hatred, its treacherous slopes darkening with malice as it plots its revenge against the races of men and dwarves.
The fire crackled loudly. Kerolus threw on another log to keep the flames going and drive out the darkness.
I knew there was something sinister about it, thought Tungdil. He wondered what it said about Gorén’s character that he had chosen to make his home there: It seemed a strange place to live.
“Folk say that wayfarers who venture into the woods are set upon by monsters,” the peddler added. “The mountain lures the creatures to it with the promise of easy prey. Sometimes hunger drives them out of the forest and into the towns. They eat anything, man or beast.” He shuddered.
“Well, it’s good to have company,” Tungdil said sincerely, steeling himself for the next morning’s march among the trees. At least he had his ax for protection. “Wait till you hear my story.”
He started to tell of his recent experiences, of his night in Goodwater and the meeting between the älfar and the orcs, but his account tailed off when he came to describing the destruction of the settlement. The memories were still too fresh.
Retreating into silence, he tried to get some sleep, but the trees had set themselves against him, creaking and groaning as soon as he closed his eyes. The forest seemed to take pleasure in keeping him awake.
Hîl and Kerolus were oblivious to the noise. Belatedly, it dawned on Tungdil why the men had partaken so freely of the brandy: Their senses had been dulled so completely that nothing could rouse them from their sleep. The task of watching over the camp and their lives was left to the unfortunate Tungdil.
With the coming of dawn, the rustling in the forest finally subsided and the peddlers packed their wagons, wished the dwarf a safe journey, and rode away, refreshed and alert. Tungdil hadn’t slept a wink.
He gazed glumly at the forest, peering into the murk. Fretting wasn’t going to get him anywhere and he had to press on. Gorén lived in the Blacksaddle, probably in the ruins of the dwarven tunnels, if Kerolus’s story was to be believed.
Monsters or no monsters, I’m coming through. He gripped his ax with both hands and stepped among the trees. At once his whole being was assailed by malice and spite: There was no mistaking the mountain’s displeasure at his approach.
Tungdil walked on regardless, intent on delivering the artifacts to Gorén so he could return to the comfort of Lot-Ionan’s vaults. The sooner he accomplished his errand, the sooner he would be home. Who knows, maybe the secondlings have replied to the letter already, he thought brightly.
At length his obstinacy and determination paid off and he reached the foot of the mountain with the forest behind him and not a monster in sight. Maybe the beasts attacked only after nightfall; in any event, he had made it unscathed.
The sheer sides of the Blacksaddle towered above him, steep, dark, and unmistakably hostile. For a moment he was tempted to run away.
Even as he stood there, a volley of rocks sped toward him and he dove for cover just in time, the final boulder missing him by the span of a hand. Each one of the rocks had been big enough to kill him, but he refused to be daunted. He had to find Gorén.
Tungdil circled the base of the mountain without discovering any indication of a dwelling or path. He took to calling the wizard’s name in the hope that he would hear him but was met with no response.
Muttering under his breath, he set out a second time around the mountain. This time as he scanned the dark fissured walls, he spotted a narrow flight of stairs hewn skillfully into the rock. The breadth of the steps suited him exactly, but a big-booted man would have struggled to keep his footing on the narrow stone slabs.
A hundred paces, two hundred paces, three hundred paces: Tungdil ascended the mountain, crawling on all fours and clinging to the sculpted steps; there was nothing else to hold on to.
From time to time the mountain cast stones at him or loosed an avalanche of scree. Pebbles grazed his hands and face, and a rock glanced off his forehead, tearing a gash in his skin. Feeling suddenly dizzy, Tungdil pressed himself against the flank of the mountain, letting go only when the world stopped spinning. He wiped the blood from his eyes, gritted his teeth, and climbed on.
“You can’t shake me off that easily! Vraccas created the dwarves from rock so we would rule the mountains. I’ll conquer you yet!” he bellowed.
He could tell from the angle of his shadow that the sun had passed its zenith and was sinking in the sky. A cold wind whistled around him, tugging at his bags. With every step his situation was becoming more perilous and he hardly dared consider the descent, but at last he mustered the courage to glance down at the fair land of Gauragar, four hundred paces below.
He had never seen such an incredible display of color and light. The sun and clouds were playing on the landscape, casting fleeting shadows over the meadows, fields, and forests. If he strained his eyes, he could make out settlements in the distance, the individual buildings resembling tiny blocks of stone. Rivers wound their way through the countryside like shimmering veins and the air smelled of spring.
The view was so spectacular that it almost stopped his breath. It gave him a sense of power and majesty, as if he himself were a mountain. He could see now why the dwarves had chosen to make their homes in Girdlegard’s ranges.
He continued his ascent, climbing with new vigor and courage, until at last he reached a recess in the flank of the mountain some five hundred paces above the ground. It seemed as good a place as any to spend the night.
The alcove was large enough to shelter him from the fierce winds and protect him from further attempts on the part of the Blacksaddle to pelt him with rocks. He crawled inside cautiously. Tomorrow will take care of itself.
The sinking sun bathed the gloomy walls of his simple shelter in reddish light, playing on the textured rock. Tungdil stared at the fissured surface; there was something about the markings that reminded him of runes.
He blinked. Surely not? He ran his hand over the rock. There’s definitely something there. Time and nature had worn away at the rock, but his searching fingertips found the shallow furrows of chiseled runes.
Tungdil had a sudden thought. Opening his tinderbox, he kindled a flame and scorched the haft of his ax. Taking the map from his pack, he laid it facedown against the wall and ran the charred wood across the parchment.
At first the improvised charcoal wouldn’t stick to the paper, but at length he succeeded in shading over the runes. The symbols appeared on the parchment, pale remnants of an ancient script.
Long moments passed while Tungdil studied the markings, struggling to make sense of the strange, cumbersome formulations. At last, when he had translated the runes into modern dwarfish, he was able to divine the meaning of the lines.
Built with blood,
It was drenched in blood.
Erected against the fourthlings,
It fell against the fourthlings.
Cursed by the fourthlings,
Then abandoned by all five.
Roused by the thirdlin
gs
Against the will of the thirdlings.
Drenched again
In blood,
The blood
Of all their
Line.
The mason had carved the verse in the shape of a tree, symbolizing renewal and the eternal cycle of life.
There was no way of gauging the age of the inscription, especially since the treatise on dwarven language in Lot-Ionan’s library made no mention of such things, but Tungdil couldn’t escape the impression that the runes were terribly old, a message from a long-forgotten era at least a thousand cycles past.
He breathed life into the words, reciting them aloud and listening raptly to the strange yet familiar syllables, so different from human speech. The language moved him, stirred him, churning his emotions.
He wasn’t the only one roused by the sound. The ancient runes rolled through the folds and wrinkles of the mountain and woke the Blacksaddle too. Something shifted in its memory and its hatred of the dwarves returned with a vengeance, this time directed at Tungdil. The Blacksaddle quaked.
“I’m not going anywhere!” He pressed his back against the rock, determined not to be shaken out of the alcove by the shuddering mountain.
Just then the wall behind him stirred as well. Grinding and groaning it slid back to reveal a tunnel. The shaking stopped abruptly.
Tungdil decided it meant one of two things: Either the Blacksaddle was trying to lure him inside and hold him prisoner in its flesh, or Gorén was welcoming him to his den.
With that, the matter was settled. He collected his things, shouldered the bag of artifacts, and strode determinedly into the tunnel.
After barely three paces he felt an almighty shudder and the doorway closed on Girdlegard’s night sky. The stars of Girdlegard twinkled their farewell and the dwarf was trapped inside.
Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle
The lofty buildings of the majestic palace shone luminous white against the clear blue sky. Sable turrets rose among the domed roofs, sparkling in the sunshine. Like beacons, their shimmering brightness and imposing height lit the way to Lios Nudin from a distance of fifty miles. A traveler would have to be blind to miss Porista.
Lot-Ionan feasted his eyes on the view. The circumstances surrounding the council’s meeting were worrying, but he was looking forward to seeing the others all the same. With a tug on the reins, he curbed his mount and rode through the city at a more sedate pace. Snorting, Furo made it known that he would rather gallop and feel the wind in his mane.
Tradition dictated that the meetings of the council took place in Porista’s opulent palace, a custom upheld by Girdlegard’s magi for two millennia. The reason for the venue was twofold: Firstly, the practical consideration of a central location, and secondly, and more crucially, Lios Nudin’s heart-shaped form. Like a well of enchantment, Lios Nudin supplied the other five realms with magic, the energy flowing outward to Ionandar, Turguria, Saborien, Oremaira, and Brandôkai.
Lot-Ionan patted his indignant stallion on the neck and laughed. “There’ll be plenty of time for galloping on the way home,” he assured him, keeping an attentive eye on the crowds.
The walls of Porista offered shelter and protection to forty thousand men. Grassy plains extended for hundreds of miles in every direction and the population made a decent living from livestock and crops. Farming was profitable in these parts: Porista’s produce was considered to be almost as good as that of Tabaîn, the northwestern kingdom nicknamed the Breadbasket because of its fertile fields.
Lot-Ionan steered his horse through the bustling streets, dodging carts and carriages and taking care not to trample pedestrians underfoot. He was already missing the tranquillity of his vaults.
At length he reached the gates of the palace, closed to ordinary mortals except by permission of the council. An invisible trap ensnared foolhardy individuals who tried to slip over the walls. Glued to the masonry like insects on flypaper, they were left to die of hunger and thirst, their magic bonds loosening only when nothing remained but bare bones. In matters of security the council was unbending: The palace belonged exclusively to the magi and their staff.
Lot-Ionan recited the incantation. The doors swung open as if propelled by an invisible hand and the magus rode on.
On reaching a sweeping staircase of buff-colored marble, he reined in Furo and slid from the saddle. His path took him up wide steps and through sunlit arcades on paving of elaborate mosaic. White pillars channeled the light from a vaulted glass roof to shine on the colored tiles and show off the intricate designs. The walkway led all the way to the conference chamber where his presence was awaited. He gave the password and the doors flew back.
The others were there already, seated at the circular table of malachite: Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty, Turgur the Fair-Faced, Sabora the Softly-Spoken, Maira the Life-Preserver, and Andôkai the Tempestuous.
With Lot-Ionan, they formed the council of six and disposed of almost limitless power. Each used their magic to pursue a goal of their choosing. Had the magi seen fit, they could easily have toppled the seven human kingdoms of Girdlegard and annexed their land, but they were intent on perfecting their wizardry, not acquiring worldly might.
Lot-Ionan spoke first to Sabora, then greeted the others in turn, before taking his place between her and Turgur. His arrival was acknowledged with brief, stately nods.
Sabora clasped his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, smiling warmly. Her high-buttoned dress of yellow velvet, a straight and somewhat stern affair, reached to the floor. Her short hair looked more silvery than at their last meeting, but her gray-brown eyes were as lively as ever. She sought his gaze. “Andôkai was beside herself with impatience.” She lowered her voice to a whisper so only he could hear. “So was I, but for entirely selfish reasons.”
Lot-Ionan returned her smile. Sabora made him feel like an amorous young man. Their affection was mutual.
“We know why you didn’t respond to our summons,” Andôkai told him. Her harsh tone made it sound like a reproach. She was attractive in an austere sort of way and her physique was uncommonly muscular for a maga, lending credence to the rumor that she could fight as well as any warrior. She wore her hair in a severe blond plait and her blue eyes seemed to search for a quarrel.
“Friedegard and Vrabor are dead,” Maira explained. She was taller and slimmer than Andôkai, with red hair that fell about her pale white shoulders. Her simple dress of light green cloth was the perfect complement to her eyes and showed off the gold trinkets hanging from her neck and ears. “The news arrived just before you did.” She looked over at Nudin. “It seems to us that the evidence points to the älfar. We think the Perished Land sent them to thwart our meeting.”
Lot-Ionan frowned. “The älfar are the Perished Land’s deadliest servants, but they’ve never been known to venture so far south. Nudin tells me that our girdle is failing.” He paused. “Enemy reinforcements are streaming into Girdlegard in greater numbers than before. Unless we seal the Northern Pass, we’ll be meeting in Porista on a regular basis to renew our magic shield.” He drummed his finger vigorously on the table. “Enough is enough! The Perished Land must be destroyed!”
“Oh, absolutely,” Turgur said scornfully. The famously fair-faced magus had perfectly symmetrical features, a meticulously shaven chin, a thin mustache, and flowing black locks. Women of all ages swooned at the sight of him, for which he was hated and admired by others of his sex. He was far and away the most handsome man in Girdlegard. “Why didn’t we think of it before? What a fabulous plan, Lot-Ionan.”
“This is no time for sarcasm,” Nudin rebuked him in a hoarse, rasping voice.
There was a brief silence as the magi reflected on their past attempts to defeat their invisible enemy.
“Our magic has done nothing to prevent the Perished Land from casting its shadow over Gauragar, Tabaîn, landur, and t
he fallen kingdoms of Lesinteïl and the Golden Plains,” Lot-Ionan said at last.
“And it’s not for want of trying. We’ve used enough energy to topple mountains and drain oceans,” added Andôkai, who knew all about destruction. Samusin, the god of winds, was her deity and she focused her magic on controlling even the slightest movement of air. Her mood was as changeable as the weather and her quick temper caused many a storm.
“It wasn’t enough, though,” said Turgur. “The Perished Land has dug its claws into our soil like a great dark beast and won’t be shifted.”
“No,” Andôkai contradicted him. “It’s lurking and ready to pounce. If we do nothing, it will attack.”
Lot-Ionan cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking. We know from experience that our combined power is enough to keep the threat in check. If we summon our apprentices to Porista and add their magic to the ritual, we may be able to defeat it.” He looked expectantly at the others. This was no idle suggestion: They each had thirty or more famuli, all of whom could practice magic to some degree. “If we were to harness the magic of a hundred and eighty wizards, our strength would surely prevail.”
“Failing that, we’ll know for certain that neither might nor magic can defeat our foe,” Nudin commented dryly.
The possibility was too dire for Lot-Ionan to contemplate. If nothing was capable of stopping the Perished Land’s incursion, it was only a matter of time before Girdlegard fell. Every living thing, man, beast, or plant, would be forced to live out its existence as a revenant, dead and yet forever in the service of the northern pestilence. A shiver of fear ran through him. No, we can’t let that happen.
Andôkai was the first to find her voice. She seemed anxious as she scanned the faces of the others. “I know some of you don’t approve of my allegiance to Samusin, but I stand by my faith. We must act.”
“I thought your faith would forbid you from driving out the Perished Land,” Lot-Ionan said in surprise.
“Samusin strives for equilibrium, but in the blackest of nights, nothing survives, not even a shadow. If we stand by and do nothing, Girdlegard will be in thrall to the darkness,” she explained. “Once the Perished Land is defeated, the balance will be restored. I’m in favor of the proposal.”