by Markus Heitz
The fourthling monarch rose. “Unyielding as the rock from which we were created and keen as this blade is my will to defend our race against its foes,” came his solemn reply. “Bislipur cast a shadow over my mind, but I have driven out the darkness. With a clear heart and mind I swear loyalty to the dwarven folks whose welfare will be my guiding concern. Let Vraccas and the dwarven monarchs witness my oath.”
Balendilín nodded. “Gandogar Silverbeard has asserted his claim.” He raised his voice. “Will anyone challenge him?”
“What are you waiting for?” hissed Boïndil, prodding Tungdil in the ribs. “Another of your fancy speeches, and the throne will be yours.”
The one-armed king dropped the parchment onto the table. “The succession is uncontested: Gandogar shall be crowned.” He sounded his bugle, producing a long, drawn-out tone.
The doors opened, and a procession of warriors from the folks of Beroïn, Borengar, and Goïmdil marched into the hall, bearing the crown and ceremonial hammer on an ornamental shield. Studded with gemstones, etched with magnificent runes, and inlaid with intarsia of vraccasium, silver, and gold, the hammer brought together the finest artisanship from all the folks, symbolizing the high king’s power.
The procession stopped in the middle of the hall and the warriors got down on one knee. Balendilín walked over to them and signaled for Gandogar to approach. “Chosen by the united will of the folks to reign over us,” he said solemnly, lowering the crown gently onto the fourthling’s head. “Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, ruler of the fourthlings, head of Goïmdil’s line—dwarf of all dwarves.” He signaled for Gandogar to take the hammer.
Reverently, the new high king reached forward and wrapped his fingers around the handle. The hammer was heavier than he had expected, and it took both hands to pick it up.
The delegates left their pews and dropped on one knee, raising their weapons and hailing the new king as they had once hailed King Gundrabur.
Tungdil listened to the jangling chain mail and scanned the faces of the delegates, his kinsfolk, the children of the Smith, united as never before. He felt a shiver of excitement.
Gandogar raised the hammer and brought it down sharply against the marble, signaling for the delegates to rise. “Monarchs, chieftains, and elders, you have heard my oath. If, in time, my actions give the lie to my intentions, I call on you to remind me of these words.”
He left the table and stopped at the place where five marble tablets bearing Vraccas’s commandments had been destroyed by Bislipur’s ax. “That which was brought down by treason will rise again in an era of unity and peace.” He ascended the dais and sat on his throne. “Together we will rebuild our kingdoms—but first we must celebrate. Let the feasting begin!”
The assembled dwarves erupted in cheers and applause, shouting their approval and banging their weapons against their shields. The jubilation showed no sign of stopping, but at last the clamor gave way to hearty laughter, spontaneous singing, and a round of toasts as stewards arrived with pitchers and platters, and the rest of the secondling folk poured into the hall.
Horns sounded, and the music began, the drummers beating out a lively rhythm. The exuberance was catching, and soon heavy-booted Boïndil was tapping his feet in time with the songs. For once he forgot all thought of battle and stopped worrying about his brother in the distant Red Range. Tankard in hand, he watched the festivities and enjoyed the brief respite.
Tungdil looked around for Balyndis. “They’re dancing the gloomy memories from their souls,” said a voice behind him.
“It’s time they enjoyed themselves, don’t you think?” said Tungdil, looking into Balendilín’s worried eyes. Balendilín was a new king, but an old dwarf, and his face was worn with care. “Maybe you should join them.”
Balendilín chuckled softly and stroked his beard. “Why not? The orcs were kind enough to leave me both legs—I’ll find myself a maiden and twirl her around the dance floor like a freshly hewn dwarf.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Tungdil. “Bad news from abroad?”
“No news,” said the king, sighing. He glanced in Boïndil’s direction to make sure he wasn’t listening. “I haven’t heard anything from the Red Range in orbits. It’s possible that the tunnels are blocked, but…” He left the sentence hanging, but it was clear that he suspected something worse.
Balyndis, overhearing their conversation, looked alarmed. “Are you talking about Nôd’onn?” She searched their faces. “He warned us about a danger in the west.” She took a deep breath, forcing down her fear. “It’s all right, though—West Ironhald is unassailable. Nothing will cross the border with my kinsmen standing guard.”
Tungdil reached for her hand. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said, trying to mask his trepidation. “The firstlings are strong enough to see off any threat.” Balyndis saw through his attempt to reassure her, but she was comforted that he had tried.
There was silence for a moment. Everyone was remembering how Nôd’onn, after killing four magi and terrorizing all Girdlegard, had spoken with terror of the threat from the west.
“Queen Xamtys will leave for the Red Range tomorrow,” said Balendilín at last. “She’s worried as well.”
“We’ll go too,” decided Tungdil. He gave Balyndis’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Her Majesty will be glad of some company, and it’s a chance for us to recruit any firstlings who want to follow their chieftains to the Gray Range.”
There was a third reason for accompanying Xamtys that he didn’t mention to the others. He wanted to be on hand with Keenfire in case the firstling kingdom was really in danger. The diamond-encrusted blade had proved its worth against Nôd’onn, and he was sure that it would make short work of any threat.
Balyndis looked at him gratefully and gave him a quick kiss while Balendilín wasn’t looking.
“You can’t fool me,” said Boïndil, joining the little group. “You’re worried about something. It’s the Red Range, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” asked Balyndis anxiously.
“It was this, um… It was the thing that fell from the sky.” Boïndil put his tankard to his lips. Dark beer trickled down his beard, mingling with the dust from the journey. “Something happened that night.” His voice was so low that the others could barely hear him through the music and laughter. “Boëndal is my twin; I can tell if he’s in trouble.”
Balyndis didn’t want to hear any more, but she found herself asking, “What sort of trouble?”
Boïndil took another draft of beer. “He was fine at first—the firstlings looked after him well, and the arrow wounds were healing.” He put down the empty tankard and wiped the froth from his lips. “That was before the comet.” He paused and swallowed. “I don’t know what’s happened to him; I just feel cold.”
Balyndis gasped. “Vraccas protect us.”
Tungdil was angry with himself for not having listened more carefully when Boïndil brought up the subject before. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asked him, laying a hand on his shoulder. Boïndil’s chain mail felt strangely cold.
“We had to see off the runts. Vraccas knows I wanted to go to Boëndal, but our duty lay elsewhere. I’ve been too worried to sleep, too worried to think—and now the beasts have been dealt with and we’re free to go.” A shadow crossed his face. “At least we’ll know for certain before too long.” Excusing himself with a nod, he picked up his tankard and went in search of beer to wash away his gloomy thoughts.
Balendilín gazed after him anxiously. “Knowledge can be worse than uncertainty. I hope his fears prove unfounded.” He laid a hand on Tungdil’s wrist. “Do you need anything for the journey?” he asked more brightly. “The orcs spoiled most of our provisions, but I’m sure I can find you a bit of cheese, some pickled camla-moss, and a few dried pharu-mushrooms to keep you going.” His brown eyes settled on Balyndis, and he smiled at her encouragingly.
Tungdil decided it was time to tell the others abo
ut the orcs who had escaped the allied army. He described the dead glade. “It was almost as if they were being drawn there. What if the Perished Land is gathering its troops?”
“They must have a reason for stopping there,” the secondling king said doubtfully. “You’d think they’d find themselves a better hiding place—it’s too small for an army of orcs, and there can’t be much food. Bruron’s men will starve them out in no time. The beasts would be better off in Toboribor, holed up in their caves.”
“I don’t see the sense in it either,” admitted Tungdil. “Mallen’s scout said that dead glades have the power to drive humans insane. If I didn’t have the fifthling kingdom to worry about, I’d look into it myself.”
Balendilín shook his head. “Bruron and Mallen can take care of the orcs. The beasts are their concern; the Gray Range is yours.” He took his leave.
Balyndis sighed. “I thought killing Nôd’onn would put an end to our problems, but Vraccas hasn’t finished with us yet.”
Tungdil smiled and ran a hand tenderly over her face. Like all dwarf-women, she had a fine layer of down on her cheeks. It generally got thicker and more noticeable with age. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you. I dreamed about you while I was away.” He paused. “To be honest, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He noticed that she was wearing a new necklace, a finely forged chain of steel links studded with tiny gold balls. He knew at once who had made it.
“You obviously weren’t as busy as me,” she said with a smile, watching the slow, stately movements of twelve dwarves who were performing a dance in honor of the dwarven miner. “We had the furnaces roaring from morning till night; I barely left the anvil.” She raised an arm. “See those muscles? They’re twice their usual size. The orcs made such a mess that I could stay a hundred cycles and still have work to do. I haven’t had time for dreaming.”
He pointed to her necklace. “Oh, really,” he said teasingly. “But you found a few spare seconds to forge yourself a chain?”
She smiled. “You noticed!” The krummhorns fell silent and Balyndis joined the enthusiastic applause.
Tungdil laid an arm around her shoulders. “I’d rather you didn’t spend the next hundred cycles at the secondlings’ anvils; I need you in the Gray Range with me.” He looked her in the eye. “I’m not asking because I need a good smith; I’m asking because I need you. The past few orbits have made me realize that I never want to be away from you again.”
Balyndis, unaccustomed to such frankness, searched his face. “Tungdil Goldhand, what you’re proposing isn’t to be taken lightly.”
“I know,” he said, meeting her gaze. “But think of the memories we share already—and our adventures aren’t over yet. I want us to still be talking and remembering in four hundred cycles’ time. And of course we’ll tell the stories to our children, who’ll think we’re making it up.” He kissed her on the top of the head. “Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers, daughter of Borengar and smith of the firstling kingdom, what would you say if a thirdling of unknown origin and no proper dwarven upbringing were to ask you to be joined with him by the iron band?”
Balyndis was so overwhelmed that she took a while to answer. “We’ll never be apart again,” she said at last. “Our hearts are joined already—they’ve been joined for a while.”
She started forward and threw her arms around him. Hugging her close, Tungdil pressed his face against her skin, filling his nostrils with her scent. He was still hugging her, eyes shut and perfectly contented, when he heard her say, “Yes, Tungdil Goldhand. I want to be with you always.”
It wouldn’t have mattered if the great hall had caved in on him or all the beasts in Girdlegard had torn him apart or a hundred arrows had pierced his chest; he would have died a happy dwarf.
23 Miles Southwest of Dsôn Balsur,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle
Looking out from the top of the highest watchtower, Liútasil surveyed row upon row of brightly colored tents, ordered strictly by unit and rank. He ran a comb through his hair. The filigree teeth, inlaid with mother-of-pearl to stop them snagging on his fine auburn hair, separated the long shimmering strands, easing the occasional tangle.
The elven lord had ordered his warriors to pitch their tents and put up a palisade around the camp’s perimeter, bounded by a moat seven paces deep and seven paces wide. Here, on the outskirts of the älfar kingdom, neither man nor elf would sleep soundly unless every measure had been taken to make the camp secure.
The allied strategy had been decided at the Blacksaddle. Mallen was to deal with the orcs and bögnilim, using the superior speed of his cavalry to chase the fleeing beasts, while Liútasil and the other human generals marched north to attack the elves’ dark cousins in Dsôn Balsur and drive them out of Girdlegard.
The lord of landur monitored the activity in the camp. His sharp ears picked up snatches of conversation carried to him by the wind, and his sensitive nostrils detected the odor of humans and horses, mixed with smoke from campfires where men and women were roasting meat. Some of the soldiers were preparing for battle, whetting swords, sharpening lances, and dipping arrowheads into animal excrement to ensure that every missile, whether it pierced a heart, grazed a shoulder, or nicked an ankle, had a chance of causing death. A few of the men, desperate to forget their fear of the älfar, were swigging wine, while others lolled drunkenly on their bedrolls.
“Humans,” he said pityingly, putting away his comb. Elves knew better than to waste their strength before a battle, but human soldiers did everything in their power to incapacitate themselves.
Without them, though, the campaign would never succeed. The elves were outnumbered by the älfar, and they didn’t have the means to conquer Dsôn Balsur on their own.
Liútasil knew how much he owed to the humans and his traditional enemies, the dwarves. Before the battle of the Blacksaddle, no one had doubted that landur would fall to the älfar, but now, with the enemy retreating, his kingdom was safe. The last few skirmishes had been rearguard actions on the part of the älfar, summoned to Dsôn Balsur to defend their home.
Sitalia, grant me patience, he prayed. Down below, a group of men were brawling over the last skin of wine. Order was restored when their superior had them beaten into their tents by his guards.
On occasions such as this, Liútasil despaired of his new allies, who had nothing in common with the elves. He sometimes questioned the wisdom of fighting side by side with humans and dwarves, but Sitalia seemed to approve of the alliance. I’ll trust in your will…
He left the wooden platform and swiftly descended the ladder. On reaching the ground, he strode past the rows of canvas toward the purple assembly tent to debrief his scouts.
Seated at the conference table were the military commanders of Gauragar, Tabaîn, Weyurn, Sangpûr, Urgon, and Rân Ribastur. The generals were waiting in silence, sipping tumblers of water served by their guards. Liútasil was thankful that none were drinking wine or brandy.
Three elves in leather armor were standing in a corner of the tent. They were scouts, newly returned from the field. The filth of Dsôn Balsur clung to their boots, and their lightweight armor was torn and bloodied. News of the älfar didn’t come cheap.
Liútasil greeted the generals with a nod and signaled that he was ready. The scouts began their report in elvish and he summarized the intelligence for the men. “Our enemies have withdrawn to the heart of their kingdom. Traps are in place to hinder our advance. The Perished Land has taken root around Dsôn Balsur and the trees are black with malice. Our first challenge is to pass through the forest unharmed.”
“I say we wait,” interrupted the commander of Sangpûr’s army. “The Perished Land is retreating from Girdlegard and the forest may yet recover. A march through whipping branches and twisting trunks would be a disaster for the men’s morale. I can’t put them through it.” The other generals nodded in agreement.<
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“I understand your concerns,” said Liútasil, sitting down and resting his arms on the table. “But I know the forest in question. The land once belonged to my people, and the trees are too old. Even if the soil recovers, the forest has been drinking the poison for hundreds of cycles, and the evil has blackened its soul. With the defeat of the Perished Land, the forest is dying and turning to stone, but it’s a slow process and we can’t afford to wait. We routed the älfar at the Blacksaddle; we need to attack straightaway.”
His speech met with silence from the generals. Realizing they needed time to consider and reach a decision, Liútasil left them and asked a few final questions of his scouts before entrusting them to the care of a physician, who was waiting to dress their wounds.
He accompanied them outside and stood in the doorway, leaning against a tent pole and gazing at the dark night sky.
Hidden in the stars were the faces of his forebears—wise, brave, clear-sighted elves whom Sitalia had elevated to the firmament to watch over their descendants and send them visions and signs.
Liútasil focused on the face of Fantur, second ruler of landur and brother of Veïnsa, one-time mistress of the Golden Plains. I need your help, he prayed, tracing the invisible lines of the constellation. Tell me how to dissuade them from delaying. He returned to the conference table. “What is your decision?”