by Markus Heitz
There was no smell of orcs, from which Bundror surmised that the sentry had been murdered by älfar. He raised his shield, drumming against it with all his might to sound the alarm and wake his sleeping comrades.
The others slept on, seemingly oblivious to the ear-splitting noise. Even the elves showed no sign of stirring.
“Wake up, wake—” He broke off, his throat constricting with panic as a terrible thought entered his mind.
Darting over to the nearest dwarf, he seized him by the shoulder, rolled him onto his back, and cried out in horror. The dwarf’s body came away from his head, which lay motionless on the ground, neck and beard cleft neatly in two. Bundror’s gaze settled on the pool of blood glimmering darkly in the moonlight.
“Save yourself the effort, groundling,” whispered a voice to his left. “You won’t raise your comrades—unless you can raise the dead.”
Bundror whirled round, striking out with his ax as he turned. His blade connected with something hard—his blow had been parried by a quarterstaff of black metal.
Before he knew it, the lower end of the quarterstaff was speeding toward his helmet. He took a blow to the nose guard. The metal cut into his face, pressing against his nose and breaking the bone with an audible crack.
Eyes watering and warm blood pouring down his face, Bundror stumbled away. Dazed, he took another step back and tumbled over the corpse of a comrade. “Come on, then!” he shouted furiously, still clutching his ax. He straightened up, braced his legs, and looked around for his assailant. “Try that again, älf, and I’ll cut you in two!”
The challenge met with no response. The älf had melted into the darkness and the moon wasn’t strong enough, or maybe brave enough, to deliver the shadowy figure to the dwarf’s vengeful eyes.
Bundror was under no illusions. The älf’s knowledge of dark arts exceeded his axmanship, but he was spurred on by hatred for the villain who had murdered his comrades.
The next blow came from nowhere. Hearing a low swish, Bundror ducked just in time. The quarterstaff slashed the air above him, only to swing round suddenly and knock him off his feet. A blade cut into his forearm, and pain stabbed through his arm, forcing his fingers apart. His heavy ax, his only protection against the murderous älf, fell from his grip.
He looked up to see the sole of a narrow boot. A moment later, he felt the pressure on his throat.
“Did you really think you were a match for me, groundling?”
Gasping for breath, he peered up and saw a tall, slim figure clad in armor. A mask of tionium covered the top half of the älf’s face, and a veil of black gauze covered the nose, mouth and chin. The älf’s features were framed by a hood attached to a dark gray cape.
“Count yourself lucky,” he spat back, struggling for breath. “If you hadn’t lurked in the shadows like a coward, I’d have cut you in two.”
“You want to fight me, do you?” laughed the voice behind the veil. The black gauze rippled gently. “Is that your dying wish?”
“Yes,” he spluttered.
The boot lifted from his throat. “Granted.”
Bundror staggered to his feet, reached for his ax, and saw blood streaming from the gash in his forearm. Hiding his pain determinedly, he gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders. From the voice, he guessed that his antagonist was female, but the mask, cloak, and armor made it impossible to tell. “Vraccas will give me the strength to prevail.” He glanced round hurriedly, but there was no sign of an älvish army. Surely there must be others? How could she kill a whole unit by herself? Can she work magic?
“You’ll see my warriors when they want to be seen,” she said coldly, as if he had spoken aloud. She windmilled her quarterstaff. “I’m waiting, groundling.”
He charged toward her and hurled his ax—only for her to deflect it with her staff.
Still, the tactic worked; it gave him a fraction of a second in which to act.
Bending down, he borrowed a less cumbersome ax from one of his dead companions and snatched up a shield. Thus equipped, he charged again at the älf, hoping that the lighter weapon would lend him the necessary speed.
The duel that unfolded among the corpses of his companions was hopelessly one-sided.
Both ends of the quarterstaff seemed to jab toward Bundror at once, striking him here and there, clattering against his wooden shield, slamming into his chain mail, forcing the air from his lungs, and breaking the occasional rib. He fought back whenever he had the opportunity, which was seldom enough—and each time the agile älf parried the blow or batted away his weapon, leaving him to grunt in frustration.
Bundror soon realized that it was hopeless and he was destined to die. He decided to try another, very dwarven, approach. Vraccas be with me. He hurled the ax toward her, forcing her to skip aside, then picked up his shield with both hands and sprinted in her direction, hollering at the top of his voice.
The unconventional tactic took her by surprise. The shield slammed into her, and he heard a thud as he knocked her, groaning, to the ground.
“Take that, you pointy-eared scumbag!” he shouted, his voice mingling hatred and delight. “I’ll cleave your head from your shoulders.” He bounded through the air and hurled himself at her chest, the lower edge of his shield pointing toward her throat.
Just then two things happened.
From her supine position, the älf managed to plant the lower end of the quarterstaff into the ground and point it toward him like a lance. Under other circumstances, Bundror would have done his utmost to avoid it, but a large black shadow swept toward him and he was caught.
He heard a gravelly roar and saw a pair of glimmering red eyes. The creature opened its mighty jaws, enveloping him in foul-smelling breath. Even as he realized that the teeth were impossibly close, something rammed into his belly, passed through the links of his chain mail, and exited the other side. His mind closed down.
The corpse-strewn field was bobbing around him, and he felt himself rising and falling as if he were impaled on a moving palisade. His helmet flew off, followed by his shield, weapons belt, and one of his boots. He felt the jerk of something leaving his belly, and he was free.
He flew through the air and landed on a corpse. Through a haze of blood he saw that it was Gisgurd.
It won’t be long, my friend. Fire up the furnace, I’m on my way. He rolled over. His mouth filled with a coppery-tasting liquid that seeped into his beard and fell in thick, viscous drops onto his chest. I must warn the others.
His fingers scrabbled over Gisgurd’s rucksack and, summoning the last of his strength, he lifted the mighty bugle and put it to his shredded lips. The effort of drawing breath caused his lungs to fill with blood, but nothing could turn him from his purpose.
A single, piercing note left the bugle of the butchered dwarf and echoed over the hills. His lifeblood trickled into the instrument, and silence returned. Bundror hoped that the elves in Liútasil’s camp would recognize the signal and sound the alarm.
The heavy bugle fell from his hand as his strength ebbed away. He looked up to see the tionium mask of his antagonist. “You won’t achieve anything by attacking our allies,” he spluttered determinedly. “They’ve been warned.”
“Perhaps, but they won’t have heard your bugle in the Gray Range.” She bent down and lifted her mask to reveal her face. It was the elf maiden who had sat and conversed with them by the fire. “Look at me,” she said menacingly. “Ondori is your death, and I will take your life as your kinsfolk killed my parents. May your soul wander helplessly for the rest of time.” A scythe-like blade glinted in the light of the stars, and the älf muttered something in a low, sinister voice.
Bundror guessed the meaning of the incantation and prayed for help.
He was still begging Vraccas to gather him to the eternal smithy when the blade slashed his throat, severing his last fragile link to the world of the living.
III
Borengar’s Folk,
Eastern Border of the Firstlin
g Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Tungdil looked searchingly at the firstling queen. Muffled in warm furs and perched reluctantly on a pony, Xamtys was staring at the snowy peaks of the Red Range. She was looking for a sign, a hint of a threat, evidence of a catastrophe that had occurred in her absence and shrouded the stronghold in silence.
The snow-covered mountains towered into the sky, sometimes vanishing behind the fast-moving cloud. Here and there, a gentle ray of spring sunshine broke through the cloud and caressed the flanks of the mountain, revealing patches of fiery red rock where the snow had melted.
“They’re still here,” said Tungdil. “The mountains are still standing, Your Majesty.”
She turned to face him. “I can’t rejoice until I’ve seen my kinsmen,” she said anxiously. “Remember the state of the tunnels? Who knows what damage has been done to my halls.”
The tunnels to the east of the firstling kingdom had collapsed, hence the reason for traveling overland. It had taken sixty orbits to make the journey on foot. In some places the snow was too deep, in others too soft and sticky. The roads and tracks were covered in slush, and the dwarves and ponies had disappeared up to their knees, which slowed their progress and sapped their strength. Tungdil, Balyndis, and Boïndil were accustomed to the rigors of marching, but the rest of the company had struggled with the difficult terrain.
“It looks too peaceful,” murmured Boïndil, who was marching at Tungdil’s side, having turned down the offer of a pony. “I’m not going to let the mountains trick me into thinking everything is all right.” With a loud splash, his right foot landed in a puddle. Cursing, he pulled it out and wiped it on the grass. “Smooth floors and nice solid ceilings, that’s what I want,” he grumbled.
“We’re nearly there, Boïndil,” said Balyndis, pointing to the mouth of a narrow gully that snaked toward one of the peaks. “See the entrance over there?”
They suddenly became aware of a gray mist that seemed to thicken as they approached, swirling around them until they could barely see. It was almost as if it wanted them to lose their bearings.
Tungdil pictured the six fortified walls that intersected the gully, blocking the entrance and each of its sweeping curves. At the far end of the gully lay the imposing firstling stronghold and its nine soaring towers.
“I can’t see a thing,” he said, disappointed. “I was hoping to see East Ironhald in full…” He tailed off as the mist lifted to reveal a landscape littered with vast slabs of stone. Some were black with soot, others had fractured or crumbled.
Xamtys tugged on the reins, and her pony snorted and stopped. “Vraccas be with us,” she cried, staring at the remains of the defenses. Anyone wishing to enter the gully had once been obliged to scale a wall forty paces high or read the password inscribed on the metal door, which required a good knowledge of dwarfish. Neither the wall nor the door was still standing.
Three paces from the queen’s feet, the ground dropped away, and a yawning black crater filled the path. There was no sign of the cause, but something had evidently hit the ground with tremendous force, crushing the masonry, scorching the rock, and turning the imposing door into an unremarkable scrap of warped metal.
“It’s not possible,” whispered Balyndis. Even the most powerful siege engine, designed by the best dwarven engineer to fell the most monstrous of Tion’s beasts, was incapable of causing damage such as this. “What could have…? Maybe it’s magic. Do you think Nôd’onn somehow…” She suddenly remembered what she and Tungdil had seen on the night of the battle. “The comet!”
Boïndil let out an ear-piercing shriek and charged into the mist, which, it now dawned on them, smelled strongly of scorched earth. Calling his brother’s name, the hot-blooded dwarf dispensed with caution and vanished in the direction of the firstling stronghold, desperate to find his twin.
“Come back!” shouted Xamtys.
Tungdil knew that his friend was in no mood to listen. Fearing that there might be dangers lurking in the fog, he chased after him. Balyndis followed without hesitation.
They relied on their ears to guide them. The sound of Boïndil’s jangling chain mail and the rattling of his helmet echoed noisily through the otherwise silent gully, which made the business of locating him very easy indeed.
But the devastation around them filled them with fear.
The gully was pitted with craters, some the size of wagon wheels, others large enough to accommodate eight ponies side by side. The ground had proven the weaker element in the encounter and some of the indentations were seven paces deep. For the dwarves, it meant lowering themselves into potholes and climbing out the other side. The snow was gone from this part of the mountain, and there was no sign of melt water, just a thin layer of frozen crystals. It was as if the snow had vaporized, leaving a revolting smell.
Hurrying as best they could, Tungdil and Balyndis followed the jangling chain mail, eventually reaching the end of the gully where the stronghold would normally come into view.
They took another few steps and felt snow beneath their boots. Suddenly, the fog lifted to reveal Boïndil, standing at the foot of a mound of recrystallized snow that towered above him, too high and sheer to climb. The mist cleared further, revealing the full extent of the tragedy.
Of the stronghold’s nine towers, only one was visible above the snow. The avalanche had swept away its parapet, but the tower itself was standing.
The other eight towers had disappeared entirely. The twin ramparts and cleverly designed lifts and pulleys lay buried beneath the gray mound of snow—together with the ruins of East Ironhald and, as the three dwarves suspected, the bodies of the dead.
Balyndis peered at the tower, looking for the bridge that led to the stronghold. “It’s gone,” she said tremulously. “The White Death has swallowed the bridge.”
Tungdil was too horrified to speak.
Hooves approached from behind; the rest of the company had arrived. The sight of the ruined stronghold drew curses, cries of horror, and wails of grief from the stricken dwarves.
Xamtys dismounted and walked to the mound. She reached out and thrust her hand into the snow to pull out a battered helmet. The headwear, made of the strongest dwarven metal, evidently hadn’t protected its owner from the weight of the snow.
“Worthy Vraccas, your children have paid dearly for the salvation of Girdlegard,” she said gravely and without a hint of reproach. “Or is this the beginning of a new and unknown threat?” Her brown eyes settled on the surviving tower and tears trickled down her cheeks, rolling through her wispy hair and plumping onto her armored chest. “My tears mark the passing of those who died here. You have my word that nothing will stop me rebuilding my ravaged kingdom. This time the stronghold will be more imposing, more splendid than before, and evil will never triumph against us—not now, not ever, not even if I have to rebuild East Ironhald on my own.” She held the helmet on high. “May the memory of the dead stay with us forever. Long live the children of the Smith!”
“The children of the Smith!” came the shout from a hundred different throats. The words were still echoing when a bugle call replied.
“The side entrance!” Balyndis told Tungdil. “It means they’ll meet us at the side entrance!”
“Which side entrance?” demanded Boïndil with a glint in his eyes that Tungdil knew and feared. The secondling warrior seized Balyndis roughly by the hand. “What are you waiting for? Lead the way!”
Balyndis didn’t usually take orders from Boïndil, or anyone else for that matter, but she had witnessed his temper before. Taking heed of Tungdil’s silent warning, she set off without a murmur, while Boïndil and the others followed close behind.
They picked their way around the edges of the avalanche and came to what looked like a sheer wall.
“It’s in case of a siege—we wanted to be able to attack on the flank,” explained Balyndis. “It’s never been used.”
“Until now,�
�� said Tungdil, watching as cracks appeared in the rock, forming the outlines of a door four paces high and four paces wide. It swung open, revealing a dozen waiting dwarves. Tungdil glanced nervously at Boïndil and prayed that Vraccas had held his protective shield over his twin. Boïndil will finish what the White Death started if Boëndal has come to any harm.
The secondling stepped forward. “Where’s my brother?” he demanded. Naturally, the firstlings were more interested in welcoming their queen and took a moment to respond. Ireheart grabbed the nearest sentry by the collar and shook him roughly. “Where’s Boëndal?” he roared, tightening his grip until the sentry’s face went purple.
Tungdil laid a hand on Ireheart’s arm. “You’ll hurt him!”
“Boëndal?” gasped the poor sentry. “He’s in bed. We dug him out of the snow, but…”
“But what?” asked Boïndil sharply, letting go of his jerkin. “For the sake of Vraccas, speak clearly.”
“We can’t wake him. His skin feels like ice and it’s a wonder that his heart is still beating. It might stop at any moment,” said the firstling, backing away quickly until he was out of the warrior’s reach.
Boïndil’s eyebrows formed an angry black line. “Where is he?” he asked.
In the interests of averting an incident, Xamtys overlooked his rude behavior and ordered one of the firstlings to show him to his brother’s bed. Tungdil and Balyndis followed, while the queen stayed behind to quiz the guards.
The party of four dwarves strode through plain-walled corridors connecting the side entrance to the stronghold proper. The design was entirely functional—unlike the secondlings, the firstlings took little interest in fancy masonry and left the walls of little-used tunnels unadorned, preferring to focus their efforts on metalworking.
“The damage was devastating,” said the guard when they asked about the quake. “We think the falling star was to blame. It came from the east, raining burning boulders from its tail. Most of our fortifications were razed to the ground—then the White Death came and swallowed the rest.”