by Markus Heitz
Giselbert stepped forward. “May I?” he asked tremulously.
“Of course. If it weren’t for you and the others, it would never have been forged.”
The ancient king grasped the ax, gazing at it reverently before trying a few swings. He entrusted it ceremoniously to the half älf.
“So this is it,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “The agony of the undead, all those cycles of waiting, of fighting… There was a reason for it all.” He shook hands with each of the company in turn, lingering when he came to Tungdil. “Don’t abandon my kingdom to the creatures of Tion. Free Girdlegard and drive out the pestilence, then come back and rebuild my kingdom for the dwarves. Will you promise me that, Tungdil Goldhand?” He fixed him with a piercing stare.
Tungdil could do nothing but nod, rendered speechless by the zeal in the fifthling’s eyes.
Giselbert unfastened his diamond-studded weapons belt and laid it around Tungdil’s waist. “Wear this in memory of my folk and let it be known that we defended our kingdom to the last, in death as well as life.”
Tungdil swallowed. “Your gift is too generous.”
“From what I have come to know of you, it is no less than you deserve.” They embraced as friends; then it was time for the company to leave.
“Let’s get going,” said Tungdil, looking up at the narrow staircase leading into the gloomy chimney. He glanced back at the doors, where the last of the fifthlings were locked in bitter combat with the orcs.
“But what will become of you?” Boïndil asked the fifthling king.
Giselbert stood tall, eyes fixed on the doors. “My warriors will hold them back while you get yourselves out of here. We’ll fight until they chop off our heads and put an end to our undead existence,” he said proudly. “Now go! The steps are shallower in the upper reaches of the chimney. Djerůn will have to take care.”
It was decided that Narmora, as the nimblest among them, should lead the way and test the stairs. The humans and dwarves lined up behind her, with the giant at the rear. Bavragor stayed by the furnace, a new war hammer in his hand.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” Tungdil asked cautiously.
He shook his head. “I said from the beginning that I’d never go home. I set out to die a glorious death and so I shall. This is what I wanted.” A profound calm had descended on him, allowing his mind, which had been battling against his undead state, to find peace. He turned his one eye toward Tungdil. “Thank you for bringing me here and for letting me be part of this.”
“I gave you my word.”
“You could have gone back on it. No one would have blamed you. They warned you about the merry minstrel, but you honored your promise.” He took a step forward and looked him in the eye. “I shall die in the knowledge that my hands carved the most important bit of masonry in the history of the dwarves. No mason will trump it — not unless Girdlegard needs another Keenfire, which I sincerely hope it never will.”
“Is there anything I can say to persuade you?”
The mason chuckled, and something about his laughter reminded Tungdil of the cheerful ballad singer and joker of old. “Persuade me? Tungdil, I’m a dwarf! I made my decision orbits ago.” He nodded toward the door. “They need my help and I shall fight alongside them. There could be no greater honor than to die side by side with the founding dwarves of the fifthling kingdom, the most ancient and venerable of our kin.” His calloused fingers gripped Tungdil’s hand. “You’re a good dwarf and that’s what matters, not your lineage. Be sure to remember me — and old Shimmer-beard as well.”
They embraced, and Tungdil let the tears course down his cheeks. Another friend was being taken from him, and he wasn’t afraid to show his grief.
“As if I could ever forget you, Bavragor Hammerfist! I shall remember you always.” He turned to look at Goïmgar’s grave. “I’ll never forget either of you.”
Smiling, Bavragor hurried to join the fifthlings in the battle against the hordes. After a couple of paces he stopped and looked across at Boïndil. “Tell him that I forgive him for what he did,” he said softly.
Tungdil stared at him in amazement. “I can’t tell him that,” he protested. “He’d think I was making it up to make him feel better about himself.”
“Then tell him I knew he loved my sister as much as I did, but I couldn’t stand losing her. I was filled with hatred, and I couldn’t hate death for taking her, so I hated the one who swung the blade. Hatred helped to silence the pain and the sorrow, and it was easier to live that way. Deep down I knew he loved her and he never meant to kill her.” He chuckled gently. “Death has made me wiser, Tungdil. May Vraccas protect Boïndil and the others, but especially you.”
He turned and, belting out a rousing melody, hurled himself into the unequal battle. His hammer smashed into an orcish knee, then crushed a beast’s skull, and still he kept singing.
Tungdil swallowed and hurried after his companions, who were rushing up the steps. Narmora had already reached the entrance to the flue.
As they ascended, Bavragor’s voice accompanied them through the darkness until Giselbert set the machinery in motion to close the vents. There was a whirr, then a rattling of metal as chains unfurled and tumbled to the floor. The mechanism had been destroyed.
When the noise settled, Bavragor’s singing could still be heard, softer and more muffled, but still audible.
There was no talking among them as they listened to his songs of dwarven heroism and glorious victories over the orcs. He was mocking the vast army, provoking his antagonists, luring them to their deaths.
Then everything was quiet.
There’s no one here,” Narmora called down to the others. “Just me and the mountains.” Tungdil looked up at her slim black form silhouetted against the pale sky. She disappeared from view.
One by one they clambered to the surface. The flue terminated in a crater large enough to swallow a fair-sized house.
Tungdil ascended the final paces with weary, leaden legs. At three thousand steps he had stopped counting the soot-stained stairs that wound their way up the chimney’s walls. There had been no moments of panic, no tripping, stumbling, or teetering on the edge, and the ascent had passed without incident, even for Djerůn in his cumbersome mail.
We made it. Tungdil emerged from the shelter of the rock to find himself on a snow-capped mountain at the heart of the Gray Range. An icy wind whipped about them, whistling through his beard and making him shiver with cold.
Looking down, he was filled with wonderment at the mighty valleys and gorges below. All around them were mountains: the towering summit of the Great Blade, the great pinnacle of the legendary Dragon’s Tongue, and the sheer sides of Goldscarp. Clad in snow and buffeted by wind, the peaks rose majestically toward the clouds, enduring and eternal. Few had seen the range from such a privileged vantage point, and Tungdil was loath to tear himself away.
He sent the half älf ahead as their scout. The decision caused him considerable heartache: On the one hand, he wanted to protect Narmora because of her role in the mission; on the other, he knew that she stood the best chance of leading the company to safety. Furgas was sick with worry on her behalf, but she struck out confidently through the snow, allowing the others to tread in her footsteps.
Their path took them over shimmering bridges of ice, through sheer-sided chasms, and past deep gulleys. From time to time they clambered over snow-covered scree and through stone archways that seemed liable to collapse.
They walked in silence, their tongues stayed by tiredness and all that had gone before. It was enough to focus on putting one foot in front of the other without tripping.
Tungdil’s thoughts drifted back to Giselbert and Bavragor. He could imagine them defending the gates against the enemy hordes, and if he closed his eyes for a second, he could almost hear the mason singing. The merry minstrel, he thought sadly.
Later, as daylight faded and the wind picked up, they sheltered inside a cave, huddling around the to
rchlight. Boïndil didn’t seem to mind the cold, but Andôkai brushed the snow from her cloak, pulled it close, and leaned back wearily against the bare rock. She lowered her blue eyes and cursed.
“I need to find a force field,” she said, putting an end to the silence. “The sooner we’re back on charmed land, the better. My powers are exhausted. I never thought this would happen and it’s not an experience I’d choose to repeat.”
“Quite apart from that, we’re bound to need your magic before too long.” The shivering Tungdil produced his map of the underground network. “I get the feeling that Nôd’onn knows about the underground network. He’ll guess we’re heading for Ogre’s Death, and he’ll probably be lying in wait.” He scanned the map attentively, his eyes coming to rest at a point two hundred miles from their present location. He’ll never think of looking there! “We’ll go to landur.”
“To landur?” blustered Boïndil, who was carefully plucking ice from his beard. “Whatever for?”
“There’s a shaft leading down to the network,” he told him, pointing to the map. “There’s a good chance that this part of the kingdom won’t have fallen to the älfar. We’ll ask the elves to join us and take up the fight against Nôd’onn, just as the high king proposed. Unless you’ve got a better suggestion, of course.”
“Er, no…” the secondling conceded. “But I can’t help… I mean, it takes a while to get used to the idea. Elves are our enemies, our sworn rivals.”
“I can’t imagine it either,” admitted Balyndis, nodding in agreement. She stretched her hands to the burning torch.
“How extraordinarily easy it is for one to dislike something,” said Rodario philosophically. He clutched his stomach just as it growled in protest. Like the others, he was ravenously hungry. Desperation drove him to break off an icicle and pop it in his mouth.
“The gods made us too dissimilar. Sitalia created the elves to love the skies and forests. Vraccas gave us our caverns and underground halls.” Balyndis hugged her knees to her chest. “They look down on us for not being beautiful like them. They despise us.”
“Consequently, you despise them,” the impresario divined. “Well, if one of you could see fit to stop despising the other, neither side would have reason to continue the feud. A whole history of hostility, resolved just like that.” He laughed, then gripped his injured side. “Blasted orcs! Do you happen to have any other enmities that I can put to rights?”
“There’s always Lorimbur’s folk,” Boïndil said slowly. “You heard what Glandallin said about the thirdlings. But it’s no good trying to reconcile me with them.” He clenched his fists. “To think that they betrayed the fifthlings!”
Rodario propped himself upright against the wall. “What was the origin of the quarrel? We humans know shamefully little about dwarves.” He took up his quill. “Keep it short, if you will. My ink is running low.”
Balyndis grinned. “We hate each other.”
His pen froze. “That was a little too short, worthy metal-worker of Borengar.” He flashed her a winning smile.
“I was afraid you’d say that.” Without further ado, she launched into the tale.
The five founders of the dwarven folks were created by Vraccas, who gave each of them a name. The father of the thirdlings cast off his Vraccas-given name and called himself Lorimbur, which is how he has always been known.
The other dwarves each received a particular talent for their folks, and so the smiths, the masons, the gem cutters, and the goldsmiths were born. But when it was Lorimbur’s turn, Vraccas told him: “You chose your own name, so you must choose your own talent. Teach yourself a trade, for you can expect nothing from me.”
Lorimbur tried to teach himself a trade and apprenticed himself to each of his brothers in turn, but his efforts went unrewarded. The iron cracked, the stone split, the gems shattered, and the gold burned.
And so it was that Lorimbur came to envy his brothers and his spiteful heart was filled with eternal hatred for all dwarves.
Determined to excel at something, he applied himself secretly to the art of combat. His aim was not merely to defeat his enemies, but to kill every dwarf in Girdlegard so that none of his kin could overshadow him again.
Rodario was hurriedly taking notes. “This is wonderful,” he murmured. “Enough to keep me going for a hundred cycles or more.”
Balyndis cleared her throat. “Do you see why we’re afraid of Lorimbur’s folk? They’re not to be trusted.”
Andôkai changed position, trying to get comfortable on the rocky floor. “The thirdlings aren’t the ones we should be worrying about. How are we going to convince the elves of our intentions? Lord Liútasil is known for his reluctance to forge new friendships. I hardly think he’ll rush to the aid of a company of dwarves.”
Tungdil watched the shadows cast by the torch and smiled. “I’ve learned from this journey that nearly everything is possible, even against the odds. I’m sure the elves will come round.”
At Balyndis’s request, Narmora handed over Keenfire, and the smith took to removing the excess inlay with a file. Tungdil looked on in fascination while she polished the metal. All of a sudden she put down her tools.
“It’s the cold,” she said apologetically. “My fingers are really numb.”
He glanced at Furgas and Narmora, who were snuggled under a blanket. His mouth went dry. “You can sit a bit closer, if you like,” he offered nervously.
She sidled over and nestled against him. “Like sitting by a furnace,” she said with a sigh of contentment.
Tentatively he laid an arm across her shoulders. There was something indescribably wonderful about having Balyndis by his side.
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
They walked quickly, speeding up to a march as soon as the terrain permitted and descending the southern slopes as fast as they could. Soon the mighty peaks of the Gray Range were behind them and they found themselves among Gauragar’s hills.
They were all so exhausted that they didn’t have much time to talk. After a while, Tungdil took Boïndil aside and told him of Bavragor’s last words. The secondling pressed his lips together tightly and said nothing, but his eyes welled with tears.
Where possible, they avoided settlements, although on one occasion Furgas and Rodario were sent to buy provisions from a farm. Had the decision been left to the impresario, the pair would have posed as impoverished noblemen, but Tungdil, conscious of the need to keep a low profile, insisted that they pass themselves off as cobblers instead.
The food tasted dreadful. The coming of the Perished Land had spoiled the winter crops and shriveled the apples, and even the bread was so heavy that it sat in their stomachs like lead. Still, it contained enough energy to restore a little of their strength. Since the groundwater was unpalatable, they melted snow to quench their thirst.
At length Djerůn hunted down a scrawny doe, which they roasted briefly over the flames and wolfed down hungrily, trying not to notice the slightly moldy taste.
They hadn’t been troubled by orcs since their escape from the fifthling kingdom, but after seven orbits the company’s relief turned to puzzlement: The Perished Land had seized Gauragar, but there was no sign of runts or bögnilim.
By rights the roads should be crawling with beasts. Unable to make sense of it, Tungdil sent Furgas and Rodario to find out what was happening from the inhabitants of a nearby town.
They returned with alarming news.
“The orcs were called away,” said the impresario, waving his arms to convey the drama of his report. “They’ve abandoned their encampments. A while ago, thousands of the beasts descended on the human kingdoms to rout the race of men, but now they’re marching south on Nôd’onn’s orders. The townsfolk said something about besieging a stronghold in a mountain.” He frowned in concentration. “I’ll remember the name in a moment.”
“Ogre’s Death,” Boïndil shrieked excitedly. “It’s got to b
e Ogre’s Death. Ha, they need thousands of orcs to attack the dwarves of Beroïn, do they? I always said the runts were worse than useless. Oh, what I’d give to fight beside my clansmen!”
To the others’ astonishment, Rodario shook his head. “That’s not it,” he said. “Dark… no, brown… no! I’ve always learned my lines perfectly and now I can’t remember a simple thing like this. It was something to do with leather.” His hands gesticulated frantically in the air. “With leather and riding…”
“Reins,” suggested Balyndis.
Tungdil made the leap. “The Blacksaddle! They’re besieging the Blacksaddle!”
Andôkai searched her memory. “The name means nothing to me. What is it?”
“A flat-topped mountain. The thirdlings built a stronghold inside it and tried to wage war on the other folks. It’s right in the middle of Girdlegard.” Tungdil pictured the Blacksaddle’s abandoned chambers and galleries. So why all the orcs?
“Do you think someone important might be sheltering there?” asked Narmora. “You know, someone Nôd’onn is intent on getting his hands on, like one of the human kings.”
Tungdil remembered telling Gundrabur and Balendilín about the stronghold, but he couldn’t see why either of them would ensconce themselves in such a dark, benighted place. “We should probably go there. The Blacksaddle is practically en route.”
They resumed their journey.
Twelve orbits after leaving the fifthling kingdom they sighted landur. There was no need for Tungdil to consult his map; nature was their guide.
They were trudging through a snow-filled valley when they first spotted a lush forest of beeches, oaks, and maples in the distance, surrounded by a protective fence of pines. The vibrant colors and thriving trees were proof enough that, contrary to rumor, the last elven kingdom hadn’t fallen to Nôd’onn’s hordes. This part of Girdlegard was free from the pestilence.
“I never thought I’d live to see the day when I’d welcome the sight of greenery,” muttered Boïndil, whose spirits were suffering from the long march through the Perished Land. His eyes swept the thick line of trees that formed a natural palisade against intruders. He reached for his axes. “Looks like we’ll have to chop our way through.”