by Markus Heitz
Tungdil Goldhand, climbing behind him, tried not to laugh. He knew that his friend was desperate to fight. The hot-blooded Boïndil, known to his kinsfolk as Ireheart, pursued his enemies with a vengeance and was bent on waging war. “I had a word with Prince Mallen; he promised to leave some for you.”
Ireheart snorted, his long black plait swinging across his back. “You shouldn’t make fun of me,” he called back grouchily, climbing faster than before. He let out an excited shriek. “I think they’re right above us; I can smell their stinking armor!” The weight of his chain mail, shield, and axes seemed not to bother him. One hand was already reaching for the door; a moment later, he found the bolt and opened the hatch. He poked his helmed head tentatively into the open.
“What can you see?” panted Tungdil, whose muscles were tiring. “Any sign of the orcs?”
“We’ve died and gone to Vraccas’s smithy,” whooped Boïndil. With a bloodcurdling “oink”, he catapulted himself out of the shaft like a dwarven cannonball. “Stand clear, you little runts, I’m coming!”
Craning his neck, Tungdil looked up and saw the secondling silhouetted against the light. He seemed to be brandishing both axes as he flew through the air. Tungdil turned back to the others. “Quick, after him!” He hauled himself out of the shaft.
He hadn’t expected the situation to be good, but it was worse than he had imagined. He was standing in an encampment of shrieking bögnilim and angry orcs. Tungdil’s notion of the eternal smithy was rather different.
As soon as he was clear of the shaft, he reached behind him and drew his ax from the sheath on his back. The diamond-encrusted blade glittered fiercely in the crimson light of the dying sun.
At the sight of Keenfire, the orcs pulled up abruptly, grunting and shuffling back. They knew they were dealing with no ordinary warrior. Every beast in Girdlegard had heard how Tungdil Goldhand had slain the dark magus and sliced the demon in half with a glittering blade.
Crafted by the best dwarven artisans, with a blade made from the purest steel and forged in the fieriest furnace, encrusted with diamonds and inlaid with precious metals and tionium, Keenfire was a weapon of untold power and strength. The beasts were right to be afraid.
Summoning his courage, an orc stepped forward to challenge its bearer. He swung his cudgel with a snarl.
“Ah, a hero,” growled Tungdil, dodging the blow. He hoisted Keenfire above his head, whirled round, and drew the ax across the orc’s belly. The blade sliced through the fat-smeared armor as if it weren’t there, spilling green gore and intestines. The disemboweled orc groaned and toppled to the ground. Tungdil raised his ax. “Any more takers?”
The orcs shrank away and hollered for their archers.
The dwarves behind Tungdil seized their chance and clambered out of the shaft. Soon there were thirty of them standing shoulder to shoulder in a circle, weapons hefted and ready to counter an enemy attack.
Meanwhile, Ireheart was rampaging through the hordes. He darted and bounded between the orcs and bögnilim, felling beast after beast. Tungdil lost sight of him, but he could hear the secondling’s frenzied laughter as he baited the enemy by oinking like a runt.
Glancing up, Tungdil caught sight of Prince Mallen’s cavalry approaching from the north. The riders were charging down the hillside in a line measuring five hundred paces across. Beasts and bögnilim were trampled to the ground.
“Get back, Boïndil!” he shouted anxiously. Behind him, the last of the dwarves were clambering out of the shaft: Tungdil’s troop of a hundred warriors was complete.
“Aren’t you coming?” called Boïndil cheerfully from somewhere in the scrum. His voice was barely audible amid the sound of buckling armor and the shrieks of the dying beasts.
Tungdil gripped the haft of Keenfire with both hands and squared his shoulders. His eyebrows knitted together in a determined frown. “I’m coming,” he murmured softly. Then he raised his voice to a shout. “Drive them forward!”
His warriors let out a fearsome battle cry and fanned out, brandishing their hammers and axes as they threw themselves on the startled beasts. Tungdil and Keenfire led the attack. Nothing could stop the formidable blade as it sang through the air, slicing shields, hewing armor and chain mail, severing limbs, and killing strings of orcs with every blow.
The dwarves carved a path through the hordes, undeterred by the stinking blood and the vile smell of their enemies’ grease-encrusted armor. Green gore splashed from gushing wounds, and dismembered limbs thudded to the ground to be trampled underfoot by the indomitable dwarves. Soon the warriors at the rear were clambering over enemy corpses, but they pressed on regardless, determined to free Girdlegard from the pestilent orcs.
The resistance soon dried up. The bravest beasts died in combat, while those of a less courageous nature fled at the sight of the grim-faced dwarves.
“After them!” shouted Tungdil. The strategy paid off: Driven forward by the dwarves, the orcs and bögnilim collided with their comrades, who were running from Mallen and his men. The beasts were doomed.
Swinging his ax, Tungdil took aim at a couple of orcs. Even as the blade swung toward them, the beasts keeled over, felled by an invisible hand. To Tungdil’s astonishment, Ireheart popped up from behind the corpses. He was soaked with the blood of countless orcs and his eyes were glinting dangerously.
“I was wondering where you’d got to,” he said cheerfully. “What kept you? Don’t tell me you were having trouble with the runts.”
“I was yelling at you to come back,” scolded Tungdil, shaking his head.
“Oh,” said Boïndil. “I assumed you were talking to them.” He pointed to the fleeing beasts. Sighing contentedly, he contemplated the battle. “A good end to the orbit, eh?” He raised his gore-spattered axes. “Come on, we’re not finished yet.” Suddenly a shadow crossed his face. “To be honest, scholar, it isn’t much fun without my brother. The two of us would have wiped the floor with the runty little beasts. The next twenty are for him…” He charged off, bellowing ferociously at the top of his voice.
“His fiery spirit will be the death of him,” murmured the dwarf next to Tungdil. Soon he too was slashing his way through the orcs.
Please, Vraccas, prayed Tungdil. Don’t let Boïndil come to any harm. He dropped back a few paces and placed the bugle to his lips, playing a sequence of notes that Mallen would recognize as a signal that the dwarves had arrived and were closing in from the opposite side. There was a danger that Mallen’s archers would loose their deadly arrows at the dwarven warriors, who were hard to spot from a distance, especially when surrounded by orcs. He waited for Mallen’s bugle to reply, then caught up with the rest of his company, and launched himself into the fray.
The dwarves were still fighting at sundown and Mallen’s infantry joined the action, which didn’t please Boïndil at all. Some of the orcs and bögnilim were intent on escaping, but Mallen was ready for them, and the attempt to leave the battlefield was blocked by a unit of riders with lances.
By nightfall, there was barely room to step around the corpses and the channels of melt water were awash with green blood.
The dwarves and men met on the southernmost hill above Prince Mallen’s camp. The prince turned his horse and cantered over to Tungdil, dismounted and held out his hand. Save for a nick in his forearm and some damage to his armor, he seemed to be unscathed. “Tungdil Goldhand,” he said respectfully. “Praise the gods for your safe arrival.”
It wasn’t often that an ordinary dwarf was greeted so courteously by a human king. Tungdil grinned and took Mallen’s hand. “Another decisive victory for the men and the dwarves.” They gazed down at the battlefield; every last orc had been destroyed. “The good folk of Gauragar can sleep easy tonight.”
The prince’s face darkened. “Some are sleeping an eternal slumber. We saw plundered villages and burned-out houses on our way.” He turned his face to the darkening sky and stared at the glittering stars. “You’re right, though. The people of Gauraga
r need fear no more.”
“Trust the long-uns to start without us,” grumbled Boïndil in a voice that, while quieter than usual, was loud enough for the prince to hear. “You can’t startle the runts with your horses and expect them to put up a fight!” Slowly, he crossed his powerful arms in an exaggerated movement in front of his chest and glared accusingly at the riders.
Mallen knew how to handle the hot-blooded warrior. Realizing that Boïndil hadn’t intended him to hear, he decided not to argue. “We’ll wait for you next time,” he promised. “It’s a shame you were late.”
“Late?” echoed Boïndil indignantly, sticking his chin in the air and setting his beard aquiver. “It’s a wonder we got here at all! The confounded earthquake caused havoc in the tunnels. Warped rails, boulders on the line—some of them bigger than a troll’s backside! Just be thankful we—”
“That’s enough, Boïndil,” ruled Tungdil, interrupting the warrior’s outburst. “He’s right, you know: We were late.” He turned to the prince and rolled his eyes apologetically, signaling that Mallen should let the matter lie. “Luckily for us, it didn’t make any difference: We triumphed in the end.”
Tungdil could see the amusement in the ruler’s eyes. “What a victory for Girdlegard,” agreed Mallen with an earnest nod. “We’d still be fighting if it weren’t for the dwarves.” It was unusual for him to tolerate rudeness, but no one had overheard the conversation, and Boïndil was a special case.
Boïndil considered the prince’s conciliatory words and perked up considerably. He pulled off his helmet, letting his long black plait unfurl down his back, and rubbed his stubbly cheeks. Sweat was trickling down his face. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “We had our fun with the orcs, and Vraccas will be happy with us for wiping out the beasts.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry about my temper, Mallen,” he mumbled, forgetting that it was customary to address a prince with more respect.
“Apology accepted,” the ruler of Idoslane said magnanimously. He pointed to the collection of tents where his army was camped. “I see the supply wagons have arrived. There’s plenty of dark ale for everyone; perhaps you’ll join us in celebrating the destruction of the beasts?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Boïndil, setting off toward the tents. His thirst led him straight to the beer barrels, which were several times the standard size. The other dwarves looked questioningly at Tungdil, who nodded for them to follow. Mallen’s men, buoyed by the prospect of a night without marching, hurried back to camp.
Mallen and Tungdil lingered on the hilltop, watching the victorious warriors gather around the campfires to eat and make merry.
“A cycle ago I was an exile,” the prince said slowly. “I never thought I’d wear the crown of my forefathers. And I never imagined the rulers of Girdlegard would join together in an alliance of men, elves, and dwarves.”
Tungdil thought about all that had happened to him. After traveling across Girdlegard on an errand for his magus, he had been nominated against his wishes as the high king’s successor and journeyed to the Blacksaddle without realizing that Vraccas had chosen him to wield Keenfire and kill Nôd’onn on behalf of the dwarves. “Adversity brought us together. A cycle ago my kinsfolk were ready to wage war on the elves.”
Mallen laughed grimly. “At least Nôd’onn was good for something: He put an end to our feuding.”
Tungdil nodded. “Nôd’onn gave us the spark of solidarity, but it’s our responsibility to keep it alive.” He leaned forward, resting his weight on Keenfire. “We need an everlasting flame in which the bonds between us can be reforged.” He looked down at the feasting and merriment below. “How many did you lose?”
“Fifty men and as many horses,” said Mallen. “More were wounded, but we were heavily outnumbered. It could have been worse.”
“We were lucky—a few gashes and a couple of broken bones, but nothing to speak of. I think Vraccas wanted us to live. He lost so many of his children at the Blacksaddle that his smithy must be full.”
The prince laid a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Come, Tungdil Goldhand, we should celebrate our victory before the long journey home.”
Tungdil knew he was right. Tomorrow he would set off through the tunnels, pack up his things at the secondling kingdom, and head west to the firstlings in the Red Range.
From there he would journey north with the dwarves who had elected to join him, and set up home in the ancient fifthling kingdom. In time, a new folk, descended from Borengar, Beroïn, and Goïmdil, would populate the Gray Range and Tungdil’s promise to Giselbert Ironeye, founding father of the fifthlings, would be fulfilled.
He knew it wouldn’t be easy. While the Stone Gateway was open, there was nothing to stop orcs and other beasts crossing into Girdlegard and taking up residence in the abandoned dwarven halls.
Don’t let there be too many of them, he begged his creator as he walked down the hillside with Mallen. We can’t keep fighting forever.
They were still some distance away when they heard Boïndil’s voice. He was singing a ballad that their dead companion Bavragor Hammerfist had often sung.
At least Boïndil will be happy if we’re overrun with beasts.
Tungdil took the beer offered to him by Mallen, and they clinked tankards to the warriors’ claps and cheers. Tungdil was well pleased: It seemed the friendship pledged at the Blacksaddle had become a reality for the dwarves and men.
He watched as the assorted warriors sat around the fires and tucked into something that smelled tantalizingly of roasted meat and soup. Conversation focused on the recent victory. The men described how they felled an orc or killed a bögnil, waving their spoons as they talked. When they were done, the dwarves laughed appreciatively, lifted their bowls to slurp their soup and shared some good-humored banter with their new friends.
To think it took Nôd’onn to bring us together! Tungdil smiled and picked his way between the groups. He heard deep dwarven voices describing the beauty of their mountain homelands. A few paces further, a couple of Mallen’s soldiers were teaching battle songs to a cluster of dwarves.
He watched and listened contentedly. If only Balyndis were here as well… Balyndis, the expedition’s comely smith, had kindled the fires of his furnace, filling him with longing and desire. At least I’d be able to—
“I’m telling you, it’s not just one,” he heard a soldier say softly. The urgency in his voice distracted Tungdil from his thoughts. “It’s spreading. I’ve seen three of them already.”
Tungdil stopped beside him. “What’s spreading?” he asked. “Three of what?” He noticed the badge on the man’s lightweight leather armor; he was a scout.
“Dead glades,” the man said hesitantly. “At least, that’s what I call them.” He pointed to the hills and ran a hand over the stubby blades of new grass. “It’s like this: The Perished Land lost its power when Nôd’onn died. Palandiell blessed the earth and gave it new life, but the evil is buried below the surface.” He glanced at the little group of men and dwarves who were putting away their food with varying regard to politeness. Everyone was listening attentively, especially the dwarves. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen,” he continued. “There are pockets of Girdlegard where the evil has taken root.”
“You mean the Perished Land is lurking below the surface?” said Tungdil, all other thoughts forgotten.
The scout nodded. “I talked to the locals near one of the glades. They told me about a few poor devils who strayed among the trees. Only three came back, and they attacked their neighbors, fighting and raging with the strength of ten until the villagers chopped off their heads. King Bruron heard about it and issued a decree. Now the dead glades are blocked with palisades, walls, and moats. No one can enter or leave—on punishment of death.” He reached for his tankard. “Mark my words: It’s spreading through the land.”
Tungdil opened his mouth to reply but was rudely interrupted.
“There you are, scholar! Still moping about?” boomed Boïndil.
At the sight of his friend, Tungdil stopped worrying about the insidious powers of the glades.
“You’re not thinking about womenfolk, are you?” continued Boïndil. “I must say, for someone who doesn’t know a thing about dwarf-women, you’ve bagged yourself a lovely lass!” He clinked tankards with Tungdil. “To the finest firstling smith! May she bring you true happiness.” He paused, and when he continued, his voice was tinged with sadness. “I reckon you deserve it.”
“You’ll find someone who makes you happy soon enough,” said Tungdil, remembering his friend’s tragic past. He raised his tankard. “How about a toast to Boëndal? I dare say I miss him as much as you do. He must be fit for battle by now.”
Boïndil gulped down the rest of his beer. “I killed my happiness,” he said slowly, his left hand tightening around the haft of his ax. “I killed it with my own hands.” He stared absently into the fire. The flames flickered over his furrowed features, revealing his inner torment. “Now all I can do is fight.”
They sat in silence until Boïndil started singing. One by one, the other dwarves joined in. It was another of Bavragor’s songs.
On they march the orc invaders
Driven by greed and lust
Tion loves to plague our borders
It was ever thus
But the dwarves are here to fight them
It was ever thus
Dwarven axes, dwarven hammers
Smash their skulls and spill their blood
Until the orcs are slain and vanquished
It was ever thus
Tirelessly we guard our borders
Doughty children of the Smith