by Markus Heitz
At the bottom of the steps lay dead or dying beasts that had fallen from a height of ten paces. The stairs dripped with slimy olive and bottle-green blood, which further hindered the bögnilim’s attack.
Yet the enemy showed no sign of retreating. Pushing and shoving, the beasts fought their way to the front, only to be cut down by Gandogar’s swooping blade.
Boïndil raced ahead of his companions, sounding his bugle to herald their advance.
“Here’s another dwarf who’s not afraid of Tion’s beasts!” Laughing maniacally he threw himself into the battle, becoming Ireheart the Furious from whom there was no escape. His axes seemed to seek out his enemies instinctively, zeroing in on unprotected flesh and damaged mail. At the end of his first sally, six bögnilim lay twitching on the floor.
Ireheart powered on, channeling a path through the hordes, with Tungdil and the others following in his wake. Even the usually timorous Goïmgar launched himself into the battle. For the first time he was prepared to fight and even die.
During the commotion Bavragor succeeded in tearing off his leather manacles. Not possessing any weapons, he tore the creatures apart with his hands, thrusting his blood-smeared muscular fingers deep into their flesh to inflict the fatal wound. The bögnilim fought back with their swords, but the revenant continued undeterred, stopping only to seize two maces and swing them with terrible strength.
Stooping low, Djerůn swiped at the knee-high creatures with his club. They crashed down amid their comrades, squashing some of them with their weight.
“To the stairs!” bellowed Tungdil on seeing that Gandogar was overextended. The king seemed to be the only survivor among his group; none of the others were visible amid the mass of heaving bodies.
The company closed ranks to thrash their way forward. Djerůn stayed at the foot of the steps and repelled the advancing bögnilim with murderous force, while the others worked their way up, engaging their enemy from behind until the last beast on the stairs had fallen. The ruler of the fourthling kingdom stood before them on the steps.
Gandogar looked dreadful, his face pale, haggard, and drawn. A mighty weapon had left two deep gashes in his bloodied chain mail.
“My king!” Goïmgar said joyfully. Not even the present danger could prevent him from sinking to one knee.
Tungdil gave him a brief nod. “Where are the others?”
“Dead,” he said, struggling to regain his composure. “We need to get out of here before —”
Five figures, broader, uglier, and nastier than orcs, appeared at the far end of the hall. They were four paces tall and looked incredibly strong.
“Ogres!” Boïndil clapped excitedly. “This is where it gets really fun! Hey, Armor-Face, I’m leaving the tiddlers to you.” He knocked the butts of his axes together and licked his lips. “This is more like it.”
The smaller beasts drew back without a murmur, allowing the ogres to pass.
“The rest of you run,” commanded Andôkai. “Djerůn and I will keep them busy. We’ll see how far my remaining magic gets us. Go!”
Even as she lowered her sword and began the incantation, a thunderous rumble filled the hall and a giant tore itself out of the flesh of the mountain, taking shape beside the statue. Cavernous eyes stared at the maga from a long stony face, and a fist sped down toward her.
Andôkai spotted the danger just in time and diverted her magic toward the unexpected foe. She managed to stop the blow, but was brought to her knees by the effort. “A golem,” she coughed. “There must be a wizard controlling it. Find him and kill him before my strength deserts me. I can’t hold off the creature for long.”
A great cry went up among the surviving bögnilim when they saw their apparently invincible enemies struggling to repel the new threat. The squawking and shouting grew louder until the creatures resolved to try their luck again, advancing in a wave of arms, legs, teeth, and whirling weapons.
The onslaught of bögnilim drove Djerůn slowly up the stairway until he stopped and opened his visor, steeping his assailants in a beam of purple light. The hall echoed with his terrible, menacing roar and the whimpering bögnilim fled from the armored giant. Djerůn followed them, lashing out with his sword and mace to regain the lost ground.
“He’s over there!” Narmora pointed to a man-sized figure in the malachite robes of Nôd’onn’s school. He was standing a hundred paces away, flanked by a mob of muscular orcs who served as his bodyguards. It was clear from his gestures that he was responsible for steering the golem’s attack.
“They’re determined not to let us near the furnace,” said Tungdil. Nôd’onn doesn’t want us to forge Keenfire. We’re on the right track.
Gandogar looked at the swelling ranks of beasts that were piling into the hall. “It’s hopeless. The door to the furnace is on the far side of the adjoining hall. It’s sealed with dwarven runes so the beasts can’t get in. We were almost inside when they ambushed us. They must have known we were coming.”
Tungdil’s mind whirred feverishly. “Everyone with a role to play in forging Keenfire needs to make it through that door. You or I will go with them. Since I never intended to be crowned high king, I cede my place to you, King Gandogar. My only concern is the safety of Girdlegard and our kinsfolk.” He looked his rival in the eye. “Narmora will explain her role in this later, but I need you to promise you’ll do everything you can to help her slay the magus.”
Gandogar bowed his head. “I swear in the name of Vraccas our Creator and by the memory of Giselbert Ironeye, founding father of this kingdom, that I shall fight the magus to the end.” They shook hands. “Which doesn’t mean to say you won’t be there too,” he added.
They turned to face the enemy and raised their weapons. Tungdil placed the bugle to his lips and sounded the attack.
Giselbert’s Folk,
Fifthling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
Djerůn led the advance, flanked by the dwarves, with Rodario, torches in both hands, following close behind, shielded by Furgas, who was doing his best to fend off the bögnilim and protect the precious flames.
Back on the steps, Andôkai was still under siege from the golem. All her efforts were focused on defending herself, leaving her no time to deal with the famulus and stop the attack at its source. “Hurry!” she shouted hoarsely. “Another couple of charms and my magic will be spent.”
“Leave it to me,” volunteered Narmora. Launching herself into the air, she alighted on Djerůn’s shoulders and pushed off again, soaring another five paces to land on a bögnil’s head. In no time she was away again, using the heads and shoulders of the bewildered beasts as stepping stones. She had almost reached the famulus when a dagger nicked her calf. She missed her step and fell among the howling brutes.
“Narmora!” cried Furgas, so overcome with horror that he neglected his duty as Rodario’s guard. In a flash the beasts surged forward and closed in on the impresario.
“Shoo!” he shouted, thrusting the torches in their direction. Squealing, the bögnilim backed away from the tongues of fire, only to be struck by flying sparks. In an instant they were reeling backward, consumed by flames. The dragon fire burned them to ashes before they had time to retreat.
Rodario’s strategy guaranteed his own safety, but at the cost of the torches, whose light was ebbing after numerous brushes with the bögnilim’s swords. At length he was left with a single torch. “Furgas,” he shouted, trying to alert his companion to his plight. “Furgas, I need your help!”
But Furgas was still staring anxiously at the spot where Narmora had fallen.
“For the love of Vraccas, wake up!” Balyndis scolded him. She fought her way through the fray and thrust herself between the bögnilim and the impresario.
All of a sudden Narmora appeared out of nowhere, looming up behind the famulus’s bodyguards and hewing the first orc’s head with a mighty blow. She dispatched the other beasts before they had time to respond.
“Very impressive,” the famulus said furiously, pointing his staff in her direction, “but not as effective as this.”
A thick bolt of light shot toward Narmora, who darted nimbly aside. The bolt latched on to her movement.
Just as it seemed certain that Narmora would be hit, the bolt struck an invisible obstacle and dissipated harmlessly. It was instantly followed by a powerful flash of lightning that arced toward the famulus from the direction of the statue. There was a terrible crackle as it seared through his flesh, the flames subsiding only when nothing remained but a pile of reeking cinders. The next moment, the golem collapsed. Huge chunks of rock rained down on the enemy troops, squashing dozens of bögnilim and flattening three of the ogres who were too ponderous to escape.
The two remaining ogres stopped in their tracks and stared fearfully at the triumphant maga before retreating into the adjoining hall and vanishing from sight.
Narmora gave Andôkai a wave and the maga returned the greeting, then drew her sword in a single fluid movement. It was the only defense she had left.
“Excellent, excellent, so Narmora’s still alive. Unless there’s another lead actor you’d rather work with, you might want to lend me a hand,” the impresario said to Furgas. “At this rate, the fabulous Rodario will die a heroic death.”
Andôkai abandoned the statue and stormed down the staircase, her blade wreaking havoc among the enemy troops.
“She always ruins everything,” Boïndil said testily. “I was looking forward to those ogres.” He threw himself with added fury on the fleeing bögnilim. “At least I can have some fun with you.”
Disregarding Tungdil’s warnings, Boïndil chased after his victims, slicing into their necks from behind and shooing them along as if he were herding pigs. On reaching the doorway to the adjacent hall, he came to a sudden halt.
“What’s wrong? Don’t tell me your brain’s caught up with you,” Goïmgar said spitefully, hurrying with the others to join him. They stopped and froze as well.
“I say we leave this scene out of the play,” Rodario whispered hoarsely. “I have a feeling we won’t enjoy it.”
The hall was at least three thousand paces long and two thousand paces wide. It was obvious what purpose the chamber had once served, for among the disused blast furnaces, ramps, and rope pulleys lay abandoned slag heaps and scattered mounds of pig iron and coal.
Now a thousand orcs, bögnilim, and trolls occupied the fifthlings’ smelting works, sealing the entry to the Dragon Fire furnace.
The defeated ogres and bögnilim had already reached the foremost line of beasts and were hastily relaying what had happened in the adjoining hall. An angry murmur swept through the chamber as the beasts drew their weapons, growling in readiness for the fight.
“It’s…” Boïndil was lost for words. He lowered his axes in an admission of defeat. The vast army was more than just another of the big challenges that he was so fond of. Even he could see that the odds were stacked overwhelmingly against the plucky band.
“Do you think you could fly to the other side and take us with you like you did for Goïmgar?” Tungdil whispered to the maga.
“The battle with the golem and his master drained my last reserves of magic. There’s nothing left.” Andôkai’s eyes scanned the crowds bitterly. “Had I known what awaited us, I would have held back, but even then…”
“Let’s go home,” Goïmgar implored them. He turned to Gandogar. “Your Majesty —”
He stopped short, silenced by a look from Tungdil. “We can’t go home now,” he said. “We’ll get to the furnace or die trying.” He squared his shoulders stubbornly. “We’re Girdlegard’s last line of resistance. No one else is going to make it past this hall.”
“Then it’s decided.” To Goïmgar’s horror, Gandogar gave his assent. “We’ll stay and fight together.” He raised his double-bladed ax.
“We’re dwarves!” thundered Ireheart, who had finally found his voice. Tucking in his head, he squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “We never give in,” he bellowed at the beasts, beating his axes together until the smelting works echoed with the noise. “Do you hear that, you worthless scoundrels? It’s the sound of your deaths!”
Tungdil offered a silent prayer to Vraccas. “There’s nothing for it but to fight our way through.” He looked into the faces of his companions. “There’s a good chance that not all of us will make it. What matters is that the right ones survive.” He glanced at Balyndis. “I’m expendable. I’ll gladly give my life if it means Girdlegard and its peoples have a future.”
Furgas’s eyes filled with tears as he kissed Narmora passionately: She was among those who had to survive at all costs. She stroked his cheek tenderly.
“One to a hundred,” was Boïndil’s assessment of their respective numbers. “It could be worse.” This time he blew the bugle, sounding the ancient dwarven call to war. It was answered by hostile shouts. Boïndil glanced at his companions. “Race you to the other side.”
After five hundred paces, they had fought themselves into an impasse, unable to advance or retreat.
Surrounded on all sides by the foulest of creatures, the company stood shoulder to shoulder and faced the prospect of fighting until their arms were too heavy to deflect the deadly blows.
Worse still, they had lost Rodario in the first ten paces. He had been swallowed among the mass of orcish bodies and by the time Tungdil noticed his absence, the impresario was nowhere to be seen.
With Rodario, they lost the dragon fire with which the furnace was to be lit.
We’re so close now, Vraccas. “We need to go back,” he shouted over his shoulder. “We’ve lost Rodario and the only torch.”
Andôkai was about to reply when roaring flames shot toward the ceiling.
“Get back,” a voice rasped imperiously from the door. “Let me deal with them.”
The noise stopped instantly. In a flash, a path opened through the rabble, the beasts drawing away to let their master pass. A corpulent figure in malachite robes strode toward them, extinguishing the last spark of hope that Tungdil had been kindling with dwarven obstinacy.
“Nôd’onn.” An awed whisper swept through the ranks of beasts, who were staring at the magus in fascination, some bowing or falling to their knees.
“I thought I would find the villains here,” he rasped, his voice giving way to a cough. A bright red globule of saliva spattered onto the face of a bögnil whose tongue shot out hungrily and licked it away. “I sent my servants here to ambush you. I wanted to have the pleasure of destroying you myself.”
An orc leaped forward, whipping out his sword. “Let me do it for you, Master,” he said slavishly.
“Silence, ingrate!” The magus stretched a hand. There was a flash of light and flames shot out of his fingers, setting the orc ablaze. The beast staggered backward, stumbling in agony until at last he lay still. “Out of my way,” commanded Nôd’onn. “If you crowd me, I can’t destroy them without destroying you.” His pale face was almost entirely obscured by a cowl, with only a chink of white skin visible through the folds of cloth.
“I’ll do what I can,” Andôkai whispered to Tungdil. “The rest of you run.” She pushed her fair hair back from her severe visage, seized her sword, and prepared to strike. All of a sudden she stopped.
Tungdil sensed her hesitation. “What’s wrong?”
She seemed puzzled. “I can’t see his staff. Nôd’onn would never be parted with it, no more than I would go anywhere without my sword. It must be an illusion.”
“Ye gods! It’s Rodario!” hissed Furgas, trying not to blow his friend’s cover by looking too relieved.
Tungdil stared in disbelief. The impresario’s transformation was as complete as it had been on the stage, but now he was playing to an audience who would kill him and eat him if his performance was anything less than faultless. How does he do it?
“As for you,” the sham magus rasped at the company, “you shall suffer. But first I shall be mer
ciful: You may advance to the forge and touch the hallowed door. Only then will my servants rip you to pieces. Is that not exquisitely cruel?” The beasts cheered excitedly.
This time the crowd parted on the other side of the company, allowing them to proceed through a narrow corridor toward the locked door. The sham magus followed behind them, swaying, coughing, and whipping his followers into a frenzy as he threatened the company with increasingly diabolical fates.
They were ten paces from the door when the impresario swayed more vigorously than usual and stumbled.
“Stop!” Tungdil grabbed Narmora and Furgas before they could rush to his aid. “You’ll give the game away for all of us.”
The costumed Rodario struggled upright. A helmet rolled out from beneath his robes and his left leg seemed suddenly a good deal shorter. Without the makeshift stilt that had allowed him to tower majestically at the real magus’s height, the fakery was obvious. It took the beasts a few moments to fathom the situation.
“That’s not Nôd’onn!” An orc rushed toward him, brandishing his sword, as the company closed ranks around the hobbling Rodario and the battle recommenced.
“What have you done with the torch?” demanded Tungdil.
Clutching his side, the impresario coughed up another mouthful of blood; this time he was wounded and not just relying on his props. Even so, he managed a smile as he held up a small lantern. The wick was burning brightly. “No self-respecting magus would dream of carrying a torch.”
Their courage restored, they fought their way more determinedly than ever toward the door, while the orcs pushed aside their smaller colleagues and attacked with full force. They were determined to put an end to the indefatigable men and dwarves.
Every member of the company was struck by an ax, sword, or mace. Some of the wounds were more serious than others, but the dwarves stood their ground. Tungdil focused on deciphering the runic password that would gain them entry to the forge. For once his knowledge failed him.