by Markus Heitz
The ensuing commotion sufficed for Bavragor to retrieve his hammer and overwhelm the bögnilim who had infiltrated their circle, pounding them to a pulp. Tungdil and Boëndal also went on the attack.
“I’ll take care of the monster if it ventures our way,” said Boëndal. “If it sticks to killing bögnilim, so much the better.”
Narmora ducked out of the circle and vanished into the bushes, reappearing behind one of the orcs. Her curved blades sliced through his beefy neck, and his headless body toppled to the ground. The second orc lashed out at her, but she dove beneath the whistling whip and launched herself into the air, landing coiled at his feet. Her straight-bladed weapon drove into his belly. The sharp blades cut through his mail, spilling intestines and killing the beast.
Alarmed by the appearance of the fire-spewing monster and thrown into confusion by their flagellators’ deaths, the bögnilim panicked and fled in all directions. None were left, save the thirty or so whose corpses were littered about the ground.
Boëndal turned to the two-headed dragon. “Now for you, foul beast of Tion,” he growled, preparing to charge. The monster hastily retreated behind the fading smoke.
“Don’t strike!” Furgas cried suddenly. “It’s Rodario!”
“Rodario?” echoed Bavragor, bewildered. He was brandishing his weapon, ready to join the attack. Hurriedly, he stayed his hammer’s momentum by swinging it round his head.
They heard a rustling in the bushes, then a peal of laughter. “Did you see them run?” the impresario said happily, stepping out of the smoke. He was dressed in a leather costume that was several paces too long for him. In his right hand he held two enormous heads; in his left was a pair of hinged stilts.
“I had a feeling I’d be more useful as a monster than a swordsman. I prefer to reserve my fighting prowess for the stage — outside the theater my enemies tend to laugh instead of tremble. Thankfully, I had time to grab a few props and teach the wee beasts some respect. With a little bit of alchemy, anything is possible.”
“But we nearly killed you,” Bavragor said, stunned.
“I looked the part, didn’t I?” Rodario smirked, gratified. He gave a deep bow. “What’s this, worthy spectators? Don’t I deserve a round of applause?” The dwarves continued to look at him in mute disbelief.
“All humans are barmy,” the mason observed. “He makes Boïndil look sane.”
“He might be barmy, but he probably saved your life,” Tungdil reminded him. “Vraccas knows what would have become of us if it hadn’t been for him. To think we were fooled by a man in fancy dress!” He chuckled, and after a while the others saw the funny side too.
The impresario gave another low bow, straightened up, and smiled. “Thank you. You’re most kind. I gather from your laughter that you enjoyed my performance. I’m deeply flattered.”
This was the moment that Tungdil had been waiting for. He summoned the three players. “My friends and I have been discussing the matter,” he said solemnly, as if he had something of vital importance to convey. “You’re a trustworthy trio, and we’ve decided to tell you where we’re going. We’re on a mission to the firstling kingdom, home of Borengar’s dwarves, who guard the western pass.”
“ Aha! So you’re gathering an army to fight against Nôd’onn!” Rodario said excitedly. “Does that mean the story about Keenfire is true?” He scrabbled for his quill.
Tungdil ignored him and plowed on. “You came to our aid, and we’d like to show our gratitude. You may accompany us to the firstling kingdom, where you will enter a dwarven stronghold and behold its splendor. That, and a bag of gold coins, should cover our debt.” It seemed to Tungdil that only the foppish actor had been won over by his words, so he tried again, this time waxing lyrical about the wonders of a kingdom he had never set eyes on. For the benefit of Furgas, he invented all kinds of extraordinary machinery and ascribed it to the genius of the firstling engineers, while Narmora was treated to descriptions of wondrous jewelry and armor. On finishing his protracted speech, he fell silent and awaited their decision with mounting impatience.
To his horror he realized that Bavragor had reached for his blood-encrusted hammer and intended to attack the players should they decline. Boëndal looked equally resolute.
“Just think,” mused Rodario, stroking his pointed beard. “I could found a new theater. We’ll see wonders in this kingdom never known to humankind! Furgas, imagine all the new contraptions you could build!”
Furgas nodded enthusiastically, leaving Narmora looking unimpressed. He stroked her hair fondly and kissed her. “You’ll come too, won’t you?” She pouted.
Tungdil looked at her intently. He still thought of her as the actress who had played the älf. Her face isn’t quite elven enough, he told himself. She’s just an unusually beautiful human, that’s all.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he said brightly. “But how did you learn to use these?” He pointed to the weapons hanging in narrow leather sheaths from her belt. “I’ve never seen the like of them. What are they?”
“Their names are Crescent and Sunbeam. I designed them myself.”
“You designed them?”
Furgas planted another kiss on her cheek. “She’s our lead älf, and we didn’t want her to have the same weaponry as everyone else.” He glowed with pride at his mistress’s ingenuity. “We had to ask around a bit until we found a smith with the skill to forge the blades.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Tungdil, refraining from further comment. He pointed to the steep track. “We’d better get going before the bögnilim recover from the shock.”
He knew there had to be more to it than that. You don’t just invent those sorts of weapons and you certainly don’t wield them with such proficiency unless you’ve been properly trained.
He glanced at Bavragor and Boëndal, who were obviously thinking the same. None of them had any doubt that Narmora was really a warrior, an accomplished fighter who had abandoned the battlefield in favor of the stage.
Tungdil watched as Furgas looked at Narmora tenderly and drew her to him. Did she lay down her weapons for love? He would ask her when he had the chance. I bet she was a mercenary in Umilante’s or Tilogorn’s army, although she still looks very young…
Furgas and Narmora helped the impresario out of his oversize breeches, while Goïmgar turned his attention to the startled ponies, who, contrary to all expectations, had stood their ground throughout the fight. The inebriated Boïndil was still draped over the back of one of them, snoring.
“Listen to that racket,” said Bavragor. “He’s making more noise than a lumberjack in a forest.”
“I can’t wait to see his expression when he hears he missed a battle,” said Boëndal with a wicked grin. “I bet he’ll never want to drink again.”
The humans and dwarves strung out in a line as they made their way up to the plateau that overlooked Mifurdania and its surrounds. Thick banks of smoke hung over the settlement and a swarm of tiny black dots surged back and forth around the walls. Nothing they saw gave them any reason to believe that the Mifurdanians would prevail against Nôd’onn’s troops. Even the otherwise ebullient Rodario was distressed by the sight. Narmora stood impassively at the edge of the platform, peering down at the forest, while Furgas and the dwarves crouched by the waterfall and washed the blood from their hands.
“Where to now?” he asked, noticing that the track went no farther.
“Back down to the bottom, just as soon as we’ve loaded the ponies,” Tungdil told him. “We stopped here on our way to Mifurdania and left our gifts for the firstlings in a cave.”
“Can I give you a hand?”
“There’s no need,” said Tungdil, not wanting to reveal the existence of the underground network. “You should probably get some sleep. We’ll need someone to sit watch for us later.” He took his leave with a quick nod and edged behind the waterfall with Goïmgar, Bavragor, and Boëndal.
Shifting the ingots was every bit as onerous as
Tungdil had expected. At last, after hours of hard work, the bars of gold, silver, palandium, vraccasium, and tionium were stacked safely at the top of the stairs. The sun was setting by the time the dwarves collapsed wearily on the floor, worn out from all the fetching and carrying, not to mention their earlier run-in with the bögnilim.
They were almost asleep when an embarrassed Boïndil emerged from his drunken slumber, mortified at getting sloshed on five tankards — which in his estimation was not nearly enough. Bavragor took particular pleasure in informing him that he couldn’t hold his drink.
Later, Boïndil was introduced to the players, whom he viewed with suspicion. He made a point of ignoring them, preferring to treat them coolly until they earned his respect. Not having witnessed the battle, he hadn’t seen their fighting spirit and refused to be swayed by his companions’ reports. Rodario could be as obliging as he liked: Boïndil was impervious to his charm.
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle
Soon your kingdom will be ours,” a voice warned Gundrabur. The älf was almost invisible in the darkness of the chamber. He stepped closer to the bed. “You’ll lose your kingdom, as the fifthlings lost theirs.”
“Nothing you can do will stop us,” said a second älf, emerging from the shadows and stooping over the bed. Black runes were tattooed across his face, making his pale skin appear translucent and lending him a menacing air. “You’re dying, Gundrabur. Vraccas will gather you to his eternal smithy, where you can weep and wail all you like.”
“No one will remember you,” a third älf told him, stepping noiselessly out of the darkness and stopping at the foot of his bed. “You’re old and weak, a high king who waited until his dying cycle to do something worthwhile and failed in all his endeavors.” He broke off, raising his violet eyes to the ceiling and listening intently. “Do you hear that?” A chisel was tapping away at the rock. “The secondlings are expunging your name from their annals. You failed them, Gundrabur.” Even as he spoke, the tapping and hammering intensified so that Gundrabur could hear a thousand chisels working in unison, chipping away at his skull. “Nothing will remain of your works. Yours will be the Nameless Era that brought humiliation and defeat on the dwarves. You are to blame for their destruction, Gundrabur. You are to —”
“Gundrabur! Gundrabur!”
The älfar whirled round and turned to face the door. Light flooded into the chamber.
“We’ll be back,” they told him, melting into a darkness so complete that not even Gundrabur’s dwarven eyes could fathom it.
“Gundrabur!”
The high king woke with a start. His heart was pounding and it took a moment for him to find his bearings. He covered his face with his hands and groaned.
Balendilín was sitting on the edge of the royal bed, mopping the sweat from his sovereign’s brow. He wrung the cloth into a bowl that was resting on Gundrabur’s chest and wobbling slightly as it rose and fell. “Your Majesty was having a nightmare,” he said, pressing his hand.
“They’re waiting for me,” whispered Gundrabur. He looked even older than usual, a time-wizened dwarf so frail and ancient that he was in danger of being swamped by the sheets. He gave Balendilín a short, breathless account of his dream. “They were right,” he sighed. “I’m not going to leave this bed alive. I wanted to die fighting Nôd’onn, or at the very least to cleave one more orcish skull.” He tried to laugh, but it came out as a choke. “If it weren’t for this confounded weakness…”
Balendilín was in no doubt as to what had prompted Gundrabur’s decline. He himself had been sick for three orbits following their interview with Bislipur. The beer that had been brought to them after the fourthling’s departure had given Balendilín an upset stomach and a temperature, but his constitution was sturdy enough to withstand the shock. The elderly king was unlikely to recover.
It had come to light that the attendant who had served the refreshments had collided with Bislipur on his way to the hall. There was no doubt that Bislipur had a koboldlike talent for skulduggery, but Balendilín couldn’t accuse him of anything without proof.
He won’t get away with it this time. Poisoning Gundrabur’s beer is murder — murder and high treason. As soon as evidence came to light of Bislipur’s wrongdoings, Balendilín was determined to put him on trial and execute him for his crimes. And if the fourthling didn’t trip up of his own accord, the counselor intended to help him fall.
“I have no other heir but you, Balendilín. Be a strong leader to our folk. Serve them better than I did.”
Balendilín dabbed at the beads of sweat on his brow. “You served the secondlings well,” he told him. “You were a good king and you still are.”
Tears welled in Gundrabur’s eyes. “I should like to go to the High Pass, where I fought my proudest battles.”
“Your Majesty, that’s not wise. An excursion like that could kill you.”
“If I die, it is Vraccas’s will and you shall take my place.” He lifted the bowl from his chest and sat up. “Fetch me my ax and armor,” he ordered, becoming the dwarves’ stately ruler as he donned his battle dress: leather jerkin, leather breeches, a light knee-length tunic of mail, and a bejeweled aventail, then helmet, gloves, and armored boots. Gathering his ax, the haft of which was as long as his legs, he hobbled to the door.
His counselor pleaded with him to reconsider, but Gundrabur had made up his mind and was as obstinate as any dwarf.
Together they marched through the passageways of the stronghold, Balendilín guiding the high king and steadying him during the frequent pauses after every flight of steps. At length they reached the defenses built by their ancestors to keep out the waves of invading orcs and other beasts and made their way to the highest parapet.
Groaning with effort, Gundrabur sat down on a ledge between two merlons. His hands and arms were trembling and his face was covered in a sheen of perspiration, but he was content. A light southerly wind blew in, ruffling his almost transparent white hair, and he closed his eyes.
“I expect you think Bislipur put something in my beer,” he said. “You’re probably right. He’ll go to any lengths to achieve his goals, but you’ll never defeat him by responding in kind. Don’t play him at his own game, Balendilín, or he’ll drag you down to his level.”
Balendilín drew closer and looked the monarch in the eye. “What would you have me do? Is it wrong to fight fire with fire?”
“Bislipur’s mask will slip, and when it does, you must be there to expose his duplicity. When the truth is out, even his closest friends will turn against him, but until then you must bide your time. If you speak too soon, the fourthlings will accuse you of troublemaking and slander. Fires are best fought with water: It puts out the flames without adding to the blaze.” Gundrabur’s cloudy eyes settled on his heir. “Be like water, Balendilín, not for me, but for the sake of our folks.” He gazed down at the trench, surveying the bleached bones of the countless creatures who had died there. “Not a single orc entered our stronghold during my reign,” he murmured, not without a hint of pride. “We defended Girdlegard against Tion’s minions, and now you must protect it from the threat within.”
There was a short silence as he took in the splendor of the stronghold’s defenses; then he sniffed the air quizzically.
“Is this your doing, my loyal friend?” he whispered gratefully. “Am I to die in battle after all?”
At that moment the guards on the battlements spotted the advancing beasts and sounded the alarm. The gates of the stronghold flew open as the echoing blare of the bugles called the dwarves to arms. Warriors left their stations at the foot of the ramparts and streamed up the stairways to the battlements.
Balendilín stared at the high king’s countenance. He looked visibly younger. The foul stench of the approaching orcs was fanning the flames of his inner furnace, steadying his hands and sharpening his sight.
“Lower the
bridge,” came the order from Gundrabur. He sprang to his feet. Moments earlier, his legs had trembled under the weight of his mail, but now they bore him with ease, and he seemed to have gained a few finger lengths in height. “Let’s see whether the orcs have learned anything about fighting over all these cycles. I’ll warrant they can’t scare this old dwarf.”
The portcullis lifted, pillars rose from the base of the trench, and the first slabs of stone were lowered to form a bridge across the trench. Already five hundred dwarves had formed a guard around their king.
Balendilín tried one last time to dissuade him. “I’m begging you, Gundrabur, you’ll be killed —”
The elderly monarch patted his shoulder reassuringly, then took his hand and gripped it firmly. “My loyal friend, I would rather die like this than have the spirit sucked out of me by poison. Bislipur shan’t have the satisfaction of ending my life.” He clasped Balendilín to him. “I will die a glorious death, a death befitting a secondling king. History will remember me kindly.” He stepped back and looked solemnly at his counselor and friend. “The first ten orcs that fall by my ax will be vengeance for your arm. Farewell, Balendilín. We’ll meet again in Vraccas’s smithy.” With a smile, he turned and faced his troops. “Warriors of Beroïn,” he cried, his voice traveling through the stronghold and echoing against the rock, “let us fight together and defend our kingdom. For Ogre’s Death and Girdlegard!”
A cheer went up among the secondling warriors who knew nothing of their monarch’s illness and rejoiced to see him fighting at their side.
We’ll meet again. Balendilín felt a lump in his throat as he watched his friend stride majestically through the gates and across the bridge, shielded by the secondlings’ arrows and catapults until he and his warriors were close enough to engage their orcish foes.
Balendilín didn’t have long to wait until a cry went up among the horrified warriors that Gundrabur had fallen. It was then that he decided to ignore the late king’s advice and see to it that Bislipur died. Dwarves are no friends of water, he thought grimly. Fire is our element.