by Markus Heitz
This time the king held out his hand. “I can see in your eyes that your concern for Idoslane is genuine. I shall take you at your word.”
“Make no mistake,” Mallen warned him. “There is no friendship between us. Only the gods know what will become of us once the hordes have been defeated, but let us focus on saving our kingdom for now.”
Lothaire, who had been hanging back, stepped in. “Excellent. Good sense has prevailed, it seems. I propose that we inform the other monarchs and make haste to raise our troops.” He escorted them through the corridors of his palace.
Tilogorn stole sideways glances at the other two, trying to read their expressions.
Lothaire was visibly excited at the prospect of battle, but Mallen’s face was inscrutable, revealing only that he shared Tilogorn’s profound anxiety about the future.
Just then, they fell into step, their boots ringing out in unison against the marble floor.
“Hark,” said Tilogorn, drawing their attention to the harmony of their stride. “Past cycles have driven a wedge between our dynasties, but now we move as one. If only it didn’t take a common enemy to bridge the gulf between neighbors.”
“It’s no use dwelling on the past,” replied the sovereign of Urgon. “Blaze a trail for others to follow, and follow they will. It’s the only reasonable thing to do.”
“Well spoken, King Lothaire,” Tilogorn said approvingly. “I think the two of us” — he nodded at Mallen — “have shown that we are reasonable men.”
VI
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Early Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle
Over here, you runt,” a voice cried lustily in dwarfish. “Come here so I can slaughter you!” A squat figure pushed its way between the orc’s legs, whipped out two short-hafted axes, and planted them in the orc’s vulnerable nether regions.
Oinking derisively, the diminutive warrior jerked the weapons out of his opponent’s crotch and launched himself into the air like an acrobat, seemingly unhampered by his heavy mail. On his way down he struck again, hewing the neck of the orc who was doubled up in pain. The axes sliced from both sides, almost meeting in the middle. The beast crumpled to the ground.
“By Beroïn’s beard,” the warrior scolded Tungdil, “what were you doing dropping your ax?”
“You’re a… dwarf!” Tungdil gasped in surprise, scrambling to his feet.
“Of course I’m a dwarf! What did you think I was? An elf?” He bent down, picked up the ax, and tossed it to Tungdil. “Don’t let go of it this time. We’ll save the talking for later.” With a grim laugh he threw himself back into the frenzied scrum.
Tungdil spotted a second dwarf, identical to the first in every detail except his beard. He was slashing vigorously at his opponents with a crow’s beak, a kind of spiked war hammer equipped with a curved spur as long as his lower arm.
“I thought you said you wanted our flesh? Too bad you didn’t bring more of your friends!” shouted Tungdil’s rescuer, taunting the orcs. “Your pig-ugly mothers must have slept with a hideous elf to make monsters like you,” he boomed. “With a one-legged, mangy, no-eared elf. She probably enjoyed it!” When one of the orcs lunged forward, snarling with rage, the dwarf dispatched him with a flash of his axes. “Come on, don’t be shy,” he harried them. “You can all take a turn.”
His fellow warrior preferred to work silently, wreaking his own brand of deadly havoc, slicing through limbs and hewing torsos with well-aimed swipes.
By now the orcs numbered just four, their slain comrades littering the ground around them and drenching the soil with their blood. Closing ranks, the last of the beasts prepared for a joint attack. The dwarves immediately drew together, standing back-to-back.
“Huzzah! That’s more like it!” shouted Tungdil’s savior, his eyes gleaming maniacally.
Rather than wait for the orcs to engage them, they whirled their way forward into the mob, spinning on their axis like a dancer in a music box, each warning the other in dwarfish of any threats from behind.
This unconventional strategy secured the dwarves a speedy victory against their more numerous foes. The last orc went to his death to the sound of their laughter and cries of “oink, oink!”
Tungdil was profoundly impressed. The dwarven warriors had dispatched an entire band of orcs without incurring so much as a scratch. He gazed at them in dumb admiration, then realized he had done nothing to help.
“May the fire of Vraccas’s furnace burn in you forever,” the second dwarf greeted him. “My name is Boëndal Hookhand of the clan of the Swinging Axes and this is my twin brother, Boïndil Doubleblade or Ireheart, if you prefer. Secondlings, the pair of us.” His friendly brown eyes studied Tungdil shrewdly.
“You can see straightaway that he wouldn’t stand a chance against a band of orcs,” his brother said, guffawing. “He had enough trouble with just one of those runts. What kind of idiot drops his only ax?” He checked himself and looked at Tungdil. “I’m assuming you weren’t planning to strangle them with your bare hands?”
“Oh no, sir,” said Tungdil. “I’d be dead by now if you hadn’t come along.” He blinked. There was something peculiar about Boïndil’s eyes, a strange flicker that gave him a rather frenzied look. He was probably still fired up from the battle.
“There are no sirs here,” said Boëndal with a smile. “We dwarves were all hewn from the same rock.”
“Absolutely, I’m sorry. All the same, you saved my l-life,” stuttered Tungdil, his relief at being rescued already eclipsed by the excitement of meeting others of his race: For the first time since Ionandar — for the first time ever — he was face-to-face with real dwarves. A thousand questions jostled for attention in his head.
Boëndal’s plait rippled down his back like a long black snake as he shook his head good-naturedly. “You don’t have to be grateful. We’d do the same for any dwarf.”
“Even a thirdling,” chortled Boïndil, “although we’d give him a good hiding as well.” He bent down to wipe his gore-encrusted axes in the long grass.
“It took us a while to find you.” Boëndal paused. “You are Tungdil Bolofar, aren’t you?”
“What a name!” his brother grumbled. “Bolofar! It’s not some magical piffle paffle, is it?”
Tungdil’s astonishment was stamped on his face. “Yes, that’s me,” he said slowly. “But how did you —”
“What’s the name of your magus and the purpose of your journey?” the twins demanded.
“ Lot-Ionan the Forbearing is my magus, and as for my journey…” He paused, then continued firmly. “You have my undying gratitude and deepest respect, but the purpose of my journey is my own private business and I’m not ready to share it with you yet.”
Boïndil roared with laughter. “Pompous as a scholar, but I like his spirit.” He clapped Tungdil on the back. “Don’t worry. Lot-Ionan told us that he’d sent you to look for Gorén. We wanted to be sure that we had the right dwarf.”
“The right dwarf?” For a moment Tungdil was mystified; then he remembered Lot-Ionan’s letter to the secondlings. “My clansfolk want to meet me!” He could barely keep the excitement from his voice. “But why the escort? Is it because of the orcs?”
“That too, but it’s more a matter of getting you safely to the high king. Gundrabur is expecting you as a matter of urgency,” explained Boëndal, tearing a scrap of cloth from an orcish jerkin and carefully wiping his crow’s beak.
His brother produced an oily rag and polished his gleaming axes. “Someone should get the orcs an escort,” he chuckled. “Vraccas knows they need all the help they can get.”
“The high king,” Tungdil whispered, awestruck. “What an honor! But why would he want to see me?”
“We’re supposed to get you back to Ogre’s Death so you and the other contender can stake your claims to the throne.” He made it sound like the most natural thing in the world.
“My claim?” Tungdil echoed incredulously. He look
ed at the twins’ craggy faces. “What claim? Which throne? What’s this got to do with me?”
“He should change his name to Baffledbrain!” wheezed Boïndil. “Well, fry me an elf if the poor fellow isn’t quite ignorant! Let’s get away from these snout-features before the stench makes me vomit. I say we walk another mile or so, set up camp, and tell him everything, agreed?” He looked to his twin for confirmation.
Tungdil wasn’t consulted on the matter, but luckily for the others, he was dying of curiosity and followed without a fuss. They marched for a while, then left the path and camped in the woods.
“There’s nothing better than a decent meal after a hard-fought victory.” Boïndil kindled the fire, skewered some cheese, and held it above the flames.
“And after a defeat?”
“If you’re dead, your belly won’t bother you. In any event, Vraccas will give you some victuals from his smithy.”
The smell of molten cheese was overpowering. Tungdil choked. “I think I know that aroma. I smelled it when I pulled off my boots after twenty-one orbits of walking.”
“Oh, our food isn’t good enough for you, is it?” said Boïndil, trying to copy Tungdil’s look of disdain. “This is the best cheese in the kingdom, I’ll have you know. Come on, give him a piece, Boëndal. It’s time he got used to the taste. Living with humans has spoiled his palate.”
His brother cut a slice of bread and handed it to Tungdil with some cured ham and cheese. “Right, I suppose you want an explanation. I’ll make it brief: The high king is dying and a fourthling must claim his throne. Gundrabur found out about your secret because of the magus’s letter.”
“My secret?” groaned Tungdil. “I didn’t know I had one.” He still hadn’t convinced himself to eat the cheese. It was all a bit too much.
“It’s time you learned the truth, then. You weren’t stolen by kobolds. The long-uns made that up so you —”
“ Long-uns?”
“It’s dwarfish for men — just a little joke. In any event, the magus didn’t want to burden you with the story until it was time.” Boëndal handed him the water canteen. “So there you have it: You’re a fourthling.”
Tungdil thought about Girdlegard’s geography. “I can’t be. The fourthling kingdom is miles away.”
“There was a good reason for the distance,” Boëndal said soberly. “You’re the son of the fourthling king — illegitimate, mind. The birth was kept a secret and you were entrusted to the care of friends. When the queen found out, she was furious. No bastard child of her husband’s was going to lay claim to the throne while she was around to stop it. She wanted you dead.”
“Are you going to eat that cheese?” Boïndil interrupted. “It’ll fall into the fire if you don’t get on with it soon.” Tungdil handed him the skewer wordlessly and the warrior wolfed it down. “Much appreciated.”
Boëndal resumed his account. “Your adopted family took pity on you and carried you off. They took you to Lot-Ionan for one simple reason: No one would ever think of looking in a magus’s household for a dwarf.”
“You do realize that dwarves have no truck with the longuns’ wizardry, don’t you?” Boïndil said suspiciously.
“Quiet!” his brother shushed him. “Just let me finish.” He turned back to Tungdil. “So now you know why you grew up in Ionandar, miles from your kinsfolk. When the assembly of dwarves heard of your existence, it was obliged to summon you in accordance with our laws and consider your claim to the throne.”
Tungdil held the canteen to his lips and took a long draft. “I don’t mean to be rude,” he murmured weakly, “but it can’t be true. Lot-Ionan would have told me.”
“He intended to tell you on your return.” Boëndal produced a letter from his pack. It was written in the magus’s hand. “He gave me this, in case you didn’t believe us.”
Tungdil unfurled the parchment, fingers trembling, and scanned the lines. The story was true, down to the last detail.
All I wanted was to meet a few of my kinsfolk, not be crowned king of all dwarves. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t do it. I’ll gladly accompany you to Ogre’s Death, but the other contender should be crowned.” He laughed wryly. “How could I rule over anyone? No one will ever accept me as a dwarf. They’ll think I’m a —”
Suddenly a morsel of stinking cheese was thrust under his nose. “Stop grousing,” snapped Boïndil. “It’s a long way to Ogre’s Death. We’ll make a dwarf of you yet.” The molten cheese wobbled threateningly. “You may as well start now.” He still had a faintly crazed look in his eyes. “Go on, taste it!”
Tungdil pulled the warm cheese from the stick and popped it in his mouth. It tasted revolting. His fingers would reek for orbits, not to mention his breath. “I can’t do it,” he said firmly. “I promised to deliver the pouch to Gorén.”
“You don’t have to come right away,” Boïndil said magnanimously. “It’s not far from here to Greenglade village. We’ll go with you.”
His brother nodded. “And you don’t have to worry about the magus; he’s given us his blessing already.”
“What if you were to return without me?”
The brothers exchanged a look.
“Well,” Boëndal said thoughtfully, “I expect they’d crown Gandogar, but no one would ever accept him as the rightful king.” He fixed his brother with a meaningful stare.
“Exactly,” Boïndil put in quickly. “There’d be all kinds of arguments and whatnot. Some of the chieftains might even… well, they wouldn’t take orders from him, so before you know it, there’d be terrible feuds and…” He gazed into the flames for inspiration, then rushed on. “It could all end in war! The clans and the folks would fight each other, and you’d be to blame!” He sat back with a satisfied expression on his face.
Tungdil didn’t know what to make of it all. Too much had happened since that morning. Having never raised his ax in anger, he had slain two orcs in succession and now his kins-folk were trying to bundle him onto the throne. He needed time to reflect. “I’ll think it over,” he promised them, curling up beside the fire and closing his eyes wearily.
Boïndil cleared his throat and began to sing. It was a dwarven ballad with deep mysterious syllables that charmed the ear, telling of the time before time began…
Desirous of life, the deities fashioned themselves.
Vraccas the Smith was forged from fire, rock, and steel.
Palandiell the Bountiful rose from the earth.
The winds gave birth to Samusin the Rash.
Elria the Helpful, creator and destroyer, emerged from the water.
And darkness fused with light in Tion the Two-Faced.
Such are the five deities, the…
For Tungdil, the song ended there. It was the first time in his life that he had heard a dwarven ballad sung by his kin and the sound was so soothing that it lulled him to sleep.
Tungdil awoke with the smell of cheese in his nostrils and his mind made up: He would go with the twins to the secondling kingdom. His doubts had been conquered by a desire to meet more of his kin.
“Just so you know, I haven’t changed my mind about being high king,” he told them. “I’m doing this only because I want to see my kinsfolk.”
“It’s all the same to us,” Boëndal said equably. “The main thing is you’ve decided to come.” He and his brother packed their bags and they set off briskly. “The sooner we get to Greenglade, the sooner we’ll be home. Eight hundred miles are a good long way.”
“We’ll accompany you to the edge of the village and no farther,” snapped Boïndil. “We want nothing to do with that elf maiden. It’s bad enough having to walk through an elfish forest, let alone visit an elf house or whatever they build for themselves.” He made a show of spitting into the bushes.
“What did the elf maiden ever do to you?” Tungdil ran his hand over Gorén’s bag; there was no avoiding the fact that some of the artifacts were no longer in their original state. The encounter with the orc’s sw
ord had done them no favors, which made him doubly certain that the beast had deserved its fate. “Six hundred miles!” he muttered crossly. “Six hundred miles through Gauragar, through Lios Nudin, past beasts and other dangers without the artifacts coming to any harm, only for a confounded orc to ruin everything. Another three or four hours and I could have handed them over, safe and sound!” He hoped the wizard would be understanding.
Boïndil’s mind was still on the elves. “Oh, she didn’t have to do anything! Her race has caused enough trouble as it is,” he blurted out angrily. “Those self-satisfied, arrogant pointy-ears are enough to —”
Overcome with fury, he whipped out his axes and fell upon a sapling, swinging at it with unbridled rage.
Boëndal, an impassive expression on his face, lowered his packs, pushed his long plait over his shoulder, and waited for the outburst to end.
“He does this sometimes,” he explained to the dumbfounded Tungdil. “His inner furnace burns stronger than most. Sometimes it flares up and he can’t contain his anger. It’s why we call him Ireheart.”
“His inner furnace?”
“Vraccas alone can explain it. Anyway, take my advice and keep out of his way. It’s fatal to challenge him when he gets like this.” Boëndal sighed. “He’ll be all right again once his furnace has cooled.”
Boïndil finished hacking the sapling to pieces. “Bloody pointy-ears! I feel better now.” Without a word of apology, he wiped the sap and splinters from his blades and carried on. “We need to find a proper name for you,” he grumbled. “Bolofar is no better than Bellyfluff, Sillystuff, or Starchyruff; it’s plain daft! We’ll come up with something on the way.” He glanced at Tungdil. “What are your talents?”
“Er, reading…”
“ Book-learning!” Boëndal burst out laughing. “I should have guessed you were a scholar! But we can’t call you Pagemuncher or Bookeater. Dwarves should be proud of their names!”
“Reading’s important. It —”