by Markus Heitz
At last the herd stopped surging and the dwarf summoned the courage to leap into their midst. Barely had his feet touched the ground when the stone gave way beneath him. Grabbing wildly at the edge, he managed to catch hold of a jagged overhang and clung on for dear life.
An able-bodied dwarf would have hauled himself to safety easily, but Balendilín, dangling by his only arm, had no means of saving himself and no prospect of being rescued. He knew it was merely a matter of time before his muscles gave out.
“Is anyone there? Help!” he shouted, straining his voice to alert his kinsmen to his plight. With any luck, someone would be on their way to retrieve the wayward herd. “Over here!”
The cows were calmer now and answered his cries with gentle, mindless moos. Two of the animals ventured to the edge and, sniffing at his hand, licked it heartily. Their saliva collected in a pool, making his position more dangerous than before.
It seemed to Balendilín that three grown orcs could not weigh more than he did. His arm was getting longer, while his voice grew hoarse.
Suddenly the herd parted as someone barged through their midst.
“Over here,” he called, relieved that help had arrived before he lost his grip. “I’m falling!”
Dust showered over him, coating his hair and his beard, and he found himself looking into the green face of a gnome whose sizable nose was tipped with a wart of impressive dimensions. The creature’s round eyes stared at him greedily and its clawlike fingers slithered down his arm.
“Nearly done.” Sverd leaned over the edge and fumbled with Balendilín’s belt. “Just one moment,” he told the unfortunate dwarf.
A clasp clicked open and Sverd straightened up, a look of satisfaction on his face. He brandished Balendilín’s purse and the jewel-encrusted belt. “Much indebted to you, I’m sure! You can let go now.” Chuckling maliciously, he beat his retreat.
“You can’t just leave me!” Balendilín shouted, aghast. “Come back!” It was too late: His fingers slipped and in spite of his frantic efforts, he failed to get a purchase on the saliva-covered overhang. He steeled himself for the long slide into darkness.
At that moment, an ax sped toward him, the short metal spur catching in the rings of his mail shirt. Balendilín was reeled in like an anchor on a chain.
Breathing heavily, he lay on the floor beside his rescuer, who was panting from the strain.
“Gandogar!” Balendilín could not conceal his astonishment at being saved from his fate by the fourthling king.
“You and I may not always agree with each other, but we’re hardly enemies,” said the monarch, smiling wryly. “First and foremost, we’re dwarves, children of the Smith. Our enemies are Tion’s minions, not the other clans or folks. That’s how I see it, in spite of our differences.” He straightened up and helped the royal counselor to his feet. “What happened?”
Balendilín seized his hand thankfully. Gandogar had spoken from the heart and his heroic intervention was evidence enough of his sincerity. “Something must have startled the cattle,” he said.
He didn’t elaborate further. He wasn’t prepared to blame Bislipur and Sverd for engineering the “accident” until he had firm proof. The gnome’s appearance on the scene had convinced him that Bislipur was behind his attempted murder; Sverd always acted on his master’s command.
“I owe you my life,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t mean I think you’re right about the elves, but I’m deeply indebted to you all the same.”
“Spoken like a true dwarf,” the king said warmly. “Besides, I didn’t do anything that you wouldn’t have done for me.”
“Oh really?” Balendilín paused and smiled. “I’m not sure I would have helped.”
Gandogar looked at him, shocked. “I…”
“How could I have rescued you with only one hand?” Balendilín burst out laughing and, after a short silence, Gandogar joined in. It saddened the counselor that the fourthling monarch was so determined to go to war; he had a feeling that Gandogar would make an excellent king.
Later, when Balendilín regained his chamber, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the whole episode had been a trap. The delegates who supposedly wanted to see him were an invention.
At least his purse and his buckle had been deposited by his door. The gnome must have thought better of harboring evidence of his despicable crime. Balendilín replaced the purse, fastened his belt, and vowed not to give his would-be murderers another chance.
Kingdom of Sangpûr,
Girdlegard,
Early Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle
Autumn left the travelers in no doubt that it was a force to be reckoned with, particularly at night. Even though they were deep in the south of Girdlegard, having crossed the border into Queen Umilante’s realm, there was little warmth to be found in the desert, only a constant barrage of tiny grains of sand.
No sooner had darkness drawn in and the sun sunk below the horizon than the air took on a nasty chill. Andôkai wasted no time in lighting a blazing fire, in spite of the twins’ disapproval. To Boëndal’s mind, the comfort it provided was outweighed by the risk of attracting orcs and other riffraff; it seemed foolish to court danger when they had come so far and were almost at their goal. Somewhat begrudgingly, Boïndil agreed with him. But the maga ignored them anyway and persisted in tossing logs into the flames.
They were only eight or so orbits from Ogre’s Death when they came to a village among the dunes. The settlement was situated next to a tranquil lake, which made it a popular and flourishing trading post. Tungdil and the others decided to grant themselves the luxury of a night’s shelter.
For merchants returning home from the secondling kingdom, the village was a last oasis before the long journey through Sangpûr, where nothing awaited them but desolate wasteland and the occasional brigand.
“It’s safe here,” Boëndal assured them. “The traders like dwarves because they know we offer decent, solid wares that fetch good prices when they sell them in other towns.”
The party still attracted considerable attention, but only, as Tungdil realized, because they were accompanied by a walking tionium tower. Children crowded round them, marveling at Djerůn, who bore the fuss with equanimity. The giant was accustomed to causing a stir.
Visitors to the settlement were accommodated in tents by the lake. Depending on the needs of each party, the canvas and wood constructions could be expanded or reduced in size, with the option of adding an extra floor to create a two-story dwelling not dissimilar to a house.
Djerůn was too tall for a standard model, so they opted for a two-story tent and removed the upper floorboards. The wind was freshening, so they retreated under the canvas, lit a fire in the corner, and got the kettle boiling.
“Just think,” Tungdil said excitedly, sipping his steaming mug of tea, “I’m about to meet my folk. I can hardly wait!”
“I’m not surprised,” Boëndal agreed, smiling at him warmly. “And the others will be pleased to meet you too. The delegates will be dying of impatience.”
“Ugh!” his brother interrupted. “Why would anyone drink this stuff? I’m off to find some beer. There aren’t any sensible buildings in this village, but they’re bound to sell something that tastes better than tea!” He got up and left.
“So tell me, Tungdil,” said Andôkai, who had been poring over the books, “what makes you special enough to merit a royal escort?” Gorén’s letter rested on her knee. It was the first time she had taken any interest in why the twins had been sent to find Tungdil.
He hesitated. “What does it matter?” he said disdainfully. “The Estimable Maga is abandoning Girdlegard. I don’t see why she needs to know.”
Andôkai broke off her study, taken aback by Tungdil’s harsh tone. “Dear me, I’ve incurred your eternal displeasure, have I? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’re wasting your breath if you think you can stop me by appealing to my conscience.”
Boëndal glanced at Tungdil, eyebrows rais
ed.
As far as Tungdil was concerned, the maga had no right to give up on her homeland so easily. She wasn’t the only one who stood to lose by staying in Girdlegard. In spite of his excitement at being reunited with his folk, he knew that his chances of survival were slim, unless of course there was something in the books that could help them vanquish Nôd’onn. But unlike the maga, he was determined to fight beside his kinsmen to the end.
Rain pattered against the canvas. Fat droplets left meandering tracks on the outside of the tent and pitted the dusty ground. Autumn showers were nothing unusual in Sangpûr’s deserts. In most other places, the wet and dry weather would have been ideal for agriculture, but the soil was impossibly barren in these parts. Trees and plants rarely took root and were tended jealously by their owners.
Just then the tent flap swung open and a cloaked intruder appeared in their midst.
Like a statue conjured to life, Djerůn leaped into action. His left gauntlet closed around his two-hander; then he raised the sword with both hands, dropped into a half crouch, lunged forward, and brought the blade whistling toward the stranger’s throat.
“Stop!” the maga commanded. Djerůn froze.
“Forgive me,” stammered the man. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was told to deliver this.” Hands trembling, he deposited the keg of beer and fled, worried that the giant would change his mind and cut him down regardless.
“Good work,” Boëndal said admiringly. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible that a man could move so fast wearing all that armor.”
Djerůn returned to his former position, cross-legged on the floor. Boëndal’s comment failed to elicit a response from the giant or his mistress.
The secondling persevered. “The warrior is your business,” he told Andôkai, “but our sentries won’t let him cross the High Pass unless he’s prepared to show his face and declare his lineage.”
“What kind of foolishness is this?” the maga said irritably, weary of the constant interruptions. “We’ll be leaving Girdlegard! What does it matter what he looks like or where he comes from? You’d be well advised to focus on your defenses, instead of interfering in the business of travelers who can’t wait to leave your land.”
“Whether you’re coming or going is of no concern to us,” Boëndal said emphatically. “No beast of Tion will set foot on our pass.”
“Hang on,” Tungdil told him, “he’s just an elongated —”
Boëndal didn’t let him finish. “I played along to keep the peace, but we’re almost home now.” He looked at Andôkai grimly. “When we reach the Blue Range, the giant will be bound by the same laws as everyone else. You’re welcome to seek your own route through the mountains, but you won’t be crossing our kingdom if you’re hiding something dangerous behind that mask.”
“I’ll take my chances,” said the maga, returning to her book.
“Your chances!” exploded Boëndal. “Do you mean we’ve been traveling all this way with a creature of darkness?”
“That’s not what I said. Besides, I don’t recall there being anything in the creed of Samusin to forbid it.”
“Samusin? I won’t have any truck with him.” The dwarf’s face hardened and he rose to his feet, the long shaft of his crow’s beak clasped in one hand. “Tell me what’s behind the visor.”
“That does it!” Andôkai closed her book with a snap. “Nôd’onn himself could be hiding inside that armor and I wouldn’t tell you! Djerůn is with me.” If anyone had been wondering how Andôkai the Tempestuous had earned her name, the matter was now resolved. “Who cares if he’s an ogre or a dark spirit or Tion knows what? He’s the perfect traveling companion and he doesn’t stink like a pig — which is more than can be said for you and your brother!” Her blue eyes glinted menacingly as she swept the long blond hair from her face. “He’ll raise his visor when he’s good and ready, and if you don’t like it, too bad!” She pointed toward the main village. “Did you notice the bathhouse on your way in? I recommend you pay it a visit. It’s a wonder the birds don’t die of asphyxiation when you’re around.”
She fixed him with an icy stare and opened the second volume with a thud.
The silence that followed was broken by the sound of someone running toward the tent. The next moment, Boïndil burst through the door.
“ Pointy-ears!” he spluttered. “Pointy-ears from landur! The trader said they —” He noticed the keg of beer abandoned forlornly on the floor. “I thought you’d be thirsty!” he said, shaking his head in surprise. He pierced the lid with his ax, filled his tankard, emptied it in a single draft, and burped. “Not bad,” he pronounced, helping himself to more.
“You were saying?” Andôkai reminded him sharply, diverting his attention away from the beer.
“Er, elves!” Boïndil sat down on a leather stool. “I bought the keg from a trader who told me what’s been happening in landur. He thought we’d be drinking to the ruin of the elves. From what he said, their kingdom is all but done for. He reckoned they were scouting Girdlegard for new places to live.”
“In Sangpûr?” the maga said incredulously. “Why come this far south when there’s nothing but sand, dust, and stone? It doesn’t make sense. What would an elf want with a treeless desert?”
Tungdil glanced at Boëndal, who was clearly thinking on similar lines.
It took another sip of beer before his brother caught on. “Are you saying they’re älfar?” he ventured finally. Ideas invariably took longer to penetrate Boïndil’s mind.
“Nôd’onn wants the books,” Tungdil explained patiently. “A motley company like us doesn’t go unnoticed. They must have followed us here and waited until nightfall to enter the settlement. As soon as it’s dark, you can’t see their eyes and there’s no way of telling they’re not elves.”
“In which case, they could be either,” Boëndal pointed out. “I say we post a watch. If they’re älfar, they’ll be after us. Why else would they be staying in the village, if not to steal the books? From now on, none of us leaves the tent, no matter what. We’ll let them come to us.”
“Nonsense, we’ll go after them!” Boïndil said fiercely. “If they’re älfar, we’ll kill them, and if they’re elves… we’ll kill them too! The pointy-ears deserve to die.” It had been a while since he’d last used his axes.
Andôkai listened, then signaled to Djerůn and settled down to sleep.
“No, brother,” ruled Boëndal, “we’ll leave them in peace. The whole village could turn against us if we start a fight. We’re not in our own kingdom yet, remember. Cool your temper. I’ll take the first watch.”
Tungdil yawned and finished his tankard of beer before lying down on a pile of rugs. His fingers clutched the haft of his ax, making him feel a little less exposed. He wasn’t sure what to think, but in some ways he was hoping that the älfar would attack. At least that would persuade Andôkai of the importance of the books.
Tungdil was just dozing off when a shouted warning woke the desert oasis. The dwarves were on their feet in a flash, weapons at the ready. Andôkai had drawn her sword and was monitoring the tent flap and the walls.
Ax raised and shield held in front of him, Djerůn knelt by the entrance, blocking it like a wall. His helmet glinted, the demonic visor coming alive in the dying firelight. For a fraction of a heartbeat, Tungdil thought he glimpsed a purple glow behind the eyeholes.
Boëndal damped the flames lest their shadows be seen through the canvas. The three dwarves stood back-to-back, the maga beside them.
For a few moments it was quiet; then agonized screams rent the air. Now sounds could be heard from the other tents as people emerged from their flimsy shelters, their voices mingling in a clamor of questions as each tried to establish the cause of the noise. Willowy silhouettes and strange shadows flitted across the canvas walls, while all around there was a clunking of metal as shields knocked against tent poles, armor was donned, and weapons were unsheathed. Roused abruptly from its slumber, the village among the
dunes was preparing to fight.
“What’s going on?” asked Tungdil in a whisper. “Do you think it’s a trap?”
Just then a human voice cried out in terror, “Orcs!” Swords met in a ringing din. The battle had commenced.
The beasts stopped skulking through the settlement and abandoned all pretense at stealth. Listening to their grunts and snarls, Tungdil was reminded of Goodwater, of Ionandar, of those who had died…
He was torn between staying in the tent and running to the aid of the people outside. His instinct was to help, but for all he knew, the älfar were out there, waiting for him and his companions to emerge.
“What do we do?” he asked the battle-hardened twins.
“We wait,” came Boëndal’s strained reply. He tightened his grip on his crow’s beak.
The clash of swords was getting louder and more violent, mingled with the screams of dying men. Sounds of fighting echoed from every corner of the village. The orcs had evidently surrounded the settlement and were attacking from all sides simultaneously, making it impossible for anyone to escape.
As the fighting raged around them, Tungdil and the others followed the progress of the battle on the walls of their tent, men and orcs locked in combat like figures in a shadow theater.
Boïndil held a whispered conference with his brother. At last a decision was reached. “We need to get out of here,” he announced. “The runts will sack the settlement and we can’t risk Tungdil getting —”
An orc burst through the tent flap, grunting and waving his sword. He ran full tilt into the expanse of unforgiving metal that was Djerůn’s shield.
Nose gushing with blood, he staggered groggily to the side, only for the giant to hew his collarbone with a downward swipe of his ax. The force of the blow cleaved armor and bones, slicing the orc diagonally in two. Blood and guts spilled from the body in a horrible, reeking mess.
“Hey! I thought I told you to leave the runts to me,” protested Boïndil. “The next one’s mine, all right?”
A second orc stormed into the tent, and Andôkai called out to Djerůn, who swung his shield obediently to the side. The beast ran on unhindered, failing to notice his fallen comrade or the colossal warrior.