by Markus Heitz
“That’s more like it!” Boïndil rushed forward and stopped the beast without ado. Felled by his axes, the orc died with a final grunt.
“No more tomfoolery, Boïndil,” his brother said sternly. He cut a slit in the rear of the tent and peered through the gap. “All clear.” The sharp blade of his crow’s beak tore neatly through the canvas and he slipped outside. When he was sure it was safe, he signaled for the others to follow.
They had taken no more than a few paces when a long, slender shadow appeared in front of Boëndal and attacked.
Only the dwarf’s helmet prevented the sword from cleaving his skull. Even so, the force of the blow brought him to his knees.
“Elf or älf, prepare to die!” His brother hurled himself at the figure with a blood-curdling shriek.
As their assailant stepped back, his cloak fell open to reveal a black metal breastplate that reached to his thighs. His beautiful face and pointed ears removed any doubts about the identity of their attacker.
Another älf appeared out of nowhere and challenged Djerůn, while a third bore down on Andôkai. Stretching out her hand, the maga conjured a glimmering black sphere and cast a bolt of lightning in his direction.
Tungdil expected the creature to burst into flames, but his hopes were disappointed. The älf produced an amulet, which intercepted the spluttering charm, absorbing the magic and leaving the target unharmed. Cursing, the maga drew her sword.
Tungdil glanced round, looking for a possible fourth attacker. To his horror an älf leaped from a nearby cart and landed in front of him. His eyes took in the crimson gloves, long spear, and golden hair… It was one of the two älfar who had parleyed with the orcs near Goodwater. Sinthoras! His lips appeared to be moving.
“Speak up!” commanded Tungdil, dwarven bloody-mindedness conquering his fear. He had no intention of surrendering.
“Look at me: Sinthoras is your death,” the fair-haired älf whispered softly. “I will take your life as I have taken the life of every groundling before you.”
“We’ll see about that. Vraccas helped us to kill one of your kind in Greenglade and he’ll help us again.” Tungdil decided not to wait for the älf to attack. “For Lot-Ionan and Frala!” Raising his ax, he charged.
Sinthoras laughed, easily evading the energetic but poorly planned attack. Realizing at once that he was dealing with a novice, he decided to have some fun with his victim before dealing the fatal blow.
His spear flashed forward, its long, tapered point boring through Tungdil’s mail shirt and passing through his under-garments. The tip pierced his left shoulder, deep enough to hurt him but too shallow for serious harm. The wound enraged the dwarf further and he redoubled his efforts, little realizing that the älf was toying with him.
Slowly but surely Sinthoras drew his victim away from his companions, leading him into the jumble of tents. While the älf skipped and danced ahead, Tungdil blundered among the guy ropes and tent pegs, grimly focused on staying on his feet.
The älf’s weapon approached with such speed that Tungdil gave up trying to block its attack. One moment the creature would be in front of him; the next his spear would be buried in his back. He was losing blood from myriad perforations that smarted abominably.
At last Tungdil looked round and realized his mistake. Amid the confusion of ropes and tents he had lost sight of the others and even the giant was gone. A moment later, Sinthoras vanished as well. The älf was enjoying his murderous little game.
Wherever Tungdil looked, men were fighting with a courage born of despair, knowing with grim certainty that the orcs would show no mercy. Meanwhile, the beasts kept coming at them, more determined than ever to sink their teeth into the traders and their wares.
A number of tents had been pulled to the ground and the canvas caught fire. Flames and glinting swords reflected in the surface of the lake, the watery image of destruction warped by rippling waves.
“Where are you hiding?” Tungdil was learning to his cost that älfar were harder to deal with than orcs. He decided to rejoin his friends while he still had the chance.
But Sinthoras wasn’t finished with him.
“Over here!” The älf loomed up behind him, thrusting his spear violently into the dwarf’s right shoulder.
Something seemed to tear inside Tungdil’s arm, the pain surging through him like liquid fire. His hand opened and the ax fell from his grasp.
The dwarf’s tormentor pulled his legs from under him, tipping him face-first to the ground. Crouching over him, Sinthoras threaded the spear through his mail shirt on a level with his heart. The metal spike ground against the rings.
“What did I tell you?” said a whisper in Tungdil’s ear. “Sinthoras is your death. It would have been wiser to leave the books in Greenglade, but it’s too late for that now.”
“Go ahead and kill me, but answer me one thing: What do you want with the books?”
Sinthoras laughed. “Only a groundling could be so simple-minded! To think that you’ve been lugging around the volumes, and you don’t even know what they are!” He thought for a moment. “They’re precious, more precious than anything you can imagine. A single syllable is worth a sack of gold. They could make you the wealthiest being in Girdlegard — or the most powerful, if you kept the secret to yourself. Acting on their contents would make you a hero beyond compare.” He leaned on his spear and lowered his voice to a malicious whisper. “All this you had — but you lost it. I’ll take even more pleasure in killing you now.”
Tungdil shuddered as the älf muttered unintelligibly in his own dark tongue. At any moment the spear would reach his heart and put an end to his life.
Before the weapon could penetrate farther, a shadow fell over them and something whirred through the air. The älf dove to safety, only this time the maneuver was anything but elegant. He hit a tent, the canvas collapsing around him.
Djerůn strode past the stricken dwarf and went after the älf. Using the lower edge of his shield as a knife, he beat down on the muffled body, first with his shield, then his ax, until the bloodied canvas lay still. Three orcs tried to stop him but were slain on the spot.
Tungdil wondered whether he was hallucinating when he saw what happened next.
The giant, whose back was turned to Tungdil, opened his visor — or so the dwarf concluded from the movement of his arm — and tore a chunk of flesh from an orcish corpse. He raised the dripping meat toward his face.
What is he doing? Grunting with pain, Tungdil lifted himself onto his knees, leaned on his ax for support, and called to the giant.
Djerůn whirled round in surprise and pushed down his visor.
In the light of the burning tents, Tungdil caught a brief glimpse of a skull with wide jaws, long fangs, and slits for eyes. The helmet clicked into place and violet light glimmered through the demon’s eyes. The chunk of flesh had vanished, but it was obvious from the mutilated corpse and the green blood dripping from Djerůn’s gauntlet that something extraordinary had occurred.
He’s not an orc or an ogre, so what kind of creature is he?
Djerůn gestured with his ax in the direction from which he had come. Tungdil followed his lead, relying on the giant to slay the orcs who barred their path. He was finding it difficult enough to walk with his injuries.
Before they were out of the maze of tents, Boïndil rushed toward them, a panicked look on his face. His lips twitched and his jaw tightened when he saw the blood on Tungdil’s shirt; he didn’t need to be told that the giant had saved his charge’s life.
The trio hurried on, arriving in time to see Andôkai drive her sword through the neck of a dying älf who was flailing at her feet. She snatched up the amulet that had warded off her magic power. Her leather armor seemed to strain at the seams as she gasped for breath, her physical strength exhausted.
She greeted Tungdil with a brief nod, then led the company out of the village on a southerly bearing. Between them, Djerůn, the twins, and the maga had put pay to three älfar.<
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Boëndal stoically ignored the blood trickling down his neck. It took more than a blow to the head to make a dwarf complain.
Tungdil gritted his teeth and followed at the rear. His wounds could be bandaged just as soon as they had got the books to safety, which meant throwing off Nôd’onn’s henchmen and making their way to Ogre’s Death as quickly as they could.
Three orcish sentries were waiting for them at the top of a dune. Djerůn drew his sword.
“That’s enough from you, long-un!” In no time Ireheart was at his side, hacking savagely at the beasts. The rage he felt at neglecting his duty to Tungdil was channeled into his blows and he cut down two of the beasts in the time it took Djerůn to slay one.
“At least I’m faster than you,” he told the giant.
Down in the village, the noise of the battle was fading. From the jeering and grunting it was obvious that the orcs had prevailed against the inhabitants of the desert’s lone oasis. Flames were spreading from tent to tent and the orcs were loading chopped-up corpses onto carts. A band of runts spotted the travelers on the crest of the dune and set off in pursuit. Two dozen beasts scrambled up the sandy slope behind them.
“You’d think they’d have the sense to give up.” Andôkai waited until they were almost upon them, then raised her arms and uttered an incantation.
A tearing wind swept out of nowhere, gusting and circling until it formed a tornado four paces in diameter, becoming stronger and fiercer with the maga’s every word. Sand, scree, and boulders were sucked into its midst; then, on Andôkai’s command, the gale unleashed its force on the orcs, who were hanging back in confusion.
The wind and debris peeled the skin from their bones. Grunting and yelping, the orcs fled the lethal gust.
“Carry on without me,” Andôkai told the dwarves. “I’ll keep the orcs busy for a while.”
The trio resumed their march and soon the maga was back in their midst, with Djerůn behind them, on the lookout for any attacks from the rear.
This time, though, the orcs let them go. Unlike the älfar, they weren’t equipped to deal with magic, and the night of looting and destruction had been profitable enough.
X
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Early Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle
I call on the assembly to decide the matter without further delay,” said Gandogar loudly, his voice ringing out across the great hall. With the intention of cutting a regal figure, he had put on full mail and was wearing his diamond-encrusted helmet. “Thirty orbits have passed, thirty orbits in which…”
He continued his address, the chieftains and elders listening in silence.
Gundrabur’s eyes were closed and the ceremonial hammer was resting on the arms of his marble throne. His counselor was following the speech without visible emotion. He had not succeeded in uncovering any evidence to incriminate Bislipur or Sverd, and worse still, the mood among the delegates was tipping in favor of war.
“You saw the smoke! It came from a village across the border with Sangpûr.” Turning slowly, Gandogar scanned the semicircle of dwarves; he knew he had to make eye contact if he wanted to win their trust. “The settlement was razed to the ground by orcs. Tion’s runts are marauding through the countryside, brazenly attacking the races of Girdlegard. We can’t afford not to know who our next leader will be. Every orbit brings new dangers. According to the traders, strange things are happening in the enchanted realms and landur is in turmoil. Some say that the elves have abandoned their kingdom and are scouting for land elsewhere. We must act!”
“Here or in landur?” said a bewildered voice from the benches.
“Here and in landur!” bellowed Bislipur, before Gandogar had a chance to reply. His dwarven blood was boiling over with impatience and he couldn’t endure the prospect of another interminable speech. “landur must be invaded before the pointy-ears give us the slip and vanish Vraccas knows where!” He raised a clenched fist. “Destroy the elves and avenge our murdered kin!”
The call was taken up by most of the delegates, although a few of their number abstained from the general excitement, some signaling their disagreement by frowning or shaking their heads.
Gandogar’s gaze settled on a chieftain who was wearing his withered elf’s ear with pride. The call to arms had been resoundingly successful, but there was still the matter of the succession, and the elderly monarch showed no sign of preparing to vacate the throne.
At that moment, Gundrabur’s eyes opened wearily. “Silence!” he commanded. “Baying for blood like beasts… You should be ashamed of yourselves!” He raised a gnarled hand and pointed to the dwarf who was sporting the grisly trinket. “Get rid of it!”
The chieftain looked to Gandogar for support.
Seizing the hammer, the high king rose from the throne and made his way from the dais to confront the disobedient dwarf. His wrinkled fingers gripped the chain and snapped it from the delegate’s neck. The shriveled ear dropped to the floor.
“I’m not dead yet, and while I’m your high king, I shall set our course,” he thundered. “The assembly will wait!”
“No,” Gandogar contradicted him, “we have waited long enough. Beyond these walls, orcs are laying waste to Girdlegard and the elvish villains are getting away. I will sit and wait no longer!”
Balendilín stepped down from the platform and strode over to the fourthling monarch. “You forget yourself,” he said, hand resting lightly on his belt. “The high king deserves your respect.” The reprimand was delivered without any of the usual formalities behooving Gandogar’s rank.
“The high king has been wearing the crown for too many cycles to know what’s best for our folks!” Gandogar snapped back. “I won’t put up with this nonsense any longer. Why should I sit back and do nothing when we should be seizing our opportunity and getting vengeance on the elves? landur is as good as defeated! We need to attack while we can, not sit here, wasting our energy on pointless discussions. Orbit after orbit, all we ever do is talk and drink!”
Balendilín squared his shoulders. “Think carefully before you continue, King Gandogar. Our laws were not made to be broken by you.” He pointed to the stone stelae engraved with the sacred commandments of the dwarves. “They’re the very basis of our existence. Defy them, and you’ll be endangering the fragile unity of the folks. Why not take a hammer to the tablets if that’s your intention? By all means, write your own laws, but remember: History will be your judge.”
Hand on his ax, Bislipur stepped forward, positioning himself at Gandogar’s side. The atmosphere in the great hall was unbearably tense; for the first time it seemed that the difference of opinion was going to end in blows.
Suddenly, the doors swung open.
“Get out!” Gandogar shouted furiously. “We don’t need more confounded beer!”
But this time the interruption wasn’t the fault of attendants bearing tankards. A herald walked in. “The second candidate has arrived!” he announced.
The delegates whirled round and stared excitedly at three squat figures silhouetted in the doorway. Behind them stood a human female and an armored giant. A buzz of whispers filled the room.
“Let me speak with him,” said a visibly relieved Gundrabur. “The assembly is dismissed.” Balendilín helped him back to the throne and they waited for the delegates to leave the hall.
The departing dwarves cast curious glances at the stranger standing between the twins, but no one dared to address him. Then Bislipur drew level.
He stopped and took a menacing step toward Tungdil. “You’re not one of us,” he said scornfully. “Go back to Lot-Ionan and leave us to settle our own affairs. You needn’t have bothered coming; we’ve decided on a successor already.”
“Oh really? Let’s hope he’s as good as this one,” Boëndal said coolly. He stepped in front of his charge. “Didn’t you hear what Gundrabur said? The assembly is dismissed.”
Boïndil joi
ned him and flashed the fourthling adviser an insolent smile. “Looking for trouble, are you? I’ll shave your miserable chin with my axes, you see if I don’t.” Bislipur merely snorted and left. The doors closed behind him, shutting Andôkai and Djerůn outside.
The high king motioned for the trio to approach. He and his counselor looked at Tungdil warmly. “The lost dwarf has returned to his kinsfolk,” he said, rising to clap a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks be to Vraccas for bringing you here.”
Tungdil bowed his head, overcome with emotion. He wanted to say something, but his throat was dry with excitement. He felt sweaty and grubby, and his body ached all over in spite of Boïndil’s efforts to treat his wounds. In fact, the shoulder that the high king was gripping was particularly sore. All in all, he was too tired and disheveled to appear before Gundrabur, but the king of all dwarves generously refrained from commenting on his state.
The monarch turned to the twins. “You’ve done yourselves and the secondlings proud. Ogre’s Death boasts no finer warriors than you,” he lauded them. “You can be sure of my gratitude. Retire to your chambers and get some rest.”
Boïndil stared at the floor, uncomfortable at being praised. He hadn’t forgiven himself for what had happened in the desert oasis when Tungdil had nearly been killed. It was mortifying to think that his charge would have died without Djerůn. Gloomily, he left the hall with his twin.
“You’ll hear our side of the story in a moment,” promised Balendilín, “but why don’t you tell us about your journey first?”
This was the moment that Tungdil had been waiting for. He tried to swallow his nerves, but it was hard not to be distracted by the great hall’s monumental galleries, pillars, and statues. It was all so very dwarven.
“Gladly,” he said, “but what of Andôkai and Djerůn? They were loyal protectors during our travels. I trust they will be provided for?” Without really meaning to, he had adopted a more flowery way of speech, perhaps because of his magnificent surroundings.