by Markus Heitz
“I have no idea,” Tungdil said frankly without slowing his pace.
Rodario displayed his customary persistence. “No idea? But I thought the lot of you had been traveling together for a while…”
“She told us that he isn’t a monster.” Tungdil suddenly remembered the night in the desert when he had caught a glimpse of what lay behind the terrifying visor. A shiver ran down his spine.
The impresario blew on his frozen fingers. “Not a monster, eh? Then what in the name of Palandiell is he? I’ve never known a human to light up a darkened street with the power of his eyes. If it’s a trick, I’d give anything to know the secret; the audience would love it.”
Hoping that Rodario would give up and go away, Tungdil said nothing and trudged energetically through the snow, glancing at the map to get his bearings.
“Very well. I’ll have to assume that he’s a creature of Tion.” Looking pretty pleased with himself, Rodario stuck his hands into the pockets of his fur coat. “It adds a bit of drama to the plot. Ye gods, the play will be brilliant. The whole of Girdlegard will flock to see it.” He stopped and cursed. “I wish my blasted ink would stop freezing. At this rate, I’ll have forgotten the best bits before I get a chance to write them down.”
“You should carry the inkwell next to your skin,” Tungdil advised him. “That way the ink will be nice and warm and you can scribble as much as you like.”
Rodario gave him a friendly pat on the back. “There’s a sharp mind hiding under all that hair, my little friend. I was thinking the same thing, but thank you nonetheless.”
Not a single footprint marred the snowy road ahead. The wintry weather and marauding orcs had convinced the people of Tabaîn to stay by their hearths and barricade their doors.
The terrain was so flat that raiding parties could be spotted well in advance. In clear weather the watchtowers commanded views of over a hundred miles, but no amount of warning could save the settlements from the orcs. The northern hordes could be stopped only by good swordsmen, and Tabaîn had precious few of those.
Tungdil checked their position against the map. They were closer than ever to the southernmost reaches of the Perished Land. Who knows how far the pestilence has spread? There’s no way of telling with the landscape blanketed in snow.
“Orcs,” came Boïndil’s warning from the front of the procession. “Twenty miles to the west. They’re… Hang on, they’re turning east,” he reported, surprised. “They’re moving fast. You don’t think they’re looking for us, do you?”
Bavragor pointed to a hamlet situated in the direction that the beasts had been heading originally. The superior vision in his remaining eye enabled him to see what the others could not. “That would have been their next stop, but they’ve abandoned their quarry.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead. A red glow had settled over his face.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Balyndis asked. “You look a bit feverish.”
“What if it’s gangrene?” said Boïndil. “Maybe the hocuspocus hasn’t worked as well as it should.”
The allegation spurred Andôkai into action. She asked the mason to lean forward so she could inspect the wound on his neck. Boïndil was beside her in a flash. They came to the same conclusion.
“The wound has healed nicely,” he admitted. “I can’t argue with that.”
“I’ve lost a bit of blood, that’s all,” said Bavragor, trying to allay the others’ fears. He was obviously uncomfortable at being the center of attention, but Balyndis persevered. She pulled off her left glove and laid her hand on his forehead.
“For the love of Vraccas, I could forge a horseshoe on there,” she said in alarm.
“With a skull as thick as his, I don’t suppose it would do much harm,” Tungdil joked. “He’s a tough customer, our Hammerfist.”
“I’m serious, Tungdil, he’s feverish. Either that, or he’s got a nasty cold. We need to get him inside before he loses consciousness or worse.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” objected Bavragor. “I’m perfectly —” He doubled up in a coughing fit that went on and on until he was shaking so violently that his legs caved in. Tungdil pulled him upright and steadied him.
“I’d say it’s a cold.” Balyndis scanned the horizon. “He needs a warm bed for the night.”
Tungdil nodded. “We’ll stop at the next hamlet. Sorry, old fellow, but a dead mason won’t be any good to us.”
“A cold!” Goïmgar chuckled maliciously. “So who’s the weakling now? I might not be big, but at least I’m hardy.” He was practically glowing with satisfaction at not being the underdog anymore. Head held high, he strode past the ailing mason with a smug smile that prompted Furgas to throw a snowball in his face.
Tungdil soon realized that their efforts to find a bed were destined to fail; there wasn’t a single farmhouse, let alone a hamlet, between them and the Gray Range. Since Bavragor refused to make a detour, they walked without stopping in order to reach the entrance to the tunnels as soon as they could.
A nasty surprise awaited them when they finally reached the spot. The mouth of the shaft had transformed itself into a frozen pond.
“We’ll have to walk, then,” said Bavragor cheerily, doing his best to downplay his illness and seem sprightly despite his fragile state. His bright red face and the beads of perspiration forming beneath his frozen helmet told a different story. “I can see the range from here.”
“The range has been in sight since the moment we entered Tabaîn,” moaned Goïmgar, dreading the prospect of another long march in the cold. “Are you trying to get us all snow-blind or something?”
Grumpily, he set off through the snow, the others following in his wake. Toward evening they came to a deserted barn filled with bales of hay.
They lit a fire in spite of their qualms and made themselves comfortable, then cleared a spot for Bavragor to lie beside the flames, swaddling him in three blankets so he sweated out the cold. Rodario curled up in the warmth, while Djerůn stood guard by the door, leaving the others free to look after the invalid. They clustered around him.
“It’s nothing, honestly.” Just then he choked and spat out a large clot of blood. He was gasping for air, groaning rather than breathing, and he seemed to be losing strength. The warmth was making things worse. “If you give me a sip of brandy, I’ll be fighting fit.”
“It can’t be a cold,” Boïndil said firmly. He got up. “It’s gangrene, I know it. Sometimes it spreads beneath the skin, even after the wound has healed.”
“No, Boïndil,” snapped Andôkai, “I cleaned the flesh thoroughly.”
A terrible thought occurred to Tungdil. He got up, went over to Goïmgar, and picked up his shield to examine the dent. Where the bolt had hit, the metal was discolored and there were traces of a clear frozen liquid that neither he nor the artisan had noticed before. His spirits sank. The bolt had been dipped in something that had stuck to the shield.
Vraccas, give him strength. “Do you have a spell against poison?” he asked Andôkai hoarsely. “By the look of things, Sverd wasn’t relying purely on his aim.”
“Poison?” Bavragor swallowed his cough and grinned. As his lips parted, his companions saw the blood leaking from his gums and coloring his teeth. His mouth was full of blood. “I knew it! Did you hear that, Goïmgar? What’s the betting you’d be dead already? I’ve drunk enough brandy and beer in my lifetime to toughen me up. Ha, a cold!”
The maga closed her eyes. “I can’t do anything against poison. My art is… I’m afraid, it’s not my kind of magic,” she said in a soft, apologetic tone. “Healing the wound drained a lot of my energy. My strength is all but exhausted.”
A terrible silence settled over the group. There was no mistaking what Andôkai’s words meant for the mason. Balyndis reached for his calloused hand and squeezed it encouragingly. She was too choked to speak.
“I know what you’re thinking,” croaked Bavragor at length. “Things don’t look good for the merry minstrel. It�
�s all right; I wasn’t intending to return from the mission anyway.” He looked up at Tungdil. “Still, I’d give anything to see the fifthling kingdom and fashion Keenfire’s spurs. I wanted to go out with a bang, not in a dingy barn miles away from my beloved mountains.”
Blood was seeping through his pores, the droplets merging into rivulets and soaking his straw mattress. In no time his garments were drenched with red.
“You’re not going to die,” Tungdil told him shakily. His smile, which he hoped would be encouraging, looked more like a grimace. “We can’t fashion Keenfire without you! You’re Beroïn’s best mason.”
Bavragor had to swallow a mouthful of blood before he could reply. “In that case, you’ll have to take me with you. We’ll make the ax to kill Nôd’onn, you’ll see.” He nodded to the door. “Carry me to the Perished Land. I’ll fulfill my mission after my death.”
“But… but you’ll be a revenant,” stuttered Boïndil, horrified. “Your soul —”
“I’ll do my bit for Keenfire and confound the rest!” The outburst ended in another coughing fit.
“What if you turn against us? The other dead souls tried to kill us and eat us!” Boïndil glanced at the others for support. Some were struggling with their emotions, the remainder looked embarrassed.
“Chain my hands together, if you’re worried,” the mason told them. “My will is stronger than the drive to do evil. Dwarves are too stubborn to be conquered by darkness.” He closed his eyes. “You’ll have to hurry,” he gasped. He coughed again and blood spewed from his mouth, trickling into his well-kempt beard.
“Djerůn!” At Andôkai’s bidding, the giant stooped to lift the dwarf. Cradling Bavragor gently in his arms like a mother would carry her child, he left the barn and stomped through the snow.
His long tireless limbs bore the mason toward the north, where the Perished Land had established its dominion, awakening anything that died to hideous life.
The rest of the company packed their things and followed the giant as fast as the sparkling snow and the dwarves’ stumpy legs would allow.
Tungdil looked up at the stars and wept silent tears for the mason who was sacrificing his soul for the sake of the ax on which Girdlegard’s future depended. For all Bavragor’s eccentricities and occasional crotchetiness, he was a good dwarf whom Tungdil regarded as a friend.
He heard a sniff beside him and turned to the tearful Balyndis. Her eyes were red with crying, but she smiled and squeezed his hand. Suddenly his courage, which had all but deserted him in the barn, came flooding back.
So much had happened since they had left the secondling kingdom — too much, in fact. Their adventure had turned into something far bigger and more perilous than they’d ever imagined. Even Rodario, renowned for his pompous comments, had fallen silent and was brooding over the mason’s death.
“I hope Girdlegard is worth it, Vraccas,” murmured Tungdil, gazing up at the sparkling firmament. “When all this is over, I shall see to it that our folks don’t barricade themselves back in their mountains. From now on, we’ll work together.”
Balyndis gave his hand another squeeze, but he pulled away and hurried to join Boïndil at the head of the procession. It was the wrong time to be thinking of anything except Keenfire.
“You like her, don’t you?” the secondling said immediately, without glancing round.
“Don’t start,” Tungdil told him. “It’s the last thing I want to talk about.”
“I can’t say I blame you. She’s an attractive lass, and to someone like you, with no experience of the fairer sex, she must look as pretty as Vraccas’s own daughter.”
“I’ve decided not to think about it until Nôd’onn has been defeated. My duty is to Girdlegard.”
“Trust a scholar to want to think about it.” Boïndil took care not to meet his eye: For all intents and purposes, he was addressing Djerůn’s snowy footprints. “Think about it if you must, but remember: If something is worth pursuing, you shouldn’t waste time. Situations change faster than you can split an orcish skull, and a moment’s hesitation could cost you your chance.”
“What makes you say that?”
“No reason.” He peered into the distance. “They’re up ahead.” He whipped out his axes. “Let’s hope the drunkard can defy the bidding of the Perished Land.” It was evident from his hefted weapons that he was prepared to take decisive action.
The maga called out to Djerůn, who raised his armored hand and beckoned them over. At his side was Bavragor, arms dangling limply and gaze fixed blankly on the Gray Range.
“Bavragor?” Tungdil said gently, searching the pale face for a trace of recognition. His features had aged terribly; he looked waxen and corpselike.
“I feel… nothing,” came the ponderous response. It seemed to cost him a great deal of effort to open his mouth and form the words. “I can’t feel my body. My mind is… empty.” The soulless eyes roved over the group and settled on Tungdil. “It feels bad; everything feels bad. Things I loved, I hate. Things I hated…” He stared past Tungdil and fixed his gaze on Boïndil. “I want to slaughter the things I hated — tear them apart and devour them. Tie my hands together; I don’t know how much longer I can resist. The evil is inside me.”
“Very well,” said Tungdil, unthreading the leather strap from Goïmgar’s shield. He bound Bavragor’s hands behind his back.
“Tighter,” growled the mason. “You don’t have to worry about my blood flow: My heart stopped beating when I died.” He seemed tense and agitated, but once the bonds had been tightened to his satisfaction, he relaxed a little and turned to Tungdil. “I want you to behead me as soon as my work is done. I don’t want to serve the Perished Land for eternity and patrol the abandoned fifthling galleries, massacring innocents and spreading the pestilence.”
“No dwarf will ever serve the Perished Land,” Tungdil promised. “You have my word.”
“As for you,” the mason snapped at Boïndil, “take my advice and stay away. I want nothing better than to sink my teeth into your gullet and tear you to shreds.” He squared his shoulders and his chestnut eye glimmered cruelly before he looked down and stared at the snow. He took a first step, then another. “Hurry, I don’t want to be a soulless corpse for a moment longer than necessary.”
On a signal from the maga, Djerůn assumed the role of Bavragor’s keeper, walking close behind him so the others were shielded from his jaws by a solid metal frame.
Time wore on, orbit after orbit, as they trudged across the never-ending flats of Tabaîn. The Breadbasket, as the fertile fields were nicknamed in summer, was so inhospitably cold that it was essential to keep moving in order not to freeze.
Tungdil had read somewhere that light reflected by the snow could harm the eyes and cause permanent damage. To protect his companions from blindness, he ordered them to bind cloth around their faces and look out through tiny slits.
Their journey was slow and laborious. The only members of the company who didn’t seem to mind the march were Djerůn and the undead mason, who plowed their way impassively through the snow. Since their provisions were frozen solid, they had the onerous task of thawing their food by the fire every evening before they could eat. Without the warm garments given to them by Xamtys, they would surely have perished in the cold.
At length Boïndil became more restless, his fighting instincts ever harder to repress, while Bavragor had been stripped of the very things that made him who he was; he didn’t drink, didn’t sing, didn’t laugh, just stared into the distance. On one occasion he took the edge off his hunger with a mountain hare. Ripping it from a metal trap, he ate it alive, leaving nothing but bones and fur. The sound of his frenzied eating and the cracking of bones made Goïmgar, whose hand rested permanently on his sword, more nervous than ever.
The Gray Range edged closer and closer. Its peaks seemed almost in touching distance, yet still they struggled through the snowdrifts of Tabaîn, finally crossing the border into Gauragar and, after an exhausting m
arch of many orbits, reaching the slate-gray foothills of the range.
On their way they encountered neither orcs nor any other beasts, although they occasionally saw their tracks. Great armies were advancing southward, but fortunately for the company, their paths never crossed.
At last they neared the stronghold’s outermost defenses. Even from a distance they could see that no one had been posted to defend the ramparts against intruders from Girdlegard’s interior.
The beasts from the north had torn stone from stone, destroying walls and toppling towers until nothing remained of the stronghold’s former splendor. Their work had been done so thoroughly that Tungdil and the others were hard-pressed to imagine how the kingdom had looked during Giselbert Ironeye’s era. Fragments of stonework testified to the fifthling masons’ skill, but the glorious ramparts were nothing but ruins. It was a harrowing sight for the dwarves.
Although the defenses seemed deserted, the company approached the gates with caution.
“Stay here and don’t make a sound,” Boïndil told them as they struggled to the top of a steep pathway. “Narmora and I will check for sentries.”
The pair slipped away, darting between the gray rocks and hiding behind sections of masonry that loomed out of the snow. Their goal was an open gateway, as tall as a house, leading straight inside the mountain.
Tungdil scanned their surroundings and listened intently. A chill wind whistled through the cracked ramparts, producing high-pitched notes that rolled together in a tune. Icicles hung like glassy stalactites from the mountain ledges, and fifty paces to their left, a waterfall had stopped midstream in a frozen sculpture of ice.
No orcs, no ogres, no älfar, nothing.
“Did you hear what he said?” Goïmgar smiled bitterly. “He told us to be quiet! If only he could hear himself.”
“He’s not exactly graceful,” agreed the impresario, “although the comparison with the delightful Narmora certainly doesn’t help.”